Bot-S: The Complete Works of Plato

Delightful, I said; but what is the news? and why have you come hither at this unearthly
hour?
He drew nearer to me and said: Protagoras is come.
Yes, I replied; he came two days ago: have you only just heard of his arrival?
Yes, by the gods, he said; but not until yesterday evening.
At the same time he felt for the truckle-bed, and sat down at my feet, and then he said:
Yesterday quite late in the evening, on my return from Oenoe whither I had gone in
pursuit of my runaway slave Satyrus, as I meant to have told you, if some other matter
had not come in the way;—on my return, when we had done supper and were about to
retire to rest, my brother said to me: Protagoras is come. I was going to you at once, and
then I thought that the night was far spent. But the moment sleep left me after my
fatigue, I got up and came hither direct.
I, who knew the very courageous madness of the man, said: What is the matter? Has
Protagoras robbed you of anything?
He replied, laughing: Yes, indeed he has, Socrates, of the wisdom which he keeps from
me.
But, surely, I said, if you give him money, and make friends with him, he will make you as
wise as he is himself.
Would to heaven, he replied, that this were the case! He might take all that I have, and
all that my friends have, if he pleased. But that is why I have come to you now, in order
that you may speak to him on my behalf; for I am young, and also I have never seen nor
heard him; (when he visited Athens before I was but a child;) and all men praise him,
Socrates; he is reputed to be the most accomplished of speakers. There is no reason why
we should not go to him at once, and then we shall find him at home. He lodges, as I
hear, with Callias the son of Hipponicus: let us start.
I replied: Not yet, my good friend; the hour is too early. But let us rise and take a turn in
the court and wait about there until day-break; when the day breaks, then we will go.
For Protagoras is generally at home, and we shall be sure to find him; never fear.
Upon this we got up and walked about in the court, and I thought that I would make
trial of the strength of his resolution. So I examined him and put questions to him. Tell
me, Hippocrates, I said, as you are going to Protagoras, and will be paying your money
to him, what is he to whom you are going? and what will he make of you? If, for
example, you had thought of going to Hippocrates of Cos, the Asclepiad, and were
about to give him your money, and some one had said to you: You are paying money to
your namesake Hippocrates, O Hippocrates; tell me, what is he that you give him
money? how would you have answered?
I should say, he replied, that I gave money to him as a physician.
And what will he make of you?
A physician, he said.
And if you were resolved to go to Polycleitus the Argive, or Pheidias the Athenian, and
were intending to give them money, and some one had asked you: What are Polycleitus
and Pheidias? and why do you give them this money?—how would you have answered?
I should have answered, that they were statuaries.
And what will they make of you?
A statuary, of course.
Well now, I said, you and I are going to Protagoras, and we are ready to pay him money
on your behalf. If our own means are sufficient, and we can gain him with these, we shall
be only too glad; but if not, then we are to spend the money of your friends as well.
Now suppose, that while we are thus enthusiastically pursuing our object some one
were to say to us: Tell me, Socrates, and you Hippocrates, what is Protagoras, and why
are you going to pay him money,—how should we answer? I know that Pheidias is a
sculptor, and that Homer is a poet; but what appellation is given to Protagoras? how is
he designated?
They call him a Sophist, Socrates, he replied.
Then we are going to pay our money to him in the character of a Sophist?
Certainly.
But suppose a person were to ask this further question: And how about yourself? What
will Protagoras make of you, if you go to see him?
He answered, with a blush upon his face (for the day was just beginning to dawn, so that
I could see him): Unless this differs in some way from the former instances, I suppose
that he will make a Sophist of me.
By the gods, I said, and are you not ashamed at having to appear before the Hellenes in
the character of a Sophist?
Indeed, Socrates, to confess the truth, I am.
But you should not assume, Hippocrates, that the instruction of Protagoras is of this
nature: may you not learn of him in the same way that you learned the arts of the
grammarian, or musician, or trainer, not with the view of making any of them a
profession, but only as a part of education, and because a private gentleman and
freeman ought to know them?
Just so, he said; and that, in my opinion, is a far truer account of the teaching of
Protagoras.
I said: I wonder whether you know what you are doing?
And what am I doing?
You are going to commit your soul to the care of a man whom you call a Sophist. And
yet I hardly think that you know what a Sophist is; and if not, then you do not even
know to whom you are committing your soul and whether the thing to which you
commit yourself be good or evil.
I certainly think that I do know, he replied.
Then tell me, what do you imagine that he is?
I take him to be one who knows wise things, he replied, as his name implies.
And might you not, I said, affirm this of the painter and of the carpenter also: Do not
they, too, know wise things? But suppose a person were to ask us: In what are the
painters wise? We should answer: In what relates to the making of likenesses, and
similarly of other things. And if he were further to ask: What is the wisdom of the
Sophist, and what is the manufacture over which he presides?—how should we answer
him?
How should we answer him, Socrates? What other answer could there be but that he
presides over the art which makes men eloquent?
Yes, I replied, that is very likely true, but not enough; for in the answer a further question
is involved: Of what does the Sophist make a man talk eloquently? The player on the
lyre may be supposed to make a man talk eloquently about that which he makes him
understand, that is about playing the lyre. Is not that true?
Yes.
Then about what does the Sophist make him eloquent? Must not he make him eloquent
in that which he understands?
Yes, that may be assumed.
And what is that which the Sophist knows and makes his disciple know?
Indeed, he said, I cannot tell.
Then I proceeded to say: Well, but are you aware of the danger which you are incurring?
If you were going to commit your body to some one, who might do good or harm to it,
would you not carefully consider and ask the opinion of your friends and kindred, and
deliberate many days as to whether you should give him the care of your body? But
when the soul is in question, which you hold to be of far more value than the body, and
upon the good or evil of which depends the well-being of your all,—about this you
never consulted either with your father or with your brother or with any one of us who
are your companions. But no sooner does this foreigner appear, than you instantly
commit your soul to his keeping. In the evening, as you say, you hear of him, and in the
morning you go to him, never deliberating or taking the opinion of any one as to
whether you ought to intrust yourself to him or not;—you have quite made up your
mind that you will at all hazards be a pupil of Protagoras, and are prepared to expend all
the property of yourself and of your friends in carrying out at any price this
determination, although, as you admit, you do not know him, and have never spoken
with him: and you call him a Sophist, but are manifestly ignorant of what a Sophist is;
and yet you are going to commit yourself to his keeping.
When he heard me say this, he replied: No other inference, Socrates, can be drawn from
your words.
I proceeded: Is not a Sophist, Hippocrates, one who deals wholesale or retail in the food
of the soul? To me that appears to be his nature.
And what, Socrates, is the food of the soul?
Surely, I said, knowledge is the food of the soul; and we must take care, my friend, that
the Sophist does not deceive us when he praises what he sells, like the dealers
wholesale or retail who sell the food of the body; for they praise indiscriminately all their
goods, without knowing what are really beneficial or hurtful: neither do their customers
know, with the exception of any trainer or physician who may happen to buy of them. In
like manner those who carry about the wares of knowledge, and make the round of the
cities, and sell or retail them to any customer who is in want of them, praise them all
alike; though I should not wonder, O my friend, if many of them were really ignorant of
their effect upon the soul; and their customers equally ignorant, unless he who buys of
them happens to be a physician of the soul. If, therefore, you have understanding of
what is good and evil, you may safely buy knowledge of Protagoras or of any one; but if
not, then, O my friend, pause, and do not hazard your dearest interests at a game of
chance. For there is far greater peril in buying knowledge than in buying meat and drink:
the one you purchase of the wholesale or retail dealer, and carry them away in other
vessels, and before you receive them into the body as food, you may deposit them at
home and call in any experienced friend who knows what is good to be eaten or
drunken, and what not, and how much, and when; and then the danger of purchasing
them is not so great. But you cannot buy the wares of knowledge and carry them away
in another vessel; when you have paid for them you must receive them into the soul and
go your way, either greatly harmed or greatly benefited; and therefore we should
deliberate and take counsel with our elders; for we are still young—too young to
determine such a matter. And now let us go, as we were intending, and hear Protagoras;
and when we have heard what he has to say, we may take counsel of others; for not only
is Protagoras at the house of Callias, but there is Hippias of Elis, and, if I am not
mistaken, Prodicus of Ceos, and several other wise men.
To this we agreed, and proceeded on our way until we reached the vestibule of the
house; and there we stopped in order to conclude a discussion which had arisen
between us as we were going along; and we stood talking in the vestibule until we had
finished and come to an understanding. And I think that the door-keeper, who was a
eunuch, and who was probably annoyed at the great inroad of the Sophists, must have
heard us talking. At any rate, when we knocked at the door, and he opened and saw us,
he grumbled: They are Sophists—he is not at home; and instantly gave the door a
hearty bang with both his hands. Again we knocked, and he answered without opening:
Did you not hear me say that he is not at home, fellows? But, my friend, I said, you need
not be alarmed; for we are not Sophists, and we are not come to see Callias, but we
want to see Protagoras; and I must request you to announce us. At last, after a good
deal of difficulty, the man was persuaded to open the door.
When we entered, we found Protagoras taking a walk in the cloister; and next to him, on
one side, were walking Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and Paralus, the son of Pericles,
who, by the mother’s side, is his half- brother, and Charmides, the son of Glaucon. On
the other side of him were Xanthippus, the other son of Pericles, Philippides, the son of
Philomelus; also Antimoerus of Mende, who of all the disciples of Protagoras is the most
famous, and intends to make sophistry his profession. A train of listeners followed him;
the greater part of them appeared to be foreigners, whom Protagoras had brought with
him out of the various cities visited by him in his journeys, he, like Orpheus, attracting
them his voice, and they following (Compare Rep.). I should mention also that there
were some Athenians in the company. Nothing delighted me more than the precision of
their movements: they never got into his way at all; but when he and those who were
with him turned back, then the band of listeners parted regularly on either side; he was
always in front, and they wheeled round and took their places behind him in perfect
order.
After him, as Homer says (Od.), ‘I lifted up my eyes and saw’ Hippias the Elean sitting in
the opposite cloister on a chair of state, and around him were seated on benches
Eryximachus, the son of Acumenus, and Phaedrus the Myrrhinusian, and Andron the son
of Androtion, and there were strangers whom he had brought with him from his native
city of Elis, and some others: they were putting to Hippias certain physical and
astronomical questions, and he, ex cathedra, was determining their several questions to
them, and discoursing of them.
Also, ‘my eyes beheld Tantalus (Od.);’ for Prodicus the Cean was at Athens: he had been
lodged in a room which, in the days of Hipponicus, was a storehouse; but, as the house
was full, Callias had cleared this out and made the room into a guest-chamber. Now
Prodicus was still in bed, wrapped up in sheepskins and bedclothes, of which there
seemed to be a great heap; and there was sitting by him on the couches near, Pausanias
of the deme of Cerameis, and with Pausanias was a youth quite young, who is certainly
remarkable for his good looks, and, if I am not mistaken, is also of a fair and gentle
nature. I thought that I heard him called Agathon, and my suspicion is that he is the
beloved of Pausanias. There was this youth, and also there were the two Adeimantuses,
one the son of Cepis, and the other of Leucolophides, and some others. I was very
anxious to hear what Prodicus was saying, for he seems to me to be an all-wise and
inspired man; but I was not able to get into the inner circle, and his fine deep voice
made an echo in the room which rendered his words inaudible.
No sooner had we entered than there followed us Alcibiades the beautiful, as you say,
and I believe you; and also Critias the son of Callaeschrus.
On entering we stopped a little, in order to look about us, and then walked up to
Protagoras, and I said: Protagoras, my friend Hippocrates and I have come to see you.
Do you wish, he said, to speak with me alone, or in the presence of the company?
Whichever you please, I said; you shall determine when you have heard the purpose of
our visit.
And what is your purpose? he said.
I must explain, I said, that my friend Hippocrates is a native Athenian; he is the son of
Apollodorus, and of a great and prosperous house, and he is himself in natural ability
quite a match for anybody of his own age. I believe that he aspires to political eminence;
and this he thinks that conversation with you is most likely to procure for him. And now
you can determine whether you would wish to speak to him of your teaching alone or in
the presence of the company.
Thank you, Socrates, for your consideration of me. For certainly a stranger finding his
way into great cities, and persuading the flower of the youth in them to leave company
of their kinsmen or any other acquaintances, old or young, and live with him, under the
idea that they will be improved by his conversation, ought to be very cautious; great
jealousies are aroused by his proceedings, and he is the subject of many enmities and
conspiracies. Now the art of the Sophist is, as I believe, of great antiquity; but in ancient
times those who practised it, fearing this odium, veiled and disguised themselves under
various names, some under that of poets, as Homer, Hesiod, and Simonides, some, of
hierophants and prophets, as Orpheus and Musaeus, and some, as I observe, even under
the name of gymnastic-masters, like Iccus of Tarentum, or the more recently celebrated
Herodicus, now of Selymbria and formerly of Megara, who is a first-rate Sophist. Your
own Agathocles pretended to be a musician, but was really an eminent Sophist; also
Pythocleides the Cean; and there were many others; and all of them, as I was saying,
adopted these arts as veils or disguises because they were afraid of the odium which
they would incur. But that is not my way, for I do not believe that they effected their
purpose, which was to deceive the government, who were not blinded by them; and as
to the people, they have no understanding, and only repeat what their rulers are pleased
to tell them. Now to run away, and to be caught in running away, is the very height of
folly, and also greatly increases the exasperation of mankind; for they regard him who
runs away as a rogue, in addition to any other objections which they have to him; and
therefore I take an entirely opposite course, and acknowledge myself to be a Sophist
and instructor of mankind; such an open acknowledgement appears to me to be a
better sort of caution than concealment. Nor do I neglect other precautions, and
therefore I hope, as I may say, by the favour of heaven that no harm will come of the
acknowledgment that I am a Sophist. And I have been now many years in the
profession—for all my years when added up are many: there is no one here present of
whom I might not be the father. Wherefore I should much prefer conversing with you, if
you want to speak with me, in the presence of the company.
As I suspected that he would like to have a little display and glorification in the presence
of Prodicus and Hippias, and would gladly show us to them in the light of his admirers, I
said: But why should we not summon Prodicus and Hippias and their friends to hear us?
Very good, he said.
Suppose, said Callias, that we hold a council in which you may sit and discuss.—This was
agreed upon, and great delight was felt at the prospect of hearing wise men talk; we
ourselves took the chairs and benches, and arranged them by Hippias, where the other
benches had been already placed. Meanwhile Callias and Alcibiades got Prodicus out of
bed and brought in him and his companions.
When we were all seated, Protagoras said: Now that the company are assembled,
Socrates, tell me about the young man of whom you were just now speaking.
I replied: I will begin again at the same point, Protagoras, and tell you once more the
purport of my visit: this is my friend Hippocrates, who is desirous of making your
acquaintance; he would like to know what will happen to him if he associates with you. I
have no more to say.
Protagoras answered: Young man, if you associate with me, on the very first day you will
return home a better man than you came, and better on the second day than on the
first, and better every day than you were on the day before.
When I heard this, I said: Protagoras, I do not at all wonder at hearing you say this; even
at your age, and with all your wisdom, if any one were to teach you what you did not
know before, you would become better no doubt: but please to answer in a different
way—I will explain how by an example. Let me suppose that Hippocrates, instead of
desiring your acquaintance, wished to become acquainted with the young man
Zeuxippus of Heraclea, who has lately been in Athens, and he had come to him as he
has come to you, and had heard him say, as he has heard you say, that every day he
would grow and become better if he associated with him: and then suppose that he
were to ask him, ‘In what shall I become better, and in what shall I grow?’—Zeuxippus
would answer, ‘In painting.’ And suppose that he went to Orthagoras the Theban, and
heard him say the same thing, and asked him, ‘In what shall I become better day by
day?’ he would reply, ‘In flute-playing.’ Now I want you to make the same sort of answer
to this young man and to me, who am asking questions on his account. When you say
that on the first day on which he associates with you he will return home a better man,
and on every day will grow in like manner,—in what, Protagoras, will he be better? and
about what?
When Protagoras heard me say this, he replied: You ask questions fairly, and I like to
answer a question which is fairly put. If Hippocrates comes to me he will not experience
the sort of drudgery with which other Sophists are in the habit of insulting their pupils;
who, when they have just escaped from the arts, are taken and driven back into them by
these teachers, and made to learn calculation, and astronomy, and geometry, and music
(he gave a look at Hippias as he said this); but if he comes to me, he will learn that which
he comes to learn. And this is prudence in affairs private as well as public; he will learn
to order his own house in the best manner, and he will be able to speak and act for the
best in the affairs of the state.
Do I understand you, I said; and is your meaning that you teach the art of politics, and
that you promise to make men good citizens?
That, Socrates, is exactly the profession which I make.
Then, I said, you do indeed possess a noble art, if there is no mistake about this; for I will
freely confess to you, Protagoras, that I have a doubt whether this art is capable of
being taught, and yet I know not how to disbelieve your assertion. And I ought to tell
you why I am of opinion that this art cannot be taught or communicated by man to
man. I say that the Athenians are an understanding people, and indeed they are
esteemed to be such by the other Hellenes. Now I observe that when we are met
together in the assembly, and the matter in hand relates to building, the builders are
summoned as advisers; when the question is one of ship-building, then the ship-wrights;
and the like of other arts which they think capable of being taught and learned. And if
some person offers to give them advice who is not supposed by them to have any skill
in the art, even though he be good-looking, and rich, and noble, they will not listen to
him, but laugh and hoot at him, until either he is clamoured down and retires of himself;
or if he persist, he is dragged away or put out by the constables at the command of the
prytanes. This is their way of behaving about professors of the arts. But when the
question is an affair of state, then everybody is free to have a say—carpenter, tinker,
cobbler, sailor, passenger; rich and poor, high and low—any one who likes gets up, and
no one reproaches him, as in the former case, with not having learned, and having no
teacher, and yet giving advice; evidently because they are under the impression that this
sort of knowledge cannot be taught. And not only is this true of the state, but of
individuals; the best and wisest of our citizens are unable to impart their political
wisdom to others: as for example, Pericles, the father of these young men, who gave
them excellent instruction in all that could be learned from masters, in his own
department of politics neither taught them, nor gave them teachers; but they were
allowed to wander at their own free will in a sort of hope that they would light upon
virtue of their own accord. Or take another example: there was Cleinias the younger
brother of our friend Alcibiades, of whom this very same Pericles was the guardian; and
he being in fact under the apprehension that Cleinias would be corrupted by Alcibiades,
took him away, and placed him in the house of Ariphron to be educated; but before six
months had elapsed, Ariphron sent him back, not knowing what to do with him. And I
could mention numberless other instances of persons who were good themselves, and
never yet made any one else good, whether friend or stranger. Now I, Protagoras,
having these examples before me, am inclined to think that virtue cannot be taught. But
then again, when I listen to your words, I waver; and am disposed to think that there
must be something in what you say, because I know that you have great experience, and
learning, and invention. And I wish that you would, if possible, show me a little more
clearly that virtue can be taught. Will you be so good?
That I will, Socrates, and gladly. But what would you like? Shall I, as an elder, speak to
you as younger men in an apologue or myth, or shall I argue out the question?
To this several of the company answered that he should choose for himself.
Well, then, he said, I think that the myth will be more interesting.
Once upon a time there were gods only, and no mortal creatures. But when the time
came that these also should be created, the gods fashioned them out of earth and fire
and various mixtures of both elements in the interior of the earth; and when they were
about to bring them into the light of day, they ordered Prometheus and Epimetheus to
equip them, and to distribute to them severally their proper qualities. Epimetheus said
to Prometheus: ‘Let me distribute, and do you inspect.’ This was agreed, and Epimetheus
made the distribution. There were some to whom he gave strength without swiftness,
while he equipped the weaker with swiftness; some he armed, and others he left
unarmed; and devised for the latter some other means of preservation, making some
large, and having their size as a protection, and others small, whose nature was to fly in
the air or burrow in the ground; this was to be their way of escape. Thus did he
compensate them with the view of preventing any race from becoming extinct. And
when he had provided against their destruction by one another, he contrived also a
means of protecting them against the seasons of heaven; clothing them with close hair
and thick skins sufficient to defend them against the winter cold and able to resist the
summer heat, so that they might have a natural bed of their own when they wanted to
rest; also he furnished them with hoofs and hair and hard and callous skins under their
feet. Then he gave them varieties of food,—herb of the soil to some, to others fruits of
trees, and to others roots, and to some again he gave other animals as food. And some
he made to have few young ones, while those who were their prey were very prolific;
and in this manner the race was preserved. Thus did Epimetheus, who, not being very
wise, forgot that he had distributed among the brute animals all the qualities which he
had to give,—and when he came to man, who was still unprovided, he was terribly
perplexed. Now while he was in this perplexity, Prometheus came to inspect the
distribution, and he found that the other animals were suitably furnished, but that man
alone was naked and shoeless, and had neither bed nor arms of defence. The appointed
hour was approaching when man in his turn was to go forth into the light of day; and
Prometheus, not knowing how he could devise his salvation, stole the mechanical arts of
Hephaestus and Athene, and fire with them (they could neither have been acquired nor
used without fire), and gave them to man. Thus man had the wisdom necessary to the
support of life, but political wisdom he had not; for that was in the keeping of Zeus, and
the power of Prometheus did not extend to entering into the citadel of heaven, where
Zeus dwelt, who moreover had terrible sentinels; but he did enter by stealth into the
common workshop of Athene and Hephaestus, in which they used to practise their
favourite arts, and carried off Hephaestus’ art of working by fire, and also the art of
Athene, and gave them to man. And in this way man was supplied with the means of
life. But Prometheus is said to have been afterwards prosecuted for theft, owing to the
blunder of Epimetheus.
Now man, having a share of the divine attributes, was at first the only one of the animals
who had any gods, because he alone was of their kindred; and he would raise altars and
images of them. He was not long in inventing articulate speech and names; and he also
constructed houses and clothes and shoes and beds, and drew sustenance from the
earth. Thus provided, mankind at first lived dispersed, and there were no cities. But the
consequence was that they were destroyed by the wild beasts, for they were utterly
weak in comparison of them, and their art was only sufficient to provide them with the
means of life, and did not enable them to carry on war against the animals: food they
had, but not as yet the art of government, of which the art of war is a part. After a while
the desire of self-preservation gathered them into cities; but when they were gathered
together, having no art of government, they evil intreated one another, and were again
in process of dispersion and destruction. Zeus feared that the entire race would be
exterminated, and so he sent Hermes to them, bearing reverence and justice to be the
ordering principles of cities and the bonds of friendship and conciliation. Hermes asked
Zeus how he should impart justice and reverence among men:—Should he distribute
them as the arts are distributed; that is to say, to a favoured few only, one skilled
individual having enough of medicine or of any other art for many unskilled ones? ‘Shall
this be the manner in which I am to distribute justice and reverence among men, or shall
I give them to all?’ ‘To all,’ said Zeus; ‘I should like them all to have a share; for cities
cannot exist, if a few only share in the virtues, as in the arts. And further, make a law by
my order, that he who has no part in reverence and justice shall be put to death, for he
is a plague of the state.’
And this is the reason, Socrates, why the Athenians and mankind in general, when the
question relates to carpentering or any other mechanical art, allow but a few to share in
their deliberations; and when any one else interferes, then, as you say, they object, if he
be not of the favoured few; which, as I reply, is very natural. But when they meet to
deliberate about political virtue, which proceeds only by way of justice and wisdom, they
are patient enough of any man who speaks of them, as is also natural, because they
think that every man ought to share in this sort of virtue, and that states could not exist
if this were otherwise. I have explained to you, Socrates, the reason of this phenomenon.
And that you may not suppose yourself to be deceived in thinking that all men regard
every man as having a share of justice or honesty and of every other political virtue, let
me give you a further proof, which is this. In other cases, as you are aware, if a man says
that he is a good flute- player, or skilful in any other art in which he has no skill, people
either laugh at him or are angry with him, and his relations think that he is mad and go
and admonish him; but when honesty is in question, or some other political virtue, even
if they know that he is dishonest, yet, if the man comes publicly forward and tells the
truth about his dishonesty, then, what in the other case was held by them to be good
sense, they now deem to be madness. They say that all men ought to profess honesty
whether they are honest or not, and that a man is out of his mind who says anything
else. Their notion is, that a man must have some degree of honesty; and that if he has
none at all he ought not to be in the world.
I have been showing that they are right in admitting every man as a counsellor about
this sort of virtue, as they are of opinion that every man is a partaker of it. And I will now
endeavour to show further that they do not conceive this virtue to be given by nature,
or to grow spontaneously, but to be a thing which may be taught; and which comes to a
man by taking pains. No one would instruct, no one would rebuke, or be angry with
those whose calamities they suppose to be due to nature or chance; they do not try to
punish or to prevent them from being what they are; they do but pity them. Who is so
foolish as to chastise or instruct the ugly, or the diminutive, or the feeble? And for this
reason. Because he knows that good and evil of this kind is the work of nature and of
chance; whereas if a man is wanting in those good qualities which are attained by study
and exercise and teaching, and has only the contrary evil qualities, other men are angry
with him, and punish and reprove him—of these evil qualities one is impiety, another
injustice, and they may be described generally as the very opposite of political virtue. In
such cases any man will be angry with another, and reprimand him,—clearly because he
thinks that by study and learning, the virtue in which the other is deficient may be
acquired. If you will think, Socrates, of the nature of punishment, you will see at once
that in the opinion of mankind virtue may be acquired; no one punishes the evil-doer
under the notion, or for the reason, that he has done wrong, —only the unreasonable
fury of a beast acts in that manner. But he who desires to inflict rational punishment
does not retaliate for a past wrong which cannot be undone; he has regard to the
future, and is desirous that the man who is punished, and he who sees him punished,
may be deterred from doing wrong again. He punishes for the sake of prevention,
thereby clearly implying that virtue is capable of being taught. This is the notion of all
who retaliate upon others either privately or publicly. And the Athenians, too, your own
citizens, like other men, punish and take vengeance on all whom they regard as evil
doers; and hence, we may infer them to be of the number of those who think that virtue
may be acquired and taught. Thus far, Socrates, I have shown you clearly enough, if I am
not mistaken, that your countrymen are right in admitting the tinker and the cobbler to
advise about politics, and also that they deem virtue to be capable of being taught and
acquired.
There yet remains one difficulty which has been raised by you about the sons of good
men. What is the reason why good men teach their sons the knowledge which is gained
from teachers, and make them wise in that, but do nothing towards improving them in
the virtues which distinguish themselves? And here, Socrates, I will leave the apologue
and resume the argument. Please to consider: Is there or is there not some one quality
of which all the citizens must be partakers, if there is to be a city at all? In the answer to
this question is contained the only solution of your difficulty; there is no other. For if
there be any such quality, and this quality or unity is not the art of the carpenter, or the
smith, or the potter, but justice and temperance and holiness and, in a word, manly
virtue—if this is the quality of which all men must be partakers, and which is the very
condition of their learning or doing anything else, and if he who is wanting in this,
whether he be a child only or a grown-up man or woman, must be taught and punished,
until by punishment he becomes better, and he who rebels against instruction and
punishment is either exiled or condemned to death under the idea that he is incurable—
if what I am saying be true, good men have their sons taught other things and not this,
do consider how extraordinary their conduct would appear to be. For we have shown
that they think virtue capable of being taught and cultivated both in private and public;
and, notwithstanding, they have their sons taught lesser matters, ignorance of which
does not involve the punishment of death: but greater things, of which the ignorance
may cause death and exile to those who have no training or knowledge of them—aye,
and confiscation as well as death, and, in a word, may be the ruin of families—those
things, I say, they are supposed not to teach them,—not to take the utmost care that
they should learn. How improbable is this, Socrates!
Education and admonition commence in the first years of childhood, and last to the very
end of life. Mother and nurse and father and tutor are vying with one another about the
improvement of the child as soon as ever he is able to understand what is being said to
him: he cannot say or do anything without their setting forth to him that this is just and
that is unjust; this is honourable, that is dishonourable; this is holy, that is unholy; do this
and abstain from that. And if he obeys, well and good; if not, he is straightened by
threats and blows, like a piece of bent or warped wood. At a later stage they send him
to teachers, and enjoin them to see to his manners even more than to his reading and
music; and the teachers do as they are desired. And when the boy has learned his letters
and is beginning to understand what is written, as before he understood only what was
spoken, they put into his hands the works of great poets, which he reads sitting on a
bench at school; in these are contained many admonitions, and many tales, and praises,
and encomia of ancient famous men, which he is required to learn by heart, in order
that he may imitate or emulate them and desire to become like them. Then, again, the
teachers of the lyre take similar care that their young disciple is temperate and gets into
no mischief; and when they have taught him the use of the lyre, they introduce him to
the poems of other excellent poets, who are the lyric poets; and these they set to music,
and make their harmonies and rhythms quite familiar to the children’s souls, in order
that they may learn to be more gentle, and harmonious, and rhythmical, and so more
fitted for speech and action; for the life of man in every part has need of harmony and
rhythm. Then they send them to the master of gymnastic, in order that their bodies may
better minister to the virtuous mind, and that they may not be compelled through
bodily weakness to play the coward in war or on any other occasion. This is what is done
by those who have the means, and those who have the means are the rich; their children
begin to go to school soonest and leave off latest. When they have done with masters,
the state again compels them to learn the laws, and live after the pattern which they
furnish, and not after their own fancies; and just as in learning to write, the writingmaster
first draws lines with a style for the use of the young beginner, and gives him the
tablet and makes him follow the lines, so the city draws the laws, which were the
invention of good lawgivers living in the olden time; these are given to the young man,
in order to guide him in his conduct whether he is commanding or obeying; and he who
transgresses them is to be corrected, or, in other words, called to account, which is a
term used not only in your country, but also in many others, seeing that justice calls
men to account. Now when there is all this care about virtue private and public, why,
Socrates, do you still wonder and doubt whether virtue can be taught? Cease to wonder,
for the opposite would be far more surprising.
But why then do the sons of good fathers often turn out ill? There is nothing very
wonderful in this; for, as I have been saying, the existence of a state implies that virtue is
not any man’s private possession. If so —and nothing can be truer—then I will further
ask you to imagine, as an illustration, some other pursuit or branch of knowledge which
may be assumed equally to be the condition of the existence of a state. Suppose that
there could be no state unless we were all flute-players, as far as each had the capacity,
and everybody was freely teaching everybody the art, both in private and public, and
reproving the bad player as freely and openly as every man now teaches justice and the
laws, not concealing them as he would conceal the other arts, but imparting them—for
all of us have a mutual interest in the justice and virtue of one another, and this is the
reason why every one is so ready to teach justice and the laws;—suppose, I say, that
there were the same readiness and liberality among us in teaching one another fluteplaying,
do you imagine, Socrates, that the sons of good flute-players would be more
likely to be good than the sons of bad ones? I think not. Would not their sons grow up
to be distinguished or undistinguished according to their own natural capacities as
flute-players, and the son of a good player would often turn out to be a bad one, and
the son of a bad player to be a good one, all flute-players would be good enough in
comparison of those who were ignorant and unacquainted with the art of flute-playing?
In like manner I would have you consider that he who appears to you to be the worst of
those who have been brought up in laws and humanities, would appear to be a just man
and a master of justice if he were to be compared with men who had no education, or
courts of justice, or laws, or any restraints upon them which compelled them to practise
virtue— with the savages, for example, whom the poet Pherecrates exhibited on the
stage at the last year’s Lenaean festival. If you were living among men such as the manhaters
in his Chorus, you would be only too glad to meet with Eurybates and
Phrynondas, and you would sorrowfully long to revisit the rascality of this part of the
world. You, Socrates, are discontented, and why? Because all men are teachers of virtue,
each one according to his ability; and you say Where are the teachers? You might as
well ask, Who teaches Greek? For of that too there will not be any teachers found. Or
you might ask, Who is to teach the sons of our artisans this same art which they have
learned of their fathers? He and his fellow-workmen have taught them to the best of
their ability,—but who will carry them further in their arts? And you would certainly have
a difficulty, Socrates, in finding a teacher of them; but there would be no difficulty in
finding a teacher of those who are wholly ignorant. And this is true of virtue or of
anything else; if a man is better able than we are to promote virtue ever so little, we
must be content with the result. A teacher of this sort I believe myself to be, and above
all other men to have the knowledge which makes a man noble and good; and I give my
pupils their money’s-worth, and even more, as they themselves confess. And therefore I
have introduced the following mode of payment:—When a man has been my pupil, if he
likes he pays my price, but there is no compulsion; and if he does not like, he has only to
go into a temple and take an oath of the value of the instructions, and he pays no more
than he declares to be their value.
Such is my Apologue, Socrates, and such is the argument by which I endeavour to show
that virtue may be taught, and that this is the opinion of the Athenians. And I have also
attempted to show that you are not to wonder at good fathers having bad sons, or at
good sons having bad fathers, of which the sons of Polycleitus afford an example, who
are the companions of our friends here, Paralus and Xanthippus, but are nothing in
comparison with their father; and this is true of the sons of many other artists. As yet I
ought not to say the same of Paralus and Xanthippus themselves, for they are young
and there is still hope of them.
Protagoras ended, and in my ear
‘So charming left his voice, that I the while Thought him still speaking; still stood fixed to
hear (Borrowed by Milton, “Paradise Lost”.).’
At length, when the truth dawned upon me, that he had really finished, not without
difficulty I began to collect myself, and looking at Hippocrates, I said to him: O son of
Apollodorus, how deeply grateful I am to you for having brought me hither; I would not
have missed the speech of Protagoras for a great deal. For I used to imagine that no
human care could make men good; but I know better now. Yet I have still one very small
difficulty which I am sure that Protagoras will easily explain, as he has already explained
so much. If a man were to go and consult Pericles or any of our great speakers about
these matters, he might perhaps hear as fine a discourse; but then when one has a
question to ask of any of them, like books, they can neither answer nor ask; and if any
one challenges the least particular of their speech, they go ringing on in a long
harangue, like brazen pots, which when they are struck continue to sound unless some
one puts his hand upon them; whereas our friend Protagoras can not only make a good
speech, as he has already shown, but when he is asked a question he can answer briefly;
and when he asks he will wait and hear the answer; and this is a very rare gift. Now I,
Protagoras, want to ask of you a little question, which if you will only answer, I shall be
quite satisfied. You were saying that virtue can be taught;—that I will take upon your
authority, and there is no one to whom I am more ready to trust. But I marvel at one
thing about which I should like to have my mind set at rest. You were speaking of Zeus
sending justice and reverence to men; and several times while you were speaking,
justice, and temperance, and holiness, and all these qualities, were described by you as if
together they made up virtue. Now I want you to tell me truly whether virtue is one
whole, of which justice and temperance and holiness are parts; or whether all these are
only the names of one and the same thing: that is the doubt which still lingers in my
mind.
There is no difficulty, Socrates, in answering that the qualities of which you are speaking
are the parts of virtue which is one.
And are they parts, I said, in the same sense in which mouth, nose, and eyes, and ears,
are the parts of a face; or are they like the parts of gold, which differ from the whole and
from one another only in being larger or smaller?
I should say that they differed, Socrates, in the first way; they are related to one another
as the parts of a face are related to the whole face.
And do men have some one part and some another part of virtue? Or if a man has one
part, must he also have all the others?
By no means, he said; for many a man is brave and not just, or just and not wise.
You would not deny, then, that courage and wisdom are also parts of virtue?
Most undoubtedly they are, he answered; and wisdom is the noblest of the parts.
And they are all different from one another? I said.
Yes.
And has each of them a distinct function like the parts of the face;—the eye, for
example, is not like the ear, and has not the same functions; and the other parts are
none of them like one another, either in their functions, or in any other way? I want to
know whether the comparison holds concerning the parts of virtue. Do they also differ
from one another in themselves and in their functions? For that is clearly what the simile
would imply.
Yes, Socrates, you are right in supposing that they differ.
Then, I said, no other part of virtue is like knowledge, or like justice, or like courage, or
like temperance, or like holiness?
No, he answered.
Well then, I said, suppose that you and I enquire into their natures. And first, you would
agree with me that justice is of the nature of a thing, would you not? That is my opinion:
would it not be yours also?
Mine also, he said.
And suppose that some one were to ask us, saying, ‘O Protagoras, and you, Socrates,
what about this thing which you were calling justice, is it just or unjust?’—and I were to
answer, just: would you vote with me or against me?
With you, he said.
Thereupon I should answer to him who asked me, that justice is of the nature of the just:
would not you?
Yes, he said.
And suppose that he went on to say: ‘Well now, is there also such a thing as holiness?’—
we should answer, ‘Yes,’ if I am not mistaken?
Yes, he said.
Which you would also acknowledge to be a thing—should we not say so?
He assented.
‘And is this a sort of thing which is of the nature of the holy, or of the nature of the
unholy?’ I should be angry at his putting such a question, and should say, ‘Peace, man;
nothing can be holy if holiness is not holy.’ What would you say? Would you not answer
in the same way?
Certainly, he said.
And then after this suppose that he came and asked us, ‘What were you saying just
now? Perhaps I may not have heard you rightly, but you seemed to me to be saying that
the parts of virtue were not the same as one another.’ I should reply, ‘You certainly
heard that said, but not, as you imagine, by me; for I only asked the question;
Protagoras gave the answer.’ And suppose that he turned to you and said, ‘Is this true,
Protagoras? and do you maintain that one part of virtue is unlike another, and is this
your position?’—how would you answer him?
I could not help acknowledging the truth of what he said, Socrates.
Well then, Protagoras, we will assume this; and now supposing that he proceeded to say
further, ‘Then holiness is not of the nature of justice, nor justice of the nature of holiness,
but of the nature of unholiness; and holiness is of the nature of the not just, and
therefore of the unjust, and the unjust is the unholy’: how shall we answer him? I should
certainly answer him on my own behalf that justice is holy, and that holiness is just; and I
would say in like manner on your behalf also, if you would allow me, that justice is either
the same with holiness, or very nearly the same; and above all I would assert that justice
is like holiness and holiness is like justice; and I wish that you would tell me whether I
may be permitted to give this answer on your behalf, and whether you would agree with
me.
He replied, I cannot simply agree, Socrates, to the proposition that justice is holy and
that holiness is just, for there appears to me to be a difference between them. But what
matter? if you please I please; and let us assume, if you will I, that justice is holy, and that
holiness is just.
Pardon me, I replied; I do not want this ‘if you wish’ or ‘if you will’ sort of conclusion to
be proven, but I want you and me to be proven: I mean to say that the conclusion will
be best proven if there be no ‘if.’
Well, he said, I admit that justice bears a resemblance to holiness, for there is always
some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in a certain way
like black, and hard is like soft, and the most extreme opposites have some qualities in
common; even the parts of the face which, as we were saying before, are distinct and
have different functions, are still in a certain point of view similar, and one of them is like
another of them. And you may prove that they are like one another on the same
principle that all things are like one another; and yet things which are like in some
particular ought not to be called alike, nor things which are unlike in some particular,
however slight, unlike.
And do you think, I said in a tone of surprise, that justice and holiness have but a small
degree of likeness?
Certainly not; any more than I agree with what I understand to be your view.
Well, I said, as you appear to have a difficulty about this, let us take another of the
examples which you mentioned instead. Do you admit the existence of folly?
I do.
And is not wisdom the very opposite of folly?
That is true, he said.
And when men act rightly and advantageously they seem to you to be temperate?
Yes, he said.
And temperance makes them temperate?
Certainly.
And they who do not act rightly act foolishly, and in acting thus are not temperate?
I agree, he said.
Then to act foolishly is the opposite of acting temperately?
He assented.
And foolish actions are done by folly, and temperate actions by temperance?
He agreed.
And that is done strongly which is done by strength, and that which is weakly done, by
weakness?
He assented.
And that which is done with swiftness is done swiftly, and that which is done with
slowness, slowly?
He assented again.
And that which is done in the same manner, is done by the same; and that which is done
in an opposite manner by the opposite?
He agreed.
Once more, I said, is there anything beautiful?
Yes.
To which the only opposite is the ugly?
There is no other.
And is there anything good?
There is.
To which the only opposite is the evil?
There is no other.
And there is the acute in sound?
True.
To which the only opposite is the grave?
There is no other, he said, but that.
Then every opposite has one opposite only and no more?
He assented.
Then now, I said, let us recapitulate our admissions. First of all we admitted that
everything has one opposite and not more than one?
We did so.
And we admitted also that what was done in opposite ways was done by opposites?
Yes.
And that which was done foolishly, as we further admitted, was done in the opposite
way to that which was done temperately?
Yes.
And that which was done temperately was done by temperance, and that which was
done foolishly by folly?
He agreed.
And that which is done in opposite ways is done by opposites?
Yes.
And one thing is done by temperance, and quite another thing by folly?
Yes.
And in opposite ways?
Certainly.
And therefore by opposites:—then folly is the opposite of temperance?
Clearly.
And do you remember that folly has already been acknowledged by us to be the
opposite of wisdom?
He assented.
And we said that everything has only one opposite?
Yes.
Then, Protagoras, which of the two assertions shall we renounce? One says that
everything has but one opposite; the other that wisdom is distinct from temperance,
and that both of them are parts of virtue; and that they are not only distinct, but
dissimilar, both in themselves and in their functions, like the parts of a face. Which of
these two assertions shall we renounce? For both of them together are certainly not in
harmony; they do not accord or agree: for how can they be said to agree if everything is
assumed to have only one opposite and not more than one, and yet folly, which is one,
has clearly the two opposites—wisdom and temperance? Is not that true, Protagoras?
What else would you say?
He assented, but with great reluctance.
Then temperance and wisdom are the same, as before justice and holiness appeared to
us to be nearly the same. And now, Protagoras, I said, we must finish the enquiry, and
not faint. Do you think that an unjust man can be temperate in his injustice?
I should be ashamed, Socrates, he said, to acknowledge this, which nevertheless many
may be found to assert.
And shall I argue with them or with you? I replied.
I would rather, he said, that you should argue with the many first, if you will.
Whichever you please, if you will only answer me and say whether you are of their
opinion or not. My object is to test the validity of the argument; and yet the result may
be that I who ask and you who answer may both be put on our trial.
Protagoras at first made a show of refusing, as he said that the argument was not
encouraging; at length, he consented to answer.
Now then, I said, begin at the beginning and answer me. You think that some men are
temperate, and yet unjust?
Yes, he said; let that be admitted.
And temperance is good sense?
Yes.
And good sense is good counsel in doing injustice?
Granted.
If they succeed, I said, or if they do not succeed?
If they succeed.
And you would admit the existence of goods?
Yes.
And is the good that which is expedient for man?
Yes, indeed, he said: and there are some things which may be inexpedient, and yet I call
them good.
I thought that Protagoras was getting ruffled and excited; he seemed to be setting
himself in an attitude of war. Seeing this, I minded my business, and gently said:—
When you say, Protagoras, that things inexpedient are good, do you mean inexpedient
for man only, or inexpedient altogether? and do you call the latter good?
Certainly not the last, he replied; for I know of many things—meats, drinks, medicines,
and ten thousand other things, which are inexpedient for man, and some which are
expedient; and some which are neither expedient nor inexpedient for man, but only for
horses; and some for oxen only, and some for dogs; and some for no animals, but only
for trees; and some for the roots of trees and not for their branches, as for example,
manure, which is a good thing when laid about the roots of a tree, but utterly
destructive if thrown upon the shoots and young branches; or I may instance olive oil,
which is mischievous to all plants, and generally most injurious to the hair of every
animal with the exception of man, but beneficial to human hair and to the human body
generally; and even in this application (so various and changeable is the nature of the
benefit), that which is the greatest good to the outward parts of a man, is a very great
evil to his inward parts: and for this reason physicians always forbid their patients the
use of oil in their food, except in very small quantities, just enough to extinguish the
disagreeable sensation of smell in meats and sauces.
When he had given this answer, the company cheered him. And I said: Protagoras, I
have a wretched memory, and when any one makes a long speech to me I never
remember what he is talking about. As then, if I had been deaf, and you were going to
converse with me, you would have had to raise your voice; so now, having such a bad
memory, I will ask you to cut your answers shorter, if you would take me with you.
What do you mean? he said: how am I to shorten my answers? shall I make them too
short?
Certainly not, I said.
But short enough?
Yes, I said.
Shall I answer what appears to me to be short enough, or what appears to you to be
short enough?
I have heard, I said, that you can speak and teach others to speak about the same things
at such length that words never seemed to fail, or with such brevity that no one could
use fewer of them. Please therefore, if you talk with me, to adopt the latter or more
compendious method.
Socrates, he replied, many a battle of words have I fought, and if I had followed the
method of disputation which my adversaries desired, as you want me to do, I should
have been no better than another, and the name of Protagoras would have been
nowhere.
I saw that he was not satisfied with his previous answers, and that he would not play the
part of answerer any more if he could help; and I considered that there was no call upon
me to continue the conversation; so I said: Protagoras, I do not wish to force the
conversation upon you if you had rather not, but when you are willing to argue with me
in such a way that I can follow you, then I will argue with you. Now you, as is said of you
by others and as you say of yourself, are able to have discussions in shorter forms of
speech as well as in longer, for you are a master of wisdom; but I cannot manage these
long speeches: I only wish that I could. You, on the other hand, who are capable of
either, ought to speak shorter as I beg you, and then we might converse. But I see that
you are disinclined, and as I have an engagement which will prevent my staying to hear
you at greater length (for I have to be in another place), I will depart; although I should
have liked to have heard you.
Thus I spoke, and was rising from my seat, when Callias seized me by the right hand,
and in his left hand caught hold of this old cloak of mine. He said: We cannot let you go,
Socrates, for if you leave us there will be an end of our discussions: I must therefore beg
you to remain, as there is nothing in the world that I should like better than to hear you
and Protagoras discourse. Do not deny the company this pleasure.
Now I had got up, and was in the act of departure. Son of Hipponicus, I replied, I have
always admired, and do now heartily applaud and love your philosophical spirit, and I
would gladly comply with your request, if I could. But the truth is that I cannot. And
what you ask is as great an impossibility to me, as if you bade me run a race with Crison
of Himera, when in his prime, or with some one of the long or day course runners. To
such a request I should reply that I would fain ask the same of my own legs; but they
refuse to comply. And therefore if you want to see Crison and me in the same stadium,
you must bid him slacken his speed to mine, for I cannot run quickly, and he can run
slowly. And in like manner if you want to hear me and Protagoras discoursing, you must
ask him to shorten his answers, and keep to the point, as he did at first; if not, how can
there be any discussion? For discussion is one thing, and making an oration is quite
another, in my humble opinion.
But you see, Socrates, said Callias, that Protagoras may fairly claim to speak in his own
way, just as you claim to speak in yours.
Here Alcibiades interposed, and said: That, Callias, is not a true statement of the case.
For our friend Socrates admits that he cannot make a speech—in this he yields the palm
to Protagoras: but I should be greatly surprised if he yielded to any living man in the
power of holding and apprehending an argument. Now if Protagoras will make a similar
admission, and confess that he is inferior to Socrates in argumentative skill, that is
enough for Socrates; but if he claims a superiority in argument as well, let him ask and
answer—not, when a question is asked, slipping away from the point, and instead of
answering, making a speech at such length that most of his hearers forget the question
at issue (not that Socrates is likely to forget—I will be bound for that, although he may
pretend in fun that he has a bad memory). And Socrates appears to me to be more in
the right than Protagoras; that is my view, and every man ought to say what he thinks.
When Alcibiades had done speaking, some one—Critias, I believe—went on to say: O
Prodicus and Hippias, Callias appears to me to be a partisan of Protagoras: and this led
Alcibiades, who loves opposition, to take the other side. But we should not be partisans
either of Socrates or of Protagoras; let us rather unite in entreating both of them not to
break up the discussion.
Prodicus added: That, Critias, seems to me to be well said, for those who are present at
such discussions ought to be impartial hearers of both the speakers; remembering,
however, that impartiality is not the same as equality, for both sides should be
impartially heard, and yet an equal meed should not be assigned to both of them; but
to the wiser a higher meed should be given, and a lower to the less wise. And I as well as
Critias would beg you, Protagoras and Socrates, to grant our request, which is, that you
will argue with one another and not wrangle; for friends argue with friends out of goodwill,
but only adversaries and enemies wrangle. And then our meeting will be delightful;
for in this way you, who are the speakers, will be most likely to win esteem, and not
praise only, among us who are your audience; for esteem is a sincere conviction of the
hearers’ souls, but praise is often an insincere expression of men uttering falsehoods
contrary to their conviction. And thus we who are the hearers will be gratified and not
pleased; for gratification is of the mind when receiving wisdom and knowledge, but
pleasure is of the body when eating or experiencing some other bodily delight. Thus
spoke Prodicus, and many of the company applauded his words.
Hippias the sage spoke next. He said: All of you who are here present I reckon to be
kinsmen and friends and fellow-citizens, by nature and not by law; for by nature like is
akin to like, whereas law is the tyrant of mankind, and often compels us to do many
things which are against nature. How great would be the disgrace then, if we, who know
the nature of things, and are the wisest of the Hellenes, and as such are met together in
this city, which is the metropolis of wisdom, and in the greatest and most glorious house
of this city, should have nothing to show worthy of this height of dignity, but should
only quarrel with one another like the meanest of mankind! I do pray and advise you,
Protagoras, and you, Socrates, to agree upon a compromise. Let us be your
peacemakers. And do not you, Socrates, aim at this precise and extreme brevity in
discourse, if Protagoras objects, but loosen and let go the reins of speech, that your
words may be grander and more becoming to you. Neither do you, Protagoras, go forth
on the gale with every sail set out of sight of land into an ocean of words, but let there
be a mean observed by both of you. Do as I say. And let me also persuade you to
choose an arbiter or overseer or president; he will keep watch over your words and will
prescribe their proper length.
This proposal was received by the company with universal approval; Callias said that he
would not let me off, and they begged me to choose an arbiter. But I said that to choose
an umpire of discourse would be unseemly; for if the person chosen was inferior, then
the inferior or worse ought not to preside over the better; or if he was equal, neither
would that be well; for he who is our equal will do as we do, and what will be the use of
choosing him? And if you say, ‘Let us have a better then,’—to that I answer that you
cannot have any one who is wiser than Protagoras. And if you choose another who is
not really better, and whom you only say is better, to put another over him as though he
were an inferior person would be an unworthy reflection on him; not that, as far as I am
concerned, any reflection is of much consequence to me. Let me tell you then what I will
do in order that the conversation and discussion may go on as you desire. If Protagoras
is not disposed to answer, let him ask and I will answer; and I will endeavour to show at
the same time how, as I maintain, he ought to answer: and when I have answered as
many questions as he likes to ask, let him in like manner answer me; and if he seems to
be not very ready at answering the precise question asked of him, you and I will unite in
entreating him, as you entreated me, not to spoil the discussion. And this will require no
special arbiter—all of you shall be arbiters.
This was generally approved, and Protagoras, though very much against his will, was
obliged to agree that he would ask questions; and when he had put a sufficient number
of them, that he would answer in his turn those which he was asked in short replies. He
began to put his questions as follows:—
I am of opinion, Socrates, he said, that skill in poetry is the principal part of education;
and this I conceive to be the power of knowing what compositions of the poets are
correct, and what are not, and how they are to be distinguished, and of explaining when
asked the reason of the difference. And I propose to transfer the question which you
and I have been discussing to the domain of poetry; we will speak as before of virtue,
but in reference to a passage of a poet. Now Simonides says to Scopas the son of Creon
the Thessalian:
‘Hardly on the one hand can a man become truly good, built four-square in hands and
feet and mind, a work without a flaw.’
Do you know the poem? or shall I repeat the whole?
There is no need, I said; for I am perfectly well acquainted with the ode, —I have made a
careful study of it.
Very well, he said. And do you think that the ode is a good composition, and true?
Yes, I said, both good and true.
But if there is a contradiction, can the composition be good or true?
No, not in that case, I replied.
And is there not a contradiction? he asked. Reflect.
Well, my friend, I have reflected.
And does not the poet proceed to say, ‘I do not agree with the word of Pittacus, albeit
the utterance of a wise man: Hardly can a man be good’? Now you will observe that this
is said by the same poet.
I know it.
And do you think, he said, that the two sayings are consistent?
Yes, I said, I think so (at the same time I could not help fearing that there might be
something in what he said). And you think otherwise?
Why, he said, how can he be consistent in both? First of all, premising as his own
thought, ‘Hardly can a man become truly good’; and then a little further on in the poem,
forgetting, and blaming Pittacus and refusing to agree with him, when he says, ‘Hardly
can a man be good,’ which is the very same thing. And yet when he blames him who
says the same with himself, he blames himself; so that he must be wrong either in his
first or his second assertion.
Many of the audience cheered and applauded this. And I felt at first giddy and faint, as if
I had received a blow from the hand of an expert boxer, when I heard his words and the
sound of the cheering; and to confess the truth, I wanted to get time to think what the
meaning of the poet really was. So I turned to Prodicus and called him. Prodicus, I said,
Simonides is a countryman of yours, and you ought to come to his aid. I must appeal to
you, like the river Scamander in Homer, who, when beleaguered by Achilles, summons
the Simois to aid him, saying:
‘Brother dear, let us both together stay the force of the hero (Il.).’
And I summon you, for I am afraid that Protagoras will make an end of Simonides. Now
is the time to rehabilitate Simonides, by the application of your philosophy of synonyms,
which enables you to distinguish ‘will’ and ‘wish,’ and make other charming distinctions
like those which you drew just now. And I should like to know whether you would agree
with me; for I am of opinion that there is no contradiction in the words of Simonides.
And first of all I wish that you would say whether, in your opinion, Prodicus, ‘being’ is the
same as ‘becoming.’
Not the same, certainly, replied Prodicus.
Did not Simonides first set forth, as his own view, that ‘Hardly can a man become truly
good’?
Quite right, said Prodicus.
And then he blames Pittacus, not, as Protagoras imagines, for repeating that which he
says himself, but for saying something different from himself. Pittacus does not say as
Simonides says, that hardly can a man become good, but hardly can a man be good:
and our friend Prodicus would maintain that being, Protagoras, is not the same as
becoming; and if they are not the same, then Simonides is not inconsistent with himself.
I dare say that Prodicus and many others would say, as Hesiod says,
‘On the one hand, hardly can a man become good, For the gods have made virtue the
reward of toil, But on the other hand, when you have climbed the height, Then, to retain
virtue, however difficult the acquisition, is easy (Works and Days).’
Prodicus heard and approved; but Protagoras said: Your correction, Socrates, involves a
greater error than is contained in the sentence which you are correcting.
Alas! I said, Protagoras; then I am a sorry physician, and do but aggravate a disorder
which I am seeking to cure.
Such is the fact, he said.
How so? I asked.
The poet, he replied, could never have made such a mistake as to say that virtue, which
in the opinion of all men is the hardest of all things, can be easily retained.
Well, I said, and how fortunate are we in having Prodicus among us, at the right
moment; for he has a wisdom, Protagoras, which, as I imagine, is more than human and
of very ancient date, and may be as old as Simonides or even older. Learned as you are
in many things, you appear to know nothing of this; but I know, for I am a disciple of his.
And now, if I am not mistaken, you do not understand the word ‘hard’ (chalepon) in the
sense which Simonides intended; and I must correct you, as Prodicus corrects me when I
use the word ‘awful’ (deinon) as a term of praise. If I say that Protagoras or any one else
is an ‘awfully’ wise man, he asks me if I am not ashamed of calling that which is good
‘awful’; and then he explains to me that the term ‘awful’ is always taken in a bad sense,
and that no one speaks of being ‘awfully’ healthy or wealthy, or of ‘awful’ peace, but of
‘awful’ disease, ‘awful’ war, ‘awful’ poverty, meaning by the term ‘awful,’ evil. And I think
that Simonides and his countrymen the Ceans, when they spoke of ‘hard’ meant ‘evil,’ or
something which you do not understand. Let us ask Prodicus, for he ought to be able to
answer questions about the dialect of Simonides. What did he mean, Prodicus, by the
term ‘hard’?
Evil, said Prodicus.
And therefore, I said, Prodicus, he blames Pittacus for saying, ‘Hard is the good,’ just as if
that were equivalent to saying, Evil is the good.
Yes, he said, that was certainly his meaning; and he is twitting Pittacus with ignorance of
the use of terms, which in a Lesbian, who has been accustomed to speak a barbarous
language, is natural.
Do you hear, Protagoras, I asked, what our friend Prodicus is saying? And have you an
answer for him?
You are entirely mistaken, Prodicus, said Protagoras; and I know very well that
Simonides in using the word ‘hard’ meant what all of us mean, not evil, but that which is
not easy—that which takes a great deal of trouble: of this I am positive.
I said: I also incline to believe, Protagoras, that this was the meaning of Simonides, of
which our friend Prodicus was very well aware, but he thought that he would make fun,
and try if you could maintain your thesis; for that Simonides could never have meant the
other is clearly proved by the context, in which he says that God only has this gift. Now
he cannot surely mean to say that to be good is evil, when he afterwards proceeds to
say that God only has this gift, and that this is the attribute of him and of no other. For if
this be his meaning, Prodicus would impute to Simonides a character of recklessness
which is very unlike his countrymen. And I should like to tell you, I said, what I imagine
to be the real meaning of Simonides in this poem, if you will test what, in your way of
speaking, would be called my skill in poetry; or if you would rather, I will be the listener.
To this proposal Protagoras replied: As you please;—and Hippias, Prodicus, and the
others told me by all means to do as I proposed.
Then now, I said, I will endeavour to explain to you my opinion about this poem of
Simonides. There is a very ancient philosophy which is more cultivated in Crete and
Lacedaemon than in any other part of Hellas, and there are more philosophers in those
countries than anywhere else in the world. This, however, is a secret which the
Lacedaemonians deny; and they pretend to be ignorant, just because they do not wish
to have it thought that they rule the world by wisdom, like the Sophists of whom
Protagoras was speaking, and not by valour of arms; considering that if the reason of
their superiority were disclosed, all men would be practising their wisdom. And this
secret of theirs has never been discovered by the imitators of Lacedaemonian fashions
in other cities, who go about with their ears bruised in imitation of them, and have the
caestus bound on their arms, and are always in training, and wear short cloaks; for they
imagine that these are the practices which have enabled the Lacedaemonians to
conquer the other Hellenes. Now when the Lacedaemonians want to unbend and hold
free conversation with their wise men, and are no longer satisfied with mere secret
intercourse, they drive out all these laconizers, and any other foreigners who may
happen to be in their country, and they hold a philosophical seance unknown to
strangers; and they themselves forbid their young men to go out into other cities—in
this they are like the Cretans— in order that they may not unlearn the lessons which
they have taught them. And in Lacedaemon and Crete not only men but also women
have a pride in their high cultivation. And hereby you may know that I am right in
attributing to the Lacedaemonians this excellence in philosophy and speculation: If a
man converses with the most ordinary Lacedaemonian, he will find him seldom good for
much in general conversation, but at any point in the discourse he will be darting out
some notable saying, terse and full of meaning, with unerring aim; and the person with
whom he is talking seems to be like a child in his hands. And many of our own age and
of former ages have noted that the true Lacedaemonian type of character has the love
of philosophy even stronger than the love of gymnastics; they are conscious that only a
perfectly educated man is capable of uttering such expressions. Such were Thales of
Miletus, and Pittacus of Mitylene, and Bias of Priene, and our own Solon, and Cleobulus
the Lindian, and Myson the Chenian; and seventh in the catalogue of wise men was the
Lacedaemonian Chilo. All these were lovers and emulators and disciples of the culture of
the Lacedaemonians, and any one may perceive that their wisdom was of this character;
consisting of short memorable sentences, which they severally uttered. And they met
together and dedicated in the temple of Apollo at Delphi, as the first-fruits of their
wisdom, the far-famed inscriptions, which are in all men’s mouths—‘Know thyself,’ and
‘Nothing too much.’
Why do I say all this? I am explaining that this Lacedaemonian brevity was the style of
primitive philosophy. Now there was a saying of Pittacus which was privately circulated
and received the approbation of the wise, ‘Hard is it to be good.’ And Simonides, who
was ambitious of the fame of wisdom, was aware that if he could overthrow this saying,
then, as if he had won a victory over some famous athlete, he would carry off the palm
among his contemporaries. And if I am not mistaken, he composed the entire poem
with the secret intention of damaging Pittacus and his saying.
Let us all unite in examining his words, and see whether I am speaking the truth.
Simonides must have been a lunatic, if, in the very first words of the poem, wanting to
say only that to become good is hard, he inserted (Greek) ‘on the one hand’ (‘on the one
hand to become good is hard’); there would be no reason for the introduction of
(Greek), unless you suppose him to speak with a hostile reference to the words of
Pittacus. Pittacus is saying ‘Hard is it to be good,’ and he, in refutation of this thesis,
rejoins that the truly hard thing, Pittacus, is to become good, not joining ‘truly’ with
‘good,’ but with ‘hard.’ Not, that the hard thing is to be truly good, as though there were
some truly good men, and there were others who were good but not truly good (this
would be a very simple observation, and quite unworthy of Simonides); but you must
suppose him to make a trajection of the word ‘truly’ (Greek), construing the saying of
Pittacus thus (and let us imagine Pittacus to be speaking and Simonides answering him):
‘O my friends,’ says Pittacus, ‘hard is it to be good,’ and Simonides answers, ‘In that,
Pittacus, you are mistaken; the difficulty is not to be good, but on the one hand, to
become good, four-square in hands and feet and mind, without a flaw—that is hard
truly.’ This way of reading the passage accounts for the insertion of (Greek) ‘on the one
hand,’ and for the position at the end of the clause of the word ‘truly,’ and all that
follows shows this to be the meaning. A great deal might be said in praise of the details
of the poem, which is a charming piece of workmanship, and very finished, but such
minutiae would be tedious. I should like, however, to point out the general intention of
the poem, which is certainly designed in every part to be a refutation of the saying of
Pittacus. For he speaks in what follows a little further on as if he meant to argue that
although there is a difficulty in becoming good, yet this is possible for a time, and only
for a time. But having become good, to remain in a good state and be good, as you,
Pittacus, affirm, is not possible, and is not granted to man; God only has this blessing;
‘but man cannot help being bad when the force of circumstances overpowers him.’ Now
whom does the force of circumstance overpower in the command of a vessel?— not the
private individual, for he is always overpowered; and as one who is already prostrate
cannot be overthrown, and only he who is standing upright but not he who is prostrate
can be laid prostrate, so the force of circumstances can only overpower him who, at
some time or other, has resources, and not him who is at all times helpless. The descent
of a great storm may make the pilot helpless, or the severity of the season the
husbandman or the physician; for the good may become bad, as another poet
witnesses:—
‘The good are sometimes good and sometimes bad.’
But the bad does not become bad; he is always bad. So that when the force of
circumstances overpowers the man of resources and skill and virtue, then he cannot
help being bad. And you, Pittacus, are saying, ‘Hard is it to be good.’ Now there is a
difficulty in becoming good; and yet this is possible: but to be good is an impossibility—
‘For he who does well is the good man, and he who does ill is the bad.’
But what sort of doing is good in letters? and what sort of doing makes a man good in
letters? Clearly the knowing of them. And what sort of well- doing makes a man a good
physician? Clearly the knowledge of the art of healing the sick. ‘But he who does ill is the
bad.’ Now who becomes a bad physician? Clearly he who is in the first place a physician,
and in the second place a good physician; for he may become a bad one also: but none
of us unskilled individuals can by any amount of doing ill become physicians, any more
than we can become carpenters or anything of that sort; and he who by doing ill cannot
become a physician at all, clearly cannot become a bad physician. In like manner the
good may become deteriorated by time, or toil, or disease, or other accident (the only
real doing ill is to be deprived of knowledge), but the bad man will never become bad,
for he is always bad; and if he were to become bad, he must previously have been good.
Thus the words of the poem tend to show that on the one hand a man cannot be
continuously good, but that he may become good and may also become bad; and again
that
‘They are the best for the longest time whom the gods love.’
All this relates to Pittacus, as is further proved by the sequel. For he adds:—
‘Therefore I will not throw away my span of life to no purpose in searching after the
impossible, hoping in vain to find a perfectly faultless man among those who partake of
the fruit of the broad-bosomed earth: if I find him, I will send you word.’
(this is the vehement way in which he pursues his attack upon Pittacus throughout the
whole poem):
‘But him who does no evil, voluntarily I praise and love;—not even the gods war against
necessity.’
All this has a similar drift, for Simonides was not so ignorant as to say that he praised
those who did no evil voluntarily, as though there were some who did evil voluntarily.
For no wise man, as I believe, will allow that any human being errs voluntarily, or
voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions; but they are very well aware that all who
do evil and dishonourable things do them against their will. And Simonides never says
that he praises him who does no evil voluntarily; the word ‘voluntarily’ applies to
himself. For he was under the impression that a good man might often compel himself
to love and praise another, and to be the friend and approver of another; and that there
might be an involuntary love, such as a man might feel to an unnatural father or mother,
or country, or the like. Now bad men, when their parents or country have any defects,
look on them with malignant joy, and find fault with them and expose and denounce
them to others, under the idea that the rest of mankind will be less likely to take
themselves to task and accuse them of neglect; and they blame their defects far more
than they deserve, in order that the odium which is necessarily incurred by them may be
increased: but the good man dissembles his feelings, and constrains himself to praise
them; and if they have wronged him and he is angry, he pacifies his anger and is
reconciled, and compels himself to love and praise his own flesh and blood. And
Simonides, as is probable, considered that he himself had often had to praise and
magnify a tyrant or the like, much against his will, and he also wishes to imply to
Pittacus that he does not censure him because he is censorious.
‘For I am satisfied’ he says, ‘when a man is neither bad nor very stupid; and when he
knows justice (which is the health of states), and is of sound mind, I will find no fault
with him, for I am not given to finding fault, and there are innumerable fools’
(implying that if he delighted in censure he might have abundant opportunity of finding
fault).
‘All things are good with which evil is unmingled.’
In these latter words he does not mean to say that all things are good which have no
evil in them, as you might say ‘All things are white which have no black in them,’ for that
would be ridiculous; but he means to say that he accepts and finds no fault with the
moderate or intermediate state.
(‘I do not hope’ he says, ‘to find a perfectly blameless man among those who partake of
the fruits of the broad-bosomed earth (if I find him, I will send you word); in this sense I
praise no man. But he who is moderately good, and does no evil, is good enough for
me, who love and approve every one’)
(and here observe that he uses a Lesbian word, epainemi (approve), because he is
addressing Pittacus,
‘Who love and APPROVE every one VOLUNTARILY, who does no evil:’
and that the stop should be put after ‘voluntarily’); ‘but there are some whom I
involuntarily praise and love. And you, Pittacus, I would never have blamed, if you had
spoken what was moderately good and true; but I do blame you because, putting on
the appearance of truth, you are speaking falsely about the highest matters.’—And this, I
said, Prodicus and Protagoras, I take to be the meaning of Simonides in this poem.
Hippias said: I think, Socrates, that you have given a very good explanation of the poem;
but I have also an excellent interpretation of my own which I will propound to you, if
you will allow me.
Nay, Hippias, said Alcibiades; not now, but at some other time. At present we must
abide by the compact which was made between Socrates and Protagoras, to the effect
that as long as Protagoras is willing to ask, Socrates should answer; or that if he would
rather answer, then that Socrates should ask.
I said: I wish Protagoras either to ask or answer as he is inclined; but I would rather have
done with poems and odes, if he does not object, and come back to the question about
which I was asking you at first, Protagoras, and by your help make an end of that. The
talk about the poets seems to me like a commonplace entertainment to which a vulgar
company have recourse; who, because they are not able to converse or amuse one
another, while they are drinking, with the sound of their own voices and conversation,
by reason of their stupidity, raise the price of flute-girls in the market, hiring for a great
sum the voice of a flute instead of their own breath, to be the medium of intercourse
among them: but where the company are real gentlemen and men of education, you
will see no flute-girls, nor dancing- girls, nor harp-girls; and they have no nonsense or
games, but are contented with one another’s conversation, of which their own voices are
the medium, and which they carry on by turns and in an orderly manner, even though
they are very liberal in their potations. And a company like this of ours, and men such as
we profess to be, do not require the help of another’s voice, or of the poets whom you
cannot interrogate about the meaning of what they are saying; people who cite them
declaring, some that the poet has one meaning, and others that he has another, and the
point which is in dispute can never be decided. This sort of entertainment they decline,
and prefer to talk with one another, and put one another to the proof in conversation.
And these are the models which I desire that you and I should imitate. Leaving the
poets, and keeping to ourselves, let us try the mettle of one another and make proof of
the truth in conversation. If you have a mind to ask, I am ready to answer; or if you
would rather, do you answer, and give me the opportunity of resuming and completing
our unfinished argument.
I made these and some similar observations; but Protagoras would not distinctly say
which he would do. Thereupon Alcibiades turned to Callias, and said:—Do you think,
Callias, that Protagoras is fair in refusing to say whether he will or will not answer? for I
certainly think that he is unfair; he ought either to proceed with the argument, or
distinctly refuse to proceed, that we may know his intention; and then Socrates will be
able to discourse with some one else, and the rest of the company will be free to talk
with one another.
I think that Protagoras was really made ashamed by these words of Alcibiades, and
when the prayers of Callias and the company were superadded, he was at last induced
to argue, and said that I might ask and he would answer.
So I said: Do not imagine, Protagoras, that I have any other interest in asking questions
of you but that of clearing up my own difficulties. For I think that Homer was very right
in saying that
‘When two go together, one sees before the other (Il.),’
for all men who have a companion are readier in deed, word, or thought; but if a man
‘Sees a thing when he is alone,’
he goes about straightway seeking until he finds some one to whom he may show his
discoveries, and who may confirm him in them. And I would rather hold discourse with
you than with any one, because I think that no man has a better understanding of most
things which a good man may be expected to understand, and in particular of virtue. For
who is there, but you?—who not only claim to be a good man and a gentleman, for
many are this, and yet have not the power of making others good—whereas you are not
only good yourself, but also the cause of goodness in others. Moreover such confidence
have you in yourself, that although other Sophists conceal their profession, you proclaim
in the face of Hellas that you are a Sophist or teacher of virtue and education, and are
the first who demanded pay in return. How then can I do otherwise than invite you to
the examination of these subjects, and ask questions and consult with you? I must,
indeed. And I should like once more to have my memory refreshed by you about the
questions which I was asking you at first, and also to have your help in considering
them. If I am not mistaken the question was this: Are wisdom and temperance and
courage and justice and holiness five names of the same thing? or has each of the
names a separate underlying essence and corresponding thing having a peculiar
function, no one of them being like any other of them? And you replied that the five
names were not the names of the same thing, but that each of them had a separate
object, and that all these objects were parts of virtue, not in the same way that the parts
of gold are like each other and the whole of which they are parts, but as the parts of the
face are unlike the whole of which they are parts and one another, and have each of
them a distinct function. I should like to know whether this is still your opinion; or if not,
I will ask you to define your meaning, and I shall not take you to task if you now make a
different statement. For I dare say that you may have said what you did only in order to
make trial of me.
I answer, Socrates, he said, that all these qualities are parts of virtue, and that four out of
the five are to some extent similar, and that the fifth of them, which is courage, is very
different from the other four, as I prove in this way: You may observe that many men are
utterly unrighteous, unholy, intemperate, ignorant, who are nevertheless remarkable for
their courage.
Stop, I said; I should like to think about that. When you speak of brave men, do you
mean the confident, or another sort of nature?
Yes, he said; I mean the impetuous, ready to go at that which others are afraid to
approach.
In the next place, you would affirm virtue to be a good thing, of which good thing you
assert yourself to be a teacher.
Yes, he said; I should say the best of all things, if I am in my right mind.
And is it partly good and partly bad, I said, or wholly good?
Wholly good, and in the highest degree.
Tell me then; who are they who have confidence when diving into a well?
I should say, the divers.
And the reason of this is that they have knowledge?
Yes, that is the reason.
And who have confidence when fighting on horseback—the skilled horseman or the
unskilled?
The skilled.
And who when fighting with light shields—the peltasts or the nonpeltasts?
The peltasts. And that is true of all other things, he said, if that is your point: those who
have knowledge are more confident than those who have no knowledge, and they are
more confident after they have learned than before.
And have you not seen persons utterly ignorant, I said, of these things, and yet
confident about them?
Yes, he said, I have seen such persons far too confident.
And are not these confident persons also courageous?
In that case, he replied, courage would be a base thing, for the men of whom we are
speaking are surely madmen.
Then who are the courageous? Are they not the confident?
Yes, he said; to that statement I adhere.
And those, I said, who are thus confident without knowledge are really not courageous,
but mad; and in that case the wisest are also the most confident, and being the most
confident are also the bravest, and upon that view again wisdom will be courage.
Nay, Socrates, he replied, you are mistaken in your remembrance of what was said by
me. When you asked me, I certainly did say that the courageous are the confident; but I
was never asked whether the confident are the courageous; if you had asked me, I
should have answered ‘Not all of them’: and what I did answer you have not proved to
be false, although you proceeded to show that those who have knowledge are more
courageous than they were before they had knowledge, and more courageous than
others who have no knowledge, and were then led on to think that courage is the same
as wisdom. But in this way of arguing you might come to imagine that strength is
wisdom. You might begin by asking whether the strong are able, and I should say ‘Yes’;
and then whether those who know how to wrestle are not more able to wrestle than
those who do not know how to wrestle, and more able after than before they had
learned, and I should assent. And when I had admitted this, you might use my
admissions in such a way as to prove that upon my view wisdom is strength; whereas in
that case I should not have admitted, any more than in the other, that the able are
strong, although I have admitted that the strong are able. For there is a difference
between ability and strength; the former is given by knowledge as well as by madness or
rage, but strength comes from nature and a healthy state of the body. And in like
manner I say of confidence and courage, that they are not the same; and I argue that
the courageous are confident, but not all the confident courageous. For confidence may
be given to men by art, and also, like ability, by madness and rage; but courage comes
to them from nature and the healthy state of the soul.
I said: You would admit, Protagoras, that some men live well and others ill?
He assented.
And do you think that a man lives well who lives in pain and grief?
He does not.
But if he lives pleasantly to the end of his life, will he not in that case have lived well?
He will.
Then to live pleasantly is a good, and to live unpleasantly an evil?
Yes, he said, if the pleasure be good and honourable.
And do you, Protagoras, like the rest of the world, call some pleasant things evil and
some painful things good?—for I am rather disposed to say that things are good in as
far as they are pleasant, if they have no consequences of another sort, and in as far as
they are painful they are bad.
I do not know, Socrates, he said, whether I can venture to assert in that unqualified
manner that the pleasant is the good and the painful the evil. Having regard not only to
my present answer, but also to the whole of my life, I shall be safer, if I am not mistaken,
in saying that there are some pleasant things which are not good, and that there are
some painful things which are good, and some which are not good, and that there are
some which are neither good nor evil.
And you would call pleasant, I said, the things which participate in pleasure or create
pleasure?
Certainly, he said.
Then my meaning is, that in as far as they are pleasant they are good; and my question
would imply that pleasure is a good in itself.
According to your favourite mode of speech, Socrates, ‘Let us reflect about this,’ he said;
and if the reflection is to the point, and the result proves that pleasure and good are
really the same, then we will agree; but if not, then we will argue.
And would you wish to begin the enquiry? I said; or shall I begin?
You ought to take the lead, he said; for you are the author of the discussion.
May I employ an illustration? I said. Suppose some one who is enquiring into the health
or some other bodily quality of another:—he looks at his face and at the tips of his
fingers, and then he says, Uncover your chest and back to me that I may have a better
view:—that is the sort of thing which I desire in this speculation. Having seen what your
opinion is about good and pleasure, I am minded to say to you: Uncover your mind to
me, Protagoras, and reveal your opinion about knowledge, that I may know whether you
agree with the rest of the world. Now the rest of the world are of opinion that
knowledge is a principle not of strength, or of rule, or of command: their notion is that a
man may have knowledge, and yet that the knowledge which is in him may be
overmastered by anger, or pleasure, or pain, or love, or perhaps by fear,—just as if
knowledge were a slave, and might be dragged about anyhow. Now is that your view?
or do you think that knowledge is a noble and commanding thing, which cannot be
overcome, and will not allow a man, if he only knows the difference of good and evil, to
do anything which is contrary to knowledge, but that wisdom will have strength to help
him?
I agree with you, Socrates, said Protagoras; and not only so, but I, above all other men,
am bound to say that wisdom and knowledge are the highest of human things.
Good, I said, and true. But are you aware that the majority of the world are of another
mind; and that men are commonly supposed to know the things which are best, and not
to do them when they might? And most persons whom I have asked the reason of this
have said that when men act contrary to knowledge they are overcome by pain, or
pleasure, or some of those affections which I was just now mentioning.
Yes, Socrates, he replied; and that is not the only point about which mankind are in
error.
Suppose, then, that you and I endeavour to instruct and inform them what is the nature
of this affection which they call ‘being overcome by pleasure,’ and which they affirm to
be the reason why they do not always do what is best. When we say to them: Friends,
you are mistaken, and are saying what is not true, they would probably reply: Socrates
and Protagoras, if this affection of the soul is not to be called ‘being overcome by
pleasure,’ pray, what is it, and by what name would you describe it?
But why, Socrates, should we trouble ourselves about the opinion of the many, who just
say anything that happens to occur to them?
I believe, I said, that they may be of use in helping us to discover how courage is related
to the other parts of virtue. If you are disposed to abide by our agreement, that I should
show the way in which, as I think, our recent difficulty is most likely to be cleared up, do
you follow; but if not, never mind.
You are quite right, he said; and I would have you proceed as you have begun.
Well then, I said, let me suppose that they repeat their question, What account do you
give of that which, in our way of speaking, is termed being overcome by pleasure? I
should answer thus: Listen, and Protagoras and I will endeavour to show you. When men
are overcome by eating and drinking and other sensual desires which are pleasant, and
they, knowing them to be evil, nevertheless indulge in them, would you not say that
they were overcome by pleasure? They will not deny this. And suppose that you and I
were to go on and ask them again: ‘In what way do you say that they are evil,—in that
they are pleasant and give pleasure at the moment, or because they cause disease and
poverty and other like evils in the future? Would they still be evil, if they had no
attendant evil consequences, simply because they give the consciousness of pleasure of
whatever nature?’—Would they not answer that they are not evil on account of the
pleasure which is immediately given by them, but on account of the after
consequences—diseases and the like?
I believe, said Protagoras, that the world in general would answer as you do.
And in causing diseases do they not cause pain? and in causing poverty do they not
cause pain;—they would agree to that also, if I am not mistaken?
Protagoras assented.
Then I should say to them, in my name and yours: Do you think them evil for any other
reason, except because they end in pain and rob us of other pleasures:—there again
they would agree?
We both of us thought that they would.
And then I should take the question from the opposite point of view, and say: ‘Friends,
when you speak of goods being painful, do you not mean remedial goods, such as
gymnastic exercises, and military service, and the physician’s use of burning, cutting,
drugging, and starving? Are these the things which are good but painful?’—they would
assent to me?
He agreed.
‘And do you call them good because they occasion the greatest immediate suffering
and pain; or because, afterwards, they bring health and improvement of the bodily
condition and the salvation of states and power over others and wealth?’—they would
agree to the latter alternative, if I am not mistaken?
He assented.
‘Are these things good for any other reason except that they end in pleasure, and get rid
of and avert pain? Are you looking to any other standard but pleasure and pain when
you call them good?’—they would acknowledge that they were not?
I think so, said Protagoras.
‘And do you not pursue after pleasure as a good, and avoid pain as an evil?’
He assented.
‘Then you think that pain is an evil and pleasure is a good: and even pleasure you deem
an evil, when it robs you of greater pleasures than it gives, or causes pains greater than
the pleasure. If, however, you call pleasure an evil in relation to some other end or
standard, you will be able to show us that standard. But you have none to show.’
I do not think that they have, said Protagoras.
‘And have you not a similar way of speaking about pain? You call pain a good when it
takes away greater pains than those which it has, or gives pleasures greater than the
pains: then if you have some standard other than pleasure and pain to which you refer
when you call actual pain a good, you can show what that is. But you cannot.’
True, said Protagoras.
Suppose again, I said, that the world says to me: ‘Why do you spend many words and
speak in many ways on this subject?’ Excuse me, friends, I should reply; but in the first
place there is a difficulty in explaining the meaning of the expression ‘overcome by
pleasure’; and the whole argument turns upon this. And even now, if you see any
possible way in which evil can be explained as other than pain, or good as other than
pleasure, you may still retract. Are you satisfied, then, at having a life of pleasure which
is without pain? If you are, and if you are unable to show any good or evil which does
not end in pleasure and pain, hear the consequences:—If what you say is true, then the
argument is absurd which affirms that a man often does evil knowingly, when he might
abstain, because he is seduced and overpowered by pleasure; or again, when you say
that a man knowingly refuses to do what is good because he is overcome at the
moment by pleasure. And that this is ridiculous will be evident if only we give up the use
of various names, such as pleasant and painful, and good and evil. As there are two
things, let us call them by two names— first, good and evil, and then pleasant and
painful. Assuming this, let us go on to say that a man does evil knowing that he does
evil. But some one will ask, Why? Because he is overcome, is the first answer. And by
what is he overcome? the enquirer will proceed to ask. And we shall not be able to reply
‘By pleasure,’ for the name of pleasure has been exchanged for that of good. In our
answer, then, we shall only say that he is overcome. ‘By what?’ he will reiterate. By the
good, we shall have to reply; indeed we shall. Nay, but our questioner will rejoin with a
laugh, if he be one of the swaggering sort, ‘That is too ridiculous, that a man should do
what he knows to be evil when he ought not, because he is overcome by good. Is that,
he will ask, because the good was worthy or not worthy of conquering the evil’? And in
answer to that we shall clearly reply, Because it was not worthy; for if it had been worthy,
then he who, as we say, was overcome by pleasure, would not have been wrong. ‘But
how,’ he will reply, ‘can the good be unworthy of the evil, or the evil of the good’? Is not
the real explanation that they are out of proportion to one another, either as greater
and smaller, or more and fewer? This we cannot deny. And when you speak of being
overcome—‘what do you mean,’ he will say, ‘but that you choose the greater evil in
exchange for the lesser good?’ Admitted. And now substitute the names of pleasure and
pain for good and evil, and say, not as before, that a man does what is evil knowingly,
but that he does what is painful knowingly, and because he is overcome by pleasure,
which is unworthy to overcome. What measure is there of the relations of pleasure to
pain other than excess and defect, which means that they become greater and smaller,
and more and fewer, and differ in degree? For if any one says: ‘Yes, Socrates, but
immediate pleasure differs widely from future pleasure and pain’—To that I should
reply: And do they differ in anything but in pleasure and pain? There can be no other
measure of them. And do you, like a skilful weigher, put into the balance the pleasures
and the pains, and their nearness and distance, and weigh them, and then say which
outweighs the other. If you weigh pleasures against pleasures, you of course take the
more and greater; or if you weigh pains against pains, you take the fewer and the less;
or if pleasures against pains, then you choose that course of action in which the painful
is exceeded by the pleasant, whether the distant by the near or the near by the distant;
and you avoid that course of action in which the pleasant is exceeded by the painful.
Would you not admit, my friends, that this is true? I am confident that they cannot deny
this.
He agreed with me.
Well then, I shall say, if you agree so far, be so good as to answer me a question: Do not
the same magnitudes appear larger to your sight when near, and smaller when at a
distance? They will acknowledge that. And the same holds of thickness and number; also
sounds, which are in themselves equal, are greater when near, and lesser when at a
distance. They will grant that also. Now suppose happiness to consist in doing or
choosing the greater, and in not doing or in avoiding the less, what would be the saving
principle of human life? Would not the art of measuring be the saving principle; or
would the power of appearance? Is not the latter that deceiving art which makes us
wander up and down and take the things at one time of which we repent at another,
both in our actions and in our choice of things great and small? But the art of
measurement would do away with the effect of appearances, and, showing the truth,
would fain teach the soul at last to find rest in the truth, and would thus save our life.
Would not mankind generally acknowledge that the art which accomplishes this result is
the art of measurement?
Yes, he said, the art of measurement.
Suppose, again, the salvation of human life to depend on the choice of odd and even,
and on the knowledge of when a man ought to choose the greater or less, either in
reference to themselves or to each other, and whether near or at a distance; what would
be the saving principle of our lives? Would not knowledge?—a knowledge of measuring,
when the question is one of excess and defect, and a knowledge of number, when the
question is of odd and even? The world will assent, will they not?
Protagoras himself thought that they would.
Well then, my friends, I say to them; seeing that the salvation of human life has been
found to consist in the right choice of pleasures and pains, —in the choice of the more
and the fewer, and the greater and the less, and the nearer and remoter, must not this
measuring be a consideration of their excess and defect and equality in relation to each
other?
This is undeniably true.
And this, as possessing measure, must undeniably also be an art and science?
They will agree, he said.
The nature of that art or science will be a matter of future consideration; but the
existence of such a science furnishes a demonstrative answer to the question which you
asked of me and Protagoras. At the time when you asked the question, if you
remember, both of us were agreeing that there was nothing mightier than knowledge,
and that knowledge, in whatever existing, must have the advantage over pleasure and
all other things; and then you said that pleasure often got the advantage even over a
man who has knowledge; and we refused to allow this, and you rejoined: O Protagoras
and Socrates, what is the meaning of being overcome by pleasure if not this?—tell us
what you call such a state:—if we had immediately and at the time answered
‘Ignorance,’ you would have laughed at us. But now, in laughing at us, you will be
laughing at yourselves: for you also admitted that men err in their choice of pleasures
and pains; that is, in their choice of good and evil, from defect of knowledge; and you
admitted further, that they err, not only from defect of knowledge in general, but of that
particular knowledge which is called measuring. And you are also aware that the erring
act which is done without knowledge is done in ignorance. This, therefore, is the
meaning of being overcome by pleasure; —ignorance, and that the greatest. And our
friends Protagoras and Prodicus and Hippias declare that they are the physicians of
ignorance; but you, who are under the mistaken impression that ignorance is not the
cause, and that the art of which I am speaking cannot be taught, neither go yourselves,
nor send your children, to the Sophists, who are the teachers of these things—you take
care of your money and give them none; and the result is, that you are the worse off
both in public and private life:—Let us suppose this to be our answer to the world in
general: And now I should like to ask you, Hippias, and you, Prodicus, as well as
Protagoras (for the argument is to be yours as well as ours), whether you think that I am
speaking the truth or not?
They all thought that what I said was entirely true.
Then you agree, I said, that the pleasant is the good, and the painful evil. And here I
would beg my friend Prodicus not to introduce his distinction of names, whether he is
disposed to say pleasurable, delightful, joyful. However, by whatever name he prefers to
call them, I will ask you, most excellent Prodicus, to answer in my sense of the words.
Prodicus laughed and assented, as did the others.
Then, my friends, what do you say to this? Are not all actions honourable and useful, of
which the tendency is to make life painless and pleasant? The honourable work is also
useful and good?
This was admitted.
Then, I said, if the pleasant is the good, nobody does anything under the idea or
conviction that some other thing would be better and is also attainable, when he might
do the better. And this inferiority of a man to himself is merely ignorance, as the
superiority of a man to himself is wisdom.
They all assented.
And is not ignorance the having a false opinion and being deceived about important
matters?
To this also they unanimously assented.
Then, I said, no man voluntarily pursues evil, or that which he thinks to be evil. To prefer
evil to good is not in human nature; and when a man is compelled to choose one of two
evils, no one will choose the greater when he may have the less.
All of us agreed to every word of this.
Well, I said, there is a certain thing called fear or terror; and here, Prodicus, I should
particularly like to know whether you would agree with me in defining this fear or terror
as expectation of evil.
Protagoras and Hippias agreed, but Prodicus said that this was fear and not terror.
Never mind, Prodicus, I said; but let me ask whether, if our former assertions are true, a
man will pursue that which he fears when he is not compelled? Would not this be in flat
contradiction to the admission which has been already made, that he thinks the things
which he fears to be evil; and no one will pursue or voluntarily accept that which he
thinks to be evil?
That also was universally admitted.
Then, I said, these, Hippias and Prodicus, are our premisses; and I would beg Protagoras
to explain to us how he can be right in what he said at first. I do not mean in what he
said quite at first, for his first statement, as you may remember, was that whereas there
were five parts of virtue none of them was like any other of them; each of them had a
separate function. To this, however, I am not referring, but to the assertion which he
afterwards made that of the five virtues four were nearly akin to each other, but that the
fifth, which was courage, differed greatly from the others. And of this he gave me the
following proof. He said: You will find, Socrates, that some of the most impious, and
unrighteous, and intemperate, and ignorant of men are among the most courageous;
which proves that courage is very different from the other parts of virtue. I was surprised
at his saying this at the time, and I am still more surprised now that I have discussed the
matter with you. So I asked him whether by the brave he meant the confident. Yes, he
replied, and the impetuous or goers. (You may remember, Protagoras, that this was your
answer.)
He assented.
Well then, I said, tell us against what are the courageous ready to go— against the same
dangers as the cowards?
No, he answered.
Then against something different?
Yes, he said.
Then do cowards go where there is safety, and the courageous where there is danger?
Yes, Socrates, so men say.
Very true, I said. But I want to know against what do you say that the courageous are
ready to go—against dangers, believing them to be dangers, or not against dangers?
No, said he; the former case has been proved by you in the previous argument to be
impossible.
That, again, I replied, is quite true. And if this has been rightly proven, then no one goes
to meet what he thinks to be dangers, since the want of self-control, which makes men
rush into dangers, has been shown to be ignorance.
He assented.
And yet the courageous man and the coward alike go to meet that about which they are
confident; so that, in this point of view, the cowardly and the courageous go to meet the
same things.
And yet, Socrates, said Protagoras, that to which the coward goes is the opposite of that
to which the courageous goes; the one, for example, is ready to go to battle, and the
other is not ready.
And is going to battle honourable or disgraceful? I said.
Honourable, he replied.
And if honourable, then already admitted by us to be good; for all honourable actions
we have admitted to be good.
That is true; and to that opinion I shall always adhere.
True, I said. But which of the two are they who, as you say, are unwilling to go to war,
which is a good and honourable thing?
The cowards, he replied.
And what is good and honourable, I said, is also pleasant?
It has certainly been acknowledged to be so, he replied.
And do the cowards knowingly refuse to go to the nobler, and pleasanter, and better?
The admission of that, he replied, would belie our former admissions.
But does not the courageous man also go to meet the better, and pleasanter, and
nobler?
That must be admitted.
And the courageous man has no base fear or base confidence?
True, he replied.
And if not base, then honourable?
He admitted this.
And if honourable, then good?
Yes.
But the fear and confidence of the coward or foolhardy or madman, on the contrary, are
base?
He assented.
And these base fears and confidences originate in ignorance and uninstructedness?
True, he said.
Then as to the motive from which the cowards act, do you call it cowardice or courage?
I should say cowardice, he replied.
And have they not been shown to be cowards through their ignorance of dangers?
Assuredly, he said.
And because of that ignorance they are cowards?
He assented.
And the reason why they are cowards is admitted by you to be cowardice?
He again assented.
Then the ignorance of what is and is not dangerous is cowardice?
He nodded assent.
But surely courage, I said, is opposed to cowardice?
Yes.
Then the wisdom which knows what are and are not dangers is opposed to the
ignorance of them?
To that again he nodded assent.
And the ignorance of them is cowardice?
To that he very reluctantly nodded assent.
And the knowledge of that which is and is not dangerous is courage, and is opposed to
the ignorance of these things?
At this point he would no longer nod assent, but was silent.
And why, I said, do you neither assent nor dissent, Protagoras?
Finish the argument by yourself, he said.
I only want to ask one more question, I said. I want to know whether you still think that
there are men who are most ignorant and yet most courageous?
You seem to have a great ambition to make me answer, Socrates, and therefore I will
gratify you, and say, that this appears to me to be impossible consistently with the
argument.
My only object, I said, in continuing the discussion, has been the desire to ascertain the
nature and relations of virtue; for if this were clear, I am very sure that the other
controversy which has been carried on at great length by both of us—you affirming and
I denying that virtue can be taught—would also become clear. The result of our
discussion appears to me to be singular. For if the argument had a human voice, that
voice would be heard laughing at us and saying: ‘Protagoras and Socrates, you are
strange beings; there are you, Socrates, who were saying that virtue cannot be taught,
contradicting yourself now by your attempt to prove that all things are knowledge,
including justice, and temperance, and courage,— which tends to show that virtue can
certainly be taught; for if virtue were other than knowledge, as Protagoras attempted to
prove, then clearly virtue cannot be taught; but if virtue is entirely knowledge, as you are
seeking to show, then I cannot but suppose that virtue is capable of being taught.
Protagoras, on the other hand, who started by saying that it might be taught, is now
eager to prove it to be anything rather than knowledge; and if this is true, it must be
quite incapable of being taught.’ Now I, Protagoras, perceiving this terrible confusion of
our ideas, have a great desire that they should be cleared up. And I should like to carry
on the discussion until we ascertain what virtue is, whether capable of being taught or
not, lest haply Epimetheus should trip us up and deceive us in the argument, as he
forgot us in the story; I prefer your Prometheus to your Epimetheus, for of him I make
use, whenever I am busy about these questions, in Promethean care of my own life. And
if you have no objection, as I said at first, I should like to have your help in the enquiry.
Protagoras replied: Socrates, I am not of a base nature, and I am the last man in the
world to be envious. I cannot but applaud your energy and your conduct of an
argument. As I have often said, I admire you above all men whom I know, and far above
all men of your age; and I believe that you will become very eminent in philosophy. Let
us come back to the subject at some future time; at present we had better turn to
something else.
By all means, I said, if that is your wish; for I too ought long since to have kept the
engagement of which I spoke before, and only tarried because I could not refuse the
request of the noble Callias. So the conversation ended, and we went our way.
The end
MENO
By
PLATO
Translated by
Benjamin Jowett
INTRODUCTION.
This Dialogue begins abruptly with a question of Meno, who asks, ‘whether virtue can be
taught.’ Socrates replies that he does not as yet know what virtue is, and has never
known anyone who did. ‘Then he cannot have met Gorgias when he was at Athens.’ Yes,
Socrates had met him, but he has a bad memory, and has forgotten what Gorgias said.
Will Meno tell him his own notion, which is probably not very different from that of
Gorgias? ‘O yes—nothing easier: there is the virtue of a man, of a woman, of an old
man, and of a child; there is a virtue of every age and state of life, all of which may be
easily described.’
Socrates reminds Meno that this is only an enumeration of the virtues and not a
definition of the notion which is common to them all. In a second attempt Meno defines
virtue to be ‘the power of command.’ But to this, again, exceptions are taken. For there
must be a virtue of those who obey, as well as of those who command; and the power
of command must be justly or not unjustly exercised. Meno is very ready to admit that
justice is virtue: ‘Would you say virtue or a virtue, for there are other virtues, such as
courage, temperance, and the like; just as round is a figure, and black and white are
colours, and yet there are other figures and other colours. Let Meno take the examples
of figure and colour, and try to define them.’ Meno confesses his inability, and after a
process of interrogation, in which Socrates explains to him the nature of a ‘simile in
multis,’ Socrates himself defines figure as ‘the accompaniment of colour.’ But some one
may object that he does not know the meaning of the word ‘colour;’ and if he is a
candid friend, and not a mere disputant, Socrates is willing to furnish him with a simpler
and more philosophical definition, into which no disputed word is allowed to intrude:
‘Figure is the limit of form.’ Meno imperiously insists that he must still have a definition
of colour. Some raillery follows; and at length Socrates is induced to reply, ‘that colour is
the effluence of form, sensible, and in due proportion to the sight.’ This definition is
exactly suited to the taste of Meno, who welcomes the familiar language of Gorgias and
Empedocles. Socrates is of opinion that the more abstract or dialectical definition of
figure is far better.
Now that Meno has been made to understand the nature of a general definition, he
answers in the spirit of a Greek gentleman, and in the words of a poet, ‘that virtue is to
delight in things honourable, and to have the power of getting them.’ This is a nearer
approximation than he has yet made to a complete definition, and, regarded as a piece
of proverbial or popular morality, is not far from the truth. But the objection is urged,
‘that the honourable is the good,’ and as every one equally desires the good, the point
of the definition is contained in the words, ‘the power of getting them.’ ‘And they must
be got justly or with justice.’ The definition will then stand thus: ‘Virtue is the power of
getting good with justice.’ But justice is a part of virtue, and therefore virtue is the
getting of good with a part of virtue. The definition repeats the word defined.
Meno complains that the conversation of Socrates has the effect of a torpedo’s shock
upon him. When he talks with other persons he has plenty to say about virtue; in the
presence of Socrates, his thoughts desert him. Socrates replies that he is only the cause
of perplexity in others, because he is himself perplexed. He proposes to continue the
enquiry. But how, asks Meno, can he enquire either into what he knows or into what he
does not know? This is a sophistical puzzle, which, as Socrates remarks, saves a great
deal of trouble to him who accepts it. But the puzzle has a real difficulty latent under it,
to which Socrates will endeavour to find a reply. The difficulty is the origin of
knowledge:—
He has heard from priests and priestesses, and from the poet Pindar, of an immortal
soul which is born again and again in successive periods of existence, returning into this
world when she has paid the penalty of ancient crime, and, having wandered over all
places of the upper and under world, and seen and known all things at one time or
other, is by association out of one thing capable of recovering all. For nature is of one
kindred; and every soul has a seed or germ which may be developed into all knowledge.
The existence of this latent knowledge is further proved by the interrogation of one of
Meno’s slaves, who, in the skilful hands of Socrates, is made to acknowledge some
elementary relations of geometrical figures. The theorem that the square of the diagonal
is double the square of the side—that famous discovery of primitive mathematics, in
honour of which the legendary Pythagoras is said to have sacrificed a hecatomb—is
elicited from him. The first step in the process of teaching has made him conscious of
his own ignorance. He has had the ‘torpedo’s shock’ given him, and is the better for the
operation. But whence had the uneducated man this knowledge? He had never learnt
geometry in this world; nor was it born with him; he must therefore have had it when he
was not a man. And as he always either was or was not a man, he must have always had
it. (Compare Phaedo.)
After Socrates has given this specimen of the true nature of teaching, the original
question of the teachableness of virtue is renewed. Again he professes a desire to know
‘what virtue is’ first. But he is willing to argue the question, as mathematicians say, under
an hypothesis. He will assume that if virtue is knowledge, then virtue can be taught. (This
was the stage of the argument at which the Protagoras concluded.)
Socrates has no difficulty in showing that virtue is a good, and that goods, whether of
body or mind, must be under the direction of knowledge. Upon the assumption just
made, then, virtue is teachable. But where are the teachers? There are none to be found.
This is extremely discouraging. Virtue is no sooner discovered to be teachable, than the
discovery follows that it is not taught. Virtue, therefore, is and is not teachable.
In this dilemma an appeal is made to Anytus, a respectable and well-to-do citizen of the
old school, and a family friend of Meno, who happens to be present. He is asked
‘whether Meno shall go to the Sophists and be taught.’ The suggestion throws him into
a rage. ‘To whom, then, shall Meno go?’ asks Socrates. To any Athenian gentleman—to
the great Athenian statesmen of past times. Socrates replies here, as elsewhere (Laches,
Prot.), that Themistocles, Pericles, and other great men, had sons to whom they would
surely, if they could have done so, have imparted their own political wisdom; but no one
ever heard that these sons of theirs were remarkable for anything except riding and
wrestling and similar accomplishments. Anytus is angry at the imputation which is cast
on his favourite statesmen, and on a class to which he supposes himself to belong; he
breaks off with a significant hint. The mention of another opportunity of talking with
him, and the suggestion that Meno may do the Athenian people a service by pacifying
him, are evident allusions to the trial of Socrates.
Socrates returns to the consideration of the question ‘whether virtue is teachable,’ which
was denied on the ground that there are no teachers of it: (for the Sophists are bad
teachers, and the rest of the world do not profess to teach). But there is another point
which we failed to observe, and in which Gorgias has never instructed Meno, nor
Prodicus Socrates. This is the nature of right opinion. For virtue may be under the
guidance of right opinion as well as of knowledge; and right opinion is for practical
purposes as good as knowledge, but is incapable of being taught, and is also liable, like
the images of Daedalus, to ‘walk off,’ because not bound by the tie of the cause. This is
the sort of instinct which is possessed by statesmen, who are not wise or knowing
persons, but only inspired or divine. The higher virtue, which is identical with knowledge,
is an ideal only. If the statesman had this knowledge, and could teach what he knew, he
would be like Tiresias in the world below,—‘he alone has wisdom, but the rest flit like
shadows.’
This Dialogue is an attempt to answer the question, Can virtue be taught? No one would
either ask or answer such a question in modern times. But in the age of Socrates it was
only by an effort that the mind could rise to a general notion of virtue as distinct from
the particular virtues of courage, liberality, and the like. And when a hazy conception of
this ideal was attained, it was only by a further effort that the question of the
teachableness of virtue could be resolved.
The answer which is given by Plato is paradoxical enough, and seems rather intended to
stimulate than to satisfy enquiry. Virtue is knowledge, and therefore virtue can be
taught. But virtue is not taught, and therefore in this higher and ideal sense there is no
virtue and no knowledge. The teaching of the Sophists is confessedly inadequate, and
Meno, who is their pupil, is ignorant of the very nature of general terms. He can only
produce out of their armoury the sophism, ‘that you can neither enquire into what you
know nor into what you do not know;’ to which Socrates replies by his theory of
reminiscence.
To the doctrine that virtue is knowledge, Plato has been constantly tending in the
previous Dialogues. But the new truth is no sooner found than it vanishes away. ‘If there
is knowledge, there must be teachers; and where are the teachers?’ There is no
knowledge in the higher sense of systematic, connected, reasoned knowledge, such as
may one day be attained, and such as Plato himself seems to see in some far off vision
of a single science. And there are no teachers in the higher sense of the word; that is to
say, no real teachers who will arouse the spirit of enquiry in their pupils, and not merely
instruct them in rhetoric or impart to them ready- made information for a fee of ‘one’ or
of ‘fifty drachms.’ Plato is desirous of deepening the notion of education, and therefore
he asserts the paradox that there are no educators. This paradox, though different in
form, is not really different from the remark which is often made in modern times by
those who would depreciate either the methods of education commonly employed, or
the standard attained—that ‘there is no true education among us.’
There remains still a possibility which must not be overlooked. Even if there be no true
knowledge, as is proved by ‘the wretched state of education,’ there may be right
opinion, which is a sort of guessing or divination resting on no knowledge of causes,
and incommunicable to others. This is the gift which our statesmen have, as is proved by
the circumstance that they are unable to impart their knowledge to their sons. Those
who are possessed of it cannot be said to be men of science or philosophers, but they
are inspired and divine.
There may be some trace of irony in this curious passage, which forms the concluding
portion of the Dialogue. But Plato certainly does not mean to intimate that the
supernatural or divine is the true basis of human life. To him knowledge, if only
attainable in this world, is of all things the most divine. Yet, like other philosophers, he is
willing to admit that ‘probability is the guide of life (Butler’s Analogy.);’ and he is at the
same time desirous of contrasting the wisdom which governs the world with a higher
wisdom. There are many instincts, judgments, and anticipations of the human mind
which cannot be reduced to rule, and of which the grounds cannot always be given in
words. A person may have some skill or latent experience which he is able to use himself
and is yet unable to teach others, because he has no principles, and is incapable of
collecting or arranging his ideas. He has practice, but not theory; art, but not science.
This is a true fact of psychology, which is recognized by Plato in this passage. But he is
far from saying, as some have imagined, that inspiration or divine grace is to be
regarded as higher than knowledge. He would not have preferred the poet or man of
action to the philosopher, or the virtue of custom to the virtue based upon ideas.
Also here, as in the Ion and Phaedrus, Plato appears to acknowledge an unreasoning
element in the higher nature of man. The philosopher only has knowledge, and yet the
statesman and the poet are inspired. There may be a sort of irony in regarding in this
way the gifts of genius. But there is no reason to suppose that he is deriding them, any
more than he is deriding the phenomena of love or of enthusiasm in the Symposium, or
of oracles in the Apology, or of divine intimations when he is speaking of the
daemonium of Socrates. He recognizes the lower form of right opinion, as well as the
higher one of science, in the spirit of one who desires to include in his philosophy every
aspect of human life; just as he recognizes the existence of popular opinion as a fact,
and the Sophists as the expression of it.
This Dialogue contains the first intimation of the doctrine of reminiscence and of the
immortality of the soul. The proof is very slight, even slighter than in the Phaedo and
Republic. Because men had abstract ideas in a previous state, they must have always
had them, and their souls therefore must have always existed. For they must always have
been either men or not men. The fallacy of the latter words is transparent. And Socrates
himself appears to be conscious of their weakness; for he adds immediately afterwards,
‘I have said some things of which I am not altogether confident.’ (Compare Phaedo.) It
may be observed, however, that the fanciful notion of pre-existence is combined with a
true but partial view of the origin and unity of knowledge, and of the association of
ideas. Knowledge is prior to any particular knowledge, and exists not in the previous
state of the individual, but of the race. It is potential, not actual, and can only be
appropriated by strenuous exertion.
The idealism of Plato is here presented in a less developed form than in the Phaedo and
Phaedrus. Nothing is said of the pre-existence of ideas of justice, temperance, and the
like. Nor is Socrates positive of anything but the duty of enquiry. The doctrine of
reminiscence too is explained more in accordance with fact and experience as arising
out of the affinities of nature (ate tes thuseos oles suggenous ouses). Modern
philosophy says that all things in nature are dependent on one another; the ancient
philosopher had the same truth latent in his mind when he affirmed that out of one
thing all the rest may be recovered. The subjective was converted by him into an
objective; the mental phenomenon of the association of ideas (compare Phaedo)
became a real chain of existences. The germs of two valuable principles of education
may also be gathered from the ‘words of priests and priestesses:’ (1) that true
knowledge is a knowledge of causes (compare Aristotle’s theory of episteme); and (2)
that the process of learning consists not in what is brought to the learner, but in what is
drawn out of him.
Some lesser points of the dialogue may be noted, such as (1) the acute observation that
Meno prefers the familiar definition, which is embellished with poetical language, to the
better and truer one; or (2) the shrewd reflection, which may admit of an application to
modern as well as to ancient teachers, that the Sophists having made large fortunes; this
must surely be a criterion of their powers of teaching, for that no man could get a living
by shoemaking who was not a good shoemaker; or (3) the remark conveyed, almost in a
word, that the verbal sceptic is saved the labour of thought and enquiry (ouden dei to
toiouto zeteseos). Characteristic also of the temper of the Socratic enquiry is, (4) the
proposal to discuss the teachableness of virtue under an hypothesis, after the manner of
the mathematicians; and (5) the repetition of the favourite doctrine which occurs so
frequently in the earlier and more Socratic Dialogues, and gives a colour to all of them—
that mankind only desire evil through ignorance; (6) the experiment of eliciting from the
slave-boy the mathematical truth which is latent in him, and (7) the remark that he is all
the better for knowing his ignorance.
The character of Meno, like that of Critias, has no relation to the actual circumstances of
his life. Plato is silent about his treachery to the ten thousand Greeks, which Xenophon
has recorded, as he is also silent about the crimes of Critias. He is a Thessalian
Alcibiades, rich and luxurious— a spoilt child of fortune, and is described as the
hereditary friend of the great king. Like Alcibiades he is inspired with an ardent desire of
knowledge, and is equally willing to learn of Socrates and of the Sophists. He may be
regarded as standing in the same relation to Gorgias as Hippocrates in the Protagoras
to the other great Sophist. He is the sophisticated youth on whom Socrates tries his
cross-examining powers, just as in the Charmides, the Lysis, and the Euthydemus,
ingenuous boyhood is made the subject of a similar experiment. He is treated by
Socrates in a half-playful manner suited to his character; at the same time he appears
not quite to understand the process to which he is being subjected. For he is exhibited
as ignorant of the very elements of dialectics, in which the Sophists have failed to
instruct their disciple. His definition of virtue as ‘the power and desire of attaining things
honourable,’ like the first definition of justice in the Republic, is taken from a poet. His
answers have a sophistical ring, and at the same time show the sophistical incapacity to
grasp a general notion.
Anytus is the type of the narrow-minded man of the world, who is indignant at
innovation, and equally detests the popular teacher and the true philosopher. He seems,
like Aristophanes, to regard the new opinions, whether of Socrates or the Sophists, as
fatal to Athenian greatness. He is of the same class as Callicles in the Gorgias, but of a
different variety; the immoral and sophistical doctrines of Callicles are not attributed to
him. The moderation with which he is described is remarkable, if he be the accuser of
Socrates, as is apparently indicated by his parting words. Perhaps Plato may have been
desirous of showing that the accusation of Socrates was not to be attributed to badness
or malevolence, but rather to a tendency in men’s minds. Or he may have been
regardless of the historical truth of the characters of his dialogue, as in the case of Meno
and Critias. Like Chaerephon (Apol.) the real Anytus was a democrat, and had joined
Thrasybulus in the conflict with the thirty.
The Protagoras arrived at a sort of hypothetical conclusion, that if ‘virtue is knowledge, it
can be taught.’ In the Euthydemus, Socrates himself offered an example of the manner
in which the true teacher may draw out the mind of youth; this was in contrast to the
quibbling follies of the Sophists. In the Meno the subject is more developed; the
foundations of the enquiry are laid deeper, and the nature of knowledge is more
distinctly explained. There is a progression by antagonism of two opposite aspects of
philosophy. But at the moment when we approach nearest, the truth doubles upon us
and passes out of our reach. We seem to find that the ideal of knowledge is
irreconcilable with experience. In human life there is indeed the profession of
knowledge, but right opinion is our actual guide. There is another sort of progress from
the general notions of Socrates, who asked simply, ‘what is friendship?’ ‘what is
temperance?’ ‘what is courage?’ as in the Lysis, Charmides, Laches, to the
transcendentalism of Plato, who, in the second stage of his philosophy, sought to find
the nature of knowledge in a prior and future state of existence.
The difficulty in framing general notions which has appeared in this and in all the
previous Dialogues recurs in the Gorgias and Theaetetus as well as in the Republic. In
the Gorgias too the statesmen reappear, but in stronger opposition to the philosopher.
They are no longer allowed to have a divine insight, but, though acknowledged to have
been clever men and good speakers, are denounced as ‘blind leaders of the blind.’ The
doctrine of the immortality of the soul is also carried further, being made the foundation
not only of a theory of knowledge, but of a doctrine of rewards and punishments. In the
Republic the relation of knowledge to virtue is described in a manner more consistent
with modern distinctions. The existence of the virtues without the possession of
knowledge in the higher or philosophical sense is admitted to be possible. Right opinion
is again introduced in the Theaetetus as an account of knowledge, but is rejected on the
ground that it is irrational (as here, because it is not bound by the tie of the cause), and
also because the conception of false opinion is given up as hopeless. The doctrines of
Plato are necessarily different at different times of his life, as new distinctions are
realized, or new stages of thought attained by him. We are not therefore justified, in
order to take away the appearance of inconsistency, in attributing to him hidden
meanings or remote allusions.
There are no external criteria by which we can determine the date of the Meno. There is
no reason to suppose that any of the Dialogues of Plato were written before the death
of Socrates; the Meno, which appears to be one of the earliest of them, is proved to
have been of a later date by the allusion of Anytus.
We cannot argue that Plato was more likely to have written, as he has done, of Meno
before than after his miserable death; for we have already seen, in the examples of
Charmides and Critias, that the characters in Plato are very far from resembling the same
characters in history. The repulsive picture which is given of him in the Anabasis of
Xenophon, where he also appears as the friend of Aristippus ‘and a fair youth having
lovers,’ has no other trait of likeness to the Meno of Plato.
The place of the Meno in the series is doubtfully indicated by internal evidence. The
main character of the Dialogue is Socrates; but to the ‘general definitions’ of Socrates is
added the Platonic doctrine of reminiscence. The problems of virtue and knowledge
have been discussed in the Lysis, Laches, Charmides, and Protagoras; the puzzle about
knowing and learning has already appeared in the Euthydemus. The doctrines of
immortality and pre-existence are carried further in the Phaedrus and Phaedo; the
distinction between opinion and knowledge is more fully developed in the Theaetetus.
The lessons of Prodicus, whom he facetiously calls his master, are still running in the
mind of Socrates. Unlike the later Platonic Dialogues, the Meno arrives at no conclusion.
Hence we are led to place the Dialogue at some point of time later than the Protagoras,
and earlier than the Phaedrus and Gorgias. The place which is assigned to it in this work
is due mainly to the desire to bring together in a single volume all the Dialogues which
contain allusions to the trial and death of Socrates.
...
ON THE IDEAS OF PLATO.
Plato’s doctrine of ideas has attained an imaginary clearness and definiteness which is
not to be found in his own writings. The popular account of them is partly derived from
one or two passages in his Dialogues interpreted without regard to their poetical
environment. It is due also to the misunderstanding of him by the Aristotelian school;
and the erroneous notion has been further narrowed and has become fixed by the
realism of the schoolmen. This popular view of the Platonic ideas may be summed up in
some such formula as the following: ‘Truth consists not in particulars, but in universals,
which have a place in the mind of God, or in some far-off heaven. These were revealed
to men in a former state of existence, and are recovered by reminiscence (anamnesis) or
association from sensible things. The sensible things are not realities, but shadows only,
in relation to the truth.’ These unmeaning propositions are hardly suspected to be a
caricature of a great theory of knowledge, which Plato in various ways and under many
figures of speech is seeking to unfold. Poetry has been converted into dogma; and it is
not remarked that the Platonic ideas are to be found only in about a third of Plato’s
writings and are not confined to him. The forms which they assume are numerous, and if
taken literally, inconsistent with one another. At one time we are in the clouds of
mythology, at another among the abstractions of mathematics or metaphysics; we pass
imperceptibly from one to the other. Reason and fancy are mingled in the same
passage. The ideas are sometimes described as many, coextensive with the universals of
sense and also with the first principles of ethics; or again they are absorbed into the
single idea of good, and subordinated to it. They are not more certain than facts, but
they are equally certain (Phaedo). They are both personal and impersonal. They are
abstract terms: they are also the causes of things; and they are even transformed into
the demons or spirits by whose help God made the world. And the idea of good
(Republic) may without violence be converted into the Supreme Being, who ‘because He
was good’ created all things (Tim.).
It would be a mistake to try and reconcile these differing modes of thought. They are
not to be regarded seriously as having a distinct meaning. They are parables,
prophecies, myths, symbols, revelations, aspirations after an unknown world. They derive
their origin from a deep religious and contemplative feeling, and also from an
observation of curious mental phenomena. They gather up the elements of the previous
philosophies, which they put together in a new form. Their great diversity shows the
tentative character of early endeavours to think. They have not yet settled down into a
single system. Plato uses them, though he also criticises them; he acknowledges that
both he and others are always talking about them, especially about the Idea of Good;
and that they are not peculiar to himself (Phaedo; Republic; Soph.). But in his later
writings he seems to have laid aside the old forms of them. As he proceeds he makes for
himself new modes of expression more akin to the Aristotelian logic.
Yet amid all these varieties and incongruities, there is a common meaning or spirit which
pervades his writings, both those in which he treats of the ideas and those in which he is
silent about them. This is the spirit of idealism, which in the history of philosophy has
had many names and taken many forms, and has in a measure influenced those who
seemed to be most averse to it. It has often been charged with inconsistency and
fancifulness, and yet has had an elevating effect on human nature, and has exercised a
wonderful charm and interest over a few spirits who have been lost in the thought of it.
It has been banished again and again, but has always returned. It has attempted to leave
the earth and soar heavenwards, but soon has found that only in experience could any
solid foundation of knowledge be laid. It has degenerated into pantheism, but has again
emerged. No other knowledge has given an equal stimulus to the mind. It is the science
of sciences, which are also ideas, and under either aspect require to be defined. They
can only be thought of in due proportion when conceived in relation to one another.
They are the glasses through which the kingdoms of science are seen, but at a distance.
All the greatest minds, except when living in an age of reaction against them, have
unconsciously fallen under their power.
The account of the Platonic ideas in the Meno is the simplest and clearest, and we shall
best illustrate their nature by giving this first and then comparing the manner in which
they are described elsewhere, e.g. in the Phaedrus, Phaedo, Republic; to which may be
added the criticism of them in the Parmenides, the personal form which is attributed to
them in the Timaeus, the logical character which they assume in the Sophist and
Philebus, and the allusion to them in the Laws. In the Cratylus they dawn upon him with
the freshness of a newly-discovered thought.
The Meno goes back to a former state of existence, in which men did and suffered good
and evil, and received the reward or punishment of them until their sin was purged away
and they were allowed to return to earth. This is a tradition of the olden time, to which
priests and poets bear witness. The souls of men returning to earth bring back a latent
memory of ideas, which were known to them in a former state. The recollection is
awakened into life and consciousness by the sight of the things which resemble them on
earth. The soul evidently possesses such innate ideas before she has had time to acquire
them. This is proved by an experiment tried on one of Meno’s slaves, from whom
Socrates elicits truths of arithmetic and geometry, which he had never learned in this
world. He must therefore have brought them with him from another.
The notion of a previous state of existence is found in the verses of Empedocles and in
the fragments of Heracleitus. It was the natural answer to two questions, ‘Whence came
the soul? What is the origin of evil?’ and prevailed far and wide in the east. It found its
way into Hellas probably through the medium of Orphic and Pythagorean rites and
mysteries. It was easier to think of a former than of a future life, because such a life has
really existed for the race though not for the individual, and all men come into the
world, if not ‘trailing clouds of glory,’ at any rate able to enter into the inheritance of the
past. In the Phaedrus, as well as in the Meno, it is this former rather than a future life on
which Plato is disposed to dwell. There the Gods, and men following in their train, go
forth to contemplate the heavens, and are borne round in the revolutions of them.
There they see the divine forms of justice, temperance, and the like, in their
unchangeable beauty, but not without an effort more than human. The soul of man is
likened to a charioteer and two steeds, one mortal, the other immortal. The charioteer
and the mortal steed are in fierce conflict; at length the animal principle is finally
overpowered, though not extinguished, by the combined energies of the passionate and
rational elements. This is one of those passages in Plato which, partaking both of a
philosophical and poetical character, is necessarily indistinct and inconsistent. The
magnificent figure under which the nature of the soul is described has not much to do
with the popular doctrine of the ideas. Yet there is one little trait in the description
which shows that they are present to Plato’s mind, namely, the remark that the soul,
which had seen truths in the form of the universal, cannot again return to the nature of
an animal.
In the Phaedo, as in the Meno, the origin of ideas is sought for in a previous state of
existence. There was no time when they could have been acquired in this life, and
therefore they must have been recovered from another. The process of recovery is no
other than the ordinary law of association, by which in daily life the sight of one thing or
person recalls another to our minds, and by which in scientific enquiry from any part of
knowledge we may be led on to infer the whole. It is also argued that ideas, or rather
ideals, must be derived from a previous state of existence because they are more perfect
than the sensible forms of them which are given by experience. But in the Phaedo the
doctrine of ideas is subordinate to the proof of the immortality of the soul. ‘If the soul
existed in a previous state, then it will exist in a future state, for a law of alternation
pervades all things.’ And, ‘If the ideas exist, then the soul exists; if not, not.’ It is to be
observed, both in the Meno and the Phaedo, that Socrates expresses himself with
diffidence. He speaks in the Phaedo of the words with which he has comforted himself
and his friends, and will not be too confident that the description which he has given of
the soul and her mansions is exactly true, but he ‘ventures to think that something of
the kind is true.’ And in the Meno, after dwelling upon the immortality of the soul, he
adds, ‘Of some things which I have said I am not altogether confident’ (compare
Apology; Gorgias). From this class of uncertainties he exempts the difference between
truth and appearance, of which he is absolutely convinced.
In the Republic the ideas are spoken of in two ways, which though not contradictory are
different. In the tenth book they are represented as the genera or general ideas under
which individuals having a common name are contained. For example, there is the bed
which the carpenter makes, the picture of the bed which is drawn by the painter, the
bed existing in nature of which God is the author. Of the latter all visible beds are only
the shadows or reflections. This and similar illustrations or explanations are put forth,
not for their own sake, or as an exposition of Plato’s theory of ideas, but with a view of
showing that poetry and the mimetic arts are concerned with an inferior part of the soul
and a lower kind of knowledge. On the other hand, in the 6th and 7th books of the
Republic we reach the highest and most perfect conception, which Plato is able to
attain, of the nature of knowledge. The ideas are now finally seen to be one as well as
many, causes as well as ideas, and to have a unity which is the idea of good and the
cause of all the rest. They seem, however, to have lost their first aspect of universals
under which individuals are contained, and to have been converted into forms of
another kind, which are inconsistently regarded from the one side as images or ideals of
justice, temperance, holiness and the like; from the other as hypotheses, or
mathematical truths or principles.
In the Timaeus, which in the series of Plato’s works immediately follows the Republic,
though probably written some time afterwards, no mention occurs of the doctrine of
ideas. Geometrical forms and arithmetical ratios furnish the laws according to which the
world is created. But though the conception of the ideas as genera or species is
forgotten or laid aside, the distinction of the visible and intellectual is as firmly
maintained as ever. The IDEA of good likewise disappears and is superseded by the
conception of a personal God, who works according to a final cause or principle of
goodness which he himself is. No doubt is expressed by Plato, either in the Timaeus or
in any other dialogue, of the truths which he conceives to be the first and highest. It is
not the existence of God or the idea of good which he approaches in a tentative or
hesitating manner, but the investigations of physiology. These he regards, not seriously,
as a part of philosophy, but as an innocent recreation (Tim.).
Passing on to the Parmenides, we find in that dialogue not an exposition or defence of
the doctrine of ideas, but an assault upon them, which is put into the mouth of the
veteran Parmenides, and might be ascribed to Aristotle himself, or to one of his
disciples. The doctrine which is assailed takes two or three forms, but fails in any of them
to escape the dialectical difficulties which are urged against it. It is admitted that there
are ideas of all things, but the manner in which individuals partake of them, whether of
the whole or of the part, and in which they become like them, or how ideas can be
either within or without the sphere of human knowledge, or how the human and divine
can have any relation to each other, is held to be incapable of explanation. And yet, if
there are no universal ideas, what becomes of philosophy? (Parmenides.) In the Sophist
the theory of ideas is spoken of as a doctrine held not by Plato, but by another sect of
philosophers, called ‘the Friends of Ideas,’ probably the Megarians, who were very
distinct from him, if not opposed to him (Sophist). Nor in what may be termed Plato’s
abridgement of the history of philosophy (Soph.), is any mention made such as we find
in the first book of Aristotle’s Metaphysics, of the derivation of such a theory or of any
part of it from the Pythagoreans, the Eleatics, the Heracleiteans, or even from Socrates.
In the Philebus, probably one of the latest of the Platonic Dialogues, the conception of a
personal or semi-personal deity expressed under the figure of mind, the king of all, who
is also the cause, is retained. The one and many of the Phaedrus and Theaetetus is still
working in the mind of Plato, and the correlation of ideas, not of ‘all with all,’ but of
‘some with some,’ is asserted and explained. But they are spoken of in a different
manner, and are not supposed to be recovered from a former state of existence. The
metaphysical conception of truth passes into a psychological one, which is continued in
the Laws, and is the final form of the Platonic philosophy, so far as can be gathered from
his own writings (see especially Laws). In the Laws he harps once more on the old string,
and returns to general notions:—these he acknowledges to be many, and yet he insists
that they are also one. The guardian must be made to recognize the truth, for which he
has contended long ago in the Protagoras, that the virtues are four, but they are also in
some sense one (Laws; compare Protagoras).
So various, and if regarded on the surface only, inconsistent, are the statements of Plato
respecting the doctrine of ideas. If we attempted to harmonize or to combine them, we
should make out of them, not a system, but the caricature of a system. They are the
ever-varying expression of Plato’s Idealism. The terms used in them are in their
substance and general meaning the same, although they seem to be different. They pass
from the subject to the object, from earth (diesseits) to heaven (jenseits) without regard
to the gulf which later theology and philosophy have made between them. They are also
intended to supplement or explain each other. They relate to a subject of which Plato
himself would have said that ‘he was not confident of the precise form of his own
statements, but was strong in the belief that something of the kind was true.’ It is the
spirit, not the letter, in which they agree—the spirit which places the divine above the
human, the spiritual above the material, the one above the many, the mind before the
body.
The stream of ancient philosophy in the Alexandrian and Roman times widens into a
lake or sea, and then disappears underground to reappear after many ages in a distant
land. It begins to flow again under new conditions, at first confined between high and
narrow banks, but finally spreading over the continent of Europe. It is and is not the
same with ancient philosophy. There is a great deal in modern philosophy which is
inspired by ancient. There is much in ancient philosophy which was ‘born out of due
time; and before men were capable of understanding it. To the fathers of modern
philosophy, their own thoughts appeared to be new and original, but they carried with
them an echo or shadow of the past, coming back by recollection from an elder world.
Of this the enquirers of the seventeenth century, who to themselves appeared to be
working out independently the enquiry into all truth, were unconscious. They stood in a
new relation to theology and natural philosophy, and for a time maintained towards
both an attitude of reserve and separation. Yet the similarities between modern and
ancient thought are greater far than the differences. All philosophy, even that part of it
which is said to be based upon experience, is really ideal; and ideas are not only derived
from facts, but they are also prior to them and extend far beyond them, just as the mind
is prior to the senses.
Early Greek speculation culminates in the ideas of Plato, or rather in the single idea of
good. His followers, and perhaps he himself, having arrived at this elevation, instead of
going forwards went backwards from philosophy to psychology, from ideas to numbers.
But what we perceive to be the real meaning of them, an explanation of the nature and
origin of knowledge, will always continue to be one of the first problems of philosophy.
Plato also left behind him a most potent instrument, the forms of logic— arms ready for
use, but not yet taken out of their armoury. They were the late birth of the early Greek
philosophy, and were the only part of it which has had an uninterrupted hold on the
mind of Europe. Philosophies come and go; but the detection of fallacies, the framing of
definitions, the invention of methods still continue to be the main elements of the
reasoning process.
Modern philosophy, like ancient, begins with very simple conceptions. It is almost wholly
a reflection on self. It might be described as a quickening into life of old words and
notions latent in the semi-barbarous Latin, and putting a new meaning into them. Unlike
ancient philosophy, it has been unaffected by impressions derived from outward nature:
it arose within the limits of the mind itself. From the time of Descartes to Hume and
Kant it has had little or nothing to do with facts of science. On the other hand, the
ancient and mediaeval logic retained a continuous influence over it, and a form like that
of mathematics was easily impressed upon it; the principle of ancient philosophy which
is most apparent in it is scepticism; we must doubt nearly every traditional or received
notion, that we may hold fast one or two. The being of God in a personal or impersonal
form was a mental necessity to the first thinkers of modern times: from this alone all
other ideas could be deduced. There had been an obscure presentiment of ‘cognito,
ergo sum’ more than 2000 years previously. The Eleatic notion that being and thought
were the same was revived in a new form by Descartes. But now it gave birth to
consciousness and self- reflection: it awakened the ‘ego’ in human nature. The mind
naked and abstract has no other certainty but the conviction of its own existence. ‘I
think, therefore I am;’ and this thought is God thinking in me, who has also
communicated to the reason of man his own attributes of thought and extension—
these are truly imparted to him because God is true (compare Republic). It has been
often remarked that Descartes, having begun by dismissing all presuppositions,
introduces several: he passes almost at once from scepticism to dogmatism. It is more
important for the illustration of Plato to observe that he, like Plato, insists that God is
true and incapable of deception (Republic)—that he proceeds from general ideas, that
many elements of mathematics may be found in him. A certain influence of mathematics
both on the form and substance of their philosophy is discernible in both of them. After
making the greatest opposition between thought and extension, Descartes, like Plato,
supposes them to be reunited for a time, not in their own nature but by a special divine
act (compare Phaedrus), and he also supposes all the parts of the human body to meet
in the pineal gland, that alone affording a principle of unity in the material frame of
man. It is characteristic of the first period of modern philosophy, that having begun (like
the Presocratics) with a few general notions, Descartes first falls absolutely under their
influence, and then quickly discards them. At the same time he is less able to observe
facts, because they are too much magnified by the glasses through which they are seen.
The common logic says ‘the greater the extension, the less the comprehension,’ and we
may put the same thought in another way and say of abstract or general ideas, that the
greater the abstraction of them, the less are they capable of being applied to particular
and concrete natures.
Not very different from Descartes in his relation to ancient philosophy is his successor
Spinoza, who lived in the following generation. The system of Spinoza is less personal
and also less dualistic than that of Descartes. In this respect the difference between
them is like that between Xenophanes and Parmenides. The teaching of Spinoza might
be described generally as the Jewish religion reduced to an abstraction and taking the
form of the Eleatic philosophy. Like Parmenides, he is overpowered and intoxicated with
the idea of Being or God. The greatness of both philosophies consists in the immensity
of a thought which excludes all other thoughts; their weakness is the necessary
separation of this thought from actual existence and from practical life. In neither of
them is there any clear opposition between the inward and outward world. The
substance of Spinoza has two attributes, which alone are cognizable by man, thought
and extension; these are in extreme opposition to one another, and also in inseparable
identity. They may be regarded as the two aspects or expressions under which God or
substance is unfolded to man. Here a step is made beyond the limits of the Eleatic
philosophy. The famous theorem of Spinoza, ‘Omnis determinatio est negatio,’ is
already contained in the ‘negation is relation’ of Plato’s Sophist. The grand description
of the philosopher in Republic VI, as the spectator of all time and all existence, may be
paralleled with another famous expression of Spinoza, ‘Contemplatio rerum sub specie
eternitatis.’ According to Spinoza finite objects are unreal, for they are conditioned by
what is alien to them, and by one another. Human beings are included in the number of
them. Hence there is no reality in human action and no place for right and wrong.
Individuality is accident. The boasted freedom of the will is only a consciousness of
necessity. Truth, he says, is the direction of the reason towards the infinite, in which all
things repose; and herein lies the secret of man’s well-being. In the exaltation of the
reason or intellect, in the denial of the voluntariness of evil (Timaeus; Laws) Spinoza
approaches nearer to Plato than in his conception of an infinite substance. As Socrates
said that virtue is knowledge, so Spinoza would have maintained that knowledge alone
is good, and what contributes to knowledge useful. Both are equally far from any real
experience or observation of nature. And the same difficulty is found in both when we
seek to apply their ideas to life and practice. There is a gulf fixed between the infinite
substance and finite objects or individuals of Spinoza, just as there is between the ideas
of Plato and the world of sense.
Removed from Spinoza by less than a generation is the philosopher Leibnitz, who after
deepening and intensifying the opposition between mind and matter, reunites them by
his preconcerted harmony (compare again Phaedrus). To him all the particles of matter
are living beings which reflect on one another, and in the least of them the whole is
contained. Here we catch a reminiscence both of the omoiomere, or similar particles of
Anaxagoras, and of the world-animal of the Timaeus.
In Bacon and Locke we have another development in which the mind of man is
supposed to receive knowledge by a new method and to work by observation and
experience. But we may remark that it is the idea of experience, rather than experience
itself, with which the mind is filled. It is a symbol of knowledge rather than the reality
which is vouchsafed to us. The Organon of Bacon is not much nearer to actual facts than
the Organon of Aristotle or the Platonic idea of good. Many of the old rags and ribbons
which defaced the garment of philosophy have been stripped off, but some of them still
adhere. A crude conception of the ideas of Plato survives in the ‘forms’ of Bacon. And on
the other hand, there are many passages of Plato in which the importance of the
investigation of facts is as much insisted upon as by Bacon. Both are almost equally
superior to the illusions of language, and are constantly crying out against them, as
against other idols.
Locke cannot be truly regarded as the author of sensationalism any more than of
idealism. His system is based upon experience, but with him experience includes
reflection as well as sense. His analysis and construction of ideas has no foundation in
fact; it is only the dialectic of the mind ‘talking to herself.’ The philosophy of Berkeley is
but the transposition of two words. For objects of sense he would substitute sensations.
He imagines himself to have changed the relation of the human mind towards God and
nature; they remain the same as before, though he has drawn the imaginary line by
which they are divided at a different point. He has annihilated the outward world, but it
instantly reappears governed by the same laws and described under the same names.
A like remark applies to David Hume, of whose philosophy the central principle is the
denial of the relation of cause and effect. He would deprive men of a familiar term which
they can ill afford to lose; but he seems not to have observed that this alteration is
merely verbal and does not in any degree affect the nature of things. Still less did he
remark that he was arguing from the necessary imperfection of language against the
most certain facts. And here, again, we may find a parallel with the ancients. He goes
beyond facts in his scepticism, as they did in their idealism. Like the ancient Sophists, he
relegates the more important principles of ethics to custom and probability. But crude
and unmeaning as this philosophy is, it exercised a great influence on his successors, not
unlike that which Locke exercised upon Berkeley and Berkeley upon Hume himself. All
three were both sceptical and ideal in almost equal degrees. Neither they nor their
predecessors had any true conception of language or of the history of philosophy.
Hume’s paradox has been forgotten by the world, and did not any more than the
scepticism of the ancients require to be seriously refuted. Like some other philosophical
paradoxes, it would have been better left to die out. It certainly could not be refuted by
a philosophy such as Kant’s, in which, no less than in the previously mentioned systems,
the history of the human mind and the nature of language are almost wholly ignored,
and the certainty of objective knowledge is transferred to the subject; while absolute
truth is reduced to a figment, more abstract and narrow than Plato’s ideas, of ‘thing in
itself,’ to which, if we reason strictly, no predicate can be applied.
The question which Plato has raised respecting the origin and nature of ideas belongs to
the infancy of philosophy; in modern times it would no longer be asked. Their origin is
only their history, so far as we know it; there can be no other. We may trace them in
language, in philosophy, in mythology, in poetry, but we cannot argue a priori about
them. We may attempt to shake them off, but they are always returning, and in every
sphere of science and human action are tending to go beyond facts. They are thought
to be innate, because they have been familiar to us all our lives, and we can no longer
dismiss them from our mind. Many of them express relations of terms to which nothing
exactly or nothing at all in rerum natura corresponds. We are not such free agents in the
use of them as we sometimes imagine. Fixed ideas have taken the most complete
possession of some thinkers who have been most determined to renounce them, and
have been vehemently affirmed when they could be least explained and were incapable
of proof. The world has often been led away by a word to which no distinct meaning
could be attached. Abstractions such as ‘authority,’ ‘equality,’ ‘utility,’ ‘liberty,’ ‘pleasure,’
‘experience,’ ‘consciousness,’ ‘chance,’ ‘substance,’ ‘matter,’ ‘atom,’ and a heap of other
metaphysical and theological terms, are the source of quite as much error and illusion
and have as little relation to actual facts as the ideas of Plato. Few students of theology
or philosophy have sufficiently reflected how quickly the bloom of a philosophy passes
away; or how hard it is for one age to understand the writings of another; or how nice a
judgment is required of those who are seeking to express the philosophy of one age in
the terms of another. The ‘eternal truths’ of which metaphysicians speak have hardly
ever lasted more than a generation. In our own day schools or systems of philosophy
which have once been famous have died before the founders of them. We are still, as in
Plato’s age, groping about for a new method more comprehensive than any of those
which now prevail; and also more permanent. And we seem to see at a distance the
promise of such a method, which can hardly be any other than the method of idealized
experience, having roots which strike far down into the history of philosophy. It is a
method which does not divorce the present from the past, or the part from the whole,
or the abstract from the concrete, or theory from fact, or the divine from the human, or
one science from another, but labours to connect them. Along such a road we have
proceeded a few steps, sufficient, perhaps, to make us reflect on the want of method
which prevails in our own day. In another age, all the branches of knowledge, whether
relating to God or man or nature, will become the knowledge of ‘the revelation of a
single science’ (Symp.), and all things, like the stars in heaven, will shed their light upon
one another.
MENO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Meno, Socrates, A Slave of Meno (Boy), Anytus.
MENO: Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is acquired by teaching or by practice;
or if neither by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to man by nature, or in
what other way?
SOCRATES: O Meno, there was a time when the Thessalians were famous among the
other Hellenes only for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not mistaken, they
are equally famous for their wisdom, especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your
friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias’ doing; for when he came there, the flower of the
Aleuadae, among them your admirer Aristippus, and the other chiefs of the Thessalians,
fell in love with his wisdom. And he has taught you the habit of answering questions in a
grand and bold style, which becomes those who know, and is the style in which he
himself answers all comers; and any Hellene who likes may ask him anything. How
different is our lot! my dear Meno. Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity,
and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to you. I am certain that if you were to
ask any Athenian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would laugh in your face,
and say: ‘Stranger, you have far too good an opinion of me, if you think that I can
answer your question. For I literally do not know what virtue is, and much less whether it
is acquired by teaching or not.’ And I myself, Meno, living as I do in this region of
poverty, am as poor as the rest of the world; and I confess with shame that I know
literally nothing about virtue; and when I do not know the ‘quid’ of anything how can I
know the ‘quale’? How, if I knew nothing at all of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the
opposite of fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble? Do you think that I
could?
MENO: No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, in saying that you do not know
what virtue is? And am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly?
SOCRATES: Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say further that I have never known
of any one else who did, in my judgment.
MENO: Then you have never met Gorgias when he was at Athens?
SOCRATES: Yes, I have.
MENO: And did you not think that he knew?
SOCRATES: I have not a good memory, Meno, and therefore I cannot now tell what I
thought of him at the time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you know what he
said: please, therefore, to remind me of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me
your own view; for I suspect that you and he think much alike.
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do you tell me: By the gods,
Meno, be generous, and tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly delighted
to find that I have been mistaken, and that you and Gorgias do really have this
knowledge; although I have been just saying that I have never found anybody who had.
MENO: There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in answering your question. Let us take first
the virtue of a man—he should know how to administer the state, and in the
administration of it to benefit his friends and harm his enemies; and he must also be
careful not to suffer harm himself. A woman’s virtue, if you wish to know about that,
may also be easily described: her duty is to order her house, and keep what is indoors,
and obey her husband. Every age, every condition of life, young or old, male or female,
bond or free, has a different virtue: there are virtues numberless, and no lack of
definitions of them; for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each of us in all that
we do. And the same may be said of vice, Socrates (Compare Arist. Pol.).
SOCRATES: How fortunate I am, Meno! When I ask you for one virtue, you present me
with a swarm of them (Compare Theaet.), which are in your keeping. Suppose that I
carry on the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the nature of the bee? and you
answer that there are many kinds of bees, and I reply: But do bees differ as bees,
because there are many and different kinds of them; or are they not rather to be
distinguished by some other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shape? How would
you answer me?
MENO: I should answer that bees do not differ from one another, as bees.
SOCRATES: And if I went on to say: That is what I desire to know, Meno; tell me what is
the quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike;—would you be able to answer?
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And so of the virtues, however many and different they may be, they have all
a common nature which makes them virtues; and on this he who would answer the
question, ‘What is virtue?’ would do well to have his eye fixed: Do you understand?
MENO: I am beginning to understand; but I do not as yet take hold of the question as I
could wish.
SOCRATES: When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue of a man, another of a woman,
another of a child, and so on, does this apply only to virtue, or would you say the same
of health, and size, and strength? Or is the nature of health always the same, whether in
man or woman?
MENO: I should say that health is the same, both in man and woman.
SOCRATES: And is not this true of size and strength? If a woman is strong, she will be
strong by reason of the same form and of the same strength subsisting in her which
there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, as strength, whether of man or woman,
is the same. Is there any difference?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: And will not virtue, as virtue, be the same, whether in a child or in a grownup
person, in a woman or in a man?
MENO: I cannot help feeling, Socrates, that this case is different from the others.
SOCRATES: But why? Were you not saying that the virtue of a man was to order a state,
and the virtue of a woman was to order a house?
MENO: I did say so.
SOCRATES: And can either house or state or anything be well ordered without
temperance and without justice?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then they who order a state or a house temperately or justly order them
with temperance and justice?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then both men and women, if they are to be good men and women, must
have the same virtues of temperance and justice?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And can either a young man or an elder one be good, if they are
intemperate and unjust?
MENO: They cannot.
SOCRATES: They must be temperate and just?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then all men are good in the same way, and by participation in the same
virtues?
MENO: Such is the inference.
SOCRATES: And they surely would not have been good in the same way, unless their
virtue had been the same?
MENO: They would not.
SOCRATES: Then now that the sameness of all virtue has been proven, try and
remember what you and Gorgias say that virtue is.
MENO: Will you have one definition of them all?
SOCRATES: That is what I am seeking.
MENO: If you want to have one definition of them all, I know not what to say, but that
virtue is the power of governing mankind.
SOCRATES: And does this definition of virtue include all virtue? Is virtue the same in a
child and in a slave, Meno? Can the child govern his father, or the slave his master; and
would he who governed be any longer a slave?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: No, indeed; there would be small reason in that. Yet once more, fair friend;
according to you, virtue is ‘the power of governing;’ but do you not add ‘justly and not
unjustly’?
MENO: Yes, Socrates; I agree there; for justice is virtue.
SOCRATES: Would you say ‘virtue,’ Meno, or ‘a virtue’?
MENO: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean as I might say about anything; that a round, for example, is ‘a figure’
and not simply ‘figure,’ and I should adopt this mode of speaking, because there are
other figures.
MENO: Quite right; and that is just what I am saying about virtue—that there are other
virtues as well as justice.
SOCRATES: What are they? tell me the names of them, as I would tell you the names of
the other figures if you asked me.
MENO: Courage and temperance and wisdom and magnanimity are virtues; and there
are many others.
SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: in searching after one virtue
we have found many, though not in the same way as before; but we have been unable
to find the common virtue which runs through them all.
MENO: Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to follow you in the attempt to get at
one common notion of virtue as of other things.
SOCRATES: No wonder; but I will try to get nearer if I can, for you know that all things
have a common notion. Suppose now that some one asked you the question which I
asked before: Meno, he would say, what is figure? And if you answered ‘roundness,’ he
would reply to you, in my way of speaking, by asking whether you would say that
roundness is ‘figure’ or ‘a figure;’ and you would answer ‘a figure.’
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And for this reason—that there are other figures?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if he proceeded to ask, What other figures are there? you would have
told him.
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And if he similarly asked what colour is, and you answered whiteness, and
the questioner rejoined, Would you say that whiteness is colour or a colour? you would
reply, A colour, because there are other colours as well.
MENO: I should.
SOCRATES: And if he had said, Tell me what they are?—you would have told him of
other colours which are colours just as much as whiteness.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to pursue the matter in my way, he would say:
Ever and anon we are landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell me then,
since you call them by a common name, and say that they are all figures, even when
opposed to one another, what is that common nature which you designate as figure—
which contains straight as well as round, and is no more one than the other—that would
be your mode of speaking?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in speaking thus, you do not mean to say that the round is round any
more than straight, or the straight any more straight than round?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: You only assert that the round figure is not more a figure than the straight,
or the straight than the round?
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: To what then do we give the name of figure? Try and answer. Suppose that
when a person asked you this question either about figure or colour, you were to reply,
Man, I do not understand what you want, or know what you are saying; he would look
rather astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am looking for the ‘simile in
multis’? And then he might put the question in another form: Meno, he might say, what
is that ‘simile in multis’ which you call figure, and which includes not only round and
straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that question, Meno? I wish that you
would try; the attempt will be good practice with a view to the answer about virtue.
MENO: I would rather that you should answer, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Shall I indulge you?
MENO: By all means.
SOCRATES: And then you will tell me about virtue?
MENO: I will.
SOCRATES: Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to be won.
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well, I will try and explain to you what figure is. What do you say to this
answer?—Figure is the only thing which always follows colour. Will you be satisfied with
it, as I am sure that I should be, if you would let me have a similar definition of virtue?
MENO: But, Socrates, it is such a simple answer.
SOCRATES: Why simple?
MENO: Because, according to you, figure is that which always follows colour.
(SOCRATES: Granted.)
MENO: But if a person were to say that he does not know what colour is, any more than
what figure is—what sort of answer would you have given him?
SOCRATES: I should have told him the truth. And if he were a philosopher of the eristic
and antagonistic sort, I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am wrong, your
business is to take up the argument and refute me. But if we were friends, and were
talking as you and I are now, I should reply in a milder strain and more in the
dialectician’s vein; that is to say, I should not only speak the truth, but I should make use
of premisses which the person interrogated would be willing to admit. And this is the
way in which I shall endeavour to approach you. You will acknowledge, will you not, that
there is such a thing as an end, or termination, or extremity?—all which words I use in
the same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might draw distinctions about them:
but still you, I am sure, would speak of a thing as ended or terminated—that is all which
I am saying—not anything very difficult.
MENO: Yes, I should; and I believe that I understand your meaning.
SOCRATES: And you would speak of a surface and also of a solid, as for example in
geometry.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well then, you are now in a condition to understand my definition of figure.
I define figure to be that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, the limit of solid.
MENO: And now, Socrates, what is colour?
SOCRATES: You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing a poor old man to give you an
answer, when you will not take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias’ definition of
virtue.
MENO: When you have told me what I ask, I will tell you, Socrates.
SOCRATES: A man who was blindfolded has only to hear you talking, and he would
know that you are a fair creature and have still many lovers.
MENO: Why do you think so?
SOCRATES: Why, because you always speak in imperatives: like all beauties when they
are in their prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you have found out that I
have weakness for the fair, and therefore to humour you I must answer.
MENO: Please do.
SOCRATES: Would you like me to answer you after the manner of Gorgias, which is
familiar to you?
MENO: I should like nothing better.
SOCRATES: Do not he and you and Empedocles say that there are certain effluences of
existence?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And passages into which and through which the effluences pass?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And some of the effluences fit into the passages, and some of them are too
small or too large?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And there is such a thing as sight?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now, as Pindar says, ‘read my meaning:’—colour is an effluence of form,
commensurate with sight, and palpable to sense.
MENO: That, Socrates, appears to me to be an admirable answer.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, because it happens to be one which you have been in the habit of
hearing: and your wit will have discovered, I suspect, that you may explain in the same
way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other similar phenomena.
MENO: Quite true.
SOCRATES: The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox solemn vein, and therefore was
more acceptable to you than the other answer about figure.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I cannot help thinking that the other was the
better; and I am sure that you would be of the same opinion, if you would only stay and
be initiated, and were not compelled, as you said yesterday, to go away before the
mysteries.
MENO: But I will stay, Socrates, if you will give me many such answers.
SOCRATES: Well then, for my own sake as well as for yours, I will do my very best; but I
am afraid that I shall not be able to give you very many as good: and now, in your turn,
you are to fulfil your promise, and tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not
make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of those who break a thing, but deliver
virtue to me whole and sound, and not broken into a number of pieces: I have given you
the pattern.
MENO: Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is when he, who desires the honourable, is
able to provide it for himself; so the poet says, and I say too—
‘Virtue is the desire of things honourable and the power of attaining them.’
SOCRATES: And does he who desires the honourable also desire the good?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then are there some who desire the evil and others who desire the good?
Do not all men, my dear sir, desire good?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: There are some who desire evil?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Do you mean that they think the evils which they desire, to be good; or do
they know that they are evil and yet desire them?
MENO: Both, I think.
SOCRATES: And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man knows evils to be evils and
desires them notwithstanding?
MENO: Certainly I do.
SOCRATES: And desire is of possession?
MENO: Yes, of possession.
SOCRATES: And does he think that the evils will do good to him who possesses them, or
does he know that they will do him harm?
MENO: There are some who think that the evils will do them good, and others who
know that they will do them harm.
SOCRATES: And, in your opinion, do those who think that they will do them good know
that they are evils?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Is it not obvious that those who are ignorant of their nature do not desire
them; but they desire what they suppose to be goods although they are really evils; and
if they are mistaken and suppose the evils to be goods they really desire goods?
MENO: Yes, in that case.
SOCRATES: Well, and do those who, as you say, desire evils, and think that evils are
hurtful to the possessor of them, know that they will be hurt by them?
MENO: They must know it.
SOCRATES: And must they not suppose that those who are hurt are miserable in
proportion to the hurt which is inflicted upon them?
MENO: How can it be otherwise?
SOCRATES: But are not the miserable ill-fated?
MENO: Yes, indeed.
SOCRATES: And does any one desire to be miserable and ill-fated?
MENO: I should say not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if there is no one who desires to be miserable, there is no one, Meno,
who desires evil; for what is misery but the desire and possession of evil?
MENO: That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I admit that nobody desires evil.
SOCRATES: And yet, were you not saying just now that virtue is the desire and power of
attaining good?
MENO: Yes, I did say so.
SOCRATES: But if this be affirmed, then the desire of good is common to all, and one
man is no better than another in that respect?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And if one man is not better than another in desiring good, he must be
better in the power of attaining it?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: Then, according to your definition, virtue would appear to be the power of
attaining good?
MENO: I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner in which you now view this matter.
SOCRATES: Then let us see whether what you say is true from another point of view; for
very likely you may be right:—You affirm virtue to be the power of attaining goods?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the goods which you mean are such as health and wealth and the
possession of gold and silver, and having office and honour in the state—those are what
you would call goods?
MENO: Yes, I should include all those.
SOCRATES: Then, according to Meno, who is the hereditary friend of the great king,
virtue is the power of getting silver and gold; and would you add that they must be
gained piously, justly, or do you deem this to be of no consequence? And is any mode
of acquisition, even if unjust and dishonest, equally to be deemed virtue?
MENO: Not virtue, Socrates, but vice.
SOCRATES: Then justice or temperance or holiness, or some other part of virtue, as
would appear, must accompany the acquisition, and without them the mere acquisition
of good will not be virtue.
MENO: Why, how can there be virtue without these?
SOCRATES: And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a dishonest manner for oneself
or another, or in other words the want of them, may be equally virtue?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Then the acquisition of such goods is no more virtue than the nonacquisition
and want of them, but whatever is accompanied by justice or honesty is
virtue, and whatever is devoid of justice is vice.
MENO: It cannot be otherwise, in my judgment.
SOCRATES: And were we not saying just now that justice, temperance, and the like, were
each of them a part of virtue?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And so, Meno, this is the way in which you mock me.
MENO: Why do you say that, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue into my hands whole and
unbroken, and I gave you a pattern according to which you were to frame your answer;
and you have forgotten already, and tell me that virtue is the power of attaining good
justly, or with justice; and justice you acknowledge to be a part of virtue.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then it follows from your own admissions, that virtue is doing what you do
with a part of virtue; for justice and the like are said by you to be parts of virtue.
MENO: What of that?
SOCRATES: What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell me the nature of virtue as a
whole? And you are very far from telling me this; but declare every action to be virtue
which is done with a part of virtue; as though you had told me and I must already know
the whole of virtue, and this too when frittered away into little pieces. And, therefore, my
dear Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the same question: What is virtue?
for otherwise, I can only say, that every action done with a part of virtue is virtue; what
else is the meaning of saying that every action done with justice is virtue? Ought I not to
ask the question over again; for can any one who does not know virtue know a part of
virtue?
MENO: No; I do not say that he can.
SOCRATES: Do you remember how, in the example of figure, we rejected any answer
given in terms which were as yet unexplained or unadmitted?
MENO: Yes, Socrates; and we were quite right in doing so.
SOCRATES: But then, my friend, do not suppose that we can explain to any one the
nature of virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of virtue, or anything at
all in that fashion; we should only have to ask over again the old question, What is
virtue? Am I not right?
MENO: I believe that you are.
SOCRATES: Then begin again, and answer me, What, according to you and your friend
Gorgias, is the definition of virtue?
MENO: O Socrates, I used to be told, before I knew you, that you were always doubting
yourself and making others doubt; and now you are casting your spells over me, and I
am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am at my wits’ end. And if I may
venture to make a jest upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance and in your
power over others to be very like the flat torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come
near him and touch him, as you have now torpified me, I think. For my soul and my
tongue are really torpid, and I do not know how to answer you; and though I have been
delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about virtue before now, and to many
persons—and very good ones they were, as I thought—at this moment I cannot even
say what virtue is. And I think that you are very wise in not voyaging and going away
from home, for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you would be cast into
prison as a magician.
SOCRATES: You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught me.
MENO: What do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I can tell why you made a simile about me.
MENO: Why?
SOCRATES: In order that I might make another simile about you. For I know that all
pretty young gentlemen like to have pretty similes made about them—as well they
may—but I shall not return the compliment. As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is
torpid as well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I am a torpedo, but not
otherwise; for I perplex others, not because I am clear, but because I am utterly
perplexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, and you seem to be in the same
case, although you did once perhaps know before you touched me. However, I have no
objection to join with you in the enquiry.
MENO: And how will you enquire, Socrates, into that which you do not know? What will
you put forth as the subject of enquiry? And if you find what you want, how will you
ever know that this is the thing which you did not know?
SOCRATES: I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see what a tiresome dispute you are
introducing. You argue that a man cannot enquire either about that which he knows, or
about that which he does not know; for if he knows, he has no need to enquire; and if
not, he cannot; for he does not know the very subject about which he is to enquire
(Compare Aristot. Post. Anal.).
MENO: Well, Socrates, and is not the argument sound?
SOCRATES: I think not.
MENO: Why not?
SOCRATES: I will tell you why: I have heard from certain wise men and women who
spoke of things divine that—
MENO: What did they say?
SOCRATES: They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive.
MENO: What was it? and who were they?
SOCRATES: Some of them were priests and priestesses, who had studied how they
might be able to give a reason of their profession: there have been poets also, who
spoke of these things by inspiration, like Pindar, and many others who were inspired.
And they say—mark, now, and see whether their words are true—they say that the soul
of man is immortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed dying, and at another
time is born again, but is never destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to live
always in perfect holiness. ‘For in the ninth year Persephone sends the souls of those
from whom she has received the penalty of ancient crime back again from beneath into
the light of the sun above, and these are they who become noble kings and mighty men
and great in wisdom and are called saintly heroes in after ages.’ The soul, then, as being
immortal, and having been born again many times, and having seen all things that exist,
whether in this world or in the world below, has knowledge of them all; and it is no
wonder that she should be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew about
virtue, and about everything; for as all nature is akin, and the soul has learned all things;
there is no difficulty in her eliciting or as men say learning, out of a single recollection all
the rest, if a man is strenuous and does not faint; for all enquiry and all learning is but
recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to this sophistical argument about the
impossibility of enquiry: for it will make us idle; and is sweet only to the sluggard; but
the other saying will make us active and inquisitive. In that confiding, I will gladly
enquire with you into the nature of virtue.
MENO: Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by saying that we do not learn, and that
what we call learning is only a process of recollection? Can you teach me how this is?
SOCRATES: I told you, Meno, just now that you were a rogue, and now you ask whether I
can teach you, when I am saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; and
thus you imagine that you will involve me in a contradiction.
MENO: Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such intention. I only asked the question
from habit; but if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I wish that you would.
SOCRATES: It will be no easy matter, but I will try to please you to the utmost of my
power. Suppose that you call one of your numerous attendants, that I may demonstrate
on him.
MENO: Certainly. Come hither, boy.
SOCRATES: He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not?
MENO: Yes, indeed; he was born in the house.
SOCRATES: Attend now to the questions which I ask him, and observe whether he learns
of me or only remembers.
MENO: I will.
SOCRATES: Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like this is a square?
BOY: I do.
SOCRATES: And you know that a square figure has these four lines equal?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And these lines which I have drawn through the middle of the square are
also equal?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: A square may be of any size?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if one side of the figure be of two feet, and the other side be of two
feet, how much will the whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the space was of
two feet, and in the other direction of one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken
once?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But since this side is also of two feet, there are twice two feet?
BOY: There are.
SOCRATES: Then the square is of twice two feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many are twice two feet? count and tell me.
BOY: Four, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And might there not be another square twice as large as this, and having like
this the lines equal?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And of how many feet will that be?
BOY: Of eight feet.
SOCRATES: And now try and tell me the length of the line which forms the side of that
double square: this is two feet—what will that be?
BOY: Clearly, Socrates, it will be double.
SOCRATES: Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching the boy anything, but only
asking him questions; and now he fancies that he knows how long a line is necessary in
order to produce a figure of eight square feet; does he not?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And does he really know?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: He only guesses that because the square is double, the line is double.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Observe him while he recalls the steps in regular order. (To the Boy:) Tell me,
boy, do you assert that a double space comes from a double line? Remember that I am
not speaking of an oblong, but of a figure equal every way, and twice the size of this—
that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know whether you still say that a double square
comes from double line?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But does not this line become doubled if we add another such line here?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And four such lines will make a space containing eight feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let us describe such a figure: Would you not say that this is the figure of
eight feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are there not these four divisions in the figure, each of which is equal to
the figure of four feet?
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: And is not that four times four?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And four times is not double?
BOY: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: But how much?
BOY: Four times as much.
SOCRATES: Therefore the double line, boy, has given a space, not twice, but four times
as much.
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: Four times four are sixteen—are they not?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: What line would give you a space of eight feet, as this gives one of sixteen
feet;—do you see?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the space of four feet is made from this half line?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice the size of this, and half the size
of the other?
BOY: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Such a space, then, will be made out of a line greater than this one, and less
than that one?
BOY: Yes; I think so.
SOCRATES: Very good; I like to hear you say what you think. And now tell me, is not this
a line of two feet and that of four?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then the line which forms the side of eight feet ought to be more than this
line of two feet, and less than the other of four feet?
BOY: It ought.
SOCRATES: Try and see if you can tell me how much it will be.
BOY: Three feet.
SOCRATES: Then if we add a half to this line of two, that will be the line of three. Here
are two and there is one; and on the other side, here are two also and there is one: and
that makes the figure of which you speak?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if there are three feet this way and three feet that way, the whole space
will be three times three feet?
BOY: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And how much are three times three feet?
BOY: Nine.
SOCRATES: And how much is the double of four?
BOY: Eight.
SOCRATES: Then the figure of eight is not made out of a line of three?
BOY: No.
SOCRATES: But from what line?—tell me exactly; and if you would rather not reckon, try
and show me the line.
BOY: Indeed, Socrates, I do not know.
SOCRATES: Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made in his power of recollection?
He did not know at first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a figure of eight
feet: but then he thought that he knew, and answered confidently as if he knew, and had
no difficulty; now he has a difficulty, and neither knows nor fancies that he knows.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance?
MENO: I think that he is.
SOCRATES: If we have made him doubt, and given him the ‘torpedo’s shock,’ have we
done him any harm?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: We have certainly, as would seem, assisted him in some degree to the
discovery of the truth; and now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he would
have been ready to tell all the world again and again that the double space should have
a double side.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But do you suppose that he would ever have enquired into or learned what
he fancied that he knew, though he was really ignorant of it, until he had fallen into
perplexity under the idea that he did not know, and had desired to know?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then he was the better for the torpedo’s touch?
MENO: I think so.
SOCRATES: Mark now the farther development. I shall only ask him, and not teach him,
and he shall share the enquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you find me telling
or explaining anything to him, instead of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a
square of four feet which I have drawn?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now I add another square equal to the former one?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And a third, which is equal to either of them?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner?
BOY: Very good.
SOCRATES: Here, then, there are four equal spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many times larger is this space than this other?
BOY: Four times.
SOCRATES: But it ought to have been twice only, as you will remember.
BOY: True.
SOCRATES: And does not this line, reaching from corner to corner, bisect each of these
spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And are there not here four equal lines which contain this space?
BOY: There are.
SOCRATES: Look and see how much this space is.
BOY: I do not understand.
SOCRATES: Has not each interior line cut off half of the four spaces?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how many spaces are there in this section?
BOY: Four.
SOCRATES: And how many in this?
BOY: Two.
SOCRATES: And four is how many times two?
BOY: Twice.
SOCRATES: And this space is of how many feet?
BOY: Of eight feet.
SOCRATES: And from what line do you get this figure?
BOY: From this.
SOCRATES: That is, from the line which extends from corner to corner of the figure of
four feet?
BOY: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that is the line which the learned call the diagonal. And if this is the
proper name, then you, Meno’s slave, are prepared to affirm that the double space is
the square of the diagonal?
BOY: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: What do you say of him, Meno? Were not all these answers given out of his
own head?
MENO: Yes, they were all his own.
SOCRATES: And yet, as we were just now saying, he did not know?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But still he had in him those notions of his—had he not?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then he who does not know may still have true notions of that which he
does not know?
MENO: He has.
SOCRATES: And at present these notions have just been stirred up in him, as in a dream;
but if he were frequently asked the same questions, in different forms, he would know
as well as any one at last?
MENO: I dare say.
SOCRATES: Without any one teaching him he will recover his knowledge for himself, if
he is only asked questions?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this spontaneous recovery of knowledge in him is recollection?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And this knowledge which he now has must he not either have acquired or
always possessed?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: But if he always possessed this knowledge he would always have known; or
if he has acquired the knowledge he could not have acquired it in this life, unless he has
been taught geometry; for he may be made to do the same with all geometry and every
other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever taught him all this? You must know
about him, if, as you say, he was born and bred in your house.
MENO: And I am certain that no one ever did teach him.
SOCRATES: And yet he has the knowledge?
MENO: The fact, Socrates, is undeniable.
SOCRATES: But if he did not acquire the knowledge in this life, then he must have had
and learned it at some other time?
MENO: Clearly he must.
SOCRATES: Which must have been the time when he was not a man?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if there have been always true thoughts in him, both at the time when
he was and was not a man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge by putting
questions to him, his soul must have always possessed this knowledge, for he always
either was or was not a man?
MENO: Obviously.
SOCRATES: And if the truth of all things always existed in the soul, then the soul is
immortal. Wherefore be of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not know, or
rather what you do not remember.
MENO: I feel, somehow, that I like what you are saying.
SOCRATES: And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some things I have said of which I am
not altogether confident. But that we shall be better and braver and less helpless if we
think that we ought to enquire, than we should have been if we indulged in the idle
fancy that there was no knowing and no use in seeking to know what we do not
know;—that is a theme upon which I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost
of my power.
MENO: There again, Socrates, your words seem to me excellent.
SOCRATES: Then, as we are agreed that a man should enquire about that which he does
not know, shall you and I make an effort to enquire together into the nature of virtue?
MENO: By all means, Socrates. And yet I would much rather return to my original
question, Whether in seeking to acquire virtue we should regard it as a thing to be
taught, or as a gift of nature, or as coming to men in some other way?
SOCRATES: Had I the command of you as well as of myself, Meno, I would not have
enquired whether virtue is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascertained
‘what it is.’ But as you think only of controlling me who am your slave, and never of
controlling yourself,—such being your notion of freedom, I must yield to you, for you
are irresistible. And therefore I have now to enquire into the qualities of a thing of which
I do not as yet know the nature. At any rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the
question ‘Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in any other way,’ to be argued upon
hypothesis? As the geometrician, when he is asked whether a certain triangle is capable
being inscribed in a certain circle (Or, whether a certain area is capable of being
inscribed as a triangle in a certain circle.), will reply: ‘I cannot tell you as yet; but I will
offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a conclusion: If the figure be such that
when you have produced a given side of it (Or, when you apply it to the given line, i.e.
the diameter of the circle (autou).), the given area of the triangle falls short by an area
corresponding to the part produced (Or, similar to the area so applied.), then one
consequence follows, and if this is impossible then some other; and therefore I wish to
assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether this triangle is capable of being inscribed
in the circle’:—that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we too, as we know not the nature
and qualities of virtue, must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a hypothesis:
as thus, if virtue is of such a class of mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first
hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge,—in that case will it be taught or not?
or, as we were just now saying, ‘remembered’? For there is no use in disputing about the
name. But is virtue taught or not? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge
alone is taught?
MENO: I agree.
SOCRATES: Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be taught?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then now we have made a quick end of this question: if virtue is of such a
nature, it will be taught; and if not, not?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: The next question is, whether virtue is knowledge or of another species?
MENO: Yes, that appears to be the question which comes next in order.
SOCRATES: Do we not say that virtue is a good?—This is a hypothesis which is not set
aside.
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Now, if there be any sort of good which is distinct from knowledge, virtue
may be that good; but if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right in
thinking that virtue is knowledge?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And virtue makes us good?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if we are good, then we are profitable; for all good things are
profitable?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then virtue is profitable?
MENO: That is the only inference.
SOCRATES: Then now let us see what are the things which severally profit us. Health and
strength, and beauty and wealth—these, and the like of these, we call profitable?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And yet these things may also sometimes do us harm: would you not think
so?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what is the guiding principle which makes them profitable or the
reverse? Are they not profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful when they are
not rightly used?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: they are temperance, justice,
courage, quickness of apprehension, memory, magnanimity, and the like?
MENO: Surely.
SOCRATES: And such of these as are not knowledge, but of another sort, are sometimes
profitable and sometimes hurtful; as, for example, courage wanting prudence, which is
only a sort of confidence? When a man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when
he has sense he is profited?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And the same may be said of temperance and quickness of apprehension;
whatever things are learned or done with sense are profitable, but when done without
sense they are hurtful?
MENO: Very true.
SOCRATES: And in general, all that the soul attempts or endures, when under the
guidance of wisdom, ends in happiness; but when she is under the guidance of folly, in
the opposite?
MENO: That appears to be true.
SOCRATES: If then virtue is a quality of the soul, and is admitted to be profitable, it must
be wisdom or prudence, since none of the things of the soul are either profitable or
hurtful in themselves, but they are all made profitable or hurtful by the addition of
wisdom or of folly; and therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort of wisdom
or prudence?
MENO: I quite agree.
SOCRATES: And the other goods, such as wealth and the like, of which we were just now
saying that they are sometimes good and sometimes evil, do not they also become
profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul guides and uses them rightly or wrongly;
just as the things of the soul herself are benefited when under the guidance of wisdom
and harmed by folly?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And the wise soul guides them rightly, and the foolish soul wrongly.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not this universally true of human nature? All other things hang upon
the soul, and the things of the soul herself hang upon wisdom, if they are to be good;
and so wisdom is inferred to be that which profits—and virtue, as we say, is profitable?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And thus we arrive at the conclusion that virtue is either wholly or partly
wisdom?
MENO: I think that what you are saying, Socrates, is very true.
SOCRATES: But if this is true, then the good are not by nature good?
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: If they had been, there would assuredly have been discerners of characters
among us who would have known our future great men; and on their showing we
should have adopted them, and when we had got them, we should have kept them in
the citadel out of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them far rather than upon a
piece of gold, in order that no one might tamper with them; and when they grew up
they would have been useful to the state?
MENO: Yes, Socrates, that would have been the right way.
SOCRATES: But if the good are not by nature good, are they made good by instruction?
MENO: There appears to be no other alternative, Socrates. On the supposition that
virtue is knowledge, there can be no doubt that virtue is taught.
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is erroneous?
MENO: I certainly thought just now that we were right.
SOCRATES: Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any soundness should stand firm not
only just now, but always.
MENO: Well; and why are you so slow of heart to believe that knowledge is virtue?
SOCRATES: I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not retract the assertion that if virtue is
knowledge it may be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubting whether
virtue is knowledge: for consider now and say whether virtue, and not only virtue but
anything that is taught, must not have teachers and disciples?
MENO: Surely.
SOCRATES: And conversely, may not the art of which neither teachers nor disciples exist
be assumed to be incapable of being taught?
MENO: True; but do you think that there are no teachers of virtue?
SOCRATES: I have certainly often enquired whether there were any, and taken great
pains to find them, and have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in the search,
and they were the persons whom I thought the most likely to know. Here at the
moment when he is wanted we fortunately have sitting by us Anytus, the very person of
whom we should make enquiry; to him then let us repair. In the first place, he is the son
of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, who acquired his wealth, not by accident or
gift, like Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself as rich as Polycrates), but
by his own skill and industry, and who is a well- conditioned, modest man, not insolent,
or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, this son of his has received a good education, as
the Athenian people certainly appear to think, for they choose him to fill the highest
offices. And these are the sort of men from whom you are likely to learn whether there
are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, Anytus, to help me and your friend
Meno in answering our question, Who are the teachers? Consider the matter thus: If we
wanted Meno to be a good physician, to whom should we send him? Should we not
send him to the physicians?
ANYTUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, should we not send him to the
cobblers?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And so forth?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let me trouble you with one more question. When we say that we should be
right in sending him to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, do we mean
that we should be right in sending him to those who profess the art, rather than to
those who do not, and to those who demand payment for teaching the art, and profess
to teach it to any one who will come and learn? And if these were our reasons, should
we not be right in sending him?
ANYTUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And might not the same be said of flute-playing, and of the other arts?
Would a man who wanted to make another a flute-player refuse to send him to those
who profess to teach the art for money, and be plaguing other persons to give him
instruction, who are not professed teachers and who never had a single disciple in that
branch of knowledge which he wishes him to acquire—would not such conduct be the
height of folly?
ANYTUS: Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too.
SOCRATES: Very good. And now you are in a position to advise with me about my friend
Meno. He has been telling me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that kind of wisdom and
virtue by which men order the state or the house, and honour their parents, and know
when to receive and when to send away citizens and strangers, as a good man should.
Now, to whom should he go in order that he may learn this virtue? Does not the
previous argument imply clearly that we should send him to those who profess and
avouch that they are the common teachers of all Hellas, and are ready to impart
instruction to any one who likes, at a fixed price?
ANYTUS: Whom do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that these are the people whom
mankind call Sophists?
ANYTUS: By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope that no friend or kinsman or
acquaintance of mine, whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to allow
himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a manifest pest and corrupting influence
to those who have to do with them.
SOCRATES: What, Anytus? Of all the people who profess that they know how to do men
good, do you mean to say that these are the only ones who not only do them no good,
but positively corrupt those who are entrusted to them, and in return for this disservice
have the face to demand money? Indeed, I cannot believe you; for I know of a single
man, Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the illustrious Pheidias, who
created such noble works, or any ten other statuaries. How could that be? A mender of
old shoes, or patcher up of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than he
received them, could not have remained thirty days undetected, and would very soon
have starved; whereas during more than forty years, Protagoras was corrupting all
Hellas, and sending his disciples from him worse than he received them, and he was
never found out. For, if I am not mistaken, he was about seventy years old at his death,
forty of which were spent in the practice of his profession; and during all that time he
had a good reputation, which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, but many
others are well spoken of; some who lived before him, and others who are still living.
Now, when you say that they deceived and corrupted the youth, are they to be
supposed to have corrupted them consciously or unconsciously? Can those who were
deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have been out of their minds?
ANYTUS: Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young men who gave their money to
them were out of their minds, and their relations and guardians who entrusted their
youth to the care of these men were still more out of their minds, and most of all, the
cities who allowed them to come in, and did not drive them out, citizen and stranger
alike.
SOCRATES: Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Anytus? What makes you so angry
with them?
ANYTUS: No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belongings has ever had, nor would I suffer
them to have, anything to do with them.
SOCRATES: Then you are entirely unacquainted with them?
ANYTUS: And I have no wish to be acquainted.
SOCRATES: Then, my dear friend, how can you know whether a thing is good or bad of
which you are wholly ignorant?
ANYTUS: Quite well; I am sure that I know what manner of men these are, whether I am
acquainted with them or not.
SOCRATES: You must be a diviner, Anytus, for I really cannot make out, judging from
your own words, how, if you are not acquainted with them, you know about them. But I
am not enquiring of you who are the teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if
you please, the Sophists); I only ask you to tell him who there is in this great city who
will teach him how to become eminent in the virtues which I was just now describing. He
is the friend of your family, and you will oblige him.
ANYTUS: Why do you not tell him yourself?
SOCRATES: I have told him whom I supposed to be the teachers of these things; but I
learn from you that I am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. And now I wish
that you, on your part, would tell me to whom among the Athenians he should go.
Whom would you name?
ANYTUS: Why single out individuals? Any Athenian gentleman, taken at random, if he
will mind him, will do far more good to him than the Sophists.
SOCRATES: And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; and without having been
taught by any one, were they nevertheless able to teach others that which they had
never learned themselves?
ANYTUS: I imagine that they learned of the previous generation of gentlemen. Have
there not been many good men in this city?
SOCRATES: Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good statesmen also there always have
been and there are still, in the city of Athens. But the question is whether they were also
good teachers of their own virtue;—not whether there are, or have been, good men in
this part of the world, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question which we have
been discussing. Now, do we mean to say that the good men of our own and of other
times knew how to impart to others that virtue which they had themselves; or is virtue a
thing incapable of being communicated or imparted by one man to another? That is the
question which I and Meno have been arguing. Look at the matter in your own way:
Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good man?
ANYTUS: Certainly; no man better.
SOCRATES: And must not he then have been a good teacher, if any man ever was a
good teacher, of his own virtue?
ANYTUS: Yes certainly,—if he wanted to be so.
SOCRATES: But would he not have wanted? He would, at any rate, have desired to make
his own son a good man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous of him, or
have intentionally abstained from imparting to him his own virtue. Did you never hear
that he made his son Cleophantus a famous horseman; and had him taught to stand
upright on horseback and hurl a javelin, and to do many other marvellous things; and in
anything which could be learned from a master he was well trained? Have you not heard
from our elders of him?
ANYTUS: I have.
SOCRATES: Then no one could say that his son showed any want of capacity?
ANYTUS: Very likely not.
SOCRATES: But did any one, old or young, ever say in your hearing that Cleophantus,
son of Themistocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was?
ANYTUS: I have certainly never heard any one say so.
SOCRATES: And if virtue could have been taught, would his father Themistocles have
sought to train him in these minor accomplishments, and allowed him who, as you must
remember, was his own son, to be no better than his neighbours in those qualities in
which he himself excelled?
ANYTUS: Indeed, indeed, I think not.
SOCRATES: Here was a teacher of virtue whom you admit to be among the best men of
the past. Let us take another,—Aristides, the son of Lysimachus: would you not
acknowledge that he was a good man?
ANYTUS: To be sure I should.
SOCRATES: And did not he train his son Lysimachus better than any other Athenian in all
that could be done for him by the help of masters? But what has been the result? Is he a
bit better than any other mortal? He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he is
like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his wisdom; and he, as you are aware, had
two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.
ANYTUS: I know.
SOCRATES: And you know, also, that he taught them to be unrivalled horsemen, and
had them trained in music and gymnastics and all sorts of arts—in these respects they
were on a level with the best—and had he no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he
must have wished it. But virtue, as I suspect, could not be taught. And that you may not
suppose the incompetent teachers to be only the meaner sort of Athenians and few in
number, remember again that Thucydides had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus,
whom, besides giving them a good education in other things, he trained in wrestling,
and they were the best wrestlers in Athens: one of them he committed to the care of
Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the reputation of being the most
celebrated wrestlers of that day. Do you remember them?
ANYTUS: I have heard of them.
SOCRATES: Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught
things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men,
which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught? Will you reply that
he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay,
but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if
virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner
who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time
from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which
can be taught?
ANYTUS: Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will
take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which
it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case at
Athens, as I believe that you know.
SOCRATES: O Meno, think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he
thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place,
he is of opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the
meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return
to you, Meno; for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region too?
MENO: Certainly there are.
SOCRATES: And are they willing to teach the young? and do they profess to be
teachers? and do they agree that virtue is taught?
MENO: No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but agreed; you may hear them saying at
one time that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse.
SOCRATES: Can we call those teachers who do not acknowledge the possibility of their
own vocation?
MENO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And what do you think of these Sophists, who are the only professors? Do
they seem to you to be teachers of virtue?
MENO: I often wonder, Socrates, that Gorgias is never heard promising to teach virtue:
and when he hears others promising he only laughs at them; but he thinks that men
should be taught to speak.
SOCRATES: Then do you not think that the Sophists are teachers?
MENO: I cannot tell you, Socrates; like the rest of the world, I am in doubt, and
sometimes I think that they are teachers and sometimes not.
SOCRATES: And are you aware that not you only and other politicians have doubts
whether virtue can be taught or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same
thing?
MENO: Where does he say so?
SOCRATES: In these elegiac verses (Theog.):
‘Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself agreeable to them; for from
the good you will learn what is good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the
intelligence which you already have.’
Do you observe that here he seems to imply that virtue can be taught?
MENO: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But in some other verses he shifts about and says (Theog.):
‘If understanding could be created and put into a man, then they’ (who were able to
perform this feat) ‘would have obtained great rewards.’
And again:—
‘Never would a bad son have sprung from a good sire, for he would have heard the
voice of instruction; but not by teaching will you ever make a bad man into a good one.’
And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of the other.
MENO: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And is there anything else of which the professors are affirmed not only not
to be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves, and bad at the knowledge of
that which they are professing to teach? or is there anything about which even the
acknowledged ‘gentlemen’ are sometimes saying that ‘this thing can be taught,’ and
sometimes the opposite? Can you say that they are teachers in any true sense whose
ideas are in such confusion?
MENO: I should say, certainly not.
SOCRATES: But if neither the Sophists nor the gentlemen are teachers, clearly there can
be no other teachers?
MENO: No.
SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there disciples?
MENO: Agreed.
SOCRATES: And we have admitted that a thing cannot be taught of which there are
neither teachers nor disciples?
MENO: We have.
SOCRATES: And there are no teachers of virtue to be found anywhere?
MENO: There are not.
SOCRATES: And if there are no teachers, neither are there scholars?
MENO: That, I think, is true.
SOCRATES: Then virtue cannot be taught?
MENO: Not if we are right in our view. But I cannot believe, Socrates, that there are no
good men: And if there are, how did they come into existence?
SOCRATES: I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not good for much, and that Gorgias
has been as poor an educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly we shall
have to look to ourselves, and try to find some one who will help in some way or other
to improve us. This I say, because I observe that in the previous discussion none of us
remarked that right and good action is possible to man under other guidance than that
of knowledge (episteme);—and indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there
can be any good men at all.
MENO: How do you mean, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I mean that good men are necessarily useful or profitable. Were we not right
in admitting this? It must be so.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And in supposing that they will be useful only if they are true guides to us of
action—there we were also right?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: But when we said that a man cannot be a good guide unless he have
knowledge (phrhonesis), this we were wrong.
MENO: What do you mean by the word ‘right’?
SOCRATES: I will explain. If a man knew the way to Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to
the place and led others thither, would he not be a right and good guide?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And a person who had a right opinion about the way, but had never been
and did not know, might be a good guide also, might he not?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And while he has true opinion about that which the other knows, he will be
just as good a guide if he thinks the truth, as he who knows the truth?
MENO: Exactly.
SOCRATES: Then true opinion is as good a guide to correct action as knowledge; and
that was the point which we omitted in our speculation about the nature of virtue, when
we said that knowledge only is the guide of right action; whereas there is also right
opinion.
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not less useful than knowledge?
MENO: The difference, Socrates, is only that he who has knowledge will always be right;
but he who has right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes not.
SOCRATES: What do you mean? Can he be wrong who has right opinion, so long as he
has right opinion?
MENO: I admit the cogency of your argument, and therefore, Socrates, I wonder that
knowledge should be preferred to right opinion—or why they should ever differ.
SOCRATES: And shall I explain this wonder to you?
MENO: Do tell me.
SOCRATES: You would not wonder if you had ever observed the images of Daedalus
(Compare Euthyphro); but perhaps you have not got them in your country?
MENO: What have they to do with the question?
SOCRATES: Because they require to be fastened in order to keep them, and if they are
not fastened they will play truant and run away.
MENO: Well, what of that?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that they are not very valuable possessions if they are at
liberty, for they will walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they are of great
value, for they are really beautiful works of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of
true opinions: while they abide with us they are beautiful and fruitful, but they run away
out of the human soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are not of much
value until they are fastened by the tie of the cause; and this fastening of them, friend
Meno, is recollection, as you and I have agreed to call it. But when they are bound, in
the first place, they have the nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they are
abiding. And this is why knowledge is more honourable and excellent than true opinion,
because fastened by a chain.
MENO: What you are saying, Socrates, seems to be very like the truth.
SOCRATES: I too speak rather in ignorance; I only conjecture. And yet that knowledge
differs from true opinion is no matter of conjecture with me. There are not many things
which I profess to know, but this is most certainly one of them.
MENO: Yes, Socrates; and you are quite right in saying so.
SOCRATES: And am I not also right in saying that true opinion leading the way perfects
action quite as well as knowledge?
MENO: There again, Socrates, I think you are right.
SOCRATES: Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to knowledge, or less useful in
action; nor is the man who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowledge?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: And surely the good man has been acknowledged by us to be useful?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Seeing then that men become good and useful to states, not only because
they have knowledge, but because they have right opinion, and that neither knowledge
nor right opinion is given to man by nature or acquired by him—(do you imagine either
of them to be given by nature?
MENO: Not I.)
SOCRATES: Then if they are not given by nature, neither are the good by nature good?
MENO: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And nature being excluded, then came the question whether virtue is
acquired by teaching?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: If virtue was wisdom (or knowledge), then, as we thought, it was taught?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if it was taught it was wisdom?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And if there were teachers, it might be taught; and if there were no teachers,
not?
MENO: True.
SOCRATES: But surely we acknowledged that there were no teachers of virtue?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, and was not wisdom?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And yet we admitted that it was a good?
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the right guide is useful and good?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And the only right guides are knowledge and true opinion—these are the
guides of man; for things which happen by chance are not under the guidance of man:
but the guides of man are true opinion and knowledge.
MENO: I think so too.
SOCRATES: But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue knowledge.
MENO: Clearly not.
SOCRATES: Then of two good and useful things, one, which is knowledge, has been set
aside, and cannot be supposed to be our guide in political life.
MENO: I think not.
SOCRATES: And therefore not by any wisdom, and not because they were wise, did
Themistocles and those others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. This was the
reason why they were unable to make others like themselves—because their virtue was
not grounded on knowledge.
MENO: That is probably true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if not by knowledge, the only alternative which remains is that
statesmen must have guided states by right opinion, which is in politics what divination
is in religion; for diviners and also prophets say many things truly, but they know not
what they say.
MENO: So I believe.
SOCRATES: And may we not, Meno, truly call those men ‘divine’ who, having no
understanding, yet succeed in many a grand deed and word?
MENO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then we shall also be right in calling divine those whom we were just now
speaking of as diviners and prophets, including the whole tribe of poets. Yes, and
statesmen above all may be said to be divine and illumined, being inspired and
possessed of God, in which condition they say many grand things, not knowing what
they say.
MENO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the women too, Meno, call good men divine—do they not? and the
Spartans, when they praise a good man, say ‘that he is a divine man.’
MENO: And I think, Socrates, that they are right; although very likely our friend Anytus
may take offence at the word.
SOCRATES: I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be another opportunity of talking with
him. To sum up our enquiry—the result seems to be, if we are at all right in our view,
that virtue is neither natural nor acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous.
Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless there may be supposed to be among
statesmen some one who is capable of educating statesmen. And if there be such an
one, he may be said to be among the living what Homer says that Tiresias was among
the dead, ‘he alone has understanding; but the rest are flitting shades’; and he and his
virtue in like manner will be a reality among shadows.
MENO: That is excellent, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue comes to the virtuous by the gift of
God. But we shall never know the certain truth until, before asking how virtue is given,
we enquire into the actual nature of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, now
that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our friend Anytus. And do not let him be so
exasperated; if you can conciliate him, you will have done good service to the Athenian
people.
The end
EUTHYDEMUS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT
INTRODUCTION.
The Euthydemus, though apt to be regarded by us only as an elaborate jest, has also a
very serious purpose. It may fairly claim to be the oldest treatise on logic; for that
science originates in the misunderstandings which necessarily accompany the first
efforts of speculation. Several of the fallacies which are satirized in it reappear in the
Sophistici Elenchi of Aristotle and are retained at the end of our manuals of logic. But if
the order of history were followed, they should be placed not at the end but at the
beginning of them; for they belong to the age in which the human mind was first
making the attempt to distinguish thought from sense, and to separate the universal
from the particular or individual. How to put together words or ideas, how to escape
ambiguities in the meaning of terms or in the structure of propositions, how to resist the
fixed impression of an ‘eternal being’ or ‘perpetual flux,’ how to distinguish between
words and things—these were problems not easy of solution in the infancy of
philosophy. They presented the same kind of difficulty to the half- educated man which
spelling or arithmetic do to the mind of a child. It was long before the new world of
ideas which had been sought after with such passionate yearning was set in order and
made ready for use. To us the fallacies which arise in the pre-Socratic philosophy are
trivial and obsolete because we are no longer liable to fall into the errors which are
expressed by them. The intellectual world has become better assured to us, and we are
less likely to be imposed upon by illusions of words.
The logic of Aristotle is for the most part latent in the dialogues of Plato. The nature of
definition is explained not by rules but by examples in the Charmides, Lysis, Laches,
Protagoras, Meno, Euthyphro, Theaetetus, Gorgias, Republic; the nature of division is
likewise illustrated by examples in the Sophist and Statesman; a scheme of categories is
found in the Philebus; the true doctrine of contradiction is taught, and the fallacy of
arguing in a circle is exposed in the Republic; the nature of synthesis and analysis is
graphically described in the Phaedrus; the nature of words is analysed in the Cratylus;
the form of the syllogism is indicated in the genealogical trees of the Sophist and
Statesman; a true doctrine of predication and an analysis of the sentence are given in
the Sophist; the different meanings of one and being are worked out in the Parmenides.
Here we have most of the important elements of logic, not yet systematized or reduced
to an art or science, but scattered up and down as they would naturally occur in
ordinary discourse. They are of little or no use or significance to us; but because we have
grown out of the need of them we should not therefore despise them. They are still
interesting and instructive for the light which they shed on the history of the human
mind.
There are indeed many old fallacies which linger among us, and new ones are constantly
springing up. But they are not of the kind to which ancient logic can be usefully applied.
The weapons of common sense, not the analytics of Aristotle, are needed for their
overthrow. Nor is the use of the Aristotelian logic any longer natural to us. We no longer
put arguments into the form of syllogisms like the schoolmen; the simple use of
language has been, happily, restored to us. Neither do we discuss the nature of the
proposition, nor extract hidden truths from the copula, nor dispute any longer about
nominalism and realism. We do not confuse the form with the matter of knowledge, or
invent laws of thought, or imagine that any single science furnishes a principle of
reasoning to all the rest. Neither do we require categories or heads of argument to be
invented for our use. Those who have no knowledge of logic, like some of our great
physical philosophers, seem to be quite as good reasoners as those who have. Most of
the ancient puzzles have been settled on the basis of usage and common sense; there is
no need to reopen them. No science should raise problems or invent forms of thought
which add nothing to knowledge and are of no use in assisting the acquisition of it. This
seems to be the natural limit of logic and metaphysics; if they give us a more
comprehensive or a more definite view of the different spheres of knowledge they are
to be studied; if not, not. The better part of ancient logic appears hardly in our own day
to have a separate existence; it is absorbed in two other sciences: (1) rhetoric, if indeed
this ancient art be not also fading away into literary criticism; (2) the science of
language, under which all questions relating to words and propositions and the
combinations of them may properly be included.
To continue dead or imaginary sciences, which make no signs of progress and have no
definite sphere, tends to interfere with the prosecution of living ones. The study of them
is apt to blind the judgment and to render men incapable of seeing the value of
evidence, and even of appreciating the nature of truth. Nor should we allow the living
science to become confused with the dead by an ambiguity of language. The term logic
has two different meanings, an ancient and a modern one, and we vainly try to bridge
the gulf between them. Many perplexities are avoided by keeping them apart. There
might certainly be a new science of logic; it would not however be built up out of the
fragments of the old, but would be distinct from them—relative to the state of
knowledge which exists at the present time, and based chiefly on the methods of
Modern Inductive philosophy. Such a science might have two legitimate fields: first, the
refutation and explanation of false philosophies still hovering in the air as they appear
from the point of view of later experience or are comprehended in the history of the
human mind, as in a larger horizon: secondly, it might furnish new forms of thought
more adequate to the expression of all the diversities and oppositions of knowledge
which have grown up in these latter days; it might also suggest new methods of enquiry
derived from the comparison of the sciences. Few will deny that the introduction of the
words ‘subject’ and ‘object’ and the Hegelian reconciliation of opposites have been
‘most gracious aids’ to psychology, or that the methods of Bacon and Mill have shed a
light far and wide on the realms of knowledge. These two great studies, the one
destructive and corrective of error, the other conservative and constructive of truth,
might be a first and second part of logic. Ancient logic would be the propaedeutic or
gate of approach to logical science,—nothing more. But to pursue such speculations
further, though not irrelevant, might lead us too far away from the argument of the
dialogue.
The Euthydemus is, of all the Dialogues of Plato, that in which he approaches most
nearly to the comic poet. The mirth is broader, the irony more sustained, the contrast
between Socrates and the two Sophists, although veiled, penetrates deeper than in any
other of his writings. Even Thrasymachus, in the Republic, is at last pacified, and
becomes a friendly and interested auditor of the great discourse. But in the Euthydemus
the mask is never dropped; the accustomed irony of Socrates continues to the end...
Socrates narrates to Crito a remarkable scene in which he has himself taken part, and in
which the two brothers, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, are the chief performers. They
are natives of Chios, who had settled at Thurii, but were driven out, and in former days
had been known at Athens as professors of rhetoric and of the art of fighting in armour.
To this they have now added a new accomplishment—the art of Eristic, or fighting with
words, which they are likewise willing to teach ‘for a consideration.’ But they can also
teach virtue in a very short time and in the very best manner. Socrates, who is always on
the look-out for teachers of virtue, is interested in the youth Cleinias, the grandson of
the great Alcibiades, and is desirous that he should have the benefit of their instructions.
He is ready to fall down and worship them; although the greatness of their professions
does arouse in his mind a temporary incredulity.
A circle gathers round them, in the midst of which are Socrates, the two brothers, the
youth Cleinias, who is watched by the eager eyes of his lover Ctesippus, and others. The
performance begins; and such a performance as might well seem to require an
invocation of Memory and the Muses. It is agreed that the brothers shall question
Cleinias. ‘Cleinias,’ says Euthydemus, ‘who learn, the wise or the unwise?’ ‘The wise,’ is
the reply; given with blushing and hesitation. ‘And yet when you learned you did not
know and were not wise.’ Then Dionysodorus takes up the ball: ‘Who are they who learn
dictation of the grammar-master; the wise or the foolish boys?’ ‘The wise.’ ‘Then, after
all, the wise learn.’ ‘And do they learn,’ said Euthydemus, ‘what they know or what they
do not know?’ ‘The latter.’ ‘And dictation is a dictation of letters?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you know
letters?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you learn what you know.’ ‘But,’ retorts Dionysodorus, ‘is not
learning acquiring knowledge?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And you acquire that which you have not got
already?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then you learn that which you do not know.’
Socrates is afraid that the youth Cleinias may be discouraged at these repeated
overthrows. He therefore explains to him the nature of the process to which he is being
subjected. The two strangers are not serious; there are jests at the mysteries which
precede the enthronement, and he is being initiated into the mysteries of the sophistical
ritual. This is all a sort of horse-play, which is now ended. The exhortation to virtue will
follow, and Socrates himself (if the wise men will not laugh at him) is desirous of
showing the way in which such an exhortation should be carried on, according to his
own poor notion. He proceeds to question Cleinias. The result of the investigation may
be summed up as follows:—
All men desire good; and good means the possession of goods, such as wealth, health,
beauty, birth, power, honour; not forgetting the virtues and wisdom. And yet in this
enumeration the greatest good of all is omitted. What is that? Good fortune. But what
need is there of good fortune when we have wisdom already:—in every art and business
are not the wise also the fortunate? This is admitted. And again, the possession of goods
is not enough; there must also be a right use of them which can only be given by
knowledge: in themselves they are neither good nor evil— knowledge and wisdom are
the only good, and ignorance and folly the only evil. The conclusion is that we must get
‘wisdom.’ But can wisdom be taught? ‘Yes,’ says Cleinias. The ingenuousness of the
youth delights Socrates, who is at once relieved from the necessity of discussing one of
his great puzzles. ‘Since wisdom is the only good, he must become a philosopher, or
lover of wisdom.’ ‘That I will,’ says Cleinias.
After Socrates has given this specimen of his own mode of instruction, the two brothers
recommence their exhortation to virtue, which is of quite another sort.
‘You want Cleinias to be wise?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And he is not wise yet?’ ‘No.’ ‘Then you want him
to be what he is not, and not to be what he is?—not to be—that is, to perish. Pretty
lovers and friends you must all be!’
Here Ctesippus, the lover of Cleinias, interposes in great excitement, thinking that he will
teach the two Sophists a lesson of good manners. But he is quickly entangled in the
meshes of their sophistry; and as a storm seems to be gathering Socrates pacifies him
with a joke, and Ctesippus then says that he is not reviling the two Sophists, he is only
contradicting them. ‘But,’ says Dionysodorus, ‘there is no such thing as contradiction.
When you and I describe the same thing, or you describe one thing and I describe
another, how can there be a contradiction?’ Ctesippus is unable to reply.
Socrates has already heard of the denial of contradiction, and would like to be informed
by the great master of the art, ‘What is the meaning of this paradox? Is there no such
thing as error, ignorance, falsehood? Then what are they professing to teach?’ The two
Sophists complain that Socrates is ready to answer what they said a year ago, but is
‘non-plussed’ at what they are saying now. ‘What does the word “non-plussed” mean?’
Socrates is informed, in reply, that words are lifeless things, and lifeless things have no
sense or meaning. Ctesippus again breaks out, and again has to be pacified by Socrates,
who renews the conversation with Cleinias. The two Sophists are like Proteus in the
variety of their transformations, and he, like Menelaus in the Odyssey, hopes to restore
them to their natural form.
He had arrived at the conclusion that Cleinias must become a philosopher. And
philosophy is the possession of knowledge; and knowledge must be of a kind which is
profitable and may be used. What knowledge is there which has such a nature? Not the
knowledge which is required in any particular art; nor again the art of the composer of
speeches, who knows how to write them, but cannot speak them, although he too must
be admitted to be a kind of enchanter of wild animals. Neither is the knowledge which
we are seeking the knowledge of the general. For the general makes over his prey to the
statesman, as the huntsman does to the cook, or the taker of quails to the keeper of
quails; he has not the use of that which he acquires. The two enquirers, Cleinias and
Socrates, are described as wandering about in a wilderness, vainly searching after the art
of life and happiness. At last they fix upon the kingly art, as having the desired sort of
knowledge. But the kingly art only gives men those goods which are neither good nor
evil: and if we say further that it makes us wise, in what does it make us wise? Not in
special arts, such as cobbling or carpentering, but only in itself: or say again that it
makes us good, there is no answer to the question, ‘good in what?’ At length in despair
Cleinias and Socrates turn to the ‘Dioscuri’ and request their aid.
Euthydemus argues that Socrates knows something; and as he cannot know and not
know, he cannot know some things and not know others, and therefore he knows all
things: he and Dionysodorus and all other men know all things. ‘Do they know
shoemaking, etc?’ ‘Yes.’ The sceptical Ctesippus would like to have some evidence of
this extraordinary statement: he will believe if Euthydemus will tell him how many teeth
Dionysodorus has, and if Dionysodorus will give him a like piece of information about
Euthydemus. Even Socrates is incredulous, and indulges in a little raillery at the expense
of the brothers. But he restrains himself, remembering that if the men who are to be his
teachers think him stupid they will take no pains with him. Another fallacy is produced
which turns on the absoluteness of the verb ‘to know.’ And here Dionysodorus is caught
‘napping,’ and is induced by Socrates to confess that ‘he does not know the good to be
unjust.’ Socrates appeals to his brother Euthydemus; at the same time he acknowledges
that he cannot, like Heracles, fight against a Hydra, and even Heracles, on the approach
of a second monster, called upon his nephew Iolaus to help. Dionysodorus rejoins that
Iolaus was no more the nephew of Heracles than of Socrates. For a nephew is a nephew,
and a brother is a brother, and a father is a father, not of one man only, but of all; nor of
men only, but of dogs and sea-monsters. Ctesippus makes merry with the consequences
which follow: ‘Much good has your father got out of the wisdom of his puppies.’
‘But,’ says Euthydemus, unabashed, ‘nobody wants much good.’ Medicine is a good,
arms are a good, money is a good, and yet there may be too much of them in wrong
places. ‘No,’ says Ctesippus, ‘there cannot be too much gold.’ And would you be happy
if you had three talents of gold in your belly, a talent in your pate, and a stater in either
eye?’ Ctesippus, imitating the new wisdom, replies, ‘And do not the Scythians reckon
those to be the happiest of men who have their skulls gilded and see the inside of
them?’ ‘Do you see,’ retorts Euthydemus, ‘what has the quality of vision or what has not
the quality of vision?’ ‘What has the quality of vision.’ ‘And you see our garments?’ ‘Yes.’
‘Then our garments have the quality of vision.’ A similar play of words follows, which is
successfully retorted by Ctesippus, to the great delight of Cleinias, who is rebuked by
Socrates for laughing at such solemn and beautiful things.
‘But are there any beautiful things? And if there are such, are they the same or not the
same as absolute beauty?’ Socrates replies that they are not the same, but each of them
has some beauty present with it. ‘And are you an ox because you have an ox present
with you?’ After a few more amphiboliae, in which Socrates, like Ctesippus, in selfdefence
borrows the weapons of the brothers, they both confess that the two heroes
are invincible; and the scene concludes with a grand chorus of shouting and laughing,
and a panegyrical oration from Socrates:—
First, he praises the indifference of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus to public opinion; for
most persons would rather be refuted by such arguments than use them in the
refutation of others. Secondly, he remarks upon their impartiality; for they stop their
own mouths, as well as those of other people. Thirdly, he notes their liberality, which
makes them give away their secret to all the world: they should be more reserved, and
let no one be present at this exhibition who does not pay them a handsome fee; or
better still they might practise on one another only. He concludes with a respectful
request that they will receive him and Cleinias among their disciples.
Crito tells Socrates that he has heard one of the audience criticise severely this
wisdom,—not sparing Socrates himself for countenancing such an exhibition. Socrates
asks what manner of man was this censorious critic. ‘Not an orator, but a great
composer of speeches.’ Socrates understands that he is an amphibious animal, half
philosopher, half politician; one of a class who have the highest opinion of themselves
and a spite against philosophers, whom they imagine to be their rivals. They are a class
who are very likely to get mauled by Euthydemus and his friends, and have a great
notion of their own wisdom; for they imagine themselves to have all the advantages and
none of the drawbacks both of politics and of philosophy. They do not understand the
principles of combination, and hence are ignorant that the union of two good things
which have different ends produces a compound inferior to either of them taken
separately.
Crito is anxious about the education of his children, one of whom is growing up. The
description of Dionysodorus and Euthydemus suggests to him the reflection that the
professors of education are strange beings. Socrates consoles him with the remark that
the good in all professions are few, and recommends that ‘he and his house’ should
continue to serve philosophy, and not mind about its professors.
...
There is a stage in the history of philosophy in which the old is dying out, and the new
has not yet come into full life. Great philosophies like the Eleatic or Heraclitean, which
have enlarged the boundaries of the human mind, begin to pass away in words. They
subsist only as forms which have rooted themselves in language—as troublesome
elements of thought which cannot be either used or explained away. The same
absoluteness which was once attributed to abstractions is now attached to the words
which are the signs of them. The philosophy which in the first and second generation
was a great and inspiring effort of reflection, in the third becomes sophistical, verbal,
eristic.
It is this stage of philosophy which Plato satirises in the Euthydemus. The fallacies which
are noted by him appear trifling to us now, but they were not trifling in the age before
logic, in the decline of the earlier Greek philosophies, at a time when language was first
beginning to perplex human thought. Besides he is caricaturing them; they probably
received more subtle forms at the hands of those who seriously maintained them. They
are patent to us in Plato, and we are inclined to wonder how any one could ever have
been deceived by them; but we must remember also that there was a time when the
human mind was only with great difficulty disentangled from such fallacies.
To appreciate fully the drift of the Euthydemus, we should imagine a mental state in
which not individuals only, but whole schools during more than one generation, were
animated by the desire to exclude the conception of rest, and therefore the very word
‘this’ (Theaet.) from language; in which the ideas of space, time, matter, motion, were
proved to be contradictory and imaginary; in which the nature of qualitative change was
a puzzle, and even differences of degree, when applied to abstract notions, were not
understood; in which there was no analysis of grammar, and mere puns or plays of
words received serious attention; in which contradiction itself was denied, and, on the
one hand, every predicate was affirmed to be true of every subject, and on the other, it
was held that no predicate was true of any subject, and that nothing was, or was known,
or could be spoken. Let us imagine disputes carried on with religious earnestness and
more than scholastic subtlety, in which the catchwords of philosophy are completely
detached from their context. (Compare Theaet.) To such disputes the humour, whether
of Plato in the ancient, or of Pope and Swift in the modern world, is the natural enemy.
Nor must we forget that in modern times also there is no fallacy so gross, no trick of
language so transparent, no abstraction so barren and unmeaning, no form of thought
so contradictory to experience, which has not been found to satisfy the minds of
philosophical enquirers at a certain stage, or when regarded from a certain point of view
only. The peculiarity of the fallacies of our own age is that we live within them, and are
therefore generally unconscious of them.
Aristotle has analysed several of the same fallacies in his book ‘De Sophisticis Elenchis,’
which Plato, with equal command of their true nature, has preferred to bring to the test
of ridicule. At first we are only struck with the broad humour of this ‘reductio ad
absurdum:’ gradually we perceive that some important questions begin to emerge.
Here, as everywhere else, Plato is making war against the philosophers who put words in
the place of things, who tear arguments to tatters, who deny predication, and thus make
knowledge impossible, to whom ideas and objects of sense have no fixedness, but are in
a state of perpetual oscillation and transition. Two great truths seem to be indirectly
taught through these fallacies: (1) The uncertainty of language, which allows the same
words to be used in different meanings, or with different degrees of meaning: (2) The
necessary limitation or relative nature of all phenomena. Plato is aware that his own
doctrine of ideas, as well as the Eleatic Being and Not- being, alike admit of being
regarded as verbal fallacies. The sophism advanced in the Meno, ‘that you cannot
enquire either into what you know or do not know,’ is lightly touched upon at the
commencement of the Dialogue; the thesis of Protagoras, that everything is true to him
to whom it seems to be true, is satirized. In contrast with these fallacies is maintained
the Socratic doctrine that happiness is gained by knowledge. The grammatical puzzles
with which the Dialogue concludes probably contain allusions to tricks of language
which may have been practised by the disciples of Prodicus or Antisthenes. They would
have had more point, if we were acquainted with the writings against which Plato’s
humour is directed. Most of the jests appear to have a serious meaning; but we have
lost the clue to some of them, and cannot determine whether, as in the Cratylus, Plato
has or has not mixed up purely unmeaning fun with his satire.
The two discourses of Socrates may be contrasted in several respects with the exhibition
of the Sophists: (1) In their perfect relevancy to the subject of discussion, whereas the
Sophistical discourses are wholly irrelevant: (2) In their enquiring sympathetic tone,
which encourages the youth, instead of ‘knocking him down,’ after the manner of the
two Sophists: (3) In the absence of any definite conclusion—for while Socrates and the
youth are agreed that philosophy is to be studied, they are not able to arrive at any
certain result about the art which is to teach it. This is a question which will hereafter be
answered in the Republic; as the conception of the kingly art is more fully developed in
the Politicus, and the caricature of rhetoric in the Gorgias.
The characters of the Dialogue are easily intelligible. There is Socrates once more in the
character of an old man; and his equal in years, Crito, the father of Critobulus, like
Lysimachus in the Laches, his fellow demesman (Apol.), to whom the scene is narrated,
and who once or twice interrupts with a remark after the manner of the interlocutor in
the Phaedo, and adds his commentary at the end; Socrates makes a playful allusion to
his money-getting habits. There is the youth Cleinias, the grandson of Alcibiades, who
may be compared with Lysis, Charmides, Menexenus, and other ingenuous youths out
of whose mouths Socrates draws his own lessons, and to whom he always seems to
stand in a kindly and sympathetic relation. Crito will not believe that Socrates has not
improved or perhaps invented the answers of Cleinias (compare Phaedrus). The name of
the grandson of Alcibiades, who is described as long dead, (Greek), and who died at the
age of forty-four, in the year 404 B.C., suggests not only that the intended scene of the
Euthydemus could not have been earlier than 404, but that as a fact this Dialogue could
not have been composed before 390 at the soonest. Ctesippus, who is the lover of
Cleinias, has been already introduced to us in the Lysis, and seems there too to deserve
the character which is here given him, of a somewhat uproarious young man. But the
chief study of all is the picture of the two brothers, who are unapproachable in their
effrontery, equally careless of what they say to others and of what is said to them, and
never at a loss. They are ‘Arcades ambo et cantare pares et respondere parati.’ Some
superior degree of wit or subtlety is attributed to Euthydemus, who sees the trap in
which Socrates catches Dionysodorus.
The epilogue or conclusion of the Dialogue has been criticised as inconsistent with the
general scheme. Such a criticism is like similar criticisms on Shakespeare, and proceeds
upon a narrow notion of the variety which the Dialogue, like the drama, seems to admit.
Plato in the abundance of his dramatic power has chosen to write a play upon a play,
just as he often gives us an argument within an argument. At the same time he takes the
opportunity of assailing another class of persons who are as alien from the spirit of
philosophy as Euthydemus and Dionysodorus. The Eclectic, the Syncretist, the
Doctrinaire, have been apt to have a bad name both in ancient and modern times. The
persons whom Plato ridicules in the epilogue to the Euthydemus are of this class. They
occupy a border-ground between philosophy and politics; they keep out of the dangers
of politics, and at the same time use philosophy as a means of serving their own
interests. Plato quaintly describes them as making two good things, philosophy and
politics, a little worse by perverting the objects of both. Men like Antiphon or Lysias
would be types of the class. Out of a regard to the respectabilities of life, they are
disposed to censure the interest which Socrates takes in the exhibition of the two
brothers. They do not understand, any more than Crito, that he is pursuing his vocation
of detecting the follies of mankind, which he finds ‘not unpleasant.’ (Compare Apol.)
Education is the common subject of all Plato’s earlier Dialogues. The concluding remark
of Crito, that he has a difficulty in educating his two sons, and the advice of Socrates to
him that he should not give up philosophy because he has no faith in philosophers,
seems to be a preparation for the more peremptory declaration of the Meno that ‘Virtue
cannot be taught because there are no teachers.’
The reasons for placing the Euthydemus early in the series are: (1) the similarity in plan
and style to the Protagoras, Charmides, and Lysis;—the relation of Socrates to the
Sophists is still that of humorous antagonism, not, as in the later Dialogues of Plato, of
embittered hatred; and the places and persons have a considerable family likeness; (2)
the Euthydemus belongs to the Socratic period in which Socrates is represented as
willing to learn, but unable to teach; and in the spirit of Xenophon’s Memorabilia,
philosophy is defined as ‘the knowledge which will make us happy;’ (3) we seem to have
passed the stage arrived at in the Protagoras, for Socrates is no longer discussing
whether virtue can be taught—from this question he is relieved by the ingenuous
declaration of the youth Cleinias; and (4) not yet to have reached the point at which he
asserts ‘that there are no teachers.’ Such grounds are precarious, as arguments from
style and plan are apt to be (Greek). But no arguments equally strong can be urged in
favour of assigning to the Euthydemus any other position in the series.
EUTHYDEMUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, who is the narrator of the Dialogue. Crito,
Cleinias, Euthydemus, Dionysodorus, Ctesippus.
SCENE: The Lyceum.
CRITO: Who was the person, Socrates, with whom you were talking yesterday at the
Lyceum? There was such a crowd around you that I could not get within hearing, but I
caught a sight of him over their heads, and I made out, as I thought, that he was a
stranger with whom you were talking: who was he?
SOCRATES: There were two, Crito; which of them do you mean?
CRITO: The one whom I mean was seated second from you on the right-hand side. In
the middle was Cleinias the young son of Axiochus, who has wonderfully grown; he is
only about the age of my own Critobulus, but he is much forwarder and very goodlooking:
the other is thin and looks younger than he is.
SOCRATES: He whom you mean, Crito, is Euthydemus; and on my left hand there was his
brother Dionysodorus, who also took part in the conversation.
CRITO: Neither of them are known to me, Socrates; they are a new importation of
Sophists, as I should imagine. Of what country are they, and what is their line of
wisdom?
SOCRATES: As to their origin, I believe that they are natives of this part of the world, and
have migrated from Chios to Thurii; they were driven out of Thurii, and have been living
for many years past in these regions. As to their wisdom, about which you ask, Crito,
they are wonderful— consummate! I never knew what the true pancratiast was before;
they are simply made up of fighting, not like the two Acarnanian brothers who fight with
their bodies only, but this pair of heroes, besides being perfect in the use of their
bodies, are invincible in every sort of warfare; for they are capital at fighting in armour,
and will teach the art to any one who pays them; and also they are most skilful in legal
warfare; they will plead themselves and teach others to speak and to compose speeches
which will have an effect upon the courts. And this was only the beginning of their
wisdom, but they have at last carried out the pancratiastic art to the very end, and have
mastered the only mode of fighting which had been hitherto neglected by them; and
now no one dares even to stand up against them: such is their skill in the war of words,
that they can refute any proposition whether true or false. Now I am thinking, Crito, of
placing myself in their hands; for they say that in a short time they can impart their skill
to any one.
CRITO: But, Socrates, are you not too old? there may be reason to fear that.
SOCRATES: Certainly not, Crito; as I will prove to you, for I have the consolation of
knowing that they began this art of disputation which I covet, quite, as I may say, in old
age; last year, or the year before, they had none of their new wisdom. I am only
apprehensive that I may bring the two strangers into disrepute, as I have done Connus
the son of Metrobius, the harp-player, who is still my music-master; for when the boys
who go to him see me going with them, they laugh at me and call him grandpapa’s
master. Now I should not like the strangers to experience similar treatment; the fear of
ridicule may make them unwilling to receive me; and therefore, Crito, I shall try and
persuade some old men to accompany me to them, as I persuaded them to go with me
to Connus, and I hope that you will make one: and perhaps we had better take your
sons as a bait; they will want to have them as pupils, and for the sake of them willing to
receive us.
CRITO: I see no objection, Socrates, if you like; but first I wish that you would give me a
description of their wisdom, that I may know beforehand what we are going to learn.
SOCRATES: In less than no time you shall hear; for I cannot say that I did not attend—I
paid great attention to them, and I remember and will endeavour to repeat the whole
story. Providentially I was sitting alone in the dressing-room of the Lyceum where you
saw me, and was about to depart; when I was getting up I recognized the familiar divine
sign: so I sat down again, and in a little while the two brothers Euthydemus and
Dionysodorus came in, and several others with them, whom I believe to be their
disciples, and they walked about in the covered court; they had not taken more than
two or three turns when Cleinias entered, who, as you truly say, is very much improved:
he was followed by a host of lovers, one of whom was Ctesippus the Paeanian, a wellbred
youth, but also having the wildness of youth. Cleinias saw me from the entrance as
I was sitting alone, and at once came and sat down on the right hand of me, as you
describe; and Dionysodorus and Euthydemus, when they saw him, at first stopped and
talked with one another, now and then glancing at us, for I particularly watched them;
and then Euthydemus came and sat down by the youth, and the other by me on the left
hand; the rest anywhere. I saluted the brothers, whom I had not seen for a long time;
and then I said to Cleinias: Here are two wise men, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus,
Cleinias, wise not in a small but in a large way of wisdom, for they know all about war,—
all that a good general ought to know about the array and command of an army, and
the whole art of fighting in armour: and they know about law too, and can teach a man
how to use the weapons of the courts when he is injured.
They heard me say this, but only despised me. I observed that they looked at one
another, and both of them laughed; and then Euthydemus said: Those, Socrates, are
matters which we no longer pursue seriously; to us they are secondary occupations.
Indeed, I said, if such occupations are regarded by you as secondary, what must the
principal one be; tell me, I beseech you, what that noble study is?
The teaching of virtue, Socrates, he replied, is our principal occupation; and we believe
that we can impart it better and quicker than any man.
My God! I said, and where did you learn that? I always thought, as I was saying just now,
that your chief accomplishment was the art of fighting in armour; and I used to say as
much of you, for I remember that you professed this when you were here before. But
now if you really have the other knowledge, O forgive me: I address you as I would
superior beings, and ask you to pardon the impiety of my former expressions. But are
you quite sure about this, Dionysodorus and Euthydemus? the promise is so vast, that a
feeling of incredulity steals over me.
You may take our word, Socrates, for the fact.
Then I think you happier in having such a treasure than the great king is in the
possession of his kingdom. And please to tell me whether you intend to exhibit your
wisdom; or what will you do?
That is why we have come hither, Socrates; and our purpose is not only to exhibit, but
also to teach any one who likes to learn.
But I can promise you, I said, that every unvirtuous person will want to learn. I shall be
the first; and there is the youth Cleinias, and Ctesippus: and here are several others, I
said, pointing to the lovers of Cleinias, who were beginning to gather round us. Now
Ctesippus was sitting at some distance from Cleinias; and when Euthydemus leaned
forward in talking with me, he was prevented from seeing Cleinias, who was between us;
and so, partly because he wanted to look at his love, and also because he was
interested, he jumped up and stood opposite to us: and all the other admirers of
Cleinias, as well as the disciples of Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, followed his example.
And these were the persons whom I showed to Euthydemus, telling him that they were
all eager to learn: to which Ctesippus and all of them with one voice vehemently
assented, and bid him exhibit the power of his wisdom. Then I said: O Euthydemus and
Dionysodorus, I earnestly request you to do myself and the company the favour to
exhibit. There may be some trouble in giving the whole exhibition; but tell me one
thing,—can you make a good man of him only who is already convinced that he ought
to learn of you, or of him also who is not convinced, either because he imagines that
virtue is a thing which cannot be taught at all, or that you are not the teachers of it? Has
your art power to persuade him, who is of the latter temper of mind, that virtue can be
taught; and that you are the men from whom he will best learn it?
Certainly, Socrates, said Dionysodorus; our art will do both.
And you and your brother, Dionysodorus, I said, of all men who are now living are the
most likely to stimulate him to philosophy and to the study of virtue?
Yes, Socrates, I rather think that we are.
Then I wish that you would be so good as to defer the other part of the exhibition, and
only try to persuade the youth whom you see here that he ought to be a philosopher
and study virtue. Exhibit that, and you will confer a great favour on me and on every one
present; for the fact is I and all of us are extremely anxious that he should become truly
good. His name is Cleinias, and he is the son of Axiochus, and grandson of the old
Alcibiades, cousin of the Alcibiades that now is. He is quite young, and we are naturally
afraid that some one may get the start of us, and turn his mind in a wrong direction, and
he may be ruined. Your visit, therefore, is most happily timed; and I hope that you will
make a trial of the young man, and converse with him in our presence, if you have no
objection.
These were pretty nearly the expressions which I used; and Euthydemus, in a manly and
at the same time encouraging tone, replied: There can be no objection, Socrates, if the
young man is only willing to answer questions.
He is quite accustomed to do so, I replied; for his friends often come and ask him
questions and argue with him; and therefore he is quite at home in answering.
What followed, Crito, how can I rightly narrate? For not slight is the task of rehearsing
infinite wisdom, and therefore, like the poets, I ought to commence my relation with an
invocation to Memory and the Muses. Now Euthydemus, if I remember rightly, began
nearly as follows: O Cleinias, are those who learn the wise or the ignorant?
The youth, overpowered by the question blushed, and in his perplexity looked at me for
help; and I, knowing that he was disconcerted, said: Take courage, Cleinias, and answer
like a man whichever you think; for my belief is that you will derive the greatest benefit
from their questions.
Whichever he answers, said Dionysodorus, leaning forward so as to catch my ear, his
face beaming with laughter, I prophesy that he will be refuted, Socrates.
While he was speaking to me, Cleinias gave his answer: and therefore I had no time to
warn him of the predicament in which he was placed, and he answered that those who
learned were the wise.
Euthydemus proceeded: There are some whom you would call teachers, are there not?
The boy assented.
And they are the teachers of those who learn—the grammar-master and the lyre-master
used to teach you and other boys; and you were the learners?
Yes.
And when you were learners you did not as yet know the things which you were
learning?
No, he said.
And were you wise then?
No, indeed, he said.
But if you were not wise you were unlearned?
Certainly.
You then, learning what you did not know, were unlearned when you were learning?
The youth nodded assent.
Then the unlearned learn, and not the wise, Cleinias, as you imagine.
At these words the followers of Euthydemus, of whom I spoke, like a chorus at the
bidding of their director, laughed and cheered. Then, before the youth had time to
recover his breath, Dionysodorus cleverly took him in hand, and said: Yes, Cleinias; and
when the grammar-master dictated anything to you, were they the wise boys or the
unlearned who learned the dictation?
The wise, replied Cleinias.
Then after all the wise are the learners and not the unlearned; and your last answer to
Euthydemus was wrong.
Then once more the admirers of the two heroes, in an ecstasy at their wisdom, gave
vent to another peal of laughter, while the rest of us were silent and amazed.
Euthydemus, observing this, determined to persevere with the youth; and in order to
heighten the effect went on asking another similar question, which might be compared
to the double turn of an expert dancer. Do those, said he, who learn, learn what they
know, or what they do not know?
Again Dionysodorus whispered to me: That, Socrates, is just another of the same sort.
Good heavens, I said; and your last question was so good!
Like all our other questions, Socrates, he replied—inevitable.
I see the reason, I said, why you are in such reputation among your disciples.
Meanwhile Cleinias had answered Euthydemus that those who learned learn what they
do not know; and he put him through a series of questions the same as before.
Do you not know letters?
He assented.
All letters?
Yes.
But when the teacher dictates to you, does he not dictate letters?
To this also he assented.
Then if you know all letters, he dictates that which you know?
This again was admitted by him.
Then, said the other, you do not learn that which he dictates; but he only who does not
know letters learns?
Nay, said Cleinias; but I do learn.
Then, said he, you learn what you know, if you know all the letters?
He admitted that.
Then, he said, you were wrong in your answer.
The word was hardly out of his mouth when Dionysodorus took up the argument, like a
ball which he caught, and had another throw at the youth. Cleinias, he said, Euthydemus
is deceiving you. For tell me now, is not learning acquiring knowledge of that which one
learns?
Cleinias assented.
And knowing is having knowledge at the time?
He agreed.
And not knowing is not having knowledge at the time?
He admitted that.
And are those who acquire those who have or have not a thing?
Those who have not.
And have you not admitted that those who do not know are of the number of those
who have not?
He nodded assent.
Then those who learn are of the class of those who acquire, and not of those who have?
He agreed.
Then, Cleinias, he said, those who do not know learn, and not those who know.
Euthydemus was proceeding to give the youth a third fall; but I knew that he was in
deep water, and therefore, as I wanted to give him a respite lest he should be
disheartened, I said to him consolingly: You must not be surprised, Cleinias, at the
singularity of their mode of speech: this I say because you may not understand what the
two strangers are doing with you; they are only initiating you after the manner of the
Corybantes in the mysteries; and this answers to the enthronement, which, if you have
ever been initiated, is, as you will know, accompanied by dancing and sport; and now
they are just prancing and dancing about you, and will next proceed to initiate you;
imagine then that you have gone through the first part of the sophistical ritual, which, as
Prodicus says, begins with initiation into the correct use of terms. The two foreign
gentlemen, perceiving that you did not know, wanted to explain to you that the word ‘to
learn’ has two meanings, and is used, first, in the sense of acquiring knowledge of some
matter of which you previously have no knowledge, and also, when you have the
knowledge, in the sense of reviewing this matter, whether something done or spoken by
the light of this newly-acquired knowledge; the latter is generally called ‘knowing’ rather
than ‘learning,’ but the word ‘learning’ is also used; and you did not see, as they
explained to you, that the term is employed of two opposite sorts of men, of those who
know, and of those who do not know. There was a similar trick in the second question,
when they asked you whether men learn what they know or what they do not know.
These parts of learning are not serious, and therefore I say that the gentlemen are not
serious, but are only playing with you. For if a man had all that sort of knowledge that
ever was, he would not be at all the wiser; he would only be able to play with men,
tripping them up and oversetting them with distinctions of words. He would be like a
person who pulls away a stool from some one when he is about to sit down, and then
laughs and makes merry at the sight of his friend overturned and laid on his back. And
you must regard all that has hitherto passed between you and them as merely play. But
in what is to follow I am certain that they will exhibit to you their serious purpose, and
keep their promise (I will show them how); for they promised to give me a sample of the
hortatory philosophy, but I suppose that they wanted to have a game with you first. And
now, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, I think that we have had enough of this. Will you
let me see you explaining to the young man how he is to apply himself to the study of
virtue and wisdom? And I will first show you what I conceive to be the nature of the task,
and what sort of a discourse I desire to hear; and if I do this in a very inartistic and
ridiculous manner, do not laugh at me, for I only venture to improvise before you
because I am eager to hear your wisdom: and I must therefore ask you and your
disciples to refrain from laughing. And now, O son of Axiochus, let me put a question to
you: Do not all men desire happiness? And yet, perhaps, this is one of those ridiculous
questions which I am afraid to ask, and which ought not to be asked by a sensible man:
for what human being is there who does not desire happiness?
There is no one, said Cleinias, who does not.
Well, then, I said, since we all of us desire happiness, how can we be happy?—that is the
next question. Shall we not be happy if we have many good things? And this, perhaps, is
even a more simple question than the first, for there can be no doubt of the answer.
He assented.
And what things do we esteem good? No solemn sage is required to tell us this, which
may be easily answered; for every one will say that wealth is a good.
Certainly, he said.
And are not health and beauty goods, and other personal gifts?
He agreed.
Can there be any doubt that good birth, and power, and honours in one’s own land, are
goods?
He assented.
And what other goods are there? I said. What do you say of temperance, justice,
courage: do you not verily and indeed think, Cleinias, that we shall be more right in
ranking them as goods than in not ranking them as goods? For a dispute might possibly
arise about this. What then do you say?
They are goods, said Cleinias.
Very well, I said; and where in the company shall we find a place for wisdom—among
the goods or not?
Among the goods.
And now, I said, think whether we have left out any considerable goods.
I do not think that we have, said Cleinias.
Upon recollection, I said, indeed I am afraid that we have left out the greatest of them
all.
What is that? he asked.
Fortune, Cleinias, I replied; which all, even the most foolish, admit to be the greatest of
goods.
True, he said.
On second thoughts, I added, how narrowly, O son of Axiochus, have you and I escaped
making a laughing-stock of ourselves to the strangers.
Why do you say so?
Why, because we have already spoken of good-fortune, and are but repeating ourselves.
What do you mean?
I mean that there is something ridiculous in again putting forward good- fortune, which
has a place in the list already, and saying the same thing twice over.
He asked what was the meaning of this, and I replied: Surely wisdom is good-fortune;
even a child may know that.
The simple-minded youth was amazed; and, observing his surprise, I said to him: Do you
not know, Cleinias, that flute-players are most fortunate and successful in performing on
the flute?
He assented.
And are not the scribes most fortunate in writing and reading letters?
Certainly.
Amid the dangers of the sea, again, are any more fortunate on the whole than wise
pilots?
None, certainly.
And if you were engaged in war, in whose company would you rather take the risk—in
company with a wise general, or with a foolish one?
With a wise one.
And if you were ill, whom would you rather have as a companion in a dangerous
illness—a wise physician, or an ignorant one?
A wise one.
You think, I said, that to act with a wise man is more fortunate than to act with an
ignorant one?
He assented.
Then wisdom always makes men fortunate: for by wisdom no man would ever err, and
therefore he must act rightly and succeed, or his wisdom would be wisdom no longer.
We contrived at last, somehow or other, to agree in a general conclusion, that he who
had wisdom had no need of fortune. I then recalled to his mind the previous state of the
question. You remember, I said, our making the admission that we should be happy and
fortunate if many good things were present with us?
He assented.
And should we be happy by reason of the presence of good things, if they profited us
not, or if they profited us?
If they profited us, he said.
And would they profit us, if we only had them and did not use them? For example, if we
had a great deal of food and did not eat, or a great deal of drink and did not drink,
should we be profited?
Certainly not, he said.
Or would an artisan, who had all the implements necessary for his work, and did not use
them, be any the better for the possession of them? For example, would a carpenter be
any the better for having all his tools and plenty of wood, if he never worked?
Certainly not, he said.
And if a person had wealth and all the goods of which we were just now speaking, and
did not use them, would he be happy because he possessed them?
No indeed, Socrates.
Then, I said, a man who would be happy must not only have the good things, but he
must also use them; there is no advantage in merely having them?
True.
Well, Cleinias, but if you have the use as well as the possession of good things, is that
sufficient to confer happiness?
Yes, in my opinion.
And may a person use them either rightly or wrongly?
He must use them rightly.
That is quite true, I said. And the wrong use of a thing is far worse than the non-use; for
the one is an evil, and the other is neither a good nor an evil. You admit that?
He assented.
Now in the working and use of wood, is not that which gives the right use simply the
knowledge of the carpenter?
Nothing else, he said.
And surely, in the manufacture of vessels, knowledge is that which gives the right way of
making them?
He agreed.
And in the use of the goods of which we spoke at first—wealth and health and beauty,
is not knowledge that which directs us to the right use of them, and regulates our
practice about them?
He assented.
Then in every possession and every use of a thing, knowledge is that which gives a man
not only good-fortune but success?
He again assented.
And tell me, I said, O tell me, what do possessions profit a man, if he have neither good
sense nor wisdom? Would a man be better off, having and doing many things without
wisdom, or a few things with wisdom? Look at the matter thus: If he did fewer things
would he not make fewer mistakes? if he made fewer mistakes would he not have fewer
misfortunes? and if he had fewer misfortunes would he not be less miserable?
Certainly, he said.
And who would do least—a poor man or a rich man?
A poor man.
A weak man or a strong man?
A weak man.
A noble man or a mean man?
A mean man.
And a coward would do less than a courageous and temperate man?
Yes.
And an indolent man less than an active man?
He assented.
And a slow man less than a quick; and one who had dull perceptions of seeing and
hearing less than one who had keen ones?
All this was mutually allowed by us.
Then, I said, Cleinias, the sum of the matter appears to be that the goods of which we
spoke before are not to be regarded as goods in themselves, but the degree of good
and evil in them depends on whether they are or are not under the guidance of
knowledge: under the guidance of ignorance, they are greater evils than their opposites,
inasmuch as they are more able to minister to the evil principle which rules them; and
when under the guidance of wisdom and prudence, they are greater goods: but in
themselves they are nothing?
That, he replied, is obvious.
What then is the result of what has been said? Is not this the result— that other things
are indifferent, and that wisdom is the only good, and ignorance the only evil?
He assented.
Let us consider a further point, I said: Seeing that all men desire happiness, and
happiness, as has been shown, is gained by a use, and a right use, of the things of life,
and the right use of them, and good- fortune in the use of them, is given by
knowledge,—the inference is that everybody ought by all means to try and make
himself as wise as he can?
Yes, he said.
And when a man thinks that he ought to obtain this treasure, far more than money,
from a father or a guardian or a friend or a suitor, whether citizen or stranger—the
eager desire and prayer to them that they would impart wisdom to you, is not at all
dishonourable, Cleinias; nor is any one to be blamed for doing any honourable service
or ministration to any man, whether a lover or not, if his aim is to get wisdom. Do you
agree? I said.
Yes, he said, I quite agree, and think that you are right.
Yes, I said, Cleinias, if only wisdom can be taught, and does not come to man
spontaneously; for this is a point which has still to be considered, and is not yet agreed
upon by you and me—
But I think, Socrates, that wisdom can be taught, he said.
Best of men, I said, I am delighted to hear you say so; and I am also grateful to you for
having saved me from a long and tiresome investigation as to whether wisdom can be
taught or not. But now, as you think that wisdom can be taught, and that wisdom only
can make a man happy and fortunate, will you not acknowledge that all of us ought to
love wisdom, and you individually will try to love her?
Certainly, Socrates, he said; I will do my best.
I was pleased at hearing this; and I turned to Dionysodorus and Euthydemus and said:
That is an example, clumsy and tedious I admit, of the sort of exhortations which I would
have you give; and I hope that one of you will set forth what I have been saying in a
more artistic style: or at least take up the enquiry where I left off, and proceed to show
the youth whether he should have all knowledge; or whether there is one sort of
knowledge only which will make him good and happy, and what that is. For, as I was
saying at first, the improvement of this young man in virtue and wisdom is a matter
which we have very much at heart.
Thus I spoke, Crito, and was all attention to what was coming. I wanted to see how they
would approach the question, and where they would start in their exhortation to the
young man that he should practise wisdom and virtue. Dionysodorus, who was the
elder, spoke first. Everybody’s eyes were directed towards him, perceiving that
something wonderful might shortly be expected. And certainly they were not far wrong;
for the man, Crito, began a remarkable discourse well worth hearing, and wonderfully
persuasive regarded as an exhortation to virtue.
Tell me, he said, Socrates and the rest of you who say that you want this young man to
become wise, are you in jest or in real earnest?
I was led by this to imagine that they fancied us to have been jesting when we asked
them to converse with the youth, and that this made them jest and play, and being
under this impression, I was the more decided in saying that we were in profound
earnest. Dionysodorus said:
Reflect, Socrates; you may have to deny your words.
I have reflected, I said; and I shall never deny my words.
Well, said he, and so you say that you wish Cleinias to become wise?
Undoubtedly.
And he is not wise as yet?
At least his modesty will not allow him to say that he is.
You wish him, he said, to become wise and not, to be ignorant?
That we do.
You wish him to be what he is not, and no longer to be what he is?
I was thrown into consternation at this.
Taking advantage of my consternation he added: You wish him no longer to be what he
is, which can only mean that you wish him to perish. Pretty lovers and friends they must
be who want their favourite not to be, or to perish!
When Ctesippus heard this he got very angry (as a lover well might) and said: Stranger
of Thurii—if politeness would allow me I should say, A plague upon you! What can make
you tell such a lie about me and the others, which I hardly like to repeat, as that I wish
Cleinias to perish?
Euthydemus replied: And do you think, Ctesippus, that it is possible to tell a lie?
Yes, said Ctesippus; I should be mad to say anything else.
And in telling a lie, do you tell the thing of which you speak or not?
You tell the thing of which you speak.
And he who tells, tells that thing which he tells, and no other?
Yes, said Ctesippus.
And that is a distinct thing apart from other things?
Certainly.
And he who says that thing says that which is?
Yes.
And he who says that which is, says the truth. And therefore Dionysodorus, if he says
that which is, says the truth of you and no lie.
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but in saying this, he says what is not.
Euthydemus answered: And that which is not is not?
True.
And that which is not is nowhere?
Nowhere.
And can any one do anything about that which has no existence, or do to Cleinias that
which is not and is nowhere?
I think not, said Ctesippus.
Well, but do rhetoricians, when they speak in the assembly, do nothing?
Nay, he said, they do something.
And doing is making?
Yes.
And speaking is doing and making?
He agreed.
Then no one says that which is not, for in saying what is not he would be doing
something; and you have already acknowledged that no one can do what is not. And
therefore, upon your own showing, no one says what is false; but if Dionysodorus says
anything, he says what is true and what is.
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; but he speaks of things in a certain way and manner,
and not as they really are.
Why, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, do you mean to say that any one speaks of things
as they are?
Yes, he said—all gentlemen and truth-speaking persons.
And are not good things good, and evil things evil?
He assented.
And you say that gentlemen speak of things as they are?
Yes.
Then the good speak evil of evil things, if they speak of them as they are?
Yes, indeed, he said; and they speak evil of evil men. And if I may give you a piece of
advice, you had better take care that they do not speak evil of you, since I can tell you
that the good speak evil of the evil.
And do they speak great things of the great, rejoined Euthydemus, and warm things of
the warm?
To be sure they do, said Ctesippus; and they speak coldly of the insipid and cold
dialectician.
You are abusive, Ctesippus, said Dionysodorus, you are abusive!
Indeed, I am not, Dionysodorus, he replied; for I love you and am giving you friendly
advice, and, if I could, would persuade you not like a boor to say in my presence that I
desire my beloved, whom I value above all men, to perish.
I saw that they were getting exasperated with one another, so I made a joke with him
and said: O Ctesippus, I think that we must allow the strangers to use language in their
own way, and not quarrel with them about words, but be thankful for what they give us.
If they know how to destroy men in such a way as to make good and sensible men out
of bad and foolish ones— whether this is a discovery of their own, or whether they have
learned from some one else this new sort of death and destruction which enables them
to get rid of a bad man and turn him into a good one—if they know this (and they do
know this—at any rate they said just now that this was the secret of their newlydiscovered
art)—let them, in their phraseology, destroy the youth and make him wise,
and all of us with him. But if you young men do not like to trust yourselves with them,
then fiat experimentum in corpore senis; I will be the Carian on whom they shall
operate. And here I offer my old person to Dionysodorus; he may put me into the pot,
like Medea the Colchian, kill me, boil me, if he will only make me good.
Ctesippus said: And I, Socrates, am ready to commit myself to the strangers; they may
skin me alive, if they please (and I am pretty well skinned by them already), if only my
skin is made at last, not like that of Marsyas, into a leathern bottle, but into a piece of
virtue. And here is Dionysodorus fancying that I am angry with him, when really I am not
angry at all; I do but contradict him when I think that he is speaking improperly to me:
and you must not confound abuse and contradiction, O illustrious Dionysodorus; for
they are quite different things.
Contradiction! said Dionysodorus; why, there never was such a thing.
Certainly there is, he replied; there can be no question of that. Do you, Dionysodorus,
maintain that there is not?
You will never prove to me, he said, that you have heard any one contradicting any one
else.
Indeed, said Ctesippus; then now you may hear me contradicting Dionysodorus.
Are you prepared to make that good?
Certainly, he said.
Well, have not all things words expressive of them?
Yes.
Of their existence or of their non-existence?
Of their existence.
Yes, Ctesippus, and we just now proved, as you may remember, that no man could
affirm a negative; for no one could affirm that which is not.
And what does that signify? said Ctesippus; you and I may contradict all the same for
that.
But can we contradict one another, said Dionysodorus, when both of us are describing
the same thing? Then we must surely be speaking the same thing?
He assented.
Or when neither of us is speaking of the same thing? For then neither of us says a word
about the thing at all?
He granted that proposition also.
But when I describe something and you describe another thing, or I say something and
you say nothing—is there any contradiction? How can he who speaks contradict him
who speaks not?
Here Ctesippus was silent; and I in my astonishment said: What do you mean,
Dionysodorus? I have often heard, and have been amazed to hear, this thesis of yours,
which is maintained and employed by the disciples of Protagoras, and others before
them, and which to me appears to be quite wonderful, and suicidal as well as
destructive, and I think that I am most likely to hear the truth about it from you. The
dictum is that there is no such thing as falsehood; a man must either say what is true or
say nothing. Is not that your position?
He assented.
But if he cannot speak falsely, may he not think falsely?
No, he cannot, he said.
Then there is no such thing as false opinion?
No, he said.
Then there is no such thing as ignorance, or men who are ignorant; for is not ignorance,
if there be such a thing, a mistake of fact?
Certainly, he said.
And that is impossible?
Impossible, he replied.
Are you saying this as a paradox, Dionysodorus; or do you seriously maintain no man to
be ignorant?
Refute me, he said.
But how can I refute you, if, as you say, to tell a falsehood is impossible?
Very true, said Euthydemus.
Neither did I tell you just now to refute me, said Dionysodorus; for how can I tell you to
do that which is not?
O Euthydemus, I said, I have but a dull conception of these subtleties and excellent
devices of wisdom; I am afraid that I hardly understand them, and you must forgive me
therefore if I ask a very stupid question: if there be no falsehood or false opinion or
ignorance, there can be no such thing as erroneous action, for a man cannot fail of
acting as he is acting—that is what you mean?
Yes, he replied.
And now, I said, I will ask my stupid question: If there is no such thing as error in deed,
word, or thought, then what, in the name of goodness, do you come hither to teach?
And were you not just now saying that you could teach virtue best of all men, to any
one who was willing to learn?
And are you such an old fool, Socrates, rejoined Dionysodorus, that you bring up now
what I said at first—and if I had said anything last year, I suppose that you would bring
that up too—but are non-plussed at the words which I have just uttered?
Why, I said, they are not easy to answer; for they are the words of wise men: and indeed
I know not what to make of this word ‘nonplussed,’ which you used last: what do you
mean by it, Dionysodorus? You must mean that I cannot refute your argument. Tell me if
the words have any other sense.
No, he replied, they mean what you say. And now answer.
What, before you, Dionysodorus? I said.
Answer, said he.
And is that fair?
Yes, quite fair, he said.
Upon what principle? I said. I can only suppose that you are a very wise man who comes
to us in the character of a great logician, and who knows when to answer and when not
to answer—and now you will not open your mouth at all, because you know that you
ought not.
You prate, he said, instead of answering. But if, my good sir, you admit that I am wise,
answer as I tell you.
I suppose that I must obey, for you are master. Put the question.
Are the things which have sense alive or lifeless?
They are alive.
And do you know of any word which is alive?
I cannot say that I do.
Then why did you ask me what sense my words had?
Why, because I was stupid and made a mistake. And yet, perhaps, I was right after all in
saying that words have a sense;—what do you say, wise man? If I was not in error, even
you will not refute me, and all your wisdom will be non-plussed; but if I did fall into
error, then again you are wrong in saying that there is no error,—and this remark was
made by you not quite a year ago. I am inclined to think, however, Dionysodorus and
Euthydemus, that this argument lies where it was and is not very likely to advance: even
your skill in the subtleties of logic, which is really amazing, has not found out the way of
throwing another and not falling yourself, now any more than of old.
Ctesippus said: Men of Chios, Thurii, or however and whatever you call yourselves, I
wonder at you, for you seem to have no objection to talking nonsense.
Fearing that there would be high words, I again endeavoured to soothe Ctesippus, and
said to him: To you, Ctesippus, I must repeat what I said before to Cleinias—that you do
not understand the ways of these philosophers from abroad. They are not serious, but,
like the Egyptian wizard, Proteus, they take different forms and deceive us by their
enchantments: and let us, like Menelaus, refuse to let them go until they show
themselves to us in earnest. When they begin to be in earnest their full beauty will
appear: let us then beg and entreat and beseech them to shine forth. And I think that I
had better once more exhibit the form in which I pray to behold them; it might be a
guide to them. I will go on therefore where I left off, as well as I can, in the hope that I
may touch their hearts and move them to pity, and that when they see me deeply
serious and interested, they also may be serious. You, Cleinias, I said, shall remind me at
what point we left off. Did we not agree that philosophy should be studied? and was not
that our conclusion?
Yes, he replied.
And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge?
Yes, he said.
And what knowledge ought we to acquire? May we not answer with absolute truth—A
knowledge which will do us good?
Certainly, he said.
And should we be any the better if we went about having a knowledge of the places
where most gold was hidden in the earth?
Perhaps we should, he said.
But have we not already proved, I said, that we should be none the better off, even if
without trouble and digging all the gold which there is in the earth were ours? And if we
knew how to convert stones into gold, the knowledge would be of no value to us, unless
we also knew how to use the gold? Do you not remember? I said.
I quite remember, he said.
Nor would any other knowledge, whether of money-making, or of medicine, or of any
other art which knows only how to make a thing, and not to use it when made, be of
any good to us. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And if there were a knowledge which was able to make men immortal, without giving
them the knowledge of the way to use the immortality, neither would there be any use
in that, if we may argue from the analogy of the previous instances?
To all this he agreed.
Then, my dear boy, I said, the knowledge which we want is one that uses as well as
makes?
True, he said.
And our desire is not to be skilful lyre-makers, or artists of that sort— far otherwise; for
with them the art which makes is one, and the art which uses is another. Although they
have to do with the same, they are divided: for the art which makes and the art which
plays on the lyre differ widely from one another. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And clearly we do not want the art of the flute-maker; this is only another of the same
sort?
He assented.
But suppose, I said, that we were to learn the art of making speeches— would that be
the art which would make us happy?
I should say, no, rejoined Cleinias.
And why should you say so? I asked.
I see, he replied, that there are some composers of speeches who do not know how to
use the speeches which they make, just as the makers of lyres do not know how to use
the lyres; and also some who are of themselves unable to compose speeches, but are
able to use the speeches which the others make for them; and this proves that the art of
making speeches is not the same as the art of using them.
Yes, I said; and I take your words to be a sufficient proof that the art of making speeches
is not one which will make a man happy. And yet I did think that the art which we have
so long been seeking might be discovered in that direction; for the composers of
speeches, whenever I meet them, always appear to me to be very extraordinary men,
Cleinias, and their art is lofty and divine, and no wonder. For their art is a part of the
great art of enchantment, and hardly, if at all, inferior to it: and whereas the art of the
enchanter is a mode of charming snakes and spiders and scorpions, and other monsters
and pests, this art of their’s acts upon dicasts and ecclesiasts and bodies of men, for the
charming and pacifying of them. Do you agree with me?
Yes, he said, I think that you are quite right.
Whither then shall we go, I said, and to what art shall we have recourse?
I do not see my way, he said.
But I think that I do, I replied.
And what is your notion? asked Cleinias.
I think that the art of the general is above all others the one of which the possession is
most likely to make a man happy.
I do not think so, he said.
Why not? I said.
The art of the general is surely an art of hunting mankind.
What of that? I said.
Why, he said, no art of hunting extends beyond hunting and capturing; and when the
prey is taken the huntsman or fisherman cannot use it; but they hand it over to the cook,
and the geometricians and astronomers and calculators (who all belong to the hunting
class, for they do not make their diagrams, but only find out that which was previously
contained in them)—they, I say, not being able to use but only to catch their prey, hand
over their inventions to the dialectician to be applied by him, if they have any sense in
them.
Good, I said, fairest and wisest Cleinias. And is this true?
Certainly, he said; just as a general when he takes a city or a camp hands over his new
acquisition to the statesman, for he does not know how to use them himself; or as the
quail-taker transfers the quails to the keeper of them. If we are looking for the art which
is to make us blessed, and which is able to use that which it makes or takes, the art of
the general is not the one, and some other must be found.
CRITO: And do you mean, Socrates, that the youngster said all this?
SOCRATES: Are you incredulous, Crito?
CRITO: Indeed, I am; for if he did say so, then in my opinion he needs neither
Euthydemus nor any one else to be his instructor.
SOCRATES: Perhaps I may have forgotten, and Ctesippus was the real answerer.
CRITO: Ctesippus! nonsense.
SOCRATES: All I know is that I heard these words, and that they were not spoken either
by Euthydemus or Dionysodorus. I dare say, my good Crito, that they may have been
spoken by some superior person: that I heard them I am certain.
CRITO: Yes, indeed, Socrates, by some one a good deal superior, as I should be disposed
to think. But did you carry the search any further, and did you find the art which you
were seeking?
SOCRATES: Find! my dear sir, no indeed. And we cut a poor figure; we were like children
after larks, always on the point of catching the art, which was always getting away from
us. But why should I repeat the whole story? At last we came to the kingly art, and
enquired whether that gave and caused happiness, and then we got into a labyrinth,
and when we thought we were at the end, came out again at the beginning, having still
to seek as much as ever.
CRITO: How did that happen, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I will tell you; the kingly art was identified by us with the political.
CRITO: Well, and what came of that?
SOCRATES: To this royal or political art all the arts, including the art of the general,
seemed to render up the supremacy, that being the only one which knew how to use
what they produce. Here obviously was the very art which we were seeking—the art
which is the source of good government, and which may be described, in the language
of Aeschylus, as alone sitting at the helm of the vessel of state, piloting and governing
all things, and utilizing them.
CRITO: And were you not right, Socrates?
SOCRATES: You shall judge, Crito, if you are willing to hear what followed; for we
resumed the enquiry, and a question of this sort was asked: Does the kingly art, having
this supreme authority, do anything for us? To be sure, was the answer. And would not
you, Crito, say the same?
CRITO: Yes, I should.
SOCRATES: And what would you say that the kingly art does? If medicine were
supposed to have supreme authority over the subordinate arts, and I were to ask you a
similar question about that, you would say—it produces health?
CRITO: I should.
SOCRATES: And what of your own art of husbandry, supposing that to have supreme
authority over the subject arts—what does that do? Does it not supply us with the fruits
of the earth?
CRITO: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what does the kingly art do when invested with supreme power?
Perhaps you may not be ready with an answer?
CRITO: Indeed I am not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: No more were we, Crito. But at any rate you know that if this is the art which
we were seeking, it ought to be useful.
CRITO: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And surely it ought to do us some good?
CRITO: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And Cleinias and I had arrived at the conclusion that knowledge of some
kind is the only good.
CRITO: Yes, that was what you were saying.
SOCRATES: All the other results of politics, and they are many, as for example, wealth,
freedom, tranquillity, were neither good nor evil in themselves; but the political science
ought to make us wise, and impart knowledge to us, if that is the science which is likely
to do us good, and make us happy.
CRITO: Yes; that was the conclusion at which you had arrived, according to your report
of the conversation.
SOCRATES: And does the kingly art make men wise and good?
CRITO: Why not, Socrates?
SOCRATES: What, all men, and in every respect? and teach them all the arts,—
carpentering, and cobbling, and the rest of them?
CRITO: I think not, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But then what is this knowledge, and what are we to do with it? For it is not
the source of any works which are neither good nor evil, and gives no knowledge, but
the knowledge of itself; what then can it be, and what are we to do with it? Shall we say,
Crito, that it is the knowledge by which we are to make other men good?
CRITO: By all means.
SOCRATES: And in what will they be good and useful? Shall we repeat that they will
make others good, and that these others will make others again, without ever
determining in what they are to be good; for we have put aside the results of politics, as
they are called. This is the old, old song over again; and we are just as far as ever, if not
farther, from the knowledge of the art or science of happiness.
CRITO: Indeed, Socrates, you do appear to have got into a great perplexity.
SOCRATES: Thereupon, Crito, seeing that I was on the point of shipwreck, I lifted up my
voice, and earnestly entreated and called upon the strangers to save me and the youth
from the whirlpool of the argument; they were our Castor and Pollux, I said, and they
should be serious, and show us in sober earnest what that knowledge was which would
enable us to pass the rest of our lives in happiness.
CRITO: And did Euthydemus show you this knowledge?
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed; he proceeded in a lofty strain to the following effect: Would you
rather, Socrates, said he, that I should show you this knowledge about which you have
been doubting, or shall I prove that you already have it?
What, I said, are you blessed with such a power as this?
Indeed I am.
Then I would much rather that you should prove me to have such a knowledge; at my
time of life that will be more agreeable than having to learn.
Then tell me, he said, do you know anything?
Yes, I said, I know many things, but not anything of much importance.
That will do, he said: And would you admit that anything is what it is, and at the same
time is not what it is?
Certainly not.
And did you not say that you knew something?
I did.
If you know, you are knowing.
Certainly, of the knowledge which I have.
That makes no difference;—and must you not, if you are knowing, know all things?
Certainly not, I said, for there are many other things which I do not know.
And if you do not know, you are not knowing.
Yes, friend, of that which I do not know.
Still you are not knowing, and you said just now that you were knowing; and therefore
you are and are not at the same time, and in reference to the same things.
A pretty clatter, as men say, Euthydemus, this of yours! and will you explain how I
possess that knowledge for which we were seeking? Do you mean to say that the same
thing cannot be and also not be; and therefore, since I know one thing, that I know all,
for I cannot be knowing and not knowing at the same time, and if I know all things, then
I must have the knowledge for which we are seeking—May I assume this to be your
ingenious notion?
Out of your own mouth, Socrates, you are convicted, he said.
Well, but, Euthydemus, I said, has that never happened to you? for if I am only in the
same case with you and our beloved Dionysodorus, I cannot complain. Tell me, then,
you two, do you not know some things, and not know others?
Certainly not, Socrates, said Dionysodorus.
What do you mean, I said; do you know nothing?
Nay, he replied, we do know something.
Then, I said, you know all things, if you know anything?
Yes, all things, he said; and that is as true of you as of us.
O, indeed, I said, what a wonderful thing, and what a great blessing! And do all other
men know all things or nothing?
Certainly, he replied; they cannot know some things, and not know others, and be at the
same time knowing and not knowing.
Then what is the inference? I said.
They all know all things, he replied, if they know one thing.
O heavens, Dionysodorus, I said, I see now that you are in earnest; hardly have I got you
to that point. And do you really and truly know all things, including carpentering and
leather-cutting?
Certainly, he said.
And do you know stitching?
Yes, by the gods, we do, and cobbling, too.
And do you know things such as the numbers of the stars and of the sand?
Certainly; did you think we should say No to that?
By Zeus, said Ctesippus, interrupting, I only wish that you would give me some proof
which would enable me to know whether you speak truly.
What proof shall I give you? he said.
Will you tell me how many teeth Euthydemus has? and Euthydemus shall tell how many
teeth you have.
Will you not take our word that we know all things?
Certainly not, said Ctesippus: you must further tell us this one thing, and then we shall
know that you are speak the truth; if you tell us the number, and we count them, and
you are found to be right, we will believe the rest. They fancied that Ctesippus was
making game of them, and they refused, and they would only say in answer to each of
his questions, that they knew all things. For at last Ctesippus began to throw off all
restraint; no question in fact was too bad for him; he would ask them if they knew the
foulest things, and they, like wild boars, came rushing on his blows, and fearlessly
replied that they did. At last, Crito, I too was carried away by my incredulity, and asked
Euthydemus whether Dionysodorus could dance.
Certainly, he replied.
And can he vault among swords, and turn upon a wheel, at his age? has he got to such a
height of skill as that?
He can do anything, he said.
And did you always know this?
Always, he said.
When you were children, and at your birth?
They both said that they did.
This we could not believe. And Euthydemus said: You are incredulous, Socrates.
Yes, I said, and I might well be incredulous, if I did not know you to be wise men.
But if you will answer, he said, I will make you confess to similar marvels.
Well, I said, there is nothing that I should like better than to be self- convicted of this,
for if I am really a wise man, which I never knew before, and you will prove to me that I
know and have always known all things, nothing in life would be a greater gain to me.
Answer then, he said.
Ask, I said, and I will answer.
Do you know something, Socrates, or nothing?
Something, I said.
And do you know with what you know, or with something else?
With what I know; and I suppose that you mean with my soul?
Are you not ashamed, Socrates, of asking a question when you are asked one?
Well, I said; but then what am I to do? for I will do whatever you bid; when I do not
know what you are asking, you tell me to answer nevertheless, and not to ask again.
Why, you surely have some notion of my meaning, he said.
Yes, I replied.
Well, then, answer according to your notion of my meaning.
Yes, I said; but if the question which you ask in one sense is understood and answered
by me in another, will that please you—if I answer what is not to the point?
That will please me very well; but will not please you equally well, as I imagine.
I certainly will not answer unless I understand you, I said.
You will not answer, he said, according to your view of the meaning, because you will be
prating, and are an ancient.
Now I saw that he was getting angry with me for drawing distinctions, when he wanted
to catch me in his springes of words. And I remembered that Connus was always angry
with me when I opposed him, and then he neglected me, because he thought that I was
stupid; and as I was intending to go to Euthydemus as a pupil, I reflected that I had
better let him have his way, as he might think me a blockhead, and refuse to take me. So
I said: You are a far better dialectician than myself, Euthydemus, for I have never made a
profession of the art, and therefore do as you say; ask your questions once more, and I
will answer.
Answer then, he said, again, whether you know what you know with something, or with
nothing.
Yes, I said; I know with my soul.
The man will answer more than the question; for I did not ask you, he said, with what
you know, but whether you know with something.
Again I replied, Through ignorance I have answered too much, but I hope that you will
forgive me. And now I will answer simply that I always know what I know with
something.
And is that something, he rejoined, always the same, or sometimes one thing, and
sometimes another thing?
Always, I replied, when I know, I know with this.
Will you not cease adding to your answers?
My fear is that this word ‘always’ may get us into trouble.
You, perhaps, but certainly not us. And now answer: Do you always know with this?
Always; since I am required to withdraw the words ‘when I know.’
You always know with this, or, always knowing, do you know some things with this, and
some things with something else, or do you know all things with this?
All that I know, I replied, I know with this.
There again, Socrates, he said, the addition is superfluous.
Well, then, I said, I will take away the words ‘that I know.’
Nay, take nothing away; I desire no favours of you; but let me ask: Would you be able to
know all things, if you did not know all things?
Quite impossible.
And now, he said, you may add on whatever you like, for you confess that you know all
things.
I suppose that is true, I said, if my qualification implied in the words ‘that I know’ is not
allowed to stand; and so I do know all things.
And have you not admitted that you always know all things with that which you know,
whether you make the addition of ‘when you know them’ or not? for you have
acknowledged that you have always and at once known all things, that is to say, when
you were a child, and at your birth, and when you were growing up, and before you
were born, and before the heaven and earth existed, you knew all things, if you always
know them; and I swear that you shall always continue to know all things, if I am of the
mind to make you.
But I hope that you will be of that mind, reverend Euthydemus, I said, if you are really
speaking the truth, and yet I a little doubt your power to make good your words unless
you have the help of your brother Dionysodorus; then you may do it. Tell me now, both
of you, for although in the main I cannot doubt that I really do know all things, when I
am told so by men of your prodigious wisdom—how can I say that I know such things,
Euthydemus, as that the good are unjust; come, do I know that or not?
Certainly, you know that.
What do I know?
That the good are not unjust.
Quite true, I said; and that I have always known; but the question is, where did I learn
that the good are unjust?
Nowhere, said Dionysodorus.
Then, I said, I do not know this.
You are ruining the argument, said Euthydemus to Dionysodorus; he will be proved not
to know, and then after all he will be knowing and not knowing at the same time.
Dionysodorus blushed.
I turned to the other, and said, What do you think, Euthydemus? Does not your
omniscient brother appear to you to have made a mistake?
What, replied Dionysodorus in a moment; am I the brother of Euthydemus?
Thereupon I said, Please not to interrupt, my good friend, or prevent Euthydemus from
proving to me that I know the good to be unjust; such a lesson you might at least allow
me to learn.
You are running away, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, and refusing to answer.
No wonder, I said, for I am not a match for one of you, and a fortiori I must run away
from two. I am no Heracles; and even Heracles could not fight against the Hydra, who
was a she-Sophist, and had the wit to shoot up many new heads when one of them was
cut off; especially when he saw a second monster of a sea-crab, who was also a Sophist,
and appeared to have newly arrived from a sea-voyage, bearing down upon him from
the left, opening his mouth and biting. When the monster was growing troublesome he
called Iolaus, his nephew, to his help, who ably succoured him; but if my Iolaus, who is
my brother Patrocles (the statuary), were to come, he would only make a bad business
worse.
And now that you have delivered yourself of this strain, said Dionysodorus, will you
inform me whether Iolaus was the nephew of Heracles any more than he is yours?
I suppose that I had best answer you, Dionysodorus, I said, for you will insist on asking—
that I pretty well know—out of envy, in order to prevent me from learning the wisdom
of Euthydemus.
Then answer me, he said.
Well then, I said, I can only reply that Iolaus was not my nephew at all, but the nephew
of Heracles; and his father was not my brother Patrocles, but Iphicles, who has a name
rather like his, and was the brother of Heracles.
And is Patrocles, he said, your brother?
Yes, I said, he is my half-brother, the son of my mother, but not of my father.
Then he is and is not your brother.
Not by the same father, my good man, I said, for Chaeredemus was his father, and mine
was Sophroniscus.
And was Sophroniscus a father, and Chaeredemus also?
Yes, I said; the former was my father, and the latter his.
Then, he said, Chaeredemus is not a father.
He is not my father, I said.
But can a father be other than a father? or are you the same as a stone?
I certainly do not think that I am a stone, I said, though I am afraid that you may prove
me to be one.
Are you not other than a stone?
I am.
And being other than a stone, you are not a stone; and being other than gold, you are
not gold?
Very true.
And so Chaeredemus, he said, being other than a father, is not a father?
I suppose that he is not a father, I replied.
For if, said Euthydemus, taking up the argument, Chaeredemus is a father, then
Sophroniscus, being other than a father, is not a father; and you, Socrates, are without a
father.
Ctesippus, here taking up the argument, said: And is not your father in the same case,
for he is other than my father?
Assuredly not, said Euthydemus.
Then he is the same?
He is the same.
I cannot say that I like the connection; but is he only my father, Euthydemus, or is he the
father of all other men?
Of all other men, he replied. Do you suppose the same person to be a father and not a
father?
Certainly, I did so imagine, said Ctesippus.
And do you suppose that gold is not gold, or that a man is not a man?
They are not ‘in pari materia,’ Euthydemus, said Ctesippus, and you had better take care,
for it is monstrous to suppose that your father is the father of all.
But he is, he replied.
What, of men only, said Ctesippus, or of horses and of all other animals?
Of all, he said.
And your mother, too, is the mother of all?
Yes, our mother too.
Yes; and your mother has a progeny of sea-urchins then?
Yes; and yours, he said.
And gudgeons and puppies and pigs are your brothers?
And yours too.
And your papa is a dog?
And so is yours, he said.
If you will answer my questions, said Dionysodorus, I will soon extract the same
admissions from you, Ctesippus. You say that you have a dog.
Yes, a villain of a one, said Ctesippus.
And he has puppies?
Yes, and they are very like himself.
And the dog is the father of them?
Yes, he said, I certainly saw him and the mother of the puppies come together.
And is he not yours?
To be sure he is.
Then he is a father, and he is yours; ergo, he is your father, and the puppies are your
brothers.
Let me ask you one little question more, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing, in order
that Ctesippus might not get in his word: You beat this dog?
Ctesippus said, laughing, Indeed I do; and I only wish that I could beat you instead of
him.
Then you beat your father, he said.
I should have far more reason to beat yours, said Ctesippus; what could he have been
thinking of when he begat such wise sons? much good has this father of you and your
brethren the puppies got out of this wisdom of yours.
But neither he nor you, Ctesippus, have any need of much good.
And have you no need, Euthydemus? he said.
Neither I nor any other man; for tell me now, Ctesippus, if you think it good or evil for a
man who is sick to drink medicine when he wants it; or to go to war armed rather than
unarmed.
Good, I say. And yet I know that I am going to be caught in one of your charming
puzzles.
That, he replied, you will discover, if you answer; since you admit medicine to be good
for a man to drink, when wanted, must it not be good for him to drink as much as
possible; when he takes his medicine, a cartload of hellebore will not be too much for
him?
Ctesippus said: Quite so, Euthydemus, that is to say, if he who drinks is as big as the
statue of Delphi.
And seeing that in war to have arms is a good thing, he ought to have as many spears
and shields as possible?
Very true, said Ctesippus; and do you think, Euthydemus, that he ought to have one
shield only, and one spear?
I do.
And would you arm Geryon and Briareus in that way? Considering that you and your
companion fight in armour, I thought that you would have known better...Here
Euthydemus held his peace, but Dionysodorus returned to the previous answer of
Ctesippus and said:—
Do you not think that the possession of gold is a good thing?
Yes, said Ctesippus, and the more the better.
And to have money everywhere and always is a good?
Certainly, a great good, he said.
And you admit gold to be a good?
Certainly, he replied.
And ought not a man then to have gold everywhere and always, and as much as
possible in himself, and may he not be deemed the happiest of men who has three
talents of gold in his belly, and a talent in his pate, and a stater of gold in either eye?
Yes, Euthydemus, said Ctesippus; and the Scythians reckon those who have gold in their
own skulls to be the happiest and bravest of men (that is only another instance of your
manner of speaking about the dog and father), and what is still more extraordinary, they
drink out of their own skulls gilt, and see the inside of them, and hold their own head in
their hands.
And do the Scythians and others see that which has the quality of vision, or that which
has not? said Euthydemus.
That which has the quality of vision clearly.
And you also see that which has the quality of vision? he said. (Note: the ambiguity of
(Greek), ‘things visible and able to see,’ (Greek), ‘the speaking of the silent,’ the silent
denoting either the speaker or the subject of the speech, cannot be perfectly rendered
in English. Compare Aristot. Soph. Elenchi (Poste’s translation):—
‘Of ambiguous propositions the following are instances:—
‘I hope that you the enemy may slay.
‘Whom one knows, he knows. Either the person knowing or the person known is here
affirmed to know.
‘What one sees, that one sees: one sees a pillar: ergo, that one pillar sees.
‘What you ARE holding, that you are: you are holding a stone: ergo, a stone you are.
‘Is a speaking of the silent possible? “The silent” denotes either the speaker are the
subject of speech.
‘There are three kinds of ambiguity of term or proposition. The first is when there is an
equal linguistic propriety in several interpretations; the second when one is improper
but customary; the third when the ambiguity arises in the combination of elements that
are in themselves unambiguous, as in “knowing letters.” “Knowing” and “letters” are
perhaps separately unambiguous, but in combination may imply either that the letters
are known, or that they themselves have knowledge. Such are the modes in which
propositions and terms may be ambiguous.’
Yes, I do.
Then do you see our garments?
Yes.
Then our garments have the quality of vision.
They can see to any extent, said Ctesippus.
What can they see?
Nothing; but you, my sweet man, may perhaps imagine that they do not see; and
certainly, Euthydemus, you do seem to me to have been caught napping when you were
not asleep, and that if it be possible to speak and say nothing—you are doing so.
And may there not be a silence of the speaker? said Dionysodorus.
Impossible, said Ctesippus.
Or a speaking of the silent?
That is still more impossible, he said.
But when you speak of stones, wood, iron bars, do you not speak of the silent?
Not when I pass a smithy; for then the iron bars make a tremendous noise and outcry if
they are touched: so that here your wisdom is strangely mistaken; please, however, to
tell me how you can be silent when speaking (I thought that Ctesippus was put upon his
mettle because Cleinias was present).
When you are silent, said Euthydemus, is there not a silence of all things?
Yes, he said.
But if speaking things are included in all things, then the speaking are silent.
What, said Ctesippus; then all things are not silent?
Certainly not, said Euthydemus.
Then, my good friend, do they all speak?
Yes; those which speak.
Nay, said Ctesippus, but the question which I ask is whether all things are silent or
speak?
Neither and both, said Dionysodorus, quickly interposing; I am sure that you will be
‘non-plussed’ at that answer.
Here Ctesippus, as his manner was, burst into a roar of laughter; he said, That brother of
yours, Euthydemus, has got into a dilemma; all is over with him. This delighted Cleinias,
whose laughter made Ctesippus ten times as uproarious; but I cannot help thinking that
the rogue must have picked up this answer from them; for there has been no wisdom
like theirs in our time. Why do you laugh, Cleinias, I said, at such solemn and beautiful
things?
Why, Socrates, said Dionysodorus, did you ever see a beautiful thing?
Yes, Dionysodorus, I replied, I have seen many.
Were they other than the beautiful, or the same as the beautiful?
Now I was in a great quandary at having to answer this question, and I thought that I
was rightly served for having opened my mouth at all: I said however, They are not the
same as absolute beauty, but they have beauty present with each of them.
And are you an ox because an ox is present with you, or are you Dionysodorus, because
Dionysodorus is present with you?
God forbid, I replied.
But how, he said, by reason of one thing being present with another, will one thing be
another?
Is that your difficulty? I said. For I was beginning to imitate their skill, on which my heart
was set.
Of course, he replied, I and all the world are in a difficulty about the non-existent.
What do you mean, Dionysodorus? I said. Is not the honourable honourable and the
base base?
That, he said, is as I please.
And do you please?
Yes, he said.
And you will admit that the same is the same, and the other other; for surely the other is
not the same; I should imagine that even a child will hardly deny the other to be other.
But I think, Dionysodorus, that you must have intentionally missed the last question; for
in general you and your brother seem to me to be good workmen in your own
department, and to do the dialectician’s business excellently well.
What, said he, is the business of a good workman? tell me, in the first place, whose
business is hammering?
The smith’s.
And whose the making of pots?
The potter’s.
And who has to kill and skin and mince and boil and roast?
The cook, I said.
And if a man does his business he does rightly?
Certainly.
And the business of the cook is to cut up and skin; you have admitted that?
Yes, I have admitted that, but you must not be too hard upon me.
Then if some one were to kill, mince, boil, roast the cook, he would do his business, and
if he were to hammer the smith, and make a pot of the potter, he would do their
business.
Poseidon, I said, this is the crown of wisdom; can I ever hope to have such wisdom of my
own?
And would you be able, Socrates, to recognize this wisdom when it has become your
own?
Certainly, I said, if you will allow me.
What, he said, do you think that you know what is your own?
Yes, I do, subject to your correction; for you are the bottom, and Euthydemus is the top,
of all my wisdom.
Is not that which you would deem your own, he said, that which you have in your own
power, and which you are able to use as you would desire, for example, an ox or a
sheep—would you not think that which you could sell and give and sacrifice to any god
whom you pleased, to be your own, and that which you could not give or sell or sacrifice
you would think not to be in your own power?
Yes, I said (for I was certain that something good would come out of the questions,
which I was impatient to hear); yes, such things, and such things only are mine.
Yes, he said, and you would mean by animals living beings?
Yes, I said.
You agree then, that those animals only are yours with which you have the power to do
all these things which I was just naming?
I agree.
Then, after a pause, in which he seemed to be lost in the contemplation of something
great, he said: Tell me, Socrates, have you an ancestral Zeus? Here, anticipating the final
move, like a person caught in a net, who gives a desperate twist that he may get away, I
said: No, Dionysodorus, I have not.
What a miserable man you must be then, he said; you are not an Athenian at all if you
have no ancestral gods or temples, or any other mark of gentility.
Nay, Dionysodorus, I said, do not be rough; good words, if you please; in the way of
religion I have altars and temples, domestic and ancestral, and all that other Athenians
have.
And have not other Athenians, he said, an ancestral Zeus?
That name, I said, is not to be found among the Ionians, whether colonists or citizens of
Athens; an ancestral Apollo there is, who is the father of Ion, and a family Zeus, and a
Zeus guardian of the phratry, and an Athene guardian of the phratry. But the name of
ancestral Zeus is unknown to us.
No matter, said Dionysodorus, for you admit that you have Apollo, Zeus, and Athene.
Certainly, I said.
And they are your gods, he said.
Yes, I said, my lords and ancestors.
At any rate they are yours, he said, did you not admit that?
I did, I said; what is going to happen to me?
And are not these gods animals? for you admit that all things which have life are
animals; and have not these gods life?
They have life, I said.
Then are they not animals?
They are animals, I said.
And you admitted that of animals those are yours which you could give away or sell or
offer in sacrifice, as you pleased?
I did admit that, Euthydemus, and I have no way of escape.
Well then, said he, if you admit that Zeus and the other gods are yours, can you sell
them or give them away or do what you will with them, as you would with other
animals?
At this I was quite struck dumb, Crito, and lay prostrate. Ctesippus came to the rescue.
Bravo, Heracles, brave words, said he.
Bravo Heracles, or is Heracles a Bravo? said Dionysodorus.
Poseidon, said Ctesippus, what awful distinctions. I will have no more of them; the pair
are invincible.
Then, my dear Crito, there was universal applause of the speakers and their words, and
what with laughing and clapping of hands and rejoicings the two men were quite
overpowered; for hitherto their partisans only had cheered at each successive hit, but
now the whole company shouted with delight until the columns of the Lyceum returned
the sound, seeming to sympathize in their joy. To such a pitch was I affected myself, that
I made a speech, in which I acknowledged that I had never seen the like of their wisdom;
I was their devoted servant, and fell to praising and admiring of them. What marvellous
dexterity of wit, I said, enabled you to acquire this great perfection in such a short time?
There is much, indeed, to admire in your words, Euthydemus and Dionysodorus, but
there is nothing that I admire more than your magnanimous disregard of any opinion—
whether of the many, or of the grave and reverend seigniors—you regard only those
who are like yourselves. And I do verily believe that there are few who are like you, and
who would approve of such arguments; the majority of mankind are so ignorant of their
value, that they would be more ashamed of employing them in the refutation of others
than of being refuted by them. I must further express my approval of your kind and
public-spirited denial of all differences, whether of good and evil, white or black, or any
other; the result of which is that, as you say, every mouth is sewn up, not excepting your
own, which graciously follows the example of others; and thus all ground of offence is
taken away. But what appears to me to be more than all is, that this art and invention of
yours has been so admirably contrived by you, that in a very short time it can be
imparted to any one. I observed that Ctesippus learned to imitate you in no time. Now
this quickness of attainment is an excellent thing; but at the same time I would advise
you not to have any more public entertainments; there is a danger that men may
undervalue an art which they have so easy an opportunity of acquiring; the exhibition
would be best of all, if the discussion were confined to your two selves; but if there must
be an audience, let him only be present who is willing to pay a handsome fee;—you
should be careful of this;—and if you are wise, you will also bid your disciples discourse
with no man but you and themselves. For only what is rare is valuable; and ‘water,’
which, as Pindar says, is the ‘best of all things,’ is also the cheapest. And now I have only
to request that you will receive Cleinias and me among your pupils.
Such was the discussion, Crito; and after a few more words had passed between us we
went away. I hope that you will come to them with me, since they say that they are able
to teach any one who will give them money; no age or want of capacity is an
impediment. And I must repeat one thing which they said, for your especial benefit,—
that the learning of their art did not at all interfere with the business of money-making.
CRITO: Truly, Socrates, though I am curious and ready to learn, yet I fear that I am not
like-minded with Euthydemus, but one of the other sort, who, as you were saying, would
rather be refuted by such arguments than use them in refutation of others. And though I
may appear ridiculous in venturing to advise you, I think that you may as well hear what
was said to me by a man of very considerable pretensions—he was a professor of legal
oratory— who came away from you while I was walking up and down. ‘Crito,’ said he to
me, ‘are you giving no attention to these wise men?’ ‘No, indeed,’ I said to him; ‘I could
not get within hearing of them—there was such a crowd.’ ‘You would have heard
something worth hearing if you had.’ ‘What was that?’ I said. ‘You would have heard the
greatest masters of the art of rhetoric discoursing.’ ‘And what did you think of them?’ I
said. ‘What did I think of them?’ he said:—‘theirs was the sort of discourse which
anybody might hear from men who were playing the fool, and making much ado about
nothing.’ That was the expression which he used. ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘philosophy is a
charming thing.’ ‘Charming!’ he said; ‘what simplicity! philosophy is nought; and I think
that if you had been present you would have been ashamed of your friend—his conduct
was so very strange in placing himself at the mercy of men who care not what they say,
and fasten upon every word. And these, as I was telling you, are supposed to be the
most eminent professors of their time. But the truth is, Crito, that the study itself and the
men themselves are utterly mean and ridiculous.’ Now censure of the pursuit, Socrates,
whether coming from him or from others, appears to me to be undeserved; but as to
the impropriety of holding a public discussion with such men, there, I confess that, in my
opinion, he was in the right.
SOCRATES: O Crito, they are marvellous men; but what was I going to say? First of all let
me know;—What manner of man was he who came up to you and censured philosophy;
was he an orator who himself practises in the courts, or an instructor of orators, who
makes the speeches with which they do battle?
CRITO: He was certainly not an orator, and I doubt whether he had ever been into court;
but they say that he knows the business, and is a clever man, and composes wonderful
speeches.
SOCRATES: Now I understand, Crito; he is one of an amphibious class, whom I was on
the point of mentioning—one of those whom Prodicus describes as on the borderground
between philosophers and statesmen—they think that they are the wisest of all
men, and that they are generally esteemed the wisest; nothing but the rivalry of the
philosophers stands in their way; and they are of the opinion that if they can prove the
philosophers to be good for nothing, no one will dispute their title to the palm of
wisdom, for that they are themselves really the wisest, although they are apt to be
mauled by Euthydemus and his friends, when they get hold of them in conversation.
This opinion which they entertain of their own wisdom is very natural; for they have a
certain amount of philosophy, and a certain amount of political wisdom; there is reason
in what they say, for they argue that they have just enough of both, and so they keep
out of the way of all risks and conflicts and reap the fruits of their wisdom.
CRITO: What do you say of them, Socrates? There is certainly something specious in that
notion of theirs.
SOCRATES: Yes, Crito, there is more speciousness than truth; they cannot be made to
understand the nature of intermediates. For all persons or things, which are
intermediate between two other things, and participate in both of them—if one of these
two things is good and the other evil, are better than the one and worse than the other;
but if they are in a mean between two good things which do not tend to the same end,
they fall short of either of their component elements in the attainment of their ends.
Only in the case when the two component elements which do not tend to the same end
are evil is the participant better than either. Now, if philosophy and political action are
both good, but tend to different ends, and they participate in both, and are in a mean
between them, then they are talking nonsense, for they are worse than either; or, if the
one be good and the other evil, they are better than the one and worse than the other;
only on the supposition that they are both evil could there be any truth in what they say.
I do not think that they will admit that their two pursuits are either wholly or partly evil;
but the truth is, that these philosopher- politicians who aim at both fall short of both in
the attainment of their respective ends, and are really third, although they would like to
stand first. There is no need, however, to be angry at this ambition of theirs— which
may be forgiven; for every man ought to be loved who says and manfully pursues and
works out anything which is at all like wisdom: at the same time we shall do well to see
them as they really are.
CRITO: I have often told you, Socrates, that I am in a constant difficulty about my two
sons. What am I to do with them? There is no hurry about the younger one, who is only
a child; but the other, Critobulus, is getting on, and needs some one who will improve
him. I cannot help thinking, when I hear you talk, that there is a sort of madness in many
of our anxieties about our children:—in the first place, about marrying a wife of good
family to be the mother of them, and then about heaping up money for them— and yet
taking no care about their education. But then again, when I contemplate any of those
who pretend to educate others, I am amazed. To me, if I am to confess the truth, they all
seem to be such outrageous beings: so that I do not know how I can advise the youth to
study philosophy.
SOCRATES: Dear Crito, do you not know that in every profession the inferior sort are
numerous and good for nothing, and the good are few and beyond all price: for
example, are not gymnastic and rhetoric and money- making and the art of the general,
noble arts?
CRITO: Certainly they are, in my judgment.
SOCRATES: Well, and do you not see that in each of these arts the many are ridiculous
performers?
CRITO: Yes, indeed, that is very true.
SOCRATES: And will you on this account shun all these pursuits yourself and refuse to
allow them to your son?
CRITO: That would not be reasonable, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Do you then be reasonable, Crito, and do not mind whether the teachers of
philosophy are good or bad, but think only of philosophy herself. Try and examine her
well and truly, and if she be evil seek to turn away all men from her, and not your sons
only; but if she be what I believe that she is, then follow her and serve her, you and your
house, as the saying is, and be of good cheer.
THE END
CRATYLUS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT
INTRODUCTION.
The Cratylus has always been a source of perplexity to the student of Plato. While in
fancy and humour, and perfection of style and metaphysical originality, this dialogue
may be ranked with the best of the Platonic writings, there has been an uncertainty
about the motive of the piece, which interpreters have hitherto not succeeded in
dispelling. We need not suppose that Plato used words in order to conceal his thoughts,
or that he would have been unintelligible to an educated contemporary. In the Phaedrus
and Euthydemus we also find a difficulty in determining the precise aim of the author.
Plato wrote satires in the form of dialogues, and his meaning, like that of other satirical
writers, has often slept in the ear of posterity. Two causes may be assigned for this
obscurity: 1st, the subtlety and allusiveness of this species of composition; 2nd, the
difficulty of reproducing a state of life and literature which has passed away. A satire is
unmeaning unless we can place ourselves back among the persons and thoughts of the
age in which it was written. Had the treatise of Antisthenes upon words, or the
speculations of Cratylus, or some other Heracleitean of the fourth century B.C., on the
nature of language been preserved to us; or if we had lived at the time, and been ‘rich
enough to attend the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus,’ we should have understood
Plato better, and many points which are now attributed to the extravagance of Socrates’
humour would have been found, like the allusions of Aristophanes in the Clouds, to
have gone home to the sophists and grammarians of the day.
For the age was very busy with philological speculation; and many questions were
beginning to be asked about language which were parallel to other questions about
justice, virtue, knowledge, and were illustrated in a similar manner by the analogy of the
arts. Was there a correctness in words, and were they given by nature or convention? In
the presocratic philosophy mankind had been striving to attain an expression of their
ideas, and now they were beginning to ask themselves whether the expression might
not be distinguished from the idea? They were also seeking to distinguish the parts of
speech and to enquire into the relation of subject and predicate. Grammar and logic
were moving about somewhere in the depths of the human soul, but they were not yet
awakened into consciousness and had not found names for themselves, or terms by
which they might be expressed. Of these beginnings of the study of language we know
little, and there necessarily arises an obscurity when the surroundings of such a work as
the Cratylus are taken away. Moreover, in this, as in most of the dialogues of Plato,
allowance has to be made for the character of Socrates. For the theory of language can
only be propounded by him in a manner which is consistent with his own profession of
ignorance. Hence his ridicule of the new school of etymology is interspersed with many
declarations ‘that he knows nothing,’ ‘that he has learned from Euthyphro,’ and the like.
Even the truest things which he says are depreciated by himself. He professes to be
guessing, but the guesses of Plato are better than all the other theories of the ancients
respecting language put together.
The dialogue hardly derives any light from Plato’s other writings, and still less from
Scholiasts and Neoplatonist writers. Socrates must be interpreted from himself, and on
first reading we certainly have a difficulty in understanding his drift, or his relation to the
two other interlocutors in the dialogue. Does he agree with Cratylus or with
Hermogenes, and is he serious in those fanciful etymologies, extending over more than
half the dialogue, which he seems so greatly to relish? Or is he serious in part only; and
can we separate his jest from his earnest?—Sunt bona, sunt quaedum mediocria, sunt
mala plura. Most of them are ridiculously bad, and yet among them are found, as if by
accident, principles of philology which are unsurpassed in any ancient writer, and even
in advance of any philologer of the last century. May we suppose that Plato, like Lucian,
has been amusing his fancy by writing a comedy in the form of a prose dialogue? And
what is the final result of the enquiry? Is Plato an upholder of the conventional theory of
language, which he acknowledges to be imperfect? or does he mean to imply that a
perfect language can only be based on his own theory of ideas? Or if this latter
explanation is refuted by his silence, then in what relation does his account of language
stand to the rest of his philosophy? Or may we be so bold as to deny the connexion
between them? (For the allusion to the ideas at the end of the dialogue is merely
intended to show that we must not put words in the place of things or realities, which is
a thesis strongly insisted on by Plato in many other passages)...These are some of the
first thoughts which arise in the mind of the reader of the Cratylus. And the
consideration of them may form a convenient introduction to the general subject of the
dialogue.
We must not expect all the parts of a dialogue of Plato to tend equally to some clearlydefined
end. His idea of literary art is not the absolute proportion of the whole, such as
we appear to find in a Greek temple or statue; nor should his works be tried by any such
standard. They have often the beauty of poetry, but they have also the freedom of
conversation. ‘Words are more plastic than wax’ (Rep.), and may be moulded into any
form. He wanders on from one topic to another, careless of the unity of his work, not
fearing any ‘judge, or spectator, who may recall him to the point’ (Theat.), ‘whither the
argument blows we follow’ (Rep.). To have determined beforehand, as in a modern
didactic treatise, the nature and limits of the subject, would have been fatal to the spirit
of enquiry or discovery, which is the soul of the dialogue...These remarks are applicable
to nearly all the works of Plato, but to the Cratylus and Phaedrus more than any others.
See Phaedrus, Introduction.
There is another aspect under which some of the dialogues of Plato may be more truly
viewed:—they are dramatic sketches of an argument. We have found that in the Lysis,
Charmides, Laches, Protagoras, Meno, we arrived at no conclusion—the different sides
of the argument were personified in the different speakers; but the victory was not
distinctly attributed to any of them, nor the truth wholly the property of any. And in the
Cratylus we have no reason to assume that Socrates is either wholly right or wholly
wrong, or that Plato, though he evidently inclines to him, had any other aim than that of
personifying, in the characters of Hermogenes, Socrates, and Cratylus, the three theories
of language which are respectively maintained by them.
The two subordinate persons of the dialogue, Hermogenes and Cratylus, are at the
opposite poles of the argument. But after a while the disciple of the Sophist and the
follower of Heracleitus are found to be not so far removed from one another as at first
sight appeared; and both show an inclination to accept the third view which Socrates
interposes between them. First, Hermogenes, the poor brother of the rich Callias,
expounds the doctrine that names are conventional; like the names of slaves, they may
be given and altered at pleasure. This is one of those principles which, whether applied
to society or language, explains everything and nothing. For in all things there is an
element of convention; but the admission of this does not help us to understand the
rational ground or basis in human nature on which the convention proceeds. Socrates
first of all intimates to Hermogenes that his view of language is only a part of a
sophistical whole, and ultimately tends to abolish the distinction between truth and
falsehood. Hermogenes is very ready to throw aside the sophistical tenet, and listens
with a sort of half admiration, half belief, to the speculations of Socrates.
Cratylus is of opinion that a name is either a true name or not a name at all. He is unable
to conceive of degrees of imitation; a word is either the perfect expression of a thing, or
a mere inarticulate sound (a fallacy which is still prevalent among theorizers about the
origin of language). He is at once a philosopher and a sophist; for while wanting to rest
language on an immutable basis, he would deny the possibility of falsehood. He is
inclined to derive all truth from language, and in language he sees reflected the
philosophy of Heracleitus. His views are not like those of Hermogenes, hastily taken up,
but are said to be the result of mature consideration, although he is described as still a
young man. With a tenacity characteristic of the Heracleitean philosophers, he clings to
the doctrine of the flux. (Compare Theaet.) Of the real Cratylus we know nothing, except
that he is recorded by Aristotle to have been the friend or teacher of Plato; nor have we
any proof that he resembled the likeness of him in Plato any more than the Critias of
Plato is like the real Critias, or the Euthyphro in this dialogue like the other Euthyphro,
the diviner, in the dialogue which is called after him.
Between these two extremes, which have both of them a sophistical character, the view
of Socrates is introduced, which is in a manner the union of the two. Language is
conventional and also natural, and the true conventional-natural is the rational. It is a
work not of chance, but of art; the dialectician is the artificer of words, and the legislator
gives authority to them. They are the expressions or imitations in sound of things. In a
sense, Cratylus is right in saying that things have by nature names; for nature is not
opposed either to art or to law. But vocal imitation, like any other copy, may be
imperfectly executed; and in this way an element of chance or convention enters in.
There is much which is accidental or exceptional in language. Some words have had
their original meaning so obscured, that they require to be helped out by convention.
But still the true name is that which has a natural meaning. Thus nature, art, chance, all
combine in the formation of language. And the three views respectively propounded by
Hermogenes, Socrates, Cratylus, may be described as the conventional, the artificial or
rational, and the natural. The view of Socrates is the meeting-point of the other two, just
as conceptualism is the meeting-point of nominalism and realism.
We can hardly say that Plato was aware of the truth, that ‘languages are not made, but
grow.’ But still, when he says that ‘the legislator made language with the dialectician
standing on his right hand,’ we need not infer from this that he conceived words, like
coins, to be issued from the mint of the State. The creator of laws and of social life is
naturally regarded as the creator of language, according to Hellenic notions, and the
philosopher is his natural advisor. We are not to suppose that the legislator is
performing any extraordinary function; he is merely the Eponymus of the State, who
prescribes rules for the dialectician and for all other artists. According to a truly Platonic
mode of approaching the subject, language, like virtue in the Republic, is examined by
the analogy of the arts. Words are works of art which may be equally made in different
materials, and are well made when they have a meaning. Of the process which he thus
describes, Plato had probably no very definite notion. But he means to express generally
that language is the product of intelligence, and that languages belong to States and
not to individuals.
A better conception of language could not have been formed in Plato’s age, than that
which he attributes to Socrates. Yet many persons have thought that the mind of Plato is
more truly seen in the vague realism of Cratylus. This misconception has probably arisen
from two causes: first, the desire to bring Plato’s theory of language into accordance
with the received doctrine of the Platonic ideas; secondly, the impression created by
Socrates himself, that he is not in earnest, and is only indulging the fancy of the hour.
1. We shall have occasion to show more at length, in the Introduction to future
dialogues, that the so-called Platonic ideas are only a semi- mythical form, in which he
attempts to realize abstractions, and that they are replaced in his later writings by a
rational theory of psychology. (See introductions to the Meno and the Sophist.) And in
the Cratylus he gives a general account of the nature and origin of language, in which
Adam Smith, Rousseau, and other writers of the last century, would have substantially
agreed. At the end of the dialogue, he speaks as in the Symposium and Republic of
absolute beauty and good; but he never supposed that they were capable of being
embodied in words. Of the names of the ideas, he would have said, as he says of the
names of the Gods, that we know nothing. Even the realism of Cratylus is not based
upon the ideas of Plato, but upon the flux of Heracleitus. Here, as in the Sophist and
Politicus, Plato expressly draws attention to the want of agreement in words and things.
Hence we are led to infer, that the view of Socrates is not the less Plato’s own, because
not based upon the ideas; 2nd, that Plato’s theory of language is not inconsistent with
the rest of his philosophy.
2. We do not deny that Socrates is partly in jest and partly in earnest. He is discoursing
in a high-flown vein, which may be compared to the ‘dithyrambics of the Phaedrus.’
They are mysteries of which he is speaking, and he professes a kind of ludicrous fear of
his imaginary wisdom. When he is arguing out of Homer, about the names of Hector’s
son, or when he describes himself as inspired or maddened by Euthyphro, with whom he
has been sitting from the early dawn (compare Phaedrus and Lysias; Phaedr.) and
expresses his intention of yielding to the illusion to-day, and to-morrow he will go to a
priest and be purified, we easily see that his words are not to be taken seriously. In this
part of the dialogue his dread of committing impiety, the pretended derivation of his
wisdom from another, the extravagance of some of his etymologies, and, in general, the
manner in which the fun, fast and furious, vires acquirit eundo, remind us strongly of the
Phaedrus. The jest is a long one, extending over more than half the dialogue. But then,
we remember that the Euthydemus is a still longer jest, in which the irony is preserved
to the very end. There he is parodying the ingenious follies of early logic; in the Cratylus
he is ridiculing the fancies of a new school of sophists and grammarians. The fallacies of
the Euthydemus are still retained at the end of our logic books; and the etymologies of
the Cratylus have also found their way into later writers. Some of these are not much
worse than the conjectures of Hemsterhuis, and other critics of the last century; but this
does not prove that they are serious. For Plato is in advance of his age in his conception
of language, as much as he is in his conception of mythology. (Compare Phaedrus.)
When the fervour of his etymological enthusiasm has abated, Socrates ends, as he has
begun, with a rational explanation of language. Still he preserves his ‘know nothing’
disguise, and himself declares his first notions about names to be reckless and
ridiculous. Having explained compound words by resolving them into their original
elements, he now proceeds to analyse simple words into the letters of which they are
composed. The Socrates who ‘knows nothing,’ here passes into the teacher, the
dialectician, the arranger of species. There is nothing in this part of the dialogue which is
either weak or extravagant. Plato is a supporter of the Onomatopoetic theory of
language; that is to say, he supposes words to be formed by the imitation of ideas in
sounds; he also recognises the effect of time, the influence of foreign languages, the
desire of euphony, to be formative principles; and he admits a certain element of
chance. But he gives no imitation in all this that he is preparing the way for the
construction of an ideal language. Or that he has any Eleatic speculation to oppose to
the Heracleiteanism of Cratylus.
The theory of language which is propounded in the Cratylus is in accordance with the
later phase of the philosophy of Plato, and would have been regarded by him as in the
main true. The dialogue is also a satire on the philological fancies of the day. Socrates in
pursuit of his vocation as a detector of false knowledge, lights by accident on the truth.
He is guessing, he is dreaming; he has heard, as he says in the Phaedrus, from another:
no one is more surprised than himself at his own discoveries. And yet some of his best
remarks, as for example his view of the derivation of Greek words from other languages,
or of the permutations of letters, or again, his observation that in speaking of the Gods
we are only speaking of our names of them, occur among these flights of humour.
We can imagine a character having a profound insight into the nature of men and
things, and yet hardly dwelling upon them seriously; blending inextricably sense and
nonsense; sometimes enveloping in a blaze of jests the most serious matters, and then
again allowing the truth to peer through; enjoying the flow of his own humour, and
puzzling mankind by an ironical exaggeration of their absurdities. Such were
Aristophanes and Rabelais; such, in a different style, were Sterne, Jean Paul, Hamann,—
writers who sometimes become unintelligible through the extravagance of their fancies.
Such is the character which Plato intends to depict in some of his dialogues as the
Silenus Socrates; and through this medium we have to receive our theory of language.
There remains a difficulty which seems to demand a more exact answer: In what relation
does the satirical or etymological portion of the dialogue stand to the serious? Granting
all that can be said about the provoking irony of Socrates, about the parody of
Euthyphro, or Prodicus, or Antisthenes, how does the long catalogue of etymologies
furnish any answer to the question of Hermogenes, which is evidently the main thesis of
the dialogue: What is the truth, or correctness, or principle of names?
After illustrating the nature of correctness by the analogy of the arts, and then, as in the
Republic, ironically appealing to the authority of the Homeric poems, Socrates shows
that the truth or correctness of names can only be ascertained by an appeal to
etymology. The truth of names is to be found in the analysis of their elements. But why
does he admit etymologies which are absurd, based on Heracleitean fancies, fourfold
interpretations of words, impossible unions and separations of syllables and letters?
1. The answer to this difficulty has been already anticipated in part: Socrates is not a
dogmatic teacher, and therefore he puts on this wild and fanciful disguise, in order that
the truth may be permitted to appear: 2. as Benfey remarks, an erroneous example may
illustrate a principle of language as well as a true one: 3. many of these etymologies, as,
for example, that of dikaion, are indicated, by the manner in which Socrates speaks of
them, to have been current in his own age: 4. the philosophy of language had not made
such progress as would have justified Plato in propounding real derivations. Like his
master Socrates, he saw through the hollowness of the incipient sciences of the day, and
tries to move in a circle apart from them, laying down the conditions under which they
are to be pursued, but, as in the Timaeus, cautious and tentative, when he is speaking of
actual phenomena. To have made etymologies seriously, would have seemed to him like
the interpretation of the myths in the Phaedrus, the task ‘of a not very fortunate
individual, who had a great deal of time on his hands.’ The irony of Socrates places him
above and beyond the errors of his contemporaries.
The Cratylus is full of humour and satirical touches: the inspiration which comes from
Euthyphro, and his prancing steeds, the light admixture of quotations from Homer, and
the spurious dialectic which is applied to them; the jest about the fifty-drachma course
of Prodicus, which is declared on the best authority, viz. his own, to be a complete
education in grammar and rhetoric; the double explanation of the name Hermogenes,
either as ‘not being in luck,’ or ‘being no speaker;’ the dearly-bought wisdom of Callias,
the Lacedaemonian whose name was ‘Rush,’ and, above all, the pleasure which Socrates
expresses in his own dangerous discoveries, which ‘to-morrow he will purge away,’ are
truly humorous. While delivering a lecture on the philosophy of language, Socrates is
also satirizing the endless fertility of the human mind in spinning arguments out of
nothing, and employing the most trifling and fanciful analogies in support of a theory.
Etymology in ancient as in modern times was a favourite recreation; and Socrates makes
merry at the expense of the etymologists. The simplicity of Hermogenes, who is ready to
believe anything that he is told, heightens the effect. Socrates in his genial and ironical
mood hits right and left at his adversaries: Ouranos is so called apo tou oran ta ano,
which, as some philosophers say, is the way to have a pure mind; the sophists are by a
fanciful explanation converted into heroes; ‘the givers of names were like some
philosophers who fancy that the earth goes round because their heads are always going
round.’ There is a great deal of ‘mischief’ lurking in the following: ‘I found myself in
greater perplexity about justice than I was before I began to learn;’ ‘The rho in katoptron
must be the addition of some one who cares nothing about truth, but thinks only of
putting the mouth into shape;’ ‘Tales and falsehoods have generally to do with the
Tragic and goatish life, and tragedy is the place of them.’ Several philosophers and
sophists are mentioned by name: first, Protagoras and Euthydemus are assailed; then
the interpreters of Homer, oi palaioi Omerikoi (compare Arist. Met.) and the Orphic
poets are alluded to by the way; then he discovers a hive of wisdom in the philosophy of
Heracleitus;— the doctrine of the flux is contained in the word ousia (= osia the pushing
principle), an anticipation of Anaxagoras is found in psuche and selene. Again, he
ridicules the arbitrary methods of pulling out and putting in letters which were in vogue
among the philologers of his time; or slightly scoffs at contemporary religious beliefs.
Lastly, he is impatient of hearing from the half-converted Cratylus the doctrine that
falsehood can neither be spoken, nor uttered, nor addressed; a piece of sophistry
attributed to Gorgias, which reappears in the Sophist. And he proceeds to demolish,
with no less delight than he had set up, the Heracleitean theory of language.
In the latter part of the dialogue Socrates becomes more serious, though he does not
lay aside but rather aggravates his banter of the Heracleiteans, whom here, as in the
Theaetetus, he delights to ridicule. What was the origin of this enmity we can hardly
determine:—was it due to the natural dislike which may be supposed to exist between
the ‘patrons of the flux’ and the ‘friends of the ideas’ (Soph.)? or is it to be attributed to
the indignation which Plato felt at having wasted his time upon ‘Cratylus and the
doctrines of Heracleitus’ in the days of his youth? Socrates, touching on some of the
characteristic difficulties of early Greek philosophy, endeavours to show Cratylus that
imitation may be partial or imperfect, that a knowledge of things is higher than a
knowledge of names, and that there can be no knowledge if all things are in a state of
transition. But Cratylus, who does not easily apprehend the argument from common
sense, remains unconvinced, and on the whole inclines to his former opinion. Some
profound philosophical remarks are scattered up and down, admitting of an application
not only to language but to knowledge generally; such as the assertion that ‘consistency
is no test of truth:’ or again, ‘If we are over-precise about words, truth will say “too late”
to us as to the belated traveller in Aegina.’
The place of the dialogue in the series cannot be determined with certainty. The style
and subject, and the treatment of the character of Socrates, have a close resemblance to
the earlier dialogues, especially to the Phaedrus and Euthydemus. The manner in which
the ideas are spoken of at the end of the dialogue, also indicates a comparatively early
date. The imaginative element is still in full vigour; the Socrates of the Cratylus is the
Socrates of the Apology and Symposium, not yet Platonized; and he describes, as in the
Theaetetus, the philosophy of Heracleitus by ‘unsavoury’ similes—he cannot believe that
the world is like ‘a leaky vessel,’ or ‘a man who has a running at the nose’; he attributes
the flux of the world to the swimming in some folks’ heads. On the other hand, the
relation of thought to language is omitted here, but is treated of in the Sophist. These
grounds are not sufficient to enable us to arrive at a precise conclusion. But we shall not
be far wrong in placing the Cratylus about the middle, or at any rate in the first half, of
the series.
Cratylus, the Heracleitean philosopher, and Hermogenes, the brother of Callias, have
been arguing about names; the former maintaining that they are natural, the latter that
they are conventional. Cratylus affirms that his own is a true name, but will not allow
that the name of Hermogenes is equally true. Hermogenes asks Socrates to explain to
him what Cratylus means; or, far rather, he would like to know, What Socrates himself
thinks about the truth or correctness of names? Socrates replies, that hard is knowledge,
and the nature of names is a considerable part of knowledge: he has never been to hear
the fifty-drachma course of Prodicus; and having only attended the single-drachma
course, he is not competent to give an opinion on such matters. When Cratylus denies
that Hermogenes is a true name, he supposes him to mean that he is not a true son of
Hermes, because he is never in luck. But he would like to have an open council and to
hear both sides.
Hermogenes is of opinion that there is no principle in names; they may be changed, as
we change the names of slaves, whenever we please, and the altered name is as good as
the original one.
You mean to say, for instance, rejoins Socrates, that if I agree to call a man a horse, then
a man will be rightly called a horse by me, and a man by the rest of the world? But,
surely, there is in words a true and a false, as there are true and false propositions. If a
whole proposition be true or false, then the parts of a proposition may be true or false,
and the least parts as well as the greatest; and the least parts are names, and therefore
names may be true or false. Would Hermogenes maintain that anybody may give a
name to anything, and as many names as he pleases; and would all these names be
always true at the time of giving them? Hermogenes replies that this is the only way in
which he can conceive that names are correct; and he appeals to the practice of
different nations, and of the different Hellenic tribes, in confirmation of his view.
Socrates asks, whether the things differ as the words which represent them differ:— Are
we to maintain with Protagoras, that what appears is? Hermogenes has always been
puzzled about this, but acknowledges, when he is pressed by Socrates, that there are a
few very good men in the world, and a great many very bad; and the very good are the
wise, and the very bad are the foolish; and this is not mere appearance but reality. Nor is
he disposed to say with Euthydemus, that all things equally and always belong to all
men; in that case, again, there would be no distinction between bad and good men. But
then, the only remaining possibility is, that all things have their several distinct natures,
and are independent of our notions about them. And not only things, but actions, have
distinct natures, and are done by different processes. There is a natural way of cutting or
burning, and a natural instrument with which men cut or burn, and any other way will
fail;—this is true of all actions. And speaking is a kind of action, and naming is a kind of
speaking, and we must name according to a natural process, and with a proper
instrument. We cut with a knife, we pierce with an awl, we weave with a shuttle, we
name with a name. And as a shuttle separates the warp from the woof, so a name
distinguishes the natures of things. The weaver will use the shuttle well,—that is, like a
weaver; and the teacher will use the name well,—that is, like a teacher. The shuttle will
be made by the carpenter; the awl by the smith or skilled person. But who makes a
name? Does not the law give names, and does not the teacher receive them from the
legislator? He is the skilled person who makes them, and of all skilled workmen he is the
rarest. But how does the carpenter make or repair the shuttle, and to what will he look?
Will he not look at the ideal which he has in his mind? And as the different kinds of work
differ, so ought the instruments which make them to differ. The several kinds of shuttles
ought to answer in material and form to the several kinds of webs. And the legislator
ought to know the different materials and forms of which names are made in Hellas and
other countries. But who is to be the judge of the proper form? The judge of shuttles is
the weaver who uses them; the judge of lyres is the player of the lyre; the judge of ships
is the pilot. And will not the judge who is able to direct the legislator in his work of
naming, be he who knows how to use the names—he who can ask and answer
questions—in short, the dialectician? The pilot directs the carpenter how to make the
rudder, and the dialectician directs the legislator how he is to impose names; for to
express the ideal forms of things in syllables and letters is not the easy task,
Hermogenes, which you imagine.
‘I should be more readily persuaded, if you would show me this natural correctness of
names.’
Indeed I cannot; but I see that you have advanced; for you now admit that there is a
correctness of names, and that not every one can give a name. But what is the nature of
this correctness or truth, you must learn from the Sophists, of whom your brother Callias
has bought his reputation for wisdom rather dearly; and since they require to be paid,
you, having no money, had better learn from him at second-hand. ‘Well, but I have just
given up Protagoras, and I should be inconsistent in going to learn of him.’ Then if you
reject him you may learn of the poets, and in particular of Homer, who distinguishes the
names given by Gods and men to the same things, as in the verse about the river God
who fought with Hephaestus, ‘whom the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander;’ or
in the lines in which he mentions the bird which the Gods call ‘Chalcis,’ and men
‘Cymindis;’ or the hill which men call ‘Batieia,’ and the Gods ‘Myrinna’s Tomb.’ Here is an
important lesson; for the Gods must of course be right in their use of names. And this is
not the only truth about philology which may be learnt from Homer. Does he not say
that Hector’s son had two names—
‘Hector called him Scamandrius, but the others Astyanax’?
Now, if the men called him Astyanax, is it not probable that the other name was
conferred by the women? And which are more likely to be right—the wiser or the less
wise, the men or the women? Homer evidently agreed with the men: and of the name
given by them he offers an explanation;—the boy was called Astyanax (‘king of the city’),
because his father saved the city. The names Astyanax and Hector, moreover, are really
the same,—the one means a king, and the other is ‘a holder or possessor.’ For as the
lion’s whelp may be called a lion, or the horse’s foal a foal, so the son of a king may be
called a king. But if the horse had produced a calf, then that would be called a calf.
Whether the syllables of a name are the same or not makes no difference, provided the
meaning is retained. For example; the names of letters, whether vowels or consonants,
do not correspond to their sounds, with the exception of epsilon, upsilon, omicron,
omega. The name Beta has three letters added to the sound—and yet this does not alter
the sense of the word, or prevent the whole name having the value which the legislator
intended. And the same may be said of a king and the son of a king, who like other
animals resemble each other in the course of nature; the words by which they are
signified may be disguised, and yet amid differences of sound the etymologist may
recognise the same notion, just as the physician recognises the power of the same
drugs under different disguises of colour and smell. Hector and Astyanax have only one
letter alike, but they have the same meaning; and Agis (leader) is altogether different in
sound from Polemarchus (chief in war), or Eupolemus (good warrior); but the two words
present the same idea of leader or general, like the words Iatrocles and Acesimbrotus,
which equally denote a physician. The son succeeds the father as the foal succeeds the
horse, but when, out of the course of nature, a prodigy occurs, and the offspring no
longer resembles the parent, then the names no longer agree. This may be illustrated by
the case of Agamemnon and his son Orestes, of whom the former has a name
significant of his patience at the siege of Troy; while the name of the latter indicates his
savage, man-of-the-mountain nature. Atreus again, for his murder of Chrysippus, and
his cruelty to Thyestes, is rightly named Atreus, which, to the eye of the etymologist, is
ateros (destructive), ateires (stubborn), atreotos (fearless); and Pelops is o ta pelas oron
(he who sees what is near only), because in his eagerness to win Hippodamia, he was
unconscious of the remoter consequences which the murder of Myrtilus would entail
upon his race. The name Tantalus, if slightly changed, offers two etymologies; either apo
tes tou lithou talanteias, or apo tou talantaton einai, signifying at once the hanging of
the stone over his head in the world below, and the misery which he brought upon his
country. And the name of his father, Zeus, Dios, Zenos, has an excellent meaning,
though hard to be understood, because really a sentence which is divided into two parts
(Zeus, Dios). For he, being the lord and king of all, is the author of our being, and in him
all live: this is implied in the double form, Dios, Zenos, which being put together and
interpreted is di on ze panta. There may, at first sight, appear to be some irreverence in
calling him the son of Cronos, who is a proverb for stupidity; but the meaning is that
Zeus himself is the son of a mighty intellect; Kronos, quasi koros, not in the sense of a
youth, but quasi to katharon kai akeraton tou nou—the pure and garnished mind, which
in turn is begotten of Uranus, who is so called apo tou oran ta ano, from looking
upwards; which, as philosophers say, is the way to have a pure mind. The earlier portion
of Hesiod’s genealogy has escaped my memory, or I would try more conclusions of the
same sort. ‘You talk like an oracle.’ I caught the infection from Euthyphro, who gave me
a long lecture which began at dawn, and has not only entered into my ears, but filled my
soul, and my intention is to yield to the inspiration to-day; and to-morrow I will be
exorcised by some priest or sophist. ‘Go on; I am anxious to hear the rest.’ Now that we
have a general notion, how shall we proceed? What names will afford the most crucial
test of natural fitness? Those of heroes and ordinary men are often deceptive, because
they are patronymics or expressions of a wish; let us try gods and demi-gods. Gods are
so called, apo tou thein, from the verb ‘to run;’ because the sun, moon, and stars run
about the heaven; and they being the original gods of the Hellenes, as they still are of
the Barbarians, their name is given to all Gods. The demons are the golden race of
Hesiod, and by golden he means not literally golden, but good; and they are called
demons, quasi daemones, which in old Attic was used for daimones—good men are well
said to become daimones when they die, because they are knowing. Eros (with an
epsilon) is the same word as eros (with an eta): ‘the sons of God saw the daughters of
men that they were fair;’ or perhaps they were a species of sophists or rhetoricians, and
so called apo tou erotan, or eirein, from their habit of spinning questions; for eirein is
equivalent to legein. I get all this from Euthyphro; and now a new and ingenious idea
comes into my mind, and, if I am not careful, I shall be wiser than I ought to be by tomorrow’s
dawn. My idea is, that we may put in and pull out letters at pleasure and alter
the accents (as, for example, Dii philos may be turned into Diphilos), and we may make
words into sentences and sentences into words. The name anthrotos is a case in point,
for a letter has been omitted and the accent changed; the original meaning being o
anathron a opopen—he who looks up at what he sees. Psuche may be thought to be
the reviving, or refreshing, or animating principle—e anapsuchousa to soma; but I am
afraid that Euthyphro and his disciples will scorn this derivation, and I must find another:
shall we identify the soul with the ‘ordering mind’ of Anaxagoras, and say that psuche,
quasi phuseche = e phusin echei or ochei?—this might easily be refined into psyche.
‘That is a more artistic etymology.’
After psuche follows soma; this, by a slight permutation, may be either = (1) the ‘grave’
of the soul, or (2) may mean ‘that by which the soul signifies (semainei) her wishes.’ But
more probably, the word is Orphic, and simply denotes that the body is the place of
ward in which the soul suffers the penalty of sin,—en o sozetai. ‘I should like to hear
some more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that excellent one of Zeus.’ The
truest names of the Gods are those which they give themselves; but these are unknown
to us. Less true are those by which we propitiate them, as men say in prayers, ‘May he
graciously receive any name by which I call him.’ And to avoid offence, I should like to
let them know beforehand that we are not presuming to enquire about them, but only
about the names which they usually bear. Let us begin with Hestia. What did he mean
who gave the name Hestia? ‘That is a very difficult question.’ O, my dear Hermogenes, I
believe that there was a power of philosophy and talk among the first inventors of
names, both in our own and in other languages; for even in foreign words a principle is
discernible. Hestia is the same with esia, which is an old form of ousia, and means the
first principle of things: this agrees with the fact that to Hestia the first sacrifices are
offered. There is also another reading—osia, which implies that ‘pushing’ (othoun) is the
first principle of all things. And here I seem to discover a delicate allusion to the flux of
Heracleitus—that antediluvian philosopher who cannot walk twice in the same stream;
and this flux of his may accomplish yet greater marvels. For the names Cronos and Rhea
cannot have been accidental; the giver of them must have known something about the
doctrine of Heracleitus. Moreover, there is a remarkable coincidence in the words of
Hesiod, when he speaks of Oceanus, ‘the origin of Gods;’ and in the verse of Orpheus, in
which he describes Oceanus espousing his sister Tethys. Tethys is nothing more than the
name of a spring—to diattomenon kai ethoumenon. Poseidon is posidesmos, the chain
of the feet, because you cannot walk on the sea—the epsilon is inserted by way of
ornament; or perhaps the name may have been originally polleidon, meaning, that the
God knew many things (polla eidos): he may also be the shaker, apo tou seiein,—in this
case, pi and delta have been added. Pluto is connected with ploutos, because wealth
comes out of the earth; or the word may be a euphemism for Hades, which is usually
derived apo tou aeidous, because the God is concerned with the invisible. But the name
Hades was really given him from his knowing (eidenai) all good things. Men in general
are foolishly afraid of him, and talk with horror of the world below from which no one
may return. The reason why his subjects never wish to come back, even if they could, is
that the God enchains them by the strongest of spells, namely by the desire of virtue,
which they hope to obtain by constant association with him. He is the perfect and
accomplished Sophist and the great benefactor of the other world; for he has much
more than he wants there, and hence he is called Pluto or the rich. He will have nothing
to do with the souls of men while in the body, because he cannot work his will with
them so long as they are confused and entangled by fleshly lusts. Demeter is the mother
and giver of food—e didousa meter tes edodes. Here is erate tis, or perhaps the
legislator may have been thinking of the weather, and has merely transposed the letters
of the word aer. Pherephatta, that word of awe, is pheretapha, which is only an
euphonious contraction of e tou pheromenou ephaptomene,—all things are in motion,
and she in her wisdom moves with them, and the wise God Hades consorts with her—
there is nothing very terrible in this, any more than in the her other appellation
Persephone, which is also significant of her wisdom (sophe). Apollo is another name,
which is supposed to have some dreadful meaning, but is susceptible of at least four
perfectly innocent explanations. First, he is the purifier or purger or absolver (apolouon);
secondly, he is the true diviner, Aplos, as he is called in the Thessalian dialect (aplos =
aplous, sincere); thirdly, he is the archer (aei ballon), always shooting; or again,
supposing alpha to mean ama or omou, Apollo becomes equivalent to ama polon,
which points to both his musical and his heavenly attributes; for there is a ‘moving
together’ alike in music and in the harmony of the spheres. The second lambda is
inserted in order to avoid the ill-omened sound of destruction. The Muses are so
called—apo tou mosthai. The gentle Leto or Letho is named from her willingness
(ethelemon), or because she is ready to forgive and forget (lethe). Artemis is so called
from her healthy well-balanced nature, dia to artemes, or as aretes istor; or as a lover of
virginity, aroton misesasa. One of these explanations is probably true,—perhaps all of
them. Dionysus is o didous ton oinon, and oinos is quasi oionous because wine makes
those think (oiesthai) that they have a mind (nous) who have none. The established
derivation of Aphrodite dia ten tou athrou genesin may be accepted on the authority of
Hesiod. Again, there is the name of Pallas, or Athene, which we, who are Athenians, must
not forget. Pallas is derived from armed dances—apo tou pallein ta opla. For Athene we
must turn to the allegorical interpreters of Homer, who make the name equivalent to
theonoe, or possibly the word was originally ethonoe and signified moral intelligence
(en ethei noesis). Hephaestus, again, is the lord of light—o tou phaeos istor. This is a
good notion; and, to prevent any other getting into our heads, let us go on to Ares. He
is the manly one (arren), or the unchangeable one (arratos). Enough of the Gods; for, by
the Gods, I am afraid of them; but if you suggest other words, you will see how the
horses of Euthyphro prance. ‘Only one more God; tell me about my godfather Hermes.’
He is ermeneus, the messenger or cheater or thief or bargainer; or o eirein momenos,
that is, eiremes or ermes—the speaker or contriver of speeches. ‘Well said Cratylus, then,
that I am no son of Hermes.’ Pan, as the son of Hermes, is speech or the brother of
speech, and is called Pan because speech indicates everything—o pan menuon. He has
two forms, a true and a false; and is in the upper part smooth, and in the lower part
shaggy. He is the goat of Tragedy, in which there are plenty of falsehoods.
‘Will you go on to the elements—sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, seasons,
years?’ Very good: and which shall I take first? Let us begin with elios, or the sun. The
Doric form elios helps us to see that he is so called because at his rising he gathers
(alizei) men together, or because he rolls about (eilei) the earth, or because he
variegates (aiolei = poikillei) the earth. Selene is an anticipation of Anaxagoras, being a
contraction of selaenoneoaeia, the light (selas) which is ever old and new, and which, as
Anaxagoras says, is borrowed from the sun; the name was harmonized into selanaia, a
form which is still in use. ‘That is a true dithyrambic name.’ Meis is so called apo tou
meiousthai, from suffering diminution, and astron is from astrape (lightning), which is an
improvement of anastrope, that which turns the eyes inside out. ‘How do you explain
pur n udor?’ I suspect that pur, which, like udor n kuon, is found in Phrygian, is a foreign
word; for the Hellenes have borrowed much from the barbarians, and I always resort to
this theory of a foreign origin when I am at a loss. Aer may be explained, oti airei ta apo
tes ges; or, oti aei rei; or, oti pneuma ex autou ginetai (compare the poetic word aetai).
So aither quasi aeitheer oti aei thei peri ton aera: ge, gaia quasi genneteira (compare the
Homeric form gegaasi); ora (with an omega), or, according to the old Attic form ora
(with an omicron), is derived apo tou orizein, because it divides the year; eniautos and
etos are the same thought—o en eauto etazon, cut into two parts, en eauto and etazon,
like di on ze into Dios and Zenos.
‘You make surprising progress.’ True; I am run away with, and am not even yet at my
utmost speed. ‘I should like very much to hear your account of the virtues. What
principle of correctness is there in those charming words, wisdom, understanding,
justice, and the rest?’ To explain all that will be a serious business; still, as I have put on
the lion’s skin, appearances must be maintained. My opinion is, that primitive men were
like some modern philosophers, who, by always going round in their search after the
nature of things, become dizzy; and this phenomenon, which was really in themselves,
they imagined to take place in the external world. You have no doubt remarked, that the
doctrine of the universal flux, or generation of things, is indicated in names. ‘No, I never
did.’ Phronesis is only phoras kai rou noesis, or perhaps phoras onesis, and in any case is
connected with pheresthai; gnome is gones skepsis kai nomesis; noesis is neou or
gignomenon esis; the word neos implies that creation is always going on—the original
form was neoesis; sophrosune is soteria phroneseos; episteme is e epomene tois
pragmasin—the faculty which keeps close, neither anticipating nor lagging behind;
sunesis is equivalent to sunienai, sumporeuesthai ten psuche, and is a kind of
conclusion—sullogismos tis, akin therefore in idea to episteme; sophia is very difficult,
and has a foreign look—the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things, and
may be illustrated by the poetical esuthe and the Lacedaemonian proper name Sous, or
Rush; agathon is ro agaston en te tachuteti,—for all things are in motion, and some are
swifter than others: dikaiosune is clearly e tou dikaiou sunesis. The word dikaion is more
troublesome, and appears to mean the subtle penetrating power which, as the lovers of
motion say, preserves all things, and is the cause of all things, quasi diaion going
through—the letter kappa being inserted for the sake of euphony. This is a great
mystery which has been confided to me; but when I ask for an explanation I am thought
obtrusive, and another derivation is proposed to me. Justice is said to be o kaion, or the
sun; and when I joyfully repeat this beautiful notion, I am answered, ‘What, is there no
justice when the sun is down?’ And when I entreat my questioner to tell me his own
opinion, he replies, that justice is fire in the abstract, or heat in the abstract; which is not
very intelligible. Others laugh at such notions, and say with Anaxagoras, that justice is
the ordering mind. ‘I think that some one must have told you this.’ And not the rest? Let
me proceed then, in the hope of proving to you my originality. Andreia is quasi anpeia
quasi e ano roe, the stream which flows upwards, and is opposed to injustice, which
clearly hinders the principle of penetration; arren and aner have a similar derivation;
gune is the same as gone; thelu is derived apo tes theles, because the teat makes things
flourish (tethelenai), and the word thallein itself implies increase of youth, which is swift
and sudden ever (thein and allesthai). I am getting over the ground fast: but much has
still to be explained. There is techne, for instance. This, by an aphaeresis of tau and an
epenthesis of omicron in two places, may be identified with echonoe, and signifies ‘that
which has mind.’
‘A very poor etymology.’ Yes; but you must remember that all language is in process of
change; letters are taken in and put out for the sake of euphony, and time is also a great
alterer of words. For example, what business has the letter rho in the word katoptron, or
the letter sigma in the word sphigx? The additions are often such that it is impossible to
make out the original word; and yet, if you may put in and pull out, as you like, any
name is equally good for any object. The fact is, that great dictators of literature like
yourself should observe the rules of moderation. ‘I will do my best.’ But do not be too
much of a precisian, or you will paralyze me. If you will let me add mechane, apo tou
mekous, which means polu, and anein, I shall be at the summit of my powers, from
which elevation I will examine the two words kakia and arete. The first is easily explained
in accordance with what has preceded; for all things being in a flux, kakia is to kakos ion.
This derivation is illustrated by the word deilia, which ought to have come after andreia,
and may be regarded as o lian desmos tes psuches, just as aporia signifies an
impediment to motion (from alpha not, and poreuesthai to go), and arete is euporia,
which is the opposite of this—the everflowing (aei reousa or aeireite), or the eligible,
quasi airete. You will think that I am inventing, but I say that if kakia is right, then arete is
also right. But what is kakon? That is a very obscure word, to which I can only apply my
old notion and declare that kakon is a foreign word. Next, let us proceed to kalon,
aischron. The latter is doubtless contracted from aeischoroun, quasi aei ischon roun. The
inventor of words being a patron of the flux, was a great enemy to stagnation. Kalon is
to kaloun ta pragmata—this is mind (nous or dianoia); which is also the principle of
beauty; and which doing the works of beauty, is therefore rightly called the beautiful.
The meaning of sumpheron is explained by previous examples;—like episteme,
signifying that the soul moves in harmony with the world (sumphora, sumpheronta).
Kerdos is to pasi kerannumenon—that which mingles with all things: lusiteloun is
equivalent to to tes phoras luon to telos, and is not to be taken in the vulgar sense of
gainful, but rather in that of swift, being the principle which makes motion immortal and
unceasing; ophelimon is apo tou ophellein—that which gives increase: this word, which
is Homeric, is of foreign origin. Blaberon is to blamton or boulomenon aptein tou rou—
that which injures or seeks to bind the stream. The proper word would be boulapteroun,
but this is too much of a mouthful—like a prelude on the flute in honour of Athene. The
word zemiodes is difficult; great changes, as I was saying, have been made in words, and
even a small change will alter their meaning very much. The word deon is one of these
disguised words. You know that according to the old pronunciation, which is especially
affected by the women, who are great conservatives, iota and delta were used where we
should now use eta and zeta: for example, what we now call emera was formerly called
imera; and this shows the meaning of the word to have been ‘the desired one coming
after night,’ and not, as is often supposed, ‘that which makes things gentle’ (emera). So
again, zugon is duogon, quasi desis duein eis agogen—(the binding of two together for
the purpose of drawing. Deon, as ordinarily written, has an evil sense, signifying the
chain (desmos) or hindrance of motion; but in its ancient form dion is expressive of
good, quasi diion, that which penetrates or goes through all. Zemiodes is really
demiodes, and means that which binds motion (dounti to ion): edone is e pros ten
onrsin teinousa praxis—the delta is an insertion: lupe is derived apo tes dialuseos tou
somatos: ania is from alpha and ienai, to go: algedon is a foreign word, and is so called
apo tou algeinou: odune is apo tes enduseos tes lupes: achthedon is in its very sound a
burden: chapa expresses the flow of soul: terpsis is apo tou terpnou, and terpnon is
properly erpnon, because the sensation of pleasure is likened to a breath (pnoe) which
creeps (erpei) through the soul: euphrosune is named from pheresthai, because the soul
moves in harmony with nature: epithumia is e epi ton thumon iousa dunamis: thumos is
apo tes thuseos tes psuches: imeros—oti eimenos pei e psuche: pothos, the desire
which is in another place, allothi pou: eros was anciently esros, and so called because it
flows into (esrei) the soul from without: doxa is e dioxis tou eidenai, or expresses the
shooting from a bow (toxon). The latter etymology is confirmed by the words
boulesthai, boule, aboulia, which all have to do with shooting (bole): and similarly oiesis
is nothing but the movement (oisis) of the soul towards essence. Ekousion is to eikon—
the yielding—anagke is e an agke iousa, the passage through ravines which impede
motion: aletheia is theia ale, divine motion. Pseudos is the opposite of this, implying the
principle of constraint and forced repose, which is expressed under the figure of sleep,
to eudon; the psi is an addition. Onoma, a name, affirms the real existence of that which
is sought after—on ou masma estin. On and ousia are only ion with an iota broken off;
and ouk on is ouk ion. ‘And what are ion, reon, doun?’ One way of explaining them has
been already suggested—they may be of foreign origin; and possibly this is the true
answer. But mere antiquity may often prevent our recognizing words, after all the
complications which they have undergone; and we must remember that however far we
carry back our analysis some ultimate elements or roots will remain which can be no
further analyzed. For example; the word agathos was supposed by us to be a compound
of agastos and thoos, and probably thoos may be further resolvable. But if we take a
word of which no further resolution seems attainable, we may fairly conclude that we
have reached one of these original elements, and the truth of such a word must be
tested by some new method. Will you help me in the search?
All names, whether primary or secondary, are intended to show the nature of things; and
the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance from the primary. But then, how do
the primary names indicate anything? And let me ask another question,—If we had no
faculty of speech, how should we communicate with one another? Should we not use
signs, like the deaf and dumb? The elevation of our hands would mean lightness—
heaviness would be expressed by letting them drop. The running of any animal would
be described by a similar movement of our own frames. The body can only express
anything by imitation; and the tongue or mouth can imitate as well as the rest of the
body. But this imitation of the tongue or voice is not yet a name, because people may
imitate sheep or goats without naming them. What, then, is a name? In the first place, a
name is not a musical, or, secondly, a pictorial imitation, but an imitation of that kind
which expresses the nature of a thing; and is the invention not of a musician, or of a
painter, but of a namer.
And now, I think that we may consider the names about which you were asking. The way
to analyze them will be by going back to the letters, or primary elements of which they
are composed. First, we separate the alphabet into classes of letters, distinguishing the
consonants, mutes, vowels, and semivowels; and when we have learnt them singly, we
shall learn to know them in their various combinations of two or more letters; just as the
painter knows how to use either a single colour, or a combination of colours. And like
the painter, we may apply letters to the expression of objects, and form them into
syllables; and these again into words, until the picture or figure—that is, language—is
completed. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but I mean to say that this was
the way in which the ancients framed language. And this leads me to consider whether
the primary as well as the secondary elements are rightly given. I may remark, as I was
saying about the Gods, that we can only attain to conjecture of them. But still we insist
that ours is the true and only method of discovery; otherwise we must have recourse,
like the tragic poets, to a Deus ex machina, and say that God gave the first names, and
therefore they are right; or that the barbarians are older than we are, and that we learnt
of them; or that antiquity has cast a veil over the truth. Yet all these are not reasons;
they are only ingenious excuses for having no reasons.
I will freely impart to you my own notions, though they are somewhat crude:—the letter
rho appears to me to be the general instrument which the legislator has employed to
express all motion or kinesis. (I ought to explain that kinesis is just iesis (going), for the
letter eta was unknown to the ancients; and the root, kiein, is a foreign form of ienai: of
kinesis or eisis, the opposite is stasis). This use of rho is evident in the words tremble,
break, crush, crumble, and the like; the imposer of names perceived that the tongue is
most agitated in the pronunciation of this letter, just as he used iota to express the
subtle power which penetrates through all things. The letters phi, psi, sigma, zeta, which
require a great deal of wind, are employed in the imitation of such notions as shivering,
seething, shaking, and in general of what is windy. The letters delta and tau convey the
idea of binding and rest in a place: the lambda denotes smoothness, as in the words
slip, sleek, sleep, and the like. But when the slipping tongue is detained by the heavier
sound of gamma, then arises the notion of a glutinous clammy nature: nu is sounded
from within, and has a notion of inwardness: alpha is the expression of size; eta of
length; omicron of roundness, and therefore there is plenty of omicron in the word
goggulon. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the correctness of names; and I should like
to hear what Cratylus would say. ‘But, Socrates, as I was telling you, Cratylus mystifies
me; I should like to ask him, in your presence, what he means by the fitness of names?’
To this appeal, Cratylus replies ‘that he cannot explain so important a subject all in a
moment.’ ‘No, but you may “add little to little,” as Hesiod says.’ Socrates here interposes
his own request, that Cratylus will give some account of his theory. Hermogenes and
himself are mere sciolists, but Cratylus has reflected on these matters, and has had
teachers. Cratylus replies in the words of Achilles: ‘“Illustrious Ajax, you have spoken in
all things much to my mind,” whether Euthyphro, or some Muse inhabiting your own
breast, was the inspirer.’ Socrates replies, that he is afraid of being self-deceived, and
therefore he must ‘look fore and aft,’ as Homer remarks. Does not Cratylus agree with
him that names teach us the nature of things? ‘Yes.’ And naming is an art, and the artists
are legislators, and like artists in general, some of them are better and some of them are
worse than others, and give better or worse laws, and make better or worse names.
Cratylus cannot admit that one name is better than another; they are either true names,
or they are not names at all; and when he is asked about the name of Hermogenes, who
is acknowledged to have no luck in him, he affirms this to be the name of somebody
else. Socrates supposes him to mean that falsehood is impossible, to which his own
answer would be, that there has never been a lack of liars. Cratylus presses him with the
old sophistical argument, that falsehood is saying that which is not, and therefore saying
nothing;—you cannot utter the word which is not. Socrates complains that this
argument is too subtle for an old man to understand: Suppose a person addressing
Cratylus were to say, Hail, Athenian Stranger, Hermogenes! would these words be true
or false? ‘I should say that they would be mere unmeaning sounds, like the hammering
of a brass pot.’ But you would acknowledge that names, as well as pictures, are
imitations, and also that pictures may give a right or wrong representation of a man or
woman:—why may not names then equally give a representation true and right or false
and wrong? Cratylus admits that pictures may give a true or false representation, but
denies that names can. Socrates argues, that he may go up to a man and say ‘this is year
picture,’ and again, he may go and say to him ‘this is your name’—in the one case
appealing to his sense of sight, and in the other to his sense of hearing;—may he not?
‘Yes.’ Then you will admit that there is a right or a wrong assignment of names, and if of
names, then of verbs and nouns; and if of verbs and nouns, then of the sentences which
are made up of them; and comparing nouns to pictures, you may give them all the
appropriate sounds, or only some of them. And as he who gives all the colours makes a
good picture, and he who gives only some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but still a
picture; so he who gives all the sounds makes a good name, and he who gives only
some of them, a bad or imperfect one, but a name still. The artist of names, that is, the
legislator, may be a good or he may be a bad artist. ‘Yes, Socrates, but the cases are not
parallel; for if you subtract or misplace a letter, the name ceases to be a name.’ Socrates
admits that the number 10, if an unit is subtracted, would cease to be 10, but denies
that names are of this purely quantitative nature. Suppose that there are two objects—
Cratylus and the image of Cratylus; and let us imagine that some God makes them
perfectly alike, both in their outward form and in their inner nature and qualities: then
there will be two Cratyluses, and not merely Cratylus and the image of Cratylus. But an
image in fact always falls short in some degree of the original, and if images are not
exact counterparts, why should names be? if they were, they would be the doubles of
their originals, and indistinguishable from them; and how ridiculous would this be!
Cratylus admits the truth of Socrates’ remark. But then Socrates rejoins, he should have
the courage to acknowledge that letters may be wrongly inserted in a noun, or a noun
in a sentence; and yet the noun or the sentence may retain a meaning. Better to admit
this, that we may not be punished like the traveller in Egina who goes about at night,
and that Truth herself may not say to us, ‘Too late.’ And, errors excepted, we may still
affirm that a name to be correct must have proper letters, which bear a resemblance to
the thing signified. I must remind you of what Hermogenes and I were saying about the
letter rho accent, which was held to be expressive of motion and hardness, as lambda is
of smoothness;—and this you will admit to be their natural meaning. But then, why do
the Eritreans call that skleroter which we call sklerotes? We can understand one another,
although the letter rho accent is not equivalent to the letter s: why is this? You reply,
because the two letters are sufficiently alike for the purpose of expressing motion. Well,
then, there is the letter lambda; what business has this in a word meaning hardness?
‘Why, Socrates, I retort upon you, that we put in and pull out letters at pleasure.’ And
the explanation of this is custom or agreement: we have made a convention that the rho
shall mean s and a convention may indicate by the unlike as well as by the like. How
could there be names for all the numbers unless you allow that convention is used?
Imitation is a poor thing, and has to be supplemented by convention, which is another
poor thing; although I agree with you in thinking that the most perfect form of language
is found only where there is a perfect correspondence of sound and meaning. But let me
ask you what is the use and force of names? ‘The use of names, Socrates, is to inform,
and he who knows names knows things.’ Do you mean that the discovery of names is
the same as the discovery of things? ‘Yes.’ But do you not see that there is a degree of
deception about names? He who first gave names, gave them according to his
conception, and that may have been erroneous. ‘But then, why, Socrates, is language so
consistent? all words have the same laws.’ Mere consistency is no test of truth. In
geometrical problems, for example, there may be a flaw at the beginning, and yet the
conclusion may follow consistently. And, therefore, a wise man will take especial care of
first principles. But are words really consistent; are there not as many terms of praise
which signify rest as which signify motion? There is episteme, which is connected with
stasis, as mneme is with meno. Bebaion, again, is the expression of station and position;
istoria is clearly descriptive of the stopping istanai of the stream; piston indicates the
cessation of motion; and there are many words having a bad sense, which are
connected with ideas of motion, such as sumphora, amartia, etc.: amathia, again, might
be explained, as e ama theo iontos poreia, and akolasia as e akolouthia tois pragmasin.
Thus the bad names are framed on the same principle as the good, and other examples
might be given, which would favour a theory of rest rather than of motion. ‘Yes; but the
greater number of words express motion.’ Are we to count them, Cratylus; and is
correctness of names to be determined by the voice of a majority?
Here is another point: we were saying that the legislator gives names; and therefore we
must suppose that he knows the things which he names: but how can he have learnt
things from names before there were any names? ‘I believe, Socrates, that some power
more than human first gave things their names, and that these were necessarily true
names.’ Then how came the giver of names to contradict himself, and to make some
names expressive of rest, and others of motion? ‘I do not suppose that he did make
them both.’ Then which did he make—those which are expressive of rest, or those which
are expressive of motion?...But if some names are true and others false, we can only
decide between them, not by counting words, but by appealing to things. And, if so, we
must allow that things may be known without names; for names, as we have several
times admitted, are the images of things; and the higher knowledge is of things, and is
not to be derived from names; and though I do not doubt that the inventors of
language gave names, under the idea that all things are in a state of motion and flux, I
believe that they were mistaken; and that having fallen into a whirlpool themselves, they
are trying to drag us after them. For is there not a true beauty and a true good, which is
always beautiful and always good? Can the thing beauty be vanishing away from us
while the words are yet in our mouths? And they could not be known by any one if they
are always passing away—for if they are always passing away, the observer has no
opportunity of observing their state. Whether the doctrine of the flux or of the eternal
nature be the truer, is hard to determine. But no man of sense will put himself, or the
education of his mind, in the power of names: he will not condemn himself to be an
unreal thing, nor will he believe that everything is in a flux like the water in a leaky
vessel, or that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This doctrine may be
true, Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would have you reflect
while you are young, and find out the truth, and when you know come and tell me. ‘I
have thought, Socrates, and after a good deal of thinking I incline to Heracleitus.’ Then
another day, my friend, you shall give me a lesson. ‘Very good, Socrates, and I hope that
you will continue to study these things yourself.’
...
We may now consider (I) how far Plato in the Cratylus has discovered the true principles
of language, and then (II) proceed to compare modern speculations respecting the
origin and nature of language with the anticipations of his genius.
I. (1) Plato is aware that language is not the work of chance; nor does he deny that there
is a natural fitness in names. He only insists that this natural fitness shall be intelligibly
explained. But he has no idea that language is a natural organism. He would have heard
with surprise that languages are the common work of whole nations in a primitive or
semi- barbarous age. How, he would probably have argued, could men devoid of art
have contrived a structure of such complexity? No answer could have been given to this
question, either in ancient or in modern times, until the nature of primitive antiquity had
been thoroughly studied, and the instincts of man had been shown to exist in greater
force, when his state approaches more nearly to that of children or animals. The
philosophers of the last century, after their manner, would have vainly endeavoured to
trace the process by which proper names were converted into common, and would have
shown how the last effort of abstraction invented prepositions and auxiliaries. The
theologian would have proved that language must have had a divine origin, because in
childhood, while the organs are pliable, the intelligence is wanting, and when the
intelligence is able to frame conceptions, the organs are no longer able to express them.
Or, as others have said: Man is man because he has the gift of speech; and he could not
have invented that which he is. But this would have been an ‘argument too subtle’ for
Socrates, who rejects the theological account of the origin of language ‘as an excuse for
not giving a reason,’ which he compares to the introduction of the ‘Deus ex machina’ by
the tragic poets when they have to solve a difficulty; thus anticipating many modern
controversies in which the primary agency of the divine Being is confused with the
secondary cause; and God is assumed to have worked a miracle in order to fill up a
lacuna in human knowledge. (Compare Timaeus.)
Neither is Plato wrong in supposing that an element of design and art enters into
language. The creative power abating is supplemented by a mechanical process.
‘Languages are not made but grow,’ but they are made as well as grow; bursting into life
like a plant or a flower, they are also capable of being trained and improved and
engrafted upon one another. The change in them is effected in earlier ages by musical
and euphonic improvements, at a later stage by the influence of grammar and logic, and
by the poetical and literary use of words. They develope rapidly in childhood, and when
they are full grown and set they may still put forth intellectual powers, like the mind in
the body, or rather we may say that the nobler use of language only begins when the
frame-work is complete. The savage or primitive man, in whom the natural instinct is
strongest, is also the greatest improver of the forms of language. He is the poet or
maker of words, as in civilised ages the dialectician is the definer or distinguisher of
them. The latter calls the second world of abstract terms into existence, as the former
has created the picture sounds which represent natural objects or processes. Poetry and
philosophy—these two, are the two great formative principles of language, when they
have passed their first stage, of which, as of the first invention of the arts in general, we
only entertain conjecture. And mythology is a link between them, connecting the visible
and invisible, until at length the sensuous exterior falls away, and the severance of the
inner and outer world, of the idea and the object of sense, becomes complete. At a later
period, logic and grammar, sister arts, preserve and enlarge the decaying instinct of
language, by rule and method, which they gather from analysis and observation.
(2) There is no trace in any of Plato’s writings that he was acquainted with any language
but Greek. Yet he has conceived very truly the relation of Greek to foreign languages,
which he is led to consider, because he finds that many Greek words are incapable of
explanation. Allowing a good deal for accident, and also for the fancies of the
conditores linguae Graecae, there is an element of which he is unable to give an
account. These unintelligible words he supposes to be of foreign origin, and to have
been derived from a time when the Greeks were either barbarians, or in close relations
to the barbarians. Socrates is aware that this principle is liable to great abuse; and, like
the ‘Deus ex machina,’ explains nothing. Hence he excuses himself for the employment
of such a device, and remarks that in foreign words there is still a principle of
correctness, which applies equally both to Greeks and barbarians.
(3) But the greater number of primary words do not admit of derivation from foreign
languages; they must be resolved into the letters out of which they are composed, and
therefore the letters must have a meaning. The framers of language were aware of this;
they observed that alpha was adapted to express size; eta length; omicron roundness;
nu inwardness; rho accent rush or roar; lambda liquidity; gamma lambda the detention
of the liquid or slippery element; delta and tau binding; phi, psi, sigma, xi, wind and cold,
and so on. Plato’s analysis of the letters of the alphabet shows a wonderful insight into
the nature of language. He does not expressively distinguish between mere imitation
and the symbolical use of sound to express thought, but he recognises in the examples
which he gives both modes of imitation. Gesture is the mode which a deaf and dumb
person would take of indicating his meaning. And language is the gesture of the
tongue; in the use of the letter rho accent, to express a rushing or roaring, or of omicron
to express roundness, there is a direct imitation; while in the use of the letter alpha to
express size, or of eta to express length, the imitation is symbolical. The use of
analogous or similar sounds, in order to express similar analogous ideas, seems to have
escaped him.
In passing from the gesture of the body to the movement of the tongue, Plato makes a
great step in the physiology of language. He was probably the first who said that
‘language is imitative sound,’ which is the greatest and deepest truth of philology;
although he is not aware of the laws of euphony and association by which imitation
must be regulated. He was probably also the first who made a distinction between
simple and compound words, a truth second only in importance to that which has just
been mentioned. His great insight in one direction curiously contrasts with his blindness
in another; for he appears to be wholly unaware (compare his derivation of agathos
from agastos and thoos) of the difference between the root and termination. But we
must recollect that he was necessarily more ignorant than any schoolboy of Greek
grammar, and had no table of the inflexions of verbs and nouns before his eyes, which
might have suggested to him the distinction.
(4) Plato distinctly affirms that language is not truth, or ‘philosophie une langue bien
faite.’ At first, Socrates has delighted himself with discovering the flux of Heracleitus in
language. But he is covertly satirising the pretence of that or any other age to find
philosophy in words; and he afterwards corrects any erroneous inference which might
be gathered from his experiment. For he finds as many, or almost as many, words
expressive of rest, as he had previously found expressive of motion. And even if this had
been otherwise, who would learn of words when he might learn of things? There is a
great controversy and high argument between Heracleiteans and Eleatics, but no man of
sense would commit his soul in such enquiries to the imposers of names...In this and
other passages Plato shows that he is as completely emancipated from the influence of
‘Idols of the tribe’ as Bacon himself.
The lesson which may be gathered from words is not metaphysical or moral, but
historical. They teach us the affinity of races, they tell us something about the
association of ideas, they occasionally preserve the memory of a disused custom; but we
cannot safely argue from them about right and wrong, matter and mind, freedom and
necessity, or the other problems of moral and metaphysical philosophy. For the use of
words on such subjects may often be metaphorical, accidental, derived from other
languages, and may have no relation to the contemporary state of thought and feeling.
Nor in any case is the invention of them the result of philosophical reflection; they have
been commonly transferred from matter to mind, and their meaning is the very reverse
of their etymology. Because there is or is not a name for a thing, we cannot argue that
the thing has or has not an actual existence; or that the antitheses, parallels, conjugates,
correlatives of language have anything corresponding to them in nature. There are too
many words as well as too few; and they generalize the objects or ideas which they
represent. The greatest lesson which the philosophical analysis of language teaches us
is, that we should be above language, making words our servants, and not allowing
them to be our masters.
Plato does not add the further observation, that the etymological meaning of words is in
process of being lost. If at first framed on a principle of intelligibility, they would
gradually cease to be intelligible, like those of a foreign language, he is willing to admit
that they are subject to many changes, and put on many disguises. He acknowledges
that the ‘poor creature’ imitation is supplemented by another ‘poor creature,’—
convention. But he does not see that ‘habit and repute,’ and their relation to other
words, are always exercising an influence over them. Words appear to be isolated, but
they are really the parts of an organism which is always being reproduced. They are
refined by civilization, harmonized by poetry, emphasized by literature, technically
applied in philosophy and art; they are used as symbols on the border-ground of human
knowledge; they receive a fresh impress from individual genius, and come with a new
force and association to every lively-minded person. They are fixed by the simultaneous
utterance of millions, and yet are always imperceptibly changing;—not the inventors of
language, but writing and speaking, and particularly great writers, or works which pass
into the hearts of nations, Homer, Shakespear, Dante, the German or English Bible, Kant
and Hegel, are the makers of them in later ages. They carry with them the faded
recollection of their own past history; the use of a word in a striking and familiar
passage gives a complexion to its use everywhere else, and the new use of an old and
familiar phrase has also a peculiar power over us. But these and other subtleties of
language escaped the observation of Plato. He is not aware that the languages of the
world are organic structures, and that every word in them is related to every other; nor
does he conceive of language as the joint work of the speaker and the hearer, requiring
in man a faculty not only of expressing his thoughts but of understanding those of
others.
On the other hand, he cannot be justly charged with a desire to frame language on
artificial principles. Philosophers have sometimes dreamed of a technical or scientific
language, in words which should have fixed meanings, and stand in the same relation to
one another as the substances which they denote. But there is no more trace of this in
Plato than there is of a language corresponding to the ideas; nor, indeed, could the
want of such a language be felt until the sciences were far more developed. Those who
would extend the use of technical phraseology beyond the limits of science or of
custom, seem to forget that freedom and suggestiveness and the play of association are
essential characteristics of language. The great master has shown how he regarded
pedantic distinctions of words or attempts to confine their meaning in the satire on
Prodicus in the Protagoras.
(5) In addition to these anticipations of the general principles of philology, we may note
also a few curious observations on words and sounds. ‘The Eretrians say sklerotes for
skleroter;’ ‘the Thessalians call Apollo Amlos;’ ‘The Phrygians have the words pur, udor,
kunes slightly changed;’ ‘there is an old Homeric word emesato, meaning “he
contrived”;’ ‘our forefathers, and especially the women, who are most conservative of
the ancient language, loved the letters iota and delta; but now iota is changed into eta
and epsilon, and delta into zeta; this is supposed to increase the grandeur of the sound.’
Plato was very willing to use inductive arguments, so far as they were within his reach;
but he would also have assigned a large influence to chance. Nor indeed is induction
applicable to philology in the same degree as to most of the physical sciences. For after
we have pushed our researches to the furthest point, in language as in all the other
creations of the human mind, there will always remain an element of exception or
accident or free-will, which cannot be eliminated.
The question, ‘whether falsehood is impossible,’ which Socrates characteristically sets
aside as too subtle for an old man (compare Euthyd.), could only have arisen in an age
of imperfect consciousness, which had not yet learned to distinguish words from things.
Socrates replies in effect that words have an independent existence; thus anticipating
the solution of the mediaeval controversy of Nominalism and Realism. He is aware too
that languages exist in various degrees of perfection, and that the analysis of them can
only be carried to a certain point. ‘If we could always, or almost always, use likenesses,
which are the appropriate expressions, that would be the most perfect state of
language.’ These words suggest a question of deeper interest than the origin of
language; viz. what is the ideal of language, how far by any correction of their usages
existing languages might become clearer and more expressive than they are, more
poetical, and also more logical; or whether they are now finally fixed and have received
their last impress from time and authority.
On the whole, the Cratylus seems to contain deeper truths about language than any
other ancient writing. But feeling the uncertain ground upon which he is walking, and
partly in order to preserve the character of Socrates, Plato envelopes the whole subject
in a robe of fancy, and allows his principles to drop out as if by accident.
II. What is the result of recent speculations about the origin and nature of language?
Like other modern metaphysical enquiries, they end at last in a statement of facts. But,
in order to state or understand the facts, a metaphysical insight seems to be required.
There are more things in language than the human mind easily conceives. And many
fallacies have to be dispelled, as well as observations made. The true spirit of philosophy
or metaphysics can alone charm away metaphysical illusions, which are always
reappearing, formerly in the fancies of neoplatonist writers, now in the disguise of
experience and common sense. An analogy, a figure of speech, an intelligible theory, a
superficial observation of the individual, have often been mistaken for a true account of
the origin of language.
Speaking is one of the simplest natural operations, and also the most complex. Nothing
would seem to be easier or more trivial than a few words uttered by a child in any
language. Yet into the formation of those words have entered causes which the human
mind is not capable of calculating. They are a drop or two of the great stream or ocean
of speech which has been flowing in all ages. They have been transmitted from one
language to another; like the child himself, they go back to the beginnings of the human
race. How they originated, who can tell? Nevertheless we can imagine a stage of human
society in which the circle of men’s minds was narrower and their sympathies and
instincts stronger; in which their organs of speech were more flexible, and the sense of
hearing finer and more discerning; in which they lived more in company, and after the
manner of children were more given to express their feelings; in which ‘they moved all
together,’ like a herd of wild animals, ‘when they moved at all.’ Among them, as in every
society, a particular person would be more sensitive and intelligent than the rest.
Suddenly, on some occasion of interest (at the approach of a wild beast, shall we say?),
he first, they following him, utter a cry which resounds through the forest. The cry is
almost or quite involuntary, and may be an imitation of the roar of the animal. Thus far
we have not speech, but only the inarticulate expression of feeling or emotion in no
respect differing from the cries of animals; for they too call to one another and are
answered. But now suppose that some one at a distance not only hears the sound, but
apprehends the meaning: or we may imagine that the cry is repeated to a member of
the society who had been absent; the others act the scene over again when he returns
home in the evening. And so the cry becomes a word. The hearer in turn gives back the
word to the speaker, who is now aware that he has acquired a new power. Many
thousand times he exercises this power; like a child learning to talk, he repeats the same
cry again, and again he is answered; he tries experiments with a like result, and the
speaker and the hearer rejoice together in their newly-discovered faculty. At first there
would be few such cries, and little danger of mistaking or confusing them. For the mind
of primitive man had a narrow range of perceptions and feelings; his senses were
microscopic; twenty or thirty sounds or gestures would be enough for him, nor would
he have any difficulty in finding them. Naturally he broke out into speech—like the
young infant he laughed and babbled; but not until there were hearers as well as
speakers did language begin. Not the interjection or the vocal imitation of the object,
but the interjection or the vocal imitation of the object understood, is the first rudiment
of human speech.
After a while the word gathers associations, and has an independent existence. The
imitation of the lion’s roar calls up the fears and hopes of the chase, which are excited
by his appearance. In the moment of hearing the sound, without any appreciable
interval, these and other latent experiences wake up in the mind of the hearer. Not only
does he receive an impression, but he brings previous knowledge to bear upon that
impression. Necessarily the pictorial image becomes less vivid, while the association of
the nature and habits of the animal is more distinctly perceived. The picture passes into
a symbol, for there would be too many of them and they would crowd the mind; the
vocal imitation, too, is always in process of being lost and being renewed, just as the
picture is brought back again in the description of the poet. Words now can be used
more freely because there are more of them. What was once an involuntary expression
becomes voluntary. Not only can men utter a cry or call, but they can communicate and
converse; they can not only use words, but they can even play with them. The word is
separated both from the object and from the mind; and slowly nations and individuals
attain to a fuller consciousness of themselves.
Parallel with this mental process the articulation of sounds is gradually becoming
perfected. The finer sense detects the differences of them, and begins, first to
agglomerate, then to distinguish them. Times, persons, places, relations of all kinds, are
expressed by modifications of them. The earliest parts of speech, as we may call them by
anticipation, like the first utterances of children, probably partook of the nature of
interjections and nouns; then came verbs; at length the whole sentence appeared, and
rhythm and metre followed. Each stage in the progress of language was accompanied
by some corresponding stage in the mind and civilisation of man. In time, when the
family became a nation, the wild growth of dialects passed into a language. Then arose
poetry and literature. We can hardly realize to ourselves how much with each
improvement of language the powers of the human mind were enlarged; how the inner
world took the place of outer; how the pictorial or symbolical or analogical word was
refined into a notion; how language, fair and large and free, was at last complete.
So we may imagine the speech of man to have begun as with the cries of animals, or the
stammering lips of children, and to have attained by degrees the perfection of Homer
and Plato. Yet we are far from saying that this or any other theory of language is proved
by facts. It is not difficult to form an hypothesis which by a series of imaginary
transitions will bridge over the chasm which separates man from the animals.
Differences of kind may often be thus resolved into differences of degree. But we must
not assume that we have in this way discovered the true account of them. Through what
struggles the harmonious use of the organs of speech was acquired; to what extent the
conditions of human life were different; how far the genius of individuals may have
contributed to the discovery of this as of the other arts, we cannot say: Only we seem to
see that language is as much the creation of the ear as of the tongue, and the
expression of a movement stirring the hearts not of one man only but of many, ‘as the
trees of the wood are stirred by the wind.’ The theory is consistent or not inconsistent
with our own mental experience, and throws some degree of light upon a dark corner of
the human mind.
In the later analysis of language, we trace the opposite and contrasted elements of the
individual and nation, of the past and present, of the inward and outward, of the subject
and object, of the notional and relational, of the root or unchanging part of the word
and of the changing inflexion, if such a distinction be admitted, of the vowel and the
consonant, of quantity and accent, of speech and writing, of poetry and prose. We
observe also the reciprocal influence of sounds and conceptions on each other, like the
connexion of body and mind; and further remark that although the names of objects
were originally proper names, as the grammarian or logician might call them, yet at a
later stage they become universal notions, which combine into particulars and
individuals, and are taken out of the first rude agglomeration of sounds that they may
be replaced in a higher and more logical order. We see that in the simplest sentences
are contained grammar and logic—the parts of speech, the Eleatic philosophy and the
Kantian categories. So complex is language, and so expressive not only of the meanest
wants of man, but of his highest thoughts; so various are the aspects in which it is
regarded by us. Then again, when we follow the history of languages, we observe that
they are always slowly moving, half dead, half alive, half solid, half fluid; the breath of a
moment, yet like the air, continuous in all ages and countries,—like the glacier, too,
containing within them a trickling stream which deposits debris of the rocks over which
it passes. There were happy moments, as we may conjecture, in the lives of nations, at
which they came to the birth—as in the golden age of literature, the man and the time
seem to conspire; the eloquence of the bard or chief, as in later times the creations of
the great writer who is the expression of his age, became impressed on the minds of
their countrymen, perhaps in the hour of some crisis of national development—a
migration, a conquest, or the like. The picture of the word which was beginning to be
lost, is now revived; the sound again echoes to the sense; men find themselves capable
not only of expressing more feelings, and describing more objects, but of expressing
and describing them better. The world before the flood, that is to say, the world of ten,
twenty, a hundred thousand years ago, has passed away and left no sign. But the best
conception that we can form of it, though imperfect and uncertain, is gained from the
analogy of causes still in action, some powerful and sudden, others working slowly in
the course of infinite ages. Something too may be allowed to ‘the persistency of the
strongest,’ to ‘the survival of the fittest,’ in this as in the other realms of nature.
These are some of the reflections which the modern philosophy of language suggests to
us about the powers of the human mind and the forces and influences by which the
efforts of men to utter articulate sounds were inspired. Yet in making these and similar
generalizations we may note also dangers to which we are exposed. (1) There is the
confusion of ideas with facts—of mere possibilities, and generalities, and modes of
conception with actual and definite knowledge. The words ‘evolution,’ ‘birth,’ ‘law,’
development,’ ‘instinct,’ ‘implicit,’ ‘explicit,’ and the like, have a false clearness or
comprehensiveness, which adds nothing to our knowledge. The metaphor of a flower or
a tree, or some other work of nature or art, is often in like manner only a pleasing
picture. (2) There is the fallacy of resolving the languages which we know into their
parts, and then imagining that we can discover the nature of language by reconstructing
them. (3) There is the danger of identifying language, not with thoughts but with ideas.
(4) There is the error of supposing that the analysis of grammar and logic has always
existed, or that their distinctions were familiar to Socrates and Plato. (5) There is the
fallacy of exaggerating, and also of diminishing the interval which separates articulate
from inarticulate language—the cries of animals from the speech of man—the instincts
of animals from the reason of man. (6) There is the danger which besets all enquiries
into the early history of man—of interpreting the past by the present, and of
substituting the definite and intelligible for the true but dim outline which is the horizon
of human knowledge.
The greatest light is thrown upon the nature of language by analogy. We have the
analogy of the cries of animals, of the songs of birds (‘man, like the nightingale, is a
singing bird, but is ever binding up thoughts with musical notes’), of music, of children
learning to speak, of barbarous nations in which the linguistic instinct is still undecayed,
of ourselves learning to think and speak a new language, of the deaf and dumb who
have words without sounds, of the various disorders of speech; and we have the aftergrowth
of mythology, which, like language, is an unconscious creation of the human
mind. We can observe the social and collective instincts of animals, and may remark
how, when domesticated, they have the power of understanding but not of speaking,
while on the other hand, some birds which are comparatively devoid of intelligence,
make a nearer approach to articulate speech. We may note how in the animals there is a
want of that sympathy with one another which appears to be the soul of language. We
can compare the use of speech with other mental and bodily operations; for speech too
is a kind of gesture, and in the child or savage accompanied with gesture. We may
observe that the child learns to speak, as he learns to walk or to eat, by a natural
impulse; yet in either case not without a power of imitation which is also natural to
him—he is taught to read, but he breaks forth spontaneously in speech. We can trace
the impulse to bind together the world in ideas beginning in the first efforts to speak
and culminating in philosophy. But there remains an element which cannot be
explained, or even adequately described. We can understand how man creates or
constructs consciously and by design; and see, if we do not understand, how nature, by
a law, calls into being an organised structure. But the intermediate organism which
stands between man and nature, which is the work of mind yet unconscious, and in
which mind and matter seem to meet, and mind unperceived to herself is really limited
by all other minds, is neither understood nor seen by us, and is with reluctance admitted
to be a fact.
Language is an aspect of man, of nature, and of nations, the transfiguration of the world
in thought, the meeting-point of the physical and mental sciences, and also the mirror in
which they are reflected, present at every moment to the individual, and yet having a
sort of eternal or universal nature. When we analyze our own mental processes, we find
words everywhere in every degree of clearness and consistency, fading away in dreams
and more like pictures, rapidly succeeding one another in our waking thoughts,
attaining a greater distinctness and consecutiveness in speech, and a greater still in
writing, taking the place of one another when we try to become emancipated from their
influence. For in all processes of the mind which are conscious we are talking to
ourselves; the attempt to think without words is a mere illusion,—they are always
reappearing when we fix our thoughts. And speech is not a separate faculty, but the
expression of all our faculties, to which all our other powers of expression, signs, looks,
gestures, lend their aid, of which the instrument is not the tongue only, but more than
half the human frame.
The minds of men are sometimes carried on to think of their lives and of their actions as
links in a chain of causes and effects going back to the beginning of time. A few have
seemed to lose the sense of their own individuality in the universal cause or nature. In
like manner we might think of the words which we daily use, as derived from the first
speech of man, and of all the languages in the world, as the expressions or varieties of a
single force or life of language of which the thoughts of men are the accident. Such a
conception enables us to grasp the power and wonder of languages, and is very natural
to the scientific philologist. For he, like the metaphysician, believes in the reality of that
which absorbs his own mind. Nor do we deny the enormous influence which language
has exercised over thought. Fixed words, like fixed ideas, have often governed the world.
But in such representations we attribute to language too much the nature of a cause,
and too little of an effect,—too much of an absolute, too little of a relative character,—
too much of an ideal, too little of a matter-of-fact existence.
Or again, we may frame a single abstract notion of language of which all existent
languages may be supposed to be the perversion. But we must not conceive that this
logical figment had ever a real existence, or is anything more than an effort of the mind
to give unity to infinitely various phenomena. There is no abstract language ‘in rerum
natura,’ any more than there is an abstract tree, but only languages in various stages of
growth, maturity, and decay. Nor do other logical distinctions or even grammatical
exactly correspond to the facts of language; for they too are attempts to give unity and
regularity to a subject which is partly irregular.
We find, however, that there are distinctions of another kind by which this vast field of
language admits of being mapped out. There is the distinction between biliteral and
triliteral roots, and the various inflexions which accompany them; between the mere
mechanical cohesion of sounds or words, and the ‘chemical’ combination of them into a
new word; there is the distinction between languages which have had a free and full
development of their organisms, and languages which have been stunted in their
growth,—lamed in their hands or feet, and never able to acquire afterwards the powers
in which they are deficient; there is the distinction between synthetical languages like
Greek and Latin, which have retained their inflexions, and analytical languages like
English or French, which have lost them. Innumerable as are the languages and dialects
of mankind, there are comparatively few classes to which they can be referred.
Another road through this chaos is provided by the physiology of speech. The organs of
language are the same in all mankind, and are only capable of uttering a certain number
of sounds. Every man has tongue, teeth, lips, palate, throat, mouth, which he may close
or open, and adapt in various ways; making, first, vowels and consonants; and secondly,
other classes of letters. The elements of all speech, like the elements of the musical
scale, are few and simple, though admitting of infinite gradations and combinations.
Whatever slight differences exist in the use or formation of these organs, owing to
climate or the sense of euphony or other causes, they are as nothing compared with
their agreement. Here then is a real basis of unity in the study of philology, unlike that
imaginary abstract unity of which we were just now speaking.
Whether we regard language from the psychological, or historical, or physiological point
of view, the materials of our knowledge are inexhaustible. The comparisons of children
learning to speak, of barbarous nations, of musical notes, of the cries of animals, of the
song of birds, increase our insight into the nature of human speech. Many observations
which would otherwise have escaped us are suggested by them. But they do not explain
why, in man and in man only, the speaker met with a response from the hearer, and the
half articulate sound gradually developed into Sanscrit and Greek. They hardly enable us
to approach any nearer the secret of the origin of language, which, like some of the
other great secrets of nature,—the origin of birth and death, or of animal life,— remains
inviolable. That problem is indissolubly bound up with the origin of man; and if we ever
know more of the one, we may expect to know more of the other. (Compare W.
Humboldt, ‘Ueber die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen Sprachbaues;’ M. Muller,
‘Lectures on the Science of Language;’ Steinthal, ‘Einleitung in die Psychologie und
Sprachwissenschaft.’
...
It is more than sixteen years since the preceding remarks were written, which with a few
alterations have now been reprinted. During the interval the progress of philology has
been very great. More languages have been compared; the inner structure of language
has been laid bare; the relations of sounds have been more accurately discriminated; the
manner in which dialects affect or are affected by the literary or principal form of a
language is better understood. Many merely verbal questions have been eliminated; the
remains of the old traditional methods have died away. The study has passed from the
metaphysical into an historical stage. Grammar is no longer confused with language, nor
the anatomy of words and sentences with their life and use. Figures of speech, by which
the vagueness of theories is often concealed, have been stripped off; and we see
language more as it truly was. The immensity of the subject is gradually revealed to us,
and the reign of law becomes apparent. Yet the law is but partially seen; the traces of it
are often lost in the distance. For languages have a natural but not a perfect growth; like
other creations of nature into which the will of man enters, they are full of what we term
accident and irregularity. And the difficulties of the subject become not less, but greater,
as we proceed—it is one of those studies in which we seem to know less as we know
more; partly because we are no longer satisfied with the vague and superficial ideas of it
which prevailed fifty years ago; partly also because the remains of the languages with
which we are acquainted always were, and if they are still living, are, in a state of
transition; and thirdly, because there are lacunae in our knowledge of them which can
never be filled up. Not a tenth, not a hundredth part of them has been preserved. Yet
the materials at our disposal are far greater than any individual can use. Such are a few
of the general reflections which the present state of philology calls up.
(1) Language seems to be composite, but into its first elements the philologer has never
been able to penetrate. However far he goes back, he never arrives at the beginning; or
rather, as in Geology or in Astronomy, there is no beginning. He is too apt to suppose
that by breaking up the existing forms of language into their parts he will arrive at a
previous stage of it, but he is merely analyzing what never existed, or is never known to
have existed, except in a composite form. He may divide nouns and verbs into roots and
inflexions, but he has no evidence which will show that the omega of tupto or the mu of
tithemi, though analogous to ego, me, either became pronouns or were generated out
of pronouns. To say that ‘pronouns, like ripe fruit, dropped out of verbs,’ is a misleading
figure of speech. Although all languages have some common principles, there is no
primitive form or forms of language known to us, or to be reasonably imagined, from
which they are all descended. No inference can be drawn from language, either for or
against the unity of the human race. Nor is there any proof that words were ever used
without any relation to each other. Whatever may be the meaning of a sentence or a
word when applied to primitive language, it is probable that the sentence is more akin
to the original form than the word, and that the later stage of language is the result
rather of analysis than of synthesis, or possibly is a combination of the two. Nor, again,
are we sure that the original process of learning to speak was the same in different
places or among different races of men. It may have been slower with some, quicker
with others. Some tribes may have used shorter, others longer words or cries: they may
have been more or less inclined to agglutinate or to decompose them: they may have
modified them by the use of prefixes, suffixes, infixes; by the lengthening and
strengthening of vowels or by the shortening and weakening of them, by the
condensation or rarefaction of consonants. But who gave to language these primeval
laws; or why one race has triliteral, another biliteral roots; or why in some members of a
group of languages b becomes p, or d, t, or ch, k; or why two languages resemble one
another in certain parts of their structure and differ in others; or why in one language
there is a greater development of vowels, in another of consonants, and the like—are
questions of which we only ‘entertain conjecture.’ We must remember the length of time
that has elapsed since man first walked upon the earth, and that in this vast but
unknown period every variety of language may have been in process of formation and
decay, many times over.
(Compare Plato, Laws):—
‘ATHENIAN STRANGER: And what then is to be regarded as the origin of government?
Will not a man be able to judge best from a point of view in which he may behold the
progress of states and their transitions to good and evil?
CLEINIAS: What do you mean?
ATHENIAN STRANGER: I mean that he might watch them from the point of view of time,
and observe the changes which take place in them during infinite ages.
CLEINIAS: How so?
ATHENIAN STRANGER: Why, do you think that you can reckon the time which has
elapsed since cities first existed and men were citizens of them?
CLEINIAS: Hardly.
ATHENIAN STRANGER: But you are quite sure that it must be vast and incalculable?
CLEINIAS: No doubt.
ATHENIAN STRANGER: And have there not been thousands and thousands of cities
which have come into being and perished during this period? And has not every place
had endless forms of government, and been sometimes rising, and at other times
falling, and again improving or waning?’
Aristot. Metaph.:—
‘And if a person should conceive the tales of mythology to mean only that men thought
the gods to be the first essences of things, he would deem the reflection to have been
inspired and would consider that, whereas probably every art and part of wisdom had
been DISCOVERED AND LOST MANY TIMES OVER, such notions were but a remnant of
the past which has survived to our day.’)
It can hardly be supposed that any traces of an original language still survive, any more
than of the first huts or buildings which were constructed by man. Nor are we at all
certain of the relation, if any, in which the greater families of languages stand to each
other. The influence of individuals must always have been a disturbing element. Like
great writers in later times, there may have been many a barbaric genius who taught the
men of his tribe to sing or speak, showing them by example how to continue or divide
their words, charming their souls with rhythm and accent and intonation, finding in
familiar objects the expression of their confused fancies—to whom the whole of
language might in truth be said to be a figure of speech. One person may have
introduced a new custom into the formation or pronunciation of a word; he may have
been imitated by others, and the custom, or form, or accent, or quantity, or rhyme which
he introduced in a single word may have become the type on which many other words
or inflexions of words were framed, and may have quickly ran through a whole
language. For like the other gifts which nature has bestowed upon man, that of speech
has been conveyed to him through the medium, not of the many, but of the few, who
were his ‘law-givers’—‘the legislator with the dialectician standing on his right hand,’ in
Plato’s striking image, who formed the manners of men and gave them customs, whose
voice and look and behaviour, whose gesticulations and other peculiarities were
instinctively imitated by them,—the ‘king of men’ who was their priest, almost their
God...But these are conjectures only: so little do we know of the origin of language that
the real scholar is indisposed to touch the subject at all.
(2) There are other errors besides the figment of a primitive or original language which it
is time to leave behind us. We no longer divide languages into synthetical and
analytical, or suppose similarity of structure to be the safe or only guide to the affinities
of them. We do not confuse the parts of speech with the categories of Logic. Nor do we
conceive languages any more than civilisations to be in a state of dissolution; they do
not easily pass away, but are far more tenacious of life than the tribes by whom they are
spoken. ‘Where two or three are gathered together,’ they survive. As in the human
frame, as in the state, there is a principle of renovation as well as of decay which is at
work in all of them. Neither do we suppose them to be invented by the wit of man. With
few exceptions, e.g. technical words or words newly imported from a foreign language,
and the like, in which art has imitated nature, ‘words are not made but grow.’ Nor do we
attribute to them a supernatural origin. The law which regulates them is like the law
which governs the circulation of the blood, or the rising of the sap in trees; the action of
it is uniform, but the result, which appears in the superficial forms of men and animals or
in the leaves of trees, is an endless profusion and variety. The laws of vegetation are
invariable, but no two plants, no two leaves of the forest are precisely the same. The
laws of language are invariable, but no two languages are alike, no two words have
exactly the same meaning. No two sounds are exactly of the same quality, or give
precisely the same impression.
It would be well if there were a similar consensus about some other points which appear
to be still in dispute. Is language conscious or unconscious? In speaking or writing have
we present to our minds the meaning or the sound or the construction of the words
which we are using?—No more than the separate drops of water with which we quench
our thirst are present: the whole draught may be conscious, but not the minute particles
of which it is made up: So the whole sentence may be conscious, but the several words,
syllables, letters are not thought of separately when we are uttering them. Like other
natural operations, the process of speech, when most perfect, is least observed by us.
We do not pause at each mouthful to dwell upon the taste of it: nor has the speaker
time to ask himself the comparative merits of different modes of expression while he is
uttering them. There are many things in the use of language which may be observed
from without, but which cannot be explained from within. Consciousness carries us but a
little way in the investigation of the mind; it is not the faculty of internal observation, but
only the dim light which makes such observation possible. What is supposed to be our
consciousness of language is really only the analysis of it, and this analysis admits of
innumerable degrees. But would it not be better if this term, which is so misleading, and
yet has played so great a part in mental science, were either banished or used only with
the distinct meaning of ‘attention to our own minds,’ such as is called forth, not by
familiar mental processes, but by the interruption of them? Now in this sense we may
truly say that we are not conscious of ordinary speech, though we are commonly roused
to attention by the misuse or mispronunciation of a word. Still less, even in schools and
academies, do we ever attempt to invent new words or to alter the meaning of old ones,
except in the case, mentioned above, of technical or borrowed words which are
artificially made or imported because a need of them is felt. Neither in our own nor in
any other age has the conscious effort of reflection in man contributed in an appreciable
degree to the formation of language. ‘Which of us by taking thought’ can make new
words or constructions? Reflection is the least of the causes by which language is
affected, and is likely to have the least power, when the linguistic instinct is greatest, as
in young children and in the infancy of nations.
A kindred error is the separation of the phonetic from the mental element of language;
they are really inseparable—no definite line can be drawn between them, any more than
in any other common act of mind and body. It is true that within certain limits we
possess the power of varying sounds by opening and closing the mouth, by touching
the palate or the teeth with the tongue, by lengthening or shortening the vocal
instrument, by greater or less stress, by a higher or lower pitch of the voice, and we can
substitute one note or accent for another. But behind the organs of speech and their
action there remains the informing mind, which sets them in motion and works together
with them. And behind the great structure of human speech and the lesser varieties of
language which arise out of the many degrees and kinds of human intercourse, there is
also the unknown or over-ruling law of God or nature which gives order to it in its
infinite greatness, and variety in its infinitesimal minuteness—both equally inscrutable to
us. We need no longer discuss whether philology is to be classed with the Natural or the
Mental sciences, if we frankly recognize that, like all the sciences which are concerned
with man, it has a double aspect,—inward and outward; and that the inward can only be
known through the outward. Neither need we raise the question whether the laws of
language, like the other laws of human action, admit of exceptions. The answer in all
cases is the same—that the laws of nature are uniform, though the consistency or
continuity of them is not always perceptible to us. The superficial appearances of
language, as of nature, are irregular, but we do not therefore deny their deeper
uniformity. The comparison of the growth of language in the individual and in the
nation cannot be wholly discarded, for nations are made up of individuals. But in this, as
in the other political sciences, we must distinguish between collective and individual
actions or processes, and not attribute to the one what belongs to the other. Again,
when we speak of the hereditary or paternity of a language, we must remember that the
parents are alive as well as the children, and that all the preceding generations survive
(after a manner) in the latest form of it. And when, for the purposes of comparison, we
form into groups the roots or terminations of words, we should not forget how casual is
the manner in which their resemblances have arisen—they were not first written down
by a grammarian in the paradigms of a grammar and learned out of a book, but were
due to many chance attractions of sound or of meaning, or of both combined. So many
cautions have to be borne in mind, and so many first thoughts to be dismissed, before
we can proceed safely in the path of philological enquiry. It might be well sometimes to
lay aside figures of speech, such as the ‘root’ and the ‘branches,’ the ‘stem,’ the ‘strata’
of Geology, the ‘compounds’ of Chemistry, ‘the ripe fruit of pronouns dropping from
verbs’ (see above), and the like, which are always interesting, but are apt to be delusive.
Yet such figures of speech are far nearer the truth than the theories which attribute the
invention and improvement of language to the conscious action of the human
mind...Lastly, it is doubted by recent philologians whether climate can be supposed to
have exercised any influence worth speaking of on a language: such a view is said to be
unproven: it had better therefore not be silently assumed.
‘Natural selection’ and the ‘survival of the fittest’ have been applied in the field of
philology, as well as in the other sciences which are concerned with animal and
vegetable life. And a Darwinian school of philologists has sprung up, who are sometimes
accused of putting words in the place of things. It seems to be true, that whether
applied to language or to other branches of knowledge, the Darwinian theory, unless
very precisely defined, hardly escapes from being a truism. If by ‘the natural selection’ of
words or meanings of words or by the ‘persistence and survival of the fittest’ the
maintainer of the theory intends to affirm nothing more than this—that the word ‘fittest
to survive’ survives, he adds not much to the knowledge of language. But if he means
that the word or the meaning of the word or some portion of the word which comes
into use or drops out of use is selected or rejected on the ground of economy or
parsimony or ease to the speaker or clearness or euphony or expressiveness, or greater
or less demand for it, or anything of this sort, he is affirming a proposition which has
several senses, and in none of these senses can be assisted to be uniformly true. For the
laws of language are precarious, and can only act uniformly when there is such
frequency of intercourse among neighbours as is sufficient to enforce them. And there
are many reasons why a man should prefer his own way of speaking to that of others,
unless by so doing he becomes unintelligible. The struggle for existence among words is
not of that fierce and irresistible kind in which birds, beasts and fishes devour one
another, but of a milder sort, allowing one usage to be substituted for another, not by
force, but by the persuasion, or rather by the prevailing habit, of a majority. The
favourite figure, in this, as in some other uses of it, has tended rather to obscure than
explain the subject to which it has been applied. Nor in any case can the struggle for
existence be deemed to be the sole or principal cause of changes in language, but only
one among many, and one of which we cannot easily measure the importance. There is
a further objection which may be urged equally against all applications of the Darwinian
theory. As in animal life and likewise in vegetable, so in languages, the process of
change is said to be insensible: sounds, like animals, are supposed to pass into one
another by imperceptible gradation. But in both cases the newly-created forms soon
become fixed; there are few if any vestiges of the intermediate links, and so the better
half of the evidence of the change is wanting.
(3) Among the incumbrances or illusions of language may be reckoned many of the
rules and traditions of grammar, whether ancient grammar or the corrections of it which
modern philology has introduced. Grammar, like law, delights in definition: human
speech, like human action, though very far from being a mere chaos, is indefinite, admits
of degrees, and is always in a state of change or transition. Grammar gives an erroneous
conception of language: for it reduces to a system that which is not a system. Its figures
of speech, pleonasms, ellipses, anacolutha, pros to semainomenon, and the like have no
reality; they do not either make conscious expressions more intelligible or show the way
in which they have arisen; they are chiefly designed to bring an earlier use of language
into conformity with the later. Often they seem intended only to remind us that great
poets like Aeschylus or Sophocles or Pindar or a great prose writer like Thucydides are
guilty of taking unwarrantable liberties with grammatical rules; it appears never to have
occurred to the inventors of them that these real ‘conditores linguae Graecae’ lived in an
age before grammar, when ‘Greece also was living Greece.’ It is the anatomy, not the
physiology of language, which grammar seeks to describe: into the idiom and higher life
of words it does not enter. The ordinary Greek grammar gives a complete paradigm of
the verb, without suggesting that the double or treble forms of Perfects, Aorists, etc. are
hardly ever contemporaneous. It distinguishes Moods and Tenses, without observing
how much of the nature of one passes into the other. It makes three Voices, Active,
Passive, and Middle, but takes no notice of the precarious existence and uncertain
character of the last of the three. Language is a thing of degrees and relations and
associations and exceptions: grammar ties it up in fixed rules. Language has many
varieties of usage: grammar tries to reduce them to a single one. Grammar divides verbs
into regular and irregular: it does not recognize that the irregular, equally with the
regular, are subject to law, and that a language which had no exceptions would not be a
natural growth: for it could not have been subjected to the influences by which
language is ordinarily affected. It is always wanting to describe ancient languages in the
terms of a modern one. It has a favourite fiction that one word is put in the place of
another; the truth is that no word is ever put for another. It has another fiction, that a
word has been omitted: words are omitted because they are no longer needed; and the
omission has ceased to be observed. The common explanation of kata or some other
preposition ‘being understood’ in a Greek sentence is another fiction of the same kind,
which tends to disguise the fact that under cases were comprehended originally many
more relations, and that prepositions are used only to define the meaning of them with
greater precision. These instances are sufficient to show the sort of errors which
grammar introduces into language. We are not considering the question of its utility to
the beginner in the study. Even to him the best grammar is the shortest and that in
which he will have least to unlearn. It may be said that the explanations here referred to
are already out of date, and that the study of Greek grammar has received a new
character from comparative philology. This is true; but it is also true that the traditional
grammar has still a great hold on the mind of the student.
Metaphysics are even more troublesome than the figments of grammar, because they
wear the appearance of philosophy and there is no test to which they can be subjected.
They are useful in so far as they give us an insight into the history of the human mind
and the modes of thought which have existed in former ages; or in so far as they furnish
wider conceptions of the different branches of knowledge and of their relation to one
another. But they are worse than useless when they outrun experience and abstract the
mind from the observation of facts, only to envelope it in a mist of words. Some
philologers, like Schleicher, have been greatly influenced by the philosophy of Hegel;
nearly all of them to a certain extent have fallen under the dominion of physical science.
Even Kant himself thought that the first principles of philosophy could be elicited from
the analysis of the proposition, in this respect falling short of Plato. Westphal holds that
there are three stages of language: (1) in which things were characterized
independently, (2) in which they were regarded in relation to human thought, and (3) in
relation to one another. But are not such distinctions an anachronism? for they imply a
growth of abstract ideas which never existed in early times. Language cannot be
explained by Metaphysics; for it is prior to them and much more nearly allied to sense. It
is not likely that the meaning of the cases is ultimately resolvable into relations of space
and time. Nor can we suppose the conception of cause and effect or of the finite and
infinite or of the same and other to be latent in language at a time when in their
abstract form they had never entered into the mind of man...If the science of
Comparative Philology had possessed ‘enough of Metaphysics to get rid of
Metaphysics,’ it would have made far greater progress.
(4) Our knowledge of language is almost confined to languages which are fully
developed. They are of several patterns; and these become altered by admixture in
various degrees,—they may only borrow a few words from one another and retain their
life comparatively unaltered, or they may meet in a struggle for existence until one of
the two is overpowered and retires from the field. They attain the full rights and dignity
of language when they acquire the use of writing and have a literature of their own; they
pass into dialects and grow out of them, in proportion as men are isolated or united by
locality or occupation. The common language sometimes reacts upon the dialects and
imparts to them also a literary character. The laws of language can be best discerned in
the great crises of language, especially in the transitions from ancient to modern forms
of them, whether in Europe or Asia. Such changes are the silent notes of the world’s
history; they mark periods of unknown length in which war and conquest were running
riot over whole continents, times of suffering too great to be endured by the human
race, in which the masters became subjects and the subject races masters, in which
driven by necessity or impelled by some instinct, tribes or nations left their original
homes and but slowly found a resting-place. Language would be the greatest of all
historical monuments, if it could only tell us the history of itself.
(5) There are many ways in which we may approach this study. The simplest of all is to
observe our own use of language in conversation or in writing, how we put words
together, how we construct and connect sentences, what are the rules of accent and
rhythm in verse or prose, the formation and composition of words, the laws of euphony
and sound, the affinities of letters, the mistakes to which we are ourselves most liable of
spelling or pronunciation. We may compare with our own language some other, even
when we have only a slight knowledge of it, such as French or German. Even a little Latin
will enable us to appreciate the grand difference between ancient and modern European
languages. In the child learning to speak we may note the inherent strength of
language, which like ‘a mountain river’ is always forcing its way out. We may witness the
delight in imitation and repetition, and some of the laws by which sounds pass into one
another. We may learn something also from the falterings of old age, the searching for
words, and the confusion of them with one another, the forgetfulness of proper names
(more commonly than of other words because they are more isolated), aphasia, and the
like. There are philological lessons also to be gathered from nicknames, from
provincialisms, from the slang of great cities, from the argot of Paris (that language of
suffering and crime, so pathetically described by Victor Hugo), from the imperfect
articulation of the deaf and dumb, from the jabbering of animals, from the analysis of
sounds in relation to the organs of speech. The phonograph affords a visible evidence of
the nature and divisions of sound; we may be truly said to know what we can
manufacture. Artificial languages, such as that of Bishop Wilkins, are chiefly useful in
showing what language is not. The study of any foreign language may be made also a
study of Comparative Philology. There are several points, such as the nature of irregular
verbs, of indeclinable parts of speech, the influence of euphony, the decay or loss of
inflections, the elements of syntax, which may be examined as well in the history of our
own language as of any other. A few well- selected questions may lead the student at
once into the heart of the mystery: such as, Why are the pronouns and the verb of
existence generally more irregular than any other parts of speech? Why is the number of
words so small in which the sound is an echo of the sense? Why does the meaning of
words depart so widely from their etymology? Why do substantives often differ in
meaning from the verbs to which they are related, adverbs from adjectives? Why do
words differing in origin coalesce in the same sound though retaining their differences
of meaning? Why are some verbs impersonal? Why are there only so many parts of
speech, and on what principle are they divided? These are a few crucial questions which
give us an insight from different points of view into the true nature of language.
(6) Thus far we have been endeavouring to strip off from language the false
appearances in which grammar and philology, or the love of system generally, have
clothed it. We have also sought to indicate the sources of our knowledge of it and the
spirit in which we should approach it, we may now proceed to consider some of the
principles or natural laws which have created or modified it.
i. The first and simplest of all the principles of language, common also to the animals, is
imitation. The lion roars, the wolf howls in the solitude of the forest: they are answered
by similar cries heard from a distance. The bird, too, mimics the voice of man and makes
answer to him. Man tells to man the secret place in which he is hiding himself; he
remembers and repeats the sound which he has heard. The love of imitation becomes a
passion and an instinct to him. Primitive men learnt to speak from one another, like a
child from its mother or nurse. They learnt of course a rudimentary, half-articulate
language, the cry or song or speech which was the expression of what we now call
human thoughts and feelings. We may still remark how much greater and more natural
the exercise of the power is in the use of language than in any other process or action of
the human mind.
ii. Imitation provided the first material of language: but it was ‘without form and void.’
During how many years or hundreds or thousands of years the imitative or halfarticulate
stage continued there is no possibility of determining. But we may reasonably
conjecture that there was a time when the vocal utterance of man was intermediate
between what we now call language and the cry of a bird or animal. Speech before
language was a rudis indigestaque materies, not yet distributed into words and
sentences, in which the cry of fear or joy mingled with more definite sounds recognized
by custom as the expressions of things or events. It was the principle of analogy which
introduced into this ‘indigesta moles’ order and measure. It was Anaxagoras’ omou
panta chremata, eita nous elthon diekosmese: the light of reason lighted up all things
and at once began to arrange them. In every sentence, in every word and every
termination of a word, this power of forming relations to one another was contained.
There was a proportion of sound to sound, of meaning to meaning, of meaning to
sound. The cases and numbers of nouns, the persons, tenses, numbers of verbs, were
generally on the same or nearly the same pattern and had the same meaning. The
sounds by which they were expressed were rough-hewn at first; after a while they grew
more refined—the natural laws of euphony began to affect them. The rules of syntax are
likewise based upon analogy. Time has an analogy with space, arithmetic with geometry.
Not only in musical notes, but in the quantity, quality, accent, rhythm of human speech,
trivial or serious, there is a law of proportion. As in things of beauty, as in all nature, in
the composition as well as in the motion of all things, there is a similarity of relations by
which they are held together.
It would be a mistake to suppose that the analogies of language are always uniform:
there may be often a choice between several, and sometimes one and sometimes
another will prevail. In Greek there are three declensions of nouns; the forms of cases in
one of them may intrude upon another. Similarly verbs in —omega and —mu iota
interchange forms of tenses, and the completed paradigm of the verb is often made up
of both. The same nouns may be partly declinable and partly indeclinable, and in some
of their cases may have fallen out of use. Here are rules with exceptions; they are not
however really exceptions, but contain in themselves indications of other rules. Many of
these interruptions or variations of analogy occur in pronouns or in the verb of existence
of which the forms were too common and therefore too deeply imbedded in language
entirely to drop out. The same verbs in the same meaning may sometimes take one
case, sometimes another. The participle may also have the character of an adjective, the
adverb either of an adjective or of a preposition. These exceptions are as regular as the
rules, but the causes of them are seldom known to us.
Language, like the animal and vegetable worlds, is everywhere intersected by the lines
of analogy. Like number from which it seems to be derived, the principle of analogy
opens the eyes of men to discern the similarities and differences of things, and their
relations to one another. At first these are such as lie on the surface only; after a time
they are seen by men to reach farther down into the nature of things. Gradually in
language they arrange themselves into a sort of imperfect system; groups of personal
and case endings are placed side by side. The fertility of language produces many more
than are wanted; and the superfluous ones are utilized by the assignment to them of
new meanings. The vacuity and the superfluity are thus partially compensated by each
other. It must be remembered that in all the languages which have a literature, certainly
in Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, we are not at the beginning but almost at the end of the
linguistic process; we have reached a time when the verb and the noun are nearly
perfected, though in no language did they completely perfect themselves, because for
some unknown reason the motive powers of languages seem to have ceased when they
were on the eve of completion: they became fixed or crystallized in an imperfect form
either from the influence of writing and literature, or because no further differentiation
of them was required for the intelligibility of language. So not without admixture and
confusion and displacement and contamination of sounds and the meanings of words, a
lower stage of language passes into a higher. Thus far we can see and no further. When
we ask the reason why this principle of analogy prevails in all the vast domain of
language, there is no answer to the question; or no other answer but this, that there are
innumerable ways in which, like number, analogy permeates, not only language, but the
whole world, both visible and intellectual. We know from experience that it does not (a)
arise from any conscious act of reflection that the accusative of a Latin noun in ‘us’
should end in ‘um;’ nor (b) from any necessity of being understood,—much less
articulation would suffice for this; nor (c) from greater convenience or expressiveness of
particular sounds. Such notions were certainly far enough away from the mind of
primitive man. We may speak of a latent instinct, of a survival of the fittest, easiest, most
euphonic, most economical of breath, in the case of one of two competing sounds; but
these expressions do not add anything to our knowledge. We may try to grasp the
infinity of language either under the figure of a limitless plain divided into countries and
districts by natural boundaries, or of a vast river eternally flowing whose origin is
concealed from us; we may apprehend partially the laws by which speech is regulated:
but we do not know, and we seem as if we should never know, any more than in the
parallel case of the origin of species, how vocal sounds received life and grew, and in the
form of languages came to be distributed over the earth.
iii. Next in order to analogy in the formation of language or even prior to it comes the
principle of onomatopea, which is itself a kind of analogy or similarity of sound and
meaning. In by far the greater number of words it has become disguised and has
disappeared; but in no stage of language is it entirely lost. It belongs chiefly to early
language, in which words were few; and its influence grew less and less as time went on.
To the ear which had a sense of harmony it became a barbarism which disturbed the
flow and equilibrium of discourse; it was an excrescence which had to be cut out, a
survival which needed to be got rid of, because it was out of keeping with the rest. It
remained for the most part only as a formative principle, which used words and letters
not as crude imitations of other natural sounds, but as symbols of ideas which were
naturally associated with them. It received in another way a new character; it affected
not so much single words, as larger portions of human speech. It regulated the
juxtaposition of sounds and the cadence of sentences. It was the music, not of song, but
of speech, in prose as well as verse. The old onomatopea of primitive language was
refined into an onomatopea of a higher kind, in which it is no longer true to say that a
particular sound corresponds to a motion or action of man or beast or movement of
nature, but that in all the higher uses of language the sound is the echo of the sense,
especially in poetry, in which beauty and expressiveness are given to human thoughts
by the harmonious composition of the words, syllables, letters, accents, quantities,
rhythms, rhymes, varieties and contrasts of all sorts. The poet with his ‘Break, break,
break’ or his e pasin nekuessi kataphthimenoisin anassein or his ‘longius ex altoque
sinum trahit,’ can produce a far finer music than any crude imitations of things or
actions in sound, although a letter or two having this imitative power may be a lesser
element of beauty in such passages. The same subtle sensibility, which adapts the word
to the thing, adapts the sentence or cadence to the general meaning or spirit of the
passage. This is the higher onomatopea which has banished the cruder sort as unworthy
to have a place in great languages and literatures.
We can see clearly enough that letters or collocations of letters do by various degrees of
strength or weakness, length or shortness, emphasis or pitch, become the natural
expressions of the finer parts of human feeling or thought. And not only so, but letters
themselves have a significance; as Plato observes that the letter rho accent is expressive
of motion, the letters delta and tau of binding and rest, the letter lambda of
smoothness, nu of inwardness, the letter eta of length, the letter omicron of roundness.
These were often combined so as to form composite notions, as for example in tromos
(trembling), trachus (rugged), thrauein (crush), krouein (strike), thruptein (break),
pumbein (whirl),—in all which words we notice a parallel composition of sounds in their
English equivalents. Plato also remarks, as we remark, that the onomatopoetic principle
is far from prevailing uniformly, and further that no explanation of language consistently
corresponds with any system of philosophy, however great may be the light which
language throws upon the nature of the mind. Both in Greek and English we find groups
of words such as string, swing, sling, spring, sting, which are parallel to one another and
may be said to derive their vocal effect partly from contrast of letters, but in which it is
impossible to assign a precise amount of meaning to each of the expressive and
onomatopoetic letters. A few of them are directly imitative, as for example the omega in
oon, which represents the round form of the egg by the figure of the mouth: or bronte
(thunder), in which the fulness of the sound of the word corresponds to the thing
signified by it; or bombos (buzzing), of which the first syllable, as in its English
equivalent, has the meaning of a deep sound. We may observe also (as we see in the
case of the poor stammerer) that speech has the co-operation of the whole body and
may be often assisted or half expressed by gesticulation. A sound or word is not the
work of the vocal organs only; nearly the whole of the upper part of the human frame,
including head, chest, lungs, have a share in creating it; and it may be accompanied by a
movement of the eyes, nose, fingers, hands, feet which contributes to the effect of it.
The principle of onomatopea has fallen into discredit, partly because it has been
supposed to imply an actual manufacture of words out of syllables and letters, like a
piece of joiner’s work,—a theory of language which is more and more refuted by facts,
and more and more going out of fashion with philologians; and partly also because the
traces of onomatopea in separate words become almost obliterated in the course of
ages. The poet of language cannot put in and pull out letters, as a painter might insert
or blot out a shade of colour to give effect to his picture. It would be ridiculous for him
to alter any received form of a word in order to render it more expressive of the sense.
He can only select, perhaps out of some dialect, the form which is already best adapted
to his purpose. The true onomatopea is not a creative, but a formative principle, which
in the later stage of the history of language ceases to act upon individual words; but still
works through the collocation of them in the sentence or paragraph, and the adaptation
of every word, syllable, letter to one another and to the rhythm of the whole passage.
iv. Next, under a distinct head, although not separable from the preceding, may be
considered the differentiation of languages, i.e. the manner in which differences of
meaning and form have arisen in them. Into their first creation we have ceased to
enquire: it is their aftergrowth with which we are now concerned. How did the roots or
substantial portions of words become modified or inflected? and how did they receive
separate meanings? First we remark that words are attracted by the sounds and senses
of other words, so that they form groups of nouns and verbs analogous in sound and
sense to one another, each noun or verb putting forth inflexions, generally of two or
three patterns, and with exceptions. We do not say that we know how sense became
first allied to sound; but we have no difficulty in ascertaining how the sounds and
meanings of words were in time parted off or differentiated. (1) The chief causes which
regulate the variations of sound are (a) double or differing analogies, which lead
sometimes to one form, sometimes to another (b) euphony, by which is meant chiefly
the greater pleasure to the ear and the greater facility to the organs of speech which is
given by a new formation or pronunciation of a word (c) the necessity of finding new
expressions for new classes or processes of things. We are told that changes of sound
take place by innumerable gradations until a whole tribe or community or society find
themselves acquiescing in a new pronunciation or use of language. Yet no one observes
the change, or is at all aware that in the course of a lifetime he and his contemporaries
have appreciably varied their intonation or use of words. On the other hand, the
necessities of language seem to require that the intermediate sounds or meanings of
words should quickly become fixed or set and not continue in a state of transition. The
process of settling down is aided by the organs of speech and by the use of writing and
printing. (2) The meaning of words varies because ideas vary or the number of things
which is included under them or with which they are associated is increased. A single
word is thus made to do duty for many more things than were formerly expressed by it;
and it parts into different senses when the classes of things or ideas which are
represented by it are themselves different and distinct. A figurative use of a word may
easily pass into a new sense: a new meaning caught up by association may become
more important than all the rest. The good or neutral sense of a word, such as Jesuit,
Puritan, Methodist, Heretic, has been often converted into a bad one by the
malevolence of party spirit. Double forms suggest different meanings and are often
used to express them; and the form or accent of a word has been not unfrequently
altered when there is a difference of meaning. The difference of gender in nouns is
utilized for the same reason. New meanings of words push themselves into the vacant
spaces of language and retire when they are no longer needed. Language equally
abhors vacancy and superfluity. But the remedial measures by which both are eliminated
are not due to any conscious action of the human mind; nor is the force exerted by
them constraining or necessary.
(7) We have shown that language, although subject to laws, is far from being of an exact
and uniform nature. We may now speak briefly of the faults of language. They may be
compared to the faults of Geology, in which different strata cross one another or meet
at an angle, or mix with one another either by slow transitions or by violent convulsions,
leaving many lacunae which can be no longer filled up, and often becoming so complex
that no true explanation of them can be given. So in language there are the cross
influences of meaning and sound, of logic and grammar, of differing analogies, of words
and the inflexions of words, which often come into conflict with each other. The
grammarian, if he were to form new words, would make them all of the same pattern
according to what he conceives to be the rule, that is, the more common usage of
language. The subtlety of nature goes far beyond art, and it is complicated by
irregularity, so that often we can hardly say that there is a right or wrong in the
formation of words. For almost any formation which is not at variance with the first
principles of language is possible and may be defended.
The imperfection of language is really due to the formation and correlation of words by
accident, that is to say, by principles which are unknown to us. Hence we see why Plato,
like ourselves unable to comprehend the whole of language, was constrained to
‘supplement the poor creature imitation by another poor creature convention.’ But the
poor creature convention in the end proves too much for all the rest: for we do not ask
what is the origin of words or whether they are formed according to a correct analogy,
but what is the usage of them; and we are compelled to admit with Hermogenes in
Plato and with Horace that usage is the ruling principle, ‘quem penes arbitrium est, et
jus et norma loquendi.’
(8) There are two ways in which a language may attain permanence or fixity. First, it may
have been embodied in poems or hymns or laws, which may be repeated for hundreds,
perhaps for thousands of years with a religious accuracy, so that to the priests or
rhapsodists of a nation the whole or the greater part of a language is literally preserved;
secondly, it may be written down and in a written form distributed more or less widely
among the whole nation. In either case the language which is familiarly spoken may
have grown up wholly or in a great measure independently of them. (1) The first of
these processes has been sometimes attended by the result that the sound of the words
has been carefully preserved and that the meaning of them has either perished wholly,
or is only doubtfully recovered by the efforts of modern philology. The verses have been
repeated as a chant or part of a ritual, but they have had no relation to ordinary life or
speech. (2) The invention of writing again is commonly attributed to a particular epoch,
and we are apt to think that such an inestimable gift would have immediately been
diffused over a whole country. But it may have taken a long time to perfect the art of
writing, and another long period may have elapsed before it came into common use. Its
influence on language has been increased ten, twenty or one hundred fold by the
invention of printing.
Before the growth of poetry or the invention of writing, languages were only dialects. So
they continued to be in parts of the country in which writing was not used or in which
there was no diffusion of literature. In most of the counties of England there is still a
provincial style, which has been sometimes made by a great poet the vehicle of his
fancies. When a book sinks into the mind of a nation, such as Luther’s Bible or the
Authorized English Translation of the Bible, or again great classical works like Shakspere
or Milton, not only have new powers of expression been diffused through a whole
nation, but a great step towards uniformity has been made. The instinct of language
demands regular grammar and correct spelling: these are imprinted deeply on the
tablets of a nation’s memory by a common use of classical and popular writers. In our
own day we have attained to a point at which nearly every printed book is spelt correctly
and written grammatically.
(9) Proceeding further to trace the influence of literature on language we note some
other causes which have affected the higher use of it: such as (1) the necessity of
clearness and connexion; (2) the fear of tautology; (3) the influence of metre, rhythm,
rhyme, and of the language of prose and verse upon one another; (4) the power of
idiom and quotation; (5) the relativeness of words to one another.
It has been usual to depreciate modern languages when compared with ancient. The
latter are regarded as furnishing a type of excellence to which the former cannot attain.
But the truth seems to be that modern languages, if through the loss of inflections and
genders they lack some power or beauty or expressiveness or precision which is
possessed by the ancient, are in many other respects superior to them: the thought is
generally clearer, the connexion closer, the sentence and paragraph are better
distributed. The best modern languages, for example English or French, possess as great
a power of self-improvement as the Latin, if not as the Greek. Nor does there seem to
be any reason why they should ever decline or decay. It is a popular remark that our
great writers are beginning to disappear: it may also be remarked that whenever a great
writer appears in the future he will find the English language as perfect and as ready for
use as in the days of Shakspere or Milton. There is no reason to suppose that English or
French will ever be reduced to the low level of Modern Greek or of Mediaeval Latin. The
wide diffusion of great authors would make such a decline impossible. Nor will modern
languages be easily broken up by amalgamation with each other. The distance between
them is too wide to be spanned, the differences are too great to be overcome, and the
use of printing makes it impossible that one of them should ever be lost in another.
The structure of the English language differs greatly from that of either Latin or Greek. In
the two latter, especially in Greek, sentences are joined together by connecting particles.
They are distributed on the right hand and on the left by men, de, alla, kaitoi, kai de and
the like, or deduced from one another by ara, de, oun, toinun and the like. In English the
majority of sentences are independent and in apposition to one another; they are laid
side by side or slightly connected by the copula. But within the sentence the expression
of the logical relations of the clauses is closer and more exact: there is less of apposition
and participial structure. The sentences thus laid side by side are also constructed into
paragraphs; these again are less distinctly marked in Greek and Latin than in English.
Generally French, German, and English have an advantage over the classical languages
in point of accuracy. The three concords are more accurately observed in English than in
either Greek or Latin. On the other hand, the extension of the familiar use of the
masculine and feminine gender to objects of sense and abstract ideas as well as to men
and animals no doubt lends a nameless grace to style which we have a difficulty in
appreciating, and the possible variety in the order of words gives more flexibility and
also a kind of dignity to the period. Of the comparative effect of accent and quantity
and of the relation between them in ancient and modern languages we are not able to
judge.
Another quality in which modern are superior to ancient languages is freedom from
tautology. No English style is thought tolerable in which, except for the sake of
emphasis, the same words are repeated at short intervals. Of course the length of the
interval must depend on the character of the word. Striking words and expressions
cannot be allowed to reappear, if at all, except at the distance of a page or more.
Pronouns, prepositions, conjunctions may or rather must recur in successive lines. It
seems to be a kind of impertinence to the reader and strikes unpleasantly both on the
mind and on the ear that the same sounds should be used twice over, when another
word or turn of expression would have given a new shade of meaning to the thought
and would have added a pleasing variety to the sound. And the mind equally rejects the
repetition of the word and the use of a mere synonym for it,—e.g. felicity and happiness.
The cultivated mind desires something more, which a skilful writer is easily able to
supply out of his treasure-house.
The fear of tautology has doubtless led to the multiplications of words and the
meanings of words, and generally to an enlargement of the vocabulary. It is a very early
instinct of language; for ancient poetry is almost as free from tautology as the best
modern writings. The speech of young children, except in so far as they are compelled
to repeat themselves by the fewness of their words, also escapes from it. When they
grow up and have ideas which are beyond their powers of expression, especially in
writing, tautology begins to appear. In like manner when language is ‘contaminated’ by
philosophy it is apt to become awkward, to stammer and repeat itself, to lose its flow
and freedom. No philosophical writer with the exception of Plato, who is himself not
free from tautology, and perhaps Bacon, has attained to any high degree of literary
excellence.
To poetry the form and polish of language is chiefly to be attributed; and the most
critical period in the history of language is the transition from verse to prose. At first
mankind were contented to express their thoughts in a set form of words having a kind
of rhythm; to which regularity was given by accent and quantity. But after a time they
demanded a greater degree of freedom, and to those who had all their life been hearing
poetry the first introduction of prose had the charm of novelty. The prose romances into
which the Homeric Poems were converted, for a while probably gave more delight to
the hearers or readers of them than the Poems themselves, and in time the relation of
the two was reversed: the poems which had once been a necessity of the human mind
became a luxury: they were now superseded by prose, which in all succeeding ages
became the natural vehicle of expression to all mankind. Henceforward prose and
poetry formed each other. A comparatively slender link between them was also
furnished by proverbs. We may trace in poetry how the simple succession of lines, not
without monotony, has passed into a complicated period, and how in prose, rhythm and
accent and the order of words and the balance of clauses, sometimes not without a
slight admixture of rhyme, make up a new kind of harmony, swelling into strains not less
majestic than those of Homer, Virgil, or Dante.
One of the most curious and characteristic features of language, affecting both syntax
and style, is idiom. The meaning of the word ‘idiom’ is that which is peculiar, that which
is familiar, the word or expression which strikes us or comes home to us, which is more
readily understood or more easily remembered. It is a quality which really exists in
infinite degrees, which we turn into differences of kind by applying the term only to
conspicuous and striking examples of words or phrases which have this quality. It often
supersedes the laws of language or the rules of grammar, or rather is to be regarded as
another law of language which is natural and necessary. The word or phrase which has
been repeated many times over is more intelligible and familiar to us than one which is
rare, and our familiarity with it more than compensates for incorrectness or inaccuracy in
the use of it. Striking expressions also which have moved the hearts of nations or are the
precious stones and jewels of great authors partake of the nature of idioms: they are
taken out of the sphere of grammar and are exempt from the proprieties of language.
Every one knows that we often put words together in a manner which would be
intolerable if it were not idiomatic. We cannot argue either about the meaning of words
or the use of constructions that because they are used in one connexion they will be
legitimate in another, unless we allow for this principle. We can bear to have words and
sentences used in new senses or in a new order or even a little perverted in meaning
when we are quite familiar with them. Quotations are as often applied in a sense which
the author did not intend as in that which he did. The parody of the words of Shakspere
or of the Bible, which has in it something of the nature of a lie, is far from unpleasing to
us. The better known words, even if their meaning be perverted, are more agreeable to
us and have a greater power over us. Most of us have experienced a sort of delight and
feeling of curiosity when we first came across or when we first used for ourselves a new
word or phrase or figure of speech.
There are associations of sound and of sense by which every word is linked to every
other. One letter harmonizes with another; every verb or noun derives its meaning, not
only from itself, but from the words with which it is associated. Some reflection of them
near or distant is embodied in it. In any new use of a word all the existing uses of it have
to be considered. Upon these depends the question whether it will bear the proposed
extension of meaning or not. According to the famous expression of Luther, ‘Words are
living creatures, having hands and feet.’ When they cease to retain this living power of
adaptation, when they are only put together like the parts of a piece of furniture,
language becomes unpoetical, in expressive, dead.
Grammars would lead us to suppose that words have a fixed form and sound. Lexicons
assign to each word a definite meaning or meanings. They both tend to obscure the fact
that the sentence precedes the word and that all language is relative. (1) It is relative to
its own context. Its meaning is modified by what has been said before and after in the
same or in some other passage: without comparing the context we are not sure whether
it is used in the same sense even in two successive sentences. (2) It is relative to facts, to
time, place, and occasion: when they are already known to the hearer or reader, they
may be presupposed; there is no need to allude to them further. (3) It is relative to the
knowledge of the writer and reader or of the speaker and hearer. Except for the sake of
order and consecutiveness nothing ought to be expressed which is already commonly or
universally known. A word or two may be sufficient to give an intimation to a friend; a
long or elaborate speech or composition is required to explain some new idea to a
popular audience or to the ordinary reader or to a young pupil. Grammars and
dictionaries are not to be despised; for in teaching we need clearness rather than
subtlety. But we must not therefore forget that there is also a higher ideal of language in
which all is relative—sounds to sounds, words to words, the parts to the whole—in
which besides the lesser context of the book or speech, there is also the larger context
of history and circumstances.
The study of Comparative Philology has introduced into the world a new science which
more than any other binds up man with nature, and distant ages and countries with one
another. It may be said to have thrown a light upon all other sciences and upon the
nature of the human mind itself. The true conception of it dispels many errors, not only
of metaphysics and theology, but also of natural knowledge. Yet it is far from certain
that this newly-found science will continue to progress in the same surprising manner as
heretofore; or that even if our materials are largely increased, we shall arrive at much
more definite conclusions than at present. Like some other branches of knowledge, it
may be approaching a point at which it can no longer be profitably studied. But at any
rate it has brought back the philosophy of language from theory to fact; it has passed
out of the region of guesses and hypotheses, and has attained the dignity of an
Inductive Science. And it is not without practical and political importance. It gives a new
interest to distant and subject countries; it brings back the dawning light from one end
of the earth to the other. Nations, like individuals, are better understood by us when we
know something of their early life; and when they are better understood by us, we feel
more kindly towards them. Lastly, we may remember that all knowledge is valuable for
its own sake; and we may also hope that a deeper insight into the nature of human
speech will give us a greater command of it and enable us to make a nobler use of it.
(Compare again W. Humboldt, ‘Ueber die Verschiedenheit des menschlichen
Sprachbaues;’ M. Muller, ‘Lectures on the Science of Language;’ Steinthal, ‘Einleitung in
die Psychologie und Sprachwissenschaft:’ and for the latter part of the Essay, Delbruck,
‘Study of Language;’ Paul’s ‘Principles of the History of Language:’ to the latter work the
author of this Essay is largely indebted.)
CRATYLUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Hermogenes, Cratylus.
HERMOGENES: Suppose that we make Socrates a party to the argument?
CRATYLUS: If you please.
HERMOGENES: I should explain to you, Socrates, that our friend Cratylus has been
arguing about names; he says that they are natural and not conventional; not a portion
of the human voice which men agree to use; but that there is a truth or correctness in
them, which is the same for Hellenes as for barbarians. Whereupon I ask him, whether
his own name of Cratylus is a true name or not, and he answers ‘Yes.’ And Socrates?
‘Yes.’ Then every man’s name, as I tell him, is that which he is called. To this he replies—
‘If all the world were to call you Hermogenes, that would not be your name.’ And when I
am anxious to have a further explanation he is ironical and mysterious, and seems to
imply that he has a notion of his own about the matter, if he would only tell, and could
entirely convince me, if he chose to be intelligible. Tell me, Socrates, what this oracle
means; or rather tell me, if you will be so good, what is your own view of the truth or
correctness of names, which I would far sooner hear.
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, there is an ancient saying, that ‘hard is the knowledge of
the good.’ And the knowledge of names is a great part of knowledge. If I had not been
poor, I might have heard the fifty-drachma course of the great Prodicus, which is a
complete education in grammar and language—these are his own words—and then I
should have been at once able to answer your question about the correctness of names.
But, indeed, I have only heard the single-drachma course, and therefore, I do not know
the truth about such matters; I will, however, gladly assist you and Cratylus in the
investigation of them. When he declares that your name is not really Hermogenes, I
suspect that he is only making fun of you;—he means to say that you are no true son of
Hermes, because you are always looking after a fortune and never in luck. But, as I was
saying, there is a good deal of difficulty in this sort of knowledge, and therefore we had
better leave the question open until we have heard both sides.
HERMOGENES: I have often talked over this matter, both with Cratylus and others, and
cannot convince myself that there is any principle of correctness in names other than
convention and agreement; any name which you give, in my opinion, is the right one,
and if you change that and give another, the new name is as correct as the old—we
frequently change the names of our slaves, and the newly-imposed name is as good as
the old: for there is no name given to anything by nature; all is convention and habit of
the users;—such is my view. But if I am mistaken I shall be happy to hear and learn of
Cratylus, or of any one else.
SOCRATES: I dare say that you may be right, Hermogenes: let us see;—Your meaning is,
that the name of each thing is only that which anybody agrees to call it?
HERMOGENES: That is my notion.
SOCRATES: Whether the giver of the name be an individual or a city?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Well, now, let me take an instance;—suppose that I call a man a horse or a
horse a man, you mean to say that a man will be rightly called a horse by me
individually, and rightly called a man by the rest of the world; and a horse again would
be rightly called a man by me and a horse by the world:—that is your meaning?
HERMOGENES: He would, according to my view.
SOCRATES: But how about truth, then? you would acknowledge that there is in words a
true and a false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And there are true and false propositions?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And a true proposition says that which is, and a false proposition says that
which is not?
HERMOGENES: Yes; what other answer is possible?
SOCRATES: Then in a proposition there is a true and false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But is a proposition true as a whole only, and are the parts untrue?
HERMOGENES: No; the parts are true as well as the whole.
SOCRATES: Would you say the large parts and not the smaller ones, or every part?
HERMOGENES: I should say that every part is true.
SOCRATES: Is a proposition resolvable into any part smaller than a name?
HERMOGENES: No; that is the smallest.
SOCRATES: Then the name is a part of the true proposition?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Yes, and a true part, as you say.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is not the part of a falsehood also a falsehood?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then, if propositions may be true and false, names may be true and false?
HERMOGENES: So we must infer.
SOCRATES: And the name of anything is that which any one affirms to be the name?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And will there be so many names of each thing as everybody says that there
are? and will they be true names at the time of uttering them?
HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates, I can conceive no correctness of names other than this;
you give one name, and I another; and in different cities and countries there are
different names for the same things; Hellenes differ from barbarians in their use of
names, and the several Hellenic tribes from one another.
SOCRATES: But would you say, Hermogenes, that the things differ as the names differ?
and are they relative to individuals, as Protagoras tells us? For he says that man is the
measure of all things, and that things are to me as they appear to me, and that they are
to you as they appear to you. Do you agree with him, or would you say that things have
a permanent essence of their own?
HERMOGENES: There have been times, Socrates, when I have been driven in my
perplexity to take refuge with Protagoras; not that I agree with him at all.
SOCRATES: What! have you ever been driven to admit that there was no such thing as a
bad man?
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but I have often had reason to think that there are very bad
men, and a good many of them.
SOCRATES: Well, and have you ever found any very good ones?
HERMOGENES: Not many.
SOCRATES: Still you have found them?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And would you hold that the very good were the very wise, and the very evil
very foolish? Would that be your view?
HERMOGENES: It would.
SOCRATES: But if Protagoras is right, and the truth is that things are as they appear to
any one, how can some of us be wise and some of us foolish?
HERMOGENES: Impossible.
SOCRATES: And if, on the other hand, wisdom and folly are really distinguishable, you
will allow, I think, that the assertion of Protagoras can hardly be correct. For if what
appears to each man is true to him, one man cannot in reality be wiser than another.
HERMOGENES: He cannot.
SOCRATES: Nor will you be disposed to say with Euthydemus, that all things equally
belong to all men at the same moment and always; for neither on his view can there be
some good and others bad, if virtue and vice are always equally to be attributed to all.
HERMOGENES: There cannot.
SOCRATES: But if neither is right, and things are not relative to individuals, and all things
do not equally belong to all at the same moment and always, they must be supposed to
have their own proper and permanent essence: they are not in relation to us, or
influenced by us, fluctuating according to our fancy, but they are independent, and
maintain to their own essence the relation prescribed by nature.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you have said the truth.
SOCRATES: Does what I am saying apply only to the things themselves, or equally to the
actions which proceed from them? Are not actions also a class of being?
HERMOGENES: Yes, the actions are real as well as the things.
SOCRATES: Then the actions also are done according to their proper nature, and not
according to our opinion of them? In cutting, for example, we do not cut as we please,
and with any chance instrument; but we cut with the proper instrument only, and
according to the natural process of cutting; and the natural process is right and will
succeed, but any other will fail and be of no use at all.
HERMOGENES: I should say that the natural way is the right way.
SOCRATES: Again, in burning, not every way is the right way; but the right way is the
natural way, and the right instrument the natural instrument.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And this holds good of all actions?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And speech is a kind of action?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And will a man speak correctly who speaks as he pleases? Will not the
successful speaker rather be he who speaks in the natural way of speaking, and as
things ought to be spoken, and with the natural instrument? Any other mode of
speaking will result in error and failure.
HERMOGENES: I quite agree with you.
SOCRATES: And is not naming a part of speaking? for in giving names men speak.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: And if speaking is a sort of action and has a relation to acts, is not naming
also a sort of action?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And we saw that actions were not relative to ourselves, but had a special
nature of their own?
HERMOGENES: Precisely.
SOCRATES: Then the argument would lead us to infer that names ought to be given
according to a natural process, and with a proper instrument, and not at our pleasure: in
this and no other way shall we name with success.
HERMOGENES: I agree.
SOCRATES: But again, that which has to be cut has to be cut with something?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And that which has to be woven or pierced has to be woven or pierced with
something?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And that which has to be named has to be named with something?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: What is that with which we pierce?
HERMOGENES: An awl.
SOCRATES: And with which we weave?
HERMOGENES: A shuttle.
SOCRATES: And with which we name?
HERMOGENES: A name.
SOCRATES: Very good: then a name is an instrument?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Suppose that I ask, ‘What sort of instrument is a shuttle?’ And you answer, ‘A
weaving instrument.’
HERMOGENES: Well.
SOCRATES: And I ask again, ‘What do we do when we weave?’—The answer is, that we
separate or disengage the warp from the woof.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And may not a similar description be given of an awl, and of instruments in
general?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And now suppose that I ask a similar question about names: will you answer
me? Regarding the name as an instrument, what do we do when we name?
HERMOGENES: I cannot say.
SOCRATES: Do we not give information to one another, and distinguish things
according to their natures?
HERMOGENES: Certainly we do.
SOCRATES: Then a name is an instrument of teaching and of distinguishing natures, as
the shuttle is of distinguishing the threads of the web.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the shuttle is the instrument of the weaver?
HERMOGENES: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: Then the weaver will use the shuttle well—and well means like a weaver?
and the teacher will use the name well—and well means like a teacher?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And when the weaver uses the shuttle, whose work will he be using well?
HERMOGENES: That of the carpenter.
SOCRATES: And is every man a carpenter, or the skilled only?
HERMOGENES: Only the skilled.
SOCRATES: And when the piercer uses the awl, whose work will he be using well?
HERMOGENES: That of the smith.
SOCRATES: And is every man a smith, or only the skilled?
HERMOGENES: The skilled only.
SOCRATES: And when the teacher uses the name, whose work will he be using?
HERMOGENES: There again I am puzzled.
SOCRATES: Cannot you at least say who gives us the names which we use?
HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.
SOCRATES: Does not the law seem to you to give us them?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I suppose so.
SOCRATES: Then the teacher, when he gives us a name, uses the work of the legislator?
HERMOGENES: I agree.
SOCRATES: And is every man a legislator, or the skilled only?
HERMOGENES: The skilled only.
SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, not every man is able to give a name, but only a maker
of names; and this is the legislator, who of all skilled artisans in the world is the rarest.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And how does the legislator make names? and to what does he look?
Consider this in the light of the previous instances: to what does the carpenter look in
making the shuttle? Does he not look to that which is naturally fitted to act as a shuttle?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And suppose the shuttle to be broken in making, will he make another,
looking to the broken one? or will he look to the form according to which he made the
other?
HERMOGENES: To the latter, I should imagine.
SOCRATES: Might not that be justly called the true or ideal shuttle?
HERMOGENES: I think so.
SOCRATES: And whatever shuttles are wanted, for the manufacture of garments, thin or
thick, of flaxen, woollen, or other material, ought all of them to have the true form of the
shuttle; and whatever is the shuttle best adapted to each kind of work, that ought to be
the form which the maker produces in each case.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the same holds of other instruments: when a man has discovered the
instrument which is naturally adapted to each work, he must express this natural form,
and not others which he fancies, in the material, whatever it may be, which he employs;
for example, he ought to know how to put into iron the forms of awls adapted by nature
to their several uses?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And how to put into wood forms of shuttles adapted by nature to their
uses?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: For the several forms of shuttles naturally answer to the several kinds of
webs; and this is true of instruments in general.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then, as to names: ought not our legislator also to know how to put the true
natural name of each thing into sounds and syllables, and to make and give all names
with a view to the ideal name, if he is to be a namer in any true sense? And we must
remember that different legislators will not use the same syllables. For neither does
every smith, although he may be making the same instrument for the same purpose,
make them all of the same iron. The form must be the same, but the material may vary,
and still the instrument may be equally good of whatever iron made, whether in Hellas
or in a foreign country;—there is no difference.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And the legislator, whether he be Hellene or barbarian, is not therefore to be
deemed by you a worse legislator, provided he gives the true and proper form of the
name in whatever syllables; this or that country makes no matter.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: But who then is to determine whether the proper form is given to the
shuttle, whatever sort of wood may be used? the carpenter who makes, or the weaver
who is to use them?
HERMOGENES: I should say, he who is to use them, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And who uses the work of the lyre-maker? Will not he be the man who
knows how to direct what is being done, and who will know also whether the work is
being well done or not?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And who is he?
HERMOGENES: The player of the lyre.
SOCRATES: And who will direct the shipwright?
HERMOGENES: The pilot.
SOCRATES: And who will be best able to direct the legislator in his work, and will know
whether the work is well done, in this or any other country? Will not the user be the
man?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this is he who knows how to ask questions?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And how to answer them?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And him who knows how to ask and answer you would call a dialectician?
HERMOGENES: Yes; that would be his name.
SOCRATES: Then the work of the carpenter is to make a rudder, and the pilot has to
direct him, if the rudder is to be well made.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And the work of the legislator is to give names, and the dialectician must be
his director if the names are to be rightly given?
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then, Hermogenes, I should say that this giving of names can be no such
light matter as you fancy, or the work of light or chance persons; and Cratylus is right in
saying that things have names by nature, and that not every man is an artificer of
names, but he only who looks to the name which each thing by nature has, and is able
to express the true forms of things in letters and syllables.
HERMOGENES: I cannot answer you, Socrates; but I find a difficulty in changing my
opinion all in a moment, and I think that I should be more readily persuaded, if you
would show me what this is which you term the natural fitness of names.
SOCRATES: My good Hermogenes, I have none to show. Was I not telling you just now
(but you have forgotten), that I knew nothing, and proposing to share the enquiry with
you? But now that you and I have talked over the matter, a step has been gained; for we
have discovered that names have by nature a truth, and that not every man knows how
to give a thing a name.
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: And what is the nature of this truth or correctness of names? That, if you
care to know, is the next question.
HERMOGENES: Certainly, I care to know.
SOCRATES: Then reflect.
HERMOGENES: How shall I reflect?
SOCRATES: The true way is to have the assistance of those who know, and you must pay
them well both in money and in thanks; these are the Sophists, of whom your brother,
Callias, has—rather dearly—bought the reputation of wisdom. But you have not yet
come into your inheritance, and therefore you had better go to him, and beg and
entreat him to tell you what he has learnt from Protagoras about the fitness of names.
HERMOGENES: But how inconsistent should I be, if, whilst repudiating Protagoras and
his truth (‘Truth’ was the title of the book of Protagoras; compare Theaet.), I were to
attach any value to what he and his book affirm!
SOCRATES: Then if you despise him, you must learn of Homer and the poets.
HERMOGENES: And where does Homer say anything about names, and what does he
say?
SOCRATES: He often speaks of them; notably and nobly in the places where he
distinguishes the different names which Gods and men give to the same things. Does he
not in these passages make a remarkable statement about the correctness of names?
For the Gods must clearly be supposed to call things by their right and natural names;
do you not think so?
HERMOGENES: Why, of course they call them rightly, if they call them at all. But to what
are you referring?
SOCRATES: Do you not know what he says about the river in Troy who had a single
combat with Hephaestus?
‘Whom,’ as he says, ‘the Gods call Xanthus, and men call Scamander.’
HERMOGENES: I remember.
SOCRATES: Well, and about this river—to know that he ought to be called Xanthus and
not Scamander—is not that a solemn lesson? Or about the bird which, as he says,
‘The Gods call Chalcis, and men Cymindis:’
to be taught how much more correct the name Chalcis is than the name Cymindis—do
you deem that a light matter? Or about Batieia and Myrina? (Compare Il. ‘The hill which
men call Batieia and the immortals the tomb of the sportive Myrina.’) And there are
many other observations of the same kind in Homer and other poets. Now, I think that
this is beyond the understanding of you and me; but the names of Scamandrius and
Astyanax, which he affirms to have been the names of Hector’s son, are more within the
range of human faculties, as I am disposed to think; and what the poet means by
correctness may be more readily apprehended in that instance: you will remember I dare
say the lines to which I refer? (Il.)
HERMOGENES: I do.
SOCRATES: Let me ask you, then, which did Homer think the more correct of the names
given to Hector’s son—Astyanax or Scamandrius?
HERMOGENES: I do not know.
SOCRATES: How would you answer, if you were asked whether the wise or the unwise
are more likely to give correct names?
HERMOGENES: I should say the wise, of course.
SOCRATES: And are the men or the women of a city, taken as a class, the wiser?
HERMOGENES: I should say, the men.
SOCRATES: And Homer, as you know, says that the Trojan men called him Astyanax
(king of the city); but if the men called him Astyanax, the other name of Scamandrius
could only have been given to him by the women.
HERMOGENES: That may be inferred.
SOCRATES: And must not Homer have imagined the Trojans to be wiser than their
wives?
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: Then he must have thought Astyanax to be a more correct name for the boy
than Scamandrius?
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: And what is the reason of this? Let us consider:—does he not himself
suggest a very good reason, when he says,
‘For he alone defended their city and long walls’?
This appears to be a good reason for calling the son of the saviour king of the city which
his father was saving, as Homer observes.
HERMOGENES: I see.
SOCRATES: Why, Hermogenes, I do not as yet see myself; and do you?
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; not I.
SOCRATES: But tell me, friend, did not Homer himself also give Hector his name?
HERMOGENES: What of that?
SOCRATES: The name appears to me to be very nearly the same as the name of
Astyanax—both are Hellenic; and a king (anax) and a holder (ektor) have nearly the
same meaning, and are both descriptive of a king; for a man is clearly the holder of that
of which he is king; he rules, and owns, and holds it. But, perhaps, you may think that I
am talking nonsense; and indeed I believe that I myself did not know what I meant when
I imagined that I had found some indication of the opinion of Homer about the
correctness of names.
HERMOGENES: I assure you that I think otherwise, and I believe you to be on the right
track.
SOCRATES: There is reason, I think, in calling the lion’s whelp a lion, and the foal of a
horse a horse; I am speaking only of the ordinary course of nature, when an animal
produces after his kind, and not of extraordinary births;—if contrary to nature a horse
have a calf, then I should not call that a foal but a calf; nor do I call any inhuman birth a
man, but only a natural birth. And the same may be said of trees and other things. Do
you agree with me?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I agree.
SOCRATES: Very good. But you had better watch me and see that I do not play tricks
with you. For on the same principle the son of a king is to be called a king. And whether
the syllables of the name are the same or not the same, makes no difference, provided
the meaning is retained; nor does the addition or subtraction of a letter make any
difference so long as the essence of the thing remains in possession of the name and
appears in it.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: A very simple matter. I may illustrate my meaning by the names of letters,
which you know are not the same as the letters themselves with the exception of the
four epsilon, upsilon, omicron, omega; the names of the rest, whether vowels or
consonants, are made up of other letters which we add to them; but so long as we
introduce the meaning, and there can be no mistake, the name of the letter is quite
correct. Take, for example, the letter beta—the addition of eta, tau, alpha, gives no
offence, and does not prevent the whole name from having the value which the
legislator intended—so well did he know how to give the letters names.
HERMOGENES: I believe you are right.
SOCRATES: And may not the same be said of a king? a king will often be the son of a
king, the good son or the noble son of a good or noble sire; and similarly the offspring
of every kind, in the regular course of nature, is like the parent, and therefore has the
same name. Yet the syllables may be disguised until they appear different to the
ignorant person, and he may not recognize them, although they are the same, just as
any one of us would not recognize the same drugs under different disguises of colour
and smell, although to the physician, who regards the power of them, they are the same,
and he is not put out by the addition; and in like manner the etymologist is not put out
by the addition or transposition or subtraction of a letter or two, or indeed by the
change of all the letters, for this need not interfere with the meaning. As was just now
said, the names of Hector and Astyanax have only one letter alike, which is tau, and yet
they have the same meaning. And how little in common with the letters of their names
has Archepolis (ruler of the city)—and yet the meaning is the same. And there are many
other names which just mean ‘king.’ Again, there are several names for a general, as, for
example, Agis (leader) and Polemarchus (chief in war) and Eupolemus (good warrior);
and others which denote a physician, as Iatrocles (famous healer) and Acesimbrotus
(curer of mortals); and there are many others which might be cited, differing in their
syllables and letters, but having the same meaning. Would you not say so?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: The same names, then, ought to be assigned to those who follow in the
course of nature?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And what of those who follow out of the course of nature, and are
prodigies? for example, when a good and religious man has an irreligious son, he ought
to bear the name not of his father, but of the class to which he belongs, just as in the
case which was before supposed of a horse foaling a calf.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then the irreligious son of a religious father should be called irreligious?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: He should not be called Theophilus (beloved of God) or Mnesitheus (mindful
of God), or any of these names: if names are correctly given, his should have an opposite
meaning.
HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Again, Hermogenes, there is Orestes (the man of the mountains) who
appears to be rightly called; whether chance gave the name, or perhaps some poet who
meant to express the brutality and fierceness and mountain wildness of his hero’s
nature.
HERMOGENES: That is very likely, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And his father’s name is also according to nature.
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: Yes, for as his name, so also is his nature; Agamemnon (admirable for
remaining) is one who is patient and persevering in the accomplishment of his resolves,
and by his virtue crowns them; and his continuance at Troy with all the vast army is a
proof of that admirable endurance in him which is signified by the name Agamemnon. I
also think that Atreus is rightly called; for his murder of Chrysippus and his exceeding
cruelty to Thyestes are damaging and destructive to his reputation—the name is a little
altered and disguised so as not to be intelligible to every one, but to the etymologist
there is no difficulty in seeing the meaning, for whether you think of him as ateires the
stubborn, or as atrestos the fearless, or as ateros the destructive one, the name is
perfectly correct in every point of view. And I think that Pelops is also named
appropriately; for, as the name implies, he is rightly called Pelops who sees what is near
only (o ta pelas oron).
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: Because, according to the tradition, he had no forethought or foresight of all
the evil which the murder of Myrtilus would entail upon his whole race in remote ages;
he saw only what was at hand and immediate, —or in other words, pelas (near), in his
eagerness to win Hippodamia by all means for his bride. Every one would agree that the
name of Tantalus is rightly given and in accordance with nature, if the traditions about
him are true.
HERMOGENES: And what are the traditions?
SOCRATES: Many terrible misfortunes are said to have happened to him in his life—last
of all, came the utter ruin of his country; and after his death he had the stone suspended
(talanteia) over his head in the world below—all this agrees wonderfully well with his
name. You might imagine that some person who wanted to call him Talantatos (the
most weighted down by misfortune), disguised the name by altering it into Tantalus;
and into this form, by some accident of tradition, it has actually been transmuted. The
name of Zeus, who is his alleged father, has also an excellent meaning, although hard to
be understood, because really like a sentence, which is divided into two parts, for some
call him Zena, and use the one half, and others who use the other half call him Dia; the
two together signify the nature of the God, and the business of a name, as we were
saying, is to express the nature. For there is none who is more the author of life to us
and to all, than the lord and king of all. Wherefore we are right in calling him Zena and
Dia, which are one name, although divided, meaning the God through whom all
creatures always have life (di on zen aei pasi tois zosin uparchei). There is an irreverence,
at first sight, in calling him son of Cronos (who is a proverb for stupidity), and we might
rather expect Zeus to be the child of a mighty intellect. Which is the fact; for this is the
meaning of his father’s name: Kronos quasi Koros (Choreo, to sweep), not in the sense
of a youth, but signifying to chatharon chai acheraton tou nou, the pure and garnished
mind (sc. apo tou chorein). He, as we are informed by tradition, was begotten of Uranus,
rightly so called (apo tou oran ta ano) from looking upwards; which, as philosophers tell
us, is the way to have a pure mind, and the name Uranus is therefore correct. If I could
remember the genealogy of Hesiod, I would have gone on and tried more conclusions
of the same sort on the remoter ancestors of the Gods,—then I might have seen
whether this wisdom, which has come to me all in an instant, I know not whence, will or
will not hold good to the end.
HERMOGENES: You seem to me, Socrates, to be quite like a prophet newly inspired, and
to be uttering oracles.
SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and I believe that I caught the inspiration from the great
Euthyphro of the Prospaltian deme, who gave me a long lecture which commenced at
dawn: he talked and I listened, and his wisdom and enchanting ravishment has not only
filled my ears but taken possession of my soul,and to-day I shall let his superhuman
power work and finish the investigation of names—that will be the way; but to-morrow,
if you are so disposed, we will conjure him away, and make a purgation of him, if we can
only find some priest or sophist who is skilled in purifications of this sort.
HERMOGENES: With all my heart; for am very curious to hear the rest of the enquiry
about names.
SOCRATES: Then let us proceed; and where would you have us begin, now that we have
got a sort of outline of the enquiry? Are there any names which witness of themselves
that they are not given arbitrarily, but have a natural fitness? The names of heroes and
of men in general are apt to be deceptive because they are often called after ancestors
with whose names, as we were saying, they may have no business; or they are the
expression of a wish like Eutychides (the son of good fortune), or Sosias (the Saviour), or
Theophilus (the beloved of God), and others. But I think that we had better leave these,
for there will be more chance of finding correctness in the names of immutable
essences;—there ought to have been more care taken about them when they were
named, and perhaps there may have been some more than human power at work
occasionally in giving them names.
HERMOGENES: I think so, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Ought we not to begin with the consideration of the Gods, and show that
they are rightly named Gods?
HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be well.
SOCRATES: My notion would be something of this sort:—I suspect that the sun, moon,
earth, stars, and heaven, which are still the Gods of many barbarians, were the only Gods
known to the aboriginal Hellenes. Seeing that they were always moving and running,
from their running nature they were called Gods or runners (Theous, Theontas); and
when men became acquainted with the other Gods, they proceeded to apply the same
name to them all. Do you think that likely?
HERMOGENES: I think it very likely indeed.
SOCRATES: What shall follow the Gods?
HERMOGENES: Must not demons and heroes and men come next?
SOCRATES: Demons! And what do you consider to be the meaning of this word? Tell me
if my view is right.
HERMOGENES: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: You know how Hesiod uses the word?
HERMOGENES: I do not.
SOCRATES: Do you not remember that he speaks of a golden race of men who came
first?
HERMOGENES: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: He says of them—
‘But now that fate has closed over this race They are holy demons upon the earth,
Beneficent, averters of ills, guardians of mortal men.’ (Hesiod, Works and Days.)
HERMOGENES: What is the inference?
SOCRATES: What is the inference! Why, I suppose that he means by the golden men, not
men literally made of gold, but good and noble; and I am convinced of this, because he
further says that we are the iron race.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: And do you not suppose that good men of our own day would by him be
said to be of golden race?
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: And are not the good wise?
HERMOGENES: Yes, they are wise.
SOCRATES: And therefore I have the most entire conviction that he called them demons,
because they were daemones (knowing or wise), and in our older Attic dialect the word
itself occurs. Now he and other poets say truly, that when a good man dies he has
honour and a mighty portion among the dead, and becomes a demon; which is a name
given to him signifying wisdom. And I say too, that every wise man who happens to be a
good man is more than human (daimonion) both in life and death, and is rightly called a
demon.
HERMOGENES: Then I rather think that I am of one mind with you; but what is the
meaning of the word ‘hero’? (Eros with an eta, in the old writing eros with an epsilon.)
SOCRATES: I think that there is no difficulty in explaining, for the name is not much
altered, and signifies that they were born of love.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Do you not know that the heroes are demigods?
HERMOGENES: What then?
SOCRATES: All of them sprang either from the love of a God for a mortal woman, or of a
mortal man for a Goddess; think of the word in the old Attic, and you will see better that
the name heros is only a slight alteration of Eros, from whom the heroes sprang: either
this is the meaning, or, if not this, then they must have been skilful as rhetoricians and
dialecticians, and able to put the question (erotan), for eirein is equivalent to legein. And
therefore, as I was saying, in the Attic dialect the heroes turn out to be rhetoricians and
questioners. All this is easy enough; the noble breed of heroes are a tribe of sophists
and rhetors. But can you tell me why men are called anthropoi?—that is more difficult.
HERMOGENES: No, I cannot; and I would not try even if I could, because I think that you
are the more likely to succeed.
SOCRATES: That is to say, you trust to the inspiration of Euthyphro.
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: Your faith is not vain; for at this very moment a new and ingenious thought
strikes me, and, if I am not careful, before to-morrow’s dawn I shall be wiser than I
ought to be. Now, attend to me; and first, remember that we often put in and pull out
letters in words, and give names as we please and change the accents. Take, for
example, the word Dii Philos; in order to convert this from a sentence into a noun, we
omit one of the iotas and sound the middle syllable grave instead of acute; as, on the
other hand, letters are sometimes inserted in words instead of being omitted, and the
acute takes the place of the grave.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: The name anthropos, which was once a sentence, and is now a noun,
appears to be a case just of this sort, for one letter, which is the alpha, has been omitted,
and the acute on the last syllable has been changed to a grave.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I mean to say that the word ‘man’ implies that other animals never examine,
or consider, or look up at what they see, but that man not only sees (opope) but
considers and looks up at that which he sees, and hence he alone of all animals is rightly
anthropos, meaning anathron a opopen.
HERMOGENES: May I ask you to examine another word about which I am curious?
SOCRATES: Certainly.
HERMOGENES: I will take that which appears to me to follow next in order. You know
the distinction of soul and body?
SOCRATES: Of course.
HERMOGENES: Let us endeavour to analyze them like the previous words.
SOCRATES: You want me first of all to examine the natural fitness of the word psuche
(soul), and then of the word soma (body)?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: If I am to say what occurs to me at the moment, I should imagine that those
who first used the name psuche meant to express that the soul when in the body is the
source of life, and gives the power of breath and revival (anapsuchon), and when this
reviving power fails then the body perishes and dies, and this, if I am not mistaken, they
called psyche. But please stay a moment; I fancy that I can discover something which will
be more acceptable to the disciples of Euthyphro, for I am afraid that they will scorn this
explanation. What do you say to another?
HERMOGENES: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: What is that which holds and carries and gives life and motion to the entire
nature of the body? What else but the soul?
HERMOGENES: Just that.
SOCRATES: And do you not believe with Anaxagoras, that mind or soul is the ordering
and containing principle of all things?
HERMOGENES: Yes; I do.
SOCRATES: Then you may well call that power phuseche which carries and holds nature
(e phusin okei, kai ekei), and this may be refined away into psuche.
HERMOGENES: Certainly; and this derivation is, I think, more scientific than the other.
SOCRATES: It is so; but I cannot help laughing, if I am to suppose that this was the true
meaning of the name.
HERMOGENES: But what shall we say of the next word?
SOCRATES: You mean soma (the body).
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: That may be variously interpreted; and yet more variously if a little
permutation is allowed. For some say that the body is the grave (sema) of the soul which
may be thought to be buried in our present life; or again the index of the soul, because
the soul gives indications to (semainei) the body; probably the Orphic poets were the
inventors of the name, and they were under the impression that the soul is suffering the
punishment of sin, and that the body is an enclosure or prison in which the soul is
incarcerated, kept safe (soma, sozetai), as the name soma implies, until the penalty is
paid; according to this view, not even a letter of the word need be changed.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that we have said enough of this class of words. But
have we any more explanations of the names of the Gods, like that which you were
giving of Zeus? I should like to know whether any similar principle of correctness is to be
applied to them.
SOCRATES: Yes, indeed, Hermogenes; and there is one excellent principle which, as men
of sense, we must acknowledge,—that of the Gods we know nothing, either of their
natures or of the names which they give themselves; but we are sure that the names by
which they call themselves, whatever they may be, are true. And this is the best of all
principles; and the next best is to say, as in prayers, that we will call them by any sort or
kind of names or patronymics which they like, because we do not know of any other.
That also, I think, is a very good custom, and one which I should much wish to observe.
Let us, then, if you please, in the first place announce to them that we are not enquiring
about them; we do not presume that we are able to do so; but we are enquiring about
the meaning of men in giving them these names,—in this there can be small blame.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are quite right, and I would like to do as you
say.
SOCRATES: Shall we begin, then, with Hestia, according to custom?
HERMOGENES: Yes, that will be very proper.
SOCRATES: What may we suppose him to have meant who gave the name Hestia?
HERMOGENES: That is another and certainly a most difficult question.
SOCRATES: My dear Hermogenes, the first imposers of names must surely have been
considerable persons; they were philosophers, and had a good deal to say.
HERMOGENES: Well, and what of them?
SOCRATES: They are the men to whom I should attribute the imposition of names. Even
in foreign names, if you analyze them, a meaning is still discernible. For example, that
which we term ousia is by some called esia, and by others again osia. Now that the
essence of things should be called estia, which is akin to the first of these (esia = estia),
is rational enough. And there is reason in the Athenians calling that estia which
participates in ousia. For in ancient times we too seem to have said esia for ousia, and
this you may note to have been the idea of those who appointed that sacrifices should
be first offered to estia, which was natural enough if they meant that estia was the
essence of things. Those again who read osia seem to have inclined to the opinion of
Heracleitus, that all things flow and nothing stands; with them the pushing principle
(othoun) is the cause and ruling power of all things, and is therefore rightly called osia.
Enough of this, which is all that we who know nothing can affirm. Next in order after
Hestia we ought to consider Rhea and Cronos, although the name of Cronos has been
already discussed. But I dare say that I am talking great nonsense.
HERMOGENES: Why, Socrates?
SOCRATES: My good friend, I have discovered a hive of wisdom.
HERMOGENES: Of what nature?
SOCRATES: Well, rather ridiculous, and yet plausible.
HERMOGENES: How plausible?
SOCRATES: I fancy to myself Heracleitus repeating wise traditions of antiquity as old as
the days of Cronos and Rhea, and of which Homer also spoke.
HERMOGENES: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: Heracleitus is supposed to say that all things are in motion and nothing at
rest; he compares them to the stream of a river, and says that you cannot go into the
same water twice.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Well, then, how can we avoid inferring that he who gave the names of
Cronos and Rhea to the ancestors of the Gods, agreed pretty much in the doctrine of
Heracleitus? Is the giving of the names of streams to both of them purely accidental?
Compare the line in which Homer, and, as I believe, Hesiod also, tells of
‘Ocean, the origin of Gods, and mother Tethys (Il.—the line is not found in the extant
works of Hesiod.).’
And again, Orpheus says, that
‘The fair river of Ocean was the first to marry, and he espoused his sister Tethys, who
was his mother’s daughter.’
You see that this is a remarkable coincidence, and all in the direction of Heracleitus.
HERMOGENES: I think that there is something in what you say, Socrates; but I do not
understand the meaning of the name Tethys.
SOCRATES: Well, that is almost self-explained, being only the name of a spring, a little
disguised; for that which is strained and filtered (diattomenon, ethoumenon) may be
likened to a spring, and the name Tethys is made up of these two words.
HERMOGENES: The idea is ingenious, Socrates.
SOCRATES: To be sure. But what comes next?—of Zeus we have spoken.
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then let us next take his two brothers, Poseidon and Pluto, whether the
latter is called by that or by his other name.
HERMOGENES: By all means.
SOCRATES: Poseidon is Posidesmos, the chain of the feet; the original inventor of the
name had been stopped by the watery element in his walks, and not allowed to go on,
and therefore he called the ruler of this element Poseidon; the epsilon was probably
inserted as an ornament. Yet, perhaps, not so; but the name may have been originally
written with a double lamda and not with a sigma, meaning that the God knew many
things (Polla eidos). And perhaps also he being the shaker of the earth, has been named
from shaking (seiein), and then pi and delta have been added. Pluto gives wealth
(Ploutos), and his name means the giver of wealth, which comes out of the earth
beneath. People in general appear to imagine that the term Hades is connected with the
invisible (aeides) and so they are led by their fears to call the God Pluto instead.
HERMOGENES: And what is the true derivation?
SOCRATES: In spite of the mistakes which are made about the power of this deity, and
the foolish fears which people have of him, such as the fear of always being with him
after death, and of the soul denuded of the body going to him (compare Rep.), my
belief is that all is quite consistent, and that the office and name of the God really
correspond.
HERMOGENES: Why, how is that?
SOCRATES: I will tell you my own opinion; but first, I should like to ask you which chain
does any animal feel to be the stronger? and which confines him more to the same
spot,—desire or necessity?
HERMOGENES: Desire, Socrates, is stronger far.
SOCRATES: And do you not think that many a one would escape from Hades, if he did
not bind those who depart to him by the strongest of chains?
HERMOGENES: Assuredly they would.
SOCRATES: And if by the greatest of chains, then by some desire, as I should certainly
infer, and not by necessity?
HERMOGENES: That is clear.
SOCRATES: And there are many desires?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And therefore by the greatest desire, if the chain is to be the greatest?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: And is any desire stronger than the thought that you will be made better by
associating with another?
HERMOGENES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And is not that the reason, Hermogenes, why no one, who has been to him,
is willing to come back to us? Even the Sirens, like all the rest of the world, have been
laid under his spells. Such a charm, as I imagine, is the God able to infuse into his words.
And, according to this view, he is the perfect and accomplished Sophist, and the great
benefactor of the inhabitants of the other world; and even to us who are upon earth he
sends from below exceeding blessings. For he has much more than he wants down
there; wherefore he is called Pluto (or the rich). Note also, that he will have nothing to
do with men while they are in the body, but only when the soul is liberated from the
desires and evils of the body. Now there is a great deal of philosophy and reflection in
that; for in their liberated state he can bind them with the desire of virtue, but while they
are flustered and maddened by the body, not even father Cronos himself would suffice
to keep them with him in his own far-famed chains.
HERMOGENES: There is a deal of truth in what you say.
SOCRATES: Yes, Hermogenes, and the legislator called him Hades, not from the unseen
(aeides)—far otherwise, but from his knowledge (eidenai) of all noble things.
HERMOGENES: Very good; and what do we say of Demeter, and Here, and Apollo, and
Athene, and Hephaestus, and Ares, and the other deities?
SOCRATES: Demeter is e didousa meter, who gives food like a mother; Here is the lovely
one (erate)—for Zeus, according to tradition, loved and married her; possibly also the
name may have been given when the legislator was thinking of the heavens, and may be
only a disguise of the air (aer), putting the end in the place of the beginning. You will
recognize the truth of this if you repeat the letters of Here several times over. People
dread the name of Pherephatta as they dread the name of Apollo,—and with as little
reason; the fear, if I am not mistaken, only arises from their ignorance of the nature of
names. But they go changing the name into Phersephone, and they are terrified at this;
whereas the new name means only that the Goddess is wise (sophe); for seeing that all
things in the world are in motion (pheromenon), that principle which embraces and
touches and is able to follow them, is wisdom. And therefore the Goddess may be truly
called Pherepaphe (Pherepapha), or some name like it, because she touches that which
is in motion (tou pheromenon ephaptomene), herein showing her wisdom. And Hades,
who is wise, consorts with her, because she is wise. They alter her name into Pherephatta
now-a-days, because the present generation care for euphony more than truth. There is
the other name, Apollo, which, as I was saying, is generally supposed to have some
terrible signification. Have you remarked this fact?
HERMOGENES: To be sure I have, and what you say is true.
SOCRATES: But the name, in my opinion, is really most expressive of the power of the
God.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: I will endeavour to explain, for I do not believe that any single name could
have been better adapted to express the attributes of the God, embracing and in a
manner signifying all four of them,—music, and prophecy, and medicine, and archery.
HERMOGENES: That must be a strange name, and I should like to hear the explanation.
SOCRATES: Say rather an harmonious name, as beseems the God of Harmony. In the
first place, the purgations and purifications which doctors and diviners use, and their
fumigations with drugs magical or medicinal, as well as their washings and lustral
sprinklings, have all one and the same object, which is to make a man pure both in body
and soul.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And is not Apollo the purifier, and the washer, and the absolver from all
impurities?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then in reference to his ablutions and absolutions, as being the physician
who orders them, he may be rightly called Apolouon (purifier); or in respect of his
powers of divination, and his truth and sincerity, which is the same as truth, he may be
most fitly called Aplos, from aplous (sincere), as in the Thessalian dialect, for all the
Thessalians call him Aplos; also he is aei Ballon (always shooting), because he is a master
archer who never misses; or again, the name may refer to his musical attributes, and
then, as in akolouthos, and akoitis, and in many other words the alpha is supposed to
mean ‘together,’ so the meaning of the name Apollo will be ‘moving together,’ whether
in the poles of heaven as they are called, or in the harmony of song, which is termed
concord, because he moves all together by an harmonious power, as astronomers and
musicians ingeniously declare. And he is the God who presides over harmony, and
makes all things move together, both among Gods and among men. And as in the
words akolouthos and akoitis the alpha is substituted for an omicron, so the name
Apollon is equivalent to omopolon; only the second lambda is added in order to avoid
the ill-omened sound of destruction (apolon). Now the suspicion of this destructive
power still haunts the minds of some who do not consider the true value of the name,
which, as I was saying just now, has reference to all the powers of the God, who is the
single one, the everdarting, the purifier, the mover together (aplous, aei Ballon,
apolouon, omopolon). The name of the Muses and of music would seem to be derived
from their making philosophical enquiries (mosthai); and Leto is called by this name,
because she is such a gentle Goddess, and so willing (ethelemon) to grant our requests;
or her name may be Letho, as she is often called by strangers—they seem to imply by it
her amiability, and her smooth and easy-going way of behaving. Artemis is named from
her healthy (artemes), well-ordered nature, and because of her love of virginity, perhaps
because she is a proficient in virtue (arete), and perhaps also as hating intercourse of the
sexes (ton aroton misesasa). He who gave the Goddess her name may have had any or
all of these reasons.
HERMOGENES: What is the meaning of Dionysus and Aphrodite?
SOCRATES: Son of Hipponicus, you ask a solemn question; there is a serious and also a
facetious explanation of both these names; the serious explanation is not to be had
from me, but there is no objection to your hearing the facetious one; for the Gods too
love a joke. Dionusos is simply didous oinon (giver of wine), Didoinusos, as he might be
called in fun,—and oinos is properly oionous, because wine makes those who drink,
think (oiesthai) that they have a mind (noun) when they have none. The derivation of
Aphrodite, born of the foam (aphros), may be fairly accepted on the authority of Hesiod.
HERMOGENES: Still there remains Athene, whom you, Socrates, as an Athenian, will
surely not forget; there are also Hephaestus and Ares.
SOCRATES: I am not likely to forget them.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: There is no difficulty in explaining the other appellation of Athene.
HERMOGENES: What other appellation?
SOCRATES: We call her Pallas.
HERMOGENES: To be sure.
SOCRATES: And we cannot be wrong in supposing that this is derived from armed
dances. For the elevation of oneself or anything else above the earth, or by the use of
the hands, we call shaking (pallein), or dancing.
HERMOGENES: That is quite true.
SOCRATES: Then that is the explanation of the name Pallas?
HERMOGENES: Yes; but what do you say of the other name?
SOCRATES: Athene?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: That is a graver matter, and there, my friend, the modern interpreters of
Homer may, I think, assist in explaining the view of the ancients. For most of these in
their explanations of the poet, assert that he meant by Athene ‘mind’ (nous) and
‘intelligence’ (dianoia), and the maker of names appears to have had a singular notion
about her; and indeed calls her by a still higher title, ‘divine intelligence’ (Thou noesis),
as though he would say: This is she who has the mind of God (Theonoa);—using alpha
as a dialectical variety for eta, and taking away iota and sigma (There seems to be some
error in the MSS. The meaning is that the word theonoa = theounoa is a curtailed form
of theou noesis, but the omitted letters do not agree.). Perhaps, however, the name
Theonoe may mean ‘she who knows divine things’ (Theia noousa) better than others.
Nor shall we be far wrong in supposing that the author of it wished to identify this
Goddess with moral intelligence (en ethei noesin), and therefore gave her the name
ethonoe; which, however, either he or his successors have altered into what they
thought a nicer form, and called her Athene.
HERMOGENES: But what do you say of Hephaestus?
SOCRATES: Speak you of the princely lord of light (Phaeos istora)?
HERMOGENES: Surely.
SOCRATES: Ephaistos is Phaistos, and has added the eta by attraction; that is obvious to
anybody.
HERMOGENES: That is very probable, until some more probable notion gets into your
head.
SOCRATES: To prevent that, you had better ask what is the derivation of Ares.
HERMOGENES: What is Ares?
SOCRATES: Ares may be called, if you will, from his manhood (arren) and manliness, or if
you please, from his hard and unchangeable nature, which is the meaning of arratos: the
latter is a derivation in every way appropriate to the God of war.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And now, by the Gods, let us have no more of the Gods, for I am afraid of
them; ask about anything but them, and thou shalt see how the steeds of Euthyphro can
prance.
HERMOGENES: Only one more God! I should like to know about Hermes, of whom I am
said not to be a true son. Let us make him out, and then I shall know whether there is
any meaning in what Cratylus says.
SOCRATES: I should imagine that the name Hermes has to do with speech, and signifies
that he is the interpreter (ermeneus), or messenger, or thief, or liar, or bargainer; all that
sort of thing has a great deal to do with language; as I was telling you, the word eirein is
expressive of the use of speech, and there is an often-recurring Homeric word emesato,
which means ‘he contrived’—out of these two words, eirein and mesasthai, the legislator
formed the name of the God who invented language and speech; and we may imagine
him dictating to us the use of this name: ‘O my friends,’ says he to us, ‘seeing that he is
the contriver of tales or speeches, you may rightly call him Eirhemes.’ And this has been
improved by us, as we think, into Hermes. Iris also appears to have been called from the
verb ‘to tell’ (eirein), because she was a messenger.
HERMOGENES: Then I am very sure that Cratylus was quite right in saying that I was no
true son of Hermes (Ermogenes), for I am not a good hand at speeches.
SOCRATES: There is also reason, my friend, in Pan being the double-formed son of
Hermes.
HERMOGENES: How do you make that out?
SOCRATES: You are aware that speech signifies all things (pan), and is always turning
them round and round, and has two forms, true and false?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Is not the truth that is in him the smooth or sacred form which dwells above
among the Gods, whereas falsehood dwells among men below, and is rough like the
goat of tragedy; for tales and falsehoods have generally to do with the tragic or goatish
life, and tragedy is the place of them?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then surely Pan, who is the declarer of all things (pan) and the perpetual
mover (aei polon) of all things, is rightly called aipolos (goat- herd), he being the twoformed
son of Hermes, smooth in his upper part, and rough and goatlike in his lower
regions. And, as the son of Hermes, he is speech or the brother of speech, and that
brother should be like brother is no marvel. But, as I was saying, my dear Hermogenes,
let us get away from the Gods.
HERMOGENES: From these sort of Gods, by all means, Socrates. But why should we not
discuss another kind of Gods—the sun, moon, stars, earth, aether, air, fire, water, the
seasons, and the year?
SOCRATES: You impose a great many tasks upon me. Still, if you wish, I will not refuse.
HERMOGENES: You will oblige me.
SOCRATES: How would you have me begin? Shall I take first of all him whom you
mentioned first—the sun?
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: The origin of the sun will probably be clearer in the Doric form, for the
Dorians call him alios, and this name is given to him because when he rises he gathers
(alizoi) men together or because he is always rolling in his course (aei eilein ion) about
the earth; or from aiolein, of which the meaning is the same as poikillein (to variegate),
because he variegates the productions of the earth.
HERMOGENES: But what is selene (the moon)?
SOCRATES: That name is rather unfortunate for Anaxagoras.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: The word seems to forestall his recent discovery, that the moon receives her
light from the sun.
HERMOGENES: Why do you say so?
SOCRATES: The two words selas (brightness) and phos (light) have much the same
meaning?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: This light about the moon is always new (neon) and always old (enon), if the
disciples of Anaxagoras say truly. For the sun in his revolution always adds new light,
and there is the old light of the previous month.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: The moon is not unfrequently called selanaia.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: And as she has a light which is always old and always new (enon neon aei)
she may very properly have the name selaenoneoaeia; and this when hammered into
shape becomes selanaia.
HERMOGENES: A real dithyrambic sort of name that, Socrates. But what do you say of
the month and the stars?
SOCRATES: Meis (month) is called from meiousthai (to lessen), because suffering
diminution; the name of astra (stars) seems to be derived from astrape, which is an
improvement on anastrope, signifying the upsetting of the eyes (anastrephein opa).
HERMOGENES: What do you say of pur (fire) and udor (water)?
SOCRATES: I am at a loss how to explain pur; either the muse of Euthyphro has deserted
me, or there is some very great difficulty in the word. Please, however, to note the
contrivance which I adopt whenever I am in a difficulty of this sort.
HERMOGENES: What is it?
SOCRATES: I will tell you; but I should like to know first whether you can tell me what is
the meaning of the pur?
HERMOGENES: Indeed I cannot.
SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I suspect to be the true explanation of this and several
other words?—My belief is that they are of foreign origin. For the Hellenes, especially
those who were under the dominion of the barbarians, often borrowed from them.
HERMOGENES: What is the inference?
SOCRATES: Why, you know that any one who seeks to demonstrate the fitness of these
names according to the Hellenic language, and not according to the language from
which the words are derived, is rather likely to be at fault.
HERMOGENES: Yes, certainly.
SOCRATES: Well then, consider whether this pur is not foreign; for the word is not easily
brought into relation with the Hellenic tongue, and the Phrygians may be observed to
have the same word slightly changed, just as they have udor (water) and kunes (dogs),
and many other words.
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Any violent interpretations of the words should be avoided; for something
to say about them may easily be found. And thus I get rid of pur and udor. Aer (air),
Hermogenes, may be explained as the element which raises (airei) things from the earth,
or as ever flowing (aei rei), or because the flux of the air is wind, and the poets call the
winds ‘air- blasts,’ (aetai); he who uses the term may mean, so to speak, air-flux
(aetorroun), in the sense of wind-flux (pneumatorroun); and because this moving wind
may be expressed by either term he employs the word air (aer = aetes rheo). Aither
(aether) I should interpret as aeitheer; this may be correctly said, because this element is
always running in a flux about the air (aei thei peri tou aera reon). The meaning of the
word ge (earth) comes out better when in the form of gaia, for the earth may be truly
called ‘mother’ (gaia, genneteira), as in the language of Homer (Od.) gegaasi means
gegennesthai.
HERMOGENES: Good.
SOCRATES: What shall we take next?
HERMOGENES: There are orai (the seasons), and the two names of the year, eniautos
and etos.
SOCRATES: The orai should be spelt in the old Attic way, if you desire to know the
probable truth about them; they are rightly called the orai because they divide
(orizousin) the summers and winters and winds and the fruits of the earth. The words
eniautos and etos appear to be the same,— ‘that which brings to light the plants and
growths of the earth in their turn, and passes them in review within itself (en eauto
exetazei)’: this is broken up into two words, eniautos from en eauto, and etos from
etazei, just as the original name of Zeus was divided into Zena and Dia; and the whole
proposition means that his power of reviewing from within is one, but has two names,
two words etos and eniautos being thus formed out of a single proposition.
HERMOGENES: Indeed, Socrates, you make surprising progress.
SOCRATES: I am run away with.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: But am not yet at my utmost speed.
HERMOGENES: I should like very much to know, in the next place, how you would
explain the virtues. What principle of correctness is there in those charming words—
wisdom, understanding, justice, and the rest of them?
SOCRATES: That is a tremendous class of names which you are disinterring; still, as I
have put on the lion’s skin, I must not be faint of heart; and I suppose that I must
consider the meaning of wisdom (phronesis) and understanding (sunesis), and judgment
(gnome), and knowledge (episteme), and all those other charming words, as you call
them?
HERMOGENES: Surely, we must not leave off until we find out their meaning.
SOCRATES: By the dog of Egypt I have a not bad notion which came into my head only
this moment: I believe that the primeval givers of names were undoubtedly like too
many of our modern philosophers, who, in their search after the nature of things, are
always getting dizzy from constantly going round and round, and then they imagine
that the world is going round and round and moving in all directions; and this
appearance, which arises out of their own internal condition, they suppose to be a
reality of nature; they think that there is nothing stable or permanent, but only flux and
motion, and that the world is always full of every sort of motion and change. The
consideration of the names which I mentioned has led me into making this reflection.
HERMOGENES: How is that, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Perhaps you did not observe that in the names which have been just cited,
the motion or flux or generation of things is most surely indicated.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed, I never thought of it.
SOCRATES: Take the first of those which you mentioned; clearly that is a name indicative
of motion.
HERMOGENES: What was the name?
SOCRATES: Phronesis (wisdom), which may signify phoras kai rhou noesis (perception of
motion and flux), or perhaps phoras onesis (the blessing of motion), but is at any rate
connected with pheresthai (motion); gnome (judgment), again, certainly implies the
ponderation or consideration (nomesis) of generation, for to ponder is the same as to
consider; or, if you would rather, here is noesis, the very word just now mentioned,
which is neou esis (the desire of the new); the word neos implies that the world is always
in process of creation. The giver of the name wanted to express this longing of the soul,
for the original name was neoesis, and not noesis; but eta took the place of a double
epsilon. The word sophrosune is the salvation (soteria) of that wisdom (phronesis) which
we were just now considering. Epioteme (knowledge) is akin to this, and indicates that
the soul which is good for anything follows (epetai) the motion of things, neither
anticipating them nor falling behind them; wherefore the word should rather be read as
epistemene, inserting epsilon nu. Sunesis (understanding) may be regarded in like
manner as a kind of conclusion; the word is derived from sunienai (to go along with),
and, like epistasthai (to know), implies the progression of the soul in company with the
nature of things. Sophia (wisdom) is very dark, and appears not to be of native growth;
the meaning is, touching the motion or stream of things. You must remember that the
poets, when they speak of the commencement of any rapid motion, often use the word
esuthe (he rushed); and there was a famous Lacedaemonian who was named Sous
(Rush), for by this word the Lacedaemonians signify rapid motion, and the touching
(epaphe) of motion is expressed by sophia, for all things are supposed to be in motion.
Good (agathon) is the name which is given to the admirable (agasto) in nature; for,
although all things move, still there are degrees of motion; some are swifter, some
slower; but there are some things which are admirable for their swiftness, and this
admirable part of nature is called agathon. Dikaiosune (justice) is clearly dikaiou sunesis
(understanding of the just); but the actual word dikaion is more difficult: men are only
agreed to a certain extent about justice, and then they begin to disagree. For those who
suppose all things to be in motion conceive the greater part of nature to be a mere
receptacle; and they say that there is a penetrating power which passes through all this,
and is the instrument of creation in all, and is the subtlest and swiftest element; for if it
were not the subtlest, and a power which none can keep out, and also the swiftest,
passing by other things as if they were standing still, it could not penetrate through the
moving universe. And this element, which superintends all things and pierces (diaion) all,
is rightly called dikaion; the letter k is only added for the sake of euphony. Thus far, as I
was saying, there is a general agreement about the nature of justice; but I, Hermogenes,
being an enthusiastic disciple, have been told in a mystery that the justice of which I am
speaking is also the cause of the world: now a cause is that because of which anything is
created; and some one comes and whispers in my ear that justice is rightly so called
because partaking of the nature of the cause, and I begin, after hearing what he has
said, to interrogate him gently: ‘Well, my excellent friend,’ say I, ‘but if all this be true, I
still want to know what is justice.’ Thereupon they think that I ask tiresome questions,
and am leaping over the barriers, and have been already sufficiently answered, and they
try to satisfy me with one derivation after another, and at length they quarrel. For one of
them says that justice is the sun, and that he only is the piercing (diaionta) and burning
(kaonta) element which is the guardian of nature. And when I joyfully repeat this
beautiful notion, I am answered by the satirical remark, ‘What, is there no justice in the
world when the sun is down?’ And when I earnestly beg my questioner to tell me his
own honest opinion, he says, ‘Fire in the abstract’; but this is not very intelligible.
Another says, ‘No, not fire in the abstract, but the abstraction of heat in the fire.’
Another man professes to laugh at all this, and says, as Anaxagoras says, that justice is
mind, for mind, as they say, has absolute power, and mixes with nothing, and orders all
things, and passes through all things. At last, my friend, I find myself in far greater
perplexity about the nature of justice than I was before I began to learn. But still I am of
opinion that the name, which has led me into this digression, was given to justice for the
reasons which I have mentioned.
HERMOGENES: I think, Socrates, that you are not improvising now; you must have heard
this from some one else.
SOCRATES: And not the rest?
HERMOGENES: Hardly.
SOCRATES: Well, then, let me go on in the hope of making you believe in the originality
of the rest. What remains after justice? I do not think that we have as yet discussed
courage (andreia),—injustice (adikia), which is obviously nothing more than a hindrance
to the penetrating principle (diaiontos), need not be considered. Well, then, the name of
andreia seems to imply a battle;—this battle is in the world of existence, and according
to the doctrine of flux is only the counterflux (enantia rhon): if you extract the delta from
andreia, the name at once signifies the thing, and you may clearly understand that
andreia is not the stream opposed to every stream, but only to that which is contrary to
justice, for otherwise courage would not have been praised. The words arren (male) and
aner (man) also contain a similar allusion to the same principle of the upward flux (te
ano rhon). Gune (woman) I suspect to be the same word as goun (birth): thelu (female)
appears to be partly derived from thele (the teat), because the teat is like rain, and
makes things flourish (tethelenai).
HERMOGENES: That is surely probable.
SOCRATES: Yes; and the very word thallein (to flourish) seems to figure the growth of
youth, which is swift and sudden ever. And this is expressed by the legislator in the
name, which is a compound of thein (running), and allesthai (leaping). Pray observe how
I gallop away when I get on smooth ground. There are a good many names generally
thought to be of importance, which have still to be explained.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: There is the meaning of the word techne (art), for example.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: That may be identified with echonoe, and expresses the possession of mind:
you have only to take away the tau and insert two omichrons, one between the chi and
nu, and another between the nu and eta.
HERMOGENES: That is a very shabby etymology.
SOCRATES: Yes, my dear friend; but then you know that the original names have been
long ago buried and disguised by people sticking on and stripping off letters for the
sake of euphony, and twisting and bedizening them in all sorts of ways: and time too
may have had a share in the change. Take, for example, the word katoptron; why is the
letter rho inserted? This must surely be the addition of some one who cares nothing
about the truth, but thinks only of putting the mouth into shape. And the additions are
often such that at last no human being can possibly make out the original meaning of
the word. Another example is the word sphigx, sphiggos, which ought properly to be
phigx, phiggos, and there are other examples.
HERMOGENES: That is quite true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And yet, if you are permitted to put in and pull out any letters which you
please, names will be too easily made, and any name may be adapted to any object.
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: Yes, that is true. And therefore a wise dictator, like yourself, should observe
the laws of moderation and probability.
HERMOGENES: Such is my desire.
SOCRATES: And mine, too, Hermogenes. But do not be too much of a precisian, or ‘you
will unnerve me of my strength (Iliad.).’ When you have allowed me to add mechane
(contrivance) to techne (art) I shall be at the top of my bent, for I conceive mechane to
be a sign of great accomplishment —anein; for mekos has the meaning of greatness,
and these two, mekos and anein, make up the word mechane. But, as I was saying, being
now at the top of my bent, I should like to consider the meaning of the two words arete
(virtue) and kakia (vice); arete I do not as yet understand, but kakia is transparent, and
agrees with the principles which preceded, for all things being in a flux (ionton), kakia is
kakos ion (going badly); and this evil motion when existing in the soul has the general
name of kakia, or vice, specially appropriated to it. The meaning of kakos ienai may be
further illustrated by the use of deilia (cowardice), which ought to have come after
andreia, but was forgotten, and, as I fear, is not the only word which has been passed
over. Deilia signifies that the soul is bound with a strong chain (desmos), for lian means
strength, and therefore deilia expresses the greatest and strongest bond of the soul; and
aporia (difficulty) is an evil of the same nature (from a (alpha) not, and poreuesthai to
go), like anything else which is an impediment to motion and movement. Then the word
kakia appears to mean kakos ienai, or going badly, or limping and halting; of which the
consequence is, that the soul becomes filled with vice. And if kakia is the name of this
sort of thing, arete will be the opposite of it, signifying in the first place ease of motion,
then that the stream of the good soul is unimpeded, and has therefore the attribute of
ever flowing without let or hindrance, and is therefore called arete, or, more correctly,
aeireite (ever-flowing), and may perhaps have had another form, airete (eligible),
indicating that nothing is more eligible than virtue, and this has been hammered into
arete. I daresay that you will deem this to be another invention of mine, but I think that
if the previous word kakia was right, then arete is also right.
HERMOGENES: But what is the meaning of kakon, which has played so great a part in
your previous discourse?
SOCRATES: That is a very singular word about which I can hardly form an opinion, and
therefore I must have recourse to my ingenious device.
HERMOGENES: What device?
SOCRATES: The device of a foreign origin, which I shall give to this word also.
HERMOGENES: Very likely you are right; but suppose that we leave these words and
endeavour to see the rationale of kalon and aischron.
SOCRATES: The meaning of aischron is evident, being only aei ischon roes (always
preventing from flowing), and this is in accordance with our former derivations. For the
name-giver was a great enemy to stagnation of all sorts, and hence he gave the name
aeischoroun to that which hindered the flux (aei ischon roun), and that is now beaten
together into aischron.
HERMOGENES: But what do you say of kalon?
SOCRATES: That is more obscure; yet the form is only due to the quantity, and has been
changed by altering omicron upsilon into omicron.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: This name appears to denote mind.
HERMOGENES: How so?
SOCRATES: Let me ask you what is the cause why anything has a name; is not the
principle which imposes the name the cause?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And must not this be the mind of Gods, or of men, or of both?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Is not mind that which called (kalesan) things by their names, and is not
mind the beautiful (kalon)?
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: And are not the works of intelligence and mind worthy of praise, and are not
other works worthy of blame?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Physic does the work of a physician, and carpentering does the works of a
carpenter?
HERMOGENES: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And the principle of beauty does the works of beauty?
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: And that principle we affirm to be mind?
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: Then mind is rightly called beauty because she does the works which we
recognize and speak of as the beautiful?
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: What more names remain to us?
HERMOGENES: There are the words which are connected with agathon and kalon, such
as sumpheron and lusiteloun, ophelimon, kerdaleon, and their opposites.
SOCRATES: The meaning of sumpheron (expedient) I think that you may discover for
yourself by the light of the previous examples,—for it is a sister word to episteme,
meaning just the motion (pora) of the soul accompanying the world, and things which
are done upon this principle are called sumphora or sumpheronta, because they are
carried round with the world.
HERMOGENES: That is probable.
SOCRATES: Again, cherdaleon (gainful) is called from cherdos (gain), but you must alter
the delta into nu if you want to get at the meaning; for this word also signifies good, but
in another way; he who gave the name intended to express the power of admixture
(kerannumenon) and universal penetration in the good; in forming the word, however,
he inserted a delta instead of a nu, and so made kerdos.
HERMOGENES: Well, but what is lusiteloun (profitable)?
SOCRATES: I suppose, Hermogenes, that people do not mean by the profitable the
gainful or that which pays (luei) the retailer, but they use the word in the sense of swift.
You regard the profitable (lusiteloun), as that which being the swiftest thing in existence,
allows of no stay in things and no pause or end of motion, but always, if there begins to
be any end, lets things go again (luei), and makes motion immortal and unceasing: and
in this point of view, as appears to me, the good is happily denominated lusiteloun—
being that which looses (luon) the end (telos) of motion. Ophelimon (the advantageous)
is derived from ophellein, meaning that which creates and increases; this latter is a
common Homeric word, and has a foreign character.
HERMOGENES: And what do you say of their opposites?
SOCRATES: Of such as are mere negatives I hardly think that I need speak.
HERMOGENES: Which are they?
SOCRATES: The words axumphoron (inexpedient), anopheles (unprofitable), alusiteles
(unadvantageous), akerdes (ungainful).
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: I would rather take the words blaberon (harmful), zemiodes (hurtful).
HERMOGENES: Good.
SOCRATES: The word blaberon is that which is said to hinder or harm (blaptein) the
stream (roun); blapton is boulomenon aptein (seeking to hold or bind); for aptein is the
same as dein, and dein is always a term of censure; boulomenon aptein roun (wanting
to bind the stream) would properly be boulapteroun, and this, as I imagine, is improved
into blaberon.
HERMOGENES: You bring out curious results, Socrates, in the use of names; and when I
hear the word boulapteroun I cannot help imagining that you are making your mouth
into a flute, and puffing away at some prelude to Athene.
SOCRATES: That is the fault of the makers of the name, Hermogenes; not mine.
HERMOGENES: Very true; but what is the derivation of zemiodes?
SOCRATES: What is the meaning of zemiodes?—let me remark, Hermogenes, how right I
was in saying that great changes are made in the meaning of words by putting in and
pulling out letters; even a very slight permutation will sometimes give an entirely
opposite sense; I may instance the word deon, which occurs to me at the moment, and
reminds me of what I was going to say to you, that the fine fashionable language of
modern times has twisted and disguised and entirely altered the original meaning both
of deon, and also of zemiodes, which in the old language is clearly indicated.
HERMOGENES: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: I will try to explain. You are aware that our forefathers loved the sounds iota
and delta, especially the women, who are most conservative of the ancient language,
but now they change iota into eta or epsilon, and delta into zeta; this is supposed to
increase the grandeur of the sound.
HERMOGENES: How do you mean?
SOCRATES: For example, in very ancient times they called the day either imera or emera
(short e), which is called by us emera (long e).
HERMOGENES: That is true.
SOCRATES: Do you observe that only the ancient form shows the intention of the giver
of the name? of which the reason is, that men long for (imeirousi) and love the light
which comes after the darkness, and is therefore called imera, from imeros, desire.
HERMOGENES: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But now the name is so travestied that you cannot tell the meaning,
although there are some who imagine the day to be called emera because it makes
things gentle (emera different accents).
HERMOGENES: Such is my view.
SOCRATES: And do you know that the ancients said duogon and not zugon?
HERMOGENES: They did so.
SOCRATES: And zugon (yoke) has no meaning,—it ought to be duogon, which word
expresses the binding of two together (duein agoge) for the purpose of drawing;—this
has been changed into zugon, and there are many other examples of similar changes.
HERMOGENES: There are.
SOCRATES: Proceeding in the same train of thought I may remark that the word deon
(obligation) has a meaning which is the opposite of all the other appellations of good;
for deon is here a species of good, and is, nevertheless, the chain (desmos) or hinderer
of motion, and therefore own brother of blaberon.
HERMOGENES: Yes, Socrates; that is quite plain.
SOCRATES: Not if you restore the ancient form, which is more likely to be the correct
one, and read dion instead of deon; if you convert the epsilon into an iota after the old
fashion, this word will then agree with other words meaning good; for dion, not deon,
signifies the good, and is a term of praise; and the author of names has not contradicted
himself, but in all these various appellations, deon (obligatory), ophelimon
(advantageous), lusiteloun (profitable), kerdaleon (gainful), agathon (good), sumpheron
(expedient), euporon (plenteous), the same conception is implied of the ordering or allpervading
principle which is praised, and the restraining and binding principle which is
censured. And this is further illustrated by the word zemiodes (hurtful), which if the zeta
is only changed into delta as in the ancient language, becomes demiodes; and this
name, as you will perceive, is given to that which binds motion (dounti ion).
HERMOGENES: What do you say of edone (pleasure), lupe (pain), epithumia (desire), and
the like, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I do not think, Hermogenes, that there is any great difficulty about them—
edone is e (eta) onesis, the action which tends to advantage; and the original form may
be supposed to have been eone, but this has been altered by the insertion of the delta.
Lupe appears to be derived from the relaxation (luein) which the body feels when in
sorrow; ania (trouble) is the hindrance of motion (alpha and ienai); algedon (distress), if I
am not mistaken, is a foreign word, which is derived from aleinos (grievous); odune
(grief) is called from the putting on (endusis) sorrow; in achthedon (vexation) ‘the word
too labours,’ as any one may see; chara (joy) is the very expression of the fluency and
diffusion of the soul (cheo); terpsis (delight) is so called from the pleasure creeping
(erpon) through the soul, which may be likened to a breath (pnoe) and is properly
erpnoun, but has been altered by time into terpnon; eupherosune (cheerfulness) and
epithumia explain themselves; the former, which ought to be eupherosune and has been
changed euphrosune, is named, as every one may see, from the soul moving
(pheresthai) in harmony with nature; epithumia is really e epi ton thumon iousa
dunamis, the power which enters into the soul; thumos (passion) is called from the
rushing (thuseos) and boiling of the soul; imeros (desire) denotes the stream (rous)
which most draws the soul dia ten esin tes roes— because flowing with desire
(iemenos), and expresses a longing after things and violent attraction of the soul to
them, and is termed imeros from possessing this power; pothos (longing) is expressive
of the desire of that which is not present but absent, and in another place (pou); this is
the reason why the name pothos is applied to things absent, as imeros is to things
present; eros (love) is so called because flowing in (esron) from without; the stream is
not inherent, but is an influence introduced through the eyes, and from flowing in was
called esros (influx) in the old time when they used omicron for omega, and is called
eros, now that omega is substituted for omicron. But why do you not give me another
word?
HERMOGENES: What do you think of doxa (opinion), and that class of words?
SOCRATES: Doxa is either derived from dioxis (pursuit), and expresses the march of the
soul in the pursuit of knowledge, or from the shooting of a bow (toxon); the latter is
more likely, and is confirmed by oiesis (thinking), which is only oisis (moving), and
implies the movement of the soul to the essential nature of each thing—just as boule
(counsel) has to do with shooting (bole); and boulesthai (to wish) combines the notion
of aiming and deliberating—all these words seem to follow doxa, and all involve the
idea of shooting, just as aboulia, absence of counsel, on the other hand, is a mishap, or
missing, or mistaking of the mark, or aim, or proposal, or object.
HERMOGENES: You are quickening your pace now, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why yes, the end I now dedicate to God, not, however, until I have explained
anagke (necessity), which ought to come next, and ekousion (the voluntary). Ekousion is
certainly the yielding (eikon) and unresisting—the notion implied is yielding and not
opposing, yielding, as I was just now saying, to that motion which is in accordance with
our will; but the necessary and resistant being contrary to our will, implies error and
ignorance; the idea is taken from walking through a ravine which is impassable, and
rugged, and overgrown, and impedes motion—and this is the derivation of the word
anagkaion (necessary) an agke ion, going through a ravine. But while my strength lasts
let us persevere, and I hope that you will persevere with your questions.
HERMOGENES: Well, then, let me ask about the greatest and noblest, such as aletheia
(truth) and pseudos (falsehood) and on (being), not forgetting to enquire why the word
onoma (name), which is the theme of our discussion, has this name of onoma.
SOCRATES: You know the word maiesthai (to seek)?
HERMOGENES: Yes;—meaning the same as zetein (to enquire).
SOCRATES: The word onoma seems to be a compressed sentence, signifying on ou
zetema (being for which there is a search); as is still more obvious in onomaston
(notable), which states in so many words that real existence is that for which there is a
seeking (on ou masma); aletheia is also an agglomeration of theia ale (divine
wandering), implying the divine motion of existence; pseudos (falsehood) is the
opposite of motion; here is another ill name given by the legislator to stagnation and
forced inaction, which he compares to sleep (eudein); but the original meaning of the
word is disguised by the addition of psi; on and ousia are ion with an iota broken off;
this agrees with the true principle, for being (on) is also moving (ion), and the same may
be said of not being, which is likewise called not going (oukion or ouki on = ouk ion).
HERMOGENES: You have hammered away at them manfully; but suppose that some one
were to say to you, what is the word ion, and what are reon and doun?— show me their
fitness.
SOCRATES: You mean to say, how should I answer him?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: One way of giving the appearance of an answer has been already suggested.
HERMOGENES: What way?
SOCRATES: To say that names which we do not understand are of foreign origin; and
this is very likely the right answer, and something of this kind may be true of them; but
also the original forms of words may have been lost in the lapse of ages; names have
been so twisted in all manner of ways, that I should not be surprised if the old language
when compared with that now in use would appear to us to be a barbarous tongue.
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Yes, very likely. But still the enquiry demands our earnest attention and we
must not flinch. For we should remember, that if a person go on analysing names into
words, and enquiring also into the elements out of which the words are formed, and
keeps on always repeating this process, he who has to answer him must at last give up
the enquiry in despair.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And at what point ought he to lose heart and give up the enquiry? Must he
not stop when he comes to the names which are the elements of all other names and
sentences; for these cannot be supposed to be made up of other names? The word
agathon (good), for example, is, as we were saying, a compound of agastos (admirable)
and thoos (swift). And probably thoos is made up of other elements, and these again of
others. But if we take a word which is incapable of further resolution, then we shall be
right in saying that we have at last reached a primary element, which need not be
resolved any further.
HERMOGENES: I believe you to be in the right.
SOCRATES: And suppose the names about which you are now asking should turn out to
be primary elements, must not their truth or law be examined according to some new
method?
HERMOGENES: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Quite so, Hermogenes; all that has preceded would lead to this conclusion.
And if, as I think, the conclusion is true, then I shall again say to you, come and help me,
that I may not fall into some absurdity in stating the principle of primary names.
HERMOGENES: Let me hear, and I will do my best to assist you.
SOCRATES: I think that you will acknowledge with me, that one principle is applicable to
all names, primary as well as secondary—when they are regarded simply as names, there
is no difference in them.
HERMOGENES: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: All the names that we have been explaining were intended to indicate the
nature of things.
HERMOGENES: Of course.
SOCRATES: And that this is true of the primary quite as much as of the secondary
names, is implied in their being names.
HERMOGENES: Surely.
SOCRATES: But the secondary, as I conceive, derive their significance from the primary.
HERMOGENES: That is evident.
SOCRATES: Very good; but then how do the primary names which precede analysis
show the natures of things, as far as they can be shown; which they must do, if they are
to be real names? And here I will ask you a question: Suppose that we had no voice or
tongue, and wanted to communicate with one another, should we not, like the deaf and
dumb, make signs with the hands and head and the rest of the body?
HERMOGENES: There would be no choice, Socrates.
SOCRATES: We should imitate the nature of the thing; the elevation of our hands to
heaven would mean lightness and upwardness; heaviness and downwardness would be
expressed by letting them drop to the ground; if we were describing the running of a
horse, or any other animal, we should make our bodies and their gestures as like as we
could to them.
HERMOGENES: I do not see that we could do anything else.
SOCRATES: We could not; for by bodily imitation only can the body ever express
anything.
HERMOGENES: Very true.
SOCRATES: And when we want to express ourselves, either with the voice, or tongue, or
mouth, the expression is simply their imitation of that which we want to express.
HERMOGENES: It must be so, I think.
SOCRATES: Then a name is a vocal imitation of that which the vocal imitator names or
imitates?
HERMOGENES: I think so.
SOCRATES: Nay, my friend, I am disposed to think that we have not reached the truth as
yet.
HERMOGENES: Why not?
SOCRATES: Because if we have we shall be obliged to admit that the people who imitate
sheep, or cocks, or other animals, name that which they imitate.
HERMOGENES: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then could I have been right in what I was saying?
HERMOGENES: In my opinion, no. But I wish that you would tell me, Socrates, what sort
of an imitation is a name?
SOCRATES: In the first place, I should reply, not a musical imitation, although that is also
vocal; nor, again, an imitation of what music imitates; these, in my judgment, would not
be naming. Let me put the matter as follows: All objects have sound and figure, and
many have colour?
HERMOGENES: Certainly.
SOCRATES: But the art of naming appears not to be concerned with imitations of this
kind; the arts which have to do with them are music and drawing?
HERMOGENES: True.
SOCRATES: Again, is there not an essence of each thing, just as there is a colour, or
sound? And is there not an essence of colour and sound as well as of anything else
which may be said to have an essence?
HERMOGENES: I should think so.
SOCRATES: Well, and if any one could express the essence of each thing in letters and
syllables, would he not express the nature of each thing?
HERMOGENES: Quite so.
SOCRATES: The musician and the painter were the two names which you gave to the
two other imitators. What will this imitator be called?
HERMOGENES: I imagine, Socrates, that he must be the namer, or name-giver, of whom
we are in search.
SOCRATES: If this is true, then I think that we are in a condition to consider the names
ron (stream), ienai (to go), schesis (retention), about which you were asking; and we may
see whether the namer has grasped the nature of them in letters and syllables in such a
manner as to imitate the essence or not.
HERMOGENES: Very good.
SOCRATES: But are these the only primary names, or are there others?
HERMOGENES: There must be others.
SOCRATES: So I should expect. But how shall we further analyse them, and where does
the imitator begin? Imitation of the essence is made by syllables and letters; ought we
not, therefore, first to separate the letters, just as those who are beginning rhythm first
distinguish the powers of elementary, and then of compound sounds, and when they
have done so, but not before, they proceed to the consideration of rhythms?
HERMOGENES: Yes.
SOCRATES: Must we not begin in the same way with letters; first separating the vowels,
and then the consonants and mutes (letters which are neither vowels nor semivowels),
into classes, according to the received distinctions of the learned; also the semivowels,
which are neither vowels, nor yet mutes; and distinguishing into classes the vowels
themselves? And when we have perfected the classification of things, we shall give them
names, and see whether, as in the case of letters, there are any classes to which they
may be all referred (cf. Phaedrus); and hence we shall see their natures, and see, too,
whether they have in them classes as there are in the letters; and when we have well
considered all this, we shall know how to apply them to what they resemble—whether
one letter is used to denote one thing, or whether there is to be an admixture of several
of them; just, as in painting, the painter who wants to depict anything sometimes uses
purple only, or any other colour, and sometimes mixes up several colours, as his method
is when he has to paint flesh colour or anything of that kind—he uses his colours as his
figures appear to require them; and so, too, we shall apply letters to the expression of
objects, either single letters when required, or several letters; and so we shall form
syllables, as they are called, and from syllables make nouns and verbs; and thus, at last,
from the combinations of nouns and verbs arrive at language, large and fair and whole;
and as the painter made a figure, even so shall we make speech by the art of the namer
or the rhetorician, or by some other art. Not that I am literally speaking of ourselves, but
I was carried away— meaning to say that this was the way in which (not we but) the
ancients formed language, and what they put together we must take to pieces in like
manner, if we are to attain a scientific view of the whole subject, and we must see
whether the primary, and also whether the secondary elements are rightly given or not,
for if they are not, the composition of them, my dear Hermogenes, will be a sorry piece
of work, and in the wrong direction.
HERMOGENES: That, Socrates, I can quite believe.
SOCRATES: Well, but do you suppose that you will be able to analyse them in this way?
for I am certain that I should not.
HERMOGENES: Much less am I likely to be able.
SOCRATES: Shall we leave them, then? or shall we seek to discover, if we can, something
about them, according to the measure of our ability, saying by way of preface, as I said
before of the Gods, that of the truth about them we know nothing, and do but entertain
human notions of them. And in this present enquiry, let us say to ourselves, before we
proceed, that the higher method is the one which we or others who would analyse
language to any good purpose must follow; but under the circumstances, as men say,
we must do as well as we can. What do you think?
HERMOGENES: I very much approve.
SOCRATES: That objects should be imitated in letters and syllables, and so find
expression, may appear ridiculous, Hermogenes, but it cannot be avoided—there is no
better principle to which we can look for the truth of first names. Deprived of this, we
must have recourse to divine help, like the tragic poets, who in any perplexity have their
gods waiting in the air; and must get out of our difficulty in like fashion, by saying that
‘the Gods gave the first names, and therefore they are right.’ This will be the best
contrivance, or perhaps that other notion may be even better still, of deriving them from
some barbarous people, for the barbarians are older than we are; or we may say that
antiquity has cast a veil over them, which is the same sort of excuse as the last; for all
these are not reasons but only ingenious excuses for having no reasons concerning the
truth of words. And yet any sort of ignorance of first or primitive names involves an
ignorance of secondary words; for they can only be explained by the primary. Clearly
then the professor of languages should be able to give a very lucid explanation of first
names, or let him be assured he will only talk nonsense about the rest. Do you not
suppose this to be true?
HERMOGENES: Certainly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: My first notions of original names are truly wild and ridiculous, though I
have no objection to impart them to you if you desire, and I hope that you will
communicate to me in return anything better which you may have.
HERMOGENES: Fear not; I will do my best.
SOCRATES: In the first place, the letter rho appears to me to be the general instrument
expressing all motion (kinesis). But I have not yet explained the meaning of this latter
word, which is just iesis (going); for the letter eta was not in use among the ancients,
who only employed epsilon; and the root is kiein, which is a foreign form, the same as
ienai. And the old word kinesis will be correctly given as iesis in corresponding modern
letters. Assuming this foreign root kiein, and allowing for the change of the eta and the
insertion of the nu, we have kinesis, which should have been kieinsis or eisis; and stasis
is the negative of ienai (or eisis), and has been improved into stasis. Now the letter rho,
as I was saying, appeared to the imposer of names an excellent instrument for the
expression of motion; and he frequently uses the letter for this purpose: for example, in
the actual words rein and roe he represents motion by rho; also in the words tromos
(trembling), trachus (rugged); and again, in words such as krouein (strike), thrauein
(crush), ereikein (bruise), thruptein (break), kermatixein (crumble), rumbein (whirl): of all
these sorts of movements he generally finds an expression in the letter R, because, as I
imagine, he had observed that the tongue was most agitated and least at rest in the
pronunciation of this letter, which he therefore used in order to express motion, just as
by the letter iota he expresses the subtle elements which pass through all things. This is
why he uses the letter iota as imitative of motion, ienai, iesthai. And there is another
class of letters, phi, psi, sigma, and xi, of which the pronunciation is accompanied by
great expenditure of breath; these are used in the imitation of such notions as psuchron
(shivering), xeon (seething), seiesthai, (to be shaken), seismos (shock), and are always
introduced by the giver of names when he wants to imitate what is phusodes (windy).
He seems to have thought that the closing and pressure of the tongue in the utterance
of delta and tau was expressive of binding and rest in a place: he further observed the
liquid movement of lambda, in the pronunciation of which the tongue slips, and in this
he found the expression of smoothness, as in leios (level), and in the word oliothanein
(to slip) itself, liparon (sleek), in the word kollodes (gluey), and the like: the heavier
sound of gamma detained the slipping tongue, and the union of the two gave the
notion of a glutinous clammy nature, as in glischros, glukus, gloiodes. The nu he
observed to be sounded from within, and therefore to have a notion of inwardness;
hence he introduced the sound in endos and entos: alpha he assigned to the expression
of size, and nu of length, because they are great letters: omicron was the sign of
roundness, and therefore there is plenty of omicron mixed up in the word goggulon
(round). Thus did the legislator, reducing all things into letters and syllables, and
impressing on them names and signs, and out of them by imitation compounding other
signs. That is my view, Hermogenes, of the truth of names; but I should like to hear what
Cratylus has more to say.
HERMOGENES: But, Socrates, as I was telling you before, Cratylus mystifies me; he says
that there is a fitness of names, but he never explains what is this fitness, so that I
cannot tell whether his obscurity is intended or not. Tell me now, Cratylus, here in the
presence of Socrates, do you agree in what Socrates has been saying about names, or
have you something better of your own? and if you have, tell me what your view is, and
then you will either learn of Socrates, or Socrates and I will learn of you.
CRATYLUS: Well, but surely, Hermogenes, you do not suppose that you can learn, or I
explain, any subject of importance all in a moment; at any rate, not such a subject as
language, which is, perhaps, the very greatest of all.
HERMOGENES: No, indeed; but, as Hesiod says, and I agree with him, ‘to add little to
little’ is worth while. And, therefore, if you think that you can add anything at all,
however small, to our knowledge, take a little trouble and oblige Socrates, and me too,
who certainly have a claim upon you.
SOCRATES: I am by no means positive, Cratylus, in the view which Hermogenes and
myself have worked out; and therefore do not hesitate to say what you think, which if it
be better than my own view I shall gladly accept. And I should not be at all surprized to
find that you have found some better notion. For you have evidently reflected on these
matters and have had teachers, and if you have really a better theory of the truth of
names, you may count me in the number of your disciples.
CRATYLUS: You are right, Socrates, in saying that I have made a study of these matters,
and I might possibly convert you into a disciple. But I fear that the opposite is more
probable, and I already find myself moved to say to you what Achilles in the ‘Prayers’
says to Ajax,—
‘Illustrious Ajax, son of Telamon, lord of the people, You appear to have spoken in all
things much to my mind.’
And you, Socrates, appear to me to be an oracle, and to give answers much to my mind,
whether you are inspired by Euthyphro, or whether some Muse may have long been an
inhabitant of your breast, unconsciously to yourself.
SOCRATES: Excellent Cratylus, I have long been wondering at my own wisdom; I cannot
trust myself. And I think that I ought to stop and ask myself What am I saying? for there
is nothing worse than self-deception—when the deceiver is always at home and always
with you—it is quite terrible, and therefore I ought often to retrace my steps and
endeavour to ‘look fore and aft,’ in the words of the aforesaid Homer. And now let me
see; where are we? Have we not been saying that the correct name indicates the nature
of the thing:—has this proposition been sufficiently proven?
CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, what you say, as I am disposed to think, is quite true.
SOCRATES: Names, then, are given in order to instruct?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And naming is an art, and has artificers?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And who are they?
CRATYLUS: The legislators, of whom you spoke at first.
SOCRATES: And does this art grow up among men like other arts? Let me explain what I
mean: of painters, some are better and some worse?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: The better painters execute their works, I mean their figures, better, and the
worse execute them worse; and of builders also, the better sort build fairer houses, and
the worse build them worse.
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And among legislators, there are some who do their work better and some
worse?
CRATYLUS: No; there I do not agree with you.
SOCRATES: Then you do not think that some laws are better and others worse?
CRATYLUS: No, indeed.
SOCRATES: Or that one name is better than another?
CRATYLUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then all names are rightly imposed?
CRATYLUS: Yes, if they are names at all.
SOCRATES: Well, what do you say to the name of our friend Hermogenes, which was
mentioned before:—assuming that he has nothing of the nature of Hermes in him, shall
we say that this is a wrong name, or not his name at all?
CRATYLUS: I should reply that Hermogenes is not his name at all, but only appears to be
his, and is really the name of somebody else, who has the nature which corresponds to
it.
SOCRATES: And if a man were to call him Hermogenes, would he not be even speaking
falsely? For there may be a doubt whether you can call him Hermogenes, if he is not.
CRATYLUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Are you maintaining that falsehood is impossible? For if this is your meaning
I should answer, that there have been plenty of liars in all ages.
CRATYLUS: Why, Socrates, how can a man say that which is not?—say something and
yet say nothing? For is not falsehood saying the thing which is not?
SOCRATES: Your argument, friend, is too subtle for a man of my age. But I should like to
know whether you are one of those philosophers who think that falsehood may be
spoken but not said?
CRATYLUS: Neither spoken nor said.
SOCRATES: Nor uttered nor addressed? For example: If a person, saluting you in a
foreign country, were to take your hand and say: ‘Hail, Athenian stranger, Hermogenes,
son of Smicrion’—these words, whether spoken, said, uttered, or addressed, would have
no application to you but only to our friend Hermogenes, or perhaps to nobody at all?
CRATYLUS: In my opinion, Socrates, the speaker would only be talking nonsense.
SOCRATES: Well, but that will be quite enough for me, if you will tell me whether the
nonsense would be true or false, or partly true and partly false:—which is all that I want
to know.
CRATYLUS: I should say that he would be putting himself in motion to no purpose; and
that his words would be an unmeaning sound like the noise of hammering at a brazen
pot.
SOCRATES: But let us see, Cratylus, whether we cannot find a meeting- point, for you
would admit that the name is not the same with the thing named?
CRATYLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: And would you further acknowledge that the name is an imitation of the
thing?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And you would say that pictures are also imitations of things, but in another
way?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: I believe you may be right, but I do not rightly understand you. Please to
say, then, whether both sorts of imitation (I mean both pictures or words) are not
equally attributable and applicable to the things of which they are the imitation.
CRATYLUS: They are.
SOCRATES: First look at the matter thus: you may attribute the likeness of the man to
the man, and of the woman to the woman; and so on?
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And conversely you may attribute the likeness of the man to the woman,
and of the woman to the man?
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And are both modes of assigning them right, or only the first?
CRATYLUS: Only the first.
SOCRATES: That is to say, the mode of assignment which attributes to each that which
belongs to them and is like them?
CRATYLUS: That is my view.
SOCRATES: Now then, as I am desirous that we being friends should have a good
understanding about the argument, let me state my view to you: the first mode of
assignment, whether applied to figures or to names, I call right, and when applied to
names only, true as well as right; and the other mode of giving and assigning the name
which is unlike, I call wrong, and in the case of names, false as well as wrong.
CRATYLUS: That may be true, Socrates, in the case of pictures; they may be wrongly
assigned; but not in the case of names—they must be always right.
SOCRATES: Why, what is the difference? May I not go to a man and say to him, ‘This is
your picture,’ showing him his own likeness, or perhaps the likeness of a woman; and
when I say ‘show,’ I mean bring before the sense of sight.
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And may I not go to him again, and say, ‘This is your name’?— for the name,
like the picture, is an imitation. May I not say to him— ‘This is your name’? and may I
not then bring to his sense of hearing the imitation of himself, when I say, ‘This is a
man’; or of a female of the human species, when I say, ‘This is a woman,’ as the case may
be? Is not all that quite possible?
CRATYLUS: I would fain agree with you, Socrates; and therefore I say, Granted.
SOCRATES: That is very good of you, if I am right, which need hardly be disputed at
present. But if I can assign names as well as pictures to objects, the right assignment of
them we may call truth, and the wrong assignment of them falsehood. Now if there be
such a wrong assignment of names, there may also be a wrong or inappropriate
assignment of verbs; and if of names and verbs then of the sentences, which are made
up of them. What do you say, Cratylus?
CRATYLUS: I agree; and think that what you say is very true.
SOCRATES: And further, primitive nouns may be compared to pictures, and in pictures
you may either give all the appropriate colours and figures, or you may not give them
all—some may be wanting; or there may be too many or too much of them—may there
not?
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And he who gives all gives a perfect picture or figure; and he who takes
away or adds also gives a picture or figure, but not a good one.
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: In like manner, he who by syllables and letters imitates the nature of things,
if he gives all that is appropriate will produce a good image, or in other words a name;
but if he subtracts or perhaps adds a little, he will make an image but not a good one;
whence I infer that some names are well and others ill made.
CRATYLUS: That is true.
SOCRATES: Then the artist of names may be sometimes good, or he may be bad?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And this artist of names is called the legislator?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Then like other artists the legislator may be good or he may be bad; it must
surely be so if our former admissions hold good?
CRATYLUS: Very true, Socrates; but the case of language, you see, is different; for when
by the help of grammar we assign the letters alpha or beta, or any other letters to a
certain name, then, if we add, or subtract, or misplace a letter, the name which is written
is not only written wrongly, but not written at all; and in any of these cases becomes
other than a name.
SOCRATES: But I doubt whether your view is altogether correct, Cratylus.
CRATYLUS: How so?
SOCRATES: I believe that what you say may be true about numbers, which must be just
what they are, or not be at all; for example, the number ten at once becomes other than
ten if a unit be added or subtracted, and so of any other number: but this does not
apply to that which is qualitative or to anything which is represented under an image. I
should say rather that the image, if expressing in every point the entire reality, would no
longer be an image. Let us suppose the existence of two objects: one of them shall be
Cratylus, and the other the image of Cratylus; and we will suppose, further, that some
God makes not only a representation such as a painter would make of your outward
form and colour, but also creates an inward organization like yours, having the same
warmth and softness; and into this infuses motion, and soul, and mind, such as you
have, and in a word copies all your qualities, and places them by you in another form;
would you say that this was Cratylus and the image of Cratylus, or that there were two
Cratyluses?
CRATYLUS: I should say that there were two Cratyluses.
SOCRATES: Then you see, my friend, that we must find some other principle of truth in
images, and also in names; and not insist that an image is no longer an image when
something is added or subtracted. Do you not perceive that images are very far from
having qualities which are the exact counterpart of the realities which they represent?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I see.
SOCRATES: But then how ridiculous would be the effect of names on things, if they were
exactly the same with them! For they would be the doubles of them, and no one would
be able to determine which were the names and which were the realities.
CRATYLUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Then fear not, but have the courage to admit that one name may be
correctly and another incorrectly given; and do not insist that the name shall be exactly
the same with the thing; but allow the occasional substitution of a wrong letter, and if of
a letter also of a noun in a sentence, and if of a noun in a sentence also of a sentence
which is not appropriate to the matter, and acknowledge that the thing may be named,
and described, so long as the general character of the thing which you are describing is
retained; and this, as you will remember, was remarked by Hermogenes and myself in
the particular instance of the names of the letters.
CRATYLUS: Yes, I remember.
SOCRATES: Good; and when the general character is preserved, even if some of the
proper letters are wanting, still the thing is signified;—well, if all the letters are given; not
well, when only a few of them are given. I think that we had better admit this, lest we be
punished like travellers in Aegina who wander about the street late at night: and be
likewise told by truth herself that we have arrived too late; or if not, you must find out
some new notion of correctness of names, and no longer maintain that a name is the
expression of a thing in letters or syllables; for if you say both, you will be inconsistent
with yourself.
CRATYLUS: I quite acknowledge, Socrates, what you say to be very reasonable.
SOCRATES: Then as we are agreed thus far, let us ask ourselves whether a name rightly
imposed ought not to have the proper letters.
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And the proper letters are those which are like the things?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Enough then of names which are rightly given. And in names which are
incorrectly given, the greater part may be supposed to be made up of proper and
similar letters, or there would be no likeness; but there will be likewise a part which is
improper and spoils the beauty and formation of the word: you would admit that?
CRATYLUS: There would be no use, Socrates, in my quarrelling with you, since I cannot
be satisfied that a name which is incorrectly given is a name at all.
SOCRATES: Do you admit a name to be the representation of a thing?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: But do you not allow that some nouns are primitive, and some derived?
CRATYLUS: Yes, I do.
SOCRATES: Then if you admit that primitive or first nouns are representations of things,
is there any better way of framing representations than by assimilating them to the
objects as much as you can; or do you prefer the notion of Hermogenes and of many
others, who say that names are conventional, and have a meaning to those who have
agreed about them, and who have previous knowledge of the things intended by them,
and that convention is the only principle; and whether you abide by our present
convention, or make a new and opposite one, according to which you call small great
and great small—that, they would say, makes no difference, if you are only agreed.
Which of these two notions do you prefer?
CRATYLUS: Representation by likeness, Socrates, is infinitely better than representation
by any chance sign.
SOCRATES: Very good: but if the name is to be like the thing, the letters out of which
the first names are composed must also be like things. Returning to the image of the
picture, I would ask, How could any one ever compose a picture which would be like
anything at all, if there were not pigments in nature which resembled the things
imitated, and out of which the picture is composed?
CRATYLUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: No more could names ever resemble any actually existing thing, unless the
original elements of which they are compounded bore some degree of resemblance to
the objects of which the names are the imitation: And the original elements are letters?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let me now invite you to consider what Hermogenes and I were saying
about sounds. Do you agree with me that the letter rho is expressive of rapidity, motion,
and hardness? Were we right or wrong in saying so?
CRATYLUS: I should say that you were right.
SOCRATES: And that lamda was expressive of smoothness, and softness, and the like?
CRATYLUS: There again you were right.
SOCRATES: And yet, as you are aware, that which is called by us sklerotes, is by the
Eretrians called skleroter.
CRATYLUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: But are the letters rho and sigma equivalents; and is there the same
significance to them in the termination rho, which there is to us in sigma, or is there no
significance to one of us?
CRATYLUS: Nay, surely there is a significance to both of us.
SOCRATES: In as far as they are like, or in as far as they are unlike?
CRATYLUS: In as far as they are like.
SOCRATES: Are they altogether alike?
CRATYLUS: Yes; for the purpose of expressing motion.
SOCRATES: And what do you say of the insertion of the lamda? for that is expressive not
of hardness but of softness.
CRATYLUS: Why, perhaps the letter lamda is wrongly inserted, Socrates, and should be
altered into rho, as you were saying to Hermogenes and in my opinion rightly, when you
spoke of adding and subtracting letters upon occasion.
SOCRATES: Good. But still the word is intelligible to both of us; when I say skleros (hard),
you know what I mean.
CRATYLUS: Yes, my dear friend, and the explanation of that is custom.
SOCRATES: And what is custom but convention? I utter a sound which I understand, and
you know that I understand the meaning of the sound: this is what you are saying?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And if when I speak you know my meaning, there is an indication given by
me to you?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: This indication of my meaning may proceed from unlike as well as from like,
for example in the lamda of sklerotes. But if this is true, then you have made a
convention with yourself, and the correctness of a name turns out to be convention,
since letters which are unlike are indicative equally with those which are like, if they are
sanctioned by custom and convention. And even supposing that you distinguish custom
from convention ever so much, still you must say that the signification of words is given
by custom and not by likeness, for custom may indicate by the unlike as well as by the
like. But as we are agreed thus far, Cratylus (for I shall assume that your silence gives
consent), then custom and convention must be supposed to contribute to the indication
of our thoughts; for suppose we take the instance of number, how can you ever
imagine, my good friend, that you will find names resembling every individual number,
unless you allow that which you term convention and agreement to have authority in
determining the correctness of names? I quite agree with you that words should as far
as possible resemble things; but I fear that this dragging in of resemblance, as
Hermogenes says, is a shabby thing, which has to be supplemented by the mechanical
aid of convention with a view to correctness; for I believe that if we could always, or
almost always, use likenesses, which are perfectly appropriate, this would be the most
perfect state of language; as the opposite is the most imperfect. But let me ask you,
what is the force of names, and what is the use of them?
CRATYLUS: The use of names, Socrates, as I should imagine, is to inform: the simple
truth is, that he who knows names knows also the things which are expressed by them.
SOCRATES: I suppose you mean to say, Cratylus, that as the name is, so also is the thing;
and that he who knows the one will also know the other, because they are similars, and
all similars fall under the same art or science; and therefore you would say that he who
knows names will also know things.
CRATYLUS: That is precisely what I mean.
SOCRATES: But let us consider what is the nature of this information about things which,
according to you, is given us by names. Is it the best sort of information? or is there any
other? What do you say?
CRATYLUS: I believe that to be both the only and the best sort of information about
them; there can be no other.
SOCRATES: But do you believe that in the discovery of them, he who discovers the
names discovers also the things; or is this only the method of instruction, and is there
some other method of enquiry and discovery.
CRATYLUS: I certainly believe that the methods of enquiry and discovery are of the same
nature as instruction.
SOCRATES: Well, but do you not see, Cratylus, that he who follows names in the search
after things, and analyses their meaning, is in great danger of being deceived?
CRATYLUS: How so?
SOCRATES: Why clearly he who first gave names gave them according to his conception
of the things which they signified—did he not?
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if his conception was erroneous, and he gave names according to his
conception, in what position shall we who are his followers find ourselves? Shall we not
be deceived by him?
CRATYLUS: But, Socrates, am I not right in thinking that he must surely have known; or
else, as I was saying, his names would not be names at all? And you have a clear proof
that he has not missed the truth, and the proof is—that he is perfectly consistent. Did
you ever observe in speaking that all the words which you utter have a common
character and purpose?
SOCRATES: But that, friend Cratylus, is no answer. For if he did begin in error, he may
have forced the remainder into agreement with the original error and with himself; there
would be nothing strange in this, any more than in geometrical diagrams, which have
often a slight and invisible flaw in the first part of the process, and are consistently
mistaken in the long deductions which follow. And this is the reason why every man
should expend his chief thought and attention on the consideration of his first
principles:—are they or are they not rightly laid down? and when he has duly sifted
them, all the rest will follow. Now I should be astonished to find that names are really
consistent. And here let us revert to our former discussion: Were we not saying that all
things are in motion and progress and flux, and that this idea of motion is expressed by
names? Do you not conceive that to be the meaning of them?
CRATYLUS: Yes; that is assuredly their meaning, and the true meaning.
SOCRATES: Let us revert to episteme (knowledge) and observe how ambiguous this
word is, seeming rather to signify stopping the soul at things than going round with
them; and therefore we should leave the beginning as at present, and not reject the
epsilon, but make an insertion of an iota instead of an epsilon (not pioteme, but
epiisteme). Take another example: bebaion (sure) is clearly the expression of station and
position, and not of motion. Again, the word istoria (enquiry) bears upon the face of it
the stopping (istanai) of the stream; and the word piston (faithful) certainly indicates
cessation of motion; then, again, mneme (memory), as any one may see, expresses rest
in the soul, and not motion. Moreover, words such as amartia and sumphora, which
have a bad sense, viewed in the light of their etymologies will be the same as sunesis
and episteme and other words which have a good sense (compare omartein, sunienai,
epesthai, sumpheresthai); and much the same may be said of amathia and akolasia, for
amathia may be explained as e ama theo iontos poreia, and akolasia as e akolouthia tois
pragmasin. Thus the names which in these instances we find to have the worst sense,
will turn out to be framed on the same principle as those which have the best. And any
one I believe who would take the trouble might find many other examples in which the
giver of names indicates, not that things are in motion or progress, but that they are at
rest; which is the opposite of motion.
CRATYLUS: Yes, Socrates, but observe; the greater number express motion.
SOCRATES: What of that, Cratylus? Are we to count them like votes? and is correctness
of names the voice of the majority? Are we to say of whichever sort there are most,
those are the true ones?
CRATYLUS: No; that is not reasonable.
SOCRATES: Certainly not. But let us have done with this question and proceed to
another, about which I should like to know whether you think with me. Were we not
lately acknowledging that the first givers of names in states, both Hellenic and
barbarous, were the legislators, and that the art which gave names was the art of the
legislator?
CRATYLUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: Tell me, then, did the first legislators, who were the givers of the first names,
know or not know the things which they named?
CRATYLUS: They must have known, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Why, yes, friend Cratylus, they could hardly have been ignorant.
CRATYLUS: I should say not.
SOCRATES: Let us return to the point from which we digressed. You were saying, if you
remember, that he who gave names must have known the things which he named; are
you still of that opinion?
CRATYLUS: I am.
SOCRATES: And would you say that the giver of the first names had also a knowledge of
the things which he named?
CRATYLUS: I should.
SOCRATES: But how could he have learned or discovered things from names if the
primitive names were not yet given? For, if we are correct in our view, the only way of
learning and discovering things, is either to discover names for ourselves or to learn
them from others.
CRATYLUS: I think that there is a good deal in what you say, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if things are only to be known through names, how can we suppose that
the givers of names had knowledge, or were legislators before there were names at all,
and therefore before they could have known them?
CRATYLUS: I believe, Socrates, the true account of the matter to be, that a power more
than human gave things their first names, and that the names which are thus given are
necessarily their true names.
SOCRATES: Then how came the giver of the names, if he was an inspired being or God,
to contradict himself? For were we not saying just now that he made some names
expressive of rest and others of motion? Were we mistaken?
CRATYLUS: But I suppose one of the two not to be names at all.
SOCRATES: And which, then, did he make, my good friend; those which are expressive of
rest, or those which are expressive of motion? This is a point which, as I said before,
cannot be determined by counting them.
CRATYLUS: No; not in that way, Socrates.
SOCRATES: But if this is a battle of names, some of them asserting that they are like the
truth, others contending that THEY are, how or by what criterion are we to decide
between them? For there are no other names to which appeal can be made, but
obviously recourse must be had to another standard which, without employing names,
will make clear which of the two are right; and this must be a standard which shows the
truth of things.
CRATYLUS: I agree.
SOCRATES: But if that is true, Cratylus, then I suppose that things may be known without
names?
CRATYLUS: Clearly.
SOCRATES: But how would you expect to know them? What other way can there be of
knowing them, except the true and natural way, through their affinities, when they are
akin to each other, and through themselves? For that which is other and different from
them must signify something other and different from them.
CRATYLUS: What you are saying is, I think, true.
SOCRATES: Well, but reflect; have we not several times acknowledged that names rightly
given are the likenesses and images of the things which they name?
CRATYLUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: Let us suppose that to any extent you please you can learn things through
the medium of names, and suppose also that you can learn them from the things
themselves—which is likely to be the nobler and clearer way; to learn of the image,
whether the image and the truth of which the image is the expression have been rightly
conceived, or to learn of the truth whether the truth and the image of it have been duly
executed?
CRATYLUS: I should say that we must learn of the truth.
SOCRATES: How real existence is to be studied or discovered is, I suspect, beyond you
and me. But we may admit so much, that the knowledge of things is not to be derived
from names. No; they must be studied and investigated in themselves.
CRATYLUS: Clearly, Socrates.
SOCRATES: There is another point. I should not like us to be imposed upon by the
appearance of such a multitude of names, all tending in the same direction. I myself do
not deny that the givers of names did really give them under the idea that all things
were in motion and flux; which was their sincere but, I think, mistaken opinion. And
having fallen into a kind of whirlpool themselves, they are carried round, and want to
drag us in after them. There is a matter, master Cratylus, about which I often dream, and
should like to ask your opinion: Tell me, whether there is or is not any absolute beauty
or good, or any other absolute existence?
CRATYLUS: Certainly, Socrates, I think so.
SOCRATES: Then let us seek the true beauty: not asking whether a face is fair, or
anything of that sort, for all such things appear to be in a flux; but let us ask whether the
true beauty is not always beautiful.
CRATYLUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And can we rightly speak of a beauty which is always passing away, and is
first this and then that; must not the same thing be born and retire and vanish while the
word is in our mouths?
CRATYLUS: Undoubtedly.
SOCRATES: Then how can that be a real thing which is never in the same state? for
obviously things which are the same cannot change while they remain the same; and if
they are always the same and in the same state, and never depart from their original
form, they can never change or be moved.
CRATYLUS: Certainly they cannot.
SOCRATES: Nor yet can they be known by any one; for at the moment that the observer
approaches, then they become other and of another nature, so that you cannot get any
further in knowing their nature or state, for you cannot know that which has no state.
CRATYLUS: True.
SOCRATES: Nor can we reasonably say, Cratylus, that there is knowledge at all, if
everything is in a state of transition and there is nothing abiding; for knowledge too
cannot continue to be knowledge unless continuing always to abide and exist. But if the
very nature of knowledge changes, at the time when the change occurs there will be no
knowledge; and if the transition is always going on, there will always be no knowledge,
and, according to this view, there will be no one to know and nothing to be known: but
if that which knows and that which is known exists ever, and the beautiful and the good
and every other thing also exist, then I do not think that they can resemble a process or
flux, as we were just now supposing. Whether there is this eternal nature in things, or
whether the truth is what Heracleitus and his followers and many others say, is a
question hard to determine; and no man of sense will like to put himself or the
education of his mind in the power of names: neither will he so far trust names or the
givers of names as to be confident in any knowledge which condemns himself and other
existences to an unhealthy state of unreality; he will not believe that all things leak like a
pot, or imagine that the world is a man who has a running at the nose. This may be true,
Cratylus, but is also very likely to be untrue; and therefore I would not have you be too
easily persuaded of it. Reflect well and like a man, and do not easily accept such a
doctrine; for you are young and of an age to learn. And when you have found the truth,
come and tell me.
CRATYLUS: I will do as you say, though I can assure you, Socrates, that I have been
considering the matter already, and the result of a great deal of trouble and
consideration is that I incline to Heracleitus.
SOCRATES: Then, another day, my friend, when you come back, you shall give me a
lesson; but at present, go into the country, as you are intending, and Hermogenes shall
set you on your way.
CRATYLUS: Very good, Socrates; I hope, however, that you will continue to think about
these things yourself.
THE END
PHAEDO
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT
INTRODUCTION.
After an interval of some months or years, and at Phlius, a town of Peloponnesus, the
tale of the last hours of Socrates is narrated to Echecrates and other Phliasians by
Phaedo the ‘beloved disciple.’ The Dialogue necessarily takes the form of a narrative,
because Socrates has to be described acting as well as speaking. The minutest
particulars of the event are interesting to distant friends, and the narrator has an equal
interest in them.
During the voyage of the sacred ship to and from Delos, which has occupied thirty days,
the execution of Socrates has been deferred. (Compare Xen. Mem.) The time has been
passed by him in conversation with a select company of disciples. But now the holy
season is over, and the disciples meet earlier than usual in order that they may converse
with Socrates for the last time. Those who were present, and those who might have
been expected to be present, are mentioned by name. There are Simmias and Cebes
(Crito), two disciples of Philolaus whom Socrates ‘by his enchantments has attracted
from Thebes’ (Mem.), Crito the aged friend, the attendant of the prison, who is as good
as a friend—these take part in the conversation. There are present also, Hermogenes,
from whom Xenophon derived his information about the trial of Socrates (Mem.), the
‘madman’ Apollodorus (Symp.), Euclid and Terpsion from Megara (compare Theaet.),
Ctesippus, Antisthenes, Menexenus, and some other less-known members of the
Socratic circle, all of whom are silent auditors. Aristippus, Cleombrotus, and Plato are
noted as absent. Almost as soon as the friends of Socrates enter the prison Xanthippe
and her children are sent home in the care of one of Crito’s servants. Socrates himself
has just been released from chains, and is led by this circumstance to make the natural
remark that ‘pleasure follows pain.’ (Observe that Plato is preparing the way for his
doctrine of the alternation of opposites.) ‘Aesop would have represented them in a fable
as a two-headed creature of the gods.’ The mention of Aesop reminds Cebes of a
question which had been asked by Evenus the poet (compare Apol.): ‘Why Socrates, who
was not a poet, while in prison had been putting Aesop into verse?’—‘Because several
times in his life he had been warned in dreams that he should practise music; and as he
was about to die and was not certain of what was meant, he wished to fulfil the
admonition in the letter as well as in the spirit, by writing verses as well as by cultivating
philosophy. Tell this to Evenus; and say that I would have him follow me in death.’ ‘He is
not at all the sort of man to comply with your request, Socrates.’ ‘Why, is he not a
philosopher?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then he will be willing to die, although he will not take his own life,
for that is held to be unlawful.’
Cebes asks why suicide is thought not to be right, if death is to be accounted a good?
Well, (1) according to one explanation, because man is a prisoner, who must not open
the door of his prison and run away—this is the truth in a ‘mystery.’ Or (2) rather,
because he is not his own property, but a possession of the gods, and has no right to
make away with that which does not belong to him. But why, asks Cebes, if he is a
possession of the gods, should he wish to die and leave them? For he is under their
protection; and surely he cannot take better care of himself than they take of him.
Simmias explains that Cebes is really referring to Socrates, whom they think too
unmoved at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends. Socrates answers that he is
going to other gods who are wise and good, and perhaps to better friends; and he
professes that he is ready to defend himself against the charge of Cebes. The company
shall be his judges, and he hopes that he will be more successful in convincing them
than he had been in convincing the court.
The philosopher desires death—which the wicked world will insinuate that he also
deserves: and perhaps he does, but not in any sense which they are capable of
understanding. Enough of them: the real question is, What is the nature of that death
which he desires? Death is the separation of soul and body—and the philosopher
desires such a separation. He would like to be freed from the dominion of bodily
pleasures and of the senses, which are always perturbing his mental vision. He wants to
get rid of eyes and ears, and with the light of the mind only to behold the light of truth.
All the evils and impurities and necessities of men come from the body. And death
separates him from these corruptions, which in life he cannot wholly lay aside. Why then
should he repine when the hour of separation arrives? Why, if he is dead while he lives,
should he fear that other death, through which alone he can behold wisdom in her
purity?
Besides, the philosopher has notions of good and evil unlike those of other men. For
they are courageous because they are afraid of greater dangers, and temperate because
they desire greater pleasures. But he disdains this balancing of pleasures and pains,
which is the exchange of commerce and not of virtue. All the virtues, including wisdom,
are regarded by him only as purifications of the soul. And this was the meaning of the
founders of the mysteries when they said, ‘Many are the wand-bearers but few are the
mystics.’ (Compare Matt. xxii.: ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’) And in the hope
that he is one of these mystics, Socrates is now departing. This is his answer to any one
who charges him with indifference at the prospect of leaving the gods and his friends.
Still, a fear is expressed that the soul upon leaving the body may vanish away like smoke
or air. Socrates in answer appeals first of all to the old Orphic tradition that the souls of
the dead are in the world below, and that the living come from them. This he attempts
to found on a philosophical assumption that all opposites—e.g. less, greater; weaker,
stronger; sleeping, waking; life, death—are generated out of each other. Nor can the
process of generation be only a passage from living to dying, for then all would end in
death. The perpetual sleeper (Endymion) would be no longer distinguished from the rest
of mankind. The circle of nature is not complete unless the living come from the dead as
well as pass to them.
The Platonic doctrine of reminiscence is then adduced as a confirmation of the preexistence
of the soul. Some proofs of this doctrine are demanded. One proof given is
the same as that of the Meno, and is derived from the latent knowledge of mathematics,
which may be elicited from an unlearned person when a diagram is presented to him.
Again, there is a power of association, which from seeing Simmias may remember
Cebes, or from seeing a picture of Simmias may remember Simmias. The lyre may recall
the player of the lyre, and equal pieces of wood or stone may be associated with the
higher notion of absolute equality. But here observe that material equalities fall short of
the conception of absolute equality with which they are compared, and which is the
measure of them. And the measure or standard must be prior to that which is measured,
the idea of equality prior to the visible equals. And if prior to them, then prior also to
the perceptions of the senses which recall them, and therefore either given before birth
or at birth. But all men have not this knowledge, nor have any without a process of
reminiscence; which is a proof that it is not innate or given at birth, unless indeed it was
given and taken away at the same instant. But if not given to men in birth, it must have
been given before birth—this is the only alternative which remains. And if we had ideas
in a former state, then our souls must have existed and must have had intelligence in a
former state. The pre-existence of the soul stands or falls with the doctrine of ideas.
It is objected by Simmias and Cebes that these arguments only prove a former and not a
future existence. Socrates answers this objection by recalling the previous argument, in
which he had shown that the living come from the dead. But the fear that the soul at
departing may vanish into air (especially if there is a wind blowing at the time) has not
yet been charmed away. He proceeds: When we fear that the soul will vanish away, let
us ask ourselves what is that which we suppose to be liable to dissolution? Is it the
simple or the compound, the unchanging or the changing, the invisible idea or the
visible object of sense? Clearly the latter and not the former; and therefore not the soul,
which in her own pure thought is unchangeable, and only when using the senses
descends into the region of change. Again, the soul commands, the body serves: in this
respect too the soul is akin to the divine, and the body to the mortal. And in every point
of view the soul is the image of divinity and immortality, and the body of the human and
mortal. And whereas the body is liable to speedy dissolution, the soul is almost if not
quite indissoluble. (Compare Tim.) Yet even the body may be preserved for ages by the
embalmer’s art: how unlikely, then, that the soul will perish and be dissipated into air
while on her way to the good and wise God! She has been gathered into herself, holding
aloof from the body, and practising death all her life long, and she is now finally
released from the errors and follies and passions of men, and for ever dwells in the
company of the gods.
But the soul which is polluted and engrossed by the corporeal, and has no eye except
that of the senses, and is weighed down by the bodily appetites, cannot attain to this
abstraction. In her fear of the world below she lingers about the sepulchre, loath to
leave the body which she loved, a ghostly apparition, saturated with sense, and
therefore visible. At length entering into some animal of a nature congenial to her
former life of sensuality or violence, she takes the form of an ass, a wolf or a kite. And of
these earthly souls the happiest are those who have practised virtue without philosophy;
they are allowed to pass into gentle and social natures, such as bees and ants. (Compare
Republic, Meno.) But only the philosopher who departs pure is permitted to enter the
company of the gods. (Compare Phaedrus.) This is the reason why he abstains from
fleshly lusts, and not because he fears loss or disgrace, which is the motive of other men.
He too has been a captive, and the willing agent of his own captivity. But philosophy has
spoken to him, and he has heard her voice; she has gently entreated him, and brought
him out of the ‘miry clay,’ and purged away the mists of passion and the illusions of
sense which envelope him; his soul has escaped from the influence of pleasures and
pains, which are like nails fastening her to the body. To that prison-house she will not
return; and therefore she abstains from bodily pleasures—not from a desire of having
more or greater ones, but because she knows that only when calm and free from the
dominion of the body can she behold the light of truth.
Simmias and Cebes remain in doubt; but they are unwilling to raise objections at such a
time. Socrates wonders at their reluctance. Let them regard him rather as the swan, who,
having sung the praises of Apollo all his life long, sings at his death more lustily than
ever. Simmias acknowledges that there is cowardice in not probing truth to the bottom.
‘And if truth divine and inspired is not to be had, then let a man take the best of human
notions, and upon this frail bark let him sail through life.’ He proceeds to state his
difficulty: It has been argued that the soul is invisible and incorporeal, and therefore
immortal, and prior to the body. But is not the soul acknowledged to be a harmony, and
has she not the same relation to the body, as the harmony—which like her is invisible—
has to the lyre? And yet the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes has also an
objection, which like Simmias he expresses in a figure. He is willing to admit that the
soul is more lasting than the body. But the more lasting nature of the soul does not
prove her immortality; for after having worn out many bodies in a single life, and many
more in successive births and deaths, she may at last perish, or, as Socrates afterwards
restates the objection, the very act of birth may be the beginning of her death, and her
last body may survive her, just as the coat of an old weaver is left behind him after he is
dead, although a man is more lasting than his coat. And he who would prove the
immortality of the soul, must prove not only that the soul outlives one or many bodies,
but that she outlives them all.
The audience, like the chorus in a play, for a moment interpret the feelings of the actors;
there is a temporary depression, and then the enquiry is resumed. It is a melancholy
reflection that arguments, like men, are apt to be deceivers; and those who have been
often deceived become distrustful both of arguments and of friends. But this
unfortunate experience should not make us either haters of men or haters of arguments.
The want of health and truth is not in the argument, but in ourselves. Socrates, who is
about to die, is sensible of his own weakness; he desires to be impartial, but he cannot
help feeling that he has too great an interest in the truth of the argument. And therefore
he would have his friends examine and refute him, if they think that he is in error.
At his request Simmias and Cebes repeat their objections. They do not go to the length
of denying the pre-existence of ideas. Simmias is of opinion that the soul is a harmony
of the body. But the admission of the pre- existence of ideas, and therefore of the soul,
is at variance with this. (Compare a parallel difficulty in Theaet.) For a harmony is an
effect, whereas the soul is not an effect, but a cause; a harmony follows, but the soul
leads; a harmony admits of degrees, and the soul has no degrees. Again, upon the
supposition that the soul is a harmony, why is one soul better than another? Are they
more or less harmonized, or is there one harmony within another? But the soul does not
admit of degrees, and cannot therefore be more or less harmonized. Further, the soul is
often engaged in resisting the affections of the body, as Homer describes Odysseus
‘rebuking his heart.’ Could he have written this under the idea that the soul is a harmony
of the body? Nay rather, are we not contradicting Homer and ourselves in affirming
anything of the sort?
The goddess Harmonia, as Socrates playfully terms the argument of Simmias, has been
happily disposed of; and now an answer has to be given to the Theban Cadmus.
Socrates recapitulates the argument of Cebes, which, as he remarks, involves the whole
question of natural growth or causation; about this he proposes to narrate his own
mental experience. When he was young he had puzzled himself with physics: he had
enquired into the growth and decay of animals, and the origin of thought, until at last
he began to doubt the self-evident fact that growth is the result of eating and drinking;
and so he arrived at the conclusion that he was not meant for such enquiries. Nor was
he less perplexed with notions of comparison and number. At first he had imagined
himself to understand differences of greater and less, and to know that ten is two more
than eight, and the like. But now those very notions appeared to him to contain a
contradiction. For how can one be divided into two? Or two be compounded into one?
These are difficulties which Socrates cannot answer. Of generation and destruction he
knows nothing. But he has a confused notion of another method in which matters of
this sort are to be investigated. (Compare Republic; Charm.)
Then he heard some one reading out of a book of Anaxagoras, that mind is the cause of
all things. And he said to himself: If mind is the cause of all things, surely mind must
dispose them all for the best. The new teacher will show me this ‘order of the best’ in
man and nature. How great had been his hopes and how great his disappointment! For
he found that his new friend was anything but consistent in his use of mind as a cause,
and that he soon introduced winds, waters, and other eccentric notions. (Compare Arist.
Metaph.) It was as if a person had said that Socrates is sitting here because he is made
up of bones and muscles, instead of telling the true reason—that he is here because the
Athenians have thought good to sentence him to death, and he has thought good to
await his sentence. Had his bones and muscles been left by him to their own ideas of
right, they would long ago have taken themselves off. But surely there is a great
confusion of the cause and condition in all this. And this confusion also leads people
into all sorts of erroneous theories about the position and motions of the earth. None of
them know how much stronger than any Atlas is the power of the best. But this ‘best’ is
still undiscovered; and in enquiring after the cause, we can only hope to attain the
second best.
Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of things, as there is a danger
in looking at the sun during an eclipse, unless the precaution is taken of looking only at
the image reflected in the water, or in a glass. (Compare Laws; Republic.) ‘I was afraid,’
says Socrates, ‘that I might injure the eye of the soul. I thought that I had better return
to the old and safe method of ideas. Though I do not mean to say that he who
contemplates existence through the medium of ideas sees only through a glass darkly,
any more than he who contemplates actual effects.’
If the existence of ideas is granted to him, Socrates is of opinion that he will then have
no difficulty in proving the immortality of the soul. He will only ask for a further
admission:—that beauty is the cause of the beautiful, greatness the cause of the great,
smallness of the small, and so on of other things. This is a safe and simple answer, which
escapes the contradictions of greater and less (greater by reason of that which is
smaller!), of addition and subtraction, and the other difficulties of relation. These
subtleties he is for leaving to wiser heads than his own; he prefers to test ideas by the
consistency of their consequences, and, if asked to give an account of them, goes back
to some higher idea or hypothesis which appears to him to be the best, until at last he
arrives at a resting-place. (Republic; Phil.)
The doctrine of ideas, which has long ago received the assent of the Socratic circle, is
now affirmed by the Phliasian auditor to command the assent of any man of sense. The
narrative is continued; Socrates is desirous of explaining how opposite ideas may appear
to co-exist but do not really co-exist in the same thing or person. For example, Simmias
may be said to have greatness and also smallness, because he is greater than Socrates
and less than Phaedo. And yet Simmias is not really great and also small, but only when
compared to Phaedo and Socrates. I use the illustration, says Socrates, because I want to
show you not only that ideal opposites exclude one another, but also the opposites in
us. I, for example, having the attribute of smallness remain small, and cannot become
great: the smallness which is in me drives out greatness.
One of the company here remarked that this was inconsistent with the old assertion that
opposites generated opposites. But that, replies Socrates, was affirmed, not of opposite
ideas either in us or in nature, but of opposition in the concrete—not of life and death,
but of individuals living and dying. When this objection has been removed, Socrates
proceeds: This doctrine of the mutual exclusion of opposites is not only true of the
opposites themselves, but of things which are inseparable from them. For example, cold
and heat are opposed; and fire, which is inseparable from heat, cannot co-exist with
cold, or snow, which is inseparable from cold, with heat. Again, the number three
excludes the number four, because three is an odd number and four is an even number,
and the odd is opposed to the even. Thus we are able to proceed a step beyond ‘the
safe and simple answer.’ We may say, not only that the odd excludes the even, but that
the number three, which participates in oddness, excludes the even. And in like manner,
not only does life exclude death, but the soul, of which life is the inseparable attribute,
also excludes death. And that of which life is the inseparable attribute is by the force of
the terms imperishable. If the odd principle were imperishable, then the number three
would not perish but remove, on the approach of the even principle. But the immortal is
imperishable; and therefore the soul on the approach of death does not perish but
removes.
Thus all objections appear to be finally silenced. And now the application has to be
made: If the soul is immortal, ‘what manner of persons ought we to be?’ having regard
not only to time but to eternity. For death is not the end of all, and the wicked is not
released from his evil by death; but every one carries with him into the world below that
which he is or has become, and that only.
For after death the soul is carried away to judgment, and when she has received her
punishment returns to earth in the course of ages. The wise soul is conscious of her
situation, and follows the attendant angel who guides her through the windings of the
world below; but the impure soul wanders hither and thither without companion or
guide, and is carried at last to her own place, as the pure soul is also carried away to
hers. ‘In order that you may understand this, I must first describe to you the nature and
conformation of the earth.’
Now the whole earth is a globe placed in the centre of the heavens, and is maintained
there by the perfection of balance. That which we call the earth is only one of many
small hollows, wherein collect the mists and waters and the thick lower air; but the true
earth is above, and is in a finer and subtler element. And if, like birds, we could fly to the
surface of the air, in the same manner that fishes come to the top of the sea, then we
should behold the true earth and the true heaven and the true stars. Our earth is
everywhere corrupted and corroded; and even the land which is fairer than the sea, for
that is a mere chaos or waste of water and mud and sand, has nothing to show in
comparison of the other world. But the heavenly earth is of divers colours, sparkling with
jewels brighter than gold and whiter than any snow, having flowers and fruits
innumerable. And the inhabitants dwell some on the shore of the sea of air, others in
‘islets of the blest,’ and they hold converse with the gods, and behold the sun, moon
and stars as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.
The hollows on the surface of the globe vary in size and shape from that which we
inhabit: but all are connected by passages and perforations in the interior of the earth.
And there is one huge chasm or opening called Tartarus, into which streams of fire and
water and liquid mud are ever flowing; of these small portions find their way to the
surface and form seas and rivers and volcanoes. There is a perpetual inhalation and
exhalation of the air rising and falling as the waters pass into the depths of the earth
and return again, in their course forming lakes and rivers, but never descending below
the centre of the earth; for on either side the rivers flowing either way are stopped by a
precipice. These rivers are many and mighty, and there are four principal ones, Oceanus,
Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus. Oceanus is the river which encircles the earth;
Acheron takes an opposite direction, and after flowing under the earth through desert
places, at last reaches the Acherusian lake,—this is the river at which the souls of the
dead await their return to earth. Pyriphlegethon is a stream of fire, which coils round the
earth and flows into the depths of Tartarus. The fourth river, Cocytus, is that which is
called by the poets the Stygian river, and passes into and forms the lake Styx, from the
waters of which it gains new and strange powers. This river, too, falls into Tartarus.
The dead are first of all judged according to their deeds, and those who are incurable
are thrust into Tartarus, from which they never come out. Those who have only
committed venial sins are first purified of them, and then rewarded for the good which
they have done. Those who have committed crimes, great indeed, but not
unpardonable, are thrust into Tartarus, but are cast forth at the end of a year by way of
Pyriphlegethon or Cocytus, and these carry them as far as the Acherusian lake, where
they call upon their victims to let them come out of the rivers into the lake. And if they
prevail, then they are let out and their sufferings cease: if not, they are borne
unceasingly into Tartarus and back again, until they at last obtain mercy. The pure souls
also receive their reward, and have their abode in the upper earth, and a select few in
still fairer ‘mansions.’
Socrates is not prepared to insist on the literal accuracy of this description, but he is
confident that something of the kind is true. He who has sought after the pleasures of
knowledge and rejected the pleasures of the body, has reason to be of good hope at
the approach of death; whose voice is already speaking to him, and who will one day be
heard calling all men.
The hour has come at which he must drink the poison, and not much remains to be
done. How shall they bury him? That is a question which he refuses to entertain, for they
are burying, not him, but his dead body. His friends had once been sureties that he
would remain, and they shall now be sureties that he has run away. Yet he would not die
without the customary ceremonies of washing and burial. Shall he make a libation of the
poison? In the spirit he will, but not in the letter. One request he utters in the very act of
death, which has been a puzzle to after ages. With a sort of irony he remembers that a
trifling religious duty is still unfulfilled, just as above he desires before he departs to
compose a few verses in order to satisfy a scruple about a dream—unless, indeed, we
suppose him to mean, that he was now restored to health, and made the customary
offering to Asclepius in token of his recovery.
...
1. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul has sunk deep into the heart of the human
race; and men are apt to rebel against any examination of the nature or grounds of their
belief. They do not like to acknowledge that this, as well as the other ‘eternal ideas; of
man, has a history in time, which may be traced in Greek poetry or philosophy, and also
in the Hebrew Scriptures. They convert feeling into reasoning, and throw a network of
dialectics over that which is really a deeply-rooted instinct. In the same temper which
Socrates reproves in himself they are disposed to think that even fallacies will do no
harm, for they will die with them, and while they live they will gain by the delusion. And
when they consider the numberless bad arguments which have been pressed into the
service of theology, they say, like the companions of Socrates, ‘What argument can we
ever trust again?’ But there is a better and higher spirit to be gathered from the Phaedo,
as well as from the other writings of Plato, which says that first principles should be
most constantly reviewed (Phaedo and Crat.), and that the highest subjects demand of
us the greatest accuracy (Republic); also that we must not become misologists because
arguments are apt to be deceivers.
2. In former ages there was a customary rather than a reasoned belief in the immortality
of the soul. It was based on the authority of the Church, on the necessity of such a belief
to morality and the order of society, on the evidence of an historical fact, and also on
analogies and figures of speech which filled up the void or gave an expression in words
to a cherished instinct. The mass of mankind went on their way busy with the affairs of
this life, hardly stopping to think about another. But in our own day the question has
been reopened, and it is doubtful whether the belief which in the first ages of
Christianity was the strongest motive of action can survive the conflict with a scientific
age in which the rules of evidence are stricter and the mind has become more sensitive
to criticism. It has faded into the distance by a natural process as it was removed further
and further from the historical fact on which it has been supposed to rest. Arguments
derived from material things such as the seed and the ear of corn or transitions in the
life of animals from one state of being to another (the chrysalis and the butterfly) are
not ‘in pari materia’ with arguments from the visible to the invisible, and are therefore
felt to be no longer applicable. The evidence to the historical fact seems to be weaker
than was once supposed: it is not consistent with itself, and is based upon documents
which are of unknown origin. The immortality of man must be proved by other
arguments than these if it is again to become a living belief. We must ask ourselves
afresh why we still maintain it, and seek to discover a foundation for it in the nature of
God and in the first principles of morality.
3. At the outset of the discussion we may clear away a confusion. We certainly do not
mean by the immortality of the soul the immortality of fame, which whether worth
having or not can only be ascribed to a very select class of the whole race of mankind,
and even the interest in these few is comparatively short-lived. To have been a
benefactor to the world, whether in a higher or a lower sphere of life and thought, is a
great thing: to have the reputation of being one, when men have passed out of the
sphere of earthly praise or blame, is hardly worthy of consideration. The memory of a
great man, so far from being immortal, is really limited to his own generation:—so long
as his friends or his disciples are alive, so long as his books continue to be read, so long
as his political or military successes fill a page in the history of his country. The praises
which are bestowed upon him at his death hardly last longer than the flowers which are
strewed upon his coffin or the ‘immortelles’ which are laid upon his tomb. Literature
makes the most of its heroes, but the true man is well aware that far from enjoying an
immortality of fame, in a generation or two, or even in a much shorter time, he will be
forgotten and the world will get on without him.
4. Modern philosophy is perplexed at this whole question, which is sometimes fairly
given up and handed over to the realm of faith. The perplexity should not be forgotten
by us when we attempt to submit the Phaedo of Plato to the requirements of logic. For
what idea can we form of the soul when separated from the body? Or how can the soul
be united with the body and still be independent? Is the soul related to the body as the
ideal to the real, or as the whole to the parts, or as the subject to the object, or as the
cause to the effect, or as the end to the means? Shall we say with Aristotle, that the soul
is the entelechy or form of an organized living body? or with Plato, that she has a life of
her own? Is the Pythagorean image of the harmony, or that of the monad, the truer
expression? Is the soul related to the body as sight to the eye, or as the boatman to his
boat? (Arist. de Anim.) And in another state of being is the soul to be conceived of as
vanishing into infinity, hardly possessing an existence which she can call her own, as in
the pantheistic system of Spinoza: or as an individual informing another body and
entering into new relations, but retaining her own character? (Compare Gorgias.) Or is
the opposition of soul and body a mere illusion, and the true self neither soul nor body,
but the union of the two in the ‘I’ which is above them? And is death the assertion of
this individuality in the higher nature, and the falling away into nothingness of the
lower? Or are we vainly attempting to pass the boundaries of human thought? The body
and the soul seem to be inseparable, not only in fact, but in our conceptions of them;
and any philosophy which too closely unites them, or too widely separates them, either
in this life or in another, disturbs the balance of human nature. No thinker has perfectly
adjusted them, or been entirely consistent with himself in describing their relation to
one another. Nor can we wonder that Plato in the infancy of human thought should
have confused mythology and philosophy, or have mistaken verbal arguments for real
ones.
5. Again, believing in the immortality of the soul, we must still ask the question of
Socrates, ‘What is that which we suppose to be immortal?’ Is it the personal and
individual element in us, or the spiritual and universal? Is it the principle of knowledge
or of goodness, or the union of the two? Is it the mere force of life which is determined
to be, or the consciousness of self which cannot be got rid of, or the fire of genius which
refuses to be extinguished? Or is there a hidden being which is allied to the Author of all
existence, who is because he is perfect, and to whom our ideas of perfection give us a
title to belong? Whatever answer is given by us to these questions, there still remains
the necessity of allowing the permanence of evil, if not for ever, at any rate for a time, in
order that the wicked ‘may not have too good a bargain.’ For the annihilation of evil at
death, or the eternal duration of it, seem to involve equal difficulties in the moral
government of the universe. Sometimes we are led by our feelings, rather than by our
reason, to think of the good and wise only as existing in another life. Why should the
mean, the weak, the idiot, the infant, the herd of men who have never in any proper
sense the use of reason, reappear with blinking eyes in the light of another world? But
our second thought is that the hope of humanity is a common one, and that all or none
will be partakers of immortality. Reason does not allow us to suppose that we have any
greater claims than others, and experience may often reveal to us unexpected flashes of
the higher nature in those whom we had despised. Why should the wicked suffer any
more than ourselves? had we been placed in their circumstances should we have been
any better than they? The worst of men are objects of pity rather than of anger to the
philanthropist; must they not be equally such to divine benevolence? Even more than
the good they have need of another life; not that they may be punished, but that they
may be educated. These are a few of the reflections which arise in our minds when we
attempt to assign any form to our conceptions of a future state.
There are some other questions which are disturbing to us because we have no answer
to them. What is to become of the animals in a future state? Have we not seen dogs
more faithful and intelligent than men, and men who are more stupid and brutal than
any animals? Does their life cease at death, or is there some ‘better thing reserved’ also
for them? They may be said to have a shadow or imitation of morality, and imperfect
moral claims upon the benevolence of man and upon the justice of God. We cannot
think of the least or lowest of them, the insect, the bird, the inhabitants of the sea or the
desert, as having any place in a future world, and if not all, why should those who are
specially attached to man be deemed worthy of any exceptional privilege? When we
reason about such a subject, almost at once we degenerate into nonsense. It is a
passing thought which has no real hold on the mind. We may argue for the existence of
animals in a future state from the attributes of God, or from texts of Scripture (‘Are not
two sparrows sold for one farthing?’ etc.), but the truth is that we are only filling up the
void of another world with our own fancies. Again, we often talk about the origin of evil,
that great bugbear of theologians, by which they frighten us into believing any
superstition. What answer can be made to the old commonplace, ‘Is not God the author
of evil, if he knowingly permitted, but could have prevented it?’ Even if we assume that
the inequalities of this life are rectified by some transposition of human beings in
another, still the existence of the very least evil if it could have been avoided, seems to
be at variance with the love and justice of God. And so we arrive at the conclusion that
we are carrying logic too far, and that the attempt to frame the world according to a
rule of divine perfection is opposed to experience and had better be given up. The case
of the animals is our own. We must admit that the Divine Being, although perfect
himself, has placed us in a state of life in which we may work together with him for
good, but we are very far from having attained to it.
6. Again, ideas must be given through something; and we are always prone to argue
about the soul from analogies of outward things which may serve to embody our
thoughts, but are also partly delusive. For we cannot reason from the natural to the
spiritual, or from the outward to the inward. The progress of physiological science,
without bringing us nearer to the great secret, has tended to remove some erroneous
notions respecting the relations of body and mind, and in this we have the advantage of
the ancients. But no one imagines that any seed of immortality is to be discerned in our
mortal frames. Most people have been content to rest their belief in another life on the
agreement of the more enlightened part of mankind, and on the inseparable connection
of such a doctrine with the existence of a God—also in a less degree on the impossibility
of doubting about the continued existence of those whom we love and reverence in this
world. And after all has been said, the figure, the analogy, the argument, are felt to be
only approximations in different forms to an expression of the common sentiment of
the human heart. That we shall live again is far more certain than that we shall take any
particular form of life.
7. When we speak of the immortality of the soul, we must ask further what we mean by
the word immortality. For of the duration of a living being in countless ages we can form
no conception; far less than a three years’ old child of the whole of life. The naked eye
might as well try to see the furthest star in the infinity of heaven. Whether time and
space really exist when we take away the limits of them may be doubted; at any rate the
thought of them when unlimited us so overwhelming to us as to lose all distinctness.
Philosophers have spoken of them as forms of the human mind, but what is the mind
without them? As then infinite time, or an existence out of time, which are the only
possible explanations of eternal duration, are equally inconceivable to us, let us
substitute for them a hundred or a thousand years after death, and ask not what will be
our employment in eternity, but what will happen to us in that definite portion of time;
or what is now happening to those who passed out of life a hundred or a thousand
years ago. Do we imagine that the wicked are suffering torments, or that the good are
singing the praises of God, during a period longer than that of a whole life, or of ten
lives of men? Is the suffering physical or mental? And does the worship of God consist
only of praise, or of many forms of service? Who are the wicked, and who are the good,
whom we venture to divide by a hard and fast line; and in which of the two classes
should we place ourselves and our friends? May we not suspect that we are making
differences of kind, because we are unable to imagine differences of degree?—putting
the whole human race into heaven or hell for the greater convenience of logical
division? Are we not at the same time describing them both in superlatives, only that we
may satisfy the demands of rhetoric? What is that pain which does not become
deadened after a thousand years? or what is the nature of that pleasure or happiness
which never wearies by monotony? Earthly pleasures and pains are short in proportion
as they are keen; of any others which are both intense and lasting we have no
experience, and can form no idea. The words or figures of speech which we use are not
consistent with themselves. For are we not imagining Heaven under the similitude of a
church, and Hell as a prison, or perhaps a madhouse or chamber of horrors? And yet to
beings constituted as we are, the monotony of singing psalms would be as great an
infliction as the pains of hell, and might be even pleasantly interrupted by them. Where
are the actions worthy of rewards greater than those which are conferred on the
greatest benefactors of mankind? And where are the crimes which according to Plato’s
merciful reckoning,—more merciful, at any rate, than the eternal damnation of so-called
Christian teachers,—for every ten years in this life deserve a hundred of punishment in
the life to come? We should be ready to die of pity if we could see the least of the
sufferings which the writers of Infernos and Purgatorios have attributed to the damned.
Yet these joys and terrors seem hardly to exercise an appreciable influence over the lives
of men. The wicked man when old, is not, as Plato supposes (Republic), more agitated
by the terrors of another world when he is nearer to them, nor the good in an ecstasy at
the joys of which he is soon to be the partaker. Age numbs the sense of both worlds;
and the habit of life is strongest in death. Even the dying mother is dreaming of her lost
children as they were forty or fifty years before, ‘pattering over the boards,’ not of
reunion with them in another state of being. Most persons when the last hour comes are
resigned to the order of nature and the will of God. They are not thinking of Dante’s
Inferno or Paradiso, or of the Pilgrim’s Progress. Heaven and hell are not realities to
them, but words or ideas; the outward symbols of some great mystery, they hardly know
what. Many noble poems and pictures have been suggested by the traditional
representations of them, which have been fixed in forms of art and can no longer be
altered. Many sermons have been filled with descriptions of celestial or infernal
mansions. But hardly even in childhood did the thought of heaven and hell supply the
motives of our actions, or at any time seriously affect the substance of our belief.
8. Another life must be described, if at all, in forms of thought and not of sense. To draw
pictures of heaven and hell, whether in the language of Scripture or any other, adds
nothing to our real knowledge, but may perhaps disguise our ignorance. The truest
conception which we can form of a future life is a state of progress or education—a
progress from evil to good, from ignorance to knowledge. To this we are led by the
analogy of the present life, in which we see different races and nations of men, and
different men and women of the same nation, in various states or stages of cultivation;
some more and some less developed, and all of them capable of improvement under
favourable circumstances. There are punishments too of children when they are growing
up inflicted by their parents, of elder offenders which are imposed by the law of the
land, of all men at all times of life, which are attached by the laws of nature to the
performance of certain actions. All these punishments are really educational; that is to
say, they are not intended to retaliate on the offender, but to teach him a lesson. Also
there is an element of chance in them, which is another name for our ignorance of the
laws of nature. There is evil too inseparable from good (compare Lysis); not always
punished here, as good is not always rewarded. It is capable of being indefinitely
diminished; and as knowledge increases, the element of chance may more and more
disappear.
For we do not argue merely from the analogy of the present state of this world to
another, but from the analogy of a probable future to which we are tending. The
greatest changes of which we have had experience as yet are due to our increasing
knowledge of history and of nature. They have been produced by a few minds
appearing in three or four favoured nations, in a comparatively short period of time.
May we be allowed to imagine the minds of men everywhere working together during
many ages for the completion of our knowledge? May not the science of physiology
transform the world? Again, the majority of mankind have really experienced some
moral improvement; almost every one feels that he has tendencies to good, and is
capable of becoming better. And these germs of good are often found to be developed
by new circumstances, like stunted trees when transplanted to a better soil. The
differences between the savage and the civilized man, or between the civilized man in
old and new countries, may be indefinitely increased. The first difference is the effect of
a few thousand, the second of a few hundred years. We congratulate ourselves that
slavery has become industry; that law and constitutional government have superseded
despotism and violence; that an ethical religion has taken the place of Fetichism. There
may yet come a time when the many may be as well off as the few; when no one will be
weighed down by excessive toil; when the necessity of providing for the body will not
interfere with mental improvement; when the physical frame may be strengthened and
developed; and the religion of all men may become a reasonable service.
Nothing therefore, either in the present state of man or in the tendencies of the future,
as far as we can entertain conjecture of them, would lead us to suppose that God
governs us vindictively in this world, and therefore we have no reason to infer that he
will govern us vindictively in another. The true argument from analogy is not, ‘This life is
a mixed state of justice and injustice, of great waste, of sudden casualties, of
disproportionate punishments, and therefore the like inconsistencies, irregularities,
injustices are to be expected in another;’ but ‘This life is subject to law, and is in a state
of progress, and therefore law and progress may be believed to be the governing
principles of another.’ All the analogies of this world would be against unmeaning
punishments inflicted a hundred or a thousand years after an offence had been
committed. Suffering there might be as a part of education, but not hopeless or
protracted; as there might be a retrogression of individuals or of bodies of men, yet not
such as to interfere with a plan for the improvement of the whole (compare Laws.)
9. But some one will say: That we cannot reason from the seen to the unseen, and that
we are creating another world after the image of this, just as men in former ages have
created gods in their own likeness. And we, like the companions of Socrates, may feel
discouraged at hearing our favourite ‘argument from analogy’ thus summarily disposed
of. Like himself, too, we may adduce other arguments in which he seems to have
anticipated us, though he expresses them in different language. For we feel that the soul
partakes of the ideal and invisible; and can never fall into the error of confusing the
external circumstances of man with his higher self; or his origin with his nature. It is as
repugnant to us as it was to him to imagine that our moral ideas are to be attributed
only to cerebral forces. The value of a human soul, like the value of a man’s life to
himself, is inestimable, and cannot be reckoned in earthly or material things. The human
being alone has the consciousness of truth and justice and love, which is the
consciousness of God. And the soul becoming more conscious of these, becomes more
conscious of her own immortality.
10. The last ground of our belief in immortality, and the strongest, is the perfection of
the divine nature. The mere fact of the existence of God does not tend to show the
continued existence of man. An evil God or an indifferent God might have had the
power, but not the will, to preserve us. He might have regarded us as fitted to minister
to his service by a succession of existences,—like the animals, without attributing to
each soul an incomparable value. But if he is perfect, he must will that all rational beings
should partake of that perfection which he himself is. In the words of the Timaeus, he is
good, and therefore he desires that all other things should be as like himself as possible.
And the manner in which he accomplishes this is by permitting evil, or rather degrees of
good, which are otherwise called evil. For all progress is good relatively to the past, and
yet may be comparatively evil when regarded in the light of the future. Good and evil
are relative terms, and degrees of evil are merely the negative aspect of degrees of
good. Of the absolute goodness of any finite nature we can form no conception; we are
all of us in process of transition from one degree of good or evil to another. The
difficulties which are urged about the origin or existence of evil are mere dialectical
puzzles, standing in the same relation to Christian philosophy as the puzzles of the
Cynics and Megarians to the philosophy of Plato. They arise out of the tendency of the
human mind to regard good and evil both as relative and absolute; just as the riddles
about motion are to be explained by the double conception of space or matter, which
the human mind has the power of regarding either as continuous or discrete.
In speaking of divine perfection, we mean to say that God is just and true and loving,
the author of order and not of disorder, of good and not of evil. Or rather, that he is
justice, that he is truth, that he is love, that he is order, that he is the very progress of
which we were speaking; and that wherever these qualities are present, whether in the
human soul or in the order of nature, there is God. We might still see him everywhere, if
we had not been mistakenly seeking for him apart from us, instead of in us; away from
the laws of nature, instead of in them. And we become united to him not by mystical
absorption, but by partaking, whether consciously or unconsciously, of that truth and
justice and love which he himself is.
Thus the belief in the immortality of the soul rests at last on the belief in God. If there is
a good and wise God, then there is a progress of mankind towards perfection; and if
there is no progress of men towards perfection, then there is no good and wise God. We
cannot suppose that the moral government of God of which we see the beginnings in
the world and in ourselves will cease when we pass out of life.
11. Considering the ‘feebleness of the human faculties and the uncertainty of the
subject,’ we are inclined to believe that the fewer our words the better. At the approach
of death there is not much said; good men are too honest to go out of the world
professing more than they know. There is perhaps no important subject about which, at
any time, even religious people speak so little to one another. In the fulness of life the
thought of death is mostly awakened by the sight or recollection of the death of others
rather than by the prospect of our own. We must also acknowledge that there are
degrees of the belief in immortality, and many forms in which it presents itself to the
mind. Some persons will say no more than that they trust in God, and that they leave all
to Him. It is a great part of true religion not to pretend to know more than we do.
Others when they quit this world are comforted with the hope ‘That they will see and
know their friends in heaven.’ But it is better to leave them in the hands of God and to
be assured that ‘no evil shall touch them.’ There are others again to whom the belief in a
divine personality has ceased to have any longer a meaning; yet they are satisfied that
the end of all is not here, but that something still remains to us, ‘and some better thing
for the good than for the evil.’ They are persuaded, in spite of their theological nihilism,
that the ideas of justice and truth and holiness and love are realities. They cherish an
enthusiastic devotion to the first principles of morality. Through these they see, or seem
to see, darkly, and in a figure, that the soul is immortal.
But besides differences of theological opinion which must ever prevail about things
unseen, the hope of immortality is weaker or stronger in men at one time of life than at
another; it even varies from day to day. It comes and goes; the mind, like the sky, is apt
to be overclouded. Other generations of men may have sometimes lived under an
‘eclipse of faith,’ to us the total disappearance of it might be compared to the ‘sun
falling from heaven.’ And we may sometimes have to begin again and acquire the belief
for ourselves; or to win it back again when it is lost. It is really weakest in the hour of
death. For Nature, like a kind mother or nurse, lays us to sleep without frightening us;
physicians, who are the witnesses of such scenes, say that under ordinary circumstances
there is no fear of the future. Often, as Plato tells us, death is accompanied ‘with
pleasure.’ (Tim.) When the end is still uncertain, the cry of many a one has been, ‘Pray,
that I may be taken.’ The last thoughts even of the best men depend chiefly on the
accidents of their bodily state. Pain soon overpowers the desire of life; old age, like the
child, is laid to sleep almost in a moment. The long experience of life will often destroy
the interest which mankind have in it. So various are the feelings with which different
persons draw near to death; and still more various the forms in which imagination
clothes it. For this alternation of feeling compare the Old Testament,—Psalm vi.; Isaiah;
Eccles.
12. When we think of God and of man in his relation to God; of the imperfection of our
present state and yet of the progress which is observable in the history of the world and
of the human mind; of the depth and power of our moral ideas which seem to partake
of the very nature of God Himself; when we consider the contrast between the physical
laws to which we are subject and the higher law which raises us above them and is yet a
part of them; when we reflect on our capacity of becoming the ‘spectators of all time
and all existence,’ and of framing in our own minds the ideal of a perfect Being; when
we see how the human mind in all the higher religions of the world, including Buddhism,
notwithstanding some aberrations, has tended towards such a belief—we have reason
to think that our destiny is different from that of animals; and though we cannot
altogether shut out the childish fear that the soul upon leaving the body may ‘vanish
into thin air,’ we have still, so far as the nature of the subject admits, a hope of
immortality with which we comfort ourselves on sufficient grounds. The denial of the
belief takes the heart out of human life; it lowers men to the level of the material. As
Goethe also says, ‘He is dead even in this world who has no belief in another.’
13. It is well also that we should sometimes think of the forms of thought under which
the idea of immortality is most naturally presented to us. It is clear that to our minds the
risen soul can no longer be described, as in a picture, by the symbol of a creature halfbird,
half-human, nor in any other form of sense. The multitude of angels, as in Milton,
singing the Almighty ‘s praises, are a noble image, and may furnish a theme for the poet
or the painter, but they are no longer an adequate expression of the kingdom of God
which is within us. Neither is there any mansion, in this world or another, in which the
departed can be imagined to dwell and carry on their occupations. When this earthly
tabernacle is dissolved, no other habitation or building can take them in: it is in the
language of ideas only that we speak of them.
First of all there is the thought of rest and freedom from pain; they have gone home, as
the common saying is, and the cares of this world touch them no more. Secondly, we
may imagine them as they were at their best and brightest, humbly fulfilling their daily
round of duties—selfless, childlike, unaffected by the world; when the eye was single
and the whole body seemed to be full of light; when the mind was clear and saw into
the purposes of God. Thirdly, we may think of them as possessed by a great love of God
and man, working out His will at a further stage in the heavenly pilgrimage. And yet we
acknowledge that these are the things which eye hath not seen nor ear heard and
therefore it hath not entered into the heart of man in any sensible manner to conceive
them. Fourthly, there may have been some moments in our own lives when we have
risen above ourselves, or been conscious of our truer selves, in which the will of God has
superseded our wills, and we have entered into communion with Him, and been
partakers for a brief season of the Divine truth and love, in which like Christ we have
been inspired to utter the prayer, ‘I in them, and thou in me, that we may be all made
perfect in one.’ These precious moments, if we have ever known them, are the nearest
approach which we can make to the idea of immortality.
14. Returning now to the earlier stage of human thought which is represented by the
writings of Plato, we find that many of the same questions have already arisen: there is
the same tendency to materialism; the same inconsistency in the application of the idea
of mind; the same doubt whether the soul is to be regarded as a cause or as an effect;
the same falling back on moral convictions. In the Phaedo the soul is conscious of her
divine nature, and the separation from the body which has been commenced in this life
is perfected in another. Beginning in mystery, Socrates, in the intermediate part of the
Dialogue, attempts to bring the doctrine of a future life into connection with his theory
of knowledge. In proportion as he succeeds in this, the individual seems to disappear in
a more general notion of the soul; the contemplation of ideas ‘under the form of
eternity’ takes the place of past and future states of existence. His language may be
compared to that of some modern philosophers, who speak of eternity, not in the sense
of perpetual duration of time, but as an ever- present quality of the soul. Yet at the
conclusion of the Dialogue, having ‘arrived at the end of the intellectual world’
(Republic), he replaces the veil of mythology, and describes the soul and her attendant
genius in the language of the mysteries or of a disciple of Zoroaster. Nor can we fairly
demand of Plato a consistency which is wanting among ourselves, who acknowledge
that another world is beyond the range of human thought, and yet are always seeking
to represent the mansions of heaven or hell in the colours of the painter, or in the
descriptions of the poet or rhetorician.
15. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new to the Greeks in the age of
Socrates, but, like the unity of God, had a foundation in the popular belief. The old
Homeric notion of a gibbering ghost flitting away to Hades; or of a few illustrious heroes
enjoying the isles of the blest; or of an existence divided between the two; or the
Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, who become guardian angels,—had given place in the
mysteries and the Orphic poets to representations, partly fanciful, of a future state of
rewards and punishments. (Laws.) The reticence of the Greeks on public occasions and
in some part of their literature respecting this ‘underground’ religion, is not to be taken
as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in the funeral oration is silent on
the consolations of immortality, the poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand
constantly assume the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under world.
Darius and Laius are still alive; Antigone will be dear to her brethren after death; the way
to the palace of Cronos is found by those who ‘have thrice departed from evil.’ The
tragedy of the Greeks is not ‘rounded’ by this life, but is deeply set in decrees of fate
and mysterious workings of powers beneath the earth. In the caricature of Aristophanes
there is also a witness to the common sentiment. The Ionian and Pythagorean
philosophies arose, and some new elements were added to the popular belief. The
individual must find an expression as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to
exist in the form of a magnet, or of a particle of fire, or of light, or air, or water; or of a
number or of a harmony of number; or to be or have, like the stars, a principle of motion
(Arist. de Anim.). At length Anaxagoras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or
between mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction; and this, like the other
abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep into the human intelligence. The opposition
of the intelligible and the sensible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which
assisted in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were separable from phenomena,
mind was also separable from matter; if the ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived
them was eternal too. As the unity of God was more distinctly acknowledged, the
conception of the human soul became more developed. The succession, or alternation
of life and death, had occurred to Heracleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stumbled
upon the modern thesis, that ‘thought and being are the same.’ The Eastern belief in
transmigration defined the sense of individuality; and some, like Empedocles, fancied
that the blood which they had shed in another state of being was crying against them,
and that for thirty thousand years they were to be ‘fugitives and vagabonds upon the
earth.’ The desire of recognizing a lost mother or love or friend in the world below
(Phaedo) was a natural feeling which, in that age as well as in every other, has given
distinctness to the hope of immortality. Nor were ethical considerations wanting, partly
derived from the necessity of punishing the greater sort of criminals, whom no avenging
power of this world could reach. The voice of conscience, too, was heard reminding the
good man that he was not altogether innocent. (Republic.) To these indistinct longings
and fears an expression was given in the mysteries and Orphic poets: a ‘heap of books’
(Republic), passing under the names of Musaeus and Orpheus in Plato’s time, were filled
with notions of an under-world.
16. Yet after all the belief in the individuality of the soul after death had but a feeble
hold on the Greek mind. Like the personality of God, the personality of man in a future
state was not inseparably bound up with the reality of his existence. For the distinction
between the personal and impersonal, and also between the divine and human, was far
less marked to the Greek than to ourselves. And as Plato readily passes from the notion
of the good to that of God, he also passes almost imperceptibly to himself and his
reader from the future life of the individual soul to the eternal being of the absolute
soul. There has been a clearer statement and a clearer denial of the belief in modern
times than is found in early Greek philosophy, and hence the comparative silence on the
whole subject which is often remarked in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotle. For
Plato and Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about the immortality of
the soul than they are in their theory of knowledge.
17. Living in an age when logic was beginning to mould human thought, Plato naturally
cast his belief in immortality into a logical form. And when we consider how much the
doctrine of ideas was also one of words, it is not surprising that he should have fallen
into verbal fallacies: early logic is always mistaking the truth of the form for the truth of
the matter. It is easy to see that the alternation of opposites is not the same as the
generation of them out of each other; and that the generation of them out of each
other, which is the first argument in the Phaedo, is at variance with their mutual
exclusion of each other, whether in themselves or in us, which is the last. For even if we
admit the distinction which he draws between the opposites and the things which have
the opposites, still individuals fall under the latter class; and we have to pass out of the
region of human hopes and fears to a conception of an abstract soul which is the
impersonation of the ideas. Such a conception, which in Plato himself is but half
expressed, is unmeaning to us, and relative only to a particular stage in the history of
thought. The doctrine of reminiscence is also a fragment of a former world, which has
no place in the philosophy of modern times. But Plato had the wonders of psychology
just opening to him, and he had not the explanation of them which is supplied by the
analysis of language and the history of the human mind. The question, ‘Whence come
our abstract ideas?’ he could only answer by an imaginary hypothesis. Nor is it difficult
to see that his crowning argument is purely verbal, and is but the expression of an
instinctive confidence put into a logical form:—‘The soul is immortal because it contains
a principle of imperishableness.’ Nor does he himself seem at all to be aware that
nothing is added to human knowledge by his ‘safe and simple answer,’ that beauty is
the cause of the beautiful; and that he is merely reasserting the Eleatic being ‘divided by
the Pythagorean numbers,’ against the Heracleitean doctrine of perpetual generation.
The answer to the ‘very serious question’ of generation and destruction is really the
denial of them. For this he would substitute, as in the Republic, a system of ideas, tested,
not by experience, but by their consequences, and not explained by actual causes, but
by a higher, that is, a more general notion. Consistency with themselves is the only test
which is to be applied to them. (Republic, and Phaedo.)
18. To deal fairly with such arguments, they should be translated as far as possible into
their modern equivalents. ‘If the ideas of men are eternal, their souls are eternal, and if
not the ideas, then not the souls.’ Such an argument stands nearly in the same relation
to Plato and his age, as the argument from the existence of God to immortality among
ourselves. ‘If God exists, then the soul exists after death; and if there is no God, there is
no existence of the soul after death.’ For the ideas are to his mind the reality, the truth,
the principle of permanence, as well as of intelligence and order in the world. When
Simmias and Cebes say that they are more strongly persuaded of the existence of ideas
than they are of the immortality of the soul, they represent fairly enough the order of
thought in Greek philosophy. And we might say in the same way that we are more
certain of the existence of God than we are of the immortality of the soul, and are led by
the belief in the one to a belief in the other. The parallel, as Socrates would say, is not
perfect, but agrees in as far as the mind in either case is regarded as dependent on
something above and beyond herself. The analogy may even be pressed a step further:
‘We are more certain of our ideas of truth and right than we are of the existence of God,
and are led on in the order of thought from one to the other.’ Or more correctly: ‘The
existence of right and truth is the existence of God, and can never for a moment be
separated from Him.’
19. The main argument of the Phaedo is derived from the existence of eternal ideas of
which the soul is a partaker; the other argument of the alternation of opposites is
replaced by this. And there have not been wanting philosophers of the idealist school
who have imagined that the doctrine of the immortality of the soul is a theory of
knowledge, and that in what has preceded Plato is accommodating himself to the
popular belief. Such a view can only be elicited from the Phaedo by what may be termed
the transcendental method of interpretation, and is obviously inconsistent with the
Gorgias and the Republic. Those who maintain it are immediately compelled to
renounce the shadow which they have grasped, as a play of words only. But the truth is,
that Plato in his argument for the immortality of the soul has collected many elements
of proof or persuasion, ethical and mythological as well as dialectical, which are not
easily to be reconciled with one another; and he is as much in earnest about his doctrine
of retribution, which is repeated in all his more ethical writings, as about his theory of
knowledge. And while we may fairly translate the dialectical into the language of Hegel,
and the religious and mythological into the language of Dante or Bunyan, the ethical
speaks to us still in the same voice, and appeals to a common feeling.
20. Two arguments of this ethical character occur in the Phaedo. The first may be
described as the aspiration of the soul after another state of being. Like the Oriental or
Christian mystic, the philosopher is seeking to withdraw from impurities of sense, to
leave the world and the things of the world, and to find his higher self. Plato recognizes
in these aspirations the foretaste of immortality; as Butler and Addison in modern times
have argued, the one from the moral tendencies of mankind, the other from the
progress of the soul towards perfection. In using this argument Plato has certainly
confused the soul which has left the body, with the soul of the good and wise. (Compare
Republic.) Such a confusion was natural, and arose partly out of the antithesis of soul
and body. The soul in her own essence, and the soul ‘clothed upon’ with virtues and
graces, were easily interchanged with one another, because on a subject which passes
expression the distinctions of language can hardly be maintained.
21. The ethical proof of the immortality of the soul is derived from the necessity of
retribution. The wicked would be too well off if their evil deeds came to an end. It is not
to be supposed that an Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, an Ismenias could ever have suffered the
penalty of their crimes in this world. The manner in which this retribution is
accomplished Plato represents under the figures of mythology. Doubtless he felt that it
was easier to improve than to invent, and that in religion especially the traditional form
was required in order to give verisimilitude to the myth. The myth too is far more
probable to that age than to ours, and may fairly be regarded as ‘one guess among
many’ about the nature of the earth, which he cleverly supports by the indications of
geology. Not that he insists on the absolute truth of his own particular notions: ‘no man
of sense will be confident in such matters; but he will be confident that something of the
kind is true.’ As in other passages (Gorg., Tim., compare Crito), he wins belief for his
fictions by the moderation of his statements; he does not, like Dante or Swedenborg,
allow himself to be deceived by his own creations.
The Dialogue must be read in the light of the situation. And first of all we are struck by
the calmness of the scene. Like the spectators at the time, we cannot pity Socrates; his
mien and his language are so noble and fearless. He is the same that he ever was, but
milder and gentler, and he has in no degree lost his interest in dialectics; he will not
forego the delight of an argument in compliance with the jailer’s intimation that he
should not heat himself with talking. At such a time he naturally expresses the hope of
his life, that he has been a true mystic and not a mere retainer or wand-bearer: and he
refers to passages of his personal history. To his old enemies the Comic poets, and to
the proceedings on the trial, he alludes playfully; but he vividly remembers the
disappointment which he felt in reading the books of Anaxagoras. The return of
Xanthippe and his children indicates that the philosopher is not ‘made of oak or rock.’
Some other traits of his character may be noted; for example, the courteous manner in
which he inclines his head to the last objector, or the ironical touch, ‘Me already, as the
tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls;’ or the depreciation of the arguments with
which ‘he comforted himself and them;’ or his fear of ‘misology;’ or his references to
Homer; or the playful smile with which he ‘talks like a book’ about greater and less; or
the allusion to the possibility of finding another teacher among barbarous races
(compare Polit.); or the mysterious reference to another science (mathematics?) of
generation and destruction for which he is vainly feeling. There is no change in him; only
now he is invested with a sort of sacred character, as the prophet or priest of Apollo the
God of the festival, in whose honour he first of all composes a hymn, and then like the
swan pours forth his dying lay. Perhaps the extreme elevation of Socrates above his own
situation, and the ordinary interests of life (compare his jeu d’esprit about his burial, in
which for a moment he puts on the ‘Silenus mask’), create in the mind of the reader an
impression stronger than could be derived from arguments that such a one has in him ‘a
principle which does not admit of death.’
The other persons of the Dialogue may be considered under two heads: (1) private
friends; (2) the respondents in the argument.
First there is Crito, who has been already introduced to us in the Euthydemus and the
Crito; he is the equal in years of Socrates, and stands in quite a different relation to him
from his younger disciples. He is a man of the world who is rich and prosperous
(compare the jest in the Euthydemus), the best friend of Socrates, who wants to know
his commands, in whose presence he talks to his family, and who performs the last duty
of closing his eyes. It is observable too that, as in the Euthydemus, Crito shows no
aptitude for philosophical discussions. Nor among the friends of Socrates must the jailer
be forgotten, who seems to have been introduced by Plato in order to show the
impression made by the extraordinary man on the common. The gentle nature of the
man is indicated by his weeping at the announcement of his errand and then turning
away, and also by the words of Socrates to his disciples: ‘How charming the man is!
since I have been in prison he has been always coming to me, and is as good as could
be to me.’ We are reminded too that he has retained this gentle nature amid scenes of
death and violence by the contrasts which he draws between the behaviour of Socrates
and of others when about to die.
Another person who takes no part in the philosophical discussion is the excitable
Apollodorus, the same who, in the Symposium, of which he is the narrator, is called ‘the
madman,’ and who testifies his grief by the most violent emotions. Phaedo is also
present, the ‘beloved disciple’ as he may be termed, who is described, if not ‘leaning on
his bosom,’ as seated next to Socrates, who is playing with his hair. He too, like
Apollodorus, takes no part in the discussion, but he loves above all things to hear and
speak of Socrates after his death. The calmness of his behaviour, veiling his face when
he can no longer restrain his tears, contrasts with the passionate outcries of the other.
At a particular point the argument is described as falling before the attack of Simmias. A
sort of despair is introduced in the minds of the company. The effect of this is
heightened by the description of Phaedo, who has been the eye-witness of the scene,
and by the sympathy of his Phliasian auditors who are beginning to think ‘that they too
can never trust an argument again.’ And the intense interest of the company is
communicated not only to the first auditors, but to us who in a distant country read the
narrative of their emotions after more than two thousand years have passed away.
The two principal interlocutors are Simmias and Cebes, the disciples of Philolaus the
Pythagorean philosopher of Thebes. Simmias is described in the Phaedrus as fonder of
an argument than any man living; and Cebes, although finally persuaded by Socrates, is
said to be the most incredulous of human beings. It is Cebes who at the
commencement of the Dialogue asks why ‘suicide is held to be unlawful,’ and who first
supplies the doctrine of recollection in confirmation of the pre-existence of the soul. It is
Cebes who urges that the pre-existence does not necessarily involve the future
existence of the soul, as is shown by the illustration of the weaver and his coat. Simmias,
on the other hand, raises the question about harmony and the lyre, which is naturally
put into the mouth of a Pythagorean disciple. It is Simmias, too, who first remarks on the
uncertainty of human knowledge, and only at last concedes to the argument such a
qualified approval as is consistent with the feebleness of the human faculties. Cebes is
the deeper and more consecutive thinker, Simmias more superficial and rhetorical; they
are distinguished in much the same manner as Adeimantus and Glaucon in the Republic.
Other persons, Menexenus, Ctesippus, Lysis, are old friends; Evenus has been already
satirized in the Apology; Aeschines and Epigenes were present at the trial; Euclid and
Terpsion will reappear in the Introduction to the Theaetetus, Hermogenes has already
appeared in the Cratylus. No inference can fairly be drawn from the absence of
Aristippus, nor from the omission of Xenophon, who at the time of Socrates’ death was
in Asia. The mention of Plato’s own absence seems like an expression of sorrow, and
may, perhaps, be an indication that the report of the conversation is not to be taken
literally.
The place of the Dialogue in the series is doubtful. The doctrine of ideas is certainly
carried beyond the Socratic point of view; in no other of the writings of Plato is the
theory of them so completely developed. Whether the belief in immortality can be
attributed to Socrates or not is uncertain; the silence of the Memorabilia, and of the
earlier Dialogues of Plato, is an argument to the contrary. Yet in the Cyropaedia
Xenophon has put language into the mouth of the dying Cyrus which recalls the
Phaedo, and may have been derived from the teaching of Socrates. It may be fairly
urged that the greatest religious interest of mankind could not have been wholly
ignored by one who passed his life in fulfilling the commands of an oracle, and who
recognized a Divine plan in man and nature. (Xen. Mem.) And the language of the
Apology and of the Crito confirms this view.
The Phaedo is not one of the Socratic Dialogues of Plato; nor, on the other hand, can it
be assigned to that later stage of the Platonic writings at which the doctrine of ideas
appears to be forgotten. It belongs rather to the intermediate period of the Platonic
philosophy, which roughly corresponds to the Phaedrus, Gorgias, Republic, Theaetetus.
Without pretending to determine the real time of their composition, the Symposium,
Meno, Euthyphro, Apology, Phaedo may be conveniently read by us in this order as
illustrative of the life of Socrates. Another chain may be formed of the Meno, Phaedrus,
Phaedo, in which the immortality of the soul is connected with the doctrine of ideas. In
the Meno the theory of ideas is based on the ancient belief in transmigration, which
reappears again in the Phaedrus as well as in the Republic and Timaeus, and in all of
them is connected with a doctrine of retribution. In the Phaedrus the immortality of the
soul is supposed to rest on the conception of the soul as a principle of motion, whereas
in the Republic the argument turns on the natural continuance of the soul, which, if not
destroyed by her own proper evil, can hardly be destroyed by any other. The soul of
man in the Timaeus is derived from the Supreme Creator, and either returns after death
to her kindred star, or descends into the lower life of an animal. The Apology expresses
the same view as the Phaedo, but with less confidence; there the probability of death
being a long sleep is not excluded. The Theaetetus also describes, in a digression, the
desire of the soul to fly away and be with God—‘and to fly to him is to be like him.’ The
Symposium may be observed to resemble as well as to differ from the Phaedo. While
the first notion of immortality is only in the way of natural procreation or of posthumous
fame and glory, the higher revelation of beauty, like the good in the Republic, is the
vision of the eternal idea. So deeply rooted in Plato’s mind is the belief in immortality; so
various are the forms of expression which he employs.
As in several other Dialogues, there is more of system in the Phaedo than appears at
first sight. The succession of arguments is based on previous philosophies; beginning
with the mysteries and the Heracleitean alternation of opposites, and proceeding to the
Pythagorean harmony and transmigration; making a step by the aid of Platonic
reminiscence, and a further step by the help of the nous of Anaxagoras; until at last we
rest in the conviction that the soul is inseparable from the ideas, and belongs to the
world of the invisible and unknown. Then, as in the Gorgias or Republic, the curtain falls,
and the veil of mythology descends upon the argument. After the confession of
Socrates that he is an interested party, and the acknowledgment that no man of sense
will think the details of his narrative true, but that something of the kind is true, we
return from speculation to practice. He is himself more confident of immortality than he
is of his own arguments; and the confidence which he expresses is less strong than that
which his cheerfulness and composure in death inspire in us.
Difficulties of two kinds occur in the Phaedo—one kind to be explained out of
contemporary philosophy, the other not admitting of an entire solution. (1) The difficulty
which Socrates says that he experienced in explaining generation and corruption; the
assumption of hypotheses which proceed from the less general to the more general,
and are tested by their consequences; the puzzle about greater and less; the resort to
the method of ideas, which to us appear only abstract terms,—these are to be explained
out of the position of Socrates and Plato in the history of philosophy. They were living in
a twilight between the sensible and the intellectual world, and saw no way of connecting
them. They could neither explain the relation of ideas to phenomena, nor their
correlation to one another. The very idea of relation or comparison was embarrassing to
them. Yet in this intellectual uncertainty they had a conception of a proof from results,
and of a moral truth, which remained unshaken amid the questionings of philosophy. (2)
The other is a difficulty which is touched upon in the Republic as well as in the Phaedo,
and is common to modern and ancient philosophy. Plato is not altogether satisfied with
his safe and simple method of ideas. He wants to have proved to him by facts that all
things are for the best, and that there is one mind or design which pervades them all.
But this ‘power of the best’ he is unable to explain; and therefore takes refuge in
universal ideas. And are not we at this day seeking to discover that which Socrates in a
glass darkly foresaw?
Some resemblances to the Greek drama may be noted in all the Dialogues of Plato. The
Phaedo is the tragedy of which Socrates is the protagonist and Simmias and Cebes the
secondary performers, standing to them in the same relation as to Glaucon and
Adeimantus in the Republic. No Dialogue has a greater unity of subject and feeling.
Plato has certainly fulfilled the condition of Greek, or rather of all art, which requires that
scenes of death and suffering should be clothed in beauty. The gathering of the friends
at the commencement of the Dialogue, the dismissal of Xanthippe, whose presence
would have been out of place at a philosophical discussion, but who returns again with
her children to take a final farewell, the dejection of the audience at the temporary
overthrow of the argument, the picture of Socrates playing with the hair of Phaedo, the
final scene in which Socrates alone retains his composure—are masterpieces of art. And
the chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play: ‘There can no evil
happen to a good man in life or death.’
‘The art of concealing art’ is nowhere more perfect than in those writings of Plato which
describe the trial and death of Socrates. Their charm is their simplicity, which gives them
verisimilitude; and yet they touch, as if incidentally, and because they were suitable to
the occasion, on some of the deepest truths of philosophy. There is nothing in any
tragedy, ancient or modern, nothing in poetry or history (with one exception), like the
last hours of Socrates in Plato. The master could not be more fitly occupied at such a
time than in discoursing of immortality; nor the disciples more divinely consoled. The
arguments, taken in the spirit and not in the letter, are our arguments; and Socrates by
anticipation may be even thought to refute some ‘eccentric notions; current in our own
age. For there are philosophers among ourselves who do not seem to understand how
much stronger is the power of intelligence, or of the best, than of Atlas, or mechanical
force. How far the words attributed to Socrates were actually uttered by him we forbear
to ask; for no answer can be given to this question. And it is better to resign ourselves to
the feeling of a great work, than to linger among critical uncertainties.
PHAEDO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Phaedo, who is the narrator of the dialogue to Echecrates
of Phlius. Socrates, Apollodorus, Simmias, Cebes, Crito and an Attendant of the Prison.
SCENE: The Prison of Socrates.
PLACE OF THE NARRATION: Phlius.
ECHECRATES: Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the prison with Socrates on the day when
he drank the poison?
PHAEDO: Yes, Echecrates, I was.
ECHECRATES: I should so like to hear about his death. What did he say in his last hours?
We were informed that he died by taking poison, but no one knew anything more; for
no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, and it is a long time since any stranger from
Athens has found his way hither; so that we had no clear account.
PHAEDO: Did you not hear of the proceedings at the trial?
ECHECRATES: Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we could not understand why,
having been condemned, he should have been put to death, not at the time, but long
afterwards. What was the reason of this?
PHAEDO: An accident, Echecrates: the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to
Delos happened to have been crowned on the day before he was tried.
ECHECRATES: What is this ship?
PHAEDO: It is the ship in which, according to Athenian tradition, Theseus went to Crete
when he took with him the fourteen youths, and was the saviour of them and of himself.
And they were said to have vowed to Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they
would send a yearly mission to Delos. Now this custom still continues, and the whole
period of the voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest of Apollo crowns the
stern of the ship, is a holy season, during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by
public executions; and when the vessel is detained by contrary winds, the time spent in
going and returning is very considerable. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on the
day before the trial, and this was the reason why Socrates lay in prison and was not put
to death until long after he was condemned.
ECHECRATES: What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? What was said or done? And
which of his friends were with him? Or did the authorities forbid them to be present—so
that he had no friends near him when he died?
PHAEDO: No; there were several of them with him.
ECHECRATES: If you have nothing to do, I wish that you would tell me what passed, as
exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: I have nothing at all to do, and will try to gratify your wish. To be reminded of
Socrates is always the greatest delight to me, whether I speak myself or hear another
speak of him.
ECHECRATES: You will have listeners who are of the same mind with you, and I hope
that you will be as exact as you can.
PHAEDO: I had a singular feeling at being in his company. For I could hardly believe that
I was present at the death of a friend, and therefore I did not pity him, Echecrates; he
died so fearlessly, and his words and bearing were so noble and gracious, that to me he
appeared blessed. I thought that in going to the other world he could not be without a
divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man ever was, when he arrived there, and
therefore I did not pity him as might have seemed natural at such an hour. But I had not
the pleasure which I usually feel in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the
theme of which we spoke). I was pleased, but in the pleasure there was also a strange
admixture of pain; for I reflected that he was soon to die, and this double feeling was
shared by us all; we were laughing and weeping by turns, especially the excitable
Apollodorus—you know the sort of man?
ECHECRATES: Yes.
PHAEDO: He was quite beside himself; and I and all of us were greatly moved.
ECHECRATES: Who were present?
PHAEDO: Of native Athenians there were, besides Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father
Crito, Hermogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, Antisthenes; likewise Ctesippus of the deme of
Paeania, Menexenus, and some others; Plato, if I am not mistaken, was ill.
ECHECRATES: Were there any strangers?
PHAEDO: Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and Cebes, and Phaedondes; Euclid and
Terpison, who came from Megara.
ECHECRATES: And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus?
PHAEDO: No, they were said to be in Aegina.
ECHECRATES: Any one else?
PHAEDO: I think that these were nearly all.
ECHECRATES: Well, and what did you talk about?
PHAEDO: I will begin at the beginning, and endeavour to repeat the entire conversation.
On the previous days we had been in the habit of assembling early in the morning at the
court in which the trial took place, and which is not far from the prison. There we used
to wait talking with one another until the opening of the doors (for they were not
opened very early); then we went in and generally passed the day with Socrates. On the
last morning we assembled sooner than usual, having heard on the day before when we
quitted the prison in the evening that the sacred ship had come from Delos, and so we
arranged to meet very early at the accustomed place. On our arrival the jailer who
answered the door, instead of admitting us, came out and told us to stay until he called
us. ‘For the Eleven,’ he said, ‘are now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains, and
giving orders that he is to die to-day.’ He soon returned and said that we might come in.
On entering we found Socrates just released from chains, and Xanthippe, whom you
know, sitting by him, and holding his child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered a
cry and said, as women will: ‘O Socrates, this is the last time that either you will converse
with your friends, or they with you.’ Socrates turned to Crito and said: ‘Crito, let some
one take her home.’ Some of Crito’s people accordingly led her away, crying out and
beating herself. And when she was gone, Socrates, sitting up on the couch, bent and
rubbed his leg, saying, as he was rubbing: How singular is the thing called pleasure, and
how curiously related to pain, which might be thought to be the opposite of it; for they
are never present to a man at the same instant, and yet he who pursues either is
generally compelled to take the other; their bodies are two, but they are joined by a
single head. And I cannot help thinking that if Aesop had remembered them, he would
have made a fable about God trying to reconcile their strife, and how, when he could
not, he fastened their heads together; and this is the reason why when one comes the
other follows, as I know by my own experience now, when after the pain in my leg which
was caused by the chain pleasure appears to succeed.
Upon this Cebes said: I am glad, Socrates, that you have mentioned the name of Aesop.
For it reminds me of a question which has been asked by many, and was asked of me
only the day before yesterday by Evenus the poet —he will be sure to ask it again, and
therefore if you would like me to have an answer ready for him, you may as well tell me
what I should say to him:—he wanted to know why you, who never before wrote a line
of poetry, now that you are in prison are turning Aesop’s fables into verse, and also
composing that hymn in honour of Apollo.
Tell him, Cebes, he replied, what is the truth—that I had no idea of rivalling him or his
poems; to do so, as I knew, would be no easy task. But I wanted to see whether I could
purge away a scruple which I felt about the meaning of certain dreams. In the course of
my life I have often had intimations in dreams ‘that I should compose music.’ The same
dream came to me sometimes in one form, and sometimes in another, but always
saying the same or nearly the same words: ‘Cultivate and make music,’ said the dream.
And hitherto I had imagined that this was only intended to exhort and encourage me in
the study of philosophy, which has been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest and
best of music. The dream was bidding me do what I was already doing, in the same way
that the competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run when he is already
running. But I was not certain of this, for the dream might have meant music in the
popular sense of the word, and being under sentence of death, and the festival giving
me a respite, I thought that it would be safer for me to satisfy the scruple, and, in
obedience to the dream, to compose a few verses before I departed. And first I made a
hymn in honour of the god of the festival, and then considering that a poet, if he is
really to be a poet, should not only put together words, but should invent stories, and
that I have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, which I had ready at hand and
which I knew—they were the first I came upon—and turned them into verse. Tell this to
Evenus, Cebes, and bid him be of good cheer; say that I would have him come after me
if he be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am likely to be going, for the
Athenians say that I must.
Simmias said: What a message for such a man! having been a frequent companion of his
I should say that, as far as I know him, he will never take your advice unless he is
obliged.
Why, said Socrates,—is not Evenus a philosopher?
I think that he is, said Simmias.
Then he, or any man who has the spirit of philosophy, will be willing to die, but he will
not take his own life, for that is held to be unlawful.
Here he changed his position, and put his legs off the couch on to the ground, and
during the rest of the conversation he remained sitting.
Why do you say, enquired Cebes, that a man ought not to take his own life, but that the
philosopher will be ready to follow the dying?
Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Simmias, who are the disciples of Philolaus,
never heard him speak of this?
Yes, but his language was obscure, Socrates.
My words, too, are only an echo; but there is no reason why I should not repeat what I
have heard: and indeed, as I am going to another place, it is very meet for me to be
thinking and talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am about to make. What
can I do better in the interval between this and the setting of the sun?
Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held to be unlawful? as I have certainly heard
Philolaus, about whom you were just now asking, affirm when he was staying with us at
Thebes: and there are others who say the same, although I have never understood what
was meant by any of them.
Do not lose heart, replied Socrates, and the day may come when you will understand. I
suppose that you wonder why, when other things which are evil may be good at certain
times and to certain persons, death is to be the only exception, and why, when a man is
better dead, he is not permitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the hand of
another.
Very true, said Cebes, laughing gently and speaking in his native Boeotian.
I admit the appearance of inconsistency in what I am saying; but there may not be any
real inconsistency after all. There is a doctrine whispered in secret that man is a prisoner
who has no right to open the door and run away; this is a great mystery which I do not
quite understand. Yet I too believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we are a
possession of theirs. Do you not agree?
Yes, I quite agree, said Cebes.
And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, for example, took the liberty of
putting himself out of the way when you had given no intimation of your wish that he
should die, would you not be angry with him, and would you not punish him if you
could?
Certainly, replied Cebes.
Then, if we look at the matter thus, there may be reason in saying that a man should
wait, and not take his own life until God summons him, as he is now summoning me.
Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there seems to be truth in what you say. And yet how can you
reconcile this seemingly true belief that God is our guardian and we his possessions,
with the willingness to die which we were just now attributing to the philosopher? That
the wisest of men should be willing to leave a service in which they are ruled by the
gods who are the best of rulers, is not reasonable; for surely no wise man thinks that
when set at liberty he can take better care of himself than the gods take of him. A fool
may perhaps think so—he may argue that he had better run away from his master, not
considering that his duty is to remain to the end, and not to run away from the good,
and that there would be no sense in his running away. The wise man will want to be ever
with him who is better than himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of what was just
now said; for upon this view the wise man should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing
out of life.
The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. Here, said he, turning to us, is a
man who is always inquiring, and is not so easily convinced by the first thing which he
hears.
And certainly, added Simmias, the objection which he is now making does appear to me
to have some force. For what can be the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly
away and lightly leave a master who is better than himself? And I rather imagine that
Cebes is referring to you; he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too ready to
leave the gods whom you acknowledge to be our good masters.
Yes, replied Socrates; there is reason in what you say. And so you think that I ought to
answer your indictment as if I were in a court?
We should like you to do so, said Simmias.
Then I must try to make a more successful defence before you than I did when before
the judges. For I am quite ready to admit, Simmias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved
at death, if I were not persuaded in the first place that I am going to other gods who are
wise and good (of which I am as certain as I can be of any such matters), and secondly
(though I am not so sure of this last) to men departed, better than those whom I leave
behind; and therefore I do not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope that
there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, some far
better thing for the good than for the evil.
But do you mean to take away your thoughts with you, Socrates? said Simmias. Will you
not impart them to us?—for they are a benefit in which we too are entitled to share.
Moreover, if you succeed in convincing us, that will be an answer to the charge against
yourself.
I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must first let me hear what Crito wants; he
has long been wishing to say something to me.
Only this, Socrates, replied Crito:—the attendant who is to give you the poison has been
telling me, and he wants me to tell you, that you are not to talk much, talking, he says,
increases heat, and this is apt to interfere with the action of the poison; persons who
excite themselves are sometimes obliged to take a second or even a third dose.
Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and be prepared to give the poison twice
or even thrice if necessary; that is all.
I knew quite well what you would say, replied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him.
Never mind him, he said.
And now, O my judges, I desire to prove to you that the real philosopher has reason to
be of good cheer when he is about to die, and that after death he may hope to obtain
the greatest good in the other world. And how this may be, Simmias and Cebes, I will
endeavour to explain. For I deem that the true votary of philosophy is likely to be
misunderstood by other men; they do not perceive that he is always pursuing death and
dying; and if this be so, and he has had the desire of death all his life long, why when his
time comes should he repine at that which he has been always pursuing and desiring?
Simmias said laughingly: Though not in a laughing humour, you have made me laugh,
Socrates; for I cannot help thinking that the many when they hear your words will say
how truly you have described philosophers, and our people at home will likewise say
that the life which philosophers desire is in reality death, and that they have found them
out to be deserving of the death which they desire.
And they are right, Simmias, in thinking so, with the exception of the words ‘they have
found them out’; for they have not found out either what is the nature of that death
which the true philosopher deserves, or how he deserves or desires death. But enough
of them:—let us discuss the matter among ourselves: Do we believe that there is such a
thing as death?
To be sure, replied Simmias.
Is it not the separation of soul and body? And to be dead is the completion of this;
when the soul exists in herself, and is released from the body and the body is released
from the soul, what is this but death?
Just so, he replied.
There is another question, which will probably throw light on our present inquiry if you
and I can agree about it:—Ought the philosopher to care about the pleasures—if they
are to be called pleasures—of eating and drinking?
Certainly not, answered Simmias.
And what about the pleasures of love—should he care for them?
By no means.
And will he think much of the other ways of indulging the body, for example, the
acquisition of costly raiment, or sandals, or other adornments of the body? Instead of
caring about them, does he not rather despise anything more than nature needs? What
do you say?
I should say that the true philosopher would despise them.
Would you not say that he is entirely concerned with the soul and not with the body?
He would like, as far as he can, to get away from the body and to turn to the soul.
Quite true.
In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other men, may be observed in every sort
of way to dissever the soul from the communion of the body.
Very true.
Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of opinion that to him who has no sense of
pleasure and no part in bodily pleasure, life is not worth having; and that he who is
indifferent about them is as good as dead.
That is also true.
What again shall we say of the actual acquirement of knowledge?—is the body, if
invited to share in the enquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have sight and
hearing any truth in them? Are they not, as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate
witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and indistinct, what is to be said of the
other senses?—for you will allow that they are the best of them?
Certainly, he replied.
Then when does the soul attain truth?—for in attempting to consider anything in
company with the body she is obviously deceived.
True.
Then must not true existence be revealed to her in thought, if at all?
Yes.
And thought is best when the mind is gathered into herself and none of these things
trouble her—neither sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure,—when she takes
leave of the body, and has as little as possible to do with it, when she has no bodily
sense or desire, but is aspiring after true being?
Certainly.
And in this the philosopher dishonours the body; his soul runs away from his body and
desires to be alone and by herself?
That is true.
Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there or is there not an absolute justice?
Assuredly there is.
And an absolute beauty and absolute good?
Of course.
But did you ever behold any of them with your eyes?
Certainly not.
Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily sense?—and I speak not of these
alone, but of absolute greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence or true
nature of everything. Has the reality of them ever been perceived by you through the
bodily organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the knowledge of their several
natures made by him who so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most exact
conception of the essence of each thing which he considers?
Certainly.
And he attains to the purest knowledge of them who goes to each with the mind alone,
not introducing or intruding in the act of thought sight or any other sense together with
reason, but with the very light of the mind in her own clearness searches into the very
truth of each; he who has got rid, as far as he can, of eyes and ears and, so to speak, of
the whole body, these being in his opinion distracting elements which when they infect
the soul hinder her from acquiring truth and knowledge—who, if not he, is likely to
attain the knowledge of true being?
What you say has a wonderful truth in it, Socrates, replied Simmias.
And when real philosophers consider all these things, will they not be led to make a
reflection which they will express in words something like the following? ‘Have we not
found,’ they will say, ‘a path of thought which seems to bring us and our argument to
the conclusion, that while we are in the body, and while the soul is infected with the
evils of the body, our desire will not be satisfied? and our desire is of the truth. For the
body is a source of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere requirement of food;
and is liable also to diseases which overtake and impede us in the search after true
being: it fills us full of loves, and lusts, and fears, and fancies of all kinds, and endless
foolery, and in fact, as men say, takes away from us the power of thinking at all. Whence
come wars, and fightings, and factions? whence but from the body and the lusts of the
body? wars are occasioned by the love of money, and money has to be acquired for the
sake and in the service of the body; and by reason of all these impediments we have no
time to give to philosophy; and, last and worst of all, even if we are at leisure and betake
ourselves to some speculation, the body is always breaking in upon us, causing turmoil
and confusion in our enquiries, and so amazing us that we are prevented from seeing
the truth. It has been proved to us by experience that if we would have pure knowledge
of anything we must be quit of the body—the soul in herself must behold things in
themselves: and then we shall attain the wisdom which we desire, and of which we say
that we are lovers, not while we live, but after death; for if while in company with the
body, the soul cannot have pure knowledge, one of two things follows—either
knowledge is not to be attained at all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till then,
the soul will be parted from the body and exist in herself alone. In this present life, I
reckon that we make the nearest approach to knowledge when we have the least
possible intercourse or communion with the body, and are not surfeited with the bodily
nature, but keep ourselves pure until the hour when God himself is pleased to release
us. And thus having got rid of the foolishness of the body we shall be pure and hold
converse with the pure, and know of ourselves the clear light everywhere, which is no
other than the light of truth.’ For the impure are not permitted to approach the pure.
These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true lovers of knowledge cannot help
saying to one another, and thinking. You would agree; would you not?
Undoubtedly, Socrates.
But, O my friend, if this is true, there is great reason to hope that, going whither I go,
when I have come to the end of my journey, I shall attain that which has been the
pursuit of my life. And therefore I go on my way rejoicing, and not I only, but every
other man who believes that his mind has been made ready and that he is in a manner
purified.
Certainly, replied Simmias.
And what is purification but the separation of the soul from the body, as I was saying
before; the habit of the soul gathering and collecting herself into herself from all sides
out of the body; the dwelling in her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, as
far as she can;—the release of the soul from the chains of the body?
Very true, he said.
And this separation and release of the soul from the body is termed death?
To be sure, he said.
And the true philosophers, and they only, are ever seeking to release the soul. Is not the
separation and release of the soul from the body their especial study?
That is true.
And, as I was saying at first, there would be a ridiculous contradiction in men studying
to live as nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining when it comes upon
them.
Clearly.
And the true philosophers, Simmias, are always occupied in the practice of dying,
wherefore also to them least of all men is death terrible. Look at the matter thus:—if
they have been in every way the enemies of the body, and are wanting to be alone with
the soul, when this desire of theirs is granted, how inconsistent would they be if they
trembled and repined, instead of rejoicing at their departure to that place where, when
they arrive, they hope to gain that which in life they desired—and this was wisdom—and
at the same time to be rid of the company of their enemy. Many a man has been willing
to go to the world below animated by the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife,
or son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a true lover of wisdom, and is
strongly persuaded in like manner that only in the world below he can worthily enjoy
her, still repine at death? Will he not depart with joy? Surely he will, O my friend, if he be
a true philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that there and there only, he can
find wisdom in her purity. And if this be true, he would be very absurd, as I was saying, if
he were afraid of death.
He would, indeed, replied Simmias.
And when you see a man who is repining at the approach of death, is not his reluctance
a sufficient proof that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the body, and probably
at the same time a lover of either money or power, or both?
Quite so, he replied.
And is not courage, Simmias, a quality which is specially characteristic of the
philosopher?
Certainly.
There is temperance again, which even by the vulgar is supposed to consist in the
control and regulation of the passions, and in the sense of superiority to them—is not
temperance a virtue belonging to those only who despise the body, and who pass their
lives in philosophy?
Most assuredly.
For the courage and temperance of other men, if you will consider them, are really a
contradiction.
How so?
Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded by men in general as a great evil.
Very true, he said.
And do not courageous men face death because they are afraid of yet greater evils?
That is quite true.
Then all but the philosophers are courageous only from fear, and because they are
afraid; and yet that a man should be courageous from fear, and because he is a coward,
is surely a strange thing.
Very true.
And are not the temperate exactly in the same case? They are temperate because they
are intemperate—which might seem to be a contradiction, but is nevertheless the sort
of thing which happens with this foolish temperance. For there are pleasures which they
are afraid of losing; and in their desire to keep them, they abstain from some pleasures,
because they are overcome by others; and although to be conquered by pleasure is
called by men intemperance, to them the conquest of pleasure consists in being
conquered by pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that, in a sense, they are
made temperate through intemperance.
Such appears to be the case.
Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain for another fear or pleasure or pain,
and of the greater for the less, as if they were coins, is not the exchange of virtue. O my
blessed Simmias, is there not one true coin for which all things ought to be
exchanged?—and that is wisdom; and only in exchange for this, and in company with
this, is anything truly bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or justice. And is
not all true virtue the companion of wisdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or other
similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? But the virtue which is made up of
these goods, when they are severed from wisdom and exchanged with one another, is a
shadow of virtue only, nor is there any freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true
exchange there is a purging away of all these things, and temperance, and justice, and
courage, and wisdom herself are the purgation of them. The founders of the mysteries
would appear to have had a real meaning, and were not talking nonsense when they
intimated in a figure long ago that he who passes unsanctified and uninitiated into the
world below will lie in a slough, but that he who arrives there after initiation and
purification will dwell with the gods. For ‘many,’ as they say in the mysteries, ‘are the
thyrsus- bearers, but few are the mystics,’—meaning, as I interpret the words, ‘the true
philosophers.’ In the number of whom, during my whole life, I have been seeking,
according to my ability, to find a place;—whether I have sought in a right way or not,
and whether I have succeeded or not, I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when
I myself arrive in the other world—such is my belief. And therefore I maintain that I am
right, Simmias and Cebes, in not grieving or repining at parting from you and my
masters in this world, for I believe that I shall equally find good masters and friends in
another world. But most men do not believe this saying; if then I succeed in convincing
you by my defence better than I did the Athenian judges, it will be well.
Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater part of what you say. But in what
concerns the soul, men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she has left the
body her place may be nowhere, and that on the very day of death she may perish and
come to an end—immediately on her release from the body, issuing forth dispersed like
smoke or air and in her flight vanishing away into nothingness. If she could only be
collected into herself after she has obtained release from the evils of which you are
speaking, there would be good reason to hope, Socrates, that what you say is true. But
surely it requires a great deal of argument and many proofs to show that when the man
is dead his soul yet exists, and has any force or intelligence.
True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest that we converse a little of the
probabilities of these things?
I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to know your opinion about them.
I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me now, not even if he were one of my
old enemies, the Comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about matters in which I
have no concern:—If you please, then, we will proceed with the inquiry.
Suppose we consider the question whether the souls of men after death are or are not
in the world below. There comes into my mind an ancient doctrine which affirms that
they go from hence into the other world, and returning hither, are born again from the
dead. Now if it be true that the living come from the dead, then our souls must exist in
the other world, for if not, how could they have been born again? And this would be
conclusive, if there were any real evidence that the living are only born from the dead;
but if this is not so, then other arguments will have to be adduced.
Very true, replied Cebes.
Then let us consider the whole question, not in relation to man only, but in relation to
animals generally, and to plants, and to everything of which there is generation, and the
proof will be easier. Are not all things which have opposites generated out of their
opposites? I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust—and there are
innumerable other opposites which are generated out of opposites. And I want to show
that in all opposites there is of necessity a similar alternation; I mean to say, for example,
that anything which becomes greater must become greater after being less.
True.
And that which becomes less must have been once greater and then have become less.
Yes.
And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and the swifter from the slower.
Very true.
And the worse is from the better, and the more just is from the more unjust.
Of course.
And is this true of all opposites? and are we convinced that all of them are generated
out of opposites?
Yes.
And in this universal opposition of all things, are there not also two intermediate
processes which are ever going on, from one to the other opposite, and back again;
where there is a greater and a less there is also an intermediate process of increase and
diminution, and that which grows is said to wax, and that which decays to wane?
Yes, he said.
And there are many other processes, such as division and composition, cooling and
heating, which equally involve a passage into and out of one another. And this
necessarily holds of all opposites, even though not always expressed in words—they are
really generated out of one another, and there is a passing or process from one to the
other of them?
Very true, he replied.
Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep is the opposite of waking?
True, he said.
And what is it?
Death, he answered.
And these, if they are opposites, are generated the one from the other, and have there
their two intermediate processes also?
Of course.
Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two pairs of opposites which I have
mentioned to you, and also its intermediate processes, and you shall analyze the other
to me. One of them I term sleep, the other waking. The state of sleep is opposed to the
state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is generated, and out of waking, sleeping;
and the process of generation is in the one case falling asleep, and in the other waking
up. Do you agree?
I entirely agree.
Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to me in the same manner. Is not death
opposed to life?
Yes.
And they are generated one from the other?
Yes.
What is generated from the living?
The dead.
And what from the dead?
I can only say in answer—the living.
Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, are generated from the dead?
That is clear, he replied.
Then the inference is that our souls exist in the world below?
That is true.
And one of the two processes or generations is visible—for surely the act of dying is
visible?
Surely, he said.
What then is to be the result? Shall we exclude the opposite process? And shall we
suppose nature to walk on one leg only? Must we not rather assign to death some
corresponding process of generation?
Certainly, he replied.
And what is that process?
Return to life.
And return to life, if there be such a thing, is the birth of the dead into the world of the
living?
Quite true.
Then here is a new way by which we arrive at the conclusion that the living come from
the dead, just as the dead come from the living; and this, if true, affords a most certain
proof that the souls of the dead exist in some place out of which they come again.
Yes, Socrates, he said; the conclusion seems to flow necessarily out of our previous
admissions.
And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, he said, may be shown, I think, as
follows: If generation were in a straight line only, and there were no compensation or
circle in nature, no turn or return of elements into their opposites, then you know that
all things would at last have the same form and pass into the same state, and there
would be no more generation of them.
What do you mean? he said.
A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by the case of sleep, he replied. You know
that if there were no alternation of sleeping and waking, the tale of the sleeping
Endymion would in the end have no meaning, because all other things would be asleep,
too, and he would not be distinguishable from the rest. Or if there were composition
only, and no division of substances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come again.
And in like manner, my dear Cebes, if all things which partook of life were to die, and
after they were dead remained in the form of death, and did not come to life again, all
would at last die, and nothing would be alive—what other result could there be? For if
the living spring from any other things, and they too die, must not all things at last be
swallowed up in death? (But compare Republic.)
There is no escape, Socrates, said Cebes; and to me your argument seems to be
absolutely true.
Yes, he said, Cebes, it is and must be so, in my opinion; and we have not been deluded
in making these admissions; but I am confident that there truly is such a thing as living
again, and that the living spring from the dead, and that the souls of the dead are in
existence, and that the good souls have a better portion than the evil.
Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates, that knowledge is simply recollection, if
true, also necessarily implies a previous time in which we have learned that which we
now recollect. But this would be impossible unless our soul had been in some place
before existing in the form of man; here then is another proof of the soul’s immortality.
But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what arguments are urged in favour of this
doctrine of recollection. I am not very sure at the moment that I remember them.
One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by questions. If you put a question to a
person in a right way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how could he do this
unless there were knowledge and right reason already in him? And this is most clearly
shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything of that sort. (Compare Meno.)
But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Simmias, I would ask you whether you may
not agree with me when you look at the matter in another way;—I mean, if you are still
incredulous as to whether knowledge is recollection.
Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but I want to have this doctrine of recollection
brought to my own recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am beginning to
recollect and be convinced; but I should still like to hear what you were going to say.
This is what I would say, he replied:—We should agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a
man recollects he must have known at some previous time.
Very true.
And what is the nature of this knowledge or recollection? I mean to ask, Whether a
person who, having seen or heard or in any way perceived anything, knows not only
that, but has a conception of something else which is the subject, not of the same but of
some other kind of knowledge, may not be fairly said to recollect that of which he has
the conception?
What do you mean?
I mean what I may illustrate by the following instance:—The knowledge of a lyre is not
the same as the knowledge of a man?
True.
And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they recognize a lyre, or a garment, or
anything else which the beloved has been in the habit of using? Do not they, from
knowing the lyre, form in the mind’s eye an image of the youth to whom the lyre
belongs? And this is recollection. In like manner any one who sees Simmias may
remember Cebes; and there are endless examples of the same thing.
Endless, indeed, replied Simmias.
And recollection is most commonly a process of recovering that which has been already
forgotten through time and inattention.
Very true, he said.
Well; and may you not also from seeing the picture of a horse or a lyre remember a
man? and from the picture of Simmias, you may be led to remember Cebes?
True.
Or you may also be led to the recollection of Simmias himself?
Quite so.
And in all these cases, the recollection may be derived from things either like or unlike?
It may be.
And when the recollection is derived from like things, then another consideration is sure
to arise, which is—whether the likeness in any degree falls short or not of that which is
recollected?
Very true, he said.
And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that there is such a thing as equality, not
of one piece of wood or stone with another, but that, over and above this, there is
absolute equality? Shall we say so?
Say so, yes, replied Simmias, and swear to it, with all the confidence in life.
And do we know the nature of this absolute essence?
To be sure, he said.
And whence did we obtain our knowledge? Did we not see equalities of material things,
such as pieces of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea of an equality which
is different from them? For you will acknowledge that there is a difference. Or look at
the matter in another way:—Do not the same pieces of wood or stone appear at one
time equal, and at another time unequal?
That is certain.
But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of equality the same as of inequality?
Impossible, Socrates.
Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with the idea of equality?
I should say, clearly not, Socrates.
And yet from these equals, although differing from the idea of equality, you conceived
and attained that idea?
Very true, he said.
Which might be like, or might be unlike them?
Yes.
But that makes no difference; whenever from seeing one thing you conceived another,
whether like or unlike, there must surely have been an act of recollection?
Very true.
But what would you say of equal portions of wood and stone, or other material equals?
and what is the impression produced by them? Are they equals in the same sense in
which absolute equality is equal? or do they fall short of this perfect equality in a
measure?
Yes, he said, in a very great measure too.
And must we not allow, that when I or any one, looking at any object, observes that the
thing which he sees aims at being some other thing, but falls short of, and cannot be,
that other thing, but is inferior, he who makes this observation must have had a
previous knowledge of that to which the other, although similar, was inferior?
Certainly.
And has not this been our own case in the matter of equals and of absolute equality?
Precisely.
Then we must have known equality previously to the time when we first saw the material
equals, and reflected that all these apparent equals strive to attain absolute equality, but
fall short of it?
Very true.
And we recognize also that this absolute equality has only been known, and can only be
known, through the medium of sight or touch, or of some other of the senses, which are
all alike in this respect?
Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, one of them is the same as the other.
From the senses then is derived the knowledge that all sensible things aim at an
absolute equality of which they fall short?
Yes.
Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in any way, we must have had a
knowledge of absolute equality, or we could not have referred to that standard the
equals which are derived from the senses?—for to that they all aspire, and of that they
fall short.
No other inference can be drawn from the previous statements.
And did we not see and hear and have the use of our other senses as soon as we were
born?
Certainly.
Then we must have acquired the knowledge of equality at some previous time?
Yes.
That is to say, before we were born, I suppose?
True.
And if we acquired this knowledge before we were born, and were born having the use
of it, then we also knew before we were born and at the instant of birth not only the
equal or the greater or the less, but all other ideas; for we are not speaking only of
equality, but of beauty, goodness, justice, holiness, and of all which we stamp with the
name of essence in the dialectical process, both when we ask and when we answer
questions. Of all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired the knowledge before
birth?
We may.
But if, after having acquired, we have not forgotten what in each case we acquired, then
we must always have come into life having knowledge, and shall always continue to
know as long as life lasts—for knowing is the acquiring and retaining knowledge and
not forgetting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of knowledge?
Quite true, Socrates.
But if the knowledge which we acquired before birth was lost by us at birth, and if
afterwards by the use of the senses we recovered what we previously knew, will not the
process which we call learning be a recovering of the knowledge which is natural to us,
and may not this be rightly termed recollection?
Very true.
So much is clear—that when we perceive something, either by the help of sight, or
hearing, or some other sense, from that perception we are able to obtain a notion of
some other thing like or unlike which is associated with it but has been forgotten.
Whence, as I was saying, one of two alternatives follows:—either we had this knowledge
at birth, and continued to know through life; or, after birth, those who are said to learn
only remember, and learning is simply recollection.
Yes, that is quite true, Socrates.
And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? Had we the knowledge at our birth, or
did we recollect the things which we knew previously to our birth?
I cannot decide at the moment.
At any rate you can decide whether he who has knowledge will or will not be able to
render an account of his knowledge? What do you say?
Certainly, he will.
But do you think that every man is able to give an account of these very matters about
which we are speaking?
Would that they could, Socrates, but I rather fear that to-morrow, at this time, there will
no longer be any one alive who is able to give an account of them such as ought to be
given.
Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men know these things?
Certainly not.
They are in process of recollecting that which they learned before?
Certainly.
But when did our souls acquire this knowledge?—not since we were born as men?
Certainly not.
And therefore, previously?
Yes.
Then, Simmias, our souls must also have existed without bodies before they were in the
form of man, and must have had intelligence.
Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these notions are given us at the very
moment of birth; for this is the only time which remains.
Yes, my friend, but if so, when do we lose them? for they are not in us when we are
born—that is admitted. Do we lose them at the moment of receiving them, or if not at
what other time?
No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously talking nonsense.
Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are always repeating, there is an absolute
beauty, and goodness, and an absolute essence of all things; and if to this, which is now
discovered to have existed in our former state, we refer all our sensations, and with this
compare them, finding these ideas to be pre-existent and our inborn possession—then
our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, there would be no force in the
argument? There is the same proof that these ideas must have existed before we were
born, as that our souls existed before we were born; and if not the ideas, then not the
souls.
Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is precisely the same necessity for the one as for
the other; and the argument retreats successfully to the position that the existence of
the soul before birth cannot be separated from the existence of the essence of which
you speak. For there is nothing which to my mind is so patent as that beauty, goodness,
and the other notions of which you were just now speaking, have a most real and
absolute existence; and I am satisfied with the proof.
Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must convince him too.
I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: although he is the most incredulous of
mortals, yet I believe that he is sufficiently convinced of the existence of the soul before
birth. But that after death the soul will continue to exist is not yet proven even to my
own satisfaction. I cannot get rid of the feeling of the many to which Cebes was
referring—the feeling that when the man dies the soul will be dispersed, and that this
may be the extinction of her. For admitting that she may have been born elsewhere, and
framed out of other elements, and was in existence before entering the human body,
why after having entered in and gone out again may she not herself be destroyed and
come to an end?
Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; about half of what was required has been proven; to wit,
that our souls existed before we were born:—that the soul will exist after death as well
as before birth is the other half of which the proof is still wanting, and has to be
supplied; when that is given the demonstration will be complete.
But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been already given, said Socrates, if you put the
two arguments together—I mean this and the former one, in which we admitted that
everything living is born of the dead. For if the soul exists before birth, and in coming to
life and being born can be born only from death and dying, must she not after death
continue to exist, since she has to be born again?—Surely the proof which you desire
has been already furnished. Still I suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe
the argument further. Like children, you are haunted with a fear that when the soul
leaves the body, the wind may really blow her away and scatter her; especially if a man
should happen to die in a great storm and not when the sky is calm.
Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you must argue us out of our fears—and
yet, strictly speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a child within us to whom death
is a sort of hobgoblin; him too we must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone in
the dark.
Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be applied daily until you have charmed
away the fear.
And where shall we find a good charmer of our fears, Socrates, when you are gone?
Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has many good men, and there are
barbarous races not a few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, sparing neither
pains nor money; for there is no better way of spending your money. And you must seek
among yourselves too; for you will not find others better able to make the search.
The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. And now, if you please, let us return
to the point of the argument at which we digressed.
By all means, replied Socrates; what else should I please?
Very good.
Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves what that is which, as we imagine, is liable to
be scattered, and about which we fear? and what again is that about which we have no
fear? And then we may proceed further to enquire whether that which suffers dispersion
is or is not of the nature of soul—our hopes and fears as to our own souls will turn upon
the answers to these questions.
Very true, he said.
Now the compound or composite may be supposed to be naturally capable, as of being
compounded, so also of being dissolved; but that which is uncompounded, and that
only, must be, if anything is, indissoluble.
Yes; I should imagine so, said Cebes.
And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the same and unchanging, whereas the
compound is always changing and never the same.
I agree, he said.
Then now let us return to the previous discussion. Is that idea or essence, which in the
dialectical process we define as essence or true existence—whether essence of equality,
beauty, or anything else—are these essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of
change? or are they each of them always what they are, having the same simple selfexistent
and unchanging forms, not admitting of variation at all, or in any way, or at any
time?
They must be always the same, Socrates, replied Cebes.
And what would you say of the many beautiful—whether men or horses or garments or
any other things which are named by the same names and may be called equal or
beautiful,—are they all unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? May they
not rather be described as almost always changing and hardly ever the same, either with
themselves or with one another?
The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a state of change.
And these you can touch and see and perceive with the senses, but the unchanging
things you can only perceive with the mind—they are invisible and are not seen?
That is very true, he said.
Well, then, added Socrates, let us suppose that there are two sorts of existences—one
seen, the other unseen.
Let us suppose them.
The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the unchanging?
That may be also supposed.
And, further, is not one part of us body, another part soul?
To be sure.
And to which class is the body more alike and akin?
Clearly to the seen—no one can doubt that.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not by man, Socrates.
And what we mean by ‘seen’ and ‘not seen’ is that which is or is not visible to the eye of
man?
Yes, to the eye of man.
And is the soul seen or not seen?
Not seen.
Unseen then?
Yes.
Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the body to the seen?
That follows necessarily, Socrates.
And were we not saying long ago that the soul when using the body as an instrument of
perception, that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hearing or some other sense
(for the meaning of perceiving through the body is perceiving through the senses)—
were we not saying that the soul too is then dragged by the body into the region of the
changeable, and wanders and is confused; the world spins round her, and she is like a
drunkard, when she touches change?
Very true.
But when returning into herself she reflects, then she passes into the other world, the
region of purity, and eternity, and immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her
kindred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by herself and is not let or hindered;
then she ceases from her erring ways, and being in communion with the unchanging is
unchanging. And this state of the soul is called wisdom?
That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied.
And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and akin, as far as may be inferred from
this argument, as well as from the preceding one?
I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one who follows the argument, the soul
will be infinitely more like the unchangeable—even the most stupid person will not deny
that.
And the body is more like the changing?
Yes.
Yet once more consider the matter in another light: When the soul and the body are
united, then nature orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to obey and serve.
Now which of these two functions is akin to the divine? and which to the mortal? Does
not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally orders and rules, and the mortal
to be that which is subject and servant?
True.
And which does the soul resemble?
The soul resembles the divine, and the body the mortal—there can be no doubt of that,
Socrates.
Then reflect, Cebes: of all which has been said is not this the conclusion?—that the soul
is in the very likeness of the divine, and immortal, and intellectual, and uniform, and
indissoluble, and unchangeable; and that the body is in the very likeness of the human,
and mortal, and unintellectual, and multiform, and dissoluble, and changeable. Can this,
my dear Cebes, be denied?
It cannot.
But if it be true, then is not the body liable to speedy dissolution? and is not the soul
almost or altogether indissoluble?
Certainly.
And do you further observe, that after a man is dead, the body, or visible part of him,
which is lying in the visible world, and is called a corpse, and would naturally be
dissolved and decomposed and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, but
may remain for a for some time, nay even for a long time, if the constitution be sound at
the time of death, and the season of the year favourable? For the body when shrunk and
embalmed, as the manner is in Egypt, may remain almost entire through infinite ages;
and even in decay, there are still some portions, such as the bones and ligaments, which
are practically indestructible:—Do you agree?
Yes.
And is it likely that the soul, which is invisible, in passing to the place of the true Hades,
which like her is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to the good and wise
God, whither, if God will, my soul is also soon to go,—that the soul, I repeat, if this be
her nature and origin, will be blown away and destroyed immediately on quitting the
body, as the many say? That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The truth rather
is, that the soul which is pure at departing and draws after her no bodily taint, having
never voluntarily during life had connection with the body, which she is ever avoiding,
herself gathered into herself;—and making such abstraction her perpetual study—which
means that she has been a true disciple of philosophy; and therefore has in fact been
always engaged in the practice of dying? For is not philosophy the practice of death?—
Certainly—
That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the invisible world—to the divine and
immortal and rational: thither arriving, she is secure of bliss and is released from the
error and folly of men, their fears and wild passions and all other human ills, and for ever
dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company with the gods (compare Apol.). Is not this
true, Cebes?
Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt.
But the soul which has been polluted, and is impure at the time of her departure, and is
the companion and servant of the body always, and is in love with and fascinated by the
body and by the desires and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe that the
truth only exists in a bodily form, which a man may touch and see and taste, and use for
the purposes of his lusts,—the soul, I mean, accustomed to hate and fear and avoid the
intellectual principle, which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can be attained
only by philosophy;—do you suppose that such a soul will depart pure and unalloyed?
Impossible, he replied.
She is held fast by the corporeal, which the continual association and constant care of
the body have wrought into her nature.
Very true.
And this corporeal element, my friend, is heavy and weighty and earthy, and is that
element of sight by which a soul is depressed and dragged down again into the visible
world, because she is afraid of the invisible and of the world below—prowling about
tombs and sepulchres, near which, as they tell us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of
souls which have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and therefore visible.
(Compare Milton, Comus:—
‘But when lust, By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk, But most by lewd and
lavish act of sin, Lets in defilement to the inward parts, The soul grows clotted by
contagion, Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose, The divine property of her first
being. Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp Oft seen in charnel vaults and
sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave, As loath to leave the body that
it lov’d, And linked itself by carnal sensuality To a degenerate and degraded state.’)
That is very likely, Socrates.
Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be the souls, not of the good, but of the
evil, which are compelled to wander about such places in payment of the penalty of
their former evil way of life; and they continue to wander until through the craving after
the corporeal which never leaves them, they are imprisoned finally in another body. And
they may be supposed to find their prisons in the same natures which they have had in
their former lives.
What natures do you mean, Socrates?
What I mean is that men who have followed after gluttony, and wantonness, and
drunkenness, and have had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into asses and
animals of that sort. What do you think?
I think such an opinion to be exceedingly probable.
And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, and tyranny, and violence, will pass
into wolves, or into hawks and kites;—whither else can we suppose them to go?
Yes, said Cebes; with such natures, beyond question.
And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to all of them places answering to their
several natures and propensities?
There is not, he said.
Some are happier than others; and the happiest both in themselves and in the place to
which they go are those who have practised the civil and social virtues which are called
temperance and justice, and are acquired by habit and attention without philosophy and
mind. (Compare Republic.)
Why are they the happiest?
Because they may be expected to pass into some gentle and social kind which is like
their own, such as bees or wasps or ants, or back again into the form of man, and just
and moderate men may be supposed to spring from them.
Very likely.
No one who has not studied philosophy and who is not entirely pure at the time of his
departure is allowed to enter the company of the Gods, but the lover of knowledge only.
And this is the reason, Simmias and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain
from all fleshly lusts, and hold out against them and refuse to give themselves up to
them,—not because they fear poverty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of
money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers of power and honour, because they
dread the dishonour or disgrace of evil deeds.
No, Socrates, that would not become them, said Cebes.
No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have any care of their own souls, and do
not merely live moulding and fashioning the body, say farewell to all this; they will not
walk in the ways of the blind: and when philosophy offers them purification and release
from evil, they feel that they ought not to resist her influence, and whither she leads
they turn and follow.
What do you mean, Socrates?
I will tell you, he said. The lovers of knowledge are conscious that the soul was simply
fastened and glued to the body—until philosophy received her, she could only view real
existence through the bars of a prison, not in and through herself; she was wallowing in
the mire of every sort of ignorance; and by reason of lust had become the principal
accomplice in her own captivity. This was her original state; and then, as I was saying,
and as the lovers of knowledge are well aware, philosophy, seeing how terrible was her
confinement, of which she was to herself the cause, received and gently comforted her
and sought to release her, pointing out that the eye and the ear and the other senses
are full of deception, and persuading her to retire from them, and abstain from all but
the necessary use of them, and be gathered up and collected into herself, bidding her
trust in herself and her own pure apprehension of pure existence, and to mistrust
whatever comes to her through other channels and is subject to variation; for such
things are visible and tangible, but what she sees in her own nature is intelligible and
invisible. And the soul of the true philosopher thinks that she ought not to resist this
deliverance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and desires and pains and fears, as
far as she is able; reflecting that when a man has great joys or sorrows or fears or
desires, he suffers from them, not merely the sort of evil which might be anticipated—as
for example, the loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed to his lusts—but
an evil greater far, which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one of which he never
thinks.
What is it, Socrates? said Cebes.
The evil is that when the feeling of pleasure or pain is most intense, every soul of man
imagines the objects of this intense feeling to be then plainest and truest: but this is not
so, they are really the things of sight.
Very true.
And is not this the state in which the soul is most enthralled by the body?
How so?
Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of nail which nails and rivets the soul to
the body, until she becomes like the body, and believes that to be true which the body
affirms to be true; and from agreeing with the body and having the same delights she is
obliged to have the same habits and haunts, and is not likely ever to be pure at her
departure to the world below, but is always infected by the body; and so she sinks into
another body and there germinates and grows, and has therefore no part in the
communion of the divine and pure and simple.
Most true, Socrates, answered Cebes.
And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers of knowledge are temperate and
brave; and not for the reason which the world gives.
Certainly not.
Certainly not! The soul of a philosopher will reason in quite another way; she will not ask
philosophy to release her in order that when released she may deliver herself up again
to the thraldom of pleasures and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, weaving
instead of unweaving her Penelope’s web. But she will calm passion, and follow reason,
and dwell in the contemplation of her, beholding the true and divine (which is not
matter of opinion), and thence deriving nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while she
lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own kindred and to that which is like her,
and to be freed from human ills. Never fear, Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has
been thus nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her departure from the body be
scattered and blown away by the winds and be nowhere and nothing.
When Socrates had done speaking, for a considerable time there was silence; he himself
appeared to be meditating, as most of us were, on what had been said; only Cebes and
Simmias spoke a few words to one another. And Socrates observing them asked what
they thought of the argument, and whether there was anything wanting? For, said he,
there are many points still open to suspicion and attack, if any one were disposed to sift
the matter thoroughly. Should you be considering some other matter I say no more, but
if you are still in doubt do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let us have
anything better which you can suggest; and if you think that I can be of any use, allow
me to help you.
Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts did arise in our minds, and each of
us was urging and inciting the other to put the question which we wanted to have
answered and which neither of us liked to ask, fearing that our importunity might be
troublesome under present at such a time.
Socrates replied with a smile: O Simmias, what are you saying? I am not very likely to
persuade other men that I do not regard my present situation as a misfortune, if I
cannot even persuade you that I am no worse off now than at any other time in my life.
Will you not allow that I have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the swans? For
they, when they perceive that they must die, having sung all their life long, do then sing
more lustily than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about to go away to the
god whose ministers they are. But men, because they are themselves afraid of death,
slanderously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament at the last, not considering that
no bird sings when cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, nor the swallow,
nor yet the hoopoe; which are said indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not
believe this to be true of them any more than of the swans. But because they are sacred
to Apollo, they have the gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good things of another
world, wherefore they sing and rejoice in that day more than they ever did before. And I
too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant of the same God, and the fellowservant
of the swans, and thinking that I have received from my master gifts of prophecy
which are not inferior to theirs, would not go out of life less merrily than the swans.
Never mind then, if this be your only objection, but speak and ask anything which you
like, while the eleven magistrates of Athens allow.
Very good, Socrates, said Simmias; then I will tell you my difficulty, and Cebes will tell
you his. I feel myself, (and I daresay that you have the same feeling), how hard or rather
impossible is the attainment of any certainty about questions such as these in the
present life. And yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove what is said about
them to the uttermost, or whose heart failed him before he had examined them on
every side. For he should persevere until he has achieved one of two things: either he
should discover, or be taught the truth about them; or, if this be impossible, I would
have him take the best and most irrefragable of human theories, and let this be the raft
upon which he sails through life— not without risk, as I admit, if he cannot find some
word of God which will more surely and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I will
venture to question you, and then I shall not have to reproach myself hereafter with not
having said at the time what I think. For when I consider the matter, either alone or with
Cebes, the argument does certainly appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient.
Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you may be right, but I should like to know
in what respect the argument is insufficient.
In this respect, replied Simmias:—Suppose a person to use the same argument about
harmony and the lyre—might he not say that harmony is a thing invisible, incorporeal,
perfect, divine, existing in the lyre which is harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings
are matter and material, composite, earthy, and akin to mortality? And when some one
breaks the lyre, or cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view would argue
as you do, and on the same analogy, that the harmony survives and has not perished—
you cannot imagine, he would say, that the lyre without the strings, and the broken
strings themselves which are mortal remain, and yet that the harmony, which is of
heavenly and immortal nature and kindred, has perished—perished before the mortal.
The harmony must still be somewhere, and the wood and strings will decay before
anything can happen to that. The thought, Socrates, must have occurred to your own
mind that such is our conception of the soul; and that when the body is in a manner
strung and held together by the elements of hot and cold, wet and dry, then the soul is
the harmony or due proportionate admixture of them. But if so, whenever the strings of
the body are unduly loosened or overstrained through disease or other injury, then the
soul, though most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works of art, of course
perishes at once, although the material remains of the body may last for a considerable
time, until they are either decayed or burnt. And if any one maintains that the soul,
being the harmony of the elements of the body, is first to perish in that which is called
death, how shall we answer him?
Socrates looked fixedly at us as his manner was, and said with a smile: Simmias has
reason on his side; and why does not some one of you who is better able than myself
answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me. But perhaps, before we answer him,
we had better also hear what Cebes has to say that we may gain time for reflection, and
when they have both spoken, we may either assent to them, if there is truth in what they
say, or if not, we will maintain our position. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he said, what
was the difficulty which troubled you?
Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the argument is where it was, and open to
the same objections which were urged before; for I am ready to admit that the existence
of the soul before entering into the bodily form has been very ingeniously, and, if I may
say so, quite sufficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after death is still, in my
judgment, unproven. Now my objection is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am not
disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more lasting than the body, being of
opinion that in all such respects the soul very far excels the body. Well, then, says the
argument to me, why do you remain unconvinced?—When you see that the weaker
continues in existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that the more lasting
must also survive during the same period of time? Now I will ask you to consider
whether the objection, which, like Simmias, I will express in a figure, is of any weight. The
analogy which I will adduce is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his death
somebody says:—He is not dead, he must be alive;—see, there is the coat which he
himself wove and wore, and which remains whole and undecayed. And then he
proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, whether a man lasts longer, or the coat
which is in use and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts far longer, thinks
that he has thus certainly demonstrated the survival of the man, who is the more lasting,
because the less lasting remains. But that, Simmias, as I would beg you to remark, is a
mistake; any one can see that he who talks thus is talking nonsense. For the truth is, that
the weaver aforesaid, having woven and worn many such coats, outlived several of
them, and was outlived by the last; but a man is not therefore proved to be slighter and
weaker than a coat. Now the relation of the body to the soul may be expressed in a
similar figure; and any one may very fairly say in like manner that the soul is lasting, and
the body weak and shortlived in comparison. He may argue in like manner that every
soul wears out many bodies, especially if a man live many years. While he is alive the
body deliquesces and decays, and the soul always weaves another garment and repairs
the waste. But of course, whenever the soul perishes, she must have on her last garment,
and this will survive her; and then at length, when the soul is dead, the body will show
its native weakness, and quickly decompose and pass away. I would therefore rather not
rely on the argument from superior strength to prove the continued existence of the
soul after death. For granting even more than you affirm to be possible, and
acknowledging not only that the soul existed before birth, but also that the souls of
some exist, and will continue to exist after death, and will be born and die again and
again, and that there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold out and be born
many times—nevertheless, we may be still inclined to think that she will weary in the
labours of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of her deaths and utterly
perish; and this death and dissolution of the body which brings destruction to the soul
may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us can have had any experience of it: and if
so, then I maintain that he who is confident about death has but a foolish confidence,
unless he is able to prove that the soul is altogether immortal and imperishable. But if
he cannot prove the soul’s immortality, he who is about to die will always have reason to
fear that when the body is disunited, the soul also may utterly perish.
All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, had an unpleasant feeling at
hearing what they said. When we had been so firmly convinced before, now to have our
faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion and uncertainty, not only into the
previous argument, but into any future one; either we were incapable of forming a
judgment, or there were no grounds of belief.
ECHECRATES: There I feel with you—by heaven I do, Phaedo, and when you were
speaking, I was beginning to ask myself the same question: What argument can I ever
trust again? For what could be more convincing than the argument of Socrates, which
has now fallen into discredit? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine which has always
had a wonderful attraction for me, and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as
my own original conviction. And now I must begin again and find another argument
which will assure me that when the man is dead the soul survives. Tell me, I implore you,
how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear to share the unpleasant feeling which you
mention? or did he calmly meet the attack? And did he answer forcibly or feebly?
Narrate what passed as exactly as you can.
PHAEDO: Often, Echecrates, I have wondered at Socrates, but never more than on that
occasion. That he should be able to answer was nothing, but what astonished me was,
first, the gentle and pleasant and approving manner in which he received the words of
the young men, and then his quick sense of the wound which had been inflicted by the
argument, and the readiness with which he healed it. He might be compared to a
general rallying his defeated and broken army, urging them to accompany him and
return to the field of argument.
ECHECRATES: What followed?
PHAEDO: You shall hear, for I was close to him on his right hand, seated on a sort of
stool, and he on a couch which was a good deal higher. He stroked my head, and
pressed the hair upon my neck—he had a way of playing with my hair; and then he said:
To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair locks of yours will be severed.
Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied.
Not so, if you will take my advice.
What shall I do with them? I said.
To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argument dies and we cannot bring it to
life again, you and I will both shave our locks; and if I were you, and the argument got
away from me, and I could not hold my ground against Simmias and Cebes, I would
myself take an oath, like the Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed the
conflict and defeated them.
Yes, I said, but Heracles himself is said not to be a match for two.
Summon me then, he said, and I will be your Iolaus until the sun goes down.
I summon you rather, I rejoined, not as Heracles summoning Iolaus, but as Iolaus might
summon Heracles.
That will do as well, he said. But first let us take care that we avoid a danger.
Of what nature? I said.
Lest we become misologists, he replied, no worse thing can happen to a man than this.
For as there are misanthropists or haters of men, there are also misologists or haters of
ideas, and both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of the world.
Misanthropy arises out of the too great confidence of inexperience;—you trust a man
and think him altogether true and sound and faithful, and then in a little while he turns
out to be false and knavish; and then another and another, and when this has happened
several times to a man, especially when it happens among those whom he deems to be
his own most trusted and familiar friends, and he has often quarreled with them, he at
last hates all men, and believes that no one has any good in him at all. You must have
observed this trait of character?
I have.
And is not the feeling discreditable? Is it not obvious that such an one having to deal
with other men, was clearly without any experience of human nature; for experience
would have taught him the true state of the case, that few are the good and few the evil,
and that the great majority are in the interval between them.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very large and very small, that nothing is
more uncommon than a very large or very small man; and this applies generally to all
extremes, whether of great and small, or swift and slow, or fair and foul, or black and
white: and whether the instances you select be men or dogs or anything else, few are
the extremes, but many are in the mean between them. Did you never observe this?
Yes, I said, I have.
And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were a competition in evil, the worst
would be found to be very few?
Yes, that is very likely, I said.
Yes, that is very likely, he replied; although in this respect arguments are unlike men—
there I was led on by you to say more than I had intended; but the point of comparison
was, that when a simple man who has no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be
true which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether really false or not, and then
another and another, he has no longer any faith left, and great disputers, as you know,
come to think at last that they have grown to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone
perceive the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, or indeed, of all things,
which, like the currents in the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing ebb and
flow.
That is quite true, I said.
Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and how melancholy, if there be such a thing as truth or
certainty or possibility of knowledge—that a man should have lighted upon some
argument or other which at first seemed true and then turned out to be false, and
instead of blaming himself and his own want of wit, because he is annoyed, should at
last be too glad to transfer the blame from himself to arguments in general: and for ever
afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose truth and the knowledge of realities.
Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy.
Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of allowing or of admitting into our
souls the notion that there is no health or soundness in any arguments at all. Rather say
that we have not yet attained to soundness in ourselves, and that we must struggle
manfully and do our best to gain health of mind—you and all other men having regard
to the whole of your future life, and I myself in the prospect of death. For at this
moment I am sensible that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like the vulgar, I am
only a partisan. Now the partisan, when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about
the rights of the question, but is anxious only to convince his hearers of his own
assertions. And the difference between him and me at the present moment is merely
this—that whereas he seeks to convince his hearers that what he says is true, I am rather
seeking to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a secondary matter with me. And
do but see how much I gain by the argument. For if what I say is true, then I do well to
be persuaded of the truth, but if there be nothing after death, still, during the short time
that remains, I shall not distress my friends with lamentations, and my ignorance will not
last, but will die with me, and therefore no harm will be done. This is the state of mind,
Simmias and Cebes, in which I approach the argument. And I would ask you to be
thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with me, if I seem to you to be speaking
the truth; or if not, withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive you as well as
myself in my enthusiasm, and like the bee, leave my sting in you before I die.
And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all let me be sure that I have in my mind
what you were saying. Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears and misgivings whether
the soul, although a fairer and diviner thing than the body, being as she is in the form of
harmony, may not perish first. On the other hand, Cebes appeared to grant that the soul
was more lasting than the body, but he said that no one could know whether the soul,
after having worn out many bodies, might not perish herself and leave her last body
behind her; and that this is death, which is the destruction not of the body but of the
soul, for in the body the work of destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias
and Cebes, the points which we have to consider?
They both agreed to this statement of them.
He proceeded: And did you deny the force of the whole preceding argument, or of a
part only?
Of a part only, they replied.
And what did you think, he said, of that part of the argument in which we said that
knowledge was recollection, and hence inferred that the soul must have previously
existed somewhere else before she was enclosed in the body?
Cebes said that he had been wonderfully impressed by that part of the argument, and
that his conviction remained absolutely unshaken. Simmias agreed, and added that he
himself could hardly imagine the possibility of his ever thinking differently.
But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think differently, my Theban friend, if you still
maintain that harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony which is made
out of strings set in the frame of the body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say
that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose it.
Never, Socrates.
But do you not see that this is what you imply when you say that the soul existed before
she took the form and body of man, and was made up of elements which as yet had no
existence? For harmony is not like the soul, as you suppose; but first the lyre, and the
strings, and the sounds exist in a state of discord, and then harmony is made last of all,
and perishes first. And how can such a notion of the soul as this agree with the other?
Not at all, replied Simmias.
And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony in a discourse of which harmony is
the theme.
There ought, replied Simmias.
But there is no harmony, he said, in the two propositions that knowledge is recollection,
and that the soul is a harmony. Which of them will you retain?
I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger faith, Socrates, in the first of the two,
which has been fully demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which has not been
demonstrated at all, but rests only on probable and plausible grounds; and is therefore
believed by the many. I know too well that these arguments from probabilities are
impostors, and unless great caution is observed in the use of them, they are apt to be
deceptive —in geometry, and in other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and
recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy grounds; and the proof was that the
soul must have existed before she came into the body, because to her belongs the
essence of which the very name implies existence. Having, as I am convinced, rightly
accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, I must, as I suppose, cease to argue
or allow others to argue that the soul is a harmony.
Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another point of view: Do you imagine that a
harmony or any other composition can be in a state other than that of the elements, out
of which it is compounded?
Certainly not.
Or do or suffer anything other than they do or suffer?
He agreed.
Then a harmony does not, properly speaking, lead the parts or elements which make up
the harmony, but only follows them.
He assented.
For harmony cannot possibly have any motion, or sound, or other quality which is
opposed to its parts.
That would be impossible, he replied.
And does not the nature of every harmony depend upon the manner in which the
elements are harmonized?
I do not understand you, he said.
I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and is more of a harmony, and more
completely a harmony, when more truly and fully harmonized, to any extent which is
possible; and less of a harmony, and less completely a harmony, when less truly and
fully harmonized.
True.
But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul in the very least degree more or less,
or more or less completely, a soul than another?
Not in the least.
Yet surely of two souls, one is said to have intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and
the other to have folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said truly?
Yes, truly.
But what will those who maintain the soul to be a harmony say of this presence of virtue
and vice in the soul?—will they say that here is another harmony, and another discord,
and that the virtuous soul is harmonized, and herself being a harmony has another
harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inharmonical and has no harmony
within her?
I cannot tell, replied Simmias; but I suppose that something of the sort would be
asserted by those who say that the soul is a harmony.
And we have already admitted that no soul is more a soul than another; which is
equivalent to admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, or more or less
completely a harmony?
Quite true.
And that which is not more or less a harmony is not more or less harmonized?
True.
And that which is not more or less harmonized cannot have more or less of harmony,
but only an equal harmony?
Yes, an equal harmony.
Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a soul than another, is not more or less
harmonized?
Exactly.
And therefore has neither more nor less of discord, nor yet of harmony?
She has not.
And having neither more nor less of harmony or of discord, one soul has no more vice
or virtue than another, if vice be discord and virtue harmony?
Not at all more.
Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if she is a harmony, will never have any
vice; because a harmony, being absolutely a harmony, has no part in the inharmonical.
No.
And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has no vice?
How can she have, if the previous argument holds?
Then, if all souls are equally by their nature souls, all souls of all living creatures will be
equally good?
I agree with you, Socrates, he said.
And can all this be true, think you? he said; for these are the consequences which seem
to follow from the assumption that the soul is a harmony?
It cannot be true.
Once more, he said, what ruler is there of the elements of human nature other than the
soul, and especially the wise soul? Do you know of any?
Indeed, I do not.
And is the soul in agreement with the affections of the body? or is she at variance with
them? For example, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the soul incline us
against drinking? and when the body is hungry, against eating? And this is only one
instance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the soul to the things of the body.
Very true.
But we have already acknowledged that the soul, being a harmony, can never utter a
note at variance with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and other affections of
the strings out of which she is composed; she can only follow, she cannot lead them?
It must be so, he replied.
And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing the exact opposite— leading the
elements of which she is believed to be composed; almost always opposing and
coercing them in all sorts of ways throughout life, sometimes more violently with the
pains of medicine and gymnastic; then again more gently; now threatening, now
admonishing the desires, passions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself, as
Homer in the Odyssee represents Odysseus doing in the words—
‘He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou
endured!’
Do you think that Homer wrote this under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of
being led by the affections of the body, and not rather of a nature which should lead
and master them—herself a far diviner thing than any harmony?
Yes, Socrates, I quite think so.
Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying that the soul is a harmony, for we
should contradict the divine Homer, and contradict ourselves.
True, he said.
Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your Theban goddess, who has graciously
yielded to us; but what shall I say, Cebes, to her husband Cadmus, and how shall I make
peace with him?
I think that you will discover a way of propitiating him, said Cebes; I am sure that you
have put the argument with Harmonia in a manner that I could never have expected. For
when Simmias was mentioning his difficulty, I quite imagined that no answer could be
given to him, and therefore I was surprised at finding that his argument could not
sustain the first onset of yours, and not impossibly the other, whom you call Cadmus,
may share a similar fate.
Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, lest some evil eye should put to
flight the word which I am about to speak. That, however, may be left in the hands of
those above, while I draw near in Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words.
Here lies the point:—You want to have it proven to you that the soul is imperishable and
immortal, and the philosopher who is confident in death appears to you to have but a
vain and foolish confidence, if he believes that he will fare better in the world below
than one who has led another sort of life, unless he can prove this; and you say that the
demonstration of the strength and divinity of the soul, and of her existence prior to our
becoming men, does not necessarily imply her immortality. Admitting the soul to be
longlived, and to have known and done much in a former state, still she is not on that
account immortal; and her entrance into the human form may be a sort of disease which
is the beginning of dissolution, and may at last, after the toils of life are over, end in that
which is called death. And whether the soul enters into the body once only or many
times, does not, as you say, make any difference in the fears of individuals. For any man,
who is not devoid of sense, must fear, if he has no knowledge and can give no account
of the soul’s immortality. This, or something like this, I suspect to be your notion, Cebes;
and I designedly recur to it in order that nothing may escape us, and that you may, if
you wish, add or subtract anything.
But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have nothing to add or subtract: I mean what
you say that I mean.
Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed in reflection. At length he said: You
are raising a tremendous question, Cebes, involving the whole nature of generation and
corruption, about which, if you like, I will give you my own experience; and if anything
which I say is likely to avail towards the solution of your difficulty you may make use of
it.
I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what you have to say.
Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to
know that department of philosophy which is called the investigation of nature; to know
the causes of things, and why a thing is and is created or destroyed appeared to me to
be a lofty profession; and I was always agitating myself with the consideration of
questions such as these:—Is the growth of animals the result of some decay which the
hot and cold principle contracts, as some have said? Is the blood the element with which
we think, or the air, or the fire? or perhaps nothing of the kind— but the brain may be
the originating power of the perceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory
and opinion may come from them, and science may be based on memory and opinion
when they have attained fixity. And then I went on to examine the corruption of them,
and then to the things of heaven and earth, and at last I concluded myself to be utterly
and absolutely incapable of these enquiries, as I will satisfactorily prove to you. For I was
fascinated by them to such a degree that my eyes grew blind to things which I had
seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite well; I forgot what I had before
thought self-evident truths; e.g. such a fact as that the growth of man is the result of
eating and drinking; for when by the digestion of food flesh is added to flesh and bone
to bone, and whenever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, the lesser bulk
becomes larger and the small man great. Was not that a reasonable notion?
Yes, said Cebes, I think so.
Well; but let me tell you something more. There was a time when I thought that I
understood the meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I saw a great man
standing by a little one, I fancied that one was taller than the other by a head; or one
horse would appear to be greater than another horse: and still more clearly did I seem
to perceive that ten is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more than one,
because two is the double of one.
And what is now your notion of such matters? said Cebes.
I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, that I knew the cause of any of them,
by heaven I should; for I cannot satisfy myself that, when one is added to one, the one
to which the addition is made becomes two, or that the two units added together make
two by reason of the addition. I cannot understand how, when separated from the other,
each of them was one and not two, and now, when they are brought together, the mere
juxtaposition or meeting of them should be the cause of their becoming two: neither
can I understand how the division of one is the way to make two; for then a different
cause would produce the same effect,—as in the former instance the addition and
juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in this the separation and subtraction
of one from the other would be the cause. Nor am I any longer satisfied that I
understand the reason why one or anything else is either generated or destroyed or is at
all, but I have in my mind some confused notion of a new method, and can never admit
the other.
Then I heard some one reading, as he said, from a book of Anaxagoras, that mind was
the disposer and cause of all, and I was delighted at this notion, which appeared quite
admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the disposer, mind will dispose all for the best,
and put each particular in the best place; and I argued that if any one desired to find out
the cause of the generation or destruction or existence of anything, he must find out
what state of being or doing or suffering was best for that thing, and therefore a man
had only to consider the best for himself and others, and then he would also know the
worse, since the same science comprehended both. And I rejoiced to think that I had
found in Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such as I desired, and I
imagined that he would tell me first whether the earth is flat or round; and whichever
was true, he would proceed to explain the cause and the necessity of this being so, and
then he would teach me the nature of the best and show that this was best; and if he
said that the earth was in the centre, he would further explain that this position was the
best, and I should be satisfied with the explanation given, and not want any other sort of
cause. And I thought that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and moon and
stars, and that he would explain to me their comparative swiftness, and their returnings
and various states, active and passive, and how all of them were for the best. For I could
not imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of them, he would give any
other account of their being as they are, except that this was best; and I thought that
when he had explained to me in detail the cause of each and the cause of all, he would
go on to explain to me what was best for each and what was good for all. These hopes I
would not have sold for a large sum of money, and I seized the books and read them as
fast as I could in my eagerness to know the better and the worse.
What expectations I had formed, and how grievously was I disappointed! As I
proceeded, I found my philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other principle of
order, but having recourse to air, and ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might
compare him to a person who began by maintaining generally that mind is the cause of
the actions of Socrates, but who, when he endeavoured to explain the causes of my
several actions in detail, went on to show that I sit here because my body is made up of
bones and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard and have joints which
divide them, and the muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which have also a
covering or environment of flesh and skin which contains them; and as the bones are
lifted at their joints by the contraction or relaxation of the muscles, I am able to bend
my limbs, and this is why I am sitting here in a curved posture—that is what he would
say, and he would have a similar explanation of my talking to you, which he would
attribute to sound, and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten thousand other causes
of the same sort, forgetting to mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians have
thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I have thought it better and more right to
remain here and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to think that these muscles and
bones of mine would have gone off long ago to Megara or Boeotia—by the dog they
would, if they had been moved only by their own idea of what was best, and if I had not
chosen the better and nobler part, instead of playing truant and running away, of
enduring any punishment which the state inflicts. There is surely a strange confusion of
causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, indeed, that without bones and muscles
and the other parts of the body I cannot execute my purposes. But to say that I do as I
do because of them, and that this is the way in which mind acts, and not from the
choice of the best, is a very careless and idle mode of speaking. I wonder that they
cannot distinguish the cause from the condition, which the many, feeling about in the
dark, are always mistaking and misnaming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round
and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the air as a support to the earth,
which is a sort of broad trough. Any power which in arranging them as they are arranges
them for the best never enters into their minds; and instead of finding any superior
strength in it, they rather expect to discover another Atlas of the world who is stronger
and more everlasting and more containing than the good;—of the obligatory and
containing power of the good they think nothing; and yet this is the principle which I
would fain learn if any one would teach me. But as I have failed either to discover
myself, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, I will exhibit to you, if you like,
what I have found to be the second best mode of enquiring into the cause.
I should very much like to hear, he replied.
Socrates proceeded:—I thought that as I had failed in the contemplation of true
existence, I ought to be careful that I did not lose the eye of my soul; as people may
injure their bodily eye by observing and gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless they
take the precaution of only looking at the image reflected in the water, or in some
similar medium. So in my own case, I was afraid that my soul might be blinded
altogether if I looked at things with my eyes or tried to apprehend them by the help of
the senses. And I thought that I had better have recourse to the world of mind and seek
there the truth of existence. I dare say that the simile is not perfect— for I am very far
from admitting that he who contemplates existences through the medium of thought,
sees them only ‘through a glass darkly,’ any more than he who considers them in action
and operation. However, this was the method which I adopted: I first assumed some
principle which I judged to be the strongest, and then I affirmed as true whatever
seemed to agree with this, whether relating to the cause or to anything else; and that
which disagreed I regarded as untrue. But I should like to explain my meaning more
clearly, as I do not think that you as yet understand me.
No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well.
There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about to tell you; but only what I have been
always and everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and on other occasions: I
want to show you the nature of that cause which has occupied my thoughts. I shall have
to go back to those familiar words which are in the mouth of every one, and first of all
assume that there is an absolute beauty and goodness and greatness, and the like; grant
me this, and I hope to be able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove the
immortality of the soul.
Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, for I grant you this.
Well, he said, then I should like to know whether you agree with me in the next step; for
I cannot help thinking, if there be anything beautiful other than absolute beauty should
there be such, that it can be beautiful only in as far as it partakes of absolute beauty—
and I should say the same of everything. Do you agree in this notion of the cause?
Yes, he said, I agree.
He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand nothing of any other of those wise
causes which are alleged; and if a person says to me that the bloom of colour, or form,
or any such thing is a source of beauty, I leave all that, which is only confusing to me,
and simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, hold and am assured in my own mind that
nothing makes a thing beautiful but the presence and participation of beauty in
whatever way or manner obtained; for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly
contend that by beauty all beautiful things become beautiful. This appears to me to be
the safest answer which I can give, either to myself or to another, and to this I cling, in
the persuasion that this principle will never be overthrown, and that to myself or to any
one who asks the question, I may safely reply, That by beauty beautiful things become
beautiful. Do you not agree with me?
I do.
And that by greatness only great things become great and greater greater, and by
smallness the less become less?
True.
Then if a person were to remark that A is taller by a head than B, and B less by a head
than A, you would refuse to admit his statement, and would stoutly contend that what
you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by reason of, greatness, and the less
is less only by, and by reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the danger of
saying that the greater is greater and the less less by the measure of the head, which is
the same in both, and would also avoid the monstrous absurdity of supposing that the
greater man is greater by reason of the head, which is small. You would be afraid to
draw such an inference, would you not?
Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing.
In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten exceeded eight by, and by reason of,
two; but would say by, and by reason of, number; or you would say that two cubits
exceed one cubit not by a half, but by magnitude?-for there is the same liability to error
in all these cases.
Very true, he said.
Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that the addition of one to one, or the
division of one, is the cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that you know of
no way in which anything comes into existence except by participation in its own proper
essence, and consequently, as far as you know, the only cause of two is the participation
in duality—this is the way to make two, and the participation in one is the way to make
one. You would say: I will let alone puzzles of division and addition—wiser heads than
mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, and ready to start, as the proverb says, at
my own shadow, I cannot afford to give up the sure ground of a principle. And if any
one assails you there, you would not mind him, or answer him, until you had seen
whether the consequences which follow agree with one another or not, and when you
are further required to give an explanation of this principle, you would go on to assume
a higher principle, and a higher, until you found a resting-place in the best of the higher;
but you would not confuse the principle and the consequences in your reasoning, like
the Eristics—at least if you wanted to discover real existence. Not that this confusion
signifies to them, who never care or think about the matter at all, for they have the wit
to be well pleased with themselves however great may be the turmoil of their ideas. But
you, if you are a philosopher, will certainly do as I say.
What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, both speaking at once.
ECHECRATES: Yes, Phaedo; and I do not wonder at their assenting. Any one who has the
least sense will acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates’ reasoning.
PHAEDO: Certainly, Echecrates; and such was the feeling of the whole company at the
time.
ECHECRATES: Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not of the company, and are now
listening to your recital. But what followed?
PHAEDO: After all this had been admitted, and they had that ideas exist, and that other
things participate in them and derive their names from them, Socrates, if I remember
rightly, said:—
This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say that Simmias is greater than Socrates
and less than Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both greatness and smallness?
Yes, I do.
But still you allow that Simmias does not really exceed Socrates, as the words may seem
to imply, because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which he has; just as Simmias
does not exceed Socrates because he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates is
Socrates, but because he has smallness when compared with the greatness of Simmias?
True.
And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not because Phaedo is Phaedo, but because
Phaedo has greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively smaller?
That is true.
And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is also said to be small, because he is in a
mean between them, exceeding the smallness of the one by his greatness, and allowing
the greatness of the other to exceed his smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking
like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is true.
Simmias assented.
I speak as I do because I want you to agree with me in thinking, not only that absolute
greatness will never be great and also small, but that greatness in us or in the concrete
will never admit the small or admit of being exceeded: instead of this, one of two things
will happen, either the greater will fly or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or
at the approach of the less has already ceased to exist; but will not, if allowing or
admitting of smallness, be changed by that; even as I, having received and admitted
smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just as I was, and am the same small
person. And as the idea of greatness cannot condescend ever to be or become small, in
like manner the smallness in us cannot be or become great; nor can any other opposite
which remains the same ever be or become its own opposite, but either passes away or
perishes in the change.
That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion.
Hereupon one of the company, though I do not exactly remember which of them, said:
In heaven’s name, is not this the direct contrary of what was admitted before—that out
of the greater came the less and out of the less the greater, and that opposites were
simply generated from opposites; but now this principle seems to be utterly denied.
Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and listened. I like your courage, he said, in
reminding us of this. But you do not observe that there is a difference in the two cases.
For then we were speaking of opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential
opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in nature can ever be at variance with
itself: then, my friend, we were speaking of things in which opposites are inherent and
which are called after them, but now about the opposites which are inherent in them
and which give their name to them; and these essential opposites will never, as we
maintain, admit of generation into or out of one another. At the same time, turning to
Cebes, he said: Are you at all disconcerted, Cebes, at our friend’s objection?
No, I do not feel so, said Cebes; and yet I cannot deny that I am often disturbed by
objections.
Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that the opposite will never in any case be
opposed to itself?
To that we are quite agreed, he replied.
Yet once more let me ask you to consider the question from another point of view, and
see whether you agree with me:—There is a thing which you term heat, and another
thing which you term cold?
Certainly.
But are they the same as fire and snow?
Most assuredly not.
Heat is a thing different from fire, and cold is not the same with snow?
Yes.
And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, as was before said, is under the influence
of heat, they will not remain snow and heat; but at the advance of the heat, the snow
will either retire or perish?
Very true, he replied.
And the fire too at the advance of the cold will either retire or perish; and when the fire
is under the influence of the cold, they will not remain as before, fire and cold.
That is true, he said.
And in some cases the name of the idea is not only attached to the idea in an eternal
connection, but anything else which, not being the idea, exists only in the form of the
idea, may also lay claim to it. I will try to make this clearer by an example:—The odd
number is always called by the name of odd?
Very true.
But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are there not other things which have
their own name, and yet are called odd, because, although not the same as oddness,
they are never without oddness?—that is what I mean to ask—whether numbers such as
the number three are not of the class of odd. And there are many other examples:
would you not say, for example, that three may be called by its proper name, and also
be called odd, which is not the same with three? and this may be said not only of three
but also of five, and of every alternate number—each of them without being oddness is
odd, and in the same way two and four, and the other series of alternate numbers, has
every number even, without being evenness. Do you agree?
Of course.
Then now mark the point at which I am aiming:—not only do essential opposites
exclude one another, but also concrete things, which, although not in themselves
opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, likewise reject the idea which is opposed to
that which is contained in them, and when it approaches them they either perish or
withdraw. For example; Will not the number three endure annihilation or anything
sooner than be converted into an even number, while remaining three?
Very true, said Cebes.
And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not opposed to the number three?
It is not.
Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance of one another, but also there are
other natures which repel the approach of opposites.
Very true, he said.
Suppose, he said, that we endeavour, if possible, to determine what these are.
By all means.
Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of which they have possession, not only
to take their own form, but also the form of some opposite?
What do you mean?
I mean, as I was just now saying, and as I am sure that you know, that those things
which are possessed by the number three must not only be three in number, but must
also be odd.
Quite true.
And on this oddness, of which the number three has the impress, the opposite idea will
never intrude?
No.
And this impress was given by the odd principle?
Yes.
And to the odd is opposed the even?
True.
Then the idea of the even number will never arrive at three?
No.
Then three has no part in the even?
None.
Then the triad or number three is uneven?
Very true.
To return then to my distinction of natures which are not opposed, and yet do not admit
opposites—as, in the instance given, three, although not opposed to the even, does not
any the more admit of the even, but always brings the opposite into play on the other
side; or as two does not receive the odd, or fire the cold—from these examples (and
there are many more of them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the general
conclusion, that not only opposites will not receive opposites, but also that nothing
which brings the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it brings, in that to
which it is brought. And here let me recapitulate—for there is no harm in repetition. The
number five will not admit the nature of the even, any more than ten, which is the
double of five, will admit the nature of the odd. The double has another opposite, and is
not strictly opposed to the odd, but nevertheless rejects the odd altogether. Nor again
will parts in the ratio 3:2, nor any fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which
there is a third, admit the notion of the whole, although they are not opposed to the
whole: You will agree?
Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with you in that.
And now, he said, let us begin again; and do not you answer my question in the words
in which I ask it: let me have not the old safe answer of which I spoke at first, but
another equally safe, of which the truth will be inferred by you from what has been just
said. I mean that if any one asks you ‘what that is, of which the inherence makes the
body hot,’ you will reply not heat (this is what I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire,
a far superior answer, which we are now in a condition to give. Or if any one asks you
‘why a body is diseased,’ you will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead of
saying that oddness is the cause of odd numbers, you will say that the monad is the
cause of them: and so of things in general, as I dare say that you will understand
sufficiently without my adducing any further examples.
Yes, he said, I quite understand you.
Tell me, then, what is that of which the inherence will render the body alive?
The soul, he replied.
And is this always the case?
Yes, he said, of course.
Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes bearing life?
Yes, certainly.
And is there any opposite to life?
There is, he said.
And what is that?
Death.
Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never receive the opposite of what she
brings.
Impossible, replied Cebes.
And now, he said, what did we just now call that principle which repels the even?
The odd.
And that principle which repels the musical, or the just?
The unmusical, he said, and the unjust.
And what do we call the principle which does not admit of death?
The immortal, he said.
And does the soul admit of death?
No.
Then the soul is immortal?
Yes, he said.
And may we say that this has been proven?
Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied.
Supposing that the odd were imperishable, must not three be imperishable?
Of course.
And if that which is cold were imperishable, when the warm principle came attacking the
snow, must not the snow have retired whole and unmelted—for it could never have
perished, nor could it have remained and admitted the heat?
True, he said.
Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were imperishable, the fire when assailed by
cold would not have perished or have been extinguished, but would have gone away
unaffected?
Certainly, he said.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, the soul
when attacked by death cannot perish; for the preceding argument shows that the soul
will not admit of death, or ever be dead, any more than three or the odd number will
admit of the even, or fire or the heat in the fire, of the cold. Yet a person may say: ‘But
although the odd will not become even at the approach of the even, why may not the
odd perish and the even take the place of the odd?’ Now to him who makes this
objection, we cannot answer that the odd principle is imperishable; for this has not been
acknowledged, but if this had been acknowledged, there would have been no difficulty
in contending that at the approach of the even the odd principle and the number three
took their departure; and the same argument would have held good of fire and heat
and any other thing.
Very true.
And the same may be said of the immortal: if the immortal is also imperishable, then the
soul will be imperishable as well as immortal; but if not, some other proof of her
imperishableness will have to be given.
No other proof is needed, he said; for if the immortal, being eternal, is liable to perish,
then nothing is imperishable.
Yes, replied Socrates, and yet all men will agree that God, and the essential form of life,
and the immortal in general, will never perish.
Yes, all men, he said—that is true; and what is more, gods, if I am not mistaken, as well
as men.
Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, must not the soul, if she is immortal, be
also imperishable?
Most certainly.
Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion of him may be supposed to die, but
the immortal retires at the approach of death and is preserved safe and sound?
True.
Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal and imperishable, and our souls will
truly exist in another world!
I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have nothing more to object; but if my friend
Simmias, or any one else, has any further objection to make, he had better speak out,
and not keep silence, since I do not know to what other season he can defer the
discussion, if there is anything which he wants to say or to have said.
But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; nor can I see any reason for doubt after
what has been said. But I still feel and cannot help feeling uncertain in my own mind,
when I think of the greatness of the subject and the feebleness of man.
Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: and I may add that first principles, even
if they appear certain, should be carefully considered; and when they are satisfactorily
ascertained, then, with a sort of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, I think,
follow the course of the argument; and if that be plain and clear, there will be no need
for any further enquiry.
Very true.
But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really immortal, what care should be taken
of her, not only in respect of the portion of time which is called life, but of eternity! And
the danger of neglecting her from this point of view does indeed appear to be awful. If
death had only been the end of all, the wicked would have had a good bargain in dying,
for they would have been happily quit not only of their body, but of their own evil
together with their souls. But now, inasmuch as the soul is manifestly immortal, there is
no release or salvation from evil except the attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom.
For the soul when on her progress to the world below takes nothing with her but
nurture and education; and these are said greatly to benefit or greatly to injure the
departed, at the very beginning of his journey thither.
For after death, as they say, the genius of each individual, to whom he belonged in life,
leads him to a certain place in which the dead are gathered together, whence after
judgment has been given they pass into the world below, following the guide, who is
appointed to conduct them from this world to the other: and when they have there
received their due and remained their time, another guide brings them back again after
many revolutions of ages. Now this way to the other world is not, as Aeschylus says in
the Telephus, a single and straight path—if that were so no guide would be needed, for
no one could miss it; but there are many partings of the road, and windings, as I infer
from the rites and sacrifices which are offered to the gods below in places where three
ways meet on earth. The wise and orderly soul follows in the straight path and is
conscious of her surroundings; but the soul which desires the body, and which, as I was
relating before, has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame and the world of sight,
is after many struggles and many sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by
her attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place where the other souls are
gathered, if she be impure and have done impure deeds, whether foul murders or other
crimes which are the brothers of these, and the works of brothers in crime—from that
soul every one flees and turns away; no one will be her companion, no one her guide,
but alone she wanders in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, and when they
are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly to her own fitting habitation; as every pure and just
soul which has passed through life in the company and under the guidance of the gods
has also her own proper home.
Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is indeed in nature and extent very
unlike the notions of geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who shall be
nameless.
What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I have myself heard many descriptions of
the earth, but I do not know, and I should very much like to know, in which of these you
put faith.
And I, Simmias, replied Socrates, if I had the art of Glaucus would tell you; although I
know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the truth of my tale, which I myself should
never be able to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, that my life would come to
an end before the argument was completed. I may describe to you, however, the form
and regions of the earth according to my conception of them.
That, said Simmias, will be enough.
Well, then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth is a round body in the centre of the
heavens, and therefore has no need of air or any similar force to be a support, but is
kept there and hindered from falling or inclining any way by the equability of the
surrounding heaven and by her own equipoise. For that which, being in equipoise, is in
the centre of that which is equably diffused, will not incline any way in any degree, but
will always remain in the same state and not deviate. And this is my first notion.
Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias.
Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that we who dwell in the region extending
from the river Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles inhabit a small portion only about the sea,
like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that there are other inhabitants of many other like
places; for everywhere on the face of the earth there are hollows of various forms and
sizes, into which the water and the mist and the lower air collect. But the true earth is
pure and situated in the pure heaven—there are the stars also; and it is the heaven
which is commonly spoken of by us as the ether, and of which our own earth is the
sediment gathering in the hollows beneath. But we who live in these hollows are
deceived into the notion that we are dwelling above on the surface of the earth; which is
just as if a creature who was at the bottom of the sea were to fancy that he was on the
surface of the water, and that the sea was the heaven through which he saw the sun and
the other stars, he having never come to the surface by reason of his feebleness and
sluggishness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor ever heard from one
who had seen, how much purer and fairer the world above is than his own. And such is
exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow of the earth, and fancy that we are on
the surface; and the air we call the heaven, in which we imagine that the stars move. But
the fact is, that owing to our feebleness and sluggishness we are prevented from
reaching the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive at the exterior limit, or take
the wings of a bird and come to the top, then like a fish who puts his head out of the
water and sees this world, he would see a world beyond; and, if the nature of man could
sustain the sight, he would acknowledge that this other world was the place of the true
heaven and the true light and the true earth. For our earth, and the stones, and the
entire region which surrounds us, are spoilt and corroded, as in the sea all things are
corroded by the brine, neither is there any noble or perfect growth, but caverns only,
and sand, and an endless slough of mud: and even the shore is not to be compared to
the fairer sights of this world. And still less is this our world to be compared with the
other. Of that upper earth which is under the heaven, I can tell you a charming tale,
Simmias, which is well worth hearing.
And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be charmed to listen to you.
The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows:—In the first place, the earth, when looked at
from above, is in appearance streaked like one of those balls which have leather
coverings in twelve pieces, and is decked with various colours, of which the colours used
by painters on earth are in a manner samples. But there the whole earth is made up of
them, and they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a purple of wonderful
lustre, also the radiance of gold, and the white which is in the earth is whiter than any
chalk or snow. Of these and other colours the earth is made up, and they are more in
number and fairer than the eye of man has ever seen; the very hollows (of which I was
speaking) filled with air and water have a colour of their own, and are seen like light
gleaming amid the diversity of the other colours, so that the whole presents a single and
continuous appearance of variety in unity. And in this fair region everything that
grows—trees, and flowers, and fruits—are in a like degree fairer than any here; and
there are hills, having stones in them in a like degree smoother, and more transparent,
and fairer in colour than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and jaspers, and
other gems, which are but minute fragments of them: for there all the stones are like our
precious stones, and fairer still (compare Republic). The reason is, that they are pure, and
not, like our precious stones, infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements which
coagulate among us, and which breed foulness and disease both in earth and stones, as
well as in animals and plants. They are the jewels of the upper earth, which also shines
with gold and silver and the like, and they are set in the light of day and are large and
abundant and in all places, making the earth a sight to gladden the beholder’s eye. And
there are animals and men, some in a middle region, others dwelling about the air as we
dwell about the sea; others in islands which the air flows round, near the continent: and
in a word, the air is used by them as the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to
them what the air is to us. Moreover, the temperament of their seasons is such that they
have no disease, and live much longer than we do, and have sight and hearing and
smell, and all the other senses, in far greater perfection, in the same proportion that air
is purer than water or the ether than air. Also they have temples and sacred places in
which the gods really dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their answers, and are
conscious of them and hold converse with them, and they see the sun, moon, and stars
as they truly are, and their other blessedness is of a piece with this.
Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the things which are around the earth; and
there are divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe everywhere, some of
them deeper and more extended than that which we inhabit, others deeper but with a
narrower opening than ours, and some are shallower and also wider. All have numerous
perforations, and there are passages broad and narrow in the interior of the earth,
connecting them with one another; and there flows out of and into them, as into basins,
a vast tide of water, and huge subterranean streams of perennial rivers, and springs hot
and cold, and a great fire, and great rivers of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or
thick (like the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which follow them), and the
regions about which they happen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a
swinging or see-saw in the interior of the earth which moves all this up and down, and is
due to the following cause:—There is a chasm which is the vastest of them all, and
pierces right through the whole earth; this is that chasm which Homer describes in the
words,—
‘Far off, where is the inmost depth beneath the earth;’
and which he in other places, and many other poets, have called Tartarus. And the seesaw
is caused by the streams flowing into and out of this chasm, and they each have the
nature of the soil through which they flow. And the reason why the streams are always
flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no bed or bottom, but is swinging
and surging up and down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; they follow
the water up and down, hither and thither, over the earth—just as in the act of
respiration the air is always in process of inhalation and exhalation;—and the wind
swinging with the water in and out produces fearful and irresistible blasts: when the
waters retire with a rush into the lower parts of the earth, as they are called, they flow
through the earth in those regions, and fill them up like water raised by a pump, and
then when they leave those regions and rush back hither, they again fill the hollows
here, and when these are filled, flow through subterranean channels and find their way
to their several places, forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. Thence they
again enter the earth, some of them making a long circuit into many lands, others going
to a few places and not so distant; and again fall into Tartarus, some at a point a good
deal lower than that at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all in some
degree lower than the point from which they came. And some burst forth again on the
opposite side, and some on the same side, and some wind round the earth with one or
many folds like the coils of a serpent, and descend as far as they can, but always return
and fall into the chasm. The rivers flowing in either direction can descend only to the
centre and no further, for opposite to the rivers is a precipice.
Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and diverse, and there are four principal ones,
of which the greatest and outermost is that called Oceanus, which flows round the earth
in a circle; and in the opposite direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth
through desert places into the Acherusian lake: this is the lake to the shores of which the
souls of the many go when they are dead, and after waiting an appointed time, which is
to some a longer and to some a shorter time, they are sent back to be born again as
animals. The third river passes out between the two, and near the place of outlet pours
into a vast region of fire, and forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea, boiling
with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and turbid, and winding about the earth,
comes, among other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian Lake, but mingles not
with the waters of the lake, and after making many coils about the earth plunges into
Tartarus at a deeper level. This is that Pyriphlegethon, as the stream is called, which
throws up jets of fire in different parts of the earth. The fourth river goes out on the
opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild and savage region, which is all of a darkblue
colour, like lapis lazuli; and this is that river which is called the Stygian river, and
falls into and forms the Lake Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving strange
powers in the waters, passes under the earth, winding round in the opposite direction,
and comes near the Acherusian lake from the opposite side to Pyriphlegethon. And the
water of this river too mingles with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into
Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name of the river, as the poets say, is
Cocytus.
Such is the nature of the other world; and when the dead arrive at the place to which
the genius of each severally guides them, first of all, they have sentence passed upon
them, as they have lived well and piously or not. And those who appear to have lived
neither well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and embarking in any vessels which they
may find, are carried in them to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of their
evil deeds, and having suffered the penalty of the wrongs which they have done to
others, they are absolved, and receive the rewards of their good deeds, each of them
according to his deserts. But those who appear to be incurable by reason of the
greatness of their crimes—who have committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege,
murders foul and violent, or the like—such are hurled into Tartarus which is their
suitable destiny, and they never come out. Those again who have committed crimes,
which, although great, are not irremediable—who in a moment of anger, for example,
have done violence to a father or a mother, and have repented for the remainder of
their lives, or, who have taken the life of another under the like extenuating
circumstances—these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains of which they are compelled
to undergo for a year, but at the end of the year the wave casts them forth—mere
homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and matricides by Pyriphlegethon—and they
are borne to the Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their voices and call upon the
victims whom they have slain or wronged, to have pity on them, and to be kind to them,
and let them come out into the lake. And if they prevail, then they come forth and cease
from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back again into Tartarus and from thence
into the rivers unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom they have
wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted upon them by their judges. Those too who
have been pre-eminent for holiness of life are released from this earthly prison, and go
to their pure home which is above, and dwell in the purer earth; and of these, such as
have duly purified themselves with philosophy live henceforth altogether without the
body, in mansions fairer still which may not be described, and of which the time would
fail me to tell.
Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what ought not we to do that we may
obtain virtue and wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope great!
A man of sense ought not to say, nor will I be very confident, that the description which
I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly true. But I do say that, inasmuch as
the soul is shown to be immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly or unworthily,
that something of the kind is true. The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to
comfort himself with words like these, which is the reason why I lengthen out the tale.
Wherefore, I say, let a man be of good cheer about his soul, who having cast away the
pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien to him and working harm rather than
good, has sought after the pleasures of knowledge; and has arrayed the soul, not in
some foreign attire, but in her own proper jewels, temperance, and justice, and courage,
and nobility, and truth—in these adorned she is ready to go on her journey to the world
below, when her hour comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, will depart at
some time or other. Me already, as the tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls.
Soon I must drink the poison; and I think that I had better repair to the bath first, in
order that the women may not have the trouble of washing my body after I am dead.
When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have you any commands for us, Socrates—
anything to say about your children, or any other matter in which we can serve you?
Nothing particular, Crito, he replied: only, as I have always told you, take care of
yourselves; that is a service which you may be ever rendering to me and mine and to all
of us, whether you promise to do so or not. But if you have no thought for yourselves,
and care not to walk according to the rule which I have prescribed for you, not now for
the first time, however much you may profess or promise at the moment, it will be of no
avail.
We will do our best, said Crito: And in what way shall we bury you?
In any way that you like; but you must get hold of me, and take care that I do not run
away from you. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile:—I cannot make Crito
believe that I am the same Socrates who have been talking and conducting the
argument; he fancies that I am the other Socrates whom he will soon see, a dead
body—and he asks, How shall he bury me? And though I have spoken many words in
the endeavour to show that when I have drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to
the joys of the blessed,— these words of mine, with which I was comforting you and
myself, have had, as I perceive, no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to be
surety for me to him now, as at the trial he was surety to the judges for me: but let the
promise be of another sort; for he was surety for me to the judges that I would remain,
and you must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but go away and depart; and
then he will suffer less at my death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being
burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus
we lay out Socrates, or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him; for false words are
not only evil in themselves, but they infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then, my
dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body only, and do with that whatever is
usual, and what you think best.
When he had spoken these words, he arose and went into a chamber to bathe; Crito
followed him and told us to wait. So we remained behind, talking and thinking of the
subject of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sorrow; he was like a father of
whom we were being bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our lives as
orphans. When he had taken the bath his children were brought to him—(he had two
young sons and an elder one); and the women of his family also came, and he talked to
them and gave them a few directions in the presence of Crito; then he dismissed them
and returned to us.
Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal of time had passed while he was
within. When he came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, but not much was
said. Soon the jailer, who was the servant of the Eleven, entered and stood by him,
saying:—To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the noblest and gentlest and best of all
who ever came to this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of other men, who rage
and swear at me, when, in obedience to the authorities, I bid them drink the poison—
indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry with me; for others, as you are aware, and
not I, are to blame. And so fare you well, and try to bear lightly what must needs be—
you know my errand. Then bursting into tears he turned away and went out.
Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good wishes, and will do as you bid. Then
turning to us, he said, How charming the man is: since I have been in prison he has
always been coming to see me, and at times he would talk to me, and was as good to
me as could be, and now see how generously he sorrows on my account. We must do as
he says, Crito; and therefore let the cup be brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let
the attendant prepare some.
Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, and I know that many a one has taken
the draught late, and after the announcement has been made to him, he has eaten and
drunk, and enjoyed the society of his beloved; do not hurry—there is time enough.
Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you speak are right in so acting, for they
think that they will be gainers by the delay; but I am right in not following their example,
for I do not think that I should gain anything by drinking the poison a little later; I
should only be ridiculous in my own eyes for sparing and saving a life which is already
forfeit. Please then to do as I say, and not to refuse me.
Crito made a sign to the servant, who was standing by; and he went out, and having
been absent for some time, returned with the jailer carrying the cup of poison. Socrates
said: You, my good friend, who are experienced in these matters, shall give me
directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: You have only to walk about until
your legs are heavy, and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the same time he
handed the cup to Socrates, who in the easiest and gentlest manner, without the least
fear or change of colour or feature, looking at the man with all his eyes, Echecrates, as
his manner was, took the cup and said: What do you say about making a libation out of
this cup to any god? May I, or not? The man answered: We only prepare, Socrates, just
so much as we deem enough. I understand, he said: but I may and must ask the gods to
prosper my journey from this to the other world—even so—and so be it according to
my prayer. Then raising the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheerfully he drank off the
poison. And hitherto most of us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when we
saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished the draught, we could no longer
forbear, and in spite of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I covered my face
and wept, not for him, but at the thought of my own calamity in having to part from
such a friend. Nor was I the first; for Crito, when he found himself unable to restrain his
tears, had got up, and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodorus, who had been
weeping all the time, broke out in a loud and passionate cry which made cowards of us
all. Socrates alone retained his calmness: What is this strange outcry? he said. I sent
away the women mainly in order that they might not misbehave in this way, for I have
been told that a man should die in peace. Be quiet, then, and have patience. When we
heard his words we were ashamed, and refrained our tears; and he walked about until,
as he said, his legs began to fail, and then he lay on his back, according to the
directions, and the man who gave him the poison now and then looked at his feet and
legs; and after a while he pressed his foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he
said, No; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, and showed us that he was
cold and stiff. And he felt them himself, and said: When the poison reaches the heart,
that will be the end. He was beginning to grow cold about the groin, when he
uncovered his face, for he had covered himself up, and said—they were his last words—
he said: Crito, I owe a cock to Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The debt
shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? There was no answer to this question;
but in a minute or two a movement was heard, and the attendants uncovered him; his
eyes were set, and Crito closed his eyes and mouth.
Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend; concerning whom I may truly say, that of all
the men of his time whom I have known, he was the wisest and justest and best.
THE END

PHAEDRUS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
HOWETT
INTRODUCTION.
The Phaedrus is closely connected with the Symposium, and may be regarded either as
introducing or following it. The two Dialogues together contain the whole philosophy of
Plato on the nature of love, which in the Republic and in the later writings of Plato is
only introduced playfully or as a figure of speech. But in the Phaedrus and Symposium
love and philosophy join hands, and one is an aspect of the other. The spiritual and
emotional part is elevated into the ideal, to which in the Symposium mankind are
described as looking forward, and which in the Phaedrus, as well as in the Phaedo, they
are seeking to recover from a former state of existence. Whether the subject of the
Dialogue is love or rhetoric, or the union of the two, or the relation of philosophy to love
and to art in general, and to the human soul, will be hereafter considered. And perhaps
we may arrive at some conclusion such as the following—that the dialogue is not strictly
confined to a single subject, but passes from one to another with the natural freedom of
conversation.
Phaedrus has been spending the morning with Lysias, the celebrated rhetorician, and is
going to refresh himself by taking a walk outside the wall, when he is met by Socrates,
who professes that he will not leave him until he has delivered up the speech with which
Lysias has regaled him, and which he is carrying about in his mind, or more probably in
a book hidden under his cloak, and is intending to study as he walks. The imputation is
not denied, and the two agree to direct their steps out of the public way along the
stream of the Ilissus towards a plane-tree which is seen in the distance. There, lying
down amidst pleasant sounds and scents, they will read the speech of Lysias. The
country is a novelty to Socrates, who never goes out of the town; and hence he is full of
admiration for the beauties of nature, which he seems to be drinking in for the first time.
As they are on their way, Phaedrus asks the opinion of Socrates respecting the local
tradition of Boreas and Oreithyia. Socrates, after a satirical allusion to the ‘rationalizers’
of his day, replies that he has no time for these ‘nice’ interpretations of mythology, and
he pities anyone who has. When you once begin there is no end of them, and they
spring from an uncritical philosophy after all. ‘The proper study of mankind is man;’ and
he is a far more complex and wonderful being than the serpent Typho. Socrates as yet
does not know himself; and why should he care to know about unearthly monsters?
Engaged in such conversation, they arrive at the plane-tree; when they have found a
convenient resting-place, Phaedrus pulls out the speech and reads:—
The speech consists of a foolish paradox which is to the effect that the non-lover ought
to be accepted rather than the lover—because he is more rational, more agreeable,
more enduring, less suspicious, less hurtful, less boastful, less engrossing, and because
there are more of them, and for a great many other reasons which are equally
unmeaning. Phaedrus is captivated with the beauty of the periods, and wants to make
Socrates say that nothing was or ever could be written better. Socrates does not think
much of the matter, but then he has only attended to the form, and in that he has
detected several repetitions and other marks of haste. He cannot agree with Phaedrus in
the extreme value which he sets upon this performance, because he is afraid of doing
injustice to Anacreon and Sappho and other great writers, and is almost inclined to think
that he himself, or rather some power residing within him, could make a speech better
than that of Lysias on the same theme, and also different from his, if he may be allowed
the use of a few commonplaces which all speakers must equally employ.
Phaedrus is delighted at the prospect of having another speech, and promises that he
will set up a golden statue of Socrates at Delphi, if he keeps his word. Some raillery
ensues, and at length Socrates, conquered by the threat that he shall never again hear a
speech of Lysias unless he fulfils his promise, veils his face and begins.
First, invoking the Muses and assuming ironically the person of the non- lover (who is a
lover all the same), he will enquire into the nature and power of love. For this is a
necessary preliminary to the other question— How is the non-lover to be distinguished
from the lover? In all of us there are two principles—a better and a worse—reason and
desire, which are generally at war with one another; and the victory of the rational is
called temperance, and the victory of the irrational intemperance or excess. The latter
takes many forms and has many bad names—gluttony, drunkenness, and the like. But of
all the irrational desires or excesses the greatest is that which is led away by desires of a
kindred nature to the enjoyment of personal beauty. And this is the master power of
love.
Here Socrates fancies that he detects in himself an unusual flow of eloquence—this
newly-found gift he can only attribute to the inspiration of the place, which appears to
be dedicated to the nymphs. Starting again from the philosophical basis which has been
laid down, he proceeds to show how many advantages the non-lover has over the lover.
The one encourages softness and effeminacy and exclusiveness; he cannot endure any
superiority in his beloved; he will train him in luxury, he will keep him out of society, he
will deprive him of parents, friends, money, knowledge, and of every other good, that he
may have him all to himself. Then again his ways are not ways of pleasantness; he is
mighty disagreeable; ‘crabbed age and youth cannot live together.’ At every hour of the
night and day he is intruding upon him; there is the same old withered face and the
remainder to match—and he is always repeating, in season or out of season, the praises
or dispraises of his beloved, which are bad enough when he is sober, and published all
over the world when he is drunk. At length his love ceases; he is converted into an
enemy, and the spectacle may be seen of the lover running away from the beloved, who
pursues him with vain reproaches, and demands his reward which the other refuses to
pay. Too late the beloved learns, after all his pains and disagreeables, that ‘As wolves
love lambs so lovers love their loves.’ (Compare Char.) Here is the end; the ‘other’ or
‘non-lover’ part of the speech had better be understood, for if in the censure of the
lover Socrates has broken out in verse, what will he not do in his praise of the nonlover?
He has said his say and is preparing to go away.
Phaedrus begs him to remain, at any rate until the heat of noon has passed; he would
like to have a little more conversation before they go. Socrates, who has risen,
recognizes the oracular sign which forbids him to depart until he has done penance. His
conscious has been awakened, and like Stesichorus when he had reviled the lovely
Helen he will sing a palinode for having blasphemed the majesty of love. His palinode
takes the form of a myth.
Socrates begins his tale with a glorification of madness, which he divides into four kinds:
first, there is the art of divination or prophecy—this, in a vein similar to that pervading
the Cratylus and Io, he connects with madness by an etymological explanation (mantike,
manike—compare oionoistike, oionistike, ‘’tis all one reckoning, save the phrase is a
little variations’); secondly, there is the art of purification by mysteries; thirdly, poetry or
the inspiration of the Muses (compare Ion), without which no man can enter their
temple. All this shows that madness is one of heaven’s blessings, and may sometimes be
a great deal better than sense. There is also a fourth kind of madness—that of love—
which cannot be explained without enquiring into the nature of the soul.
All soul is immortal, for she is the source of all motion both in herself and in others. Her
form may be described in a figure as a composite nature made up of a charioteer and a
pair of winged steeds. The steeds of the gods are immortal, but ours are one mortal and
the other immortal. The immortal soul soars upwards into the heavens, but the mortal
drops her plumes and settles upon the earth.
Now the use of the wing is to rise and carry the downward element into the upper
world—there to behold beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the other things of God by
which the soul is nourished. On a certain day Zeus the lord of heaven goes forth in a
winged chariot; and an array of gods and demi-gods and of human souls in their train,
follows him. There are glorious and blessed sights in the interior of heaven, and he who
will may freely behold them. The great vision of all is seen at the feast of the gods, when
they ascend the heights of the empyrean—all but Hestia, who is left at home to keep
house. The chariots of the gods glide readily upwards and stand upon the outside; the
revolution of the spheres carries them round, and they have a vision of the world
beyond. But the others labour in vain; for the mortal steed, if he has not been properly
trained, keeps them down and sinks them towards the earth. Of the world which is
beyond the heavens, who can tell? There is an essence formless, colourless, intangible,
perceived by the mind only, dwelling in the region of true knowledge. The divine mind
in her revolution enjoys this fair prospect, and beholds justice, temperance, and
knowledge in their everlasting essence. When fulfilled with the sight of them she returns
home, and the charioteer puts up the horses in their stable, and gives them ambrosia to
eat and nectar to drink. This is the life of the gods; the human soul tries to reach the
same heights, but hardly succeeds; and sometimes the head of the charioteer rises
above, and sometimes sinks below, the fair vision, and he is at last obliged, after much
contention, to turn away and leave the plain of truth. But if the soul has followed in the
train of her god and once beheld truth she is preserved from harm, and is carried round
in the next revolution of the spheres; and if always following, and always seeing the
truth, is then for ever unharmed. If, however, she drops her wings and falls to the earth,
then she takes the form of man, and the soul which has seen most of the truth passes
into a philosopher or lover; that which has seen truth in the second degree, into a king
or warrior; the third, into a householder or money-maker; the fourth, into a gymnast; the
fifth, into a prophet or mystic; the sixth, into a poet or imitator; the seventh, into a
husbandman or craftsman; the eighth, into a sophist or demagogue; the ninth, into a
tyrant. All these are states of probation, wherein he who lives righteously is improved,
and he who lives unrighteously deteriorates. After death comes the judgment; the bad
depart to houses of correction under the earth, the good to places of joy in heaven.
When a thousand years have elapsed the souls meet together and choose the lives
which they will lead for another period of existence. The soul which three times in
succession has chosen the life of a philosopher or of a lover who is not without
philosophy receives her wings at the close of the third millennium; the remainder have
to complete a cycle of ten thousand years before their wings are restored to them. Each
time there is full liberty of choice. The soul of a man may descend into a beast, and
return again into the form of man. But the form of man will only be taken by the soul
which has once seen truth and acquired some conception of the universal:—this is the
recollection of the knowledge which she attained when in the company of the Gods.
And men in general recall only with difficulty the things of another world, but the mind
of the philosopher has a better remembrance of them. For when he beholds the visible
beauty of earth his enraptured soul passes in thought to those glorious sights of justice
and wisdom and temperance and truth which she once gazed upon in heaven. Then she
celebrated holy mysteries and beheld blessed apparitions shining in pure light, herself
pure, and not as yet entombed in the body. And still, like a bird eager to quit its cage,
she flutters and looks upwards, and is therefore deemed mad. Such a recollection of
past days she receives through sight, the keenest of our senses, because beauty, alone
of the ideas, has any representation on earth: wisdom is invisible to mortal eyes. But the
corrupted nature, blindly excited by this vision of beauty, rushes on to enjoy, and would
fain wallow like a brute beast in sensual pleasures. Whereas the true mystic, who has
seen the many sights of bliss, when he beholds a god-like form or face is amazed with
delight, and if he were not afraid of being thought mad he would fall down and worship.
Then the stiffened wing begins to relax and grow again; desire which has been
imprisoned pours over the soul of the lover; the germ of the wing unfolds, and stings,
and pangs of birth, like the cutting of teeth, are everywhere felt. (Compare Symp.) Father
and mother, and goods and laws and proprieties are nothing to him; his beloved is his
physician, who can alone cure his pain. An apocryphal sacred writer says that the power
which thus works in him is by mortals called love, but the immortals call him dove, or
the winged one, in order to represent the force of his wings—such at any rate is his
nature. Now the characters of lovers depend upon the god whom they followed in the
other world; and they choose their loves in this world accordingly. The followers of Ares
are fierce and violent; those of Zeus seek out some philosophical and imperial nature;
the attendants of Here find a royal love; and in like manner the followers of every god
seek a love who is like their god; and to him they communicate the nature which they
have received from their god. The manner in which they take their love is as follows:—
I told you about the charioteer and his two steeds, the one a noble animal who is
guided by word and admonition only, the other an ill-looking villain who will hardly
yield to blow or spur. Together all three, who are a figure of the soul, approach the
vision of love. And now a fierce conflict begins. The ill-conditioned steed rushes on to
enjoy, but the charioteer, who beholds the beloved with awe, falls back in adoration, and
forces both the steeds on their haunches; again the evil steed rushes forwards and pulls
shamelessly. The conflict grows more and more severe; and at last the charioteer,
throwing himself backwards, forces the bit out of the clenched teeth of the brute, and
pulling harder than ever at the reins, covers his tongue and jaws with blood, and forces
him to rest his legs and haunches with pain upon the ground. When this has happened
several times, the villain is tamed and humbled, and from that time forward the soul of
the lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear. And now their bliss is
consummated; the same image of love dwells in the breast of either, and if they have
self-control, they pass their lives in the greatest happiness which is attainable by man—
they continue masters of themselves, and conquer in one of the three heavenly victories.
But if they choose the lower life of ambition they may still have a happy destiny, though
inferior, because they have not the approval of the whole soul. At last they leave the
body and proceed on their pilgrim’s progress, and those who have once begun can
never go back. When the time comes they receive their wings and fly away, and the
lovers have the same wings.
Socrates concludes:—
These are the blessings of love, and thus have I made my recantation in finer language
than before: I did so in order to please Phaedrus. If I said what was wrong at first, please
to attribute my error to Lysias, who ought to study philosophy instead of rhetoric, and
then he will not mislead his disciple Phaedrus.
Phaedrus is afraid that he will lose conceit of Lysias, and that Lysias will be out of conceit
with himself, and leave off making speeches, for the politicians have been deriding him.
Socrates is of opinion that there is small danger of this; the politicians are themselves
the great rhetoricians of the age, who desire to attain immortality by the authorship of
laws. And therefore there is nothing with which they can reproach Lysias in being a
writer; but there may be disgrace in being a bad one.
And what is good or bad writing or speaking? While the sun is hot in the sky above us,
let us ask that question: since by rational conversation man lives, and not by the
indulgence of bodily pleasures. And the grasshoppers who are chirruping around may
carry our words to the Muses, who are their patronesses; for the grasshoppers were
human beings themselves in a world before the Muses, and when the Muses came they
died of hunger for the love of song. And they carry to them in heaven the report of
those who honour them on earth.
The first rule of good speaking is to know and speak the truth; as a Spartan proverb
says, ‘true art is truth’; whereas rhetoric is an art of enchantment, which makes things
appear good and evil, like and unlike, as the speaker pleases. Its use is not confined, as
people commonly suppose, to arguments in the law courts and speeches in the
assembly; it is rather a part of the art of disputation, under which are included both the
rules of Gorgias and the eristic of Zeno. But it is not wholly devoid of truth. Superior
knowledge enables us to deceive another by the help of resemblances, and to escape
from such a deception when employed against ourselves. We see therefore that even in
rhetoric an element of truth is required. For if we do not know the truth, we can neither
make the gradual departures from truth by which men are most easily deceived, nor
guard ourselves against deception.
Socrates then proposes that they shall use the two speeches as illustrations of the art of
rhetoric; first distinguishing between the debatable and undisputed class of subjects. In
the debatable class there ought to be a definition of all disputed matters. But there was
no such definition in the speech of Lysias; nor is there any order or connection in his
words any more than in a nursery rhyme. With this he compares the regular divisions of
the other speech, which was his own (and yet not his own, for the local deities must
have inspired him). Although only a playful composition, it will be found to embody two
principles: first, that of synthesis or the comprehension of parts in a whole; secondly,
analysis, or the resolution of the whole into parts. These are the processes of division
and generalization which are so dear to the dialectician, that king of men. They are
effected by dialectic, and not by rhetoric, of which the remains are but scanty after order
and arrangement have been subtracted. There is nothing left but a heap of ‘ologies’ and
other technical terms invented by Polus, Theodorus, Evenus, Tisias, Gorgias, and others,
who have rules for everything, and who teach how to be short or long at pleasure.
Prodicus showed his good sense when he said that there was a better thing than either
to be short or long, which was to be of convenient length.
Still, notwithstanding the absurdities of Polus and others, rhetoric has great power in
public assemblies. This power, however, is not given by any technical rules, but is the gift
of genius. The real art is always being confused by rhetoricians with the preliminaries of
the art. The perfection of oratory is like the perfection of anything else; natural power
must be aided by art. But the art is not that which is taught in the schools of rhetoric; it
is nearer akin to philosophy. Pericles, for instance, who was the most accomplished of all
speakers, derived his eloquence not from rhetoric but from the philosophy of nature
which he learnt of Anaxagoras. True rhetoric is like medicine, and the rhetorician has to
consider the natures of men’s souls as the physician considers the natures of their
bodies. Such and such persons are to be affected in this way, such and such others in
that; and he must know the times and the seasons for saying this or that. This is not an
easy task, and this, if there be such an art, is the art of rhetoric.
I know that there are some professors of the art who maintain probability to be stronger
than truth. But we maintain that probability is engendered by likeness of the truth which
can only be attained by the knowledge of it, and that the aim of the good man should
not be to please or persuade his fellow-servants, but to please his good masters who
are the gods. Rhetoric has a fair beginning in this.
Enough of the art of speaking; let us now proceed to consider the true use of writing.
There is an old Egyptian tale of Theuth, the inventor of writing, showing his invention to
the god Thamus, who told him that he would only spoil men’s memories and take away
their understandings. From this tale, of which young Athens will probably make fun, may
be gathered the lesson that writing is inferior to speech. For it is like a picture, which can
give no answer to a question, and has only a deceitful likeness of a living creature. It has
no power of adaptation, but uses the same words for all. It is not a legitimate son of
knowledge, but a bastard, and when an attack is made upon this bastard neither parent
nor anyone else is there to defend it. The husbandman will not seriously incline to sow
his seed in such a hot-bed or garden of Adonis; he will rather sow in the natural soil of
the human soul which has depth of earth; and he will anticipate the inner growth of the
mind, by writing only, if at all, as a remedy against old age. The natural process will be
far nobler, and will bring forth fruit in the minds of others as well as in his own.
The conclusion of the whole matter is just this,—that until a man knows the truth, and
the manner of adapting the truth to the natures of other men, he cannot be a good
orator; also, that the living is better than the written word, and that the principles of
justice and truth when delivered by word of mouth are the legitimate offspring of a
man’s own bosom, and their lawful descendants take up their abode in others. Such an
orator as he is who is possessed of them, you and I would fain become. And to all
composers in the world, poets, orators, legislators, we hereby announce that if their
compositions are based upon these principles, then they are not only poets, orators,
legislators, but philosophers. All others are mere flatterers and putters together of
words. This is the message which Phaedrus undertakes to carry to Lysias from the local
deities, and Socrates himself will carry a similar message to his favourite Isocrates,
whose future distinction as a great rhetorician he prophesies. The heat of the day has
passed, and after offering up a prayer to Pan and the nymphs, Socrates and Phaedrus
depart.
There are two principal controversies which have been raised about the Phaedrus; the
first relates to the subject, the second to the date of the Dialogue.
There seems to be a notion that the work of a great artist like Plato cannot fail in unity,
and that the unity of a dialogue requires a single subject. But the conception of unity
really applies in very different degrees and ways to different kinds of art; to a statue, for
example, far more than to any kind of literary composition, and to some species of
literature far more than to others. Nor does the dialogue appear to be a style of
composition in which the requirement of unity is most stringent; nor should the idea of
unity derived from one sort of art be hastily transferred to another. The double titles of
several of the Platonic Dialogues are a further proof that the severer rule was not
observed by Plato. The Republic is divided between the search after justice and the
construction of the ideal state; the Parmenides between the criticism of the Platonic
ideas and of the Eleatic one or being; the Gorgias between the art of speaking and the
nature of the good; the Sophist between the detection of the Sophist and the
correlation of ideas. The Theaetetus, the Politicus, and the Philebus have also
digressions which are but remotely connected with the main subject.
Thus the comparison of Plato’s other writings, as well as the reason of the thing, lead us
to the conclusion that we must not expect to find one idea pervading a whole work, but
one, two, or more, as the invention of the writer may suggest, or his fancy wander. If
each dialogue were confined to the development of a single idea, this would appear on
the face of the dialogue, nor could any controversy be raised as to whether the
Phaedrus treated of love or rhetoric. But the truth is that Plato subjects himself to no
rule of this sort. Like every great artist he gives unity of form to the different and
apparently distracting topics which he brings together. He works freely and is not to be
supposed to have arranged every part of the dialogue before he begins to write. He
fastens or weaves together the frame of his discourse loosely and imperfectly, and which
is the warp and which is the woof cannot always be determined.
The subjects of the Phaedrus (exclusive of the short introductory passage about
mythology which is suggested by the local tradition) are first the false or conventional
art of rhetoric; secondly, love or the inspiration of beauty and knowledge, which is
described as madness; thirdly, dialectic or the art of composition and division; fourthly,
the true rhetoric, which is based upon dialectic, and is neither the art of persuasion nor
knowledge of the truth alone, but the art of persuasion founded on knowledge of truth
and knowledge of character; fifthly, the superiority of the spoken over the written word.
The continuous thread which appears and reappears throughout is rhetoric; this is the
ground into which the rest of the Dialogue is worked, in parts embroidered with fine
words which are not in Socrates’ manner, as he says, ‘in order to please Phaedrus.’ The
speech of Lysias which has thrown Phaedrus into an ecstacy is adduced as an example
of the false rhetoric; the first speech of Socrates, though an improvement, partakes of
the same character; his second speech, which is full of that higher element said to have
been learned of Anaxagoras by Pericles, and which in the midst of poetry does not
forget order, is an illustration of the higher or true rhetoric. This higher rhetoric is based
upon dialectic, and dialectic is a sort of inspiration akin to love (compare Symp.); in
these two aspects of philosophy the technicalities of rhetoric are absorbed. And so the
example becomes also the deeper theme of discourse. The true knowledge of things in
heaven and earth is based upon enthusiasm or love of the ideas going before us and
ever present to us in this world and in another; and the true order of speech or writing
proceeds accordingly. Love, again, has three degrees: first, of interested love
corresponding to the conventionalities of rhetoric; secondly, of disinterested or mad
love, fixed on objects of sense, and answering, perhaps, to poetry; thirdly, of
disinterested love directed towards the unseen, answering to dialectic or the science of
the ideas. Lastly, the art of rhetoric in the lower sense is found to rest on a knowledge of
the natures and characters of men, which Socrates at the commencement of the
Dialogue has described as his own peculiar study.
Thus amid discord a harmony begins to appear; there are many links of connection
which are not visible at first sight. At the same time the Phaedrus, although one of the
most beautiful of the Platonic Dialogues, is also more irregular than any other. For
insight into the world, for sustained irony, for depth of thought, there is no Dialogue
superior, or perhaps equal to it. Nevertheless the form of the work has tended to
obscure some of Plato’s higher aims.
The first speech is composed ‘in that balanced style in which the wise love to talk’
(Symp.). The characteristics of rhetoric are insipidity, mannerism, and monotonous
parallelism of clauses. There is more rhythm than reason; the creative power of
imagination is wanting.
‘’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more.’
Plato has seized by anticipation the spirit which hung over Greek literature for a
thousand years afterwards. Yet doubtless there were some who, like Phaedrus, felt a
delight in the harmonious cadence and the pedantic reasoning of the rhetoricians newly
imported from Sicily, which had ceased to be awakened in them by really great works,
such as the odes of Anacreon or Sappho or the orations of Pericles. That the first speech
was really written by Lysias is improbable. Like the poem of Solon, or the story of
Thamus and Theuth, or the funeral oration of Aspasia (if genuine), or the pretence of
Socrates in the Cratylus that his knowledge of philology is derived from Euthyphro, the
invention is really due to the imagination of Plato, and may be compared to the
parodies of the Sophists in the Protagoras. Numerous fictions of this sort occur in the
Dialogues, and the gravity of Plato has sometimes imposed upon his commentators. The
introduction of a considerable writing of another would seem not to be in keeping with
a great work of art, and has no parallel elsewhere.
In the second speech Socrates is exhibited as beating the rhetoricians at their own
weapons; he ‘an unpractised man and they masters of the art.’ True to his character, he
must, however, profess that the speech which he makes is not his own, for he knows
nothing of himself. (Compare Symp.) Regarded as a rhetorical exercise, the superiority of
his speech seems to consist chiefly in a better arrangement of the topics; he begins with
a definition of love, and he gives weight to his words by going back to general maxims;
a lesser merit is the greater liveliness of Socrates, which hurries him into verse and
relieves the monotony of the style.
But Plato had doubtless a higher purpose than to exhibit Socrates as the rival or
superior of the Athenian rhetoricians. Even in the speech of Lysias there is a germ of
truth, and this is further developed in the parallel oration of Socrates. First, passionate
love is overthrown by the sophistical or interested, and then both yield to that higher
view of love which is afterwards revealed to us. The extreme of commonplace is
contrasted with the most ideal and imaginative of speculations. Socrates, half in jest and
to satisfy his own wild humour, takes the disguise of Lysias, but he is also in profound
earnest and in a deeper vein of irony than usual. Having improvised his own speech,
which is based upon the model of the preceding, he condemns them both. Yet the
condemnation is not to be taken seriously, for he is evidently trying to express an aspect
of the truth. To understand him, we must make abstraction of morality and of the Greek
manner of regarding the relation of the sexes. In this, as in his other discussions about
love, what Plato says of the loves of men must be transferred to the loves of women
before we can attach any serious meaning to his words. Had he lived in our times he
would have made the transposition himself. But seeing in his own age the impossibility
of woman being the intellectual helpmate or friend of man (except in the rare instances
of a Diotima or an Aspasia), seeing that, even as to personal beauty, her place was taken
by young mankind instead of womankind, he tries to work out the problem of love
without regard to the distinctions of nature. And full of the evils which he recognized as
flowing from the spurious form of love, he proceeds with a deep meaning, though partly
in joke, to show that the ‘non-lover’s’ love is better than the ‘lover’s.’
We may raise the same question in another form: Is marriage preferable with or without
love? ‘Among ourselves,’ as we may say, a little parodying the words of Pausanias in the
Symposium, ‘there would be one answer to this question: the practice and feeling of
some foreign countries appears to be more doubtful.’ Suppose a modern Socrates, in
defiance of the received notions of society and the sentimental literature of the day,
alone against all the writers and readers of novels, to suggest this enquiry, would not
the younger ‘part of the world be ready to take off its coat and run at him might and
main?’ (Republic.) Yet, if like Peisthetaerus in Aristophanes, he could persuade the ‘birds’
to hear him, retiring a little behind a rampart, not of pots and dishes, but of unreadable
books, he might have something to say for himself. Might he not argue, ‘that a rational
being should not follow the dictates of passion in the most important act of his or her
life’? Who would willingly enter into a contract at first sight, almost without thought,
against the advice and opinion of his friends, at a time when he acknowledges that he is
not in his right mind? And yet they are praised by the authors of romances, who reject
the warnings of their friends or parents, rather than those who listen to them in such
matters. Two inexperienced persons, ignorant of the world and of one another, how can
they be said to choose?—they draw lots, whence also the saying, ‘marriage is a lottery.’
Then he would describe their way of life after marriage; how they monopolize one
another’s affections to the exclusion of friends and relations: how they pass their days in
unmeaning fondness or trivial conversation; how the inferior of the two drags the other
down to his or her level; how the cares of a family ‘breed meanness in their souls.’ In the
fulfilment of military or public duties, they are not helpers but hinderers of one another:
they cannot undertake any noble enterprise, such as makes the names of men and
women famous, from domestic considerations. Too late their eyes are opened; they
were taken unawares and desire to part company. Better, he would say, a ‘little love at
the beginning,’ for heaven might have increased it; but now their foolish fondness has
changed into mutual dislike. In the days of their honeymoon they never understood that
they must provide against offences, that they must have interests, that they must learn
the art of living as well as loving. Our misogamist will not appeal to Anacreon or Sappho
for a confirmation of his view, but to the universal experience of mankind. How much
nobler, in conclusion, he will say, is friendship, which does not receive unmeaning
praises from novelists and poets, is not exacting or exclusive, is not impaired by
familiarity, is much less expensive, is not so likely to take offence, seldom changes, and
may be dissolved from time to time without the assistance of the courts. Besides, he will
remark that there is a much greater choice of friends than of wives—you may have more
of them and they will be far more improving to your mind. They will not keep you
dawdling at home, or dancing attendance upon them; or withdraw you from the great
world and stirring scenes of life and action which would make a man of you.
In such a manner, turning the seamy side outwards, a modern Socrates might describe
the evils of married and domestic life. They are evils which mankind in general have
agreed to conceal, partly because they are compensated by greater goods. Socrates or
Archilochus would soon have to sing a palinode for the injustice done to lovely Helen,
or some misfortune worse than blindness might be fall them. Then they would take up
their parable again and say:—that there were two loves, a higher and a lower, holy and
unholy, a love of the mind and a love of the body.
‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which
alters when it alteration finds.
...
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle’s compass
come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge
of doom.’
But this true love of the mind cannot exist between two souls, until they are purified
from the grossness of earthly passion: they must pass through a time of trial and conflict
first; in the language of religion they must be converted or born again. Then they would
see the world transformed into a scene of heavenly beauty; a divine idea would
accompany them in all their thoughts and actions. Something too of the recollections of
childhood might float about them still; they might regain that old simplicity which had
been theirs in other days at their first entrance on life. And although their love of one
another was ever present to them, they would acknowledge also a higher love of duty
and of God, which united them. And their happiness would depend upon their
preserving in them this principle— not losing the ideals of justice and holiness and
truth, but renewing them at the fountain of light. When they have attained to this
exalted state, let them marry (something too may be conceded to the animal nature of
man): or live together in holy and innocent friendship. The poet might describe in
eloquent words the nature of such a union; how after many struggles the true love was
found: how the two passed their lives together in the service of God and man; how their
characters were reflected upon one another, and seemed to grow more like year by
year; how they read in one another’s eyes the thoughts, wishes, actions of the other;
how they saw each other in God; how in a figure they grew wings like doves, and were
‘ready to fly away together and be at rest.’ And lastly, he might tell how, after a time at
no long intervals, first one and then the other fell asleep, and ‘appeared to the unwise’
to die, but were reunited in another state of being, in which they saw justice and
holiness and truth, not according to the imperfect copies of them which are found in
this world, but justice absolute in existence absolute, and so of the rest. And they would
hold converse not only with each other, but with blessed souls everywhere; and would
be employed in the service of God, every soul fulfilling his own nature and character,
and would see into the wonders of earth and heaven, and trace the works of creation to
their author.
So, partly in jest but also ‘with a certain degree of seriousness,’ we may appropriate to
ourselves the words of Plato. The use of such a parody, though very imperfect, is to
transfer his thoughts to our sphere of religion and feeling, to bring him nearer to us and
us to him. Like the Scriptures, Plato admits of endless applications, if we allow for the
difference of times and manners; and we lose the better half of him when we regard his
Dialogues merely as literary compositions. Any ancient work which is worth reading has
a practical and speculative as well as a literary interest. And in Plato, more than in any
other Greek writer, the local and transitory is inextricably blended with what is spiritual
and eternal. Socrates is necessarily ironical; for he has to withdraw from the received
opinions and beliefs of mankind. We cannot separate the transitory from the permanent;
nor can we translate the language of irony into that of plain reflection and common
sense. But we can imagine the mind of Socrates in another age and country; and we can
interpret him by analogy with reference to the errors and prejudices which prevail
among ourselves. To return to the Phaedrus:—
Both speeches are strongly condemned by Socrates as sinful and blasphemous towards
the god Love, and as worthy only of some haunt of sailors to which good manners were
unknown. The meaning of this and other wild language to the same effect, which is
introduced by way of contrast to the formality of the two speeches (Socrates has a sense
of relief when he has escaped from the trammels of rhetoric), seems to be that the two
speeches proceed upon the supposition that love is and ought to be interested, and
that no such thing as a real or disinterested passion, which would be at the same time
lasting, could be conceived. ‘But did I call this “love”? O God, forgive my blasphemy. This
is not love. Rather it is the love of the world. But there is another kingdom of love, a
kingdom not of this world, divine, eternal. And this other love I will now show you in a
mystery.’
Then follows the famous myth, which is a sort of parable, and like other parables ought
not to receive too minute an interpretation. In all such allegories there is a great deal
which is merely ornamental, and the interpreter has to separate the important from the
unimportant. Socrates himself has given the right clue when, in using his own discourse
afterwards as the text for his examination of rhetoric, he characterizes it as a ‘partly true
and tolerably credible mythus,’ in which amid poetical figures, order and arrangement
were not forgotten.
The soul is described in magnificent language as the self-moved and the source of
motion in all other things. This is the philosophical theme or proem of the whole. But
ideas must be given through something, and under the pretext that to realize the true
nature of the soul would be not only tedious but impossible, we at once pass on to
describe the souls of gods as well as men under the figure of two winged steeds and a
charioteer. No connection is traced between the soul as the great motive power and the
triple soul which is thus imaged. There is no difficulty in seeing that the charioteer
represents the reason, or that the black horse is the symbol of the sensual or
concupiscent element of human nature. The white horse also represents rational
impulse, but the description, ‘a lover of honour and modesty and temperance, and a
follower of true glory,’ though similar, does not at once recall the ‘spirit’ (thumos) of the
Republic. The two steeds really correspond in a figure more nearly to the appetitive and
moral or semi-rational soul of Aristotle. And thus, for the first time perhaps in the history
of philosophy, we have represented to us the threefold division of psychology. The
image of the charioteer and the steeds has been compared with a similar image which
occurs in the verses of Parmenides; but it is important to remark that the horses of
Parmenides have no allegorical meaning, and that the poet is only describing his own
approach in a chariot to the regions of light and the house of the goddess of truth.
The triple soul has had a previous existence, in which following in the train of some god,
from whom she derived her character, she beheld partially and imperfectly the vision of
absolute truth. All her after existence, passed in many forms of men and animals, is
spent in regaining this. The stages of the conflict are many and various; and she is sorely
let and hindered by the animal desires of the inferior or concupiscent steed. Again and
again she beholds the flashing beauty of the beloved. But before that vision can be
finally enjoyed the animal desires must be subjected.
The moral or spiritual element in man is represented by the immortal steed which, like
thumos in the Republic, always sides with the reason.

The Complete Works of Plato - Part 2