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WORKS OF XENOPHON -- THE MEMORABLE THOUGHTS OF SOCRATES |
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INTRODUCTION. This translation of Xenophon’s “Memorabilia of Socrates” was first published in 1712, and is here printed from the revised edition of 1722. Its author was Edward Bysshe, who had produced in 1702 “The Art of English Poetry,” a well-known work that was near its fifth edition when its author published his translation of the “Memorabilia.” This was a translation that remained in good repute. There was another edition of it in 1758. Bysshe translated the title of the book into “The Memorable Things of Socrates.” I have changed “Things” into “Thoughts,” for whether they be sayings or doings, the words and deeds of a wise man are alike expressions of his thought. Xenophon is said to have been, when young, a pupil of Socrates. Two authorities have recorded that in the flight from the battle of Delium in the year b.c. 424, when Xenophon fell from his horse, Socrates picked him up and carried him on his back for a considerable distance. The time of Xenophon’s death is not known, but he was alive sixty-seven years after the battle of Delium. When Cyrus the Younger was preparing war against his brother Artaxerxes Mnemon, King of Persia, Xenophon went with him. After the death of Cyrus on the plains of Cunaxa, the barbarian auxiliaries fled, and the Greeks were left to return as they could from the far region between the Tigris and Euphrates. Xenophon had to take part in the conduct of the retreat, and tells the story of it in his “Anabasis,” a history of the expedition of the younger Cyrus and of the retreat of the Greeks. His return into Greece was in the year of the death of Socrates, b.c. 399, but his association was now with the Spartans, with whom he fought, b.c. 394, at Coroneia. Afterwards he settled, and lived for about twenty years, at Scillus in Eleia with his wife and children. At Scillus he wrote probably his “Anabasis” and some other of his books. At last he was driven out by the Eleans. In the battle of Mantineia the Spartans and Athenians fought as allies, and Xenophon’s two sons were in the battle; he had sent them to Athens as fellow-combatants from Sparta. His banishment from Athens was repealed by change of times, but it does not appear that he returned to Athens. He is said to have lived, and perhaps died, at Corinth, after he had been driven from his home at Scillus. Xenophon was a philosophic man of action. He could make his value felt in a council of war, take part in battle—one of his books is on the duties of a commander of cavalry—and show himself good sportsman in the hunting-field. He wrote a book upon the horse; a treatise also upon dogs and hunting. He believed in God, thought earnestly about social and political duties, and preferred Spartan institutions to those of Athens. He wrote a life of his friend Agesilaus II., King of Sparta. He found exercise for his energetic mind in writing many books. In writing he was clear and to the point; his practical mind made his work interesting. His “Anabasis” is a true story as delightful as a fiction; his “Cyropædia” is a fiction full of truths. He wrote “Hellenica,” that carried on the history of Greece from the point at which Thucydides closed his history until the battle of Mantineia. He wrote a dialogue between Hiero and Simonides upon the position of a king, and dealt with the administration of the little realm of a man’s household in his “Œconomicus,” a dialogue between Socrates and Critobulus, which includes the praise of agriculture. He wrote also, like Plato, a symposium, in which philosophers over their wine reason of love and friendship, and he paints the character of Socrates. But his best memorial of his old guide, philosopher, and friend is this work, in which Xenophon brought together in simple and direct form the views of life that had been made clear to himself by the teaching of Socrates. Xenophon is throughout opposing a plain tale to the false accusations against Socrates. He does not idealise, but he feels strongly, and he shows clearly the worth of the wisdom that touches at every point the actual conduct of the lives of men. H. M.
CHAPTER I. SOCRATES NOT A CONTEMNER OF
THE GODS OF HIS COUNTRY, NOR AN INTRODUCER OF NEW ONES.
I have often wondered by what
show of argument the accusers of Socrates could persuade the Athenians
he had forfeited his life to the State. For though the crimes laid unto
his charge were indeed great—“That he did not acknowledge the gods of
the Republic; that he introduced new ones”—and, farther, “had debauched
the youth;” yet none of these could, in the least, be proved against
him. For, as to the first, “That he
did not worship the deities which the Republic adored,” how could this
be made out against him, since, instead of paying no homage to the gods
of his country, he was frequently seen to assist in sacrificing to them,
both in his own family and in the public temples?—perpetually
worshipping them in the most public, solemn, and religious manner. What, in my opinion, gave
his accusers a specious pretext for alleging against him that he
introduced new deities was this—that he had
frequently declared in public he had received counsel from a divine
voice, which he called his Demon. But this was no proof at all of
the matter. All that Socrates advanced about his demon was no more than
what is daily advanced by those who believe in and practise divination;
and if Socrates, because he said he received intelligence from his
genius, must be accused of introducing new divinities, so also must
they; for is it not certain that those who believe in divination, and
practise that belief, do observe the flight of birds, consult the
entrails of victims, and remark even unexpected words and accidental
occurrences? But they do not, therefore, believe that either the birds
whose flight they observe or the persons they meet accidentally know
either their good or ill fortune—neither did Socrates—they only believe
that the gods make use of these things to presage the future; and such,
too, was the belief of Socrates. The vulgar, indeed, imagine it to be
the very birds and things which present themselves to them that excite
them to what is good for them, or make them avoid what may hurt them;
but, as for Socrates, he freely owned that a demon was his monitor; and
he frequently told his friends beforehand what they should do, or not
do, according to the instructions he had received from his demon; and
they who believed him, and followed his advice, always found advantage
by it; as, on the contrary, they who neglected his admonitions, never
failed to repent their incredulity. Now, it cannot be denied but that
he ought to have taken care not to pass with his friends either for a
liar or a visionary; and yet how could he avoid incurring that censure
if the events had not justified the truth of the things he pretended
were revealed to him? It is, therefore,
manifest that he would not have spoken of things to come if he had not
believed he said true; but how could he believe he said true, unless he
believed that the gods, who alone ought to be trusted for the knowledge
of things to come, gave him notice of them? and, if he believed they did
so, how can it be said that he acknowledged no gods? He likewise advised his
friends to do, in the best manner they could, the things that of
necessity they were to do; but, as to those whose events were doubtful,
he sent them to the oracles to know whether they should engage in them
or not. And he thought that they who design to govern with success
their families or whole cities had great need of receiving instructions
by the help of divinations; for though he indeed held that every man may
make choice of the condition of life in which he desires to live, and
that, by his industry, he may render himself excellent in it, whether he
apply himself to architecture or to agriculture, whether he throw
himself into politics or economy, whether he engage himself in the
public revenues or in the army, yet that in all these things the gods
have reserved to themselves the most important events, into which men of
themselves can in no wise penetrate. Thus he who makes a fine
plantation of trees, knows not who shall gather the fruit; he who builds
a house cannot tell who shall inhabit it; a general is not certain that
he shall be successful in his command, nor a Minister of State in his
ministry; he who marries a beautiful woman in hopes of being happy with
her knows not but that even she herself may be the cause of all his
uneasinesses; and he who enters into a grand alliance is uncertain
whether they with whom he allies himself will not at length be the cause
of his ruin. This made him
frequently say that it is a great folly to imagine there is not a Divine
Providence that presides over these things, and that they can in the
least depend on human prudence. He likewise held it to be a weakness to
importune the gods with questions which we may resolve ourselves; as if
we should ask them whether it be better to take a coachman who knows how
to drive than one who knows nothing of the matter? whether it be more
eligible to take an experienced pilot than one that is ignorant? In a
word, he counted it a kind of impiety to consult the oracles concerning
what might be numbered or weighed, because we ought to learn the things
which the gods have been pleased to capacitate us to know; but that we
ought to have recourse to the oracles to be instructed in those that
surpass our knowledge, because the gods are wont to discover them to
such men as have rendered them propitious to themselves. Socrates stayed seldom at
home. In the morning he went to the places appointed for walking and
public exercises. He never failed to be at the hall, or courts of
justice, at the usual hour of assembling there, and the rest of the day
he was at the places where the greatest companies generally met. There
it was that he discoursed for the most part, and whoever would hear him
easily might; and yet no man ever observed the least impiety either in
his actions or his words. Nor did he amuse himself to reason of the
secrets of nature, or to search into the manner of the creation of what
the sophists call the world, nor to dive into the cause of the motions
of the celestial bodies. On the contrary, he exposed the folly of such
as give themselves up to these contemplations; and he asked whether it
was, after having acquired a perfect knowledge
of human things, that they undertook to search into the divine, or if
they thought themselves very wise in neglecting what concerned them to
employ themselves in things above them? He was astonished likewise that
they did not see it was impossible for men to comprehend anything of all
those wonders, seeing they who have the reputation of being most knowing
in them are of quite different opinions, and can agree no better than so
many fools and madmen; for as some of these are not afraid of the most
dangerous and frightful accidents, while others are in dread of what is
not to be feared, so, too, among those philosophers, some are of opinion
that there is no action but what may be done in public, nor word that
may not freely be spoken before the whole world, while others, on the
contrary, believe that we ought to avoid the conversation of men and
keep in a perpetual solitude. Some have despised the temples and the
altars, and have taught not to honour the gods, while others have been
so superstitious as to worship wood, stones, and irrational creatures.
And as to the knowledge of natural things, some have confessed but one
only being; others have admitted an infinite number: some have believed
that all things are in a perpetual motion; others that nothing moves:
some have held the world to be full of continual generations and
corruptions; others maintain that nothing is engendered or destroyed.
He said besides that he should be glad to know of those persons whether
they were in hopes one day to put in practice what they learned, as men
who know an art may practise it when they please either for their own
advantage or for the service of their friends; or whether they did
imagine that, after they found out the causes of all things that happen, they
should be able to cause winds and rains, and to dispose the times and
seasons as they had occasion for them; or whether they contented
themselves with the bare knowledge without expecting any farther
advantage. This was what he said of those
who delight in such studies. As for his part, he meditated chiefly on
what is useful and proper for man, and took delight to argue of piety
and impiety, of honesty and dishonesty, of justice and injustice, of
wisdom and folly, of courage and cowardice, of the State, and of the
qualifications of a Minister of State, of the Government, and of those
who are fit to govern; in short, he enlarged on the like subjects, which
it becomes men of condition to know, and of which none but slaves should
be ignorant. It is not strange,
perhaps, that the judges of Socrates mistook his opinion in things
concerning which he did not explain himself; but I am surprised that
they did not reflect on what he had said and done in the face of the
whole world; for when he was one of the Senate, and had taken the usual
oath exactly to observe the laws, being in his turn vested with the
dignity of Epistate, he bravely withstood the populace, who, against all
manner of reason, demanded that the nine captains, two of whom were
Erasinides and Thrasilus, should be put to death, he would never give
consent to this injustice, and was not daunted at the rage of the
people, nor at the menaces of the men in power, choosing rather not to
violate the oath he had taken than to yield to the violence of the
multitude, and shelter himself from the vengeance of those who
threatened him. To this purpose he said that the gods watch over men
more attentively than the vulgar imagine; for they believe there are
some things which the gods observe and
others which they pass by unregarded; but he held that the gods observe
all our actions and all our words, that they penetrate even into our
most secret thoughts, that they are present at all our deliberations,
and that they inspire us in all our affairs. It is astonishing, therefore,
to consider how the Athenians could suffer themselves to be persuaded
that Socrates entertained any unworthy thoughts of the Deity; he who
never let slip one single word against the respect due to the gods, nor
was ever guilty of any action that savoured in the least of impiety; but
who, on the contrary, has done and said things that could not proceed
but from a mind truly pious, and that are sufficient to gain a man an
eternal reputation of piety and virtue. What surprises me yet
more is, that some would believe that Socrates was a debaucher of young
men! Socrates the most sober and most chaste of all men, who cheerfully
supported both cold and heat; whom no inconvenience, no hardships, no
labours could startle, and who had learned to wish for so little, that
though he had scarce anything, he had always enough. Then how could he
teach impiety, injustice, gluttony, impurity, and luxury? And so far
was he from doing so, that he reclaimed many persons from those vices,
inspiring them with the love of virtue, and putting them in hopes of
coming to preferment in the world, provided
they would take a little care of themselves. Yet he never promised any
man to teach him to be virtuous; but as he made a public profession of
virtue, he created in the minds of those who frequented him the hopes of
becoming virtuous by his example. He neglected not his own
body, and praised not those that neglected theirs. In like manner, he
blamed the custom of some who eat too much, and afterwards use violent
exercises; but he approved of eating till nature be satisfied, and of a
moderate exercise after it, believing that method to be an advantage to
health, and proper to unbend and divert the mind. In his clothes he was
neither nice nor costly; and what I say of his clothes ought likewise to
be understood of his whole way of living. Never any of his friends
became covetous in his conversation, and he reclaimed them from that
sordid disposition, as well as from all others; for he would accept of
no gratuity from any who desired to confer with him, and said that was
the way to discover a noble and generous heart, and that they who take
rewards betray a meanness of soul, and sell their own persons, because
they impose on themselves a necessity of instructing those from whom
they receive a salary. He wondered, likewise, why a man, who promises
to teach virtue, should ask money; as if he believed not the greatest of
all gain to consist in the acquisition of a good friend, or, as if he
feared, that he who, by his means, should become virtuous, and be
obliged to him for so great a benefit, would not be sufficiently
grateful for it. Quite different from Socrates, who never boasted of
any such thing, and who was most certain that all who heard him and
received his maxims would love him for ever, and be capable of loving
others also. After this, whosoever says
that such a man debauched the youth, must at the same time say that the
study of virtue is debauchery. But the accuser says that
Socrates taught to despise the constitution that was established in the
Republic, because he affirmed it to be a folly to elect magistrates by
lots; since if anyone had occasion for a pilot, a musician, or an
architect, he would not trust to chance for any such person, though the
faults that can be committed by men in such capacities are far from
being of so great importance as those that are committed in the
government of the Republic. He says, therefore, that such arguments
insensibly accustom the youth to despise the laws, and render them more
audacious and more violent. But, in my opinion, such as study the art
of prudence, and who believe they shall be able to render themselves
capable of giving good advice and counsel to their fellow-citizens,
seldom become men of violent tempers; because they know that violence is
hateful and full of danger; while, on the contrary, to win by persuasion
is full of love and safety. For they, whom we have compelled, brood a
secret hatred against us, believing we have done them wrong; but those
whom we have taken the trouble to persuade continue our friends,
believing we have done them a kindness. It is not, therefore, they who
apply themselves to the study of prudence that become violent, but those
brutish intractable tempers who have much power in their hands and but
little judgment to manage it.—He farther said that when a man desires to
carry anything by force, he must have many friends to assist him: as, on
the contrary, he that can persuade has need of none but himself, and is
not subject to shed blood; for who would rather choose to kill a man
than to make use of his services, after
having gained his friendship and goodwill by mildness? The accuser adds, in proof of
the ill tendency of the doctrine of Socrates, that Critias and
Alcibiades, who were two of his most intimate friends, were very bad
men, and did much mischief to their country. For Critias was the most
insatiable and cruel of all the thirty tyrants; and Alcibiades the most
dissolute, the most insolent, and the most audacious citizen that ever
the Republic had. As for me, I pretend not to justify them, and will
only relate for what reason they frequented Socrates. They were men of
an unbounded ambition, and who resolved, whatever it cost, to govern the
State, and make themselves be talked of. They had heard that Socrates
lived very content upon little or nothing, that he entirely commanded
his passions, and that his reasonings were so persuasive that he drew
all men to which side he pleased. Reflecting on this, and being of the
temper we mentioned, can it be thought that they desired the
acquaintance of Socrates, because they were in love with his way of
life, and with his temperance, or because they believed that by
conversing with him they should render themselves capable of reasoning
aright, and of well-managing the public affairs? For my part, I believe
that if the gods had proposed to them to live always like him, or to die
immediately, they would rather have chosen a sudden death. And it is
easy to judge this from their actions; for as soon as they thought
themselves more capable than their companions, they forsook Socrates,
whom they had frequented, only for the purpose I mentioned, and threw
themselves wholly into business. It may, perhaps, be
objected that he ought not to have discoursed to his friends of things
relating to the government of the
State, till after he had taught them to live virtuously. I have nothing
to say to this; but I observe that all who profess teaching do generally
two things: they work in presence of their scholars, to show them how
they ought to do, and they instruct them likewise by word of mouth.
Now, in either of these two ways, no man ever taught to live well, like
Socrates; for, in his whole life, he was an example of untainted
probity; and in his discourses he spoke of virtue and of all the duties
of man in a manner that made him admired of all his hearers. And I know
too very well that Critias and Alcibiades lived very virtuously as long
as they frequented him; not that they were afraid of him, but because
they thought it most conducive to their designs to live so at that time. Many who pretend to philosophy
will here object, that a virtuous person is always virtuous, and that
when a man has once come to be good and temperate, he will never
afterwards become wicked nor dissolute; because habitudes that can be
acquired, when once they are so, can never more be effaced from the
mind. But I am not of this opinion; for as they who use no bodily
exercises are awkward and unwieldy in the actions of the body, so they
who exercise not their minds are incapable of the noble actions of the
mind, and have not courage enough to undertake anything worthy of
praise, nor command enough over themselves to abstain from things that
are forbid. For this reason, parents, though they be well enough
assured of the good natural disposition of their children, fail not to
forbid them the conversation of the vicious, because it is the ruin of
worthy dispositions, whereas the conversation of good men is a continual
meditation of virtue. Thus a poet says,
“By
those whom we frequent, we’re ever led: And another in like manner: “Virtue and vice in the
same man are found, And, in my opinion, they are in
the right: for when I consider that they who have learned verses by
heart forget them unless they repeat them often, so I believe that they
who neglect the reasonings of philosophers, insensibly lose the
remembrance of them; and when they have let these excellent notions slip
out of their minds, they at the same time lose the idea of the things
that supported in the soul the love of temperance; and, having forgot
those things, what wonder is it if at length they forget temperance
likewise? I observe, besides, that
men who abandon themselves to the debauches of wine or women find it
more difficult to apply themselves to things that are profitable, and to
abstain from what is hurtful. For many who live frugally before they
fall in love become prodigal when that passion gets the mastery over
them; insomuch that after having wasted their estates, they are reduced
to gain their bread by methods they would have been ashamed of before.
What hinders then, but that a man, who has been once temperate, should
be so no longer, and that he who has led a good life at one time should
not do so at another? I should think, therefore, that the being of all
virtues, and chiefly of temperance, depends on the practice of them: for
lust, that dwells in the same body with the soul, incites it continually
to despise this virtue, and to find out the shortest way to gratify the
senses only. Thus, whilst Alcibiades and
Critias conversed with Socrates, they were able, with so great an
assistance, to tame their inclinations; but after they had left him,
Critias, being retired into Thessaly, ruined himself entirely in the
company of some libertines; and Alcibiades, seeing himself courted by
several women of quality, because of his beauty, and suffering himself
to be corrupted by soothing flatterers, who made their court to him, in
consideration of the credit he had in the city and with the allies; in a
word, finding himself respected by all the Athenians, and that no man
disputed the first rank with him, began to neglect himself, and acted
like a great wrestler, who takes not the trouble to exercise himself,
when he no longer finds an adversary who dares to contend with him. If we would examine,
therefore, all that has happened to them; if we consider how much the
greatness of their birth, their interest, and their riches, had puffed
up their minds; if we reflect on the ill company they fell into, and the
many opportunities they had of debauching themselves, can we be
surprised that, after they had been so long absent from Socrates, they
arrived at length to that height of insolence to which they have been
seen to arise? If they have been guilty of crimes, the accuser will
load Socrates with them, and not allow him to be worthy of praise, for
having kept them within the bounds of their duty during their youth,
when, in all appearance, they would have been the most disorderly and
least governable. This, however, is not the way we judge of other
things; for whoever pretended that a musician, a player on the lute, or
any other person that teaches, after he has made a good
scholar, ought to be blamed for his growing more ignorant under the care
of another master? If a young man gets an acquaintance that brings him
into debauchery, ought his father to lay the blame on the first friends
of his son among whom he always lived virtuously? Is it not true, on
the contrary, that the more he finds that this last friendship proves
destructive to him, the more reason he will have to praise his former
acquaintance. And are the fathers themselves, who are daily with their
children, guilty of their faults, if they give them no ill example?
Thus they ought to have judged of Socrates; if he led an ill life, it
was reasonable to esteem him vicious; but if a good, was it just to
accuse him of crimes of which he was innocent? And yet he might have
given his adversaries ground to accuse him, had he but approved, or
seemed to approve those vices in others, from which he kept himself
free: but Socrates abhorred vice, not only in himself, but in everyone
besides. To prove which, I need only relate his conduct toward Critias,
a man extremely addicted to debauchery. Socrates perceiving that this
man had an unnatural passion for Euthydemus, and that the violence of it
would precipitate him so far a length as to make him transgress the
bounds of nature, shocked at his behaviour, he exerted his utmost
strength of reason and argument to dissuade him from so wild a desire.
And while the impetuosity of Critias’ passion seemed to scorn all check
or control, and the modest rebuke of Socrates had been disregarded, the
philosopher, out of an ardent zeal for virtue, broke out in such
language, as at once declared his own strong inward sense of decency and
order, and the monstrous shamefulness of Critias’ passion. Which severe
but just reprimand of Socrates, it is thought, was the foundation of
that grudge which he ever after bore him; for during the tyranny of the
Thirty, of which Critias was one, when, together with Charicles, he had
the care of the civil government of the city, he failed not to remember
this affront, and, in revenge of it, made a law to forbid teaching the
art of reasoning in Athens: and having nothing to reproach Socrates with
in particular, he laboured to render him odious by aspersing him with
the usual calumnies that are thrown on all philosophers: for I have
never heard Socrates say that he taught this art, nor seen any man who
ever heard him say so; but Critias had taken offence, and gave
sufficient proofs of it: for after the Thirty had caused to be put to
death a great number of the citizens, and even of the most eminent, and
had let loose the reins to all sorts of violence and rapine, Socrates
said in a certain place that he wondered very much that a man who keeps
a herd of cattle, and by his ill conduct loses every day some of them,
and suffers the others to fall away, would not own himself to be a very
ill keeper of his herd; and that he should wonder yet more if a Minister
of State, who lessens every day the number of his citizens, and makes
the others more dissolute, was not ashamed of his ministry, and would
not own himself to be an ill magistrate. This was reported to Critias
and Charicles, who forthwith sent for Socrates, and showing him the law
they had made, forbid him to discourse with the young men. Upon which
Socrates asked them whether they would permit him to propose a question,
that he might be informed of what he did not understand in this
prohibition; and his request being granted, he spoke in this manner: “I
am most ready to obey your laws; but that I may not transgress through
ignorance, I desire to know of you, whether
you condemn the art of reasoning, because you believe it consists in
saying things well, or in saying them ill? If for the former reason, we
must then, from henceforward, abstain from speaking as we ought; and if
for the latter, it is plain that we ought to endeavour to speak well.”
At these words Charicles flew into a passion, and said to him: “Since
you pretend to be ignorant of things that are so easily known, we forbid
you to speak to the young men in any manner whatever.” “It is enough,”
answered Socrates; “but that I may not be in a perpetual uncertainty,
pray prescribe to me, till what age men are young.” “Till they are
capable of being members of the Senate,” said Charicles: “in a word,
speak to no man under thirty years of age.” “How!” says Socrates, “if I
would buy anything of a tradesman who is not thirty years old am I
forbid to ask him the price of it?” “I mean not so,” answered
Charicles: “but I am not surprised that you ask me this question, for it
is your custom to ask many things that you know very well.” Socrates
added: “And if a young man ask me in the street where Charicles lodges,
or whether I know where Critias is, must I make him no answer?” “I mean
not so neither,” answered Charicles. Here Critias, interrupting their
discourse, said: “For the future, Socrates, you must have nothing to do
with the city tradesmen, the shoemakers, masons, smiths, and other
mechanics, whom you so often allege as examples of life; and who, I
apprehend, are quite jaded with your discourses.” “I must then
likewise,” replied Socrates, “omit the consequences I draw from those
discourses; and have no more to do with justice, piety, and the other
duties of a good man.” “Yes, yes,” said Charicles; “and I advise you to
meddle no more with those that tend herds
of oxen; otherwise take care you lose not your own.” And these last
words made it appear that Critias and Charicles had taken offence at the
discourse which Socrates had held against their government, when he
compared them to a man that suffers his herd to fall to ruin. Thus we see how Critias
frequented Socrates, and what opinion they had of each other. I add,
moreover, that we cannot learn anything of a man whom we do not like:
therefore if Critias and Alcibiades made no great improvement with
Socrates, it proceeded from this, that they never liked him. For at the
very time that they conversed with him, they always rather courted the
conversation of those who were employed in the public affairs, because
they had no design but to govern.—The following conference of
Alcibiades, in particular, which he had with Pericles, his governor—who
was the chief man of the city, whilst he was yet under twenty years of
age—concerning the nature of the laws, will confirm what I have now
advanced. “Pray,” says Alcibiades,
“explain to me what the law is: for, as I hear men praised who observe
the laws, I imagine that this praise could not be given to those who
know not what the law is.” “It is easy to satisfy you,” answered
Pericles: “the law is only what the people in a general assembly ordain,
declaring what ought to be done, and what ought not to be done.” “And
tell me,” added Alcibiades, “do they ordain to do what is good, or what
is ill?” “Most certainly what is good.” Alcibiades pursued: “And how
would you call what a small number of citizens should ordain, in states
where the people is not the master, but all is ordered by the advice of
a few persons, who possess the sovereignty?” “I would call whatever
they ordain a law; for laws are
nothing else but the ordinances of sovereigns.” “If a tyrant then
ordain anything, will that be a law?” “Yes, it will,” said Pericles.
“But what then is violence and injustice?” continued Alcibiades; “is it
not when the strongest makes himself be obeyed by the weakest, not by
consent, but by force only?” “In my opinion it is.” “It follows then,”
says Alcibiades, “that ordinances made by a prince, without the consent
of the citizens, will be absolutely unjust.” “I believe so,” said
Pericles; “and cannot allow that the ordinances of a prince, when they
are made without the consent of the people, should bear the name of
laws.” “And what the chief citizens ordain, without procuring the
consent of the greater number, is that likewise a violence?” “There is
no question of it,” answered Pericles; “and in general, every ordinance
made without the consent of those who are to obey it, is a violence
rather than a law.” “And is what the populace decree, without the
concurrence of the chiefs, to be counted a violence likewise, and not a
law?” “No doubt it is,” said Pericles: “but when I was of your age, I
could resolve all these difficulties, because I made it my business to
inquire into them, as you do now.” “Would to God,” cried Alcibiades, “I
had been so happy as to have conversed with you then, when you
understood these matters better.” To this purpose was their dialogue. Critias and Alcibiades,
however, continued not long with Socrates, after they believed they had
improved themselves, and gained some advantages over the other citizens,
for besides that they thought not his conversation very agreeable, they
were displeased that he took upon him to reprimand them for their
faults; and thus they threw themselves immediately into the public affairs,
having never had any other design but that. The usual companions of
Socrates were Crito, Chaerephon, Chaerecrates, Simmias, Cebes, Phædon,
and some others; none of whom frequented him that they might learn to
speak eloquently, either in the assemblies of the people, or in the
courts of justice before the judges; but that they might become better
men, and know how to behave themselves towards their domestics, their
relations, their friends, and their fellow-citizens. All these persons
led very innocent lives; and, whether we consider them in their youth or
examine their behaviour in a more advanced age, we shall find that they
never were guilty of any bad action, nay, that they never gave the least
ground to suspect them of being so. But the accuser says that
Socrates encouraged children to despise their parents, making them
believe that he was more capable to instruct them than they; and telling
them that as the laws permit a man to chain his own father if he can
convict him of lunacy, so, in like manner, it is but just that a man of
excellent sense should throw another into chains who has not so much
understanding. I cannot deny but that Socrates may have said something
like this; but he meant it not in the sense in which the accuser would
have it taken: and he fully discovered what his meaning by these words
was, when he said that he who should pretend to chain others because of
their ignorance, ought, for the same reason, to submit to be chained
himself by men who know more than he. Hence it is that he argued so
often of the difference between folly and ignorance; and then he plainly
said that fools and madmen ought to be chained indeed, as well for their
own interest as for that of their friends; but that they who are
ignorant of things they should know, ought
only to be instructed by those that understand them. The accuser goes on, that
Socrates did not only teach men to despise their parents, but their
other relations too; because he said that if a man be sick, or have a
suit in law, it is not his relations, but the physicians, or the
advocates who are of use to him. He further alleged that Socrates,
speaking of friends, said it was to no purpose to bear goodwill to any
man, if it be not in our power to serve him; and that the only friends
whom we ought to value are they who know what is good for us, and can
teach it to us: thus, says the accuser, Socrates, by persuading the
youth that he was the wisest of all men, and the most capable to set
others in the right road to wisdom, made them believe that all the rest
of mankind were nothing in comparison with him. I remember, indeed, to
have heard him sometimes talk after this manner of parents, relations,
and friends; and he observed besides, if I mistake not, that when the
soul, in which the understanding resides, is gone out of the body, we
soon bury the corpse; and even though it be that of our nearest
relation, we endeavour to put it out of our sight as soon as decently we
can. Farther, though every man loves his own body to a great degree, we
scruple not nevertheless to take from it all that is superfluous, for
this reason we cut our hair and our nails, we take off our corns and our
warts, and we put ourselves into the surgeons’ hands, and endure
caustics and incisions; and after they have made us suffer a great deal
of pain, we think ourselves obliged to give them a reward: thus, too, we
spit, because the spittle is of no use in the mouth, but on the contrary
is troublesome. But Socrates meant not by these, or the like sayings,
to conclude that a man ought to
bury his father alive, or that we ought to cut off our legs and arms;
but he meant only to teach us that what is useless is contemptible, and
to exhort every man to improve and render himself useful to others; to
the end that if we desire to be esteemed by our father, our brother, or
any other relation, we should not rely so much on our parentage and
consanguinity, as not to endeavour to render ourselves always useful to
those whose esteem we desire to obtain. The accuser says further
against Socrates, that he was so malicious as to choose out of the
famous poets the passages that contained the worst instructions, and
that he made use of them in a sly manner, to inculcate the vices of
injustice and violence: as this verse of Hesiod, “Blame no employment, but
blame idleness.” And he pretends that Socrates
alleged this passage to prove that the poet meant to say that we ought
not to count any employment unjust or dishonourable, if we can make any
advantage of it. This, however, was far from the thoughts of Socrates;
but, as he had always taught that employment and business are useful and
honourable to men, and that idleness is an evil, he concluded that they
who busy themselves about anything that is good are indeed employed; but
that gamesters and debauched persons, and all who have no occupations,
but such as are hurtful and wicked, are idle. Now, in this sense, is it
not true to say:— “Blame no employment, but
blame idleness”? The accuser likewise says
that Socrates often repeated, out of Homer, a speech of Ulysses; and
from thence he concludes that Socrates taught that the poet advised
to beat the poor and abuse the common people. But it is plain Socrates
could never have drawn such a wild and unnatural inference from those
verses of the poet, because he would have argued against himself, since
he was as poor as anyone besides. What he meant, therefore, was only
this, that such as are neither men of counsel nor execution, who are
neither fit to advise in the city nor to serve in the army, and are
nevertheless proud and insolent, ought to be brought to reason, even
though they be possessed of great riches. And this was the true meaning
of Socrates, for he loved the men of low condition, and expressed a
great civility for all sorts of persons; insomuch that whenever he was
consulted, either by the Athenians or by foreigners, he would never take
anything of any man for the instructions he gave them, but imparted his
wisdom freely, and without reward, to all the world; while they, who
became rich by his liberality, did not afterwards behave themselves so
generously, but sold very dear to others what had cost them nothing;
and, not being of so obliging a temper as he, would not impart their
knowledge to any who had it not in their power to reward them. In
short, Socrates has rendered the city of Athens famous throughout the
whole earth; and, as Lychas was said to be the honour of Sparta, because
he treated, at his own expense, all the foreigners who came to the
feasts of the Gymnopaedies, so it may, with much greater reason, be said
of Socrates that he was the glory of Athens, he who all his life made a
continual distribution of his goodness and virtues, and who, keeping
open for all the world the treasures of an inestimable wealth, never
sent any man out of his company but more virtuous, and more improved in
the principles of honour, than formerly he was. Therefore, in
my opinion, if he had been treated according to his merit, they should
have decreed him public honours rather than have condemned him to an
infamous death. For against whom have the laws ordained the punishment
of death? Is it not for thieves, for robbers, for men guilty of
sacrilege, for those who sell persons that are free? But where, in all
the world, can we find a man more innocent of all those crimes than
Socrates? Can it be said of him that he ever held correspondence with
the enemy, that he ever fomented any sedition, that he ever was the
cause of a rebellion, or any other the like mischiefs? Can any man lay
to his charge that he ever detained his estate, or did him or it the
least injury? Was he ever so much as suspected of any of these things?
How then is it possible he should be guilty of the crimes of which he
was accused; since, instead of not believing in the gods, as the accuser
says, it is manifest he was a sincere adorer of them? Instead of
corrupting the youth, as he further alleges against him, he made it his
chief care to deliver his friends from the power of every guilty
passion, and to inspire them with an ardent love for virtue, the glory,
the ornament, and felicity of families as well as of states? And this
being fact (and fact it is, for who can deny it?), is it not certain
that the Republic was extremely obliged to him, and that she ought to
have paid him the highest honours? Having, therefore, observed
myself that all who frequented him improved themselves very much in his
conversation, because he instructed them no less by his example than by
his discourses, I am resolved to set down, in this work, all that I can
recollect both of his actions and words. First, then, as to what relates
to the service of the gods, he strictly conformed to the advice of the
oracle, who never gives any other answer to those who inquire of him in
what manner they ought to sacrifice to the gods, or what honours they
ought to render to the dead, than that everyone should observe the
customs of his own country. Thus in all the acts of religious worship
Socrates took particular care to do nothing contrary to the custom of
the Republic, and advised his friends to make that the rule of their
devotion to the gods, alleging it to be an argument of superstition and
vanity to dissent from the established worship. When he prayed to the gods he
besought them only to give him what is good, because they know better
than we do what things are truly good for us; and he said that men who
pray for silver, or for gold, or for the sovereign authority, made as
foolish requests as if they prayed that they might play or fight, or
desired any other thing whose event is uncertain, and that might be
likely to turn to their disadvantage. When he offered
sacrifices he did not believe that his poverty rendered them despicable
in the presence of the gods; and, while he offered according to his
ability, he thought he gave as much as the rich,
who load the altars with costly gifts, for he held that it would be an
injustice in the gods to take more delight in costly sacrifices than in
poorer ones, because it would then follow that the offerings of the
wicked would for the most part be more acceptable to them than the gifts
of the good; and that, if this were so, we ought not to desire to live
one moment longer: he thought, therefore, that nothing was so acceptable
to the Deity as the homage that is paid him by souls truly pious and
innocent. To this purpose he often repeated these verses:— “Offer to heaven according
to thy pow’r: And not only in this, but in
all the other occasions of life, he thought the best advice he could
give his friends was to do all things according to their ability. When he believed that the gods
had admonished him to do anything, it was as impossible to make him take
a contrary resolution as it would have been to have prevailed with him
in a journey to change a guide that was clear-sighted for one that knew
not the way, and was blind likewise. For this reason he pitied their
folly, who, to avoid the derision of men, live not according to the
admonitions and commands of the gods; and he beheld with contempt all
the subtilties of human prudence when he compared them with divine
inspirations. His way of living was
such that whoever follows it may be assured, with the help of the gods,
that he shall acquire a robust constitution and a health not to be
easily impaired; and this, too, without any great expense, for he was
content with so little that I believe there
was not in all the world a man who could work at all but might have
earned enough to have maintained him. He generally ate as long as he
found pleasure in eating, and when he sat down to table he desired no
other sauce but a sound appetite. All sorts of drink were alike
pleasing to him, because he never drank but when he was thirsty; and if
sometimes he was invited to a feast, he easily avoided eating and
drinking to excess, which many find very difficult to do in those
occasions. But he advised those who had no government of themselves
never to taste of things that tempt a man to eat when he is no longer
hungry, and that excite him to drink when his thirst is already
quenched, because it is this that spoils the stomach, causes the
headache, and puts the soul into disorder. And he said, between jest
and earnest, that he believed it was with such meats as those that Circe
changed men into swine, and that Ulysses avoided that transformation by
the counsel of Mercury, and because he had temperance enough to abstain
from tasting them. As to love, his advice was to
avoid carefully the company of beautiful persons, saying it was very
difficult to be near them and escape being taken in the snare; and,
having been told that Critobulus had given a kiss to the son of
Alcibiades, who was a very handsome youth, he held this discourse to
Xenophon, in the presence of Critobulus himself. “Tell me, Xenophon, what
opinion have you hitherto had of Critobulus? Have you placed him in the
rank of the temperate and judicious; or with the debauched and
imprudent?” “I have always looked upon him,” answered Xenophon, “to be
a very virtuous and prudent man.” “Change your opinion,” replied
Socrates, “and believe him more rash than if he threw himself
on the points of naked swords or leapt into the fire.” “And what have
you seen him do,” said Xenophon, “that gives you reason to speak thus of
him?” “Why, he had the rashness,” answered Socrates, “to kiss the son
of Alcibiades, who is so beautiful and charming.” “And is this all?”
said Xenophon; “for my part, I think I could also willingly expose
myself to the same danger that he did.” “Wretch, that you are!” replied
Socrates. “Do you consider what happens to you after you have kissed a
beautiful face? Do you not lose your liberty? Do you not become a
slave? Do you not engage yourself in a vast expense to procure a sinful
pleasure? Do you not find yourself in an incapacity of doing what is
good, and that you subject yourself to the necessity of employing your
whole time and person in the pursuit of what you would despise, if your
reason were not corrupted?” “Good God!” cried Xenophon, “this is
ascribing a wonderful power to a kiss forsooth.” “And are you surprised
at it?” answered Socrates. “Are there not some small animals whose bite
is so venomous that it causes insufferable pain, and even the loss of
the senses?” “I know it very well,” said Xenophon, “but these animals
leave a poison behind them when they sting.” “And do you think, you
fool,” added Socrates, “that kisses of love are not venomous, because
you perceive not the poison? Know that a beautiful person is a more
dangerous animal than scorpions, because these cannot wound unless they
touch us; but beauty strikes at a distance: from what place soever we
can but behold her, she darts her venom upon us, and overthrows our
judgment. And perhaps for this reason the Loves are represented with
bows and arrows, because a beautiful face wounds us from afar. I advise
you, therefore, Xenophon, when you chance to see a beauty to fly from
it, without looking behind you. And for you, Critobulus, I think it
convenient that you should enjoin yourself a year’s absence, which will
not be too long a time to heal you of your wound.” As for such as have not
strength enough to resist the power of love, he thought that they ought
to consider and use it as an action to which the soul would never
consent, were it not for the necessity of the body; and which, though it
be necessary, ought, nevertheless, to give us no inquietude. As for
himself, his continence was known to all men, and it was more easy for
him to avoid courting the most celebrated beauties, than it is for
others to get away from disagreeable objects. Thus we see what was his way of
life in eating, drinking, and in the affair of love. He believed,
however, that he tasted of those pleasures no less than they who give
themselves much trouble to enjoy them; but that he had not, like them,
so frequent occasions for sorrow and repentance. If there be any who
believe what some have written by conjecture, that Socrates was indeed
excellent in exciting men to virtue, but that he did not push them
forward to make any great progress in it, let such reflect a little on
what he said, not only when he endeavoured to refute those that boasted
they knew all things, but likewise in
his familiar conversations, and let them judge afterwards if he was
incapable to advance his friends in the paths of virtue. I will, in the first place,
relate a conference which he had with Aristodemus, surnamed the Little,
touching the Deity, for he had heard that he never sacrificed to the
gods; that he never addressed himself to them in prayer; that he never
consulted the oracles, and even laughed at those that practised these
things, he took him to talk in this manner:— “Tell me, Aristodemus,
are there any persons whom you value on account of their merit?” He
answered, “Yes, certainly.” “Tell me their names,” added Socrates.
Aristodemus replied: “For epic poetry I admire Homer as the most
excellent; for dithyrambics, Melanippides; Sophocles for tragedy;
Polycletes for statuary; and Zeuxis for painting.” “Which artists,”
said Socrates, “do you think to be most worthy of your esteem and
admiration: they who make images without soul and motion, or they who
make animals that move of their own accord, and are endowed with
understanding?” “No doubt the last,” replied Aristodemus, “provided
they make them not by chance, but with judgment and prudence.” Socrates
went on: “As there are some things which we cannot say why they were
made, and others which are apparently good and useful, tell me, my
friend, whether of the two you rather take to be the work of prudence
than of hazard.” “It is reasonable,” said Aristodemus, “to believe that
the things which are good and useful are the workmanship of reason and
judgment.” “Do not you think then,” replied Socrates, “that the first
Former of mankind designed their advantage when he gave them the several
senses by which objects are apprehended; eyes for
things visible, and ears for sounds? Of what advantage would agreeable
scents have been to us if nostrils suited to their reception had not
been given? And for the pleasures of the taste, how could we ever have
enjoyed these, if the tongue had not been fitted to discern and relish
them? Further, does it not appear to you wisely provided that since the
eye is of a delicate make, it is guarded with the eyelid drawn back when
the eye is used, and covering it in sleep? How well does the hair at
the extremity of the eyelid keep out dust, and the eyebrow, by its
prominency, prevent the sweat of the forehead from running into the eye
to its hurt. How wisely is the ear formed to receive all sorts of
sounds, and not to be filled with any to the exclusion of others. Are
not the fore teeth of all animals fitted to cut off proper portions of
food, and their grinders to reduce it to a convenient smallness? The
mouth, by which we take in the food we like, is fitly placed just
beneath the nose and eyes, the judges of its goodness; and what is
offensive and disagreeable to our senses is, for that reason, placed at
a proper distance from them. In short, these things being disposed in
such order, and with so much care, can you hesitate one moment to
determine whether it be an effect of providence or of chance?” “I doubt
not of it in the least,” replied Aristodemus, “and the more I fix my
thoughts on the contemplation of these things the more I am persuaded
that all this is the masterpiece of a great workman, who bears an
extreme love to men.” “What say you,” continued Socrates, “to this,
that he gives all animals a desire to engender and propagate their kind;
that he inspires the mothers with tenderness and affection to bring up
their young; and that, from the very hour of
their birth, he infuses into them this great love of life and this
mighty aversion to death?” “I say,” replied Aristodemus, “that it is an
effect of his great care for their preservation.” “This is not all,”
said Socrates, “answer me yet farther; perhaps you would rather
interrogate me. You are not, I persuade myself, ignorant that you are
endowed with understanding; do you then think that there is not
elsewhere an intelligent being? Particularly, if you consider that your
body is only a little earth taken from that great mass which you
behold. The moist that composes you is only a small drop of that
immense heap of water that makes the sea; in a word, your body contains
only a small part of all the elements, which are elsewhere in great
quantity. There is nothing then but your understanding alone, which, by
a wonderful piece of good fortune, must have come to you from I know not
whence, if there were none in another place; and can it then be said
that all this universe and all these so vast and numerous bodies have
been disposed in so much order, without the help of an intelligent
Being, and by mere chance?” “I find it very difficult to understand it
otherwise,” answered Aristodemus, “because I see not the gods, who, you
say, make and govern all things, as I see the artificers who do any
piece of work amongst us.” “Nor do you see your soul neither,” answered
Socrates, “which governs your body; but, because you do not see it, will
you from thence infer you do nothing at all by its direction, but that
everything you do is by mere chance?” Aristodemus now wavering said, “I
do not despise the Deity, but I conceive such an idea of his
magnificence and self-sufficiency, that I imagine him to have no need of
me or my services.” “You are quite wrong,” said Socrates,
“for by how much the gods, who are so magnificent, vouchsafe to regard
you, by so much you are bound to praise and adore them.” “It is
needless for me to tell you,” answered Aristodemus, “that, if I believed
the gods interested themselves in human affairs, I should not neglect to
worship them.” “How!” replied Socrates, “you do not believe the gods
take care of men, they who have not only given to man, in common with
other animals, the senses of seeing, hearing, and taste, but have also
given him to walk upright; a privilege which no other animal can boast
of, and which is of mighty use to him to look forward, to remote
objects, to survey with facility those above him, and to defend himself
from any harm? Besides, although the animals that walk have feet, which
serve them for no other use than to walk, yet, herein, have the gods
distinguished man, in that, besides feet, they have given him hands, the
instruments of a thousand grand and useful actions, on which account he
not only excels, but is happier than all animals besides. And, further,
though all animals have tongues, yet none of them can speak, like man’s;
his tongue only can form words, by which he declares his thoughts, and
communicates them to others. Not to mention smaller instances of their
care, such as the concern they take of our pleasures, in confining men
to no certain season for the enjoying them, as they have done other
animals. “But Providence taketh
care, not only of our bodies, but of our souls: it hath pleased the
great Author of all, not only to give man so many advantages for the
body, but (which is the greatest gift of all, and the strongest proof of
his care) he hath breathed into him an intelligent soul, and that, too,
the most excellent of all, for which of the
other animals has a soul that knows the being of the Deity, by whom so
many great and marvellous works are done? Is there any species but man
that serves and adores him? Which of the animals can, like him, protect
himself from hunger and thirst, from heat and cold? Which, like him,
can find remedies for diseases, can make use of his strength, and is as
capable of learning, that so perfectly retains the things he has seen,
he has heard, he has known? In a word, it is manifest that man is a god
in comparison with the other living species, considering the advantages
he naturally has over them, both of body and soul. For, if man had a
body like to that of an ox the subtilty of his understanding would avail
him nothing, because he would not be able to execute what he should
project. On the other hand, if that animal had a body like ours, yet,
being devoid of understanding, he would be no better than the rest of
the brute species. Thus the gods have at once united in your person the
most excellent structure of body and the greatest perfection of soul;
and now can you still say, after all, that they take no care of you?
What would you have them do to convince you of the contrary?” “I would
have them,” answered Aristodemus, “send on purpose to let me know
expressly all that I ought to do or not to do, in like manner as you say
they do give you notice.” “What!” said Socrates, “when they pronounce
any oracle to all the Athenians, do you think they do not address
themselves to you too, when by prodigies they make known to the Greeks
the things that are to happen, are they silent to you alone, and are you
the only person they neglect? Do you think that the gods would have
instilled this notion into men, that it is they who can make them happy
or miserable, if it were not indeed in their
power to do so? And do you believe that the human race would have been
thus long abused without ever discovering the cheat? Do you not know
that the most ancient and wisest republics and people have been also the
most pious, and that man, at the age when his judgment is ripest, has
then the greatest bent to the worship of the Deity? “My dear Aristodemus, consider
that your mind governs your body according to its pleasure: in like
manner we ought to believe that there is a mind diffused throughout the
whole universe that disposeth of all things according to its counsels.
You must not imagine that your weak sight can reach to objects that are
several leagues distant, and that the eye of God cannot, at one and the
same time, see all things. You must not imagine that your mind can
reflect on the affairs of Athens, of Egypt, and of Sicily, and that the
providence of God cannot, at one and the same moment, consider all
things. As, therefore, you may make trial of the gratitude of a man by
doing him a kindness, and as you may discover his prudence by consulting
him in difficult affairs, so, if you would be convinced how great is the
power and goodness of God, apply yourself sincerely to piety and his
worship; then, my dear Aristodemus, you shall soon be persuaded that the
Deity sees all, hears all, is present everywhere, and, at the same time,
regulates and superintends all the events of the universe.” By such discourses as these
Socrates taught his friends never to commit any injustice or
dishonourable action, not only in the presence of men, but even in
secret, and when they are alone, since the Divinity hath always an eye
over us, and none of our actions can be hid from him. And if temperance be a virtue
in man, as undoubtedly it is, let us see whether any improvement can be
made by what he said of it. I will here give you one of his discourses
on that subject:— “If we were engaged in a
war,” said he, “and were to choose a general, would we make choice of a
man given to wine or women, and who could not support fatigues and
hardships? Could we believe that such a commander would be capable to
defend us and to conquer our enemies? Or if we were lying on our
deathbed, and were to appoint a guardian and tutor for our children, to
take care to instruct our sons in the principles of virtue, to breed up
our daughters in the paths of honour and to be faithful in the
management of their fortunes, should we think a debauched person fit for
that employment? Would we trust our flocks and our granaries in the
hands of a drunkard? Would we rely upon him for the conduct of any
enterprise; and, in short, if a present were made us of such a slave,
should we not make it a difficulty to accept him? If, then, we have so
great an aversion for debauchery in the person of the meanest servant,
ought we not ourselves to be very careful not to fall into the same
fault? Besides, a covetous man has the satisfaction of enriching
himself, and, though he take away another’s estate, he increases his
own; but a debauched man is both troublesome to others and injurious to
himself. We may say of him that he is hurtful to all the world, and yet
more hurtful to himself, if to ruin, not only his family, but his body
and soul likewise, is to be hurtful. Who,
then, can take delight in the company of him who has no other diversion
than eating and drinking, and who is better pleased with the
conversation of a prostitute than of his friends? Ought we not, then,
to practise temperance above all things, seeing it is the foundation of
all other virtues; for without it what can we learn that is good, what
do that is worthy of praise? Is not the state of man who is plunged in
voluptuousness a wretched condition both for the body and soul?
Certainly, in my opinion, a free person ought to wish to have no such
servants, and servants addicted to such brutal irregularities ought
earnestly to entreat Heaven that they may fall into the hands of very
indulgent masters, because their ruin will be otherwise almost
unavoidable.” This is what Socrates was wont
to say upon this subject. But if he appeared to be a lover of
temperance in his discourses, he was yet a more exact observer of it in
his actions, showing himself to be not only invincible to the pleasures
of the senses, but even depriving himself of the satisfaction of getting
an estate; for he held that a man who accepts of money from others makes
himself a servant to all their humours, and becomes their slave in a
manner no less scandalous than other slaveries. To this end it will not be
amiss to relate, for the honour of Socrates, what passed between him and
the sophist Antiphon, who designed to seduce away his hearers, and to
that end came to him when they were with him, and, in their presence,
addressed himself to him in these words:—“I imagined, Socrates, that
philosophers were happier than other men; but, in my opinion, your
wisdom renders you more miserable, for you live at such a rate that no
footman would live with a master that treated him in the same manner.
You eat and drink poorly, you are clothed very meanly—the same suit
serves you in summer and winter—you go barefoot, and for all this you
take no money, though it is a pleasure to get it; for, after a man has
acquired it, he lives more genteely and more at his ease. If,
therefore, as in all other sorts of arts, apprentices endeavour to
imitate their masters, should these who frequent your conversation
become like you, it is certain that you will have taught them nothing
but to make themselves miserable.” Socrates answered him in
the following manner:—“You think, Antiphon, I live so poorly that I
believe you would rather die than live like me. But what is it you find
so strange and difficult in my way of living? You blame me for not
taking money; is it because they who take money are obliged to do what
they promise, and that I, who take none, entertain myself only with whom
I think fit? You despise my eating and drinking; is it because my diet
is not so good nor so nourishing as
yours, or because it is more scarce and dearer, or lastly, because your
fare seems to you to be better? Know that a man who likes what he eats
needs no other ragoût, and that he who finds one sort of drink
pleasant wishes for no other. As to your objection of my clothes, you
appear to me, Antiphon, to judge quite amiss of the matter; for, do you
not know that we dress ourselves differently only because of the hot or
cold weather, and if we wear shoes it is because we would walk the
easier? But, tell me, did you ever observe that the cold hath hindered
me from going abroad? Have you ever seen me choose the cool and fresh
shades in hot weather? And, though I go barefoot, do not you see that I
go wherever I will? Do you not know that there are some persons of a
very tender constitution, who, by constant exercise, surmount the
weakness of their nature, and at length endure fatigues better than they
who are naturally more robust, but have not taken pains to exercise and
harden themselves like the others? Thus, therefore, do not you believe
that I, who have all my life accustomed myself to bear patiently all
manner of fatigues, cannot now more easily submit to this than you, who
have never thought of the matter? If I have no keen desire after
dainties, if I sleep little, if I abandon not myself to any infamous
amour, the reason is because I spend my time more delightfully in things
whose pleasure ends not in the moment of enjoyment, and that make me
hope besides to receive an everlasting reward. Besides, you know very
well, that when a man sees that his affairs go ill he is not generally
very gay; and that, on the contrary, they who think to succeed in their
designs, whether in agriculture, traffic, or any other undertaking, are
very contented in their minds. Now, do you
think that from anything whatsoever there can proceed a satisfaction
equal to the inward consciousness of improving daily in virtue, and
acquiring the acquaintance and friendship of the best of men? And if we
were to serve our friends or our country, would not a man who lives like
me be more capable of it than one that should follow that course of life
which you take to be so charming? If it were necessary to carry arms,
which of the two would be the best soldier, he who must always fare
deliciously, or he who is satisfied with what he finds? If they were to
undergo a siege who would hold out longest, he who cannot live without
delicacies, or he who requires nothing but what may easily be had? One
would think, Antiphon, that you believe happiness to consist in good
eating and drinking, and in an expensive and splendid way of life. For
my part, I am of opinion that to have need of nothing at all is a divine
perfection, and that to have need but of little is to approach very near
the Deity, and hence it follows that, as there is nothing more excellent
than the Deity, whatever approaches nearest to it is likewise most near
the supreme excellence.” Another time Antiphon
addressed himself to Socrates: “I confess you are an honest,
well-meaning man, Socrates; but it is certain you know little or
nothing, and one would imagine you own this to be true, for you get
nothing by your teaching. And yet, I persuade myself, you would not
part with your house, or any of the furniture of it, without some
gratuity, because you believe them of some small value; nay, you would
not part with them for less than they are worth: if, therefore, you
thought your teaching worth anything you would be paid for it according
to its value;
in this, indeed, you show yourself honest, because you will not, out of
avarice, cheat any man, but at the same time you discover, too, that you
know but little, since all your knowledge is not worth the buying.” Socrates answered him in this
manner:—“There is a great resemblance between beauty and the doctrine of
philosophers; what is praiseworthy in the one is so in the other, and
both of them are subject to the same vice: for, if a woman sells her
beauty for money, we immediately call her a prostitute; but if she knows
that a man of worth and condition is fallen in love with her, and if she
makes him her friend, we say she is a prudent woman. It is just the
same with the doctrine of philosophers; they that sell it are sophists,
and like the public women, but if a philosopher observe a youth of
excellent parts, and teacheth him what he knows, in order to obtain his
friendship, we say of him, that he acts the part of a good and virtuous
citizen. Thus as some delight in fine horses, others in dogs, and
others in birds; for my part all my delight is to be with my virtuous
friends. I teach them all the good I know, and recommend them to all
whom I believe capable to assist them in the way to perfection. We all
draw together, out of the same fountain, the precious treasures which
the ancient sages have left us; we run over their works, and if we find
anything excellent we take notice of it and select it: in short, we
believe we have made a great improvement when we begin to love one
another.” This was the answer he made, and when I heard him speak in
this manner I thought him very happy, and that he effectually stirred up
his hearers to the love of virtue. Another time when
Antiphon asked him why he did not
concern himself with affairs of State, seeing he thought himself capable
to make others good politicians? he returned this answer:—“Should I be
more serviceable to the State if I took an employment whose function
would be wholly bounded in my person, and take up all my time, than I am
by instructing every one as I do, and in furnishing the Republic with a
great number of citizens who are capable to serve her?” But let us now see
whether by dissuading his friends from a vain ostentation he did not
exhort them to the pursuit of virtue. He frequently said that there was
no readier way to glory than to render oneself excellent, and not to
affect to appear so. To prove this he alleged the following
example:—“Let us suppose,” said he, “that any one would be thought a
good musician, without being so in reality; what course must he take?
He must be careful to imitate the great masters in everything that is
not of their art; he must, like them, have fine musical instruments; he
must, like them, be followed by a great number of persons wherever he
goes, who must be always talking in his praise. And yet he must not
venture to sing in public: for then all men would immediately perceive
not only his ignorance, but his presumption and folly likewise. And
would it not be ridiculous in him to spend his estate to ruin his
reputation? In like manner, if any one would appear a great general, or
a good pilot, though he knew
nothing
of either, what would be the issue of it? If he cannot make others
believe it, it troubles him, and if he can persuade them to think so he
is yet more unhappy, because, if he be made choice of for the steering
of ships, or to command an army, he will acquit himself very ill of his
office, and perhaps be the cause of the loss of his best friends. It is
not less dangerous to appear to be rich, or brave, or strong, if we are
not so indeed, for this opinion of us may procure us employments that
are above our capacity, and if we fail to effect what was expected of us
there is no remission for our faults. And if it be a great cheat to
wheedle one of your neighbours out of any of his ready money or goods,
and not restore them to him afterwards, it is a much greater impudence
and cheat for a worthless fellow to persuade the world that he is
capable to govern a Republic.” By these and the like arguments he
inspired a hatred of vanity and ostentation into the minds of those who
frequented him. In the same manner,
likewise, he encouraged his hearers by the following arguments to
support hunger and thirst, to resist the temptations of love, to fly
from laziness, and inure themselves to all manner of fatigues. For,
being told that one of them lived too luxuriously, he asked him this
question: “If you were entrusted, Aristippus, with the education of two
young men, one to be a prince and the other a private man, how would you
educate them? Let us begin with their nourishment, as being the
foundation of all.” “It is true,” said Aristippus, “that nourishment is
the foundation of our life, for a man must soon die if he be not
nourished.” “You would accustom both of them,” said Socrates, “to eat
and drink at a certain hour?” “It is likely I should?” “But which of
the two,” said Socrates, “would you teach to leave eating before he was
satisfied, to go about some earnest business?” “Him, without doubt,”
answered Aristippus, “whom I intended to render capable to govern, to
the end that under him the affairs of the Republic might not suffer by
delay.” “Which of the two,” continued Socrates, “would you teach to
abstain from drinking when he was thirsty, to sleep but little, to go
late to bed, to rise early, to watch whole nights, to live chastely, to
get the better of his favourite inclinations, and not to avoid fatigues,
but expose himself freely to them?” “The same
still,” replied Aristippus. “And if there be any art that teaches to
overcome our enemies, to which of the two is it rather reasonable to
teach it?” “To him to,” said Aristippus, “for without that art all the
rest would avail him nothing.” “I believe,” said Socrates, “that a man,
who has been educated in this manner, would not suffer himself to be so
easily surprised by his enemies as the most part of animals do. For
some perish by their gluttony, as those whom we allure with a bait, or
catch by offering them to drink, and who fall into the snares,
notwithstanding their fears and distrust. Others perish through their
lasciviousness, as quails and partridges, who suffer themselves to be
decoyed by the counterfeit voice of their females, and blindly following
the amorous warmth that transports them, fall miserably into the nets.”
“You say true,” said Aristippus. “Well, then,” pursued Socrates, “is it
not scandalous for a man to be taken in the same snares with irrational
animals? And does not this happen to adulterers, who skulk and hide
themselves in the chambers and closets of married women, though they
know they run a very great risk, and that the laws are very strict and
rigorous against those crimes? They know themselves to be watched, and
that, if they are taken, they shall not be let go with impunity. In a
word, they see punishment and infamy hanging over the heads of criminals
like themselves. Besides, they are not ignorant, that there are a
thousand honourable diversions to deliver them from those infamous
passions, and yet they run hand over head into the midst of these
dangers, and what is this but to be wretched and desperate to the
highest degree?” “I think it so,” answered Aristippus. “What say you
to this,” continued Socrates, “that the most necessary and most important
affairs of life, as those of war and husbandry, are, with others of
little less consequence, performed in the fields and in the open air,
and that the greatest part of mankind accustom themselves so little to
endure the inclemency of the seasons, to suffer heat and cold? Is not
this a great neglect? and do you not think that a man who is to command
others ought to inure himself to all these hardships?” “I think he
ought,” answered Aristippus. “Therefore,” replied Socrates, “if they
who are patient and laborious, as we have said, are worthy to command,
may we not say that they who can do nothing of all this, ought never to
pretend to any office?” Aristippus agreed to it, and Socrates went on. “Since then you know the
rank which either of these two sorts of men ought to hold, amongst which
would you have us place you?” “Me!” said Aristippus; “why truly, not
amongst those that govern; for that is an office I would never choose.
Let those rule who have a mind for it; for my part, I envy not their
condition. For, when I reflect that we find it hard enough to supply
our own wants, I do not approve of loading ourselves, besides, with the
necessities of a whole people; and that being often compelled to go
without many things that we desire, we should engage ourselves in an
employment that would render us liable to blame, if we did not take care
to supply others with everything they want: I think there is folly in
all this. For republics make use of their magistrates as I do of my
slaves, who shall get me my meat and drink, and all other necessaries,
as I command, and not presume to touch any of it themselves; so, too,
the people will have those, who govern the State, take care to provide
them with plenty of all things, and will not suffer them to do anything for
their own advantage. I think, therefore, that all who are pleased with
a hurry of affairs, and in creating business for others, are most fit to
govern, provided they have been educated and instructed in the manner we
mentioned. But, for my part, I desire to lead a more quiet and easy
life.” “Let us,” said Socrates,
“consider whether they who govern lead more happy lives than their
subjects: among the nations that are known to us in Asia, the Syrians,
the Phrygians, and the Lydians, are under the empire of the Persians.
In Europe, the Mæotians are subject to the Scythians; in Africa, the
Carthaginians reign over the rest of the Africans. Which now, in your
opinion, are the most happy? Let us look into Greece, where you are at
present. Whose condition, think you, is most to be desired, that of the
nations who rule, or of the people who are under the dominion of
others?” “I can never,” said Aristippus, “consent to be a slave; but
there is a way between both that leads neither to empire nor subjection,
and this is the road of liberty, in which I endeavour to walk, because
it is the shortest to arrive at true quiet and repose.” “If you had
said,” replied Socrates, “that this way, which leads neither to empire
nor subjection, is a way that leads far from all human society, you
would, perhaps, have said something; for, how can we live among men, and
neither command nor obey? Do you not observe that the mighty oppress
the weak, and use them as their slaves, after they have made them groan
under the weight of oppression, and given them just cause to complain of
their cruel usage, in a thousand instances, both general and
particular? And if they find any who will not submit to the yoke, they
ravage their countries, spoil their corn, cut down their trees, and attack
them, in short, in such a manner that they are compelled to yield
themselves up to slavery, rather than undergo so unequal a war? Among
private men themselves, do not the stronger and more bold trample on the
weaker?” “To the end, therefore, that this may not happen to me,” said
Aristippus, “I confine myself not to any republic, but am sometimes
here, sometimes there, and think it best to be a stranger wherever I
am.” “This invention of yours,” replied Socrates, “is very
extraordinary. Travellers, I believe, are not now so much infested on
the roads by robbers as formerly, deterred, I suppose, by the fate of
Sinnis, Scyron, Procrustes, and the rest of that gang. What then? They
who are settled in their own country, and are concerned in the
administration of the public affairs, they have the laws in their
favours, have their relations and friends to assist them, have fortified
towns and arms for their defence: over and above, they have alliances
with their neighbours: and yet all these favourable circumstances cannot
entirely shelter them from the attempts and surprises of wicked men.
But can you, who have none of these advantages, who are, for the most
part, travelling on the roads, often dangerous to most men, who never
enter a town, where you have not less credit than the meanest
inhabitant, and are as obscure as the wretches who prey on the
properties of others; in these circumstances, can you, I say, expect to
be safe, merely because you are a stranger, or perhaps have got
passports from the States that promise you all manner of safety coming
or going, or should it be your hard fortune to be made a slave, you
would make such a bad one, that a master would be never the better for
you? For, who would suffer in his family a man whowould
not work, and yet expected to live well? But let us see how masters use
such servants. “When they are too lascivious,
they compel them to fast till they have brought them so low, that they
have no great stomach to make love, if they are thieves, they prevent
them from stealing, by carefully locking up whatever they could take:
they chain them for fear they should run away: if they are dull and
lazy, then stripes and scourges are the rewards we give them. If you
yourself, my friend, had a worthless slave, would you not take the same
measures with him?” “I would treat such a fellow,” answered Aristippus,
“with all manner of severity, till I had brought him to serve me
better. But, Socrates, let us resume our former discourse.” “In what do they who are
educated in the art of government, which you seem to think a great
happiness, differ from those who suffer through necessity? For you say
they must accustom themselves to hunger and thirst, to endure cold and
heat, to sleep little, and that they must voluntarily expose themselves
to a thousand other fatigues and hardships. Now, I cannot conceive what
difference there is between being whipped willingly and by force, and
tormenting one’s body either one way or the other, except that it is a
folly in a man to be willing to suffer pain.” “How,” said Socrates,
“you know not this difference between things voluntary and constrained,
that he who suffers hunger because he is pleased to do so may likewise
eat when he has a mind; and he who suffers thirst because he is willing
may also drink when he pleases. But it is not in the power of him who
suffers either of them through constraint and necessity to relieve
himself by eating and drinking the moment he desires it? Besides, he
that voluntarily embraceth any laborious
exercise finds much comfort and content in the hope that animates him.
Thus the fatigues of hunting discourage not the hunters, because they
hope to take the game they pursue. And yet what they take, though they
think it a reward for all their toil, is certainly of very little
value. Ought not they, then, who labour to gain the friendship of good
men, or to overcome their enemies, or to render themselves capable of
governing their families, and of serving their country, ought not these,
I say, joyfully to undertake the trouble, and to rest content, conscious
of the inward approbation of their own minds, and the regard and esteem
of the virtuous? And to convince you that it is good to impose labours
on ourselves, it is a maxim among those who instruct youth that the
exercises which are easily performed at the first attempt, and which we
immediately take delight in, are not capable to form the body to that
vigour and strength that is requisite in great undertakings, nor of
imprinting in the soul any considerable knowledge: but that those which
require patience, application, labour, and assiduity, prepare the way to
illustrious actions and great achievements. This is the opinion of good
judges, and of Hesiod in particular, who says somewhere— ‘To Vice, in crowded ranks,
the course we steer, And to the same purpose
Epicharmus:— “The gods confer their
blessings at the price Who
remarks in another place— “Thou son of sloth, avoid
the charms of ease, “Of the same opinion is
Prodicus, in the book he has written of the life of Hercules, where
Virtue and Pleasure make their court to that hero under the appearance
of two beautiful women. His words, as near as I can remember, are as
follows:— “‘When Hercules,’ says the
moralist, ‘had arrived at that part of his youth in which young men
commonly choose for themselves, and show, by the result of their choice,
whether they will, through the succeeding stages of their lives, enter
into and walk in the path of virtue or that of vice, he went out into a
solitary place fit for contemplation, there to consider with himself
which of those two paths he should pursue. “‘As he was sitting there
in suspense he saw two women of a larger stature than ordinary
approaching towards him. One of them had a genteel and amiable aspect;
her beauty was natural and easy, her person and shape clean and
handsome, her eyes cast towards the ground with an agreeable reserve,
her motion and behaviour full of modesty, and her raiment white as
snow. The other wanted all the native beauty and proportion of the
former; her person was swelled, by luxury and ease, to a size quite
disproportioned and uncomely. She had painted her complexion, that it
might seem fairer and more ruddy than it really was, and endeavoured to
appear more graceful than ordinary in her mien, by a mixture of
affectation in all her gestures. Her eyes were full of confidence, and
her dress transparent, that the conceited beauty of her person might
appear through it to advantage. She cast
her eyes frequently upon herself, then turned them on those that were
present, to see whether any one regarded her, and now and then looked on
the figure she made in her own shadow. “‘As they drew nearer, the
former continued the same composed pace, while the latter, striving to
get before her, ran up to Hercules, and addressed herself to him in the
following manner:— “I perceive, my dear Hercules,
you are in doubt which path in life you should pursue. If, then, you
will be my friend and follow me, I will lead you to a path the most easy
and most delightful, wherein you shall taste all the sweets of life, and
live exempt from every trouble. You shall neither be concerned in war
nor in the affairs of the world, but shall only consider how to gratify
all your senses—your taste with the finest dainties and most delicious
drink, your sight with the most agreeable objects, your scent with the
richest perfumes and fragrancy of odours, how you may enjoy the embraces
of the fair, repose on the softest beds, render your slumbers sweet and
easy, and by what means enjoy, without even the smallest care, all those
glorious and mighty blessings. “And, for fear you suspect that
the sources whence you are to derive those invaluable blessings might at
some time or other fail, and that you might, of course, be obliged to
acquire them at the expense of your mind and the united labour and
fatigue of your body, I beforehand assure you that you shall freely
enjoy all from the industry of others, undergo neither hardship nor
drudgery, but have everything at your command that can afford you any
pleasure or advantage.” “‘Hercules, hearing the
lady make him such offers, desired to know her name, to which she
answered, “My friends, and those who are well
acquainted with me, and whom I have conducted, call me Happiness; but my
enemies, and those who would injure my reputation, have given me the
name of Pleasure.” “‘In the meantime, the
other lady approached, and in her turn accosted him in this manner:—“I
also am come to you, Hercules, to offer my assistance; I, who am well
acquainted with your divine extraction and have observed the excellence
of your nature, even from your childhood, from which I have reason to
hope that, if you would follow the path that leadeth to my residence,
you will undertake the greatest enterprises and achieve the most
glorious actions, and that I shall thereby become more honourable and
illustrious among mortals. But before I invite you into my society and
friendship I will be open and sincere with you, and must lay down this
as an established truth, that there is nothing truly valuable which can
be purchased without pains and labour. The gods have set a price upon
every real and noble pleasure. If you would gain the favour of the
Deity you must be at the pains of worshipping Him; if you would be
beloved by your friends you must study to oblige them; if you would be
honoured by any city you must be of service to it; and if you would be
admired by all Greece, on account of your probity and valour, you must
exert yourself to do her some eminent service. If you would render your
fields fruitful, and fill your arms with corn, you must labour to
cultivate the soil accordingly. Would you grow rich by your herds, a
proper care must be taken of them; would you extend your dominions by
arms, and be rendered capable of setting at liberty your captive
friends, and bringing your enemies to subjection, you must not only
learn of those that are experienced in the art
of war, but exercise yourself also in the use of military affairs; and
if you would excel in the strength of your body you must keep your body
in due subjection to your mind, and exercise it with labour and pains.” “‘Here Pleasure broke in upon
her discourse—“Do you see, my dear Hercules, through what long and
difficult ways this woman would lead you to her promised delights?
Follow me, and I will show you a much shorter and more easy way to
happiness.” “Alas!” replied the
Goddess of Virtue, whose visage glowed with a passion made up of scorn
and pity, “what happiness can you bestow, or what pleasure can you
taste, who would never do anything to acquire it? You who will take
your fill of all pleasures before you feel an appetite for any; you eat
before you are hungry, you drink before you are athirst; and, that you
may please your taste, must have the finest artists to prepare your
viands; the richest wines that you may drink with pleasure, and to give
your wine the finer taste, you search every place for ice and snow
luxuriously to cool it in the heat of summer. Then, to make your
slumbers uninterrupted, you must have the softest down and the easiest
couches, and a gentle ascent of steps to save you from any the least
disturbance in mounting up to them. And all little enough, heaven
knows! for you have not prepared yourself for sleep by anything you have
done, but seek after it only because you have nothing to do. It is the
same in the enjoyments of love, in which you rather force than follow
your inclinations, and are obliged to use arts, and even to pervert
nature, to keep your passions alive. Thus is it that you instruct your
followers—kept awake for the greatest part of the night
by debaucheries, and consuming in drowsiness all the most useful part of
the day. Though immortal, you are an outcast from the gods, and
despised by good men. Never have you heard that most agreeable of all
sounds, your own praise, nor ever have you beheld the most pleasing of
all objects, any good work of your own hands. Who would ever give any
credit to anything that you say? Who would assist you in your
necessity, or what man of sense would ever venture to be of your mad
parties? Such as do follow you are robbed of their strength when they
are young, void of wisdom when they grow old. In their youth they are
bred up in indolence and all manner of delicacy, and pass their old age
with difficulties and distress, full of shame for what they have done,
and oppressed with the burden of what they are to do, squanderers of
pleasures in their youth, and hoarders up of afflictions for their old
age. “On the contrary, my
conversation is with the gods, and with good men, and there is nothing
excellent performed by either without my influence. I am respected
above all things by the gods and by the best of mortals, and it is just
I should. I am an agreeable companion to the artisan, a faithful
security to masters of families, a kind assistant to servants, a useful
associate in the arts of peace, a faithful ally in the labours of war,
and the best uniter of all friendships. “My votaries, too, enjoy
a pleasure in everything they either eat or drink, even without having
laboured for it, because they wait for the demand of their appetites.
Their sleep is sweeter than that of the indolent and inactive; and they
are neither overburdened with it when they awake, nor do they, for the
sake of it, omit the necessary duties of life. My young men have
the pleasure of being praised by those who are in years, and those who
are in years of being honoured by those who are young. They look back
with comfort on their past actions, and delight themselves in their
present employments. By my means they are favoured by the gods, beloved
by their friends, and honoured by their country; and when the appointed
period of their lives is come they are not lost in a dishonourable
oblivion, but live and flourish in the praises of mankind, even to the
latest posterity.” “Thus, my dear Hercules, who
are descended of divine ancestors, you may acquire, by virtuous toil and
industry, this most desirable state of perfect happiness.” “Such was the discourse, my
friend, which the goddess had with Hercules, according to Prodicus. You
may believe that he embellished the thoughts with more noble expressions
than I do. I heartily wish, my dear Aristippus, that you should make
such an improvement of those divine instructions, as that you too may
make such a happy choice as may render you happy during the future
course of your life.” Socrates observing his
eldest son Lamprocles in a rage with his mother, spoke to him in this
manner:—“Come hither, my son. Have you ever heard of a certain sort of
men, who are called ungrateful?” “Very often,” answered
the young man. “And do you know,” said Socrates, “why they are called
so?” “We call a man ungrateful,” answered Lamprocles, “who, having
received a kindness, does not return the like if occasion offers.” “I
think, therefore,” said Socrates, “ingratitude is a kind of injustice?”
“I think so too,” answered Lamprocles. Socrates went on:—“Have you
never considered of what nature this injustice is? For since it is an
injustice to treat our friends ill, and on the contrary, a piece of
justice to make our enemies smart for their conduct, may it be said,
with like reason, that it is an injustice to be ungrateful towards our
friends, and that it is just to be ungrateful towards our enemies.” “On
mature consideration,” answered Lamprocles, “I think it is criminal to
do injustice to either of them.” “If, then,” pursued Socrates,
“ingratitude be an injustice, it follows that the greater the favours
are which we have received, the greater is the injustice in not
acknowledging them.” Lamprocles granted this consequence, and Socrates
continued—“Can there be any stricter obligations than those that
children are laid under to their parents? For it is they who gave them
a being, and who have put them in a condition to behold all the wonders
of Nature, and to partake of the many good things exhibited before them
by the bounty of Providence, and which are so delightful, that there is
not anything that all men more dread than to leave them; insomuch that
all governments have ordained death to be the punishment of the most
enormous crimes, because there is nothing can more effectually put a
stop to the rage of the wicked than the apprehension of death. In the
affair of marriage, it is not merely the gratification of the appetite
which Nature has so strongly implanted in both sexes for
their preservation that we regard; no, that passion can be satisfied in
a less expensive manner, even in our streets, and other places; but when
we design to enter into that state, we make choice of a woman of such a
form and shape, by whom we may expect to have fine children, and of such
a temper and disposition as to assure us of future happiness. When that
is finished, it is then the chief care of the husband to maintain his
wife, and to provide for his children things useful for life in the
greatest abundance he can. On the part of the wife, many are her
anxieties and troubles for the preservation of her offspring during the
time of her pregnancy; she gives it then part of her nourishment and
life; and after having suffered the sharpest pangs at the moment of its
birth, she then gives it suck, and continues her care and love to it.
All this she does to the poor helpless infant, so void of reason, that
it knows not even her that is so good to it, nor can ask her for its own
necessities. Full of tenderness for the welfare and happiness of her
babe, her whole time, day and night, is spent in pleasing it, without
the least prospect of any recompense for all her fatigue. After this,
when the children are come to an age fit to be instructed, the fathers
teach them all the good things they can for the conduct of their life;
and if they know any man more capable to instruct them than themselves,
they send them to him, without regard to the expense, thus indicating by
their whole conduct, what sincere pleasure it would afford them to see
their children turn out men of virtue and probity.” “Undoubtedly,”
answered Lamprocles, “if my mother had done all this, and an hundred
times as much, no man could suffer her ill-humours?” “Do not you
think,” said Socrates, “that the anger of a beast is much
more difficult to support than that of a mother?” “Not of a mother like
her,” said Lamprocles. Socrates continued, “What strange thing has she
done to you? Has she bit you, has she kicked you, as beasts do when
they are angry?” “She has a tongue that no mortal can suffer,” answered
Lamprocles. “And you,” replied Socrates, “how many crosses did you give
her in your infancy by your continual bawling and importunate actions?
how much trouble by night and by day? how much affliction in your
illnesses?” “At worst,” answered Lamprocles, “I never did nor said
anything that might make her blush.” “Alas!” said Socrates, “is it more
difficult for you to hear in patience the hasty expressions of your
mother, than it is for the comedians to hear what they say to one
another on the stage when they fall into the most injurious reproaches?
For they easily suffer it, knowing well that when one reviles another,
he reviles him not with intent to injure him; and when one threatens
another, he threatens not with design to do him any harm. You who are
fully convinced likewise of the intentions of your mother, and who know
very well that the hard words she gives you do not proceed from hate,
but that she has a great affection for you, how can you, then, be angry
with her? Is it because you imagine that she wishes you ill?” “Not in
the least,” answered Lamprocles; “I never had such a thought.” “What!”
continued Socrates; “a mother that loves you; a mother who, in your
sickness, does all she can to recover your health, who takes care that
you want for nothing, who makes so many vows to heaven for you; you say
this is an ill mother? In truth, if you cannot live with her, I will
say you cannot live at your ease. Tell me, in short, do you believe
you ought to have any reverence or respect for any one whatever? Or do
you not care for any man’s favour and goodwill, neither for that of a
general, suppose, or of any other magistrate?” “On the contrary,” said
Lamprocles, “I am very careful to gain the goodwill of all men.”
“Perhaps you would endeavour to acquire the goodwill of your neighbour,
to the end he might do you kind offices, such as giving you fire when
you want it, or, when any misfortune befalls you, speedily relieve
you?” “Yes, I would.” “And if you were travelling with any man, either
by sea or land, would you count it a matter of indifference whether you
were loved by him or not?” “No, indeed.” “Are you then so abandoned,
Lamprocles,” replied Socrates, “that you would take pains to acquire the
goodwill of those persons, and yet will do nothing to your mother, who
loves you incomparably better than they? Know you not that the Republic
concerns not herself with common instances of ingratitude; that she
takes no cognisance of such crimes, and that she neglects to punish
those who do not return the civilities they receive? But if any one be
disrespectful to his parents there is a punishment provided for such
ingratitude; the laws reject him as an outlaw, and will not allow him to
be received into any public office, because it is a maxim commonly
received amongst us, that a sacrifice, when offered by an impious hand,
cannot be acceptable to the gods, nor profitable to the Republic.
Nobody can believe, that a person of such a character can be capable to
perform any great or worthy action, or to act the part of a righteous
judge. The same punishment is ordained likewise for those who, after
the death of their parents, neglect to honour their funerals: and this
is particularly
examined into in the inquiry that is made into the lives of such as
stand candidates for offices. “Therefore, my son, if you be
wise, you will beseech Heaven to pardon you the offences committed
against your mother, to the end that the favours of the Deity may be
still continued to you, and that you may not forfeit them by an
ungrateful behaviour. Take care, likewise, that the public may not
discover the contempt you show her, for then would you be blamed and
abandoned by all the world; for, if it were suspected that you did not
gratefully resent the benefits conferred on you by your parents, no man
could believe you would be grateful for any kind actions that others
might do you.” Two brothers, whose names
were Chaerephon and Chaerecrates, were at enmity with each other.
Socrates was acquainted with them, and had a great mind to make them
friends. Meeting therefore with Chaerecrates, he accosted him
thus:—“Are you, too, one of those who prefer the being rich to the
having a brother, and who do not consider that riches, being inanimate
things, have need of being defended, whereas a brother is himself a good
defence, and, after all, that there is more money than brothers? For is
it not extravagant in such men to imagine that a brother does them wrong
because they enjoy not his estate? Why say they not likewise, that all
the world does them wrong, because they are
not in possession of what belongs to the rest of mankind? But they
believe, with great reason, that it is better to live in society and to
be ensured of a moderate estate than to have the sole possession of all
that is their neighbours’, and to be exposed to the dangers that are
inseparable from solitude. Nevertheless, they are not of the same
opinion as to the company of their brothers. If they are rich they buy
themselves slaves to serve them, they procure themselves friends to
stand by them; but for their brothers they neglect them; as if a brother
were not so fit to make a friend of as another person. And yet it is of
great efficacy towards the begetting and establishing of friendships to
have been born of the same parents and brought up together, since even
beasts, we see, retain some inclination for those who have come from the
same dams, and have been bred up and nourished together. Besides, a man
who has a brother is the more regarded for it, and men are more cautious
to offend him.” Chaerecrates answered him thus:— “You are indeed in the
right to say that a good brother is a great happiness; and, unless there
be a very strong cause of dissension, I think that brothers ought a
little to bear with one another, and not part on a slight occasion; but
when a brother fails in all things, and is quite the reverse of what he
ought to be, would you have a man do what is impossible and continue in
good amity with such a person?” Socrates replied, “Does your brother
give offence to all the world as well as to you? Does nobody speak well
of him?” “That,” said Chaerecrates, “is one of the chief causes of the
hatred I bear him, for he is sly enough to please others; but whenever
we two happen to meet you would think his sole
design were to fall out with me.” Socrates replied, “Does not this
proceed from what I am going to say? When any man would make use of a
horse, and knows not how to govern him, he can expect nothing from him
but trouble. Thus, if we know not in what manner to behave ourselves
toward our brother, do you think we can expect anything from him but
uneasiness?” “Why do you imagine,” said Chaerecrates, “that I am
ignorant in what manner I ought to carry myself to a brother, since I
can show him as much love and respect, both in my words and actions, as
he can show me in his? But when I see a man endeavour to disoblige me
all manner of ways, shall I express any goodwill for that man? No; this
is what I cannot do, and will not so much as endeavour it.” “I am
astonished to hear you talk after this manner,” said Socrates; “pray
tell me, if you had a dog that were good to keep your flocks, who should
fawn on your shepherds, and grin his teeth and snarl whenever you come
in his way, whether, instead of being angry with him, you would not make
much of him to bring him to know you? Now, you say that a good brother
is a great happiness; you confess that you know how to oblige, and yet
you put it not in practice to reconcile yourself with Chaerephon.” “I
fear I have not skill enough to compass it.” “I think,” said Socrates,
“there will be no need of any extraordinary skill in the matter; and am
certain that you have enough to engage him to wish you well, and to have
a great value for you.” “Pray,” cried Chaerecrates, “if you know any
art I have to make myself beloved, let me know it immediately, for
hitherto I never perceived any such thing.” “Answer me,” said
Socrates. “If you desired that one of your friends should
invite you to his feast when he offered a sacrifice, what course would
you take?” “I would begin first to invite him to mine.” “And if you
would engage him to take care of your affairs in your absence on a
journey, what would you do?” “I would first, during his absence, take
care of his.” “And if you would have a foreigner entertain you in his
family when you come into his country, what method would you take?” “I
would make him welcome at my house when he came to this town, and would
endeavour to further the dispatch of his business, that he might do me
the like favour when I should be in the city where he lives.”
“Strange,” said Socrates, “that you, who know the common methods of
ingratiating yourself, will not be at the pains of practising them. Why
do you scruple to begin to practise those methods? Is it because you
are afraid that, should you begin with your brother, and first do him a
kindness, you would appear to be of a mean-spirited and cringing
disposition? Believe me, my friend, you will never, on that account,
appear such. On the contrary, I take it to be the part of an heroic and
generous soul to prevent our friends with kindness and our enemies with
valour. Indeed, had I thought that Chaerephon had been more proper than
you to propose the reconciliation, I would have endeavoured to have
persuaded him to prevent you; but I take you to be more fit to manage
this matter, and believe you will bring it to pass rather than he.”
“What you say is absurd and unworthy of you,” replied Chaerecrates.
“Would you have me break the ice; I, who am the younger brother? Do you
forget that among all nations the honour to begin is reserved to the
elder?” “How do you mean?” said Socrates. “Must not a younger brother
give the precedency to the older? Must he not
rise up when he comes in, give him the best place, and hold his peace to
let him speak? Delay, therefore, no longer to do what I desire you; go
and try to appease your brother. He will receive you with open arms; it
is enough that he is a friend to honour, and of a generous temper, for
as there is no readier way to gain the goodwill of the mean and poor
than by being liberal to them, so nothing has more influence on the mind
of a man of honour and note than to treat him with respect and
friendship.” Chaerecrates objected: “But when I have done what you say,
if my brother should not be better tempered, what then?” “What harm
would it be to you?” said Socrates. “It will show your goodness, and
that you love him, and make him appear to be ill-natured, and not
deserving to be obliged by any man. But I am of opinion this will not
happen, and when he sees that you attack him with civilities and good
offices, I am certain he will endeavour to get the better of you in so
kind and generous a contention. You are now in the most wretched
condition imaginable. It is as if the hands which God has given us
reciprocally to aid each other were employed only to hinder one another,
or as if the feet, which by the divine providence were made to assist
each other to walk, were busied only in preventing one another from
going forward. Would it not, then, be a great ignorance, and at the
same time a great misfortune, to turn to our disadvantage what was made
only for our utility? Now, it is certain that God has given us brothers
only for our good; and that two brothers are a greater advantage to one
another than it can be to either of them to have two hands, two feet,
two eyes, and other the like members, which are double in our body, and
which Nature has designed as brothers.
For the hands cannot at the same time reach two things several fathoms
distant from one another; the feet cannot stretch themselves from the
end of one fathom to another; the eyes, which seem to discover from so
far, cannot, at the same time, see the fore and hind-part of one and the
same object; but when two brothers are good friends, no distance of
place can hinder them from serving each other.” I remember likewise a
discourse which I have heard him make concerning friendship, and that
may be of great use to instruct us by what means we ought to procure
ourselves friends, and in what manner we should live with them. He said
“that most men agree that a true friend is a precious treasure, and that
nevertheless there is nothing about which we give ourselves so little
trouble as to make men our friends. We take care,” said he, “to buy
houses, lands, slaves, flocks, and household goods, and when we have
them we endeavour to keep them, but though a friend is allowed to be
capable of affording us a far greater happiness than any or all of
these, yet how few are solicitous to procure themselves a friend, or,
when they have, to secure his friendship? Nay, some men are so stupid
as to prefer their very slaves to their friends. How else can we
account for their want of concern about the latter when either in
distress or sickness, and at the same time their extreme anxiety for the
recovery of the former when in the same condition?
For then immediately physicians are sent for, and all remedies that can
be thought of applied to their relief. Should both of them happen to
die, they will regret more the loss of their slave than of their friend,
and shed more tears over the grave of the former than of the latter.
They take care of everything but their friends; they will examine into
and take great notice of the smallest trifle in their affairs, which
perhaps stand in no need of their care, but neglect their friends that
do. In short, though they have many estates, they know them all; but
though they have but few friends, yet they know not the number of them;
insomuch that if they are desired to name them, they are puzzled
immediately, so little are their friends in their thoughts.
Nevertheless, there is nothing comparable to a good friend; no slave is
so affectionate to our person or interest; no horse can render us so
great service; in a word, nothing is so useful to us in all occasions.
For a true friend supplies all the wants and answers all the demands of
another, either in the conduct of his private affairs or in the
management of the public. If, for instance, his friend be obliged to do
a kindness to any man, he puts him in the way of it; if he be assaulted
with any danger he immediately flies to his relief. At one time he
gives him part of his estate, at another he assists him with the labour
of his hands; sometimes he helps him to persuade, sometimes he aids him
to compel; in prosperity he heightens his delight by rejoicing with him;
in adversity he diminisheth his sorrows by bearing a share of them. The
use a man may make of his hands, his eyes, his ears, his feet, is
nothing at all when compared with the service one friend may render
another. For often what we cannot do for our own advantage, what we have
not seen, nor thought, nor heard of, when our own interests were
concerned, what we have not pursued for ourselves, a friend has done for
his friend. How foolish were it to be at so much trouble in cultivating
a small orchard of trees, because we expect some fruit from it, and yet
be at no pains to cultivate that which is instead of a whole estate—I
mean Friendship—a soil the most glorious and fertile where we are sure
to gather the fairest and best of fruit!” To what I have advanced
above I shall here relate another discourse of his, as far as I can
remember, in which he exhorted his hearers to examine themselves, that
they might know what value their friends might set upon them; for seeing
a man who had abandoned his friend in extreme poverty, he asked
Antisthenes this question in presence of that very man and several
others: “Can we set a price upon friends as we do upon slaves? One
slave may be worth twenty crowns, another not worth five; such a one
will cost fifty crowns, another will yield a hundred. Nay, I am told
that Nicias, the son of Niceratus, gave even six hundred crowns for one
slave to be inspector of his silver mines. Do you think we might
likewise set prices upon friends?” “I believe we may,” answered
Antisthenes; “for there are some men by whom I would rather choose to be
loved than to have twenty crowns; others for whose affection I would not
spend five. I know some, too, for whose friendship I would give
all I am worth.” “If it be so,” said Socrates, “it would be well that
each man should consider how much he can be worth to his friends, and
that he should endeavour to render himself as valuable as he can in
their regard, to the end they might not abandon him; for when I hear one
complain that his friend has betrayed him; another that he, whom he
thought faithful, has preferred a small gain to the preservation of his
friendship, I reflect on these stories, and ask whether, as we sell a
good-for-nothing slave for what we can get for him, we are not likewise
tempted to get rid of an ill-friend when we are offered more for him
than he is worth? because I do not see men part with their slaves if
they be good, nor abandon their friends if they be faithful.” The following
conversation of Socrates with Critobulus may teach us how we ought to
try friends, and with whom it is good to contract friendship:—“If we
were to choose a friend,” said Socrates to him, “what precaution ought
we to take? Ought we not to look out for a man who is not given to
luxury, to drunkenness, to women, nor to idleness? For with these vices
he could never be very useful to his friend nor to himself.” “That is
certain,” answered Critobulus. “Then,” said Socrates, “if we found a
man that loved to live great, though he had not an estate to support the
expense, and who having daily occasion to employ the purses of his
friends should show by his actions that whatever you lend him is so much
lost, and
that if you do not lend him he will take it ill of you, do you not think
that such a man would be very improper to make a friend of?” “There is
no doubt of it,” said Critobulus. “And if we found another,” continued
Socrates, “who was saving of what he had, but who, on the other hand,
was so covetous that it would be quite unfit to have anything to do with
him, because he would always be very ready to receive and never to give
again?” “In my opinion,” said Critobulus, “this would be a worse friend
than the former. And if we should find a man who was so carried away
with the desire of enriching himself that he applied his mind to nothing
else, but getting all he could scrape together?” “We ought not to have
anything to do with him neither,” answered Critobulus, “for he would be
good to no man but himself.” “If we found a quarrelsome man,” continued
Socrates, “who was every day like to engage all his friends in new
broils and squabbles, what would you think of him?” “That he ought to
be avoided,” answered Critobulus. “And if a man,” said Socrates, “were
free from all these faults, and were only of a humour to desire to
receive kindnesses, but never to concern himself to return them, what
would you think of him?” “That neither he, too, would be proper to make
a friend of,” replied Critobulus; “and indeed, after having rejected so
many, I can scarce tell whom we should take.” “We ought to take,” said
Socrates, “a man who were the reverse of all those we have mentioned,
who would be temperate in his manners, faithful in his promises, and
sincere in all his actions; who would think it a point of honour not to
be outdone in civilities so that it would be of advantage to have to do
with him.” “But how can we be certain of all this,” said Critobulus, “before
we have tried him?” “When we would give our judgment of statuaries, we
have no regard,” replied Socrates, “to what they say of themselves, but
consider their works; and he who has already made good statues is the
person of whom we have the best opinion for those he shall make for the
future. Apply this to the question you asked me, and be assured that a
man who has served his former friends well will be likely to show no
less affection for those that come after; as we may strongly conjecture
that a groom, whom we have formerly seen dress horses very well, is
capable of dressing others.” “But,” said Critobulus, “when we have
found a man worthy of our choice, how ought we to contract a friendship
with him?” “In the first place,” answered Socrates, “we must inquire
whether the gods approve of it.” “But supposing they do not dissuade
us, how are we to take this precious prey?” “Not by hunting, as we
catch hares,” said Socrates; “nor in nets, as we take birds, nor by
force, as we take our enemies; for it is very difficult to gain any
man’s friendship against his will, or stop him by force, and detain him
in prison as a slave, seeing such ill-usage would oblige him rather to
wish us ill than to love us.” “What, then, ought we to do?” pursued
Critobulus. “It is reported,” replied Socrates, “that there are some
words so powerful that they who know them make themselves loved by
pronouncing them, and that there are likewise other charms for the same
purpose.” “And where can one learn these words?” added Critobulus.
“Have you not read in Homer,” answered Socrates, “what the Syrens said
to enchant Ulysses? The beginning of it is thus— ‘Oh, stay! oh, pride of
Greece, Ulysses, stay!’ “You
say true,” continued Critobulus; “but did not they say as much to the
others, to stop them too?” “Not at all,” said Socrates, “they enchanted
with these words only the generous men who were in love with virtue.”
“I begin to understand you,” said Critobulus, “and seeing this charm,
which is so powerful to enchant and captivate the mind, is nothing but
praise, you mean that we ought to praise a man in such a manner that he
may not distrust we laugh at him; otherwise, instead of gaining his
affection, we shall incur his hate; for it would be insupportable to a
man, who knows he is little and weak, to be praised for his graceful
appearance, for being well-shaped, and of a robust constitution.” “But
do you know no other charms?” “No,” answered Socrates; “but I have
indeed heard it said, that Pericles knew a great many, by means of which
he charmed the Republic, and gained the favour and esteem of all.”
Critobulus continued, “What was it that Themistocles did to make himself
so esteemed?” “He used no other charms,” said Socrates, “than the
eminent services he rendered to the State.” “Which is as much as to
say,” replied Critobulus, “that to gain the friendship of the great, we
must render ourselves capable to perform great actions.” “And could you think it
possible,” said Socrates, “that any one should share in the friendship
of men of merit without being possessed of one good quality?” “Why
not?” answered Critobulus; “I have seen despicable rhetoricians beloved
by the most famous orators, and persons who knew nothing of war live in
familiarity with great generals.” “But have you seen men who are fit
for nothing (for that is the question we speak of) get any friends of consequence?”
“I confess I have not,” answered Critobulus; “nevertheless, since it is
impossible for a man of no worth whatever to have the friendship of men
of condition and merit, tell me whether the man who acquires the
character of worth and merit obtains, at the same time, the friendship
of all who possess that excellent character?” “The reason, I suppose,
why you ask this question,” answered Socrates, “is because you
frequently observe dissensions among those who equally cherish honour,
and would all of them rather die than commit a base action; and you are
surprised, that instead of living in friendship, they disagree among
themselves, and are sometimes more difficult to reconcile than the
vilest of all man.” “This is a misfortune,” added Critobulus, “that
arrives not among private men only; for dissensions, nay, even wars,
will happen sometimes, to break out in the best-governed republics,
where virtue is in the highest repute, and where vice is held in the
utmost contempt. Now, when I revolve these considerations in my mind, I
know not where to go in search of friends; for it is impossible, we see,
for the wicked to cultivate a true friendship among themselves. Can
there subsist a true and lasting friendship amongst the ungrateful, the
idle, the covetous, the treacherous, and the dissolute? No, for persons
of such a character will mutually expose themselves to hatred and
contempt; to hatred, because of the hurtful effects of their vices; to
contempt, on account of the deformity of them. Neither, on the other
hand, can we expect, as you have well observed, to find friendship
between a virtuous man and a person of the opposite character. For how
can they who commit crimes be in good amity with those that abhor them?
But what puzzles me most, my dear Socrates,
is to see men of merit and virtue harassing one another, and
endeavouring, to the utmost of their power, to crush and ruin their
antagonists, when, in different interests, both are contending for the
most lucrative posts of the Republic. I am quite at a loss to account
for such a conduct on the principles of friendship; for when I daily
observe the noblest affections of the mind rooted up by the sordid views
of interest, I am in a great doubt whether there is any real friendship
and affection in the world.” “My dear friend,” replied Socrates, “this
matter is very intricate; for, if I mistake not, Nature has placed in
men the principles both of friendship and dissension. Of friendship,
because they have need of one another, they have compassion of their
miseries, they relieve one another in their necessities, and they are
grateful for the assistances which they lend one another: of dissension,
because one and the same thing being agreeable to many they contend to
have it, and endeavour to prejudice and thwart one another in their
designs. Thus strife and anger beget war, avarice stifles benevolence,
envy produces hate. But friendship overcoming all these difficulties,
finds out the virtuous, and unites them together. For, out of a motive
of virtue they choose rather to live quietly in a mean condition, than
to gain the empire of the whole earth by the calamities of war. When
they are pinched with hunger or thirst, they endure them with constancy,
till they can relieve themselves without being troublesome to any one.
When at any time their desires for the enjoyments of love grow violent
and headstrong, then reason, or self-government, lays hold on the reins,
checks the impetuosity of the passion, keeps it within due bounds, and
will not allow them to transgress the
great rule of their duty. They enjoy what is lawfully their own, and
are so far from usurping the rights and properties of others, that they
even give them part of what they have. They agree their differences in
such a manner, that all are gainers, and no man has reason to complain.
They are never transported with anger so far as to commit any action of
which they may afterwards repent. Envy is a passion they are ignorant
of, because they live in a mutual communication of what they possess,
and consider what belongs to their friends as things in their own
possession. From hence you see that the virtuous do not only not
oppose, but that they aid one another in the employments of the
Republic; for they who seek for honours and great offices, only to have
an opportunity of enriching themselves, and exercising a cruel tyranny,
or to live an easy and effeminate life, are certainly very wicked and
unjust, nor can they ever hope to live in friendship with any man. “But why should he who
desires not any authority, but only the better to defend himself from
the wicked, or to assist his friends, or be serviceable to his country;
why should such a man, I say, not agree with another, whose intentions
are the same with his own? Is it because he would be less capable to
serve the Republic, if he had virtuous associates in the administration
of affairs? If, in the tournaments and other games, the most strong
were permitted to enter into a league against the weaker, they would
infallibly be victors in all the courses, and win all the prizes; for
which reason they are not suffered to do so. Therefore, in affairs of
State, since no man is hindered from joining with whom he pleases, to do
good to the Republic, is it not more advantageous, when we concern
ourselves in the government, to
make friendship with men of honour and probity, who are generally, too,
the most knowing and capable, and to have them for our associates than
to make them our adversaries? For it is manifest, that when a man is
engaged in a combat, he ought to have some to assist him, and that he
will have need of a great many, if those whom he opposes be valiant and
powerful. Besides, he must be liberal, and give presents to those who
espouse his quarrel, to encourage them to make a more resolute and
vigorous defence. Now, it is beyond all dispute, that it is much better
to oblige the good, though they are but a few, than the wicked, of whom
there is a great number, because the former are easily gained over to
your side; whereas the latter are hardly won by the best favours, and
those in the greatest abundance, too, to espouse your interest. “However it be,
Critobulus, take courage, endeavour only to become virtuous, and then
boldly pursue the friendship of honest men; this is a sort of chase in
which I may be helpful to you, because I am naturally inclined to love.
I attack briskly those I love, and lay out all my skill to make myself
beloved by them. I endeavour to kindle in their minds a flame like
mine, and to make them desire my company, as ardently as I long for
theirs. You stand in need of this address when you would contract a
friendship with any one. Hide not, then, the secrets of your soul from
me, but let me know who they are for whom you have a regard: for, having
made it my study to please those who were agreeable to me, I believe
that, by long experience, I have now got some considerable insight into
the pursuits and ways of men.” “I have longed a great while,” said
Critobulus, “to learn this art, especially if it may be employed to gain
me the friendship of those whose persons
are not only comely and genteel, but whose minds are replenished and
adorned with all virtue.” Socrates replied: “But my method forbids to
use violence, and I am of opinion that all men fled from the wretch
Scylla, because she detained them by force: whereas the Syrens did no
violence to any man, and employed only their tuneful voices to detain
those who passed near them, so that all stopped to hear, and suffered
themselves to be insensibly charmed by the music of their songs.” “Be
sure,” said Critobulus, “that I will use no violence to them whose
friendship I would gain, and therefore delay no longer to teach me your
art.” “Will you give me your word likewise,” said Socrates, “that you
will not even give them a kiss?” “I promise you,” said Critobulus, “I
will not, unless they are very beautiful persons.” “You mistake the
matter,” replied Socrates; “the beautiful permit not those liberties;
but the ugly grant them freely enough, because they know very well that
should any beauty be ascribed to them, it is only in consideration of
that of the soul.” “I will not transgress in this point,” said
Critobulus; “only impart to me the secret you know to gain friends.” “When you would contract
a friendship with any one,” said Socrates, “you must give me leave to
tell him that you have a great esteem for him, and that you desire to be
his friend.” “With all my heart,” answered Critobulus; “for sure no man
can wish ill to a man who esteems him.” “And if I add besides,”
continued Socrates, “that because you set a great value on his merit you
have much affection for his person, will you not take it amiss?” “Not
at all,” said Critobulus; “for I am sensible we have a great kindness
for those who bear us goodwill.” “I may, then,” said Socrates,
“speak in that manner to those whom you desire to love: but will you
likewise give me leave to advance that your greatest pleasure is to have
good friends, that you take great care of them, that you behold their
good actions with as much joy as if you yourself had performed them, and
that you rejoice at their good fortune as much as at your own: that you
are never weary when you are serving them, and that you believe it the
glory of a man of honour to surpass his friends in benefits, and his
enemies in valour? By this means I think I shall be very useful to you
in procuring you good friends.” “Why do you ask me leave,” said
Critobulus, “as if you might not say of me whatever you please?” “No,
indeed,” answered Socrates, “for I remember what Aspasia once said, that
match-makers are successful in their business when they tell truth of
the persons in whose behalf they court, but that the marriages made by
their lies are unfortunate, because they who are deceived hate one
another, and hate yet more the person that put them together. And
therefore, for the same reason, I think I ought not to tell lies in your
praise.” “You are then so far only my friend,” replied Critobulus,
“that if I have any good qualities to make myself be esteemed, you will
assist me; if not, you will invent nothing in my behalf.” “And do you
think,” said Socrates, “that I should do you more service in giving you
false praises, that are not your due, than by exhorting you to merit the
praise of all men? If you doubt of this, consider the consequences of
it. If, for instance, I should tell the owner of a ship that you are an
excellent pilot, and he upon that should give you the conduct of the
vessel, what hopes could you have that you should not perish? Or if I
should say, publicly, that you are an experienced general,
or a great politician, and if you, by that character which I should
unjustly have obtained for you, should be promoted to the supreme
magistracy, to what dangers would you expose your own life, and the
fortune of the State? Or if I should make any private person believe
that you were a good economist, and he should trust you afterwards with
the care of his family, would not you be the ruin of his estate, and
expose yourself to ridicule and contempt? Which is as much as to say,
Critobulus, that the shortest and surest way to live with honour in the
world is to be in reality what we would appear to be: and if you
observe, you will find that all human virtues increase and strengthen
themselves by the practice and experience of them. Take my advice,
then, and labour to acquire them: but if you are of a different opinion,
pray let me know it.” “I might well be ashamed,” answered Critobulus,
“to contradict you: for no good nor solid objection can be brought
against so rational an assertion.” Socrates had an extreme
tenderness for his friends, and if through imprudence they fell into any
misfortune, he endeavoured to comfort them by his good counsels; if they
laboured under poverty he did all he could to relieve them, teaching all
men that they ought mutually to assist one another in necessity. I will
set down some examples of his behaviour in these occasions. Meeting Aristarchus, who
looked very dejected, he said to him, “I see,
Aristarchus, that something troubles you, but impart the cause of your
grief to your friends, and perhaps we may comfort you.” “Indeed,” said
he, “I am in great affliction; for since the late troubles, many persons
having fled for shelter to the Piraeus, it has so fallen out that my
sisters, nieces, and cousins have all thrown themselves upon me, so that
I have no less than fourteen of them to maintain. You know very well
that we receive no profit of our lands, the enemies being masters of the
open country; our houses in the city are uninhabited, there being at
present very little company in Athens; nobody will buy any goods; no man
will lend money upon any interest whatever, and I believe we may as soon
take it up in the middle of the streets as find where to borrow it. And
I am much concerned that I shall not be able to assist my relations whom
I see ready to perish, while it is impossible for me to maintain them in
the present scarcity of all things.” Socrates having heard him
patiently, said to him, “How comes it to pass that Ceramon, who has so
many persons in his family, finds means not only to maintain them, but
likewise to enrich himself by the profit he makes of them, and that you
are afraid of starving to death, because you have a great many in your
family?” “The reason,” answered Aristarchus, “is this, Ceramon has none
but slaves to take care of, and I am to provide for persons who are
free.” Socrates went on: “For which have you most esteem, for Ceramon’s
slaves, or for the persons who are at your house?” “There is no
comparison between them,” said Aristarchus. “Is it not then a shameful
thing,” replied Socrates, “that Ceramon should grow rich by means of
those whom you acknowledge to be of
less value, and that you should grow poor and be reduced to straits,
though you keep men of condition in your house, whom you value more?”
“By no means,” said Aristarchus, “there is a wide difference betwixt the
two; the slaves that Ceramon keeps follow some trades, but the persons I
have with me have had a liberal education and follow none.” “May not
he,” replied Socrates, “who knows how to do anything that is useful be
said to know a trade?” “Yes, certainly.” “And are not,” continued
Socrates, “oatmeal, bread, the clothes of men and women, cassocks,
coats, and other the like manufactures, things very useful?” “Without
doubt.” “And do not the persons at your house know how to make any of
these things?” “On the contrary,” said Aristarchus, “I believe they
know how to make all of them.” “What are you then afraid of,” added
Socrates? “Why do you complain of poverty, since you know how to get
rich? Do not you observe how wealthy Nausicides is become, what
numerous herds he is master of, and what vast sums he lends the
Republic? Now what made this man so rich? Why, nothing but one of
those manufactures we mentioned, that of making oatmeal. You see, too,
that Cirthes keeps all his family, and lives at his ease upon what he
has got by being a baker. And how doth Demeas, of the village of
Colyttus, get his livelihood? By making cassocks. What makes Menon
live so comfortably? His cloak manufacture. And are not most of the
inhabitants of Megara in good circumstances enough by the trade which
they drive of coats and short jackets?” “I grant all this,” said
Aristarchus, “but still there is a difference betwixt these persons and
me: for, whereas, they have with them some barbarians whom they have
bought, and compel to work what brings
them in gain; I, for my part, keep only ladies and gentlemen at my
house, persons who are free, and some of them my own relations. Now
would you have me to set them to work?” “And because they are free and
your relations,” said Socrates, “do you think they ought to do nothing
but eat and sleep? Do you observe that they, who live thus idle and at
their ease, lead more comfortable lives than others? Do you think them
more content, more cheerful, that is to say, more happy than those who
employ themselves in any of those manufactures we have mentioned, or in
whatever else tends to the utility or convenience of life? Do you
imagine that idleness and laziness contribute toward our learning things
necessary; that they can enable us to retain those things we have
already learnt; that they help to strengthen the body or keep it in
health; that they can assist us to get riches, or keep what we have got
already; and do you believe that labour and industry are good for
nothing? Why did your ladies learn what you say they know. Did they
believe them to be useless things, and had they resolved never to put
them in practice? Or, on the contrary, was it with design to employ
themselves in those matters, and to get something by them? Is it a
greater piece of wisdom to sit still and do nothing, than to busy
oneself in things that are of use in life, and that turn to account?
And is it not more reasonable for a man to work than to be with his arms
across, thinking how he shall do to live? Shall I tell you my mind,
Aristarchus? Well, then, I am of opinion that in the condition you are
in you cannot love your guests, nor they you for this reason, that you,
on the one hand, feel they are a burden to you, and they, on the other,
perceive you uneasy and discontented on their account.
And it is to be feared that the discontent will increase on both sides,
and that the sense of past favours will wear off; but when you set them
to work you will begin to love them, because they will bring you some
profit; and when they find that you regard them with more complacency
they will not fail to have more love for you. The remembrance of your
kindnesses will be more grateful to them, and the obligations they have
to you will be the greater. In a word, you will be kinder relations and
better friends. Indeed, if what they were to do was a thing worthy of
blame, it would be better to die than to think of it; but what they can
do is honourable, and becoming of their sex, and whoever knows how to do
a thing well will acquit himself of it with honour and pleasure.
Therefore defer no longer to make the proposal to them, since it will be
so advantageous to all of you, and be assured they will receive it with
joy and pleasure.” “Good God! what a fine scheme you have proposed!
Indeed, I cannot but approve of it; nay, it has made such a wonderful
impression on my mind, that whereas I was lately against borrowing money
at all, because I saw that when I had spent it I should not be in a
condition to repay it, I am now resolved to go try where I can take some
up upon any terms, to buy tools and other materials to set ourselves to
work.” What was proposed was
forthwith executed. Aristarchus bought what he wanted; he laid in a
provision of wool, and the ladies worked from morning to night. This
occupation diverted their melancholy, and, instead of the uneasiness
there was before between them and Aristarchus, they began to live in a
reciprocal satisfaction. The ladies loved him as their protector, and he
considered them as persons who were very useful and necessary to him. To conclude, some time
afterwards Aristarchus came to see Socrates, and related the whole
matter to him with great content, and told him the women began to
complain that none but he was idle. “Why do you not put them in mind,”
said Socrates, “of the fable of the dog? For, in the days when beasts
could speak, according to the fable, the sheep said to her master, ‘You
are a strange man; we yield you wool, lambs, and cheeses, and yet you
give us nothing but what we can get upon the ground; and the dog, who
brings you in no profit, is kindly used, for you feed him with the same
bread you eat yourself.’ The dog, overhearing this complaint, answered
her: ‘It is not without reason that I am used so well. It is I who
protect you; it is I who hinder thieves from taking you away, and wolves
from sucking your blood. If I were not always keeping watch about you,
you would not dare so much as to go to feed.’ This answer was the
reason that the sheep yielded freely to the dog the honour they
pretended to before. In like manner do you also let these ladies know
that it is you who are their guardian and protector, and that you watch
over them for their safety with as much care as a faithful and
courageous dog watcheth over a herd committed to his charge. Tell them
that because of you no man dares hurt them, and that it is by your means
that they live at ease and in safety.” Another time, meeting
with Eutherus, one of his old friends, whom he had not seen for a great
while before, he inquired of him from whence he came? “At present,”
answered Eutherus, “I come not from abroad; but towards the end of the
war I returned from a voyage I had made, for, after having lost all the
estate I had upon the frontiers, and my father having left me nothing in
Attica, I was forced to work for my living, and I believe it better to
do so than to be troublesome to others; besides, I can no longer borrow
anything, because I have nothing left to mortgage.” “And how much
longer,” said Socrates, “do you think you shall be able to work for your
living?” “Alas! but a short while,” answered Eutherus. “Nevertheless,”
replied Socrates, “when you come to be old it will cost you something to
maintain yourself, and yet you will not then be able to earn anything.”
“You say very true.” “You had best, then,” continued Socrates, “employ
yourself now in business that will enable you to lay by something for
your old age, and get into the service of some rich man, who has
occasion for an economist, to have the inspection over his workmen, to
gather in his fruits, to preserve what belongs to him, that he may
reward you for the service you do him.” “I should find it very
difficult,” replied Eutherus, “to submit to be a slave.” “Yet,” said
Socrates, “the magistrates in republics, and all that are in
employments, are not, therefore, reputed slaves; on
the contrary, they are esteemed honourable.” “Be that as it will,” said
Eutherus, “I can never think of entering into any office where I might
be liable to blame, for I would not like to be censured by another.”
“But where,” said Socrates, “will you find any employment in which a man
is absolutely perfect, and altogether free from blame? For it is very
difficult to be so exact as not to fail sometimes, and even though we
should not have failed, it is hard to escape the censure of bad judges;
and I should think it a very odd and surprising thing if in that very
employment wherein you say you are now engaged you were so dexterous and
expert as that no man should find anything amiss. “What you are, therefore, to
observe is to avoid those who make it their business to find fault
without reason, and to have to do with more equitable persons; to
undertake what you can actually perform, to reject what you find
yourself unfit to do; and when you have taken in hand to do anything, to
accomplish it in a manner the most excellent and perfect you can. Thus
you will be less subject to be blamed, will find relief to your poverty,
lead an easier life, be out of danger, and will sufficiently provide for
the necessities of your old age.” One day Crito, happening to
meet Socrates, complained to him that it was very difficult for a man
who would keep what he had to live in Athens; “for,” said he, “I am now
sued by some men, though I never did them the least injury, but only
because they know that I had rather give them a little money than
embroil myself in the troubles of law.” Socrates said to him, “Do you
keep dogs to hinder the wolves from coming at your flocks?” “You need
not doubt but I do,” answered Crito. “Ought you not likewise,” replied
Socrates, “to keep a man who were able to drive away all those that
trouble you without cause?” “I would with all my heart,” said Crito,
“but that I fear that in the end he, too, would turn against me.” “Why
so?” said Socrates; “is it not better to serve a man like you, and to
receive favours from him, than to have him for an enemy? You may be
certain that there are in this city many men who would think themselves
very happy to be honoured with your friendship.” After this they happened
to see a certain person name Archedemus, who was a man of very good
parts, eloquent, and extremely skilful in the management of affairs; but
withal very poor and in a low condition, for he was not of that sordid
disposition to take all he could get, by what means soever, but he was a
lover of justice and of honest men, and abhorred to make
rich, or to raise himself by informing and backbiting; for he held that
nothing was more base than that wretched practice of those miscreants
called sycophants or informers. Crito cast an eye upon him, and as
often as they brought him any corn, or wine, or oil, or any other thing
from his country-houses, he sent him some of it; when he offered
sacrifices he invited him to the feasts, and showed him many civilities
of the like nature. Archedemus, seeing the doors of that house open to
him at all times, and that he always found so favourable a reception,
laid aside all his former dependences, and trusted himself wholly to
Crito; then he made it his business immediately to inquire into the
characters of those sycophants who had slandered Crito or informed
against him, and found them to be guilty of many crimes, and that they
had a great number of enemies. This encouraged him to take them to
task, and he prosecuted one of them for a crime which would have
subjected him to a corporal punishment, or at least to a pecuniary
mulct. This fellow, who knew his case to be bad, and that he could not
justify himself, employed all sorts of stratagems to get rid of
Archedemus, who nevertheless would not quit his hold till the other had
discharged Crito, and given him money besides, in name of trouble and
charges. He managed several of his affairs with like success, which
made Crito be thought happy in having him; and as when a shepherd has an
excellent dog, the other shepherds are glad to bring their flocks near
his that they may be safe likewise, so several of Crito’s friends began
to make their court to him, and begged him to lend them Archedemus to
defend them. He, for his part, was glad to oblige Crito; and it was
observed at length that not only Crito lived undisturbed,
but all his friends likewise; and if any one reproached Archedemus that
self-interest had made him his master’s creature, and to adore him and
be so faithful and zealous in his service he would answer him
thus:—“Which of the two do you think most dishonourable—to do services
to men of quality from whom we have received favours, and to enter into
their friendship to declare war against bad men, or to endeavour to
prejudice men of honour, and to make them our enemies, that bad men may
be our friends?” From thenceforward Crito contracted a strict
friendship with Archedemus, and all his friends had likewise a great
respect for him. Socrates, meeting one day
with Diodorus, addressed him thus:—“If one of your slaves ran away,
would you give yourself any trouble to find him?” “Yes, certainly,”
answered he; “and I would give public notice, and promise a reward to
any that brought him to me.” “And if one of them were sick, would you
take care of him, and send for physicians to endeavour to save his
life?” “Without doubt I would.” “And if you saw,” replied Socrates,
“one of your friends—that is to say, a person who renders you a thousand
times more service than a slave, reduced to extreme want—ought you not
to relieve him? I speak this to you on account of Hermogenes. You very
well know he is not ungrateful, and that he would
scorn to receive the least favour from you and not return you the like.
You know likewise that a great number of slaves are not to be valued
like one man who serves willingly, who serves with zeal and affection,
and who is not only capable of doing what he is desired, but who can
likewise of himself think of many things that may be of service to us;
who reasons well, who foresees what may happen, and from whom we may
expect to receive good advice. Now, the best managers hold it as a
maxim that when we find anything of value to be sold cheap we ought to
buy it. Think of it, therefore, for as times now go you may procure
yourself many friends at a cheap rate.” “You say right,” replied
Diodorus, “and therefore pray send Hermogenes to me.” “Excuse me in
that,” answered Socrates, “you would do as well to go to him yourself as
to send for him.” This discourse was the reason
that Diodorus went to Hermogenes, and for a small gratification obliged
him to be his friend; after which Hermogenes took particular care to
please Diodorus, and sought all opportunities of serving him and of
giving him content. |