I at any rate am satisfied.

But will you not tell me too, my friend? Or will you leave me rotting among the vulgar rabble?

Nothing I say pleases you.

Not so, my good sir; you refuse to say anything to please me. So, since you are deliberately keeping me in the dark and you grudge me the chance of becoming as good a philosopher as you are, I shall try as well as I can to find out for myself the true test for these matters and the safest choice to make. Now please listen to me.

I am willing, Lycinus. Perhaps you will say something important.

Then give me your attention and don’t mock me if my investigation is altogether that of a layman; it can’t be helped when you will not explain more precisely although you know better.

Virtue then seems to me like a city whose inhabitants are happy (as your teacher, who has come from there, wherever it may be, would say), outstanding in their wisdom, all of them brave, just, prudent, almost gods. All those things that you find here—robbery, violence, cheating—they say you would find none of them ventured in that city; no, they live together in peace and harmony naturally enough; for what, I suppose, in other cities produces strife and discord, plot and counter-plot, is entirely absent. They do not any longer look on gold, pleasures, or glory as things to quarrel about—they drove them from the city long ago, thinking them unnecessary to their common life. So they live a calm and perfectly happy life with good government, equality, freedom, and the other blessings.

Well then, Lycinus, isn’t it right for everyone to long for citizenship of a city like that, and neither to think of the toils of the journey nor give up because of the time it takes, if once they get there they too are going to be enrolled as citizens and share in the city’s life?

Yes, indeed, Hermotimus, this we must strive for above everything, and all else we must ignore. If our native country here lays claim to us, we must take scant notice, and if any children or parents we may have cling to us weeping, we shall not give way. No, first and foremost we shall urge them to follow the same road. If they will not, or cannot, we must shake them off and make straight for that all-happy city, throwing off our very cloak should they hold on to it to drag us back as we hurry there—for there is no fear of being shut out, even if you come there naked.

On another occasion before this I have heard an old man telling how things were there and urging me to follow him to the city; he would guide me himself and enrol me on my arrival, make me a fellow-tribesman and let me share his clan, so that I might be happy with all the others. “But I would not listen” Homer, Iliad, V, 201; xxii, 103; Od., ix, 228. at that time through folly and youth (it was about fifteen years ago); perhaps by now I should have been in the very suburbs, even by the gates. He told me much about the city, if I remember, and in particular this, that all the inhabitants were aliens and foreigners, not one was a native; there were even many barbarians among the citizens, as well as slaves, cripples, dwarfs, and paupers—in a word anyone who wanted to take part in the city; for property, apparel, height, good looks, family, brilliant ancestry, were not required by law for enrolment; on the contrary, they gave no place in their customs to them; no, intelligence, a desire for what is good, industry, perseverance, a refusal to give in or be weakened by the many hardships encountered on the way, were enough for a man to become a citizen; whoever showed these qualities and kept on going all the way to the city was a citizen there and then equal to them all; inferior or superior, noble or common, bond or free, simply did not exist and were not mentioned in the city.

You see then, Lycinus, that my labour is not in vain or for trifles, if I desire to be myself a citizen of a city so fair and happy.

Yes, Hermotimus, and I myself am in love with the same things and there is nothing I would pray for more. If the city had been near at hand and visible to everyone, you can be sure that long since, without a moment’s hesitation, I myself should have entered in and been a citizen this long time, but, since, as you say, you and the poet Hesiod, it has been built at a very great distance, we must look for the path that leads there and the best guide to follow. Don’t you agree that we must do this?

How else could one go there?

Well, as regards making promises and saying that they know, there are plenty of would-be guides. Many are standing ready, each one saying he is a native of that city. But no one and the same road is to be seen. There are many different ones not at all like each other: one seems to lead to the west, another to the east, another to the north, a fourth straight towards the south; one goes through meadows and gardens and shady spots—a well-watered, pleasant road with nothing to block the way or make hard-going; another is rocky and rough, promising much sun and thirst and exhaustion. Nevertheless all these roads are said to lead to the city, although there is but one city, while they have their ends in the opposite parts of the globe.

All my difficulty lies here. For, whichever of them I approach, a man who stands at the beginning of each path at the entrance, a very trustworthy person, stretches out his hand, and urges me to go off along his road, and each one of them says that he alone knows the direct route and that the others are astray, since they have neither gone there themselves nor followed others able to lead them. If I go to his neighbour, he makes similar promises about his own road and vilifies the others. The man next to him acts similarly, and so do they all in turn. The number of roads, then, and the differences between them, and especially the way the guides over-strain themselves, each sect praising its own, worries me immoderately and makes me uncertain. I don’t know which way to turn or which one to follow to reach the city.

I will free you from your uncertainty. Trust those who have made the journey before, Lycinus, and you cannot go wrong.

Whom do you mean? Which road did they go? Which of the guides did they follow? The same uncertainty appears to us in another guise shifting from events to persons.

What do you mean?

That the man who took Plato’s path and had him for travelling-companion will obviously praise Plato’s route, and so with Epicurus’s and the rest and you with yours. What about it, Hermotimus? Is that not so?

Of course.

Then you have not freed me from my uncertainty. I am just as much in the dark which of the travellers to trust. For I see that each of them and the guide himself have tried only one way, and he praises that one and says that it alone leads to the city. But I cannot know whether he is speaking the truth. That he has reached some destination and has seen some city or other, I will perhaps grant him. But whether he has seen the one he should have seen (that in which you and I want to live) or whether, when he should have gone to Corinth, he has arrived at Babylon and thinks he has seen Corinth, I still do not know—certainly not everyone who has seen a city has seen Corinth, if Corinth is not the only city. What particularly makes me uncertain is this—my knowing that only one road can possibly be the right one. Only one road is the Corinth road, and the other roads lead anywhere except to Corinth, unless a man is so much out of his wits as to think that both the road to the Hyperboreans and the road to India lead to Corinth.

How could that be, Lycinus? Different roads lead to different places.

Well then, my dear Hermotimus, no little deliberation is needed when we choose roads and guides, and we shall not act according to the saying and go off wherever our feet take us; in that way we shall be going off on the road to Babylon or Bactra instead of the road to Corinth without realising it. It is by no means sound to trust to fortune and hope we shall perhaps take the best road, if we start out on one or the other without enquiry. It is possible for even that to happen, and perhaps at some period of time’s long history it has already happened; but in a matter of such importance I think we ought not to run such a reckless risk or confine hope entirely within narrow bounds, ready as the proverb says to sail the Aegean or Ionian seas on a mat; then we should have no right to accuse fortune, if with her arrows and spears she did not altogether hit the one thing that is true among the many that are not. Even Homer’s archer did not succeed in that—when he should have shot the dove he cut the string; Teucer I think it was. Homer, Il. xxiii 867. No, there was much more reason to expect one of the many others to be wounded and fall foul of the arrow than that particular one out of them all. The risk is not slight, if in ignorance we rush into one of the by-ways instead of the straight route in the hope that fortune will make a better choice on our behalf—I think you see that. For still to turn round and come back again in safety is no easy matter once a man casts off his mooring lines and surrenders himself to the wind; he must be tossed about on the sea, usually sick and frightened and with a bad head from the swell, whereas he ought in the first place, before he sailed out, to have climbed up to some look-out and seen whether the wind was fair and favourable for those who wanted to sail over to Corinth, and indeed he ought to have selected the very best navigator and a sound ship able to withstand such a heavy sea.

That is the better way, Lycinus, by far. Yet I know that if you made a round tour of them all you would find no others who were better pilots or more experienced navigators than the Stoics; and, if you want to reach Corinth some day, you will follow them, treading the tracks of Chrysippus and Zeno. No other way is possible.

Do you see, Hermotimus, how universal is that assertion you have made? Plato’s fellow-traveller, Epicurus’s follower, and the rest of them, would say the same, every one of them, that I could not go to Corinth without his company. So I must either believe them all alike (which is ridiculous) or disbelieve them all alike. The latter is by far the safest course until we discover the true one.

Come now, suppose that I, just as I am, still ignorant which of them all has the truth, should choose your way, putting my trust in you, a friend, but one who knows only the way of the Stoics and has travelled by this road alone; then suppose one of the gods brought Plato, Pythagoras, Aristotle, and the rest, back to life, and they stood round me and put questions to me, or even, by Zeus, brought me into court and sued me each and every one of them for maltreatment, saying: “My good Lycinus, what was the matter with you? Who persuaded you to give Chrysippus and Zeno preference over us, who are older by far than they? They were born only yesterday, or the day before, and you have given us no chance to speak, and you have put nothing of what we say to the test.” Supposing they said this, how could I answer them? Or will it be enough if I say that I was persuaded by Hermotimus, a friend of mine? Their answer I know would be: “We, Lycinus, do not know this Hermotimus, whoever he is, and he does not know us either. So you had no right to condemn us all and give a judgment in default against us through relying on a man who is acquainted with only one way in philosophy, and even that perhaps not fully. Lawgivers, Lycinus, do not instruct judges to adopt this procedure, or to give one party a hearing and not allow the other to speak on its own behalf what it thinks is to its own advantage. No, they say that both sides must be given an equal hearing, so that by comparing the opposing arguments they may be assisted in discovering the true and the false, and if they do not adopt this procedure the law allows an appeal to another court.”

Such or something like it is the argument they would use. Or one of them perhaps would even put an additional question to me: “Tell me this, Lycinus: suppose an Ethiopian, a man who had never seen other men like us, because he had never been abroad at all, should state and assert in some assembly of the Ethiopians that nowhere in the world were there any men white or yellow or of any other colour than black, would he be believed by them? Or would one of the older Ethiopians say to him: ‘Come now, you are very bold. How do you know this? You have never left us to go anywhere else, and indeed you have never seen what things are like among other peoples?’” I for my part would say that the old man had asked a fair question. Or what do you advise, Hermotimus?

The fellow will certainly go on and say to me something like this: “Let us make a comparison, Lycinus, and posit a man who knows only the Stoic tenets, like this friend of yours, Hermotimus; he has never gone abroad to Plato’s country or stayed with Epicurus or in short with anyone else. Now, if he said that there was nothing in these many lands as beautiful or as true as the tenets and assertions of Stoicism, would you not with good reason think him bold in giving his opinion on all, and that when he knows only one, and has never put one foot outside Ethiopia?” What answer do you think I should give him?

This very true one, of course: that we do learn Stoicism very thoroughly indeed, since we think fit to pursue this branch of philosophy, but we are not unacquainted with what the others say. For our teacher explains all that to us as he goes along, and knocks it down with his own comments.

Well, do you suppose that at this point the adherents of Plato and Pythagoras and Epicurus and the rest will keep quiet, and not laugh out loud and say to me: “What is your friend Hermotimus doing, Lycinus? He thinks it right to believe what our opponents say about us, and supposes our views to be whatever they say they are, although they either are ignorant of the truth or conceal it. So, if he sees some athlete training before his match, kicking into the air, or punching at empty space as though he were striking his opponent, he will, if he is referee, straightway proclaim him as unbeatable, will he? Or will he consider these romps easy and devoid of risk when he has no antagonist, and adjudge him the winner only when he has overcome and beaten his opponent in the flesh and the latter gives in, and not otherwise? So do not let Hermotimus suppose from the shadow-boxing his teachers practise against us in our absence that they are strong or that our tenets are such as can be easily overthrown. For such a fabrication would be like the houses which children make: they have built them weak in structure and knock them over at once; or again indeed like men practising archery who make bundles of twigs, then fix them up on a pole which they set up at no great distance in front of them, and taking aim let fly. If ever they score a hit and pierce the twigs, they at once give a shout as though they have done something great, because their shaft has gone right through their collection of sticks. But this is not what the Persians do nor the Scythian archers. No, in the first place they themselves are usually on moving horses when they shoot, and secondly, they think that the targets should be moving too, not stationary and waiting for the impact of the shafts, but running about as fast as possible. They generally use wild animals as their targets, and some of them hit birds. If ever they want to test the impact of the shot on the target, they set up a hard-wood board or a raw-hide shield to pierce, and in that way they gain confidence that their arrows can even penetrate armour. So tell Hermotimus from us, Lycinus, that his teachers are setting up collections of sticks to shoot at and then saying that they have bested armed men; and that they are sparring with painted dummies which look like us, and when, as is natural, they have had the better of them they think they have the better of us. To them each of us would quote the words of Achilles about Hector:‘My helmet’s front they do not see.’” Homer, Il. xvi, 70.

This is what they all say, each in his turn, Plato, I fancy, would add one of those stories from Sicily (he knows most of them): Gelo of Syracuse is said to have had bad breath and to have been for a long time ignorant of the fact as no one dared to criticise a tyrant, until a certain foreign woman with whom he had to do dared to tell him how it was. He went to his wife in a rage because she had not told him, although she of all people knew of the bad odour. She begged him to pardon her, for, never having had experience of another man or having been at close quarters with one, she supposed that the mouths of all men had breath like that. “So, Hermotimus,” Plato might say, “since he mixes only with Stoics, naturally does not know what other people’s mouths are like.” Chrysippus could say the same or go even further, if I were to leave him unexamined and go over to Platonism, relying on one of those who had conversed with Plato alone. In short, then, I say that, as long as it is uncertain which creed of philosophy is true, choose none. For choice of one would be misconduct towards the others.

In Hestia’s name, Lycinus, let us leave Plato and Aristotle and Epicurus and the others undisturbed, for I am no match for them. Let us, you and me, enquire into it by ourselves, whether the pursuit of philosophy is as I say it is. As for Ethiopians and Gelo’s wife, why did you have to call her from Syracuse into the discussion?

Why, let them take themselves off, if they seem to you to be superfluous to the discussion. You do the talking now. You look as though you are going to say something wonderful.

It seems to me quite possible, Lycinus, by thorough study of the Stoic doctrines alone, to know the truth from them, even if one does not pursue those of the others and make a thorough study of them in detail. Look at it this way: if someone tells you merely that two twos make the number four, will you have to go about questioning all the other mathematicians to see if there may not perhaps be one of them who makes it five or seven? Or would you know at once that this man is speaking the truth?

At once, Hermotimus.

Why then does it seem to you to be impossible for a man when he meets only Stoics who speak the truth to believe them and have no further need of the others in his knowledge that four could never be five, even if thousands of Platos and Pythagorases say so?

That is not to the point at all, Hermotimus. You are comparing what is admitted to what is in dispute, although they differ enormously. Or what would you say? Have you met anyone who says that by putting together two twos he makes the number seven or eleven?

Not But anyone would be mad who said the answer was not four.

Well then, have you ever met (and by the Graces try to be truthful) any Stoic and Epicurean who did not differ about principles and ends?

In no way.

It seems to me, Lycinus, that you do not understand what I mean.

Then you must speak more clearly, if your argument is to be different from what I say.

There is no reason, if you really find it and once having found it you can know that that is what was missing, or if you can with certainty recognise the sacred object. But in this case, my friend, those first of all who go into the temple are not two, so that one of the two must have the loot, but very many; and secondly just what the missing object is is not clear—whether it is a chalice or a cup or a garland. All the priests give different accounts of it and do not agree even about the very stuff it is made of: some say it is of copper, others of silver, others of gold, yet others of tin. So you must strip all the visitors, if you want to find the missing article. For, if you find a golden chalice straightway on the first, you must nevertheless strip the others as well.

Why, Lycinus?

Because it is not clear that it was a chalice that was missing. And even if this be admitted by everyone, then they do not all agree that the chalice is golden. And if it is well known that a gold cup is missing, and you find a gold cup on the first man, you would not even so refrain from searching the rest—it would not be clear I suppose whether that was the one belonging to the god. Or do you not think that there are many chalices made of gold?

For this is where your great difficulty lies: each of those whom you will strip has surely something—one a cup, another a chalice, another a garland, and each of these may be of bronze, gold, or silver. And it is still not clear whether that which each man has is the holy object. So you have every reason to hesitate about whom to accuse of temple-robbery. In this case, even if all had similar objects, even so it would be uncertain who had stolen the property of the god—for these articles may be private property too. The sole reason for our ignorance, I suppose, is that the missing chalice has no inscription (assuming that it is a chalice), since if it had been inscribed with the name of the god or the person who had made the dedication we should have had less difficulty, and when we had found the inscribed chalice we should stop stripping and troubling the others. I think, Hermotimus, that you have often watched athletic contests?

You think rightly. Many a time, in many places.

Now, have you ever sat near the judges themselves?

In former times, when Heracles was judge, bay-leaves . . .

Don’t tell me about former times, Hermotimus, but what you saw from near at hand.

A silver urn dedicated to the god is placed before them. Into this are thrown small lots, the size of beans, with letters on them. Two are marked alpha, two beta, two gamma, and so on in the same way, if there are more competitors, two lots always having the same letter. Each of the competitors comes up, offers a prayer to Zeus, puts his hand into the urn, and picks up one of the lots. After him another does the same. A policeman stands by each one and holds his hand, not letting him read what the letter is which he has drawn. When all now have their own, the chief police officer, I think it is, or one of the National Judges themselves (I don’t remember now) goes round the competitors, who are standing in a circle, and inspects their lots. In this way he matches one who has alpha to the one who has drawn the other alpha for the wrestling or the pancratium. Similarly he matches the two betas, and the others with the same letter in the same way. This is what he does if the contestants are even in number—eight or four or twelve, for instance—but if they are odd—five or seven or nine—he throws in with the rest a lot marked with an odd letter which has no duplicate. Whoever draws this is given a bye and stands out until the rest have competed, for he has no corresponding letter. This is no small boon to the competitor—the opportunity to come fresh against tired opponents.