philosophers from abroad. They are not serious, but, like the Egyptian
wizard, Proteus, they take different forms and deceive us by their
enchantments: and let us, like Menelaus, refuse to let them go until
they show themselves to us in earnest. When they begin to be in
earnest their full beauty will appear: let us then beg and entreat and
beseech them to shine forth. And I think that I had better once more
exhibit the form in which I pray to behold them; it might be a guide
to them. I will go on therefore where I left off, as well as I can, in
the hope that I may touch their hearts and move them to pity, and that
when they see me deeply serious and interested, they also may be
serious. You, Cleinias, I said, shall remind me at what point we left
off. Did we not agree that philosophy should be studied? and was not
that our conclusion?
Yes, he replied.
And philosophy is the acquisition of knowledge?
Yes, he said.
And what knowledge ought we to acquire? May we not answer with
absolute truth-A knowledge which will do us good?
Certainly, he said.
And should we be any the better if we went about having a knowledge of
the places where most gold was hidden in the earth?
Perhaps we should, he said.
But have we not already proved, I said, that we should be none the
better off, even if without trouble and digging all the gold which
there is in the earth were ours? And if we knew how to convert stones
into gold, the knowledge would be of no value to us, unless we also
knew how to use the gold? Do you not remember? I said.
I quite remember, he said.
Nor would any other knowledge, whether of money-making, or of
medicine, or of any other art which knows only how to make a thing,
and not to use it when made, be of any good to us. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And if there were a knowledge which was able to make men immortal,
without giving them the knowledge of the way to use the immortality,
neither would there be any use in that, if we may argue from the
analogy of the previous instances?
To all this he agreed.
Then, my dear boy, I said, the knowledge which we want is one that
uses as well as makes?
True, he said.
And our desire is not to be skilful lyre-makers, or artists of that
sort-far otherwise; for with them the art which makes is one, and the
art which uses is another. Although they have to do with the same,
they are divided: for the art which makes and the art which plays on
the lyre differ widely from one another. Am I not right?
He agreed.
And clearly we do not want the art of the flute-maker; this is only
another of the same sort?
He assented.
But suppose, I said, that we were to learn the art of making
speeches-would that be the art which would make us happy?
I should say no, rejoined Cleinias.
And why should you say so? I asked.
I see, he replied, that there are some composers of speeches who do
not know how to use the speeches which they make, just as the makers
of lyres do not know how to use the lyres; and also some who are of
themselves unable to compose speeches, but are able to use the
speeches which the others make for them; and this proves that the art
of making speeches is not the same as the art of using them.
Yes, I said; and I take your words to be a sufficient proof that the
art of making speeches is not one which will make a man happy. And yet
I did think that the art which we have so long been seeking might be
discovered in that direction; for the composers of speeches, whenever
I meet them, always appear to me to be very extraordinary men,