True and False Happiness

She ceased, but I stood fixed by the sweetness of the song in wonderment and eager expectation, my ears still strained to listen. And then after a little I said: 'Thou sovereign solace of the stricken soul, what refreshment hast thou brought me, no less by the sweetness of thy singing than by the weightiness of thy discourse! Verily, I think not that I shall hereafter be unequal to the blows of Fortune. Wherefore, I no longer dread the remedies which thou saidst were something too severe for my strength; nay, rather, I am eager to hear of them and call for them with all vehemence.'

She stopped, but I stood still, enchanted by the sweetness of her song. I was full of wonder and eager expectation, still straining to hear more. After a little while, I said: 'You who bring the greatest comfort to a suffering soul, how you have refreshed me! Your song was sweet, and your words were just as profound. I truly believe I can now withstand Fortune's blows. So I no longer fear the remedies you said were a little too harsh for me. Instead, I am eager to hear about them and ask for them with all my heart.'

Then said she: 'I marked thee fastening upon my words silently and intently, and I expected, or—to speak more truly—I myself brought about in thee, this state of mind. What now remains is of such sort that to the taste indeed it is biting, but when received within it turns to sweetness. But whereas thou dost profess thyself desirous of hearing, with what ardour wouldst thou not burn didst thou but perceive whither it is my task to lead thee!'

Then she said: 'I noticed you listening to my words silently and intently. I expected this state of mind, or rather, I brought it about myself. What remains is bitter to the taste, but turns sweet once swallowed. You say you are eager to hear it. But how much more eager you would be if you knew where I must lead you!'

'Whither?' said I.

'Where to?' I asked.

'To true felicity,' said she, 'which even now thy spirit sees in dreams, but cannot behold in very truth, while thine eyes are engrossed with semblances.'

'To true happiness,' she said. 'Even now, your spirit sees it in dreams. But you cannot see it as it truly is while your eyes are absorbed by appearances.'

Then said I: 'I beseech thee, do thou show to me her true shape without a moment's loss.'

Then I said: 'Please show me her true form at once.'

'Gladly will I, for thy sake,' said she. 'But first I will try to sketch in words, and describe a cause which is more familiar to thee, that, when thou hast viewed this carefully, thou mayst turn thy eyes the other way, and recognise the beauty of true happiness.'

'I will gladly do so for your sake,' she said. 'But first I will try to describe something more familiar to you. Once you have looked at it carefully, you can turn your eyes the other way and recognize the beauty of true happiness.'

For a little space she remained in a fixed gaze, withdrawn, as it were, into the august chamber of her mind; then she thus began:

For a little while, she stared into the distance, as if withdrawn into the grand chamber of her mind. Then she began:

'All mortal creatures in those anxious aims which find employment in so many varied pursuits, though they take many paths, yet strive to reach one goal—the goal of happiness. Now, the good is that which, when a man hath got, he can lack nothing further. This it is which is the supreme good of all, containing within itself all particular good; so that if anything is still wanting thereto, this cannot be the supreme good, since something would be left outside which might be desired. 'Tis clear, then, that happiness is a state perfected by the assembling together of all good things. To this state, as we have said, all men try to attain, but by different paths. For the desire of the true good is naturally implanted in the minds of men; only error leads them aside out of the way in pursuit of the false. Some, deeming it the highest good to want for nothing, spare no pains to attain affluence; others, judging the good to be that to which respect is most worthily paid, strive to win the reverence of their fellow-citizens by the attainment of official dignity. Some there are who fix the chief good in supreme power; these either wish themselves to enjoy sovereignty, or try to attach themselves to those who have it. Those, again, who think renown to be something of supreme excellence are in haste to spread abroad the glory of their name either through the arts of war or of peace. A great many measure the attainment of good by joy and gladness of heart; these think it the height of happiness to give themselves over to pleasure. Others there are, again, who interchange the ends and means one with the other in their aims; for instance, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and power, some covet power either for the sake of money or in order to bring renown to their name. So it is on these ends, then, that the aim of human acts and wishes is centred, and on others like to these—for instance, noble birth and popularity, which seem to compass a certain renown; wife and children, which are sought for the sweetness of their possession; while as for friendship, the most sacred kind indeed is counted in the category of virtue, not of fortune; but other kinds are entered upon for the sake of power or of enjoyment. And as for bodily excellences, it is obvious that they are to be ranged with the above. For strength and stature surely manifest power; beauty and fleetness of foot bring celebrity; health brings pleasure. It is plain, then, that the only object sought for in all these ways is happiness. For that which each seeks in preference to all else, that is in his judgment the supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good to be happiness. Therefore, that state which each wishes in preference to all others is in his judgment happy.

'All mortal creatures are occupied with anxious efforts in many different pursuits. Though they take many paths, they all strive toward one goal: happiness. Now, the good is that which, once a person has it, leaves nothing more to be desired. This is the supreme good of all, containing every particular good within itself. If anything were still missing, it could not be the supreme good. Something desirable would remain outside it. Happiness, then, is clearly a state made perfect by bringing together all good things. As we have said, all people try to reach this state, but by different paths. The desire for the true good is naturally planted in human minds. Only error leads people astray in pursuit of what is false. Some think the highest good is to lack nothing, so they spare no effort to become wealthy. Others judge that the good is what most deserves respect. They seek official positions to win the respect of their fellow citizens. Some place the highest good in supreme power. They wish either to rule themselves or to attach themselves to those who rule. Others think fame is supremely valuable. They rush to spread the glory of their name through the arts of war or of peace. Many measure the achievement of good by joy and gladness of heart. They think the height of happiness is to give themselves over to pleasure. Others, again, exchange ends and means in their aims. For example, some want riches for the sake of pleasure and power. Some desire power for the sake of money or to bring fame to their name. Human actions and wishes are directed toward these ends and others like them. These include noble birth and popularity, which seem to bring a measure of fame. They also include a wife and children, who are sought for the sweetness of having them. The most sacred kind of friendship belongs among the virtues, not among the gifts of fortune. But people form other kinds of friendship for power or enjoyment. Clearly, bodily excellences belong among these things too. Strength and stature surely show power. Beauty and speed bring fame. Health brings pleasure. So it is plain that happiness is the only goal sought in all these ways. What each person seeks above all else is, in that person's judgment, the supreme good. And we have defined the supreme good as happiness. Therefore, each person judges the state they desire above all others to be a happy one.'

'Thou hast, then, set before thine eyes something like a scheme of human happiness—wealth, rank, power, glory, pleasure. Now Epicurus, from a sole regard to these considerations, with some consistency concluded the highest good to be pleasure, because all the other objects seem to bring some delight to the soul. But to return to human pursuits and aims: man's mind seeks to recover its proper good, in spite of the mistiness of its recollection, but, like a drunken man, knows not by what path to return home. Think you they are wrong who strive to escape want? Nay, truly there is nothing which can so well complete happiness as a state abounding in all good things, needing nothing from outside, but wholly self-sufficing. Do they fall into error who deem that which is best to be also best deserving to receive the homage of reverence? Not at all. That cannot possibly be vile and contemptible, to attain which the endeavours of nearly all mankind are directed. Then, is power not to be reckoned in the category of good? Why, can that which is plainly more efficacious than anything else be esteemed a thing feeble and void of strength? Or is renown to be thought of no account? Nay, it cannot be ignored that the highest renown is constantly associated with the highest excellence. And what need is there to say that happiness is not haunted by care and gloom, nor exposed to trouble and vexation, since that is a condition we ask of the very least of things, from the possession and enjoyment of which we expect delight? So, then, these are the blessings men wish to win; they want riches, rank, sovereignty, glory, pleasure, because they believe that by these means they will secure independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart. Therefore, it is the good which men seek by such divers courses; and herein is easily shown the might of Nature's power, since, although opinions are so various and discordant, yet they agree in cherishing good as the end.'

'You have now been shown something like a picture of human happiness: wealth, rank, power, glory, and pleasure. Epicurus considered only these things. He concluded, with some consistency, that pleasure is the highest good. He did so because all the other things seem to bring some pleasure to the soul. But let us return to human pursuits and aims. The human mind seeks to recover its own true good, even though its memory of that good is dim. But, like a drunken person, it does not know which path leads home. Do you think people are wrong to strive to escape want? Certainly not. Nothing can complete happiness so well as having every good thing in abundance. Such a state needs nothing from outside and is entirely self-sufficient. Are people mistaken to believe that what is best most deserves our reverence? Not at all. The goal toward which nearly all humanity strives cannot possibly be worthless and contemptible. Should power not be counted among good things? How can we consider something clearly more effective than anything else weak and powerless? Or should we consider renown worthless? No, we cannot ignore the fact that the highest renown is constantly associated with the highest excellence. And surely happiness is not haunted by care and gloom or exposed to trouble and frustration. We expect even the smallest things we possess and enjoy to be free from these troubles. Otherwise, how could they delight us? These, then, are the blessings people want to gain. They want riches, rank, sovereignty, glory, and pleasure. They believe these will bring them independence, reverence, power, renown, and joy of heart. So it is the good that people seek in such different ways. This easily shows the strength of Nature's power. Although people's opinions vary and conflict, they all agree in seeking good as their goal.'

'Ye, too, creatures of earth, have some glimmering of your origin, however faint, and though in a vision dim and clouded, yet in some wise, notwithstanding, ye discern the true end of happiness, and so the aim of nature leads you thither—to that true good—while error in many forms leads you astray therefrom. For reflect whether men are able to win happiness by those means through which they think to reach the proposed end. Truly, if either wealth, rank, or any of the rest, bring with them anything of such sort as seems to have nothing wanting to it that is good, we, too, acknowledge that some are made happy by the acquisition of these things. But if they are not able to fulfil their promises, and, moreover, lack many good things, is not the happiness men seek in them clearly discovered to be a false show? Therefore do I first ask thee thyself, who but lately wert living in affluence, amid all that abundance of wealth, was thy mind never troubled in consequence of some wrong done to thee?'

'You too, creatures of earth, have some glimpse of your origin, however faint. Though your vision is dim and clouded, you still see, in some way, the true goal of happiness. So nature draws you toward that true good, while error in its many forms leads you away from it. Consider, then, whether people can find happiness by the means they believe will bring them to that goal. If wealth, rank, or any of the other things bring a good that seems to lack nothing, we too acknowledge that some people are made happy by gaining them. But suppose these things cannot fulfill their promises and, moreover, lack many good things. Is it not clear that the happiness people seek in them is an illusion? So I first ask you, who until recently lived in affluence: amid all your wealth, were you never troubled by some wrong done to you?'

'Nay,' said I, 'I cannot ever remember a time when my mind was so completely at peace as not to feel the pang of some uneasiness.'

'No,' I said, 'I can't remember a time when my mind was so peaceful that I felt no unease at all.'

'Was it not because either something was absent which thou wouldst not have absent, or present which thou wouldst have away?'

'Was it not because something you wanted was missing, or something you wanted gone was present?'

'Yes,' said I.

'Yes,' I said.

'Then, thou didst want the presence of the one, the absence of the other?'

'Then, one was absent and the other was present?'

'Admitted.'

'Agreed.'

'But a man lacks that of which he is in want?'

'But doesn't a man lack what he needs?'

'He does.'

'He does.'

'And he who lacks something is not in all points self-sufficing?'

'And someone who lacks something is not entirely self-sufficient?'

'No; certainly not,' said I.

'No, certainly not,' I said.

'So wert thou, then, in the plenitude of thy wealth, supporting this insufficiency?'

'So, even when you had all that wealth, were you putting up with this lack?'

'I must have been.'

'I must have been.'

'Wealth, then, cannot make its possessor independent and free from all want, yet this was what it seemed to promise. Moreover, I think this also well deserves to be considered—that there is nothing in the special nature of money to hinder its being taken away from those who possess it against their will.'

'Wealth, then, cannot make its owner independent and free from all need, though it seemed to promise just that. Moreover, I think another point deserves consideration. There is nothing in the nature of money itself to prevent it from being taken from its owners against their will.'

'I admit it.'

'I admit it.'

'Why, of course, when every day the stronger wrests it from the weaker without his consent. Else, whence come lawsuits, except in seeking to recover moneys which have been taken away against their owner's will by force or fraud?'

'Why, of course, the stronger person takes it from the weaker person without their consent every day. Otherwise, why would there be lawsuits, except to recover money taken from its owner by force or fraud against their will?'

'True,' said I.

'True,' I said.

'Then, everyone will need some extraneous means of protection to keep his money safe.'

'Then, everyone will need some outside protection to keep their money safe.'

'Who can venture to deny it?'

'Who would dare deny it?'

'Yet he would not, unless he possessed the money which it is possible to lose.'

'Yet he would not, unless he had money that could be lost.'

'No; he certainly would not.'

'No, he certainly would not.'

'Then, we have worked round to an opposite conclusion: the wealth which was thought to make a man independent rather puts him in need of further protection. How in the world, then, can want be driven away by riches? Cannot the rich feel hunger? Cannot they thirst? Are not the limbs of the wealthy sensitive to the winter's cold? "But," thou wilt say, "the rich have the wherewithal to sate their hunger, the means to get rid of thirst and cold." True enough; want can thus be soothed by riches, wholly removed it cannot be. For if this ever-gaping, ever-craving want is glutted by wealth, it needs must be that the want itself which can be so glutted still remains. I do not speak of how very little suffices for nature, and how for avarice nothing is enough. Wherefore, if wealth cannot get rid of want, and makes new wants of its own, how can ye believe that it bestows independence?'

'Then we have come around to the opposite conclusion. Wealth was thought to make a person independent, but instead it creates a need for further protection. How, then, can riches drive away need? Can the rich not feel hunger? Can they not feel thirst? Are their bodies not sensitive to winter’s cold? "But," you will say, "the rich have the means to satisfy their hunger and relieve their thirst and cold." True enough. Riches can ease need, but they cannot remove it entirely. For if wealth satisfies this need that always gapes and craves, the need itself must still remain. I will not even speak of how little nature needs, or how nothing is enough for greed. So if wealth cannot remove need, and creates new needs of its own, how can you believe it gives independence?'

'Well, but official dignity clothes him to whom it comes with honour and reverence! Have, then, offices of state such power as to plant virtue in the minds of their possessors, and drive out vice? Nay, they are rather wont to signalize iniquity than to chase it away, and hence arises our indignation that honours so often fall to the most iniquitous of men. Accordingly, Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though "sitting in the curule chair." Dost not see what infamy high position brings upon the bad? Surely their unworthiness will be less conspicuous if their rank does not draw upon them the public notice! In thy own case, wouldst thou ever have been induced by all these perils to think of sharing office with Decoratus, since thou hast discerned in him the spirit of a rascally parasite and informer? No; we cannot deem men worthy of reverence on account of their office, whom we deem unworthy of the office itself. But didst thou see a man endued with wisdom, couldst thou suppose him not worthy of reverence, nor of that wisdom with which he was endued?'

‘Well, but an official position brings honor and respect to the person who holds it! Do public offices really have the power to plant virtue in their holders’ minds and drive out vice? No, they tend to expose wickedness rather than drive it away. That is why we are indignant when honors so often fall to the most wicked people. Thus Catullus calls Nonius an "ulcer-spot," though he is "sitting in the curule chair." Don’t you see how a high position brings disgrace upon bad people? Surely their unworthiness would be less visible if their rank did not draw public attention to them! In your own case, would all these dangers ever have persuaded you to share an office with Decoratus? You have seen that he has the spirit of a rascally parasite and informer. No, we cannot consider people worthy of respect because of their office when we consider them unworthy of the office itself. But if you saw a wise person, could you think him unworthy of respect, or of the wisdom he possessed?’

'No; certainly not.'

'No, certainly not.'

'There is in Virtue a dignity of her own which she forthwith passes over to those to whom she is united. And since public honours cannot do this, it is clear that they do not possess the true beauty of dignity. And here this well deserves to be noticed—that if a man is the more scorned in proportion as he is despised by a greater number, high position not only fails to win reverence for the wicked, but even loads them the more with contempt by drawing more attention to them. But not without retribution; for the wicked pay back a return in kind to the dignities they put on by the pollution of their touch. Perhaps, too, another consideration may teach thee to confess that true reverence cannot come through these counterfeit dignities. It is this: If one who had been many times consul chanced to visit barbaric lands, would his office win him the reverence of the barbarians? And yet if reverence were the natural effect of dignities, they would not forego their proper function in any part of the world, even as fire never anywhere fails to give forth heat. But since this effect is not due to their own efficacy, but is attached to them by the mistaken opinion of mankind, they disappear straightway when they are set before those who do not esteem them dignities. Thus the case stands with foreign peoples. But does their repute last for ever, even in the land of their origin? Why, the prefecture, which was once a great power, is now an empty name—a burden merely on the senator's fortune; the commissioner of the public corn supply was once a personage—now what is more contemptible than this office? For, as we said just now, that which hath no true comeliness of its own now receives, now loses, lustre at the caprice of those who have to do with it. So, then, if dignities cannot win men reverence, if they are actually sullied by the contamination of the wicked, if they lose their splendour through time's changes, if they come into contempt merely for lack of public estimation, what precious beauty have they in themselves, much less to give to others?'

'Virtue has a dignity of its own, which it immediately gives to those who possess it. Public honors cannot do this, so they clearly lack the true beauty of dignity. Here is another point worth noticing. The more people despise a person, the more scorn that person faces. High office not only fails to win respect for the wicked, but draws more attention to them and brings them even more contempt. Yet these offices do not escape punishment. The wicked repay the offices they hold in kind, polluting them by their touch. Perhaps another consideration may lead you to admit that these false honors cannot bring true respect. Suppose someone who had been consul many times happened to visit barbarian lands. Would his office win him the respect of the barbarians? If honors naturally produced respect, they would do so everywhere in the world, just as fire never fails to give off heat. But honors do not produce respect through any power of their own. People attach respect to them because of a mistaken belief. So that respect disappears as soon as honors are presented to people who do not value them. That is how things stand among foreign peoples. But does the reputation of honors last forever, even in the land where they arose? The prefecture was once a position of great power. Now it is an empty name, serving only to drain a senator's fortune. The commissioner of the public grain supply was once an important person. Now what office is held in lower regard? As we just said, anything without true beauty of its own gains or loses its luster according to the whims of those who deal with it. So what precious beauty do honors possess in themselves, much less have to give to others? They cannot win people respect. They are even stained by contact with the wicked. They lose their splendor as times change. And they fall into contempt simply because the public no longer values them.'

'Well, then, does sovereignty and the intimacy of kings prove able to confer power? Why, surely does not the happiness of kings endure for ever? And yet antiquity is full of examples, and these days also, of kings whose happiness has turned into calamity. How glorious a power, which is not even found effectual for its own preservation! But if happiness has its source in sovereign power, is not happiness diminished, and misery inflicted in its stead, in so far as that power falls short of completeness? Yet, however widely human sovereignty be extended, there must still be more peoples left, over whom each several king holds no sway. Now, at whatever point the power on which happiness depends ceases, here powerlessness steals in and makes wretchedness; so, by this way of reckoning, there must needs be a balance of wretchedness in the lot of the king. The tyrant who had made trial of the perils of his condition figured the fears that haunt a throne under the image of a sword hanging over a man's head.^G What sort of power, then, is this which cannot drive away the gnawings of anxiety, or shun the stings of terror? Fain would they themselves have lived secure, but they cannot; then they boast about their power! Dost thou count him to possess power whom thou seest to wish what he cannot bring to pass? Dost thou count him to possess power who encompasses himself with a body-guard, who fears those he terrifies more than they fear him, who, to keep up the semblance of power, is himself at the mercy of his slaves? Need I say anything of the friends of kings, when I show royal dominion itself so utterly and miserably weak—why ofttimes the royal power in its plenitude brings them low, ofttimes involves them in its fall? Nero drove his friend and preceptor, Seneca, to the choice of the manner of his death. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who was long powerful at court, to the swords of the soldiery. Yet each of these was willing to renounce his power. Seneca tried to surrender his wealth also to Nero, and go into retirement; but neither achieved his purpose. When they tottered, their very greatness dragged them down. What manner of thing, then, is this power which keeps men in fear while they possess it—which when thou art fain to keep, thou art not safe, and when thou desirest to lay it aside thou canst not rid thyself of? Are friends any protection who have been attached by fortune, not by virtue? Nay; him whom good fortune has made a friend, ill fortune will make an enemy. And what plague is more effectual to do hurt than a foe of one's own household?'

'Well, then, can ruling a kingdom or being close to kings give a person power? Surely the happiness of kings lasts forever, doesn't it? Yet history is full of examples of kings whose happiness turned to disaster, and so is our own time. What glorious power, when it cannot even preserve itself! But if happiness comes from royal power, doesn't any limit on that power diminish happiness and bring misery instead? No matter how far a king's rule extends, there must still be more people beyond it, over whom that king has no power. Wherever the power that happiness depends on ends, powerlessness creeps in and brings misery. By this reckoning, then, a king's life must contain more misery than happiness. A tyrant who had experienced the dangers of his position pictured the fears that haunt a throne as a sword hanging over a man's head.^G What kind of power is this, if it cannot drive away nagging anxiety or escape the sting of fear? Kings themselves would gladly live in safety, but they cannot. And yet they boast of their power! Do you call someone powerful when you see that he cannot achieve what he wants? Do you call him powerful when he surrounds himself with guards? He fears the people he terrifies more than they fear him. To keep up the appearance of power, he is himself at the mercy of his slaves. Need I say anything about the friends of kings, when I have shown royal rule itself to be so utterly and miserably weak? Indeed, royal power at its height often brings those friends down. Often, too, it brings them down with it when it falls. Nero forced his friend and teacher, Seneca, to choose how he would die. Antoninus exposed Papinianus, who had long been powerful at court, to the swords of the soldiers. Yet both men were willing to give up their power. Seneca also tried to surrender his wealth to Nero and retire from public life. But neither man achieved his purpose. When they began to fall, their very greatness dragged them down. What kind of power is this? It keeps people afraid while they possess it. If you want to keep it, you are not safe. If you want to give it up, you cannot get rid of it. Can friends who are bound to you by fortune rather than virtue offer any protection? No. Someone made a friend by good fortune will be made an enemy by bad fortune. And what is more capable of doing harm than an enemy in your own household?'

'Again, how misleading, how base, a thing ofttimes is glory! Well does the tragic poet exclaim:

'Again, how misleading and low glory often is! The tragic poet rightly exclaims:

For many have won a great name through the mistaken beliefs of the multitude—and what can be imagined more shameful than that? Nay, they who are praised falsely must needs themselves blush at their own praises! And even when praise is won by merit, still, how does it add to the good conscience of the wise man who measures his good not by popular repute, but by the truth of inner conviction? And if at all it does seem a fair thing to get this same renown spread abroad, it follows that any failure so to spread it is held foul. But if, as I set forth but now, there must needs be many tribes and peoples whom the fame of any single man cannot reach, it follows that he whom thou esteemest glorious seems all inglorious in a neighbouring quarter of the globe. As to popular favour, I do not think it even worthy of mention in this place, since it never cometh of judgment, and never lasteth steadily.

Many people have gained great fame because the crowd was mistaken about them. What could be more shameful than that? Indeed, people praised falsely must blush at the praise they receive! And even when praise is deserved, how does it add to a wise person’s clear conscience? A wise person measures goodness not by popular opinion, but by inner conviction about the truth. If spreading one’s fame far and wide seems a fine thing, then failing to spread it must seem shameful. But as I have just explained, there must be many tribes and peoples whom any one person’s fame cannot reach. So a person you consider famous seems entirely unknown in a neighboring part of the world. As for popular favor, I do not think it even worth mentioning here. It never comes from sound judgment and never lasts.

'Then, again, who does not see how empty, how foolish, is the fame of noble birth? Why, if the nobility is based on renown, the renown is another's! For, truly, nobility seems to be a sort of reputation coming from the merits of ancestors. But if it is the praise which brings renown, of necessity it is they who are praised that are famous. Wherefore, the fame of another clothes thee not with splendour if thou hast none of thine own. So, if there is any excellence in nobility of birth, methinks it is this alone—that it would seem to impose upon the nobly born the obligation not to degenerate from the virtue of their ancestors.'

'Then again, who cannot see how empty and foolish the fame of noble birth is? If nobility rests on fame, that fame belongs to someone else! Nobility, after all, seems to be a reputation earned by the merits of one's ancestors. But if praise brings fame, then those who are praised must be the ones who are famous. So another person's fame cannot make you shine if you have no merit of your own. If there is any value in noble birth, I think it is this alone. It seems to place an obligation on those born noble not to fall short of their ancestors' virtue.'

'Then, what shall I say of the pleasures of the body? The lust thereof is full of uneasiness; the sating, of repentance. What sicknesses, what intolerable pains, are they wont to bring on the bodies of those who enjoy them—the fruits of iniquity, as it were! Now, what sweetness the stimulus of pleasure may have I do not know. But that the issues of pleasure are painful everyone may understand who chooses to recall the memory of his own fleshly lusts. Nay, if these can make happiness, there is no reason why the beasts also should not be happy, since all their efforts are eagerly set upon satisfying the bodily wants. I know, indeed, that the sweetness of wife and children should be right comely, yet only too true to nature is what was said of one—that he found in his sons his tormentors. And how galling such a contingency would be, I must needs put thee in mind, since thou hast never in any wise suffered such experiences, nor art thou now under any uneasiness. In such a case, I agree with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children was fortunate in his misfortune.'^H

'Then what shall I say about bodily pleasures? Desire for them is full of unease, and satisfying that desire brings regret. What sicknesses and unbearable pains they often bring to those who enjoy them, as if these were the fruits of wrongdoing! I do not know what sweetness the urge for pleasure may have. But anyone who recalls their own bodily desires can understand that pleasure ends in pain. Indeed, if bodily pleasures can make people happy, there is no reason why animals should not be happy too. After all, animals eagerly devote all their efforts to satisfying their bodily needs. I know, of course, that the joys of a wife and children should be most fitting. Yet the story of one man is only too true to nature: he found his sons to be his tormentors. I must remind you how painful such a possibility would be, since you have never had such experiences and are not troubled by them now. In such a case, I agree with my servant Euripides, who said that a man without children was fortunate in his misfortune.'^H

'It is beyond doubt, then, that these paths do not lead to happiness; they cannot guide anyone to the promised goal. Now, I will very briefly show what serious evils are involved in following them. Just consider. Is it thy endeavour to heap up money? Why, thou must wrest it from its present possessor! Art thou minded to put on the splendour of official dignity? Thou must beg from those who have the giving of it; thou who covetest to outvie others in honour must lower thyself to the humble posture of petition. Dost thou long for power? Thou must face perils, for thou wilt be at the mercy of thy subjects' plots. Is glory thy aim? Thou art lured on through all manner of hardships, and there is an end to thy peace of mind. Art fain to lead a life of pleasure? Yet who does not scorn and contemn one who is the slave of the weakest and vilest of things—the body? Again, on how slight and perishable a possession do they rely who set before themselves bodily excellences! Can ye ever surpass the elephant in bulk or the bull in strength? Can ye excel the tiger in swiftness? Look upon the infinitude, the solidity, the swift motion, of the heavens, and for once cease to admire things mean and worthless. And yet the heavens are not so much to be admired on this account as for the reason which guides them. Then, how transient is the lustre of beauty! how soon gone!—more fleeting than the fading bloom of spring flowers. And yet if, as Aristotle says, men should see with the eyes of Lynceus, so that their sight might pierce through obstructions, would not that body of Alcibiades, so gloriously fair in outward seeming, appear altogether loathsome when all its inward parts lay open to the view? Therefore, it is not thy own nature that makes thee seem beautiful, but the weakness of the eyes that see thee. Yet prize as unduly as ye will that body's excellences; so long as ye know that this that ye admire, whatever its worth, can be dissolved away by the feeble flame of a three days' fever. From all which considerations we may conclude as a whole, that these things which cannot make good the advantages they promise, which are never made perfect by the assemblage of all good things—these neither lead as by-ways to happiness, nor themselves make men completely happy.'

'There is no doubt, then, that these paths do not lead to happiness. They cannot guide anyone to the promised goal. Now I will briefly show the serious evils involved in following them. Just consider. Are you trying to amass money? Then you must take it from whoever has it now! Do you want the splendor of high office? You must beg it from those who can grant it. You want to surpass others in honor, yet you must humble yourself by pleading for it. Do you long for power? You must face dangers, because you will be at the mercy of your subjects' plots. Is glory your goal? It lures you through every kind of hardship, and your peace of mind is gone. Do you want a life of pleasure? Yet who does not despise someone enslaved by the weakest and lowest of things, the body? Again, those who value physical excellence rely on something so slight and perishable! Can you ever surpass the elephant in size or the bull in strength? Can you outrun the tiger? Look at the vastness, solidity, and swift movement of the heavens. For once, stop admiring petty and worthless things. Yet the heavens deserve admiration less for these qualities than for the reason that guides them. And how fleeting is the glow of beauty! How quickly it fades, even faster than the bloom of spring flowers! Yet suppose, as Aristotle says, that people could see with the eyes of Lynceus. Their sight could then pierce through whatever stood in its way. Would not the body of Alcibiades, so gloriously beautiful on the outside, look utterly repulsive with all its inner parts exposed? So it is not your own nature that makes you seem beautiful. It is the weakness of the eyes that see you. You may prize the body's excellences as much as you like. But know that whatever you admire in the body, and whatever its worth, a mild fever can destroy it in three days. From all this, we may conclude that these things cannot deliver the benefits they promise. They never contain all good things together in perfect form. So they neither lead by indirect paths to happiness nor make people completely happy themselves.'

'This much may well suffice to set forth the form of false happiness; if this is now clear to thine eyes, the next step is to show what true happiness is.'

'This may be enough to explain what false happiness looks like. If that is now clear to you, the next step is to show what true happiness is.'

'Indeed,' said I, 'I see clearly enough that neither is independence to be found in wealth, nor power in sovereignty, nor reverence in dignities, nor fame in glory, nor true joy in pleasures.'

'Indeed,' I said, 'I can see clearly enough that wealth does not bring independence, nor does ruling bring power. High office does not bring respect, glory does not bring fame, and pleasures do not bring true joy.'

'Hast thou discerned also the causes why this is so?'

'Have you also understood why this is so?'

'I seem to have some inkling, but I should like to learn more at large from thee.'

'I think I have some idea, but I would like you to explain it more fully.'

'Why, truly the reason is hard at hand. That which is simple and indivisible by nature human error separates, and transforms from the true and perfect to the false and imperfect. Dost thou imagine that which lacketh nothing can want power?'

'Why, the reason is close at hand. Human error separates what is naturally simple and indivisible and turns it from something true and perfect into something false and imperfect. Do you think that something lacking nothing could lack power?'

'Certainly not.'

'Certainly not.'

'Right; for if there is any feebleness of strength in anything, in this there must necessarily be need of external protection.'

'Right, because if anything lacks strength, it must need protection from outside.'

'That is so.'

'That's true.'

'Accordingly, the nature of independence and power is one and the same.'

'So independence and power are the same in nature.'

'It seems so.'

'It seems so.'

'Well, but dost think that anything of such a nature as this can be looked upon with contempt, or is it rather of all things most worthy of veneration?'

'But do you think something like this deserves contempt? Or is it the most worthy of respect of all things?'

'Nay; there can be no doubt as to that.'

'No, there can be no doubt about that.'

'Let us, then, add reverence to independence and power, and conclude these three to be one.'

'Let us add reverence to independence and power. We can then conclude that all three are one.'

'We must if we will acknowledge the truth.'

'We must, if we are willing to acknowledge the truth.'

'Thinkest thou, then, this combination of qualities to be obscure and without distinction, or rather famous in all renown? Just consider: can that want renown which has been agreed to be lacking in nothing, to be supreme in power, and right worthy of honour, for the reason that it cannot bestow this upon itself, and so comes to appear somewhat poor in esteem?'

'Do you think this combination of qualities is obscure and without distinction, or famous and renowned in every way? Just consider: we have agreed that it lacks nothing, has supreme power, and is fully worthy of honor. Can it lack renown because it cannot give itself renown, and so appear somewhat lacking in esteem?'

'I cannot but acknowledge that, being what it is, this union of qualities is also right famous.'

'I must admit that this combination of qualities, being what it is, is also very famous.'

'It follows, then, that we must admit that renown is not different from the other three.'

'So we must admit that fame is no different from the other three.'

'It does,' said I.

'It does,' I said.

'That, then, which needs nothing outside itself, which can accomplish all things in its own strength, which enjoys fame and compels reverence, must not this evidently be also fully crowned with joy?'

'Something needs nothing outside itself and can do all things through its own strength. It is famous and commands respect. Surely it must also be filled with joy?'

'In sooth, I cannot conceive,' said I, 'how any sadness can find entrance into such a state; wherefore I must needs acknowledge it full of joy—at least, if our former conclusions are to hold.'

'Indeed, I cannot imagine,' I said, 'how any sadness could enter such a state. So I must admit that it is full of joy, at least if our earlier conclusions hold.'

'Then, for the same reasons, this also is necessary—that independence, power, renown, reverence, and sweetness of delight, are different only in name, but in substance differ no wise one from the other.'

'Then, for the same reasons, it must also follow that independence, power, fame, respect, and pleasure differ only in name. In substance, they are all the same.'

'It is,' said I.

'It is,' I said.

'This, then, which is one, and simple by nature, human perversity separates, and, in trying to win a part of that which has no parts, fails to attain not only that portion (since there are no portions), but also the whole, to which it does not dream of aspiring.'

'Human perversity separates what is naturally one and indivisible. In trying to gain a part of what has no parts, people fail to gain that part, because there are no parts. They also fail to gain the whole, which they do not even dream of seeking.'

'How so?' said I.

'How so?' I asked.

'He who, to escape want, seeks riches, gives himself no concern about power; he prefers a mean and low estate, and also denies himself many pleasures dear to nature to avoid losing the money which he has gained. But at this rate he does not even attain to independence—a weakling void of strength, vexed by distresses, mean and despised, and buried in obscurity. He, again, who thirsts alone for power squanders his wealth, despises pleasure, and thinks fame and rank alike worthless without power. But thou seest in how many ways his state also is defective. Sometimes it happens that he lacks necessaries, that he is gnawed by anxieties, and, since he cannot rid himself of these inconveniences, even ceases to have that power which was his whole end and aim. In like manner may we cast up the reckoning in case of rank, of glory, or of pleasure. For since each one of these severally is identical with the rest, whosoever seeks any one of them without the others does not even lay hold of that one which he makes his aim.'

'Someone who seeks riches to escape poverty cares nothing about power. He prefers a humble, lowly position. He also denies himself many natural pleasures to avoid losing the money he has gained. But in this way he does not even achieve independence. He is weak and powerless, troubled by hardships, lowly and despised, and buried in obscurity. Someone who thirsts only for power, on the other hand, squanders his wealth and despises pleasure. He considers fame and rank worthless without power. But you can see how many ways his condition is also deficient. Sometimes he lacks necessities and is tormented by anxiety. Because he cannot rid himself of these troubles, he even loses the power that was his whole aim. We can make the same assessment of rank, glory, or pleasure. Each of these is identical with the others. So whoever seeks any one of them without the others does not even attain the one he seeks.'

'Well,' said I, 'what then?'

'Well,' I said, 'what then?'

'Suppose anyone desire to obtain them together, he does indeed wish for happiness as a whole; but will he find it in these things which, as we have proved, are unable to bestow what they promise?'

'Suppose someone wants to obtain all these things together. They do indeed want happiness as a whole. But will they find it in these things? As we have proved, these things cannot deliver what they promise.'

'Nay; by no means,' said I.

'No, not at all,' I said.

'Then, happiness must certainly not be sought in these things which severally are believed to afford some one of the blessings most to be desired.'

'So, happiness certainly cannot be found in these things. Each is believed to provide one of the most desirable blessings.'

'They must not, I admit. No conclusion could be more true.'

'I admit they must not. Nothing could be more true.'

'So, then, the form and the causes of false happiness are set before thine eyes. Now turn thy gaze to the other side; there thou wilt straightway see the true happiness I promised.'

'So, you have now seen the form and causes of false happiness. Now look to the other side. There you will immediately see the true happiness I promised.'

'Yea, indeed, 'tis plain to the blind.' said I. 'Thou didst point it out even now in seeking to unfold the causes of the false. For, unless I am mistaken, that is true and perfect happiness which crowns one with the union of independence, power, reverence, renown, and joy. And to prove to thee with how deep an insight I have listened—since all these are the same—that which can truly bestow one of them I know to be without doubt full and complete happiness.'

‘Yes, indeed, it is clear even to the blind,’ I said. ‘You pointed it out just now as you tried to explain the causes of false happiness. Unless I am mistaken, true and perfect happiness is the union of independence, power, reverence, renown, and joy. And to show you how deeply I have understood what you said, I know that all these are the same. So whatever can truly bestow one of them is, without doubt, full and complete happiness.’

'Happy art thou, my scholar, in this thy conviction; only one thing shouldst thou add.'

'You are fortunate, my student, to hold this belief. You need to add only one thing.'

'What is that?' said I.

'What is that?' I asked.

'Is there aught, thinkest thou, amid these mortal and perishable things which can produce a state such as this?'

'Do you think anything among these mortal and perishable things can produce such a state?'

'Nay, surely not; and this thou hast so amply demonstrated that no word more is needed.'

'No, certainly not. You have demonstrated this so thoroughly that nothing more needs to be said.'

'Well, then, these things seem to give to mortals shadows of the true good, or some kind of imperfect good; but the true and perfect good they cannot bestow.'

'Well, then, these things seem to give people shadows of the true good, or some kind of imperfect good. But they cannot give them the true and perfect good.'

'Even so,' said I.

'Yes,' I said.

'Since, then, thou hast learnt what that true happiness is, and what men falsely call happiness, it now remains that thou shouldst learn from what source to seek this.'

'Now that you have learned what true happiness is and what people falsely call happiness, you must learn where to find true happiness.'

'Yes; to this I have long been eagerly looking forward.'

'Yes, I have been eagerly looking forward to this for a long time.'

'Well, since, as Plato maintains in the "Timæus," we ought even in the most trivial matters to implore the Divine protection, what thinkest thou should we now do in order to deserve to find the seat of that highest good?'

'Well, Plato says in the "Timæus" that we should ask for divine protection even in the most trivial matters. So what do you think we should do now to deserve to find where the highest good lies?'

'We must invoke the Father of all things,' said I; 'for without this no enterprise sets out from a right beginning.'

‘We must call upon the Father of all things,’ I said, ‘because no undertaking begins rightly without calling upon him.’

'Thou sayest well,' said she; and forthwith lifted up her voice and sang:

‘You speak well,’ she said, and immediately raised her voice and sang:

'Since now thou hast seen what is the form of the imperfect good, and what the form of the perfect also, methinks I should next show in what manner this perfection of felicity is built up. And here I conceive it proper to inquire, first, whether any excellence, such as thou hast lately defined, can exist in the nature of things, lest we be deceived by an empty fiction of thought to which no true reality answers. But it cannot be denied that such does exist, and is, as it were, the source of all things good. For everything which is called imperfect is spoken of as imperfect by reason of the privation of some perfection; so it comes to pass that, whenever imperfection is found in any particular, there must necessarily be a perfection in respect of that particular also. For were there no such perfection, it is utterly inconceivable how that so-called _im_perfection should come into existence. Nature does not make a beginning with things mutilated and imperfect; she starts with what is whole and perfect, and falls away later to these feeble and inferior productions. So if there is, as we showed before, a happiness of a frail and imperfect kind, it cannot be doubted but there is also a happiness substantial and perfect.'

'Now that you have seen the nature of both imperfect and perfect good, I think I should explain how perfect happiness is formed. First, we should ask whether the excellence you have just defined can exist in reality. Otherwise, we might be misled by an empty idea that has no basis in reality. But we cannot deny that such excellence exists and is, so to speak, the source of all good things. Everything called imperfect is called imperfect because it lacks some perfection. So wherever imperfection is found in any respect, perfection must also exist in that respect. Without such perfection, it is impossible to imagine how what we call _im_perfection could come into existence. Nature does not begin with incomplete and imperfect things. She begins with what is whole and perfect, and later declines to these weak and inferior products. So if there is a fragile and imperfect kind of happiness, as we showed before, there must also be a real and perfect happiness.'

'Most true is thy conclusion, and most sure,' said I.

'Your conclusion is absolutely true and certain,' I said.

'Next to consider where the dwelling-place of this happiness may be. The common belief of all mankind agrees that God, the supreme of all things, is good. For since nothing can be imagined better than God, how can we doubt Him to be good than whom there is nothing better? Now, reason shows God to be good in such wise as to prove that in Him is perfect good. For were it not so, He would not be supreme of all things; for there would be something else more excellent, possessed of perfect good, which would seem to have the advantage in priority and dignity, since it has clearly appeared that all perfect things are prior to those less complete. Wherefore, lest we fall into an infinite regression, we must acknowledge the supreme God to be full of supreme and perfect good. But we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good; therefore true happiness must dwell in the supreme Deity.'

'Next, we must consider where happiness dwells. All people agree that God, who is supreme over all things, is good. Nothing better than God can be imagined. So how can we doubt that he is good, when nothing is better than he is? Reason also shows that God is good in such a way that perfect good is in him. If he did not possess perfect good, he would not be supreme over all things. Something else would be more excellent and would possess perfect good. That thing would seem to have priority and greater dignity, since all perfect things have clearly been shown to come before less complete things. So, to avoid an endless regress, we must acknowledge that the supreme God is full of supreme and perfect good. But we have determined that true happiness is the perfect good. Therefore, true happiness must dwell in the supreme God.'

'I accept thy reasonings,' said I; 'they cannot in any wise be disputed.'

'I accept your arguments,' I said. 'They cannot be disputed in any way.'

'But, come, see how strictly and incontrovertibly thou mayst prove this our assertion that the supreme Godhead hath fullest possession of the highest good.'

'But come, see how rigorously and conclusively you can prove our claim that the supreme God fully possesses the highest good.'

'In what way, pray?' said I.

'How so?' I asked.

'Do not rashly suppose that He who is the Father of all things hath received that highest good of which He is said to be possessed either from some external source, or hath it as a natural endowment in such sort that thou mightest consider the essence of the happiness possessed, and of the God who possesses it, distinct and different. For if thou deemest it received from without, thou mayst esteem that which gives more excellent than that which has received. But Him we most worthily acknowledge to be the most supremely excellent of all things. If, however, it is in Him by nature, yet is logically distinct, the thought is inconceivable, since we are speaking of God, who is supreme of all things. Who was there to join these distinct essences? Finally, when one thing is different from another, the things so conceived as distinct cannot be identical. Therefore that which of its own nature is distinct from the highest good is not itself the highest good—an impious thought of Him than whom, 'tis plain, nothing can be more excellent. For universally nothing can be better in nature than the source from which it has come; therefore on most true grounds of reason would I conclude that which is the source of all things to be in its own essence the highest good.'

'Do not hastily suppose that the Father of all things received the highest good from some external source. Nor should you suppose that he possesses the highest good by nature in such a way that his happiness and his own essence are distinct. For if you believe he received the highest good from outside himself, you may consider its giver more excellent than its recipient. But we rightly acknowledge God to be the most excellent of all things. If, however, the highest good is in God by nature but is logically distinct from him, the idea is inconceivable. For we are speaking of God, who is supreme over all things. Who was there to join these distinct essences? Finally, when one thing is different from another, the two things cannot be identical. Therefore, what is by nature distinct from the highest good is not itself the highest good. To think this of God is impious, for clearly nothing can be more excellent than he is. For, in general, nothing can be better in nature than the source from which it came. Therefore, on the soundest grounds of reason, I conclude that the source of all things is in its own essence the highest good.'

'And most justly,' said I.

'And quite rightly,' I said.

'But the highest good has been admitted to be happiness.'

'But we have agreed that the highest good is happiness.'

'Yes.'

'Yes.'

'Then,' said she, 'it is necessary to acknowledge that God is very happiness.'

'Then,' she said, 'we must acknowledge that God is happiness itself.'

'Yes,' said I; 'I cannot gainsay my former admissions, and I see clearly that this is a necessary inference therefrom.'

'Yes,' I said. 'I cannot deny what I admitted earlier, and I see clearly that this conclusion follows necessarily from it.'

'Reflect, also,' said she, 'whether the same conclusion is not further confirmed by considering that there cannot be two supreme goods distinct one from the other. For the goods which are different clearly cannot be severally each what the other is: wherefore neither of the two can be perfect, since to either the other is wanting; but since it is not perfect, it cannot manifestly be the supreme good. By no means, then, can goods which are supreme be different one from the other. But we have concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good; wherefore that which is highest Divinity must also itself necessarily be supreme happiness.'

'Consider, too,' she said, 'whether the same conclusion is not further supported by the fact that two distinct supreme goods cannot exist. Different goods clearly cannot each be what the other is. So neither can be perfect, because each lacks what the other has. But since neither is perfect, neither can be the supreme good. Therefore, supreme goods cannot be different from one another. But we have concluded that both happiness and God are the supreme good. Therefore, the highest Divinity must also be supreme happiness.'

'No conclusion,' said I, 'could be truer to fact, nor more soundly reasoned out, nor more worthy of God.'

'No conclusion,' I said, 'could be more true to the facts, more logically reasoned, or more worthy of God.'

'Then, further,' said she, 'just as geometricians are wont to draw inferences from their demonstrations to which they give the name "deductions," so will I add here a sort of corollary. For since men become happy by the acquisition of happiness, while happiness is very Godship, it is manifest that they become happy by the acquisition of Godship. But as by the acquisition of justice men become just, and wise by the acquisition of wisdom, so by parity of reasoning by acquiring Godship they must of necessity become gods. So every man who is happy is a god; and though in nature God is One only, yet there is nothing to hinder that very many should be gods by participation in that nature.'

‘Then,’ she said, ‘I will add a kind of corollary. Geometers draw conclusions from their proofs and call them "deductions." In the same way, I will add a conclusion here. People become happy by gaining happiness, and happiness is Godship itself. Clearly, then, they become happy by gaining Godship. People become just by gaining justice and wise by gaining wisdom. By the same reasoning, they must become gods by gaining Godship. So every happy person is a god. Although only one God exists by nature, nothing prevents many people from becoming gods by sharing in that nature.’

'A fair conclusion, and a precious,' said I, 'deduction or corollary, by whichever name thou wilt call it.'

‘A fine and valuable conclusion,’ I said, ‘whether you call it a deduction or a corollary.’

'And yet,' said she, 'not one whit fairer than this which reason persuades us to add.'

'And yet,' she said, 'it is no fairer than what reason persuades us to add.'

'Why, what?' said I.

'What do you mean?' I asked.

'Why, seeing happiness has many particulars included under it, should all these be regarded as forming one body of happiness, as it were, made up of various parts, or is there some one of them which forms the full essence of happiness, while all the rest are relative to this?'

'Since happiness includes many things, should we see them all as parts of a single whole? Or does one of them make up the entire essence of happiness, with all the others relating to it?'

'I would thou wouldst unfold the whole matter to me at large.'

'I wish you would explain the whole matter to me in detail.'

'We judge happiness to be good, do we not?'

'We think happiness is good, don't we?'

'Yea, the supreme good.'

'Yes, the highest good.'

'And this superlative applies to all; for this same happiness is adjudged to be the completest independence, the highest power, reverence, renown, and pleasure.'

'And this applies to all of them. For happiness itself is considered the fullest independence, the greatest power, reverence, fame, and pleasure.'

'What then?'

'What then?'

'Are all these goods—independence, power, and the rest—to be deemed members of happiness, as it were, or are they all relative to good as to their summit and crown?'

'Are all these goods, such as independence and power, parts of happiness? Or do they all lead to the good as their highest goal?'

'I understand the problem, but I desire to hear how thou wouldst solve it.'

'I understand the problem, but I want to hear how you would solve it.'

'Well, then, listen to the determination of the matter. Were all these members composing happiness, they would differ severally one from the other. For this is the nature of parts—that by their difference they compose one body. All these, however, have been proved to be the same; therefore they cannot possibly be members, otherwise happiness will seem to be built up out of one member, which cannot be.'

'Well, then, listen to how the matter is settled. If all these were parts of happiness, each would differ from the others. Parts make up a whole by being different from one another. But all these have been shown to be the same. So they cannot possibly be parts. Otherwise, happiness would seem to be made up of only one part, which is impossible.'

'There can be no doubt as to that,' said I; 'but I am impatient to hear what remains.'

'There is no doubt about that,' I said, 'but I am eager to hear the rest.'

'Why, it is manifest that all the others are relative to the good. For the very reason why independence is sought is that it is judged good, and so power also, because it is believed to be good. The same, too, may be supposed of reverence, of renown, and of pleasant delight. Good, then, is the sum and source of all desirable things. That which has not in itself any good, either in reality or in semblance, can in no wise be desired. Contrariwise, even things which by nature are not good are desired as if they were truly good, if they seem to be so. Whereby it comes to pass that goodness is rightly believed to be the sum and hinge and cause of all things desirable. Now, that for the sake of which anything is desired itself seems to be most wished for. For instance, if anyone wishes to ride for the sake of health, he does not so much wish for the exercise of riding as the benefit of his health. Since, then, all things are sought for the sake of the good, it is not these so much as good itself that is sought by all. But that on account of which all other things are wished for was, we agreed, happiness; wherefore thus also it appears that it is happiness alone which is sought. From all which it is transparently clear that the essence of absolute good and of happiness is one and the same.'

'Clearly, all the other things are related to the good. Independence is sought precisely because it is thought to be good. Power is sought for the same reason, because it is believed to be good. The same may be said of respect, fame, and pleasure. The good, then, is the whole and the source of everything desirable. Nothing can be desired unless it has some good in it, either in reality or in appearance. Conversely, even things that are not good by nature are desired as if they were truly good if they appear good. So goodness is rightly believed to be the whole, the central point, and the cause of everything desirable. Now, the thing for whose sake anything is desired seems itself to be most desired. For example, if someone wants to ride for the sake of health, they want the benefit to their health more than the exercise. Since all things are sought for the sake of the good, everyone seeks the good itself more than those things. But we agreed that happiness is the thing for whose sake all other things are desired. So this also shows that happiness alone is sought. From all this, it is perfectly clear that absolute good and happiness are essentially one and the same.'

'I cannot see how anyone can dissent from these conclusions.'

'I cannot see how anyone could disagree with these conclusions.'

'But we have also proved that God and true happiness are one and the same.'

'But we have also proved that God and true happiness are the same.'

'Yes,' said I.

'Yes,' I said.

'Then we can safely conclude, also, that God's essence is seated in absolute good, and nowhere else.'

'We can also safely conclude that God's essence is found in absolute good, and nowhere else.'

'I quite agree,' said I, 'truly all thy reasonings hold admirably together.'

'I completely agree,' I said. 'All your arguments fit together remarkably well.'

Then said she: 'What value wouldst thou put upon the boon shouldst thou come to the knowledge of the absolute good?'

Then she said: 'How valuable would it be to you to know the absolute good?'

'Oh, an infinite,' said I, 'if only I were so blest as to learn to know God also who is the good.'

'Oh, infinitely so,' I said, 'if only I were blessed enough to know God too, who is the good.'

'Yet this will I make clear to thee on truest grounds of reason, if only our recent conclusions stand fast.'

'Yet I will make this clear to you through the soundest reasoning, if our recent conclusions still hold.'

'They will.'

'They will.'

'Have we not shown that those things which most men desire are not true and perfect good precisely for this cause—that they differ severally one from another, and, seeing that one is wanting to another, they cannot bestow full and absolute good; but that they become the true good when they are gathered, as it were, into one form and agency, so that that which is independence is likewise power, reverence, renown, and pleasant delight, and unless they are all one and the same, they have no claim to be counted among things desirable?'

'Have we not shown that the things most people desire are not the true and perfect good? This is precisely because they are separate from one another. Each lacks what the others have, so none can provide complete and absolute good. But they become the true good when they are brought together, as it were, into one form and function. Then independence is also power, respect, fame, and pleasure. Unless they are all one and the same, they have no claim to be considered desirable.'

'Yes; this was clearly proved, and cannot in any wise be doubted.'

'Yes, this was clearly proved and cannot be doubted in any way.'

'Now, when things are far from being good while they are different, but become good as soon as they are one, is it not true that these become good by acquiring unity?'

'Now, things are far from good when they are separate, but become good as soon as they are united. Doesn't this mean they become good by becoming one?'

'It seems so,' said I.

'It seems so,' I said.

'But dost not thou allow that all which is good is good by participation in goodness?'

'But don't you agree that everything good is good because it shares in goodness?'

'It is.'

'It is.'

'Then, thou must on similar grounds admit that unity and goodness are the same; for when the effects of things in their natural working differ not, their essence is one and the same.'

'Then, for the same reasons, you must admit that unity and goodness are the same. For when things produce the same effects in their natural workings, their essence is one and the same.'

'There is no denying it.'

'You can't deny it.'

'Now, dost thou know,' said she, 'that all which is abides and subsists so long as it continues one, but so soon as it ceases to be one it perishes and falls to pieces?'

'Now, do you know,' she said, 'that everything exists as long as it remains one? But as soon as it ceases to be one, it perishes and falls apart.'

'In what way?'

'How?'

'Why, take animals, for example. When soul and body come together, and continue in one, this is, we say, a living creature; but when this unity is broken by the separation of these two, the creature dies, and is clearly no longer living. The body also, while it remains in one form by the joining together of its members, presents a human appearance; but if the separation and dispersal of the parts break up the body's unity, it ceases to be what it was. And if we extend our survey to all other things, without doubt it will manifestly appear that each several thing subsists while it is one, but when it ceases to be one perishes.'

'Consider animals, for example. When soul and body come together and remain united, we call the result a living creature. But when soul and body separate, their unity is broken. The creature dies and is clearly no longer alive. Similarly, a body looks human as long as its parts remain joined together in one form. But if the parts separate and scatter, breaking the body's unity, it ceases to be what it was. If we look at everything else, we will undoubtedly see the same thing. Each thing exists as long as it remains one, but perishes when it ceases to be one.'

'Yes; when I consider further, I see it to be even as thou sayest.'

'Yes, when I think about it further, I see that it is as you say.'

'Well, is there aught,' said she, 'which, in so far as it acts conformably to nature, abandons the wish for life, and desires to come to death and corruption?'

'Well,' she said, 'is there anything that, when acting in accordance with its nature, gives up its desire to live and wishes to die and decay?'

'Looking to living creatures, which have some faults of choice, I find none that, without external compulsion, forego the will to live, and of their own accord hasten to destruction. For every creature diligently pursues the end of self-preservation, and shuns death and destruction! As to herbs and trees, and inanimate things generally, I am altogether in doubt what to think.'

'When I look at living creatures, which make some flawed choices, I find none that give up the will to live or willingly rush to destruction unless forced by something outside themselves. For every creature strives to preserve itself and avoids death and destruction! As for plants, trees, and inanimate things generally, I am completely unsure what to think.'

'And yet there is no possibility of question about this either, since thou seest how herbs and trees grow in places suitable for them, where, as far as their nature admits, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some spring up in the plains, others in the mountains; some grow in marshes, others cling to rocks; and others, again, find a fertile soil in the barren sands; and if you try to transplant these elsewhere, they wither away. Nature gives to each the soil that suits it, and uses her diligence to prevent any of them dying, so long as it is possible for them to continue alive. Why do they all draw their nourishment from roots as from a mouth dipped into the earth, and distribute the strong bark over the pith? Why are all the softer parts like the pith deeply encased within, while the external parts have the strong texture of wood, and outside of all is the bark to resist the weather's inclemency, like a champion stout in endurance? Again, how great is nature's diligence to secure universal propagation by multiplying seed! Who does not know all these to be contrivances, not only for the present maintenance of a species, but for its lasting continuance, generation after generation, for ever? And do not also the things believed inanimate on like grounds of reason seek each what is proper to itself? Why do the flames shoot lightly upward, while the earth presses downward with its weight, if it is not that these motions and situations are suitable to their respective natures? Moreover, each several thing is preserved by that which is agreeable to its nature, even as it is destroyed by things inimical. Things solid like stones resist disintegration by the close adhesion of their parts. Things fluid like air and water yield easily to what divides them, but swiftly flow back and mingle with those parts from which they have been severed, while fire, again, refuses to be cut at all. And we are not now treating of the voluntary motions of an intelligent soul, but of the drift of nature. Even so is it that we digest our food without thinking about it, and draw our breath unconsciously in sleep; nay, even in living creatures the love of life cometh not of conscious will, but from the principles of nature. For oftentimes in the stress of circumstances will chooses the death which nature shrinks from; and contrarily, in spite of natural appetite, will restrains that work of reproduction by which alone the persistence of perishable creatures is maintained. So entirely does this love of self come from drift of nature, not from animal impulse. Providence has furnished things with this most cogent reason for continuance: they must desire life, so long as it is naturally possible for them to continue living. Wherefore in no way mayst thou doubt but that things naturally aim at continuance of existence, and shun destruction.'

'Yet there can be no question about this either. You can see that plants and trees grow in places suited to them. There, as far as their nature allows, they cannot quickly wither and die. Some grow on plains, others in mountains. Some grow in marshes, others cling to rocks. Still others find fertile soil in barren sands. If you try to transplant them elsewhere, they wither away. Nature gives each plant the soil that suits it. She takes care to keep every plant alive for as long as it can live. Why do all plants draw nourishment through their roots, as if through a mouth dipped into the earth? Why do they spread a strong layer of wood around the pith? Why are all the softer parts, like the pith, enclosed deep within? Why do the outer parts have the strong texture of wood? And why is the bark outside everything else, resisting harsh weather like a champion who can endure hardship? Again, how carefully nature ensures that all plants reproduce by multiplying their seeds! Who does not know that all these are arrangements not only to maintain a species now, but to preserve it forever, generation after generation? On the same grounds, do not things thought to be inanimate also seek what is suited to each of them? Why do flames rise lightly upward, while the earth presses downward with its weight? Is it not because these movements and positions suit their respective natures? Moreover, each thing is preserved by what agrees with its nature, just as it is destroyed by what opposes it. Solid things, like stones, resist breaking apart because their parts cling closely together. Fluids, like air and water, give way easily to whatever divides them. But they quickly flow back and mingle again with the parts from which they were separated. Fire, on the other hand, cannot be cut at all. We are not speaking now of the deliberate actions of an intelligent soul, but of the natural tendency of things. In the same way, we digest food without thinking about it and breathe unconsciously in our sleep. Indeed, even in living creatures, the love of life comes not from conscious will, but from the principles of nature. Under pressure, the will often chooses the death that nature shrinks from. Conversely, despite natural appetite, the will restrains the act of reproduction. Yet reproduction alone maintains the continuing existence of perishable creatures. The love of self comes entirely from the natural tendency of things, not from animal impulse. Providence has given things this most compelling reason to continue: they must desire life as long as it is naturally possible for them to live. Therefore, you cannot doubt that things naturally seek to continue existing and avoid destruction.'

'I confess,' said I, 'that what I lately thought uncertain, I now perceive to be indubitably clear.'

'I admit,' I said, 'that what I recently thought uncertain is now unquestionably clear to me.'

'Now, that which seeks to subsist and continue desires to be one; for if its oneness be gone, its very existence cannot continue.'

'Now, everything that seeks to exist and continue desires to remain one. For if it loses its oneness, it cannot continue to exist.'

'True,' said I.

'True,' I said.

'All things, then, desire to be one.'

'So, all things want to be one.'

'I agree.'

'I agree.'

'But we have proved that one is the very same thing as good.'

'But we have proved that unity and goodness are the same thing.'

'We have.'

'We have.'

'All things, then, seek the good; indeed, you may express the fact by defining good as that which all desire.'

'So all things seek the good. Indeed, you may define the good as what all things desire.'

'Nothing could be more truly thought out. Either there is no single end to which all things are relative, or else the end to which all things universally hasten must be the highest good of all.'

'Nothing could be more soundly reasoned. Either there is no single goal to which all things relate, or the goal toward which all things move must be the highest good of all.'

Then she: 'Exceedingly do I rejoice, dear pupil; thine eye is now fixed on the very central mark of truth. Moreover, herein is revealed that of which thou didst erstwhile profess thyself ignorant.'

Then she said: 'I am very glad, dear pupil. Your eye is now fixed on the very center of truth. Moreover, this reveals what you said earlier that you did not know.'

'What is that?' said I.

'What is that?' I asked.

'The end and aim of the whole universe. Surely it is that which is desired of all; and, since we have concluded the good to be such, we ought to acknowledge the end and aim of the whole universe to be "the good."'

'The end and purpose of the whole universe. Surely, it is what all desire. And since we have concluded that all desire the good, we must acknowledge that "the good" is the end and purpose of the whole universe.'

Then said I: 'With all my heart I agree with Plato; indeed, this is now the second time that these things have been brought back to my mind—first I lost them through the clogging contact of the body; then after through the stress of heavy grief.'

Then I said: 'I agree with Plato with all my heart. This is the second time these things have come back to my mind. First, I lost them because of the body’s dulling influence. Later, I lost them again under the strain of deep grief.'

Then she continued: 'If thou wilt reflect upon thy former admissions, it will not be long before thou dost also recollect that of which erstwhile thou didst confess thyself ignorant.'

Then she continued: 'If you think about what you admitted earlier, you will soon remember what you said you did not know.'

'What is that?' said I.

'What is that?' I asked.

'The principles of the world's government,' said she.

'The principles by which the world is governed,' she said.

'Yes; I remember my confession, and, although I now anticipate what thou intendest, I have a desire to hear the argument plainly set forth.'

'Yes, I remember what I confessed. Although I think I know what you intend, I want to hear your argument stated clearly.'

'Awhile ago thou deemedst it beyond all doubt that God doth govern the world.'

'A little while ago, you believed beyond all doubt that God governs the world.'

'I do not think it doubtful now, nor shall I ever; and by what reasons I am brought to this assurance I will briefly set forth. This world could never have taken shape as a single system out of parts so diverse and opposite were it not that there is One who joins together these so diverse things. And when it had once come together, the very diversity of natures would have dissevered it and torn it asunder in universal discord were there not One who keeps together what He has joined. Nor would the order of nature proceed so regularly, nor could its course exhibit motions so fixed in respect of position, time, range, efficacy, and character, unless there were One who, Himself abiding, disposed these various vicissitudes of change. This power, whatsoever it be, whereby they remain as they were created, and are kept in motion, I call by the name which all recognise—God.'

'I have no doubt about this now, and I never will. I will briefly explain what has brought me to this certainty. The world could never have formed a single system from such diverse and opposing parts unless someone had joined them together. And once the parts had come together, their different natures would have torn them apart in universal discord. That would have happened unless someone had held together what he had joined. Nor would nature follow such a regular order without someone who remains unchanged while directing its many changes. Without him, nature’s movements could not be so fixed in position, time, range, power, and character. Whatever this power may be, it keeps things as they were created and keeps them in motion. I call it by the name everyone recognizes: God.'

Then said she: 'Seeing that such is thy belief, it will cost me little trouble, I think, to enable thee to win happiness, and return in safety to thy own country. But let us give our attention to the task that we have set before ourselves. Have we not counted independence in the category of happiness, and agreed that God is absolute happiness?'

Then she said: 'Since you believe this, I think it will take little effort to help you find happiness and return safely to your own country. But let us focus on the task we have set ourselves. Have we not counted independence as part of happiness and agreed that God is absolute happiness?'

'Truly, we have.'

'Yes, we have.'

'Then, He will need no external assistance for the ruling of the world. Otherwise, if He stands in need of aught, He will not possess complete independence.'

'Then he will need no outside help to rule the world. Otherwise, if he needs anything, he will not be completely independent.'

'That is necessarily so,' said I.

'That must be true,' I said.

'Then, by His own power alone He disposes all things.'

'Then, by his own power alone, he orders all things.'

'It cannot be denied.'

'It can't be denied.'

'Now, God was proved to be absolute good.'

'Now, God was shown to be absolute good.'

'Yes; I remember.'

'Yes, I remember.'

'Then, He disposes all things by the agency of good, if it be true that He rules all things by His own power whom we have agreed to be good; and He is, as it were, the rudder and helm by which the world's mechanism is kept steady and in order.'

'Then he orders all things through goodness, if he rules all things by his own power, and we have agreed that he is good. He is, as it were, the rudder and helm that keep the workings of the world steady and orderly.'

'Heartily do I agree; and, indeed, I anticipated what thou wouldst say, though it may be in feeble surmise only.'

'I wholeheartedly agree. In fact, I expected what you would say, though I may have had only a faint guess.'

'I well believe it,' said she; 'for, as I think, thou now bringest to the search eyes quicker in discerning truth; but what I shall say next is no less plain and easy to see.'

'I believe it,' she said, 'because I think you can now see the truth more clearly as you search. But what I will say next is just as plain and easy to see.'

'What is it?' said I.

'What is it?' I asked.

'Why,' said she, 'since God is rightly believed to govern all things with the rudder of goodness, and since all things do likewise, as I have taught, haste towards good by the very aim of nature, can it be doubted that His governance is willingly accepted, and that all submit themselves to the sway of the Disposer as conformed and attempered to His rule?'

'God is rightly believed to govern all things with goodness,' she said. 'And as I have taught, all things naturally strive toward good. So how can anyone doubt that all things willingly accept his guidance and submit to his rule, adapting themselves to it?'

'Necessarily so,' said I; 'no rule would seem happy if it were a yoke imposed on reluctant wills, and not the safe-keeping of obedient subjects.'

'Of course,' I said. 'No rule would seem good if it forced unwilling people to obey rather than protected obedient subjects.'

'There is nothing, then, which, while it follows nature, endeavours to resist good.'

'So nothing that follows nature tries to resist good.'

'No; nothing.'

'No, nothing.'

'But if anything should, will it have the least success against Him whom we rightly agreed to be supreme Lord of happiness?'

'But if anything should, could it have the slightest success against him whom we rightly agreed is the supreme Lord of happiness?'

'It would be utterly impotent.'

'It would be completely powerless.'

'There is nothing, then, which has either the will or the power to oppose this supreme good.'

'So nothing either wants to or can oppose this supreme good.'

'No; I think not.'

'No, I don't think so.'

'So, then,' said she, 'it is the supreme good which rules in strength, and graciously disposes all things.'

'And so,' she said, 'the supreme good rules with strength and graciously orders all things.'

Then said I: 'How delighted am I at thy reasonings, and the conclusion to which thou hast brought them, but most of all at these very words which thou usest! I am now at last ashamed of the folly that so sorely vexed me.'

Then I said: 'I am delighted by your reasoning and the conclusion you have reached. But most of all, I am delighted by the very words you use! At last, I am ashamed of the folly that troubled me so deeply.'

'Thou hast heard the story of the giants assailing heaven; but a beneficent strength disposed of them also, as they deserved. But shall we submit our arguments to the shock of mutual collision?—it may be from the impact some fair spark of truth may be struck out.'

'You have heard the story of the giants who attacked heaven. But a benevolent power dealt with them too, as they deserved. Shall we set our arguments against each other? Perhaps their collision may strike a bright spark of truth.'

'If it be thy good pleasure,' said I.

'If you wish,' I said.

'No one can doubt that God is all-powerful.'

'No one can doubt that God is all-powerful.'

'No one at all can question it who thinks consistently.'

'No one who thinks consistently can question it.'

'Now, there is nothing which One who is all-powerful cannot do.'

'Now, someone who is all-powerful can do anything.'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing.'

'But can God do evil, then?'

'But can God do evil, then?'

'Nay; by no means.'

'No, not at all.'

'Then, evil is nothing,' said she, 'since He to whom nothing is impossible is unable to do evil.'

'Then evil is nothing,' she said, 'since he for whom nothing is impossible cannot do evil.'

'Art thou mocking me,' said I, 'weaving a labyrinth of tangled arguments, now seeming to begin where thou didst end, and now to end where thou didst begin, or dost thou build up some wondrous circle of Divine simplicity? For, truly, a little before thou didst begin with happiness, and say it was the supreme good, and didst declare it to be seated in the supreme Godhead. God Himself, too, thou didst affirm to be supreme good and all-complete happiness; and from this thou didst go on to add, as by the way, the proof that no one would be happy unless he were likewise God. Again, thou didst say that the very form of good was the essence both of God and of happiness, and didst teach that the absolute One was the absolute good which was sought by universal nature. Thou didst maintain, also, that God rules the universe by the governance of goodness, that all things obey Him willingly, and that evil has no existence in nature. And all this thou didst unfold without the help of assumptions from without, but by inherent and proper proofs, drawing credence one from the other.'

'Are you mocking me,' I said, 'by weaving a maze of tangled arguments? Sometimes you seem to begin where you ended, and sometimes to end where you began. Or are you drawing some wondrous circle of divine simplicity? A little while ago, you began with happiness and said it was the highest good. You said that this highest good resides in the supreme Godhead. You also said that God himself is the highest good and complete happiness. From this, you went on to prove, almost in passing, that no one can be happy unless he is also God. You also said that the very form of good is the essence of both God and happiness. You taught that the absolute One is the absolute good sought by all of nature. You also maintained that God rules the universe through goodness, that all things obey him willingly, and that evil has no existence in nature. You explained all this without relying on outside assumptions. Instead, you used proofs drawn from the argument itself, each lending support to the others.'

Then answered she: 'Far is it from me to mock thee; nay, by the blessing of God, whom we lately addressed in prayer, we have achieved the most important of all objects. For such is the form of the Divine essence, that neither can it pass into things external, nor take up anything external into itself; but, as Parmenides says of it,

Then she answered: 'I would never mock you. On the contrary, with the blessing of God, whom we recently prayed to, we have achieved the most important goal of all. For the Divine essence is such that it cannot pass into anything outside itself or take anything external into itself. But, as Parmenides says of it,

it rolls the restless orb of the universe, keeping itself motionless the while. And if I have also employed reasonings not drawn from without, but lying within the compass of our subject, there is no cause for thee to marvel, since thou hast learnt on Plato's authority that words ought to be akin to the matter of which they treat.'

it turns the restless sphere of the universe while remaining motionless itself. I may also have used arguments drawn from our subject rather than from elsewhere. If so, you have no reason to wonder. You have learned from Plato that words should suit the subject they describe.'