XXVII. But you have recourse to art, which you call in to the aid of the senses. A painter sees what we do not see; and as soon as a flute-player plays a note the air is recognised by a musician. Well? Does not this argument seem to tell against you, if, without great skill, such as very few persons of our class attain to, we can neither see nor hear? Then you give an excellent description of the skill with which nature has manufactured our senses, and intellect, and the whole construction of man, in order to prevent my being alarmed at rashness of opinions. Can you also, Lucullus, affirm that there is any power united with wisdom and prudence which has made, or, to use your own expression, manufactured man?
What sort of a manufacture is that? Where is it exercised? when? why? how?
These points are all handled ingeniously, they are discussed even elegantly. Let it be said even that they appear likely; only let them not be affirmed positively. But we will discuss natural philosophy hereafter, and, indeed, we will do so that you, who said a little while ago that I should speak of it, may appear not to have spoken falsely.
However, to come to what is clearer, I shall now bring forward general facts on which whole volumes have been filled, not only by those of our own School, but also by Chrysippus. But the Stoics complain of him, that, while he studiously collected every argument which could be brought forward against the senses and clearness, and against all custom, and against reason, when he came to reply to himself, he was inferior to what he had been at first; and therefore that, in fact, he put arms into the hands of Carneades. Those arguments are such as have been ingeniously handled by you. You said that the perceptions of men asleep, or drunk, or mad, were less vigorous than those of men awake, sober, and sane. How do you prove that? because, when Ennius had awakened, he would not say that he had seen Homer, but only that Homer had seemed to be present. And Alcmæon says— My heart distrusts the witness of my eyes.
And one may say the same of men who are drunk. As if any one denied that when a man has awakened he ceases to think his dreams true; and that a man whose frenzy has passed away, no longer conceives those things to be real which appeared so to him during his madness. But that is not the question: the question is, how those things appear to us, at the time when they do appear. Unless, indeed, we suppose that Ennius heard the whole of that address— O piety of the soul...(if, indeed, he did dream it), just as he would have heard it if he had been awake. For when awake, he was able to think those things phantoms—as, in fact, they were—and dreams. But while he was asleep, he felt as sure of their reality as if he had been awake. Again, Iliona, in that dream of hers, where she hears— Mother, I call on you...does she not believe that her son has spoken, just as she would have believed it if she had been awake? On which account she adds— Come now, stand here, remain, and hear my words, And once again repeat those words to me.
Does she here seem to place less trust in what she has seen than people do when awake?
XXVIII. Why should I speak of madmen?—such as your relation Tuditanus was, Catulus. Does any man, who may be ever so much in his senses, think the things which he sees as certain as he used to think those that appeared to him? Again, the man who cries out— I see you now, I see you now alive, Ulysses, while such sight is still allow’d me; does he not twice cry out that he is seeing what he never sees at all?
Again, when Hercules, in Euripides, shot his own sons with his arrows, taking them for the sons of Eurystheus,—when he slew his wife,—when he endeavoured even to slay his father,—was he not worked upon by false ideas, just as he might have been by true ones? Again, does not your own Alcmæon, who says that his heart distrusts the witness of his eyes, say in the same place, while inflamed by frenzy— Whence does this flame arise?
And presently afterwards— Come on; come on; they hasten, they approach; They seek for me.
Listen, how he implores the good faith of the virgin:— O bring me aid; O drive this pest away; This fiery power which now doth torture me; See, they advance, dark shades, with flames encircled, And stand around me with their blazing torches.
Have you any doubt here that he appears to himself to see these things?
And then the rest of his speech:— See how Apollo, fair-hair’d God, Draws in and bends his golden bow; While on the left fair Dian waves her torch.
How could he have believed these things any more if they had really existed than he did when they only seemed to exist? For it is clear that at the moment his heart was not distrusting his eyes. But all these instances are cited in order to prove that than which nothing can be more certain, namely, that between true and false perceptions there is no difference at all, as far as the assent of the mind is concerned. But you prove nothing when you merely refute those false perceptions of men who are mad or dreaming, by their own recollection. For the question is not what sort of recollection those people usually have who have awakened, or those who have recovered from madness, but what sort of perception madmen or dreamers had at the moment when they were under the influence of their madness or their dream. However, we will say no more about the senses.
What is there that can be perceived by reason? You say that Dialectics have been discovered, and that that science is, as it were, an arbiter and judge of what is true and false. Of what true and false?—and of true and false on what subject? Will a dialectician be able to judge, in geometry, what is true and false, or in literature, or in music? He knows nothing about those things. In philosophy, then? What is it to him how large the sun is? or what means has he which may enable him to judge what the chief good is? What then will he judge of? Of what combination or disjunction of ideas is accurate,—of what is an ambiguous expression,—of what follows from each fact, or what is inconsistent with it? If the science of dialectics judges of these things, or things like them, it is judging of itself. But it professed more. For to judge of these matters is not sufficient for the resolving of the other numerous and important questions which arise in philosophy. But, since you place so much importance in that art, I would have you to consider whether it was not invented for the express purpose of being used against you. For, at its first opening, it gives an ingenious account of the elements of speaking, and of the manner in which one may come to an understanding of ambiguous expressions, and of the principles of reasoning: then, after a few more things, it comes to the sorites, a very slippery and hazardous topic, and a class of argument which you yourself pronounced to be a vicious one.
XXIX. What then, you will say; are we to be blamed for that viciousness?
The nature of things has not given us any knowledge of ends, so as to enable us, in any subject whatever, to say how far we can go. Nor is this the case only in respect of the heap of wheat, from which the name is derived, but in no matter whatever where the argument is conducted by minute questions: for instance, if the question be whether a man is rich or poor, illustrious or obscure,—whether things be many or few, great or small, long or short, broad or narrow,—we have no certain answer to give, how much must be added or taken away to make the thing in question either one or the other.
But the sorites is a vicious sort of argument:—crush it, then, if you can, to prevent its being troublesome; for it will be so, if you do not guard against it. We have guarded against it, says he. For Chrysippus’s plan is, when he is interrogated step by step (by way of giving an instance), whether there are three, or few, or many, to rest a little before he comes to the “many;” that is to say, to use their own language, ἡσυχάζειν. Rest and welcome, says Carneades; you may even snore, for all I care. But what good does he do? For one follows who will waken you from sleep, and question you in the same manner:—Take the number, after the mention of which you were silent, and if to that number I add one, will there be many? You will again go on, as long as you think fit. Why need I say more?
for you admit this, that you cannot in your answers fix the last number which can be classed as “few,” nor the first, which amounts to “many.” And this kind of uncertainty extends so widely, that I do not see any bounds to its progress.
Nothing hurts me, says he; for I, like a skilful driver, will rein in my horses before I come to the end, and all the more if the ground which the horses are approaching is precipitous. And thus, too, says he, I will check myself, and not reply any more to one who addresses me with captious questions. If you have a clear answer to make, and refuse to make it, you are giving yourself airs; if you have not, even you yourself do not perceive it. If you stop, because the question is obscure, I admit that it is so; but you say that you do not proceed as far as what is obscure. You stop, then, where the case is still clear. If then all you do is to hold your tongue, you gain nothing by that. For what does it matter to the man who wishes to catch you, whether he entangles you owing to your silence or to your talking? Suppose, for instance, you were to say, without hesitation, that up to the number nine, is “few,” but were to pause at the tenth; then you would be refusing your assent to what is certain and evident, and yet you will not allow me to do the same with respect to subjects which are obscure.
That art, therefore, does not help you against the sorites; inasmuch as it does not teach a man, who is using either the increasing or diminishing scale, what is the first point, or the last. May I not say that that same art, like Penelope undoing her web, at last undoes all the arguments which have gone before? Is that your fault, or ours? In truth, it is the foundation of dialectics, that whatever is enunciated (and that is what they call ἀξίωμα, which answers to our word _effatum_,) is either true or false. What, then, is the case? Are these true or false? If you say that you are speaking falsely, and that that is true, you are speaking falsely and telling the truth at the same time. This, forsooth, you say is inexplicable; and that is more odious than our language, when we call things uncomprehended, and not perceived.
XXX. However, I will pass over all this. I ask, if those things cannot be explained, and if no means of judging of them is discovered, so that you can answer whether they are true or false, then what has become of that definition,—“That a proposition (_effatum_) is something which is either true or false?” After the facts are assumed I will add, that of them some are to be adopted, others impeached, because they are contrary to the first. What then do you think of this conclusion,—“If you say that the sun shines, and if you speak truth, therefore the sun does shine?” At all events you approve of the kind of argument, and you say that the conclusion has been most correctly inferred. Therefore, in teaching, you deliver that as the first mood in which to draw conclusions. Either, therefore, you will approve of every other conclusion in the same mood, or that art of yours is good for nothing. Consider, then, whether you are inclined to approve of this conclusion;—“If you say that you are a liar, and speak the truth, then you are a liar. But you do say that you are a liar, and you do speak the truth, therefore you are a liar.” How can you avoid approving of this conclusion, when you approved of the previous one of the same kind?
These are the arguments of Chrysippus, which even he himself did not refute. For what could he do with such a conclusion as this,—“If it shines, it shines: but it does shine, therefore it does shine?” He must give in; for the principle of the connexion compels you to grant the last proposition after you have once granted the first. And in what does this conclusion differ from the other,—“If you lie, you lie; but you do lie, therefore you do lie?” You assert that it is impossible for you either to approve or disapprove of this: if so, how can you any more approve or disapprove of the other? If the art, or the principle, or the method, or the force of the one conclusion avails, they exist in exactly the same degree in both.
This, however, is their last resource. They demand that one should make an exception with regard to these points which are inexplicable. I give my vote for their going to some tribune of the people; for they shall never obtain this exception from me. In truth, when they cannot prevail on Epicurus, who despises and ridicules the whole science of dialectics, to grant this proposition to be true, which we may express thus—“Hermachus will either be alive to-morrow or he will not;” when the dialecticians lay it down that every disjunctive proposition, such as “either yes or no” is not only true but necessary; you may see how cautious he is, whom they think slow. For, says he, if I should grant that one of the two alternatives is necessary, it will then be necessary either that Hermachus should be alive to-morrow, or not. But there is no such necessity in the nature of things. Let the dialecticians then, that is to say, Antiochus and the Stoics, contend with him, for he upsets the whole science of dialectics.
For if a disjunctive proposition made up of contraries, (I call those propositions contraries when one affirms and the other denies,) if, I say, such a disjunctive can be false, then no one is ever true. But what quarrel have they with me who am following their system? When anything of that kind happened, Carneades used to joke in this way:—“If I have drawn my conclusion correctly, I gain the cause: if incorrectly, Diogenes shall pay back a mina;” for he had learnt dialectics of that Stoic, and a mina was the pay of the dialecticians.
I, therefore, follow that system which I learnt from Antiochus; and I find no reason why I should judge “If it does shine, it does shine” to be true, because I have learnt that everything which is connected with itself is true; and yet not judge “If you lie, you lie,” to be connected with itself in the same manner. Either, therefore, I must judge both this and that to be true, or, if I may not judge this to be true, then I cannot judge that to be.
XXXI. However, to pass over all those prickles, and all that tortuous kind of discussion, and to show what we are:—after having explained the whole theory of Carneades, all the quibbles of Antiochus will necessarily fall to pieces. Nor will I say anything in such a way as to lead any one to suspect that anything is invented by me. I will take what I say from Clitomachus, who was with Carneades till his old age, a man of great shrewdness, (indeed, he was a Carthaginian,) and very studious and diligent. And he has written four books on the subject of withholding assent; but what I am going to say is taken out of the first.
Carneades asserts that there are two kinds of appearances; and that the first kind may be divided into those which can be perceived and those which cannot; and the other into those which are probable and those which are not. Therefore, those which are pronounced to be contrary to the senses and contrary to evidentness belong to the former division; but that nothing can be objected to those of the second kind. Wherefore his opinion is, that there is no appearance of such a character that perception will follow it, but many such as to draw after them probability. Indeed, it would be contrary to nature if nothing were probable; and that entire overturning of life, which you were speaking of, Lucullus, would ensue.
Therefore there are many things which may be proved by the senses; only one must recollect that there is not in them anything of such a character that there may not also be something which is false, but which in no respect differs from it in appearance; and so, whatever happens which is probable in appearance, if nothing offers itself which is contrary to that probability, the wise man will use it; and in this way the whole course of life will be regulated.
And, in truth, that wise man whom you are bringing on the stage, is often guided by what is probable, not being comprehended, nor perceived, nor assented to, but only likely; and unless a man acts on such circumstances there is an end to the whole system of life. For what must happen? Has the wise man, when he embarks on board ship, a positive comprehension and perception in his mind that he will have a successful voyage? How can he?
But suppose he goes from this place to Puteoli, thirty furlongs, in a seaworthy vessel, with a good pilot, and in fine weather like this, it appears probable that he will arrive there safe. According to appearances of this kind, then, he will make up his mind to act or not to act; and he will be more willing to find the snow white than Anaxagoras, who not only denied that fact, but who affirmed, because he knew that water, from which snow was congealed, was of a dark colour, that snow did not even look white. And he will be influenced by anything which affects him in such a way that the appearance is probable, and not interfered with by any obstacle. For such a man is not cut out of stone or hewn out of oak. He has a body, he has a mind, he is influenced by intellect, he is influenced by his senses, so that many things appear to him to be true, and yet not to have conspicuous and peculiar characteristics by which to be perceived.
And therefore the wise man does not assent to them, because it is possible that something false may exist of the same kind as this true thing. Nor do we speak against the senses differently from the Stoics, who say that many things are false, and are very different from the appearance which they present to the senses.
XXXII. But if this is the case, that one false idea can be entertained by the senses, you will find some one in a moment who will deny that anything can be perceived by the senses. And so, while we are silent, all perception and comprehension is done away with by the two principles laid down, one by Epicurus and the other by you. What is Epicurus’s maxim?—If anything that appears to the senses be false, then nothing can be perceived. What is yours?—The appearances presented to the senses are false.—What is the conclusion? Even if I hold my tongue, it speaks for itself, that nothing can be perceived. I do not grant that, says he, to Epicurus. Argue then with him, as he is wholly at variance with you, but leave me alone, who certainly agree with you so far, that the senses are liable to error. Although nothing appears so strange to me, as that such things should be said, especially by Antiochus, to whom the propositions which I have just mentioned were thoroughly known. For although, if he pleases, any one may find fault with this, namely with our denying that anything can be perceived; at all events it is not a very serious reproof that we can have to endure. But as for our statement that some things are probable, this does not seem to you to be sufficient. Grant that it is not. At least we ought to escape the reproaches which are incessantly bandied about by you, “Can you, then, see nothing? can you hear nothing?
is nothing evident to you?”
I explained just now, on the testimony of Clitomachus, in what manner Carneades intended those statements to be taken. Hear now, how the same things are stated by Clitomachus in that book which he dedicated to Caius Lucilius, the poet, after he had written on the same subject to Lucius Censorinus, the one, I mean, who was consul with Marcus Manilius; he then used almost these very words; for I am well acquainted with them, because the first idea and arrangement of those very matters which we are now discussing is contained in that book. He then uses the following language— “The philosophers of the Academy are of opinion that there are differences between things of such a kind that some appear probable, and others the contrary. But that it is not a sufficient reason for one’s saying that some of these can be perceived and that others cannot, because many things which are false are probable; but nothing false can be perceived and known. Therefore, says he, those men are egregiously wrong who say that the Academics deny the existence of the senses; for they have never said that there is no such thing as colour, or taste, or sound; the only point they argue for is, that there is not in them that peculiar characteristic mark of truth and certainty which does not exist anywhere else.”
And after having explained this, he adds, that there are two senses in which the wise man may be said to suspend his assent: one, when it is understood that he, as a general rule, assents to nothing; the other, when he forbears answering, so as to say that he approves or disapproves of anything, or, so as to deny or affirm anything. This being the case, he approves of the one sense, so as never to assent to anything; and adheres to the other, so as to be able to answer yes, or no, following probability whenever it either occurs or is wanting. And that one may not be astonished at one, who in every matter withholds himself from expressing his assent, being nevertheless agitated and excited to action, he leaves us perceptions of the sort by which we are excited to action, and those owing to which we can, when questioned, answer either way, being guided only by appearances, as long as we avoid expressing a deliberate assent.
And yet we must look upon all appearances of that kind as probable, but only those which have no obstacles to counteract them. If we do not induce you to approve of these ideas, they may perhaps be false, but they certainly do not deserve odium. For we are not depriving you of any light; but with reference to the things which you assert are perceived and comprehended, we say, that if they be only probable, they appear to be true.
XXXIII. Since, therefore, what is probable, is thus inferred and laid down, and at the same time disencumbered of all difficulties, set free and unrestrained, and disentangled from all extraneous circumstances; you see, Lucullus, that that defence of perspicuity which you took in hand is utterly overthrown. For this wise man of whom I am speaking will survey the heaven and earth and sea with the same eyes as your wise man; and will feel with the same senses all those other things which fall under each respective sense. That sea, which now, as the west wind is rising over it, appears purple to us, will appear so too to our wise man, but nevertheless he will not sanction the appearance by his assent; because, to us ourselves it appeared just now blue, and in the morning it appeared yellow; and now, too, because it sparkles in the sun, it is white and dimpled, and quite unlike the adjacent continent; so that, even if you could give an account why it is so, still you could not establish the truth of the appearance that is presented to the eyes.
Whence then,—for this was the question which you asked,—comes memory, if we perceive nothing, since we cannot recollect anything which we have seen unless we have comprehended it? What? Did Polyænus, who is said to have been a great mathematician, after he had been persuaded by Epicurus to believe all geometry to be false, forget all the knowledge which he had previously possessed? But that which is false cannot be comprehended as you yourselves assert. If, therefore, memory is conversant only with things which have been perceived and comprehended, then it retains as comprehended and perceived all that every one remembers. But nothing false can be comprehended; and Scyron recollects all the dogmas of Epicurus; therefore they are all true. For all I care, they may be; but you also must either admit that they are so, and that is the last thing in your thoughts, or else you must allow me memory, and grant that there is plenty of room for it, even if there be no comprehension or perception.
What then is to become of the arts? Of what arts? of those, which of their own accord confess that they proceed on conjecture more than on knowledge; or of those which only follow what appears to them, and are destitute of that art which you possess to enable them to distinguish between truth and falsehood?
But there are two lights which, more than any others, contain the whole case; for, in the first place, you deny the possibility of any man invariably withholding his assent from everything. But that is quite plain; since Panætius, almost the greatest man, in my opinion, of all the Stoics, says that he is in doubt as to that matter, which all the Stoics except him think absolutely certain, namely as to the truth of the auspices taken by soothsayers, and of oracles, and dreams, and prophecies; and forbears to express any assent respecting them. And why, if he may pursue this course concerning those matters, which the men of whom he himself learnt considered unquestionable, why may not a wise man do so too in all other cases? Is there any position which a man may either approve or disapprove of after it has been asserted, but yet may not doubt about?
May you do so with respect to the sorites whenever you please, and may not he take his stand in the same manner in other cases, especially when without expressing his assent he may be able to follow a probability which is not embarrassed by anything?
The second point is that you declare that man incapable of action who withholds his assent from everything. For first of all we must see in what assent consists. For the Stoics say that the senses themselves are assents; that desire comes after them, and action after desire. But that every thing is at an end if we deny perception.
XXXIV. Now on this subject many things have been said and written on both sides, but the whole matter may be summed up in a few words. For although I think it a very great exploit to resist one’s perceptions, to withstand one’s vague opinions, to check one’s propensity to give assent to propositions,—and though I quite agree with Clitomachus, when he writes that Carneades achieved a Herculean labour when, as if it had been a savage and formidable monster, he extracted assent, that is to say, vague opinion and rashness, from our minds,—yet, supposing that part of the defence is wholly omitted, what will hinder the action of that man who follows probability, without any obstacle arising to embarrass him? This thing of itself, says he, will embarrass him,—that he will lay it down, that even the thing he approves of cannot be perceived. And that will hinder you, also, in sailing, in planting, in marrying a wife, in becoming the parent of children, and in many things in which you follow nothing except what is probable.
And, nevertheless, you bring up again that old and often repudiated objection, to employ it not as Antipater did, but, as you say, in a closer manner. For you tell us that Antipater was blamed for saying, that it was consistent in a man who affirmed that nothing could be comprehended, to say that at least this fact of that impossibility could be comprehended; which appeared even to Antiochus to be a stupid kind of assertion, and contradictory to itself. For that it cannot be said with any consistency that nothing can be comprehended, if it is asserted at the same time that the fact of the impossibility can be comprehended. He thinks that Carneades ought rather to be pressed in this way:—As the wise man admits of no dogma except such as is comprehended, perceived, and known, he must therefore confess that this very dogma of the wise man, “that nothing can be perceived,” is perceived; as if the wise man had no other maxim whatever, and as if he could pass his life without any. But as he has others, which are probable, but not positively perceived, so also has he this one, that nothing can be perceived. For if he had on this point any characteristic of certain knowledge, he would also have it on all other points; but since he has it not, he employs probabilities. Therefore he is not afraid of appearing to be throwing everything into confusion, and making it uncertain. For it is not admissible for a person to say that he is ignorant about duty, and about many other things with which he is constantly mixed up and conversant; as he might say, if he were asked whether the number of the stars is odd or even. For in things uncertain, nothing is probable; but as to those matters in which there is probability, in those the wise man will not be at a loss what to do, or what answer to give.
Nor have you, O Lucullus, omitted that other objection of Antiochus (and, indeed, it is no wonder, for it is a very notorious one,) by which he used to say that Philo was above all things perplexed. For when one proposition was assumed, that some appearances were false, and a second one that there was no difference between them and true ones, he said that that school omitted to take notice that the former proposition had been granted by him, because there did appear to be some difference between appearances; but that that was put an end to by the second proposition, which asserted that there was no difference between false and true ones; for that no two assertions could be more contradictory. And this objection would be correct if we altogether put truth out of the question: but we do not; for we see both true appearances and false ones. But there is a show of probability in them, though of perception we have no sign whatever.
XXXV. And I seem to myself to be at this moment adopting too meagre an argument; for, when there is a wide plain, in which our discourse may rove at liberty, why should we confine it within such narrow straits, and drive it into the thickets of the Stoics? For if I were arguing with a Peripatetic, who said “that everything could be perceived which was an impression originating in the truth,” and who did not employ that additional clause,—“in such a way as it could not originate in what was false,” I should then deal plainly with a plain man, and should not be very disputatious. And even if, when I said that nothing could be comprehended, he was to say that a wise man was sometimes guided by opinion, I should not contradict him; especially as even Carneades is not very hostile to this idea. As it is, what can I do? For I am asking what there is that can be comprehended; and I am answered, not by Aristotle, or Theophrastus, or even Xenocrates or Polemo, but by one who is of much later date than they,—“A truth of such a nature as what is false cannot be.” I find nothing of the sort. Therefore I will, in truth, assent to what is unknown;—that is to say, I will be guided by opinion. This I am allowed to do both by the Peripatetics and by the Old Academy; but you refuse me such indulgence, and in this refusal Antiochus is the foremost, who has great weight with me, either because I loved the man, as he did me, or because I consider him the most refined and acute of all the philosophers of our age.
And, first of all, I will ask him how it is that he is a follower of that Academy to which he professes to belong? For, to pass over other points, who is there, either of the Old Academy or of the Peripatetics, who has ever made these two assertions which are the subject of discussion,—either that that alone could be perceived which was a truth of such a nature, as what was false could not be; or that a wise man was never guided by opinion? Certainly no one of them ever said so. Neither of these propositions was much maintained before Zeno’s time. But I consider both of them true; and I do not say so just to serve the present turn, but it is my honest opinion.
XXXVI. This is what I cannot bear. When you forbid me to assent to what I do not know, and say such a proceeding is most discreditable, and full of rashness,—when you, at the same time, arrogate so much to yourself, as to take upon yourself to explain the whole system of wisdom, to unfold the nature of all things, to form men’s manners, to fix the limits of good and evil, to describe men’s duties, and also to undertake to teach a complete rule and system of disputing and understanding, will you be able to prevent me from never tripping while embracing all those multitudinous branches of knowledge? What, in short, is that school to which you would conduct me, after you have carried me away from this one? I fear you will be acting rather arrogantly if you say it is your own. Still you must inevitably say so. Nor, indeed, are you the only person who would say such a thing, but every one will try and tempt me to his own. Come; suppose I resist the Peripatetics, who say that they are closely connected with the orators, and that illustrious men who have been instructed by them have often governed the republic;—suppose that I withstand the Epicureans, so many of whom are friends of my own,—excellent, united, and affectionate men;—what am I to do with respect to Deodotus the Stoic, of whom I have been a pupil from my youth,—who has been living with me so many years,—who dwells in my house,—whom I admire and love, and who despises all those theories of Antiochus? Our principles, you will say, are the only true ones. Certainly the only true ones, if they are true at all; for there cannot be many true principles incompatible with one another. Are we then shameless who are unwilling to make mistakes; or they arrogant who have persuaded themselves that they are the only people who know everything? I do not, says he, assert that I, but that the wise man knows everything.
Exactly so; that he knows those things which are the principles of your school. Now, in the first place, what an assertion it is that wisdom cannot be explained by a wise man.—But let us leave off speaking of ourselves; let us speak of the wise man, about whom, as I have often said before, the whole of this discussion is.
Wisdom, then, is distributed by most people, and indeed by us, into three parts. First therefore, if you please, let us consider the researches that have been made into the nature of things. Is there any one so puffed up with a false opinion of himself as to have persuaded himself that he knows those things? I am not asking about those reasons which depend on conjecture, which are dragged every way by discussions, and which do not admit any necessity of persuasion. Let the geometricians look to that, who profess not to persuade men to believe them, but to compel them to do so; and who prove to you everything that they describe. I am not asking these men for those principles of the mathematicians, which, if they be not granted, they cannot advance a single step; such as that a point is a