Then you have recourse to those natural philosophers who are so greatly ridiculed in the Academy, but whom you will not even now desist from quoting. And you tell us that Democritus says that there are a countless number of worlds, and that there are some which are not only so like one another, but so completely and absolutely equal in every point, that there is no difference whatever between them, and that they are quite innumerable; and so also are men. Then you require that, if the world be so entirely equal to another world that there is absolutely not the slightest difference between them, we should grant to you that in this world of ours also there must be something exactly equal to something else, so that there is no difference whatever or distinction between them. For why, you will say, since there not only can be, but actually are innumerable Quinti Lutatii Catuli formed out of those atoms, from which Democritus affirms that everything is produced, in all the other worlds, which are likewise innumerable,—why may not there be a second Catulus formed in this identical world of ours, since it is of such a size as we see it?

XVIII. First of all I reply, that you are bringing me to the arguments of Democritus, with whom I do not agree. And I will the more readily refute them, on account of that doctrine which is laid down very clearly by the more refined natural philosophers, that everything has its own separate property. For grant that those ancient Servilii who were twins were as much alike as they are said to have been, do you think that that would have made them the same? They were not distinguished from one another out of doors, but they were at home. They were not distinguished from one another by strangers, but they were by their own family. Do we not see that this is frequently the case, that those people whom we should never have expected to be able to know from one another, we do by practice distinguish so easily that they do not appear to be even in the least alike?

Here, however, you may struggle; I will not oppose you. Moreover, I will grant that that very wise man who is the subject of all this discussion, when things like one another come under his notice, in which he has not remarked any special character, will withhold his assent, and will never agree to any perception which is not of such a character as a false perception can never assume. But with respect to all other things he has a certain art by which he can distinguish what is true from what is false; and with respect to those similitudes he must apply the test of experience. As a mother distinguishes between twins by the constant practice of her eyes, so you too will distinguish when you have become accustomed to it. Do you not see that it has become a perfect proverb that one egg is like another? and yet we are told that at Delos (when it was a flourishing island) there were many people who used to keep large numbers of hens for the sake of profit; and that they, when they had looked upon an egg, could tell which hen had laid it. Nor does that fact make against our argument; for it is sufficient for us to be able to distinguish between the eggs. For it is impossible for one to assent to the proposition that this thing is that thing more, than by admitting that there is actually no difference at all between the two. For I have laid it down as a rule, to consider all perceptions true which are of such a character as those which are false cannot be. And from this I may not depart one finger's breadth, as they say, lest I should throw everything into confusion. For not only the knowledge of what is true and false, but their whole nature too, will be destroyed if there is no difference between one and the other. And that must be very absurd which you sometimes are in the habit of saying, when perceptions are imprinted on the mind, that what you say is, not that there is no difference between the impressions, but only that there is none between certain appearances and forms which they assume. As if perceptions were not judged of by their appearance, which can deserve or obtain no credit if the mark by which we are to distinguish truth from falsehood be taken away.

But that is a monstrous absurdity of yours, when you say that you follow what is probable when you are not hindered by anything from doing so. In the first place, how can you avoid being hindered, when what is false does not differ from what is true? Secondly, what judgment can be formed of what is true, when what is true is undistinguishable from what is false? From these facts there springs unavoidably ἐποχὴ, that is to say, a suspension of assent: for which Arcesilas is more consistent, if at least the opinions which some people entertain of Carneades are correct. For if nothing can be perceived, as they both agree in thinking, then all assent is taken away. For what is so childish as to talk of approving of what is not known? But even yesterday we heard that Carneades was in the habit, at times, of descending to say that a wise man would be guided by opinion, that is to say, would do wrong. To me, indeed, it is not so certain that there is anything which can be comprehended, a question which I have now spent too much time in discussing, as that a wise man is never guided by opinion, that is to say, never assents to anything which is either false or unknown.

There remains this other statement of theirs, that for the sake of discovering the truth, one ought to speak against every side, and in favour of every side. I wish then to see what they have discovered. We are not in the habit, says he, of showing that. What then is the object of all this mystery? or why do you conceal your opinion as something discreditable? In order, says he, that those who hear us may be influenced by reason rather than led by authority. What if they are influenced by both? would there be any harm in that? However, they do not conceal one of their theories, namely, that there is nothing which can be conceived. Is authority no hindrance to entertaining this opinion? It seems to me to be a great one. For who would ever have embraced so openly and undisguisedly such perverse and false principles, if there had not been such great richness of ideas and power of eloquence in Arcesilas, and, in a still greater degree, in Carneades?

XIX. These are nearly the arguments which Antiochus used to urge at Alexandria, and many years afterwards, with much more positiveness too, in Syria, when he was there with me, a little before he died. But, as my case is now established, I will not hesitate to warn you, as you are my dearest friend, (he was addressing me,) and one a good deal younger than myself.

Will you, then, after having extolled philosophy with such panegyrics, and provoked our friend Hortensius, who disagrees with us, now follow that philosophy which confounds what is true with what is false, deprives us of all judgment, strips us of the power of approval, and robs us of all our senses? Even the Cimmerians, to whom some god, or nature, or the foulness of the country that they inhabited, had denied the light of the sun, had still some fires which they were permitted to avail themselves of as if they were light. But those men whom you approve of, after having enveloped us in such darkness, have not left us a single spark to enable us to look around by. And if we follow them, we become bound with such chains that we cannot move. For when assent is taken away, they take away at the same time all motion of our minds, and all our power of action; which not only cannot be done rightly, but which cannot possibly be done at all. Beware, also, lest you become the only person who is not allowed to uphold that opinion. Will you, when you have explained the most secret matters and brought them to light, and said on your oath that you have discovered them, (which, indeed, I could swear to also, since I learnt them from you,)—will you, I say, assert that there is nothing which can be known, comprehended, or perceived? Beware, I entreat you, lest the authority of those most beautiful actions be diminished by your own conduct.

And having said this he stopped. But Hortensius, admiring all he said very greatly, (so much, indeed, that all the time that Lucullus was speaking he kept lifting up his hands; and it was no wonder, for I do not believe that an argument had ever been conducted against the Academy with more acuteness,) began to exhort me, either jestingly or seriously, (for that was a point that I was not quite sure about,) to abandon my opinions. Then, said Catulus, if the discourse of Lucullus has had such influence over you,—and it has been a wonderful exhibition of memory, accuracy, and ingenuity,—I have nothing to say; nor do I think it my duty to try and deter you from changing opinion if you choose. But I should not think it well for you to be influenced merely by his authority. For he was all but warning you, said he, jestingly, to take care that no worthless tribune of the people, of whom you know what a number there will always be, seize upon you, and ask of you in the public assembly how you are consistent with yourself, when at one time you assert that nothing certain can be discovered, and at another time affirm that you yourself have discovered something. I entreat you, do not let him terrify you. But I would rather have you disagree with him on the merits of the case itself. But if you give in to him, I shall not be greatly surprised; for I recollect that Antiochus himself, after he had entertained such opinions for many years, abandoned them as soon as he thought it desirable. When Catulus had said this, they all began to fix their eyes on me.

XX. Then I, being no less agitated than I usually am when pleading important causes, began to speak something after this fashion:—

The discourse of Lucullus, O Catulus, on the matter itself, moved me a good deal, being the discourse of a learned and ingenious and quick-witted man, and of one who passes over nothing which can be said for his side; but still I am not afraid but that I may be able to answer him. But no doubt such authority as his would have influenced me a good deal, if you had not opposed your own to it, which is of equal weight. I will endeavour, therefore, to reply to him after I have said a few words in defence of my own reputation, as it were.

If it is by any desire of display, or any zeal for contentious disputes, that I have been chiefly led to rank myself as an adherent of this school of philosophy, I should think not only my folly, but also my disposition and nature deserving of severe censure; for if obstinacy is found fault with in the most trifling matters, and if also calumny is repressed, should I choose to contend with others in a quarrelsome manner about the general condition and conduct of my whole life, or to deceive others and also my own self? Therefore, if I did not think it foolish in such a discussion to do what, when one is discussing affairs of state, is sometimes done, I would swear by Jupiter and my household gods, that I am inflamed with a desire of discovering the truth, and that I do truly feel what I say. For how can I avoid wishing to discover the truth, when I rejoice if I have discovered anything resembling the truth? But although I consider to see the truth a most beautiful thing, so also do I think it a most disgraceful one to approve of what is false as if it were true. Not, indeed, that I am myself a man who never approve of anything false, who never give assent to any such thing, and am never guided by opinion; but we are speaking of a wise man. But I myself am very apt to adopt opinions, for I am not a wise man, and I direct my thoughts, steering not to that little Cynosura,

The nightly star, which shining not in vain, Guides the Phoenician sailor o'er the main,

as Aratus says;—and those mariners steer in a more direct course because they keep looking at the constellation,

Which in its inner course and orbit brief Surely revolves;—

but looking rather towards Helice, and the bright north star, that is to say, to these reasons of a more expansive kind, not polished away to a point; and therefore I roam and wander about in a freer course. However, the question, as I said just now, is not about myself, but about a wise man. For when these perceptions have made a violent impression on the intellect and senses, I admit them, and sometimes I even assent to them, but still I do not perceive them: for I do not think that anything can be perceived. I am not a wise man, therefore I submit to perceptions and cannot resist them: but Arcesilas, being on this point in agreement with Zeno, thinks that this is the most important part of the power of a wise man, that he can guard against being entangled, and provide against being deceived. For there is nothing more incompatible with the idea which we have of the gravity of a wise man than error, levity, and temerity. Why, then, need I speak of the firmness of a wise man? whom even you too, Lucullus, admit to be never guided by mere opinion. And since this is sanctioned by you, (if I am dealing irregularly with you at this moment, I will soon return to the proper order of your arguments,) just consider what force this first conclusion has.

XXI. If the wise man ever assents to anything, he will likewise sometimes form opinions: but he never will form opinions: therefore he will never assent to anything. This conclusion was approved of by Arcesilas, for it confirmed both his first and second proposition. But Carneades sometimes granted that minor premiss, that the wise man did at times assent: then it followed that he also was at times guided by opinion; which you will not allow; and you are right, as it seems to me: but the first proposition, that the wise man, if he expresses assent, must also be guided by opinion, is denied by the Stoics and their follower on this point, Antiochus.

For they say that they can distinguish what is false from what is true, and what cannot be perceived from what can. But, in the first place, even if anything can be perceived, still the very custom of expressing assent appears to us to be perilous and unsure. Wherefore, as it is plain that is so faulty a proceeding, to assent to anything that is either false or unknown, all assent must rather be removed, lest it should rush on into difficulties if it proceeds rashly. For what is false is so much akin to what is true, and the things which cannot be perceived to those which can, (if, indeed, there are any such, for we shall examine that point presently,) that a wise man ought not to trust himself in such a hazardous position.

But if I assume that there is actually nothing which can be perceived, and if I also take what you grant me, that a wise man is never guided by opinion, then the consequence will be that the wise man will restrain all assent on his part; so that you must consider whether you would rather have it so, or let the wise man sometimes form opinions. You do not approve of either, you will say. Let us, then, endeavour to prove that nothing can be perceived; for that is what the whole controversy turns upon.

XXII. But first I must say a few words to Antiochus; who under Philo learnt this very doctrine which I am now defending, for such a length of time, that it is certain that no one was ever longer studying it; and who wrote on these subjects with the greatest acuteness, and who yet attacked it in his old age with no less energy than he had defended it in his youth. Although therefore he may have been a shrewd arguer, as indeed he was, still his authority is diminished by his inconsistency. For what day, I should like to know, will ever dawn, which shall reveal to him that distinctive characteristic of what is true and what is false, of which for so many years he denied the existence? Has he devised anything new? He says the same that the Stoics say. Does he repent of having held such an opinion? Why did he not cross over to some other school, and especially to the Stoics? for this disagreement with the Academy was peculiarly theirs. What? did he repent of Mnesarchus or Dardanus, who at that time were the chiefs of the Stoics at Athens? He never deserted Philo till after the time when he himself began to have pupils.

But from whence was the Old Academy on a sudden recalled? He appears to have wished to preserve the dignity of the name, after he had given up the reality; which however some people said, that he did from a view to his own glory, and that he even hoped that those who followed him might be called Antiochians. But to me it seems, that he could not stand that concourse of all the philosophers. In truth, there are among them all, some common principles on the other points; but this doctrine is peculiar to the Academicians, and not one of the other philosophers approves of it. Therefore, he quitted it; and, like those men who, where the new shops stand, cannot bear the sun, so he, when he was hot, took refuge under the shade of the Old Academicians, as those men do under the shade of the old shops near the pillar of Maenius. There was also an argument which he was in the habit of employing, when he used to maintain that nothing could be perceived; namely, asking whether Dionysius of Heraclea had comprehended the doctrine which he had espoused for many years, because he was guided by that certain characteristic, and whether he believed the doctrine of his master Zeno, that whatever was honourable was the only good; or, whether he adopted the assertion which he defended subsequently, that the name of honourableness is a mere phantom, and that pleasure is the chief good: for from this change of opinion on his part he wished to prove, that nothing can be so stamped on our minds by the truth, that it cannot also be impressed on them in the same manner by falsehood; and so he took care that others should derive from his own conduct the same argument which he himself had derived from Dionysius.

XXIII. But we will argue this point more at length another time; at present we will turn what has been said, Lucullus, to you. And in the first place, let us examine the assertion which you made at the beginning, and see what sort of assertion it is; namely, that we spoke of the ancient philosophers in a manner similar to that in which seditious men were in the habit of speaking of illustrious men, who were however friends of the people. These men do not indeed pursue good objects, but still wish to be considered to resemble good men; but we say that we hold those opinions, which you yourselves confess to have been entertained by the most illustrious philosophers. Anaxagoras said, that snow was black: would you endure me if I were to say the same? You would not bear even for me to express a doubt on the subject. But who is this man? is he a Sophist? for by that name were those men called, who used to philosophize for the sake of display or of profit. The glory of the gravity and genius of that man was great. Why should I speak of Democritus? Who is there whom we can compare with him for the greatness, not merely of his genius, but also of his spirit? a man who dared to begin thus: "I am going to speak of everything." He excepts nothing, so as not to profess a knowledge of it. For indeed, what could there possibly be beyond everything? Who can avoid placing this philosopher before Cleanthes, or Chrysippus, or all the rest of his successors? men who, when compared with him, appear to me to be in the fifth class.

But he does not say this, which we, who do not deny that there is some truth, declare cannot be perceived: he absolutely denies that there is any truth. He says that the senses are not merely dim, but utterly dark; for that is what Metrodorus of Chios, who was one of his greatest admirers, says of them, at the beginning of his book on Nature. "I deny," says he, "that we know whether we know anything or whether we know nothing; I say that we do not even know what is ignorance and knowledge; and that we have no knowledge whether anything exists or whether nothing does."

Empedocles appears to you to be mad; but to me he seems to utter words very worthy of the subjects of which he speaks. Does he then blind us, or deprive us of our senses, if he thinks that there is but little power in them to judge of those things which are brought under their notice? Parmenides and Xenophanes blame, as if they were angry with them, though in no very poetical verses, the arrogance of those people who, though nothing can be known, venture to say that they know something. And you said that Socrates and Plato were distinct from these men. Why so? Are there any men of whom we can speak more certainly? I indeed seem to myself to have lived with these men; so many of their discourses have been reported, from which one cannot possibly doubt that Socrates thought that nothing could be known. He excepted one thing only, asserting that he did know that he knew nothing; but he made no other exception. What shall I say of Plato? who certainly would never have followed up these doctrines in so many books if he had not approved of them; for there was no object in going on with the irony of the other, especially when it was so unceasing.

XXIV. Do I not seem to you, not, like Saturninus, to be content with naming illustrious men, but also sometimes even to imitate them, though never unless they are really eminent and noble? And I might have opposed to you men who are annoying to you, but yet disputants of great accuracy; Stilpo, Diodorus, and Alexinus: men who indulged in far-fetched and pointed sophisms; for that was the name given usually to fallacious conclusions. But why need I enumerate them, when I have Chrysippus, who is considered to be the great support of the portico of the Stoics? How many of the arguments against the senses, how many against everything which is approved by ordinary practice, did he not refute! It is true that I do not think very much of his refutations; but still, let us grant that he did refute them. Certainly he would never have collected so many arguments to deceive us with their excessive probability, unless he saw that it was not easily possible to resist them.

What do you think of the Cyrenaic School? philosophers far from contemptible, who affirm that there is nothing which can be perceived externally; and that they perceive those things alone which they feel by their inmost touch, such as pain, or pleasure. And that they do not know what colour anything is of, or what sound it utters; but only feel that they themselves are affected in a certain manner.

We have said enough about authors: although you had asked me whether I did not think that since the time of those ancient philosophers, in so many ages, the truth might have been discovered, when so many men of genius and diligence were looking for it? What was discovered we will consider presently, and you yourself shall be the judge. But it is easily seen that Arcesilas did not contend with Zeno for the sake of disparaging him; but that he wished to discover the truth. No one, I say, of preceding philosophers had said positively, no one had even hinted that it was possible for man never to form opinions: and that for a wise man it was not only possible, but indispensable. The opinion of Arcesilas appeared not only true, but honourable and worthy of a wise man.

Perhaps he asked of Zeno what would happen if a wise man could not possibly perceive anything, and if to form mere opinion was unworthy of a wise man? He answered, I suppose, that the wise man never would form mere opinion, since there were things which admitted of being perceived. What then were they? Perceptions, I suppose. What sort of perceptions then? In reply to this he gave a definition, That it was such as is impressed and stamped upon and figured in us, according to and conformably to something which exists. Afterwards the question was asked, whether, if such a perception was true, it was of the same character as one that was false? Here Zeno saw clearly enough that there was no perception that could be perceived at all, if the perception derived from that which is, could possibly resemble that which is derived from that which is not.

Arcesilas was quite right in admitting this. An addition was made to the definition; namely, That nothing false could be perceived; nor anything true either, if it was of such a character as that which was false. But he applied himself diligently to these discussions, in order to prove that no perception originated in what was true of such a kind that there might not be a similar one originating in what was false. And this is the one subject of controversy which has lasted to this day. For the other doctrine, that the wise man would never assent to anything, had nothing to do with this question. For it was quite possible for a man to perceive nothing, and nevertheless to be guided at times by opinion; which is said to have been admitted by Carneades. I, indeed, trusting rather to Clitomachus than to Philo or Metrodorus, believe that he argued this point rather than that he admitted it.

XXV. However, let us say no more about this. Undoubtedly, when opinion and perception are put an end to, the retention of every kind of assent must follow; as, if I prove that nothing can be perceived, you would then grant that a philosopher would never assent to anything. What is there then that can be perceived, if even the senses do not warn us of the truth? But you, O Lucullus, defend them by a common topic; and to prevent you from being able to do so it was, that I yesterday, when it was not otherwise necessary, said so much against the senses. But you say that you are not at all moved by "the broken oar" or "the dove's neck." In the first place, I will ask why?—for in the case of the oar, I feel that that which appears to be the case, is not really so; and that in the dove's neck there appear to be many colours, but are not in reality more than one. Have we, then, said nothing more than this? Let all our arguments stand: that man is tearing his cause to pieces; he says that his senses are voracious. Therefore you have always one backer who will plead the cause at his own risk: for Epicurus brings the matter down to this point, that if once in a man's life one of his senses has decided wrongly, none of them is ever to be trusted. This is what he calls being true, and confiding in his own witnesses, and urging his proofs to their just conclusion; therefore Timagoras the Epicurean declares, that when he had twisted his eye with his hand, he had never seen two flames appear out of one candle: for that the error was one of opinion, and not one of his eyes; just as if the question were what the fact is, and not what it appears to be. However, he is just like his predecessors. But as for you, who say that of the things perceived by your senses, some are true and some false, how do you distinguish between them? Cease, I beg of you, to employ common topics: we have plenty of them at home.

If any god were to ask you, while your senses are sound and unimpaired, whether you desire anything further, what would you answer? I wish, indeed, he would ask me! You should hear how ill he treats us: for how far are we to look in order to see the truth? I can see the Cumaean villa of Catulus from this place, but not his villa near Pompeii; not that there is any obstacle interposed, but my eyesight cannot extend so far. What a superb view! We see Puteoli, but we do not see our friend Avianus, though he may perhaps be walking in the portico of Neptune; there was, however, some one or other who is often spoken of in the Schools who could see things that were a thousand and eighty furlongs off; and some birds can see further still. I should therefore answer your god boldly, that I am not at all contented with these eyes of mine. He will tell me, perhaps, that I can see better than some fishes; which are not seen by us, and which even now are beneath our eyes, and yet they cannot look up far enough to see us: therefore, as water is shed around them, so a dense air is around us. But we desire nothing better. What? do you suppose that a mole longs for light?—nor would he complain to the god that he could not see far, but rather that he saw incorrectly. Do you see that ship? It appears to us to be standing still; but to those who are in that ship, this villa appears to be moving. Seek for the reason why it seems so, and if you discover it ever so much, and I do not know whether you may not be able to, still you will have proved, not that you have a trustworthy witness, but that he has not given false evidence without sufficient reason.

XXVI. What need had I to speak of the ship? for I saw that what I said about the oar was despised by you; perhaps you expect something more serious. What can be greater than the sun, which the mathematicians affirm to be more than eighteen times as large as the earth? How little does it appear to us! To me, indeed, it seems about a foot in diameter; but Epicurus thinks it possible that it may be even less than it seems, but not much; nor does he think that it is much greater, but that it is very near the size it seems to be: so that our eyes are either quite correct, or, at all events, not very incorrect. What becomes then of the exception, "If once...?" However, let us leave this credulous man, who does not believe that the senses are ever wrong,—not even now, when that sun, which is borne along with such rapidity that it is impossible even to conceive how great its velocity is, nevertheless seems to us to be standing still.

However, to abridge the controversy, consider, I pray you, within what narrow bounds you are confined. There are four principles which conduct you to the conclusion that there is nothing which can be known, or perceived, or comprehended;—and it is about this that the whole dispute is. The first principle is, that some perceptions are false; the second, that such cannot be perceived; the third, that of perceptions between which there is no difference, it is not possible that some of them can be perceived and that others cannot; the fourth, that there is no true perception proceeding from the senses, to which there is not some other perception opposed which in no respect differs from it, and which cannot be perceived. Now of these four principles, the second and third are admitted by every one. Epicurus does not admit the first, but you, with whom we are now arguing, admit that one too,—the whole contest is about the fourth.

The man, then, who saw Publius Servilius Geminus, if he thought that he saw Quintus, fell into a perception of that kind that could not be perceived; because what was true was distinguished by no characteristic mark from what was false: and if this distinctive mark were taken away, what characteristic of the same kind could he have by which to recognise Caius Cotta, who was twice consul with Geminus, which could not possibly be false? You say that such a likeness as that is not in the nature of things. You fight the question vigorously, but you are fighting a peaceably disposed adversary. Grant, then, that it is not; at all events, it is possible that it should seem to be so; therefore it will deceive the senses. And if one likeness deceives them, it will have made everything doubtful; for when that judgment is once taken away by which alone things can be known, then, even if the person whom you see, be really the person whom he appears to you to be, still you will not judge by that characteristic which you say you ought, being of such a character that one of the same kind cannot be false. If, therefore, it is possible that Publius Geminus may appear to you to be Quintus, what certainty have you that he may not appear to you to be Cotta though he is not, since some things do appear to you to be what they are not? You say that everything has its own peculiar genus; that there is nothing the same as something else. That is a stoic doctrine, and one not very credible, for they say that there is not a single hair or a single grain in every respect like another hair or grain. These things could all be refuted, but I do not wish to be contentious; for it has nothing in the world to do with the question whether the things which are seen do not differ at all in any part, or whether they cannot be distinguished from another even though they do differ. But, granting that there cannot be such a likeness between men, can there not be such between statues? Tell me, could not Lysippus, using the same brass, the same composition of metals, the same atmosphere, water, and all other appliances, have made a hundred Alexanders exactly alike? How then could you distinguish between them? Again; if I, with this ring, make a hundred impressions on the same piece of wax, is it possible that there should be any difference to enable you to distinguish one from the other?—or, shall you have to seek out some ring engraver, since you have already found us a Delian poulterer who could recognise his eggs?

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 Alcmaeon 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 Alcmaeon, 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 Polyaenus, 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 Panaetius, 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 thing which has no magnitude,—that an extremity or levelness, as it were, is a space which has no thickness,—that a line is length without breadth. Though I should grant that all these axioms are true, if I were to add an oath, do you think a wise man would swear that the sun is many degrees greater than the earth, before Archimedes had, before his eyes, made out all those calculations by which it is proved? If he does, then he will be despising the sun which he considers a god. But if he will not believe the mathematical calculations which employ a sort of constraint in teaching,—as you yourselves say,—surely he will be very far from believing the arguments of philosophers; or, if he does believe any such, which school will he believe? One may explain all the principles of natural philosophers, but it would take a long time: I ask, however, whom he will follow? Suppose for a moment that some one is now being made a wise man, but is not one yet,—what system and what school shall he select above all others? For, whatever one he selects, he will select while he is still unwise. But grant that he is a man of godlike genius, which of all the natural philosophers will he approve of above all others? For he cannot approve of more than one. I will not pursue an infinite number of questions; only let us see whom he will approve of with respect to the elements of things of which all things are composed; for there is a great disagreement among the greatest men on this subject.

XXXVII. First of all, Thales, one of the seven, to whom they say that the other six yielded the preeminence, said that everything originated out of water; but he failed to convince Anaximander, his countryman and companion, of this theory; for his idea was that there was an infinity of nature from which all things were produced. After him, his pupil, Anaximenes, said that the air was infinite, but that the things which were generated from it were finite; and that the earth, and water, and fire, were generated, and that from them was produced everything else. Anaxagoras said that matter was infinite; but that from it were produced minute particles resembling one another; that at first they were confused, but afterwards brought into order by divine intellect. Xenophanes, who was a little more ancient still, asserted that all things were only one single being, and that that being was immutable and a god, not born, but everlasting, of a globular form. Parmenides considered that it is fire that moves the earth, which is formed out of it. Leucippus thought that there was a plenum, and a vacuum; Democritus resembled him in this idea, but was more copious on other matters: Empedocles adopts the theory of the four ordinary and commonly known elements. Heraclitus refers everything to fire; Melissus thinks that what exists is infinite, immutable, always has existed, and always will. Plato thinks that the world was made by God, so as to be eternal, out of matter which collects everything to itself. The Pythagoreans affirm that everything proceeds from numbers, and from the principles of mathematicians.

Now of all these different teachers the wise man will, I imagine, select some one to follow; all the rest, numerous, and great men as they are, will be discarded by him and condemned; but whichever doctrine he approves of he will retain in his mind, being comprehended in the same manner as those things which he comprehends by means of the senses; nor will he feel any greater certainty of the fact of its now being day, than, since he is a Stoic, of this world being wise, being endowed with intellect, which has made both itself and the world, and which regulates, sets in motion, and governs everything. He will also be persuaded that the sun, and moon, and all the stars, and the earth, and sea, are gods, because a certain animal intelligence pervades and passes through them all: but nevertheless that it will happen some day or other that all this world will be burnt up with fire.

XXXVIII. Suppose that all this is true: (for you see already that I admit that something is true,) still I deny that these things are comprehended and perceived. For when that wise Stoic of yours has repeated all that to you, syllable by syllable, Aristotle will come forward pouring forth a golden stream of eloquence, and pronounce him a fool; and assert that the world has never had a beginning, because there never existed any beginning of so admirable a work from the adoption of a new plan: and that the world is so excellently made in every part that no power could be great enough to cause such motion, and such changes; nor could any time whatever be long enough to produce an old age capable of causing all this beauty to decay and perish. It will be indispensable for you to deny this, and to defend the former doctrine as you would your own life and reputation; may I not have even leave to entertain a doubt on the matter? To say nothing about the folly of people who assent to propositions rashly, what value am I to set upon a liberty which will not allow to me what is necessary for you? Why did God, when he was making everything for the sake of man, (for this is your doctrine,) make such a multitude of water-serpents and vipers? Why did he scatter so many pernicious and fatal things over the earth? You assert that all this universe could not have been made so beautifully and so ingeniously without some godlike wisdom; the majesty of which you trace down even to the perfection of bees and ants; so that it would seem that there must have been a Myrmecides(12) among the gods; the maker of all animated things.

You say that nothing can have any power without God. Exactly opposite is the doctrine of Strato of Lampsacus, who gives that God of his exemption from all important business. But as the priests of the gods have a holiday, how much more reasonable is it that the gods should have one themselves? He then asserts that he has no need of the aid of the gods to account for the making of the world. Everything that exists, he says, was made by Nature: not agreeing with that other philosopher who teaches, that the universe is a concrete mass of rough and smooth, and hooked and crooked bodies, with the addition of a vacuum: this he calls a dream of Democritus, and says that he is here not teaching, but wishing;—but he himself, examining each separate part of the world, teaches that whatever exists, and whatever is done, is caused, or has been caused, by natural weights and motions. In this way he releases God from a great deal of hard work, and me from fear; for who is there who, (when he thinks that he is an object of divine care,) does not feel an awe of the divine power day and night? And who, whenever any misfortunes happen to him (and what man is there to whom none happen?) feels a dread lest they may have befallen him deservedly—not, indeed, that I agree with that; but neither do I with you: at one time I think one doctrine more probable, and at other times I incline to the other.

XXXIX. All these mysteries, O Lucullus, lie concealed and enveloped in darkness so thick that no human ingenuity has a sight sufficiently piercing to penetrate into heaven, and dive into the earth. We do not understand our own bodies: we do not know what is the situation of their different parts, or what power each part has: therefore, the physicians themselves, whose business it was to understand these things, have opened bodies in order to lay those parts open to view. And yet empirics say that they are not the better known for that; because it is possible that, by being laid open and uncovered, they may be changed. But is it possible for us, in the same manner, to anatomize, and open, and dissect the natures of things, so as to see whether the earth is firmly fixed on its foundations and sticks firm on its roots, if I may so say, or whether it hangs in the middle of a vacuum? Xenophanes says that the moon is inhabited, and that it is a country of many cities and mountains. These assertions seem strange, but the man who has made them could not take his oath that such is the case; nor could I take mine that it is not the case. You also say that, opposite to us, on the contrary side of the earth, there are people who stand with their feet opposite to our feet, and you call them Antipodes. Why are you more angry with me, who do not despise these theories, than with those who, when they hear them, think that you are beside yourselves?

Hiretas of Syracuse, as Theophrastus tells us, thinks that the sun, and moon, and stars, and all the heavenly bodies, in short, stand still; and that nothing in the world moves except the earth; and, as that turns and revolves on its own axis with the greatest rapidity, he thinks that everything is made to appear by it as if it were the heaven which is moved while the earth stands still. And, indeed, some people think that Plato, in the Timaeus, asserts this, only rather obscurely. What is your opinion, Epicurus? Speak. Do you think that the sun is so small?—Do I? Do you yourselves think it so large? But all of you are ridiculed by him, and you in your turn mock him. Socrates, then, is free from this ridicule, and so is Ariston of Chios, who thinks that none of these matters can be known.

But I return to the mind and body. Is it sufficiently known by us what is the nature of the sinews and of the veins? Do we comprehend what the mind is?—where it is?—or, in short, whether it exists at all, or whether, as Dicaearchus thinks, there is no such thing whatever? If there is such a thing, do we know whether it has three divisions, as Plato thought; those of reason, anger, and desire?—or whether it is single and uniform? If it is single and uniform, do we know whether it is fire, or breath, or blood?—or, as Xenocrates says, number without a body?—though, what sort of thing that is, is not very easy to understand. And whatever it is, do we know whether it is mortal or eternal? For many arguments are alleged on both sides.

XL. Some of these theories seem certain to your wise man: but ours does not even see what is most probable; so nearly equal in weight are the opposite arguments in most cases. If you proceed more modestly, and reproach me, not because I do not assent to your reasoning, but because I do not assent to any, I will not resist any further: but I will select some one with whom I may agree. Whom shall I choose?—whom? Democritus? for, as you know, I have always been a favourer of noble birth. I shall be at once overwhelmed with the reproaches of your whole body. Can you think, they will say to me, that there is any vacuum, when everything is so filled and close packed that whenever any body leaves its place and moves, the place which it leaves is immediately occupied by some other body? Or can you believe that there are any atoms to which whatever is made by their combination is entirely unlike? or that any excellent thing can be made without intellect? And, since this admirable beauty is found in one world, do you think that there are also innumerable other worlds, above, below, on the right hand and on the left, before, and behind, some unlike this one, and some of the same kind? And, as we are now at Bauli, and are beholding Puteoli, do you think that there are in other places like these a countless host of men, of the same names and rank, and exploits, and talents, and appearances, and ages, arguing on the same subjects? And if at this moment, or when we are asleep, we seem to see anything in our mind, do you think that those images enter from without, penetrating into our minds through our bodies? You can never adopt such ideas as these, or give your assent to such preposterous notions. It is better to have no ideas at all than to have such erroneous ones as these.

Your object, then, is not to make me sanction anything by my assent. If it were, consider whether it would not be an impudent, not to say an arrogant demand, especially as these principles of yours do not seem to me to be even probable. For I do not believe that there is any such thing as divination, which you assent to; and I also despise fate, by which you say that everything is regulated. I do not even believe that this world was formed by divine wisdom; or, I should rather say, I do not know whether it was so formed or not.

XLI. But why should you seek to disparage me? May I not confess that I do not understand what I really do not? Or may the Stoics argue with one other, and may I not argue with them? Zeno, and nearly all the rest of the Stoics, consider AEther as the Supreme God, being endued with reason, by which everything is governed. Cleanthes, who we may call a Stoic, Majorum Gentium, the pupil of Zeno, thinks that the Sun has the supreme rule over and government of everything. We are compelled, therefore, by the dissensions of these wise men, to be ignorant of our own ruler, inasmuch as we do not know whether we are subjects of the Sun or of AEther. But the great size of the sun, (for this present radiance of his appears to be looking at me,) warns me to make frequent mention of him. Now you all speak of his magnitude as if you had measured it with a ten-foot rule, (though I refuse credit to your measurement, looking on you as but bad architects.) Is there then any room for doubt, which of us, to speak as gently as possible, is the more modest of the two? Not, however, that I think those questions of the natural philosophers deserving of being utterly banished from our consideration; for the consideration and contemplation of nature is a sort of natural food, if I may say so, for our minds and talents. We are elevated by it, we seem to be raised above the earth, we look down on human affairs; and by fixing our thoughts on high and heavenly things we despise the affairs of this life, as small and inconsiderable. The mere investigation of things of the greatest importance, which are at the same time very secret, has a certain pleasure in it. And when anything meets us which appears likely, our minds are filled with pleasure thoroughly worthy of a man. Both your wise man and ours, then, will inquire into these things; but yours will do so in order to assent, to feel belief, to express affirmation; ours, with such feelings that he will fear to yield rashly to opinion, and will think that he has succeeded admirably if in matters of this kind he has found out anything which is likely.

Let us now come to the question of the knowledge of good and evil. But we must say a few words by way of preface. It appears to me that they who speak so positively about those questions of natural philosophy, do not reflect that they are depriving themselves of the authority of those ideas which appear more clear. For they cannot give a clearer assent to, or a more positive approval of the fact that it is now daylight, than they do, when the crow croaks, to the idea that it is commanding or prohibiting something. Nor will they affirm that that statue is six feet high more positively after they have measured it, than that the sun, which they cannot measure, is more than eighteen times as large as the earth. From which this conclusion arises: if it cannot be perceived how large the sun is, he who assents to other things in the same manner as he does to the magnitude of the sun, does not perceive them. But the magnitude of the sun cannot be perceived. He, then, who assents to a statement about it, as if he perceived it, perceives nothing. Suppose they were to reply that it is possible to perceive how large the sun is; I will not object as long as they admit that other things too can be perceived and comprehended in the same manner. For they cannot affirm that one thing can be comprehended more or less than another, since there is only one definition of the comprehension of everything.

XLII. However, to go back to what I had begun to say—What have we in good and bad certainly ascertained? (we must, of course, fix boundaries to which the sum of good and evil is to be referred;) what subject, in fact, is there about which there is a greater disagreement between the most learned men? I say nothing about those points which seem now to be abandoned; or about Herillus, who places the chief good in knowledge and science: and though he had been a pupil of Zeno, you see how far he disagrees with him, and how very little he differs from Plato. The school of the Megaric philosophers was a very celebrated one; and its chief, as I see it stated in books, was Xenophanes, whom I mentioned just now. After him came Parmenides and Zeno; and from them the Eleatic philosophers get their name. Afterwards came Euclid of Megara, a pupil of Socrates, from whom that school got the name of Megaric. And they defined that as the only good which was always one, alike, and identical. They also borrowed a great deal from Plato. But the Eretrian philosophers, who were so called from Menedumus, because he was a native of Eretria, placed all good in the mind, and in that acuteness of the mind by which the truth is discerned. The Megarians say very nearly the same, only that they, I think, develop their theory with more elegance and richness of illustration. If we now despise these men, and think them worthless, at all events we ought to show more respect for Ariston, who, having been a pupil of Zeno, adopted in reality the principles which he had asserted in words; namely, that there was nothing good except virtue, and nothing evil except what was contrary to virtue; and who denied altogether the existence of those influences which Zeno contended for as being intermediate, and neither good nor evil. His idea of the chief good, is being affected in neither direction by these circumstances; and this state of mind he calls ἀδιαφορία; but Pyrrho asserts that the wise man does not even feel them; and that state is called ἀπάθεια.

To say nothing, then, of all these opinions, let us now examine those others which have been long and vigorously maintained. Some have accounted pleasure the chief good; the chief of whom was Aristippus, who had been a pupil of Socrates, and from whom the Cyrenaic school spring. After him came Epicurus, whose school is now better known, though he does not exactly agree with the Cyrenaics about pleasure itself. But Callipho thought that pleasure and honour combined made up the chief good. Hieronymus placed it in being free from all annoyance; Diodorus in this state when combined with honour. Both these last men were Peripatetics. To live honourably, enjoying those things which nature makes most dear to man, was the definition both of the Old Academy, (as we may learn from the writings of Polemo, who is highly approved of by Antiochus,) and of Aristotle, and it is the one to which his friends appear now to come nearest. Carneades also introduced a definition, (not because he approved of it himself, but for the sake of opposition to the Stoics,) that the chief good is to enjoy those things which nature has made man consider as most desirable. But Zeno laid it down that that honourableness which arises from conformity to nature is the chief good. And Zeno was the founder and chief of the Stoic school.

XLIII. This now is plain enough, that all these chief goods which I have mentioned have a chief evil corresponding to them, which is their exact opposite. I now put it to you, whom shall I follow? only do not let any one make me so ignorant and absurd a reply as, Any one, provided only that you follow some one or other. Nothing more inconsiderate can be said: I wish to follow the Stoics. Will Antiochus, (I do not say Aristotle, a man almost, in my opinion, unrivalled as a philosopher, but will Antiochus) give me leave? And he was called an Academic; but he would have been, with very little alteration, something very like a Stoic. The matter shall now be brought to a decision. For we must either give the wise man to the Stoics or to the Old Academy. He cannot belong to both; for the contention between them is not one about boundaries, but about the whole territory. For the whole system of life depends on the definition of the chief good; and those who differ on that point, differ about the whole system of life. It is impossible, therefore, that those of both these schools should be wise, since they differ so much from one another: but one of them only can be so. If it be the disciple of Polemo, then the Stoic is wrong, who assents to an error: and you say that nothing is so incompatible with the character of a wise man as that. But if the principles of Zeno be true, then we must say the same of the Old Academics and of the Peripatetics; and as I do not know which is the more wise of the two, I give my assent to neither. What? when Antiochus in some points disagrees with the Stoics whom he is so fond of, does he not show that these principles cannot be approved of by a wise man?

The Stoics assert that all offences are equal: but Antiochus energetically resists this doctrine. At least, let me consider before I decide which opinion I will embrace. Cut the matter short, says he, do at last decide on something. What? The reasons which are given appear to me to be both shrewd and nearly equal: may I not then be on my guard against committing a crime? for you called it a crime, Lucullus, to violate a principle; I, therefore, restrain myself, lest I should assent to what I do not understand; and this principle I have in common with you.

Here, however, is a much greater difference.—Zeno thinks that a happy life depends on virtue alone. What says Antiochus? He admits that this is true of a happy life, but not of the happiest possible life. The first is a god, who thinks that nothing can be wanting to virtue; the latter is a miserable man, who thinks that there are many things besides virtue, some of which are dear to a man, and some even necessary. But I am afraid that the former may be attributing to virtue more than nature can bear; especially since Theophrastus has said many things with eloquence and copiousness on this subject; and I fear that even he may not be quite consistent with himself. For though he admits that there are some evils both of body and fortune, he nevertheless thinks that a man may be happy who is afflicted by them all, provided he is wise. I am perplexed here; at one time the one opinion appears to me to be more probable, and at another time the other does. And yet, unless one or the other be true, I think virtue must be entirely trampled under foot.

XLIV. However, they differ as to this principle. What then? Can we approve, as true, of those maxims on which they agree; namely, that the mind of the wise man is never influenced by either desire or joy? Come, suppose this opinion is a probable one, is this other one so too; namely, that it never feels either alarm or grief? Cannot the wise fear? And if his country be destroyed, cannot he grieve? That seems harsh, but Zeno thinks it inevitable; for he considers nothing good except what is honourable. But you do not think it true in the least, Antiochus. For you admit that there are many good things besides honour, and many evils besides baseness; and it is inevitable that the wise man must fear such when coming, and grieve when they have come. But I ask when it was decided by the Old Academy that they were to deny that the mind of the wise man could be agitated or disturbed? They approved of intermediate states, and asserted that there was a kind of natural mean in every agitation. We have all read the treatise on Grief, by Crantor, a disciple of the Old Academy. It is not large, but it is a golden book, and one, as Panaetius tells Tubero, worth learning by heart. And these men used to say that those agitations were very profitably given to our minds by nature; fear, in order that we may take care; pity and melancholy they called the whetstone of our clemency; and anger itself that of our courage. Whether they were right or wrong we may consider another time. How it was that those stern doctrines of yours forced their way into the Old Academy I do not know, but I cannot bear them; not because they have anything in them particularly disagreeable to me; for many of the marvellous doctrines of the Stoics, which men call παράδοξα, are derived from Socrates. But where has Xenocrates or where has Aristotle touched these points? For you try to make out the Stoics to be the same as these men. Would they ever say that wise men were the only kings, the only rich, the only handsome men? that everything everywhere belonged to the wise man? that no one was a consul, or praetor, or general, or even, for aught I know, a quinquevir, but the wise man? lastly, that he was the only citizen, the only free man? and that all who are destitute of wisdom are foreigners, exiles, slaves, or madmen? last of all, that the writings of Lycurgus and Solon and our Twelve Tables are not laws? that there are even no cities or states except those which are peopled by wise men? Now these maxims, O Lucullus, if you agree with Antiochus, your own friend, must be defended by you as zealously as the bulwarks of your city; but I am only bound to uphold them with moderation, just as much as I think fit.

XLV. I have read in Clitomachus, that when Carneades and Diogenes the Stoic were standing in the capitol before the senate, Aulus Albonus (who was praetor at the time, in the consulship of Publius Scipio and Marcus Marcellus, the same Albonus who was consul, Lucullus, with your own grandfather, a learned man, as his own history shows, which is written in Greek) said jestingly to Carneades—"I do not, O Carneades, seem to you to be praetor because I am not wise, nor does this seem to be a city, nor do the inhabitants seem to be citizens, for the same reason." And he answered—"That is the Stoic doctrine." Aristotle or Xenocrates, whom Antiochus wished to follow, would have had no doubt that he was praetor, and Rome a city, and that it was inhabited by citizens. But our friend is, as I said before, a manifest Stoic, though he talks a little nonsense.

But you are all afraid for me, lest I should descend to opinions, and adopt and approve of something that I do not understand; which you would be very sorry for me to do. What advice do you give me? Chrysippus often testifies that there are three opinions only about the chief good which can be defended; he cuts off and discards all the rest. He says that either honour is the chief good, or pleasure, or both combined. For that those who say that the chief good is to be free from all annoyance, shun the unpopular name of pleasure, but hover about its neighbourhood. And those also do the same who combine that freedom from annoyance with honour. And those do not much differ from them who unite to honour the chief advantages of nature. So he leaves three opinions which he thinks may be maintained by probable arguments.

Be it so. Although I am not easily to be moved from the definition of Polemo and the Peripatetics, and Antiochus, nor have I anything more probable to bring forward. Still, I see how sweetly pleasure allures our senses. I am inclined to agree with Epicurus or Aristippus. But virtue recalls me, or rather leads me back with her hand; says that these are the feelings of cattle, and that man is akin to the Deity. I may take a middle course; so that, since Aristippus, as if we had no mind, defends nothing but the body, and Zeno espouses the cause of the mind alone, as if we were destitute of body, I may follow Callipho, whose opinion Carneades used to defend with such zeal, that he appeared wholly to approve of it; although Clitomachus affirmed that he never could understand what Carneades approved of. But if I were to choose to follow him, would not truth itself, and all sound and proper reason, oppose me? Will you, when honour consists in despising pleasure, unite honour to pleasure, joining, as it were, a man to a beast?

XLVI. There is now, then, only one pair of combatants left—pleasure and honour; between which Chrysippus, as far as I can see, was not long in perplexity how to decide. If you follow the one, many things are overthrown, especially the fellowship of the human race, affection, friendship, justice, and all other virtues, none of which can exist at all without disinterestedness: for the virtue which is impelled to action by pleasure, as by a sort of wages, is not really virtue, but only a deceitful imitation and pretence of virtue. Listen, on the contrary, to those men who say that they do not even understand the name of honour, unless we call that honourable which is accounted reputable by the multitude; that the source of all good is in the body; that this is the law, and rule, and command of nature; and that he who departs from it will never have any object in life to follow. Do you think, then, that I am not moved when I hear these and innumerable other statements of the same kind? I am moved as much as you are, Lucullus; and you need not think me less a man than yourself. The only difference is that you, when you are agitated, acquiesce, assent, and approve; you consider the impression which you have received true, certain, comprehended, perceived, established, firm, and unalterable; and you cannot be moved or driven from it by any means whatever. I think that there is nothing of such a kind that, if I assent to it, I shall not often be assenting to what is false; since there is no distinct line of demarcation between what is true and what is false, especially as the science of dialectics has no power of judging on this subject.