When one man loves another, which is the friend - he who loves, or he who is loved? or are both friends? From the first of these suppositions they are driven to the second; and from the second to the third; and neither the two boys nor Socrates are satisfied with any of them. Socrates turns to the poets, who affirm that God brings like to like (Homer), and to philosophers (Empedocles), who assert also that like is the friend of like. But the bad are not friends, for they are not even like themselves, and still less are they like one another. And the good have no need of one another, and therefore do not care about one another. Moreover there are others who say that likeness is a cause of aversion, and unlikeness of love and friendship; and they too adduce the authority of poets and philosophers in support of their doctrines; for Hesiod says that " potter is jealous of potter, bard of bard;" and subtle doctors tell us that "moist is the friend of dry, hot of cold," and the like. But neither can their doctrine be maintained; for then the just would be the friend of the unjust, good of evil.

Thus we arrive at the conclusion that like is not the friend of like, nor unlike of unlike; and therefore good is not the friend of good, nor evil of evil, nor good of evil, nor evil of good. What remains but that the indifferent, which is neither good nor evil, should be the friend (not of the indifferent, for that would be "like the friend of like," but) of the good?

But why should the indifferent have this attachment to the good? There are circumstances under which such an attachment would be natural. Suppose the indifferent, say the human body, to be desirous of getting rid of some evil, such as disease, which is not essential but only accidental to it (for if the evil were essential the body would cease to be indifferent, and would become evil) in such a case the indifferent becomes a friend of the good for the sake of getting rid of the evil. In this intermediate "indifferent" position the philosopher or lover of wisdom stands: he is not wise, and yet not unwise, but he has ignorance accidentally clinging to him, and he yearns for wisdom as the cure of the evil. (Cp. Symp. 204.)

After this explanation has been received with triumphant accord, a fresh dissatisfaction begins to steal over the mind of Socrates: Must not friendship be for the sake of some ulterior end? and what can that final cause or end of friendship be, other than the good? But the good is desired by us only as the cure of evil; and therefore if there were no evil there would be no friendship. Some other explanation then has to be devised. May not desire be the source of friendship? And desire is of what a man wants and of what is congenial to him. But then again, the congenial cannot be the same as the like; for like cannot be the friend of like. Nor can the congenial be explained as the good; for good is not the friend of good, as has been also shown. The problem is unsolved, and the three

friends, Socrates, Lysis, and Menexenus, are still unable to find out what a friend is.

Thus, as in the Charmides and Laches, and several of the other Dialogues of Plato (compare especially the Protagoras and Theaetetus), no conclusion is arrived at. The dialogue is what would be called in the language of Thrasyllus tentative or inquisitive. The subject is continued in the Phaedrus and Symposium, and treated, with a manifest reference to the Lysis, in the eighth and ninth books of the Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle. As in other writings of Plato (for example, the Republic), there is a progress from unconscious morality, illustrated by the unconscious friendship of the two youths, and also by the sayings of the poets (“who are our fathers in wisdom,” and yet only tell us half the truth, and in this particular instance are not much improved upon by the philosophers), to a more comprehensive notion of friendship. This, however, is far from being cleared of its perplexity. Two notions appear to be struggling or balancing in the mind of Socrates: First, the sense that friendship arises out of human needs and wants: Secondly, that the higher form or ideal of friendship exists only for the sake of the good. That friends are not necessarily either like or unlike, is also a truth confirmed by experience. But the use of the terms like' or "good" is too strictly limited; Socrates has allowed himself to be carried away by a sort of eristic or illogical logic against which the truest definition of friendship would be unable to stand. The sense of the interdependence of good and evil, and the allusion to the possibility of the non-existence of evil, are very curious.

The dialectical interest is fully sustained by the dramatic accompaniments. Observe, first, the scene, which is a Greek Palaestra, at a time when a sacrifice is going on, and the Hermaea are in course of celebration; secondly, the "accustomed irony" of Socra tes, who declares, as in the Symposium (177 D), that he is ignorant of all other things, but claims to have a knowledge of the mysteries of love. There are also several contrasts of character; first of the dry, caustic Ctesippus, of whom Socrates professes a humorous sort of fear, and Hippothales the flighty lover, who murders sleep by bawling out the name of his beloved; also there is a contrast between the false, exaggerated, sentimental love of Hippothales towards Lysis, and the simple and innocent friendship of the boys with one another. Some difference appears to be intended between the characters of the more talkative Menexenus and the reserved and simple Lysis. Socrates draws out the latter by a new sort of irony, which is sometimes adopted in talking to children, and consists in asking a leading question which can only be answered in a sense contrary to the intention of the question: "Your father and mother of course allow you to drive the chariot ? " "No they don't." When Menexenus returns, the serious dialectic begins.

SCENE:- A newly-erected Palaestra outside the walls of Athens.

203

WAS going from the Academy straight to the Lyceum, Steph. intending to take the outer road, which is close under the wall. When I came to the postern gate of the city, which is by the fountain of Panops, I fell in with Hippothales, the son of Hieronymus, and Ctesippus the Paeanian, and a company of young men who were standing with them. pothales, seeing me approach, asked whence I came and whither was going.

T

Hip

I am going, I replied, from the Academy straight to the Lyceum.

Then come straight to us, he said, and put in here; you may as well.

Who are you, I said; and where am I to come?

He showed me an inclosed space and an open door over against the wall. And there, he said, is the building at which we all meet and a goodly company we are.

And what is this building, I asked; and what sort of entertainment have you?

The building, he replied, is a newly-erected Palaestra ; and the entertainment is generally conversation, to which you are welcome.

Thank you, I said; and is there any teacher there?
Yes, he said, your old friend and admirer, Miccus,
Indeed, I replied; he is a very eminent professor.
Are you disposed, he said, to go with me and see them?

204

Yes, I said; but I should like to know first, what is expected of me, and who is the favorite among you.

Some persons have one favorite, Socrates, and some another,

he said.

And who is yours? I asked: tell me that, Hippothales.

At this he blushed; and I said to him. O Hippothales, thou son of Hieronymus! do not say that you are, or that you are not in love; the confession is too late; for I see not only that you are in love, but that you are already far gone in your love. Simple and foolish as I am, the gods have given me the power of understanding these sort of affections.

At this he blushed more and more.

Ctesippus said: I like to see you blushing, Hippothales, and hesitating to tell Socrates the name; when, if he were with you but for a very short time. he would be plagued to death by hearing of nothing else. Indeed, Socrates, he has literally deafened us, and stopped our ears with the praises of Lysis; and if he is a little intoxicated, there is every likelihood that we may have our sleep murdered with a cry of Lysis. His performances in prose are bad enough, but nothing at all in comparison with his verse; and when he drenches us with his poems and other compositions, that is really too bad; and what is even worse, is his manner of singing them to his love; this he does in a voice which is truly appalling, and we cannot help hearing him; and now he has a question put to him by you, and lo! he is blushing.

Who is Lysis? I said: I suppose that he must be young, for the name does not recall any one to me.

Why, he said, his father being a very well-known man, he retains his patronymic, and is not as yet commonly called by his own name; but, although you do not know his name, I am sure that you must know his face, for that is quite enough to distinguish him.

But tell me whose son he is, I said.

He is the eldest son of Democrates, of the deme of Aexonè. Ah, Hippothales, I said; what a noble and really perfect love you have found! I wish that you would favor me with the exhibition which you have been making to the rest of the 205 company, and then I shall be able to judge whether you know what a lover ought to say about his love, either to the youth himself, or to others.

Nay, Socrates, he said; you surely do not attach any weight to what he is saying.