—Do you mean to say, interposed Adeimantus, that you haven’t heard that there is to be a torchlight race this evening on horseback in honor of the Goddess? On horseback? said I. That is a new idea. Will they carry torches and pass them along to one another as they race with the horses, or how do you mean? That’s the way of it, said Polemarchus, and, besides, there is to be a night festival which will be worth seeing. For after dinner we will get up and go out and see the sights and meet a lot of the lads there and have good talk. So stay and do as we ask. It looks as if we should have to stay, said Glaucon. Well, said I, if it so be, so be it.
And I thought him much aged, for it was a long time since I had seen him. He was sitting on a sort of couch with cushions and he had a chaplet on his head, for he had just finished sacrificing in the court. So we went and sat down beside him, for there were seats there disposed in a circle. As soon as he saw me Cephalus greeted me and said, You are not a very frequent visitor, Socrates. You don’t often come down to the Peiraeus to see us. That is not right. For if I were still able to make the journey up to town easily there would be no need of your resorting hither, but we would go to visit you. But as it is you should not space too widely your visits here. For I would have you know that, for my part, as the satisfactions of the body decay, in the same measure my desire for the pleasures of good talk and my delight in them increase. Don’t refuse then, but be yourself a companion to these lads and make our house your resort and regard us as your very good friends and intimates. Why, yes, Cephalus, said I, and I enjoy talking with the very aged. For to my thinking we have to learn of them as it were from wayfarers who have preceded us on a road on which we too, it may be, must some time fare—what it is like—is it rough and hard going or easy and pleasant to travel. And so now I would fain learn of you what you think of this thing, now that your time has come to it, the thing that the poets call the threshold of old age. Is it a hard part of life to bear or what report have you to make of it?
—Yes, indeed, Socrates, he said, I will tell you my own feeling about it. For it often happens that some of us elders of about the same age come together and verify the old saw of like to like. At these reunions most of us make lament, longing for the lost joys of youth and recalling to mind the pleasures of wine, women, and feasts, and other things thereto appertaining, and they repine in the belief that the greatest things have been taken from them and that then they lived well and now it is no life at all. And some of them complain of the indignities that friends and kinsmen put upon old age and thereto recite a doleful litany of all the miseries for which they blame old age. But in my opinion, Socrates, they do not put the blame on the real cause. For if it were the cause I too should have had the same experience so far as old age is concerned, and so would all others who have come to this time of life. But in fact I have ere now met with others who do not feel in this way, and in particular I remember hearing Sophocles the poet greeted by a fellow who asked, How about your service of Aphrodite, Sophocles—is your natural force still unabated? And he replied, Hush, man, most gladly have I escaped this thing you talk of, as if I had run away from a raging and savage beast of a master. I thought it a good answer then and now I think so still more. For in very truth there comes to old age a great tranquillity in such matters and a blessed release. When the fierce tensions of the passions and desires relax, then is the word of Sophocles approved, and we are rid of many and mad masters. But indeed in respect of these complaints and in the matter of our relations with kinsmen and friends there is just one cause, Socrates—not old age, but the character of the man. For if men are temperate and cheerful even old age is only moderately burdensome. But if the reverse, old age, Socrates, and youth are hard for such dispositions.
—You are right, he said. They don’t accept my view and there is something in their objection, though not so much as they suppose. But the retort of Themistocles comes in pat here, who, when a man from the little island of Seriphus grew abusive and told him that he owed his fame not to himself but to the city from which he came, replied that neither would he himself ever have made a name if he had been born in Seriphus nor the other if he had been an Athenian. And the same principle applies excellently to those who not being rich take old age hard; for neither would the reasonable man find it altogether easy to endure old age conjoined with poverty, nor would the unreasonable man by the attainment of riches ever attain to self-contentment and a cheerful temper. May I ask, Cephalus, said I, whether you inherited most of your possessions or acquired them yourself? Acquired, eh? he said. As a moneymaker, I hold a place somewhere halfway between my grandfather and my father. For my grandfather and namesake inherited about as much property as I now possess and multiplied it many times, my father Lysanias reduced it below the present amount, and I am content if I shall leave the estate to these boys not less but by some slight measure more than my inheritance. The reason I asked, I said, is that you appear to me not to be over-fond of money. And that is generally the case with those who have not earned it themselves. But those who have themselves acquired it have a double reason in comparison with other men for loving it. For just as poets feel complacency about their own poems and fathers about their own sons, so men who have made money take this money seriously as their own creation and they also value it for its uses as other people do. So they are hard to talk to since they are unwilling to commend anything except wealth.
—Now he to whom the ledger of his life shows an account of many evil deeds starts up even from his dreams like children again and again in affright and his days are haunted by anticipations of worse to come. But on him who is conscious of no wrong that he has done a sweet hope ever attends and a goodly to be nurse of his old age, as Pindar too says. For a beautiful saying it is, Socrates, of the poet that when a man lives out his days in justice and pietysweet companion with him, to cheer his heart and nurse his old age, accompanies Hope, who chiefly rules the changeful mind of mortals. Pindar Frag. 214, Loeb That is a fine saying and an admirable. It is for this, then, that I affirm that the possession of wealth is of most value not it may be to every man but to the good man. Not to cheat any man even unintentionally or play him false, not remaining in debt to a god for some sacrifice or to a man for money, so to depart in fear to that other world—to this result the possession of property contributes not a little. It has also many other uses. But, setting one thing against another, I would lay it down, Socrates, that for a man of sense this is the chief service of wealth. An admirable sentiment, Cephalus, said I. But speaking of this very thing, justice, are we to affirm thus without qualification that it is truth-telling and paying back what one has received from anyone, or may these very actions sometimes be just and sometimes unjust? I mean, for example, as everyone I presume would admit, if one took over weapons from a friend who was in his right mind and then the lender should go mad and demand them back, that we ought not to return them in that case and that he who did so return them would not be acting justly—nor yet would he who chose to speak nothing but the truth to one who was in that state. You are right, he replied. Then this is not the definition of justice: to tell the truth and return what one has received. Nay, but it is, Socrates, said Polemarchus breaking in, if indeed we are to put any faith in Simonides. Very well, said Cephalus, indeed I make over the whole argument to you. For it is time for me to attend the sacrifices. Well, said I, is not Polemarchus the heir of everything that is yours? Certainly, said he with a laugh, and at the same time went out to the sacred rites.
Tell me, then, you the inheritor of the argument, what it is that you affirm that Simonides says and rightly says about justice. That it is just, he replied, to render to each his due. In saying this I think he speaks well.
—I must admit, said I, that it is not easy to disbelieve Simonides. For he is a wise and inspired man. But just what he may mean by this you, Polemarchus, doubtless know, but I do not. Obviously he does not mean what we were just speaking of, this return of a deposit to anyone whatsoever even if he asks it back when not in his right mind. And yet what the man deposited is due to him in a sense, is it not? Yes. But rendered to him it ought not to be by any manner of means when he demands it not being his right mind. True, said he. It is then something other than this that Simonides must, as it seems, mean by the saying that it is just to render back what is due. Something else in very deed, he replied, for he believes that friends owe it to friends to do them some good and no evil. I see, said I; you mean that he does not render what is due or owing who returns a deposit of gold if this return and the acceptance prove harmful and the returner and the recipient are friends. Isn’t that what you say Simonides means? Quite so. But how about this—should one not render to enemies what is their due? By all means, he said, what is due and owing to them, and there is due and owing from an enemy to an enemy what also is proper for him, some evil.
—By no means. There is a use then even in peace for justice? Yes, it is useful. But so is agriculture, isn’t it? Yes. Namely, for the getting of a harvest? Yes. But likewise the cobbler’s art? Yes. Namely, I presume you would say, for the getting of shoes. Certainly. Then tell me, for the service and getting of what would you say that justice is useful in time of peace? In engagements and dealings, Socrates. And by dealings do you mean associations, partnerships, or something else? Associations, of course. Is it the just man, then, who is a good and useful associate and partner in the placing of draughts or the draught-player? The player. And in the placing of bricks and stones is the just man a more useful and better associate than the builder? By no means. Then what is the association in which the just man is a better partner than the harpist as an harpist is better than the just man for striking the chords? For money-dealings, I think. Except, I presume, Polemarchus, for the use of money when there is occasion to buy in common or sell a horse. Then, I take it, the man who knows horses, isn’t it so? Apparently. And again, if it is a vessel, the shipwright or the pilot. It would seem so. What then is the use of money in common for which a just man is the better partner? When it is to be deposited and kept safe, Socrates. You mean when it is to be put to no use but is to lie idle? Quite so. Then it is when money is useless that justice is useful in relation to it? It looks that way. And similarly when a scythe is to be kept safe, then justice is useful both in public and private. But when it is to be used, the vinedresser’s art is useful? Apparently. And so you will have to say that when a shield and a lyre are to be kept and put to no use, justice is useful, but when they are to be made use of, the military art and music. Necessarily. And so in all other cases, in the use of each thing, justice is useless but in its uselessness useful? It looks that way.
Then, my friend, justice cannot be a thing of much worth if it is useful only for things out of use and useless. But let us consider this point. Is not the man who is most skilful to strike or inflict a blow in a fight, whether as a boxer or elsewhere, also the most wary to guard against a blow? Assuredly. Is it not also true that he who best knows how to guard against disease is also most cunning to communicate it and escape detection? I think so.
—But again the very same man is a good guardian of an army who is good at stealing a march upon the enemy in respect of their designs and proceedings generally. Certainly. Of whatsoever, then, anyone is a skilful guardian, of that he is also a skilful thief? It seems so. If then the just man is an expert in guarding money he is an expert in stealing it. The argument certainly points that way. A kind of thief then the just man it seems has turned out to be, and it is likely that you acquired this idea from Homer. For he regards with complacency Autolycus, the maternal uncle of Odysseus, and says he was gifted beyond all men in thievery and perjury. Hom. Od. 19.395 So justice, according to you and Homer and Simonides, seems to be a kind of stealing, with the qualification that it is for the benefit of friends and the harm of enemies. Isn’t that what you meant? No, by Zeus, he replied. I no longer know what I did mean. Yet this I still believe, that justice benefits friends and harms enemies. May I ask whether by friends you mean those who seem to a man to be worthy or those who really are so, even if they do not seem, and similarly of enemies? It is likely, he said, that men will love those whom they suppose to be good and dislike those whom they deem bad. Do not men make mistakes in this matter so that many seem good to them who are not and the reverse? They do. For those, then, who thus err the good are their enemies and the bad their friends? Certainly. But all the same is then just for them to benefit the bad and injure the good? It would seem so. But again the good are just and incapable of injustice. True. On your reasoning then it is just to wrong those who do no injustice. Nay, nay, Socrates, he said, the reasoning can’t be right. Then, said I, it is just to harm the unjust and benefit the just. That seems a better conclusion than the other. It will work out, then, for many, Polemarchus, who have misjudged men that it is just to harm their friends, for they have got bad ones, and to benefit their enemies, for they are good. And so we shall find ourselves saying the very opposite of what we affirmed Simonides to mean. Most certainly, he said, it does work out so. But let us change our ground; for it looks as if we were wrong in the notion we took up about the friend and the enemy. What notion, Polemarchus? That the man who seems to us good is the friend. And to what shall we change it now? said I.
—That the man who both seems and is good is the friend, but that he who seems but is not really so seems but is not really the friend. And there will be the same assumption about the enemy. Then on this view it appears the friend will be the good man and the bad the enemy. Yes. So you would have us qualify our former notion of the just man by an addition. We then said it was just to do good to a friend and evil to an enemy, but now we are to add that it is just to benefit the friend if he is good and harm the enemy if he is bad? By all means, he said, that, I think, would be the right way to put it.
—You surely must not suppose that, my friend. But you see it is our lack of ability that is at fault. It is pity then that we should far more reasonably receive from clever fellows like you than severity.
—Why, how, I said, my dear fellow, could anybody answer if in the first place he did not know and did not even profess to know, and secondly even if he had some notion of the matter, he had been told by a man of weight that he mustn’t give any of his suppositions as an answer? Nay, it is more reasonable that you should be the speaker. For you do affirm that you know and are able to tell. Don’t be obstinate, but do me the favor to reply and don’t be chary of your wisdom, and instruct Glaucon here and the rest of us.
—This, then, my good sir, is what I understand as the identical principle of justice that obtains in all states —the advantage of the established government. This I presume you will admit holds power and is strong, so that, if one reasons rightly, it works out that the just is the same thing everywhere, the advantage of the stronger. Now, said I, I have learned your meaning, but whether it is true or not I have to try to learn. The advantageous, then, is also your reply, Thrasymachus, to the question, what is the just—though you forbade me to give that answer. But you add thereto that of the stronger. A trifling addition perhaps you think it, he said. It is not yet clear whether it is a big one either; but that we must inquire whether what you say is true, is clear. For since I too admit that the just is something that is of advantage—but you are for making an addition and affirm it to be the advantage of the stronger, while I don’t profess to know, we must pursue the inquiry. Inquire away, he said.
—Yes, by Zeus, Socrates, said Polemarchus, nothing could be more conclusive. Of course, said Cleitophon, breaking in, if you are his witness. What need is there of a witness? Polemarchus said. Thrasymachus himself admits that the rulers sometimes enjoin what is evil for themselves and yet says that it is just for the subjects to do this. That, Polemarchus, is because Thrasymachus laid it down that it is just to obey the orders of the rulers. Yes, Cleitophon, but he also took the position that the advantage of the stronger is just. And after these two assumptions he again admitted that the stronger sometimes bid the inferior and their subjects do what is to the disadvantage of the rulers. And from these admissions the just would no more be the advantage of the stronger than the contrary. O well, said Cleitophon, by the advantage of the superior he meant what the superior supposed to be for his advantage. This was what the inferior had to do, and that this is the just was his position. That isn’t what he said, replied Polemarchus. Never mind, Polemarchus, said I, but if that is Thrasymachus’s present meaning, let us take it from him in that sense.
—It is in this loose way of speaking, then, that you must take the answer I gave you a little while ago. But the most precise statement is that other, that the ruler in so far forth as ruler does not err, and not erring he enacts what is best for himself, and this the subject must do, so that, even as I meant from the start, I say the just is to do what is for the advantage of the stronger.
—I mean, of course, the one I was just speaking of, the man who has the ability to overreach on a large scale. Consider this type of man, then, if you wish to judge how much more profitable it is to him personally to be unjust than to be just. And the easiest way of all to understand this matter will be to turn to the most consummate form of injustice which makes the man who has done the wrong most happy and those who are wronged and who would not themselves willingly do wrong most miserable. And this is tyranny, which both by stealth and by force takes away what belongs to others, both sacred and profane, both private and public, not little by little but at one swoop. For each several part of such wrongdoing the malefactor who fails to escape detection is fined and incurs the extreme of contumely; for temple-robbers, kidnappers, burglars, swindlers, and thieves the appellations of those who commit these partial forms of injustice. But when in addition to the property of the citizens men kidnap and enslave the citizens themselves, instead of these opprobrious names they are pronounced happy and blessed not only by their fellow-citizens but by all who hear the story of the man who has committed complete and entire injustice. For it is not the fear of doing but of suffering wrong that calls forth the reproaches of those who revile injustice. Thus, Socrates, injustice on a sufficiently large scale is a stronger, freer, and a more masterful thing than justice, and, as I said in the beginning, it is the advantage of the stronger that is the just, while the unjust is what profits man’s self and is for his advantage.
—Nay, my good fellow, do your best to make the matter clear to us also: it will be no bad investment for you—any benefit that you bestow on such company as this. For I tell you for my part that I am not convinced, neither do I think that injustice is more profitable than justice, not even if one gives it free scope and does not hinder it of its will. But, suppose, sir, a man to be unjust and to be able to act unjustly either because he is not detected or can maintain it by violence, all the same he does not convince me that it is more profitable than justice. Now it may be that there is someone else among us who feels in this way and that I am not the only one. Persuade us, then, my dear fellow, convince us satisfactorily that we are ill advised in preferring justice to injustice. And how am I to persuade you? he said. If you are not convinced by what I just now was saying, what more can I do for you? Shall I take the argument and ram it into your head? Heaven forbid! I said, don’t do that. But in the first place when you have said a thing stand by it, or if you shift your ground change openly and don’t try to deceive us. But, as it is, you see, Thrasymachus—let us return to the previous examples—you see that while you began by taking the physician in the true sense of the word, you did not think fit afterwards to be consistent and maintain with precision the notion of the true shepherd, but you apparently think that he herds his sheep in his quality of shepherd not with regard to what is best for the sheep but as if he were a banqueter about to be feasted with regard to the good cheer or again with a view to the sale of them as if he were a money-maker and not a shepherd. But the art of the shepherd surely is concerned with nothing else than how to provide what is best for that over which is set, since its own affairs, its own best estate, are entirely sufficiently provided for so long as it in nowise fails of being the shepherd’s art. And in like manner I supposed that we just now were constrained to acknowledge that every form of rule in so far as it is rule considers what is best for nothing else than that which is governed and cared for by it, alike in political and private rule. Why, do you think that the rulers and holders of office in our cities—the true rulers—willingly hold office and rule? I don’t think, he said, I know right well they do.
—But what of other forms of rule, Thrasymachus? Do you not perceive that no one chooses of his own will to hold the office of rule, but they demand pay, which implies that not to them will benefit accrue from their holding office but to those whom they rule? For tell me this: we ordinarily say, do we not, that each of the arts is different from others because its power or function is different? And, my dear fellow, in order that we may reach some result, don’t answer counter to your real belief. Well, yes, he said, that is what renders it different. And does not each art also yield us benefit that is peculiar to itself and not general, as for example medicine health, the pilot’s art safety at sea, and the other arts similarly? Assuredly. And does not the wage-earner’s art yield wage? For that is its function. Would you identify medicine and the pilot’s art? Or if you please to discriminate precisely as you proposed, none the more if a pilot regains his health because a sea voyage is good for him, no whit the more, I say, for this reason do you call his art medicine, do you? Of course not, he said. Neither, I take it, do you call wage-earning medicine if a man earning wages is in health. Surely not. But what of this? Do you call medicine wage-earning, if a man when giving treatment earns wages? No, he said. And did we not agree that the benefit derived from each art is peculiar to it? So be it, he said. Any common or general benefit that all craftsmen receive, then, they obviously derive from their common use of some further identical thing. It seems so, he said. And we say that the benefit of earning wages accrues to the craftsmen from their further exercise of the wage-earning art. He assented reluctantly. Then the benefit, the receiving of wages does not accrue to each from his own art. But if we are to consider it precisely medicine produces health but the fee-earning art the pay, and architecture a house but the fee-earning art accompanying it the fee, and so with all the others, each performs its own task and benefits that over which it is set, but unless pay is added to it is there any benefit which the craftsman receives from the craft? Apparently not, he said. Does he then bestow no benefit either when he works for nothing? I’ll say he does. Then, Thrasymachus, is not this immediately apparent, that no art or office provides what is beneficial for itself—but as we said long ago it provides and enjoins what is beneficial to its subject, considering the advantage of that, the weaker, and not the advantage the stronger?
—That was why, friend Thrasymachus, I was just now saying that no one of his own will chooses to hold rule and office and take other people’s troubles in hand to straighten them out, but everybody expects pay for that, because he who is to exercise the art rightly never does what is best for himself or enjoins it when he gives commands according to the art, but what is best for the subject. That is the reason, it seems, why pay must be provided for those who are to consent to rule, either in form of money or honor or a penalty if they refuse.
—For if your position were that injustice is profitable yet you conceded it to be vicious and disgraceful as some other disputants do, there would be a chance for an argument on conventional principles. But, as it is, you obviously are going to affirm that it is honorable and strong and you will attach to it all the other qualities that we were assigning to the just, since you don’t shrink from putting it in the category of virtue and wisdom. You are a most veritable prophet, he replied. Well, said I, I mustn’t flinch from following out the logic of the inquiry, so long as I conceive you to be saying what you think. For now, Thrasymachus, I absolutely believe that you are not mocking us but telling us your real opinions about the truth. What difference does it make to you, he said, whether I believe it or not? Why don’t you test the argument? No difference, said I, but here is something I want you to tell me in addition to what you have said. Do you think the just man would want to overreach or exceed another just man? By no means, he said; otherwise he would not be the delightful simpleton that he is. And would he exceed or overreach or go beyond the just action? Not that either, he replied. But how would he treat the unjust man—would he deem it proper and just to outdo, overreach, or go beyond him or would he not? He would, he said, but he wouldn’t be able to. That is not my question, I said, but whether it is not the fact that the just man does not claim and wish to outdo the just man but only the unjust? That is the case, he replied. How about the unjust then? Does he claim to overreach and outdo the just man and the just action? Of course, he said, since he claims to overreach and get the better of everything. Then the unjust man will overreach and outdo also both the unjust man and the unjust action, and all his endeavor will be to get the most in everything for himself. That is so.
—And how about the medical man? In prescribing food and drink would he want to outdo the medical man or the medical procedure? Surely not. But he would the unmedical man? Yes. Consider then with regard to all forms of knowledge and ignorance whether you think that anyone who knows would choose to do or say other or more than what another who knows would do or say, and not rather exactly what his like would do in the same action. Why, perhaps it must be so, he said, in such cases. But what of the ignorant man—of him who does not know? Would he not overreach or outdo equally the knower and the ignorant? It may be. But the one who knows is wise? I’ll say so. And the wise is good? I’ll say so. Then he who is good and wise will not wish to overreach his like but his unlike and opposite. It seems so, he said. But the bad man and the ignoramus will overreach both like and unlike? So it appears. And does not our unjust man, Thrasymachus, overreach both unlike and like? Did you not say that? I did, he replied. But the just man will not overreach his like but only his unlike? Yes. Then the just man is like the wise and good, and the unjust is like the bad and the ignoramus. It seems likely. But furthermore we agreed that such is each as that to which he is like. Yes, we did. Then the just man has turned out on our hands to be good and wise and the unjust man bad and ignorant.
—This, then, is the question I ask, the same as before, so that our inquiry may proceed in sequence. What is the nature of injustice as compared with justice? For the statement made, I believe, was that injustice is a more potent and stronger thing than justice. But now, I said, if justice is wisdom and virtue, it will easily, I take it, be shown to be also a stronger thing than injustice, since injustice is ignorance—no one could now fail to recognize that—but what I want is not quite so simple as that. I wish, Thrasymachus, to consider it in some such fashion as this. A city, you would say, may be unjust and try to enslave other cities unjustly, have them enslaved and hold many of them in subjection. Certainly, he said; and this is what the best state will chiefly do, the state whose injustice is most complete. I understand, I said, that this was your view. But the point that I am considering is this, whether the city that thus shows itself superior to another will have this power without justice or whether she must of necessity combine it with justice. If, he replied, what you were just now saying holds good, that justice is wisdom, with justice; if it is as I said, with injustice. Admirable, Thrasymachus, I said; you not only nod assent and dissent, but give excellent answers. I am trying to please you, he replied.
—And is it not apparent that its force is such that wherever it is found in city, family, camp, or in anything else it first renders the thing incapable of cooperation with itself owing to faction and difference, and secondly an enemy to itself and to its opposite in every case, the just? Isn’t that so? By all means. Then in the individual too, I presume, its presence will operate all these effects which it is its nature to produce. It will in the first place make him incapable of accomplishing anything because of inner faction and lack of self-agreement, and then an enemy to himself and to the just. Is it not so? Yes. But, my friend, the gods too are just. Have it that they are, he said. So to the gods also, it seems, the unjust man will be hateful, but the just man dear. Revel in your discourse, he said, without fear, for I shall not oppose you, so as not to offend your partisans here. Fill up the measure of my feast, then, and complete it for me, I said, by continuing to answer as you have been doing. Now that the just appear to be wiser and better and more capable of action and the unjust incapable of any common action, and that if we ever say that any men who are unjust have vigorously combined to put something over, our statement is not altogether true, for they would not have kept their hands from one another if they had been thoroughly unjust, but it is obvious that there was in them some justice which prevented them from wronging at the same time one another too as well as those whom they attacked; and by dint of this they accomplished whatever they did and set out to do injustice only half corrupted by injustice, since utter rascals completely unjust are completely incapable of effective action—all this I understand to be the truth, and not what you originally laid down. But whether it is also true that the just have a better life than the unjust and are happier, which is the question we afterwards proposed for examination, is what we now have to consider. It appears even now that they are, I think, from what has already been said. But all the same we must examine it more carefully. For it is no ordinary matter that we are discussing, but the right conduct of life. Proceed with your inquiry, he said. I proceed, said I. Tell me then—would you say that a horse has a specific work or function? I would. Would you be willing to define the work of a horse or of anything else to be that which one can do only with it or best with it? I don’t understand, he replied. Well, take it this way: is there anything else with which you can see except the eyes? Certainly not. Again, could you hear with anything but ears? By no means. Would you not rightly say that these are the functions of these (organs)? By all means.
—Once more, you could use a dirk to trim vine branches and a knife and many other instruments. Certainly. But nothing so well, I take it, as a pruning-knife fashioned for this purpose. That is true. Must we not then assume this to be the work or function of that? We must.