SOC. Well, we have at last managed to bring this forth, whatever it turns out to be; and now that it is born, we must in very truth perform the rite of running round with it in a circle— The rite called amphidromia took place a few days after the birth of a child. After some ceremonies of purification the nurse, in the presence of the family, carried the infant rapidly about the family hearth, thereby introducing him, as it were, to the family and the family deities. At this time the father decided whether to bring up the child or to expose it. Sometimes, perhaps, the child was named on this occasion. In the evening relatives assembled for a feast at which shell-fish were eaten. the circle of our argument—and see whether it may not turn out to be after all not worth rearing, but only a wind-egg,

 
an imposture. But, perhaps, you think that any offspring of yours ought to be cared for and not put away; or will you bear to see it examined and not get angry if it is taken away from you, though it is your first-born? THEO. Theaetetus will bear it, Socrates, for he is not at all ill-tempered. But for heaven’s sake, Socrates, tell me, is all this wrong after all? SOC. You are truly fond of argument, Theodorus, and a very good fellow to think that I am a sort of bag full of arguments and can easily pull one out and say that after all the other one was wrong; 
 
but you do not understand what is going on: none of the arguments comes from me, but always from him who is talking with me. I myself know nothing, except just a little, enough to extract an argument from another man who is wise and to receive it fairly. And now I will try to extract this thought from Theaetetus, but not to say anything myself. THEO. That is the better way, Socrates; do as you say. SOC. Do you know, then, Theodorus, what amazes me in your friend Protagoras? THEO. What is it? SOC. In general I like his doctrine that what appears to each one is to him, but I am amazed by the beginning of his book. I don’t see why he does not say in the beginning of his Truth Truth was apparently the title, or part of the title, of Protagoras’s book. that a pig or a dog-faced baboon or some still stranger creature of those that have sensations is the measure of all things. Then he might have begun to speak to us very imposingly and condescendingly, showing that while we were honoring him like a god for his wisdom, he was after all no better in intellect than any other man,
 
or, for that matter, than a tadpole. What alternative is there, Theodorus? For if that opinion is true to each person which he acquires through sensation, and no one man can discern another’s condition better than he himself, and one man has no better right to investigate whether another’s opinion is true or false than he himself, but, as we have said several times, each man is to form his own opinions by himself, and these opinions are always right and true, why in the world, my friend, was Protagoras wise, so that he could rightly be thought worthy
 
to be the teacher of other men and to be well paid, and why were we ignorant creatures and obliged to go to school to him, if each person is the measure of his own wisdom? Must we not believe that Protagoras was playing to the gallery in saying this? I say nothing of the ridicule that I and my science of midwifery deserve in that case,—and, I should say, the whole practice of dialectics, too. For would not the investigation of one another’s fancies and opinions, and the attempt to refute them, when each man’s must be right, be tedious

 
and blatant folly, if the Truth of Protagoras is true and he was not jesting when he uttered his oracles from the shrine of his book?