_? Tim_. Forty or fifty years ago, philosophers used to say hard things about the human race, but now they do just the contrary. _Mean_. Do you believe that forty or fifty years ago the philosophers were right or wrong in their statements? _Tim_. More often right than wrong. _Mean_. Do you think that in these forty or fifty years the human race has changed to the opposite of what it then was? _Tim_. Not at all. But that has nothing to do with the question. _Elean_. Why not? Has humanity progressed in strength and perfection, that the writers of to-day should be constrained to flatter, and compelled to reverence it? _Tim_. What have such pleasantries to do with so grave a matter? _Elean_. Then seriously. I am not unaware that the people of this century, although continuing to ill-treat their fellow-men as their ancestors did, have yet a very high opinion of themselves, such as men of the past century did not possess. But I, who ill-treat no one, do not see that I am obliged to speak well of others against my conscience. _Tim_. You must, however, like all men, endeavour to serve your race. _Elean_. If my race, on the contrary, does its best to injure me, I do not see that this obligation holds, as you say. But supposing you are right, what ought I to do, if I cannot be useful to my race? _Tim_. By actions, perhaps, you may be unable to be of much use. Such power is in the hands of but few people. But by your writings you can, and indeed ought to serve it. And the race is not benefited by books which snarl incessantly at men in general. Such behaviour is, on the contrary, extremely injurious. _Elean_. I admit that it does no good, but I also imagine it does no harm. Do you, however, think books are able to help the human race? _Tim_. Not I only, but all the world think so. _Elean_. What kind of books? _Tim_. Many kinds; but especially books treating of morals. _Elean_. All the world does not think so, because I, amongst others, do not, as a woman once said to Socrates. If books of morals could be useful to men, I should place poetry above all others. I use the word poetry in its widest sense, as including all writings, the aim of which is to excite the imagination, whether in prose or verse. Now I hold in little esteem that sort of poetry which, when read and meditated over, does not leave in the mind of the reader a sufficiently elevating sentiment to deter him for half an hour from giving way to a single base thought or unworthy action. If, however, the reader commits, for example, a breach of faith towards his best friend an hour after such reading, I do not condemn the poetry for that, because then the finest, most stirring, and noblest poetry the world possesses would come under condemnation. Exceptions to this influence are readers who live in great cities. These people, however great their concentration, cannot forget themselves for even half an hour, nor are they much pleased, or moved, by any sort of poetry.