e, by the side of Critias the son
of Callaeschrus, and when I had saluted him and the rest of the
company, I told them the news from the army, and answered their several
enquiries.

Then, when there had been enough of this, I, in my turn, began to make
enquiries about matters at home--about the present state of philosophy,
and about the youth. I asked whether any of them were remarkable for
wisdom or beauty, or both. Critias, glancing at the door, invited my
attention to some youths who were coming in, and talking noisily to
one another, followed by a crowd. Of the beauties, Socrates, he said, I
fancy that you will soon be able to form a judgment. For those who
are just entering are the advanced guard of the great beauty, as he is
thought to be, of the day, and he is likely to be not far off himself.

Who is he, I said; and who is his father?

Charmides, he replied, is his name; he is my cousin, and the son of my
uncle Glaucon: I rather think that you know him too, although he was not
grown up at the time of your departure.

Certainly, I know him, I said, for he was remarkable even then when he
was still a child, and I should imagine that by this time he must be
almost a young man.

You will see, he said, in a moment what progress he has made and what he
is like. He had scarcely said the word, when Charmides entered.

Now you know, my friend, that I cannot measure anything, and of the
beautiful, I am simply such a measure as a white line is of chalk; for
almost all young persons appear to be beautiful in my eyes. But at that
moment, when I saw him coming in, I confess that I was quite astonished
at his beauty and stature; all the world seemed to be enamoured of him;
amazement and confusion reigned when he entered; and a troop of lovers
followed him. That grown-up men like ourselves should have been affected
in this way was not surprising, but I observed that there was the same
feeling among the boys; all of them, down to the very least child,
turned and looked at him, as if he had been a statue.

Chaerephon called me and said: What do you think of him, Socrates? Has
he not a beautiful face?

Most beautiful, I said.

But you would think nothing of his face, he replied, if you could see
his naked form: he is absolutely perfect.

And to this they all agreed.

By Heracles, I said, there never was such a paragon, if he has only one
other slight addition.

What is that? said Critias.

If he has a noble soul;