Time is a bankrupt and a thief; does it not come stealing on by night and day? It is a riddle as old as the desert sands. And so it was that fateful day, on the distant shores of Ephesus, an old man found himself, his final days now hastened by death's decree.
“Merchant of Syracuse,” the Duke said, drawing near. “Plead no more. It is our law that no man from our rival city set foot upon these shores, lest he forfeit all his goods and pay tribute of a thousand marks. By law, therefore, thou art condemned to die.”
“Yet this is my comfort,” the old man replied. “For when your words are done, my sorrows end likewise with the evening sun.”
The guards gathered round, as the Duke sat astride his steed. “This is most curious indeed. Say, in brief, what cause brought thee to this distant land. Why would you risk your property, your life, and all the world that you see? What purpose led thee to Ephesus?”
The old man looked up at the Duke. “A heavier task you could not impose, and yet I will tell you of my grief, the heavy burden that I bear. For I was not always as you see now. Like all men, a younger man once was I, and a beautiful wife did I wed. We were happy together, and and yet, as a merchant, so often did I travel that she desired we should be together. So I sent for her to join me in Alexandria. It was not long after that she gave birth to sons, a set of twins, so alike that none could tell them apart. That same night, at the selfsame inn, another woman died in childbirth, yet she too gave birth to twin boys. So we took them as our own, to watch over as servants for our sons. My wife, proud, wished to return home, and so together, we set sail for Syracuse.”
“As we made our way, past the distant Straits, like Odysseus, the Gods then played their trick upon us. For upon the deep, a mighty tempest swirled with the rage of Poseidon, tearing our ship asunder in its mighty wrath. In my arms, I held two of the boys; my wife held the others. That was the last I saw of them. Cast into the sea, I held onto the boys for what seemed an eternity, until, by good fortune, we were rescued by a passing ship.”
As the years passed, my son set sail for Delphi, where the oracle foretold his brother was still alive. So, with his servant, he wandered the many shores, to find his long-lost twin, that he might at last be whole. That was many a year ago, and I have not heard of him since. And so I boarded a ship, in search of them, until I landed upon these distant shores.
Moved by his story, the Duke answered. “I take pity upon you, and yet the law is the law. It cannot be forsaken. Nevertheless, I will favor you as I can. I grant you this day; find what friends you can, and if you can pay your ransom, then I will set you free. So beg or borrow what you can. Do this and live; if not, then on tomorrow’s eve, thou art doomed to die.”
“Hopeless though it seem, I will pray that the Gods thus deliver me.” Bowing his head in humility, the old man followed the guards to the distant cell by the sea.
Putting the book down, Sherlock Holmes took his pipe and slowly filled it. “Now Dr. Watson,” he said, “You have asked me many times about the art of deduction, on how it is that I arrive at a given conclusion. Well, I have given this much thought, and I have found inspiration from the immortal bard. The comedic writings of Shakespeare, where he delights his audience with the absurdity of confusion and contradiction.”
“It is of much interest to me,” the doctor replied. “When I hear you give your reasons, the thing appears so ridiculously simple that I could easily do it myself. And yet, at each successive instance of your reasoning, I am baffled until you explain. And yet my eyes are as good as yours.”
“Quite so,” Holmes answered, lighting his pipe. “You see, but you do not observe. The distinction is clear. For example, you have frequently seen the steps that lead up to this room.”
“Frequently.” “How often?” “Hundreds of times.” “How many are there?” “How many? I don't know.”
“Quite so, there are 17,” Sherlock stated. “You have seen and yet you have not observed. This brings me back to The Comedy of Errors. As the audience, in the first scene, you have observed. You know the secret riddle in which our characters are plunged. It is they who only see, and so find themselves in an absurd mystery, in which everything they know is false.”
“Indeed,” Dr. Watson acknowledged. “I am familiar with the play. If I recall, that same day Antipholus and his servant – who was he? Roger Daltry? No, Dromio, I believe, was his name – they arrive at Ephesus. And there they meet Adriana, the wife of his brother, and yet she does not know him.”
“To me she speaks,” Sherlock chuckled. “'What was I married to her in a dream? Or sleep I now, and think I hear this? What error drives my eyes and ears amiss? Until I know this uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.' And so they are dragged off to dinner.”
“In the meanwhile,” Watson continued, “across town the brother has a chain commissioned from the local goldsmith. For this he is charged a thousand marks, which his servant must retrieve. It seems most curious that both brothers are of the same name.”
“It is elementary, my dear Watson,” Sherlock replied, finishing his pipe. “They were separated at birth. Since they looked the same, both mother and father called them by the eldest name. This brings me to the task at hand. How is it that we know that something is true?”
“Through science!” Watson exclaimed, quite pleased with himself.
Sherlock began to rummage through his drawer for his hidden stash. “Which science is that? The one of Euclidean astronomy, where the Earth is at the center of the universe, or that of Copernicus where the Earth orbits the sun?”
Watson pondered the question. “Are they not one and the same? It is puzzling that this is so, and yet the two reach such contrary conclusions. They cannot both be true.”
“Very good,” Sherlock affirmed, having found his stash. “Then what does this tell us about science?”
“That science aims to find truth, but it is not truth in and of itself?” “Indeed, the purpose of science is to find justified true belief. This is what, in the words of Aristotle, we would determine to be knowledge. In this process, we develop a theory, and then we seek to determine if it is true.”
“But how do we determine that truth?” Watson pressed.
“We determine if it is a better explanation for the facts.” Sherlock filled his pipe once again. “To this end, we must satisfy five basic criteria.”
“The first is test-ability. If our theory or hypothesis is true, then in a given set of circumstances, we would expect specific results. This is what we call experimentation. Of course, we must be careful not to give an ad hoc explanation to align our theory with the results. If our theory cannot produce the predicted results, then our theory is in error.
The second is that our hypothesis is useful. It must lead to correct predictions, or it is of no value.
The third criterion is the scope of the theory. It must lead to the most correct predictions in the greatest number of circumstances.
Our fourth criterion is simplicity, or as stated in Occam's Razor, it is futile to do with more things that which can be done with less.
Our final criterion is conservatism. Our theory should not contradict that which is already known.”
“I see,” Watson agreed. “Which brings us back to our story. If I recall, there is a mix-up, and Dromio retrieves the thousand marks, and then gives it to the wrong brother. So when the jeweler seeks payment, Antipholus has not the funds, and so he is thrown in jail where he meets his long-lost father.”
“Then we discover the hidden truth,” Sherlock answered, puffing on his pipe. “It is the inherent problem of knowledge: Gettier’s dilemma. Dromio gave Antipholus the thousand marks. In a sense, there was justified true belief, and yet it was not knowledge. Because despite all his best intentions, and the money actually being present, he gave the thousand marks to the wrong brother. Thus, we have a situation where the belief was true and justified, but its truth was accidentally arrived at. Hence, we have truth, and not knowledge, at the same time.”
“That is most puzzling indeed,” Watson mused, “one that has plagued humanity throughout time. Then how should we truly determine truth?”
Sherlock set down his pipe. “In the story, the father recognizes his son, yet his son knows him not. As the father recounts his tale, he mentions the name of his wife, Emilia. It turns out she now serves as a nun in the abbey, which stands on the site of the old temple of Diana in Ephesus. This very city, as the Apostle Paul noted, was known for its deceivers and witchcraft. Upon hearing Emilia's name, the full truth is revealed: she is summoned, and the family is reunited. Together, they recount their complete story to the Duke, who then, in understanding, forgives the old man his debt. The family is united, and they live happily ever after. This brings us to the moral of our story: the virtue ethics of Linda Zagzebski.”
Knowledge is a justified true belief that gets to the truth rather than the falsehood, because of the intellectually virtuous motives and behavior of the believer.
