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INTRODUCTION
In
PLATO wrote no systematic treatise on philosophy, not be-
cause he was not a systematic thinker: all his writings are
expressions of a single outlook on reality, a system which
though it may perhaps show signs of development, yet
always preserves its unity: but he expounded it in a series
of dialogues each of which stands by itself complete.
each some separate aspect of life or reality, some separate
problem for thought to unravel is the starting-point and
centre of the discussion. Only the solutions have a common
unity for all these various problems when discussed lead
the inquiry back to a conception of the relation between
sense and thought which is the centre of Plato's philosophy.
The five dialogues in this volume, however, have been
brought together because they all throw some light on a
special side of Plato's teaching, his doctrine of the place
and importance of intuition or inspiration, however we
describe that immediate element in thought which can be
distinguished from that other element which is teachable
and reducible to rules. In each of these dialogues, though
for different purposes and from different points of view,
Plato expounds that part of his system which has attracted
the attention and admiration of great poets and lovers of
poetry, and which when developed by later thinkers who
lacked Plato's devotion to exact logical thinking and his
interest in science, proved the source of much later
mysticism. As Plato wrote no systematic treatise on philo-
sophy, so he wrote no æsthetic. But these dialogues
present the materials for a Platonic æsthetic, or rather for
an æsthetic in accordance with the general principles of
Platonic Philosophy, but which Plato himself would
probably have disowned. For we must not forget that
if of all philosophers Plato has proved pre-eminently the
philosopher of the poet and the mystic, if his system has
seemed to lovers of poetry to furnish an explanation

&
vii
viii
Introduction
of the mysterious insight of the artist into reality, he
was also the philosopher who proclaimed most insistently
the ancient quarrel between philosophy and poetry, and in
pursuance of that quarrel argued that art was an imitation
of an imitation, three times removed from truth. While other
philosophers have regarded art as an important activity of
the human mind, to be studied like other activities dispas-
sionately and impartially, Plato rarely refers expressly to
art without denouncing it as a sham and a deception. The
explanation of this paradox is not far to seek. Plato de-
nounces art because he so intensely felt its power. He was
himself both poet and philosopher, and the quarrel between
poetry and philosophy was waged in his own breast. He
could not afford to pay art the doubtful compliment of calling
it an excellent purgative of fear and pity or a useful occupa-
tion for leisure time; he could not regard it as a necessary
stage on the way to that full enlightenment which is philo-
sophy. He knew that the claims of art were too imperious
for it to submit to be consigned to a position of decent
respectability. He felt that it claimed all or nothing. He
would not give it all: for he could not be unfaithful to
philosophy so he must needs fiercely give it nothing.
What, then, are we to think of these dialogues, and especi-
ally of the Symposium and the Phædrus, which seem so
obviously to be devoted to the praise of inspiration and to
breathe the spirit expressed in-

the Poets,
men endowed with highest gifts,
The vision and the faculty divine?
They may be and are often regarded as the faith of Plato
the poet in contrast with Plato the philosopher, as victories
won by poetry in the quarrel with philosophy, which was to
end in the denunciation of poetry in Republic, Book X, and
the close, logical reasoning of the Parmenides and the
Philebus, where the enthusiasm for beauty seems to have
yielded entirely to the enthusiasm for science. Those who
deplore the issue of the struggle, welcome the Symposium
and the Phædrus as the achievements of the real Plato, the
poet, won before the supposed coldness of old age had extin-
guished the glow of inspiration in him; those who rejoice in
Introduction
ix
it, view them as youthful aberrations to be condoned but
regretted.
An attentive reading of the dialogues, however, forces us
to modify these views. It is not the case that Plato here
makes statements about poetry which are inconsistent with
his statements in other dialogues. Even in the myth in the
Phædrus, where Plato classifies souls as having seen more or
less of truth, he puts the soul of the poet or imitator low
down.
Nor again, is it possible to divide Plato's system into
poetical and non-poetical elements, and say that in these
dialogues he emphasizes the more poetical as in other dia-
logues the more logical elements of his system. For what
has always been regarded as the most poetic element in
Plato-his theory of ideas-is his most important logical
doctrine, and these dialogues, and in them many of the
passages which seem most to glow with the enthusiasm of
poetry, are of great importance to Plato's logical theory.
The truth is that if Plato is poetic, it is not because he ever
subordinates philosophy to poetry, but because he takes what
may be called a poetic view of knowledge. He emphasizes
and asserts the importance in knowledge and in logic of the
element of the immediate and the intuitive. While always
insisting on exact argument and careful logical reasoning,
he makes all reasoning depend finally on intellectual insight
and vision which is immediate. Hence if we are to con
struct from Plato any theory of the function of poetry
higher than the low one which he expressly assigns to it, it
must be by following him in his appreciation of the logical
importance of immediate insight, and then by showing how
poetry can in its way claim a share in that philosophical
insight. The latter part of the argument will not be Plato's,
yet it may be based upon Plato's description of beauty.
This impossibility of separation will become clear if we
notice shortly the manner in which these various dialogues
touch the question with which we are concerned. The Ion
is a short dialogue, which presents us with the main out-
line of the problem. Ion the rhapsode is a great interpreter
of Homer. He can sway a whole multitude of people by his
recitations. He claims to understand all passages in Homer
better than any other man; but, Socrates argues, under-



X
Introduction
standing and interpretation of special passages needs special
knowledge, the knowledge of the carpenter or the physician,
which Ion does not possess. If he can interpret Homer
thus, it is not through knowledge but through inspiration
or madness. The rhapsodist, then, must be either dishonest
or inspired. The subject of the Symposium is love.
Socrates, when it comes to his turn to speak, reports the
speech of Diotima, a wise woman of Mantinea. The lover
and the philosopher are put together: for love is the desire
for immortality in beauty: and as the beauty of the mind is
higher than the beauty of the body, so philosophy is higher
than earthly love. The vision of true beauty, described in
language appropriate to the mystic vision, is the last stage
of a progress from particular sensible beauty to universal
intellectual beauty, which includes in its higher stages the
beauty of the sciences, and "many fair and noble thoughts
and notions in boundless love of wisdom." In the Meno
we start from the logical side. Meno and Socrates are
seeking for a definition of virtue, when Meno raises the
logical difficulty as to how such search is possible. How
can you inquire into what you do not know? Socrates
answers by referring to a truth which he has heard from
priests and priestesses and from poets,
"such as the poet
Pindar and other inspired men.
The truth is expressed in
the doctrine of reminiscence, that all inquiry and learning
is but recollection." It is then proved by a logical analysis
of what is involved in the apprehension of geometrical truth.
In the beginning of the Phado Socrates says that he has
been constantly warned in dreams that he "should make
and cultivate music," and that he had imagined “that this
was only intended to exhort and encourage me in the study
of philosophy, which has always been the pursuit of my life
and is the noblest and best of music." The proof of the
doctrine of immortality, the subject of the dialogue, involves
another proof of the doctrine of reminiscence, which in
philosophical language would be described as an argument
that experience involves a priori elements which cannot be
derived from experience. The dialogue proceeds with an
exposition of the theory of ideas, which is a very important
statement of the main doctrine of Plato's logic, and the final
proof of immortality rests on the kinship of the soul with


99
Introduction
xi
the ideas. In contrast with the Meno and the Phædo,, the
Phædrus opens with a discussion bearing more nearly on the
nature of poetry. The formal subject of the dialogue is the +
nature of rhetoric. It is illustrated by the famous speech
In praise of the divine madness of the follower of the Muses,
of the lover and of the philosopher, a myth in which the
doctrine of reminiscence is introduced again and the vision.
described of true reality which all souls have experienced
before birth. Philosophy is the recollection of that vision,
and in that recollection beauty is made to play an especial
part. Yet in the discussion on rhetoric which follows, the
true rhetorician is described as having knowledge, and his
knowledge as consisting in, not a recollection of previous
vision, but the power of logical definition and division.
We shall study, therefore, the doctrine of immediacy,
not discriminating between its poetical or philosophical
importance. The relevant passage in the Symposium
occurs in Socrates' account of the discourse of Diotima
(pp. 210-212). She has explained how love is the desire
for immortality in beauty, and how beauty of the soul is
greater than beauty of the body. Then it is intimated that
what is to follow is a more unusual and advanced revelation.
The seeker after beauty, beginning with an appreciation of
beautiful bodies, will consider that the beauty in one body is
akin to that in another, and that therefore the beauty in
all bodies is one and the same. Then as he goes on, he
will learn the oneness of the beauty of the soul with the
beauty of the sciences, until "he come to a single science
of this beauty." That science will be known in this way.
After contemplating beautiful objects gradually and in
order, on a sudden he beholds a beauty wonderful in its
nature." The description of this beauty marks its difference
from beautiful objects. It is eternal, unproduced, inde-
structible: it is not like other things partly beautiful and
partly deformed. Neither is it, like the beauty of sensible
objects, in any way relative: nor can it, like feet and hands,
be seen: "It is eternally of itself and in itself the same in
form."


"
In this description and in what follows these points are
to be noticed. Apprehension of this one beauty follows on
study of beautiful objects, but is distinct from that study.
xii
Introduction
The progress towards this one beauty begins with the reflec-
tion that beauty in one object must be the same as beauty
in another. The search after it is the search for the unity
in the many beautiful objects. The apprehension of it is
called a sudden appearance; yet it is carefully described in
a way which shows that appearance cannot be taken literally.
Further, all other things are beautiful by participation in
it. Compared with it their beauty is relative and comes into
being and is destroyed. It has no part in the world of
change, and hence in it the desire of the soul for immortality
is satisfied. But when we would conclude from this that
the lover of this real beauty must be like the poet who is
able-
"To see a world in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower;
Hold Infinity in the palm of his hand,
And Eternity in an hour

we have to remember that eternity and changelessness for
Plato belong only to all realities apprehended by thought
and not by sense, and to them only, and that the progress
towards them is intellectual.
His answer in the Meno (p. 81) to the difficulty that know-
ledge can neither be described as mere acquisition from with-
out nor development from within, nor yet is it possible to
discriminate without great difficulty the part played by
external and internal, is that real knowledge is the eternal
possession of the soul. What it knows it has always known.
The office of the senses and the visible world is but to stir
this forgotten knowledge into recollection. 'Since the soul
is immortal and has been born many times and has seen
the things of this world and of Hades and all things, there
is nothing which she has not learned. So that it is no
wonder that she should be able to recollect virtue and all
other things, seeing that she has learned them previously."
This is the glorious truth which Plato has learned from
priests and priestesses and poets. But it is not accepted
as a solution till it is proved by showing what is involved in
the following geometrical reasoning by an untrained mind.
Hence the doctrine does not mean what is confessed by
Shelley when he says-


Introduction
xiii
"I knew
That I had felt the freshness of that dawn,
Bathed in the same cold dew my brow and hair,
And sate as thus upon that slope of lawn,
Under the selfsame bough, and heard as there
The birds, the fountains and the ocean hold
Sweet talk in music through the enamoured air."
$$
For the other side of Plato's doctrine of reminiscence is the
unlikeness and the difference between the visible things now
seen and the intelligible realities of which they remind us.
When Plato at the end of his Meno makes the distinction
between knowledge and true opinion, instead of saying, as
might be expected, that when a man thinks rightly without
being able to explain the reasons for his belief, he is remem-
bering what he has learnt before but not remembering it all,
he says that reminiscence-is-only of knowledge, not of right.
opinion. We recollect the cause, and it is "the tie of cause
which transforms right opinion into knowledge. The Phædo
emphasizes this distinction between the visible and the intel-
ligible. The passage there (pp. 73-77) on the doctrine of
reminiscence is much more explicit than that in the Meno.
Socrates first observes that recollection always involves
noticing "whether the reminding object in any way falls
short in its resemblance to that which is recollected.
He then gives as his example the equal. We are reminded
of the equal by stones and sticks and other things; but
the equal is "something different beside all these." For
equal stones and sticks sometimes appear unequal, but
equality is never inequality. And he argues that in using
the predicate "equal" of visible things, we are judging
them by a standard which cannot have been got from
them, inasmuch as no visible things show more than an
approximation to perfect equality. The notion of perfect
equality itself, then, must be got elsewhere. We cannot get
it without the senses, but "all the objects of the senses
aim at real equality and fall short of it." Therefore before
we begin to experience anything we must have a know-
ledge of the real equality. The argument is not confined to
equality. It holds of "the real beauty and the real goodness
and justice and holiness, and all those things which in the



xiv
Introduction
process of asking and answering questions we seal with
the title of 'the real "." Throughout the Phædo, as we have
noticed, the argument asserts the kinship of the soul with
these intelligible, changeless realities, the Platonic ideas.
This kinship is the basis of Plato's arguments for the im-
mortality of the soul, but it also implies distinction between
soul and body and distinction between the world of the
senses and the world of thought. It is true that he often
seems to describe apprehension of the ideas in terms bor-
rowed from æsthetic experience. That was inevitable. For
the apprehension of reality in philosophy, though imme-
diate, is only reached at the end of a long process of reflec-
tion. No one who has not gone through such a process
can have had experience of immediate intellectual apprehen-
sion, to such persons, therefore, Plato must describe it in
forms of the only immediacy with which they are acquainted,
that of æsthetic experience. Now the element of immediacy
and intuition is so pre-eminent in art and so concealed in
science, that when Plato asserts that all real knowledge is
immediate, we easily think that he is saying that knowledge
is to be found in art rather than in science. Nothing is
further from his intention. It is true that he describes
reality as vividly and immediately apprehended, but he is as
eager to insist that we come to such immediate apprehen-
sion only by transcending the limitations of sense by the
power of thought. Though the apprehension is immediate
and its own evidence, it is reached in a definite way, which
Plato is prepared to describe. This is intended in the
expression "in the process of asking and answering ques-
tions" of the passage quoted above. That means what
Plato calls the logical process of dialectic. Perhaps the
clearest account of the matter is given in a passage in the
seventh letter. Plato is explaining in a spirit akin to his
words in the Phædrus (p. 274) why his philosophy cannot be
properly stated in words. He shows the defects of all our
ways of representing reality. Names, examples and defini-
tions are all defective and may all lead to error. That does
not mean that we must acquiesce in the imperfection of
thinking, but that we must test and examine all our thought
by dialectic. If we do that, he says, after a long and diffi-
cult process of "rubbing our conceptions and perceptions

Introduction
XV
together," suddenly insight and reason flash out, and we
know reality as it is. The reality cannot be described,
simply because our apprehension of it is immediate, but we
can explain the necessary means towards that apprehension.
Plato quarrels with art because in his view it emphasizes.
and attaches importance to just that sensible side of things,
which thought must transcend, and so hinders the mind's
progress from sensible to intelligible reality, and also because
the processes by which it reaches immediacy are not trust-
worthy and are as far as possible removed from those logical
processes by which truth is attained. The tenth book of the
Republic is mainly concerned with the first charge. In
calling art imitation, Plato treats it as concerned with copy-
ing visible reality and that only. Some art is rightly liable
to this charge, and the way in which some persons regard
all art gives it added justification. At the beginning of the
tenth book art is described as dangerous without the antidote
of a right understanding of its function. As in the Ion,
Plato is attacking art which claims to be a short cut to the
knowledge possessed by science. In so far as the truth of
art is taken to consist in the faithfulness of its representation
of the sensible objects to which it refers, these criticisms
are just. They seem one-sided because there is no examina-
tion of the claim which the artist would certainly make,
namely, that art is not concerned with imitating the sensible,
but, through the medium of the sensible, represents the
eternal realities with which philosophy is concerned.
Plato, in so far as he is explicit on the subject, declares
that the eternal realities are to be apprehended in one way
only, by hard thinking, yet in what he says of beauty there
are undoubtedly suggestions of some such theory of the
function of art as the artist might put forward. For that we
must turn to the Phædrus, remembering only that his attack
on the deceptive nature of art is never an attack on beauty;
throughout the criticism of Book X he never speaks of
beauty at all.
The myth in the Phædrus is the second of two speeches on
love. In the first speech Socrates attacks love in the name
of reason and self-control. The second is a solemn recanta-
tion of this blasphemy. Love may be madness, but madness
may be divine. A myth based on the doctrine of reminis-

*
1

xvi
Introduction
cence explains this. The souls before birth are borne to a
place beyond the sky. "Real existence, colourless, form-
less and intangible, visible only to the intelligence which
sits at the helm of the soul, and with which the family of
true science is concerned, has its abode in this region. The
mind, then, of deity, as it is fed by intelligence and pure
science, and the mind of every soul that is destined to receive
its due inheritance, is delighted at seeing the essence to
which it has been so long a stranger, and by the light of
truth is fostered and made to thrive, until, by the revolution
of the heavens, it is brought round again to the same point.
And during the circuit it sees distinctly absolute justice and
absolute temperance and absolute science; not such as they
appear in creation, nor under the forms to which we now-
a-days give the names of realities, but the justice, the temper-
ance, the science, which exist in that which is real and
essential being" (Phædrus, P. 247). The souls then sink
to earth, forgetting much as they fall, but on earth they
take their real rank from their memory of the vis'on: and
Plato puts together in the first class "the philosopher or
lover of wisdom, the lover of beauty, the votary of t e Muses
and of love." Here we find that separation betw´n art as
the pursuit of beauty and art as imitation, which we have
noticed. For the poet or any one of those concerned with
imitation ranks low down in the sixth class. Plato ex-
plains the power of beauty later in the myth. Beauty moves
the soul which sees it on this earth to a remembrance of
its vision and a desire after truth, because beauty alone of
all realities, is the same here as in the region beyond the
sky. "Now in the likenesses existing here of justice and
temperance, and all else which souls hold precious, there is
no brightness; but through the medium of dull dim instru-
ments, it is but seldom and with difficulty that people are
enabled in meeting with the copies to recognize the character
of the originals. But beauty not only shone brightly in our
view when in the heavenly choir we followed in the band
of Zeus, but when we came hither, we found her, through
the medium of our clearest sense, gleaming far more clearly
than them all. For sight is the keenest of the senses,
though it fails of distinguishing wisdom. For terrible would
be the passion inspired by wisdom or by any other of those
beloved realities, if they exhibited to the eye of sense any

""
Introduction
xvii
such clear resemblance of themselves as is the image afforded
by beauty. No, to beauty alone is the privilege given of
being at once most conspicuous and most lovely."
This passage, of course, occurs in a myth, where Plato
does not suppose himself to speak with philosophical
accuracy; but it expresses a doctrine which is of the essence
of Platonism. Philosophy for Plato is a passion. The
apprehension of truth needs qualities which are not primarily
intellectual, and especially a persistent belief and faith in
realities which can only be apprehended after a long and
diligent labour. Before we can reach the goal of know-
ledge, we need to believe in that which we have not yet
apprehended, and that faith is given by the appreciation of
beauty. If it is not "the substance of things hoped for," it
is "the evidence of things not seen." So in Plato's scheme
of education in the Republic (p. 402), Plato says that the
young who before they are capable of understanding reason,
are trained to love and welcome beautiful things and to hate
ugly things, will "recognize and welcome reason when it
comes, for one so trained is akin to reason." Though the
final apprehension of reality, which is knowledge, is the
work of thought and philosophy, it is beauty which first
stirs the soul to turn towards these changeless realities to
which she is akin. Further consideration might lead us to
argue that if such a part can be played by beauty, then we
shall learn more of reality from a representation which is
beautiful, than from one which is not; and might make us
claim a place for art alongside with those sciences which,
as Plato says, use sensible objects as models or copies of
the intelligible realities. But Plato himself never held this
view of art.
The vision of beauty, according to him, makes us act and
feel rightly towards those realities which thought alone
apprehends, but it does not make us see them. His own
practice of poetry is in agreement with this theory. For
the myths of Plato are poems, and he uses myth to describe
what is inaccessible to thought, and is careful to say of his
myths that while he cannot guarantee the details, he is
sure that the attitude which the myth produces in its hearers
is the right one. So Plato makes Socrates end the long
argument on immortality in the Phaedo with a myth, of
which he says: "No sensible man would insist that all is


xviii
Introduction
exactly as I have related. But seeing that the soul is im-
mortal, I think it is right that a man should venture to think
that something of the kind is true of our souls and their
mansions. The venture is a noble one; and a man should
chant this tale to himself as a solemn incantation."
There is no room here to give an account of the great
influence of Plato on English poetry. The Symposium and
the Phædrus played a large part in it. But in considering
the Platonism of Spenser and the metaphysical poets of the
seventeenth century, we must remember that it came from
Italy; that they read Plato with the help of Marsilio Ficino,
as he read him with the help of Plotinus. Platonism of
the Renaissance was largely a counterblast to Aristotelian-
ism, and exaggerated emphasis was given to the differences
between Plato and his disciple, little attention paid to their
great general agreement. The result was a Plato devoid
of logical theory, whose central doctrines are expressed in
his myths. It would be absurd to deny the name of Platon-
ist to Plotinus or Ficino, or to the Cambridge Platonists.
Plato was their inspiration; but we shall understand the real
Plato better, if, without denying the doctrines which they
attribute to him, rather rejoicing in their power and inspira-
tion, we remember that they must be understood in a sense
compatible with Plato's devotion to mathematics and logical
inquiry and his conviction that knowledge, however imme-
diate and infallible, was only to be attained by hard and
patient thinking.
A. D. LINDSAY.
NOTE. The translations of the Ion and Symposium in this
volume are by Shelley, first published in 1840 in Essays,
Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments, by Percy
Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. As the marginal
numbering shows, Shelley's translation omits several
passages in the Symposium, but as these are not of import-
ance for the subject matter of the dialogue, it has been
thought best to leave the translation without change. The
translation of the Meno is by Floyer Sydenham, first pub-
lished in 1773. The translation of the Phædo is by Henry
Cary, published in 1848, and the translation of the Phædrus
by J. Wright, first published in 1848.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
Translations:-The Republic: H. Spens, 1763; Davies and
Vaughan, 1852, 1858, 1866; B. Jowett, 1881, 3rd edition 1888, 1908
T. Taylor, with Introduction by T. Wratislaw, 1894; W. L. Bryan
and C. L. Bryan, 1898; Translation by Sydenham and Taylor, revised
by W. H. D. Rouse (Methuen's Standard Library), 1906; A. D.
Lindsay, 1907, 1908.
Symposium: by Percy Bysshe Shelley, in Cassell's National Library
(with other pieces), 1887; 1905; F. Sydenham (with Io, Hippias,
Alcibiades and Philebus, also separately), 1759-80.
Meno: by R. W. Mackay, 1869; From the text of Baiter and Orelli
(Oxford trans. of classics), 1880; with Apology and Crito, St. George
Stock and C. A. Marcon, 1887.
Phædo: by Theobald, 1713; Mme. Dacier (New York), 1833;
C. S. Stanford, 1873; E. M. Cope, 1875; with one or more other
works: 1675; 1730 (?); by T. Taylor, 1793; C. S. Stanford, 1835;
with Introduction by W. W. Goodwin (parts only), 1879, 1887; F. J.
Church, 1880, 1886; H. Cary, Bohn, 1888; Lubbock's Hundred
Books, 34, 1892; Cassell's National Library, 1888; reprint from W.
Whewell, 1892.
:
Phædrus T. Taylor, 1792; J. Wright, with Lysis and Protagoras,
1848, 1888.
Works: Floyer Sydenham, 1759, 1776; T. Taylor and Sydenham,
1804; H. Cary and H. Davis, 1848-52 (Bohn), 1900; W. Whewell
(Dialogues), 3 vols., 1859-61; B. Jowett, The Dialogues of Plato,
1871, 1875, 1892.
xix
CONTENTS
ION.
Translated by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
SYMPOSIUM, OR BANQUET
Translated by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
THE MENO
Translated by FLOYER SYDENHAM.
PHÆDO
Translated by HENRY CARY.
PHÆDRUS
Translated by J. WRIGHT.
xxi
PAGE
I
17
+
72
123
205
PLATO
ION; OR, OF THE ILIAD
TRANSLATED FROM PLATO
SOCRATES and ION
Socrates. HAIL to thee, O Ion ! from whence returnest St.
thou amongst us now?-from thine own native I.
Ephesus?
Ion. No, Socrates; I come from Epidaurus and the
feasts in honour of Esculapius.
Socrates. Had the Epidaurians instituted a contest of
rhapsody in honour of the God?
Ion. And not in rhapsodies alone; there were contests
in every species of music.
Socrates. And in which did you contend? And what
was the success of your efforts?
Ion. I bore away the first prize at the games, O
Socrates.
Socrates. Well done! You have now only to consider
how you shall win the Panathenæa.
Ion. That may also happen, God willing.
Socrates. Your profession, O Ion, has often appeared
to me an enviable one. For, together with the nicest
care of your person, and the most studied elegance of
dress, it imposes upon you the necessity of a familiar
acquaintance with many and excellent poets, and
especially with Homer, the most admirable of them all.
Nor is it merely because you can repeat the verses of
this great poet, that I envy you, but because you fathom
his inmost thoughts. For he is no rhapsodist who does
not understand the whole scope and intention of the
poet, and is not capable of interpreting it to his audience.
This he cannot do without a full comprehension of the
meaning of the author he undertakes to illustrate; and
worthy, indeed, of envy are those who can fulfil these
conditions.
VOL. I.
B
p.
53°
2
Plato
Ion. Thou speakest truth, O Socrates. And, indeed,
I have expended my study particularly on this part of
my profession. I flatter myself that no man living excels
me in the interpretation of Homer; neither Metrodorus
of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus the Thasian, nor
Glauco, nor any other rhapsodist of the present times
can express so many various and beautiful thoughts
upon Homer as I can.
Socrates. I am persuaded of your eminent skill, O
Ion. You will not, I hope, refuse me a specimen of it?
Ion. And, indeed, it would be worth your while to
hear me declaim upon Homer. I deserve a golden
crown from his admirers.
some day or other
Socrates. And I will find leisure
to request you to favour me so far. At present, I will
only trouble you with one question. Do you excel in
explaining Homer alone, or are you conscious of a
531 similar power with regard to Hesiod and Archilochus?
Ion. I possess this high degree of skill with regard
to Homer alone, and I consider that sufficient.
Socrates. Are there any subjects upon which Homer
and Hesiod say the same things?
Ion. Many, as it seems to me.
Socrates. Whether do you demonstrate these things
better in Homer or Hesiod?
Ion. In the same manner, doubtless; inasmuch as
they say the same words with regard to the same
things.
Socrates. But with regard to those things in which
they differ;-Homer and Hesiod both treat of divina-
tion, do they not?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. Do you think that you or a diviner would
make the best exposition, respecting all that these poets.
say of divination, both as they agree and as they differ?
Ion. A diviner, probably.
Socrates. Suppose you were a diviner, do you not
think that you could explain the discrepancies of those
poets on the subject of your profession, if you under-
stand their agreement?
Ion. Clearly so.
Ion; or, of the Iliad
3
Socrates. How does it happen then that you are
possessed of skill to illustrate Homer, and not Hesiod,
or any other poet in an equal degree? Is the subject-
matter of the poetry of Homer different from all other
poets? Does he not principally treat of war and social
intercourse, and of the distinct functions and characters
of the brave man and the coward, the professional and
private person, the mutual relations which subsist
between the Gods and men; together with the modes
of their intercourse, the phænomena of Heaven, the
secrets of Hades, and the origin of Gods and heroes?
Are not these the materials from which Homer wrought
his poem?
Ion. Assuredly, O Socrates.
Socrates. And the other poets, do they not treat of
the samé matter?
Ion, Certainly; but not like Homer.
Socrates. How! Worse?
Ion. Oh! far worse.
Ion.
Socrates. Then Homer treats of them better than
they?
Ion. Oh! Jupiter !-how much better !
Socrates. Amongst a number of persons employed in
solving a problem of arithmetic, might not a person
know, my dear Ion, which had given the right answer?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. The same person who had been aware of
the false one, or some other?
Ion. The same, clearly.
Socrates. That is, some one who understood arith-
metic?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. Among a number of persons giving their
opinions on the wholesomeness
the wholesomeness of different foods,
whether would one person be capable to pronounce
upon the rectitude of the opinions of those who judged
rightly, and another on the erroneousness of those which
were incorrect, or would the same person be competent
to decide respecting them both?
Ion. The same, evidently.
Socrates. What would you call that person?
4
Plato
532
Ion. A physician.
Socrates. We may assert then, universally, that the
same person who is competent to determine the truth,
is competent also to determine the falsehood of whatever
assertion is advanced on the same subject; and, it is
manifest, that he who cannot judge respecting the false-
hood, or unfitness of what is zaid upon a given subject,
is equally incompetent to determine upon its truth or
beauty?
Ion. Assuredly.
Socrates. The same person would then be competent
or incompetent for both?
Ion. Yes.
Socrates. Do you not say that Homer and the other
poets, and among them Hesiod and Archilochus, speak
of the same things, but unequally; one better and the
other worse?
Ion. And I speak truth.
Socrates. But if you can judge of what is well said
by the one, you must also be able to judge of what is ill
said by another, inasmuch as it expresses less correctly.
Ion. It should seem so.
Socrates. Then, my dear friend, we should not err if
we asserted that Ion possessed a like power of illustra
tion respecting Homer and all other poets; especially
since he confesses that the same person must be
esteemed a competent judge of all those who speak on
the same subjects; inasmuch as those subjects are under-
stood by him when spoken of by one, and the subject-
matter of almost all the poets is the same.
Ion. What can be the reason then, O Socrates, that
when any other poet is the subject of conversation I
cannot compel my attention, and I feel utterly unable
to declaim anything worth talking of, and positively go
to sleep? But when any one makes mention of Homer,
my mind applies itself without effort to the subject;
awaken as if it were from a trance, and a profusion of
eloquent expressions suggest themselves involuntarily?
Socrates. It is not difficult to suggest the cause of
this, my dear friend. You are evidently unable to de-
claim on Homer according to art and knowledge; for
Ion; or, of the Iliad
5
LO
did your art endow you with this faculty, you would be
equally capable of exerting it with regard to any other
of the poets. Is not poetry, as an art or a faculty, a
thing entire and one?
Ion. Assuredly.
Socrates. The same mode of consideration must be
admitted with respect to all arts which are severally one
and entire. Do you desire to hear what I understand
by this, O Ion?
Ion. Yes, by Jupiter, Socrates, I am delighted with
listening to you wise men.
Socrates. It is you who are wise, my dear Ion; you
rhapsodists, actors, and the authors of the poems you
I, like an unprofessional and private man, can
only speak the truth. Observe how common, vulgar,
and level to the comprehension of any one, is the ques-
tion which I now ask relative to the same consideration
belonging to one entire art. Is not painting an art whole
and entire?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. Did you ever know a person competent to
judge of the paintings of Polygnotus, the son of Aglao-
phon, and incompetent to judge of the production of
any other painter; who, on the supposition of the works
of other painters being exhibited to him, was wholly at 533
a loss, and very much inclined to go to sleep, and lost
all faculty of reasoning on the subject; but when his
opinion was required of Polygnotus, or any one single
painter you please, awoke, paid attention to the subject,
and discoursed on it with great eloquence and sagacity?
Ion. Never, by Jupiter!
Socrates. Did you ever know any one very skilful in
determining the merits of Dædalus, the son of Metion,
Epius, the son of Panopus, Theodorus the Samian, or
any other great sculptor, who was immediately at a loss,
and felt sleepy the moment any other sculptor was
mentioned?
Ion. I never met with such a person certainly.
Socrates. Nor, do I think, that you ever met with a
man professing himself a judge of poetry and rhapody,
and competent to criticize either Olympus, Thamyris,
6
Plato
Orpheus, or Phemius of Ithaca, the rhapsodist, who,
the moment he came to Ion the Ephesian, felt himself
quite at a loss, and utterly incompetent to judge whether
he rhapsodised well or ill.
Ion. I cannot refute you, Socrates, but of this I am
conscious to myself: that I excel all men in the copious-
ness and beauty of my illustrations of Homer, as all
who have heard me will confess, and with respect to
other poets, I am deserted of this power. It is for you
to consider what may be the cause of this distinction.
Socrates. I will tell you, O Ion, what appears to me
to be the cause of this inequality of power. It is that
you are not master of any art for the illustration of
Homer, but it is a divine influence which moves you,
like that which resides in the stone called magnet by
Eudipides, and Heraclea by the people. For not only
does this stone possess the power of attracting iron
rings, but it can communicate to them the power of
attracting other rings; so that you may see sometimes
a long chain of rings, and other iron substances,
attached and suspended one to the other by this influ-
ence. And as the power of the stone circulates through
all the links of this series, and attaches each to each, so
the Muse, communicating through those whom she has
first inspired, to all others capable of sharing in the
inspiration, the influence of that first enthusiasm, creates
a chain and a succession. For the authors of those great
poems which we admire, do not attain to excellence
through the rules of any art, but they utter their beauti-
ful melodies of verse in a state of inspiration, and, às
-it were, possessed by a spirit not their own. Thus the
composers of lyrical poetry create those admired songs
of theirs in a state of divine insanity, like the Cory-
bantes, who lose all control over their reason in the
534 enthusiasm of the sacred dance; and, during this
supernatural possession, are excited to the rhythm
and harmony which they communicate to men. Like
the Bacchantes, who, when possessed by the God, draw
honey and milk from the rivers, in which, when they
come to their senses, they find nothing but simple water.
For the souls of the poets, as poets tell us, have this
Ion; or, of the Iliad
7
peculiar ministration in the world. They tell us that
these souls, flying like bees from flower to flower, and
wandering over the gardens and the meadows, and the
honey-flowing fountains of the Muses, return to us laden.
with the sweetness of melody; and arrayed as they are
in the plumes of rapid imagination, they speak truth.
For a Poet is indeed a thing ethereally light, winged, o
and sacred, nor can he compose anything worth calling
poetry until he becomes inspired, and, as it were, mad,
or whilst any reason remains in him. For whilst a man
retains any portion of the thing called reason, he is
utterly incompetent to produce poetry or to vaticinate.
Thus, those who declaim various and beautiful poetry
upon' any subject, as for instance upon Homer, are not o
enabled to do so by art or study; but every rhapsodist
or poet, whether dithyrambic, encomiastic, choral, epic,
or iambic, is excellent in proportion to the extent of his
participation in the divine influence, and the degree in
which the Muse itself has descended on him. In other
respects, poets may be sufficiently ignorant and incap-
able. For they do not compose according to any art
which they have acquired, but from the impulse of the
divinity within them; for did they know any rules of
criticism according to which they could compose beauti-
ful verses upon one subject, they would be able to exert
the same faculty with respect to all or any other. The
God seems purposely to have deprived all poets, pro-
phets, and soothsayers of every particle of reason and
understanding, the better to adapt them to their employ-
ment as his ministers and interpreters; and that we,
their auditors, may acknowledge that those who write
so beautifully, are possessed, and address us, inspired
by the God. Tynnicus the Chalcidean is a manifest
proof of this, for he never before composed any poem
worthy to be remembered; and yet, was the author of
that Pæan which everybody sings, and which excels
almost every other hymn, and which he himself acknow-
ledges to have been inspired by the Muse. And, thus,
it appears to me that the God proves beyond a doubt,
that these transcendent poems are not human as the
work of men, but divine as coming from the God. Poets
8
Plato
Ի
1
then are the interpreters of the divinities-each being
possessed by some one deity; and to make this apparent,
the God designedly inspires the worst poets with the
sublimest verse. Does it seem to you that I am in the
. 535 right, O Ion?
Ion. Yes, by Jupiter! My mind is enlightened by
your words, O Socrates, and it appears to me that great
poets interpret to us through some divine election of
the God.
Socrates. And do not you rhapsodists interpret poets?
Ion. We do.
Socrates. Thus you interpret the interpreters?
Ion. Evidently.
Socrates. Remember this, and tell me; and do not
conceal that which I ask. When you declaim well, and
strike your audience with admiration; whether you sing
of Ulysses rushing upon the threshold of his palace,
discovering himself to the suitors, and pouring his shafts
out at his feet; or of Achilles assailing Hector; or those
affecting passages concerning Andromache, or Hecuba,
or Priam, are you then self-possessed? or, rather, are
you not rapt and filled with such enthusiasm by the
deeds you recite, that you fancy yourself in Ithaca or
Troy, or wherever else the poem transports you?
Ion. You speak most truly, Socrates, nor will I deny
it; for, when I recite of sorrow my eyes fill with tears;
and, when of fearful or terrible deeds, my hair stands on
end, and my heart beats fast.
Socrates. Tell me, Ion, can we call him in his senses,
who weeps while dressed in splendid garments, and
crowned with a golden coronal, not losing any of these
things? and is filled with fear when surrounded by ten
thousand friendly persons, not one among whom desires
to despoil or injure him?
Ion. To say the truth, we could not.
Socrates. Do you often perceive your audience moved
also?
Ion. Many among them, and frequently. I, standing
on the rostrum, see them weeping, with eyes fixed
earnestly on me, and overcome by my declamation.
have need so to agitate them; for if they weep, I laugh,
I
Ion; or, of the Iliad
9
taking their money; if they should laugh, I must weep,
going without it.
Socrates. Do you not perceive that your auditor is the
last link of that chain which I have described as held
together through the power of the magnet? You
rhapsodists and actors are the middle links, of which 536
the poet is the first-and through all these the God
influences whichever mind he selects, as they conduct
this power one to the other; and thus, as rings from
the stone, so hangs a long series of chorus-dancers,
teachers, and disciples from the Muse. Some poets are
influenced by one Muse, some by another; we call them
possessed, and this word-really expresses the truth, for
they are held. Others, who are interpreters, are inspired
by the first links, the poets, and are filled with enthusi-
asm, some by one, some by another; some by Orpheus,
some by Musæus, but the greater number are possessed
and inspired by Homer. You, O Ion, are influenced by
Homer. If you recite the works of any other poet, you
get drowsy, and are at a loss what to say; but when
you hear any of the compositions of that poet you are
roused, your thoughts are excited, and you grow
eloquent; for what you say of Homer is not derived
from any art or knowledge, but from divine inspiration
and possession. As the Corybantes feel acutely the
melodies of him by whom they are inspired, and abound
with verse and gesture for his songs alone, and care for
no other; thus, you, O Ion, are eloquent when you
expound Homer, and are barren of words with regard
to every other poet. And this explains the question you
asked, wherefore Homer, and no other poet, inspires
you with eloquence. It is that you are thus excellent
in your praise, not through science but from divine
inspiration.
Ion. You say the truth, Socrates. Yet, I am sur-
prised that you should be able to persuade me that I
am possessed and insane when I praise Homer.
think I shall not appear such to you when you hear
me.
Socrates. I desire to hear you, but not before you
have answered me this one question. What subject
I
10
Plato
does Homer treat best? for, surely, he does not treat all
equally.
Ion. You are aware that he treats of every thing.
Socrates. Does Homer mention subjects on which
are ignorant?
Ion. What can those be?
you
Socrates. Does not Homer frequently dilate on
537 various arts-on chariot-driving, for instance? if I
remember the verses I will repeat them.
Ion. I will repeat them, for I remember them.
Socrates. Repeat what Nestor says to his son Antilo-
chus, counselling him to be cautious in turning, during
the chariot-race at the funeral games of Patroclus.
Ion (repeats).
Αὐτὸς δὲ κλινθῆναι εὐπλέκτῳ ἐνὶ δίφρῳ
Ηκ' ἐπ' ἀριστερὰ τοῖον ἀτὰρ τὸν δεξιὸν ἵππον
Κένσαι ὁμοκλήσας, εἶξαί τέ οἱ ἡνία χερσίν.
Ἐν νύσσῃ δέ τοι ἵππος ἀριστερὸς ἐγχριμφθήτω,
Ὡς ἄν τοι πλήμνη γε δράσσεται ἄκρον ικέσθαι
Κύκλου ποιητοίο λίθου δ᾽ ἀλέασθαι ἐπαυρεῖν.
Il. V. 335.
Socrates. Enough. Now, O Ion, would a physician
or a charioteer be the better judge as to Homer's
sagacity on this subject?
Ion. Of course, a charioteer.
Socrates. Because he understands the art-or from
what other reason?
Ion. From his knowledge of the art.
Socrates. For one science is not gifted with the power
of judging of another-a steersman, for instance, does
not understand medicine?
Ion. Without doubt.
Socrates. Nor a physician, architecture?
Ion. Of course not.
Socrates. Is it not thus with every art?
If we are
adepts in one, we are ignorant of another. But first,
tell me, do not all arts differ one from the other?
Ion. They do.
Socrates. For you, as well as I, can testify that when
we say an art is the knowledge of one thing, we do not
mean that it is the knowledge of another.
Ion; or, of the Iliad
II
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. For, if each art contained the knowledge
of all things, why should we call them by different
names? we do so that we may distinguish them one
from the other. Thus, you as well as I, know that
these are five fingers; and if I asked you whether we
both meant the same thing or another, when we speak
of arithmetic-would you not say the same?
Ion. Yes.
Socrates. And tell me, when we learn one art we
must both learn the same things with regard to it; and
other things if we learn another?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. And he who is not versed in an art, is not 538
a good judge of what is said or done with respect to it?
Ion. Certainly not.
Socrates. To return to the verses which you just
recited, do you think that you or a charioteer would be
better capable of deciding whether Homer had spoken
rightly or not?
Ion. Doubtless a charioteer.
Socrates. For you are a rhapsodist, and not a
charioteer?
Ion. Yes.
Socrates. And the art of reciting verses is different
from that of driving chariots?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. And if it is different, it supposes a know-
ledge of different things?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. And when Homer introduces Hecamede, the
concubine of Nestor, giving Machaon a posset to drink,
and he speaks thus-
Οἴνῳ Πραμνείῳ, φησίν· ἐπὶ δ' αἴγειον κι ἡ τυρὸν
Κνήστι χαλκείῃ· παρὰ δὲ κρόμυον ποτῷ ὄψον.
Il. v′ 539.
does it belong to the medical or rhapsodical art, to
determine whether Homer speaks rightly on this sub-
ject?
Ion. The medical.
Ι 2
Plato
539
Socrates. And when he says—
Ἡ δὲ μολυβδαίνῃ ἐκελη ἐς βυσσὸν ἴκανεν,
Η τε κατ᾽ ἀγραυλοιο βοὸς κέρας έμμεμαυία
Ερχεται ὠμηστῇσι μετ᾿ ἰχθύσι πῆμα φέρουσα.
Il. ú. 80.
does it belong to the rhapsodical or the piscatorial art,
to determine whether he speaks rightly or not?
Ion. Manifestly to the piscatorial art.
Socrates. Consider whether you are not inspired to
make some such demand as this to me:-Come,
Socrates, since you have found in Homer an accurate
description of these arts, assist me also in the inquiry
as to his competence on the subject of soothsayers and
divination; and how far he speaks well or ill on such
subjects; for he often treats of them in the Odyssey,
and especially when he introduces Theoclymenus the
Soothsayer of the Melampians, prophesying to the
Suitors-
Δαιρόνιοι, τί κακὸν τόδε πάσχετε ; νυκτὶ μέν ὑμέων
Εἱλύαται κεφαλαί τε πρόσωπά τε νέρθε τε γυῖα,
Οιμωγὴ δὲ δέδηε, δεδάκρυνται δὲ παρειαί.
Εἰδώλων τε πλέον πρόθυρον, πλείη δὲ καὶ αὐλή
Ἱεμένων Ερεβόςδε ὑπὸζόφον ἠέλιος δὲ
Οὐρανοῦ ἐξαπόλωλε, κακὴ δ᾽ ἐπιδέδρομεν ἀχλύς.
Odyss. v. 351.
Often, too, in the Iliad, as at the battle at the walls; for
he there says-
*Ορνις γάρ σφιν ἐπῆλθε περησέμεναι μεμαῶσιν,
Αἰετὸς ὑψιπέτης, ἐπ' ἀριστερὰ λαὸν ἐέργων,
Φοινήεντα δράκοντα φέρων ονύχεσσι πέλωρον,
Ζωὸν, ἔτ᾽ ἀσπαίροντα· καὶ οὔπω λήθετο χάρμης.
Κόψε γὰρ αὐτὸν ἔχοντα κατὰ στῆθος παρὰ δειρήν,
Ἰδνωθεὶς ὀπίσω· ὁ δ᾽ ἀπὸ ἕθεν ἧκε χαμάζε
Αλγήσας ὀδύνῃσι, μέσῳ δ᾽ ἐγκάββαλ᾽ ὁμίλῳ·
Αὐτὸς δὲ κλάγξας ἔπετο πνοιῇς ἀνέμοιο.
ΚΕ
Il. μ'.
I assert, it belongs to a soothsayer both to observe and
to judge respecting such appearances as these.
Ion. And you assert the truth, Ο Socrates.
Socrates. And you also, my dear Ion. For we have
in our turn recited from the Odyssey and the Iliad,
Ion; or, of the Iliad
13
passages relating to vaticination, to medicine and the
piscatorial art; and as you are more skilled in Homer
than I can be, do you now make mention of whatever
relates to the rhapsodist and his art; for a rhapsodist
is competent above all other men to consider and pro-
nounce on whatever has relation to his art.
Ion. Or with respect to everything else mentioned by
Homer.
Socrates. Do not be so forgetful as to say every-
thing. A good memory is particularly necessary for a
rhapsodist.
Ion. And what do I forget?
Socrates. Do you not remember that you admitted
the art of reciting verses was different from that of
driving chariots?
Ion. I remember.
Socrates. And did you not admit that being different,
the subjects of its knowledge must also be different?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. You will not assert that the art of rhapsody
is that of universal knowledge; a rhapsodist may be
ignorant of some things.
Ion. Except, perhaps, such things as we now discuss,
O Socrates.
Socrates. What do you mean by such subjects,
besides those which relate to other arts? And with
which among them do you profess a competent acquaint-
ance, since not with all?
Ion. I imagine that the rhapsodist has a perfect
knowledge of what it is becoming for a man to speak
-what for a woman; what for a slave, what for a free
man; what for the ruler, what for him who is governed.
Socrates. How ! do you think that a rhapsodist knows
better than a pilot what the captain of a ship in a
tempest ought to say?
Ion. In such a circumstance I allow that the pilot
would know best.
Socrates. Has the rhapsodist or the physician the
clearest knowledge of what ought to be said to a sick
man?
Ion. In that case the physician.
540
14
Plato
541
Socrates. But you assert that he knows what a slave
ought to say?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. To take for example, in the driving of
cattle; a rhapsodist would know much better than the
herdsman what ought to be said to a slave engaged in
bringing back a herd of oxen run wild?
Ion. No, indeed.
Socrates. But what a woman should say concerning
spinning wool?
Ion. Of course not.
Socrates. He would know, however, what a man, who
is a general, should say when exhorting his troops?
Ion. Yes; a rhapsodist would know that.
Socrates. How! is rhapsody and strategy the same
art?
Ion. I know what it is fitting for a general to say.
Socrates. Probably because you are learned in war,
O Ion. For if you are equally expert in horsemanship
and playing on the harp, you would know whether a
man rode well or ill. But if I should ask you which
understands riding best, a horseman or a harper, what
would you answer?
Ion. A horseman, of course.
Socrates. And if you knew a good player on the harp,
you would in the same way say that he understood
harp-playing and not riding?
Ion. Certainly.
Socrates. Since you understand strategy, you can
tell me which is the most excellent, the art of war or
rhapsody?
Ion. One does not appear to me to excel the other.
Socrates. One is not better than the other, say you?
Do you say that tactics and rhapsody are two arts or
one?
Ion. They appear to me to be the same.
Socrates. Then a good rhapsodist is also a good
general.
Ion. Of course.
Socrates. And a good general is a good rhapsodist?
Ion. I do not say that.
Ion; or, of the Iliad
15
Socrates. You said that a good rhapsodist was also
a good general.
Ion. I did.
Socrates. Are you not the best rhapsodist in Greece?
Ion. By far, O Socrates.
Socrates. And you are also the most excellent general
among the Greeks?
Ion. I am. I learned the art from Homer.
Socrates. How is it, then, by Jupiter, that being both
the best general and the best rhapsodist among us,
you continually go about Greece rhapsodising, and never
lead our armies? Does it seem to you that the Greeks
greatly need golden-crowned rhapsodists, and have no
want of generals?
Ion. My native town, O Socrates, is ruled by yours,
and requires no general for her wars;—and neither will
your city nor the Lacedemonians elect me to lead their
armies you think your own generals sufficient.
Socrates. My good Ion, are you acquainted with
Apollodorus the Cyzicenian?
Ion. Who do you mean?
ì
Socrates. He whom, though a stranger, the Athenians
often elected general; and Phanosthenes the Andrian,
and Heraclides the Clazomenian, all foreigners, but
whom this city has chosen, as being great men, to lead
its armies, and to fill other high offices.
Would not,
therefore, Ion the Ephesian be elected and honoured if
he were esteemed capable? Were not the Ephesians
originally from Athens, and is Ephesus the least of
cities? But if you spoke true, Ion, and praise Homer
according to art and knowledge, you have deceived me,
-since you declared that you were learned on the sub-
ject of Homer, and would communicate your knowledge
to me--but you have disappointed me, and are far from
keeping your word. For you will not explain in what
you are so excessively clever, though I greatly desire to
learn; but, as various as Proteus, you change from one
thing to another, and to escape at last, you disappear in
the form of a general, without disclosing your Homeric 542
wisdom. If, therefore, you possess the learning which
you promised to expound on the subject of Homer, you
16
Plato
о
deceive me and are false. But if you are eloquent on
the subject of this Poet, not through knowledge, but by
inspiration, being possessed by him, ignorant the while
of the wisdom and beauty you display, then I allow that.
you are no deceiver. Choose then whether you will be
considered false or inspired?
Ion. It is far better, O Socrates, to be thought
inspired.
Socrates. It is better both for you and for us, O Ion,
to say that you are the inspired, and not the learned,
eulogist of Homer.
THE BANQUET
TRANSLATED FROM PLATO
THE PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE
p.
Apollodorus, A friend of Apollodorus, Glauco, Aristo- St.
demus, Socrates, Agathon, Phædrus, Pausanias, III.
Eryximachus, Aristophanes, Diotima, Alcibiades.
Apollodorus. I think that the subject of your in- 172
quiries is still fresh in my memory; for yesterday, as I
chanced to be returning home from Phaleros, one of
my acquaintance, seeing me before him, called out to
me from a distance, jokingly, "Apollodorus, you
Phalerian, will you not wait a minute?"-I waited for
him, and as soon as he overtook me, "I have just been
looking for you, Apollodorus," he said, "for I wished
to hear what those discussions were on Love, which
took place at the party, when Agathon, Socrates, Alci-
biades, and some others, met at supper.
Some one
who heard it from Phoenix, the son of Philip, told me
that you could give a full account, but he could relate
nothing distinctly himself. Relate to me, then, I en-
treat you, all the circumstances. I know you are a
faithful reporter of the discussions of your friends; but,
first tell me, were you present at the party or not?
""
"Your informant," I replied, "seems to have given.
you no very clear idea of what you wish to hear, if he
thinks that these discussions took place so lately as that
I could have been of the party. Indeed, I thought
so,” replied he.-"For how," said I, "O Glauco! could
I have been present? Do you not know that Agathon
has been absent from the city many years? But, since
I began to converse with Socrates, and to observe each
day all his words and actions, three years are scarcely
past. Before this time I wandered about wherever it 173
might chance, thinking that I did something, but being
in truth, a most miserable wretch, not less than you are
VOL. I.
17
C
18
Plato
now, who believe that you ought to do anything rather
than practise the love of wisdom."-"Do not cavil,"
interrupted Glauco, "but tell me, when did this party
take place?'
""
"Whilst we were yet children," I replied, "when
Agathon first gained the prize of tragedy, and the day
after that on which he and the chorus made sacrifices in
celebration of their success."-"A long time ago, it
seems. But who told you all the circumstances of the
discussion? Did you hear them from Socrates him-
self?" "No, by Jupiter! But the same person from
whom Phoenix had his information, one Aristodemus, a
Cydathenean, a little man who always went about
without sandals. He was present at this feast, being,
I believe, more than any of his contemporaries, a lover
and admirer of Socrates. I have questioned Socrates
concerning some of the circumstances of his narration,
who confirms all that I have heard from Aristodemus."
"Why, then," said Glauco, "why not relate them, as
we walk, to me? The road to the city is every way
convenient, both for those who listen and those who
speak."
Thus as we walked I gave him some account of those
discussions concerning Love; since, as I said before,
I remember them with sufficient accuracy. If I am
required to relate them also to you, that shall willingly
be done; for, whensoever either I myself talk of philo-
sophy, or listen to others talking of it, in addition to
the improvement which I conceive there arises from
such conversation, I am delighted beyond measure;
but whenever I hear your discussions about moneyed
men and great proprietors, I am weighed down with
grief, and pity you, who, doing nothing, believe that
you are doing something. Perhaps you think that I
am a miserable wretch; and, indeed, I believe that you
think truly. I do not think, but well know, that you
are miserable.
Companion. You are always the same, Apollodorus
-always saying some ill of yourself and others. In-
deed, you seem to me to think every one miserable
except Socrates, beginning with yourself. I do not
The Banquet
19
99
know what could have entitled you to the surname of
the "Madman, for, I am sure, you are consistent
enough, for ever inveighing with bitterness against
yourself and all others, except Socrates.
Apollodorus. My dear friend, it is manifest that I am
out of my wits from this alone-that I have such opinion
as you describe concerning myself and you.
Companion. It is not worth while, Apollodorus, to
dispute now about these things; but do what I entreat
you, and relate to us what were these discussions.
Apollodorus. They were such as I will proceed to tell
you.
But let me attempt to relate them in the order
which Aristodemus observed in relating them to me. 174
He said that he met Socrates washed, and, contrary
to his usual custom, sandaled, and having inquired
whither he went so gaily dressed, Socrates replied,
"I am going to sup at Agathon's; yesterday I avoided
it, disliking the crowd, which would attend at the prize
sacrifices then celebrated; to-day I promised to be
there, and I made myself so gay, because one ought to
be beautiful to approach one who is beautiful. But
you, Aristodemus, what think you of coming uninvited
to supper?"-"I will do," he replied, "as you com-
mand."-"Follow, then, that we may, by changing its
application, disarm that proverb which says, To the
feasts of the good, the good come uninvited. Homer,
indeed, seems not only to destroy, but to outrage the
proverb; for, describing Agamemnon as excellent in
battle, and Menelaus but a faint-hearted warrior, he
represents Menelaus as coming uninvited to the feast
of one better and braver than himself."-Aristodemus
hearing this, said, "I also am in some danger, Socrates,
not as you say, but according to Homer, of approach-
ing like an unworthy inferior, the banquet of one more
wise and excellent than myself. Will you not, then,
make some excuse for me? for I shall not confess that
I came uninvited, but shall say that I was invited by
you."-"As we walk together," said Socrates, "we
will consider together what excuse to make-but let
us go.
"}
Thus discoursing, they proceeded. But, as they
20
Plato
walked, Socrates, engaged in some deep contemplation,
slackened his pace, and, observing Aristodemus waiting
for him, he desired him to go on before. When Aris-
todemus arrived at Agathon's house he found the door
open, and it occurred somewhat comically, that a slave
met him at the vestibule, and conducted him where he
found the guests already reclined. As soon as Agathon
saw him, 'You arrive just in time to sup with us,
Aristodemus," he said; "if you have any other purpose
in your visit, defer it to a better opportunity. I was
looking for you yesterday, to invite you to be of our
party; I could not find you anywhere. But how is it
that you do not bring Socrates with you?
But he turning round, and not seeing Socrates behind
him, said to Agathon, “I just came hither in his com-
pany, being invited by him to sup with you."—“You
did well," replied Agathon, "to come; but where is
175 Socrates?". "He just now came hither behind me;
I myself wonder where he can be."-"Go and look,
boy," said Agathon, "and bring Socrates in; mean-
while, you, Aristodemus, recline there near Eryxima-
chus."
And he bade a slave wash his feet that he might
recline. Another slave, meanwhile, brought word that
Socrates had retired into a neighbouring vestibule,
where he stood, and, in spite of his message, refused to
come in.—“What absurdity you talk," cried Agathon,
"call him, and do not leave him till he comes.
"__"Leave
him alone, by all means," said Aristodemus, "it is
customary with him sometimes to retire in this way and
stand wherever it may chance. He will come presently,
I do not doubt; do not disturb him."—"Well, be it as
you will," said Agathon; "as it is, you boys, bring
supper for the rest; put before us what you will, for I
resolved that there should be no master of the feast.
Consider me, and these, my friends, as guests, whom
you have invited to supper, and serve them so that we
may commend you.”
After this they began supper, but Socrates did not
come in. Agathon ordered him to be called, but Aris-
todemus perpetually forbade it. At last he came in,
much about the middle of supper, not having delayed
The Banquet
21
so long as was his custom. Agathon (who happened to
be reclining at the end of the table, and alone,) said, as
he entered, "Come hither, Socrates, and sit down by
me; so that by the mere touch of one so wise as you
are, I may enjoy the fruit of your meditations in the
vestibule; for, I well know, you would not have de-
parted till you had discovered and secured it."
Socrates having sat down as he was desired, replied,
"It would be well, Agathon, if wisdom were of such a
nature, as that when we touched each other, it would
overflow of its own accord, from him who possesses
much to him who possesses little; like the water in two
chalices, which will flow through a flock of wool from
the fuller into the emptier, until both are equal. If
wisdom had this property, I should esteem myself most
fortunate in reclining near to you. I should thus soon
be filled, I think, with the most beautiful and various
wisdom. Mine, indeed, is something obscure, and
doubtful, and dreamlike. But yours is radiant, and has
been crowned with amplest reward; for, though you are
yet so young, it shone forth from you, and became so
manifest yesterday, that more than thirty thousand
Greeks can bear testimony to its excellence and love-
liness.""You are laughing at me, Socrates," said
Agathon, "but you and I will decide this controversy
about wisdom by and bye, taking Bacchus for our
judge. At present turn to your supper."
After Socrates and the rest had finished supper, and 176
had reclined back on their couches, and the libations
had been poured forth, and they had sung hymns to the
god, and all other rites which are customary had been
performed, they turned to drinking. Then Pausanias
made this kind of proposal. "Come, my friends," said
he, "in what manner will it be pleasantest for us to
drink? I must confess to you that, in reality, I am not
very well from the wine we drank last night, and I have
need of some intermission. I suspect that most of you
are in the same condition, for you were here yesterday.
Now, consider how we shall drink most easily and
comfortably."
·
""Tis a good proposal, Pausanias," said Aristophanes,
22
Plato
"to contrive, in some way or other, to place moder-
ation in our cups.
I was one of those who were
drenched last night."-Eryximachus, the son of Acu-
menius, hearing this, said: "I am of your opinion; I
only wish to know one thing-whether Agathon is in
the humour for hard drinking? "_"Not at all,” replied
Agathon, "I confess that I am not able to drink much
this evening.”—"It is an excellent thing for us,” replied
Eryximachus, "I mean myself, Aristodemus, Phædrus,
and these others, if you who are such invincible
drinkers, now refuse to drink. I ought to except
Socrates, for he is capable of drinking everything, or
nothing; and whatever we shall determine will equally
suit him. Since, then, no one present has any desire
to drink much wine, I shall perhaps give less offence if
I declare the nature of drunkenness. The science of
medicine teaches us that drunkenness is very pernici-
ous: nor would I choose to drink immoderately myself,
or counsel another to do so, especially if he had been
drunk the night before."-"Yes," said Phædrus, the
Myrinusian, interrupting him, "I have been accustomed
to confide in you, especially in your directions concern-
ing medicine; and I would now willingly do so, if the
rest will do the same." All then agreed that they would
drink at this present banquet not for drunkenness, but
for pleasure.
CC
Since, then," said Eryximachus, "it is decided that
no one shall be compelled to drink more than he pleases,
I think that we may as well send away the flute-player
to play to herself; or, if she likes, to the women within.
Let us devote the present occasion to conversation be-
tween ourselves, and if you wish, I will propose to you
what shall be the subject of our discussion." All
177 present desired and entreated that he would explain.-
"The exordium of my speech," said Eryximachus, "will
be in the style of the Menalippe of Euripides, for the
story which I am about to tell belongs not to me, but to
Phædrus. Phædrus has often indignantly complained.
to me, saying-' Is it not strange, Eryximachus, that
there are innumerable hymns and pæans composed for
the other gods, but that not one of the many poets who
The Banquet
23
spring up in the world have ever composed a verse in
honour of Love, who is such and so great a god? Nor
any one of those accomplished sophists, who, like the
famous Prodicus, have celebrated the praise of Hercules
and others, have ever celebrated that of Love; but what
is more astonishing, I have lately met with the book of
some philosopher, in which salt is extolled on account
of its utility, and many other things of the same nature
are in like manner celebrated with elaborate praise.
That so much serious thought is expended on such
trifles, and that no man has dared to this day to frame
a hymn in honour of Love, who being so great a deity,
is thus neglected, may well be sufficient to excite my
indignation.'
"There seemed to me some justice in these com-
plaints of Phædrus; I propose, therefore, at the same
time for the sake of giving pleasure to Phædrus, and
that we may on the present occasion do something well
and befitting us, that this God should receive from those
who are now present the honour which is most due to
him. If you agree to my proposal, an excellent discus-
sion might arise on the subject. Every one ought,
according to my plan, to praise Love with as much
eloquence as he can. Let Phædrus begin first, both
because he reclines the first in order, and because he is
the father of the discussion.".
"No one will vote against you, Eryximachus," said
Socrates, "for how can I oppose your proposal, who am
ready to confess that I know nothing on any subject
but love? Or how can Agathon, or Pausanias, or even
Aristophanes, whose life is one perpetual ministration to
Venus and Bacchus? Or how can any other whom I
see here? Though we who sit last are scarcely on an
equality with you; for if those who speak before us
shall have exhausted the subject with their eloquence
and reasonings, our discourses will be superfluous. But
in the name of Good Fortune, let Phædrus begin and
praise Love." The whole party agreed to what Socrates
said, and entreated Phædrus to begin.
What each then said on this subject, Aristodemus 178
did not entirely recollect, nor do I recollect all that he
24
Plato
related to me; but only the speeches of those who said
what was most worthy of remembrance. First, then,
Phædrus began thus:—
"Love is a mighty deity, and the object of admiration,
both to Gods and men, for many and for various
claims; but especially on account of his origin. For
that he is to be honoured as one of the most ancient of
the gods, this may serve as a testimony, that Love has
no parents, nor is there any poet or other person who
has ever affirmed that there are such. Hesiod says,
that first 'Chaos was produced; then the broad-bosomed
Earth, to be a secure foundation for all things; then
Love.' He says that after Chaos these two were pro-
duced, the Earth and Love. Parmenides, speaking of
generation, says: But he created Love before any
of the gods.' Acusileus agrees with Hesiod. Love,
therefore, is universally acknowledged to be among the
oldest of things. And in addition to this, Love is the
author of our greatest advantages; for I cannot imagine
a greater happiness and advantage to one who is in the
flower of youth than an amiable lover, or to a lover, than
an amiable object of his love. For neither birth, nor
wealth, nor honours, can awaken in the minds of men
the principles which should guide those who from their
youth aspire to an honourable and excellent life, as
Love awakens them. I speak of the fear of shame,
which deters them from that which is disgraceful; and
the love of glory, which incites to honourable deeds.
For it is not possible that a state or private person
should accomplish, without these incitements, anything
beautiful or great. I assert, then, that should one who
loves be discovered in any dishonourable action, or
tamely enduring insult through cowardice, he would feel
more anguish and shame if observed by the object of
his passion, than if he were observed by his father, or
his companions, or any other person. In like manner,
among warmly attached friends, a man is especially
grieved to be discovered by his friend in any dishonour-
able act. If, then, by any contrivance, a state or army
could be composed of friends bound by strong attach-
ment, it is beyond calculation how excellently they
The Banquet
25
would administer their affairs, refraining from anything
base, contending with each other for the acquirement 179
of fame, and exhibiting such valour in battle as that,
though few in numbers, they might subdue all mankind.
For should one friend desert the ranks or cast away his
arms in the presence of the other, he would suffer far
acuter shame from that one person's regard, than from
the regard of all other men. A thousand times would
he prefer to die, rather than desert the object of his
attachment, and not succour him in danger.
"There is none so worthless whom Love cannot
impel, as it were by a divine inspiration, towards virtue,
even so that he may through this inspiration become
equal to one who might naturally be more excellent;
and, in truth, as Homer says: The God breathes vigour
into certain heroes-so Love breathes into those who
love, the spirit which is produced from himself. Not
only men, but even women who love, are those alone
who willingly expose themselves to die for others.
Alcestis, the daughter of Pelias, affords to the Greeks
a remarkable example of this opinion; she alone being
willing to die for her husband, and so surpassing his
parents in the affection with which love inspired her
towards him, as to make them appear, in the compari-
son with her, strangers to their own child, and related
to him merely in name; and so lovely and admirable did
this action appear, not only to men, but even to the
Gods, that, although they conceded the prerogative of
bringing back the spirit from death to few among the
many who then performed excellent and honourable
deeds, yet, delighted with this action, they redeemed
her soul from the infernal regions: so highly do the
Gods honour zeal and devotion in love. They sent back
indeed Orpheus, the son of Eagrus, from Hell, with
his purpose unfulfilled, and, showing him only the
spectre of her for whom he came, refused to render up
herself. For Orpheus seemed to them, not, as Alcestis,
to have dared die for the sake of her whom he loved,
and thus to secure to himself a perpetual intercourse
with her in the regions to which she had preceded him,
but like a cowardly musician, to have contrived to
26
Plato
descend alive into Hell; and, indeed, they appointed as
a punishment for his cowardice, that he should be put
to death by women.
"Far otherwise did they reward Achilles, the son of
Thetis, whom they sent to inhabit the islands of the
blessed. For Achilles, though informed by his mother
that his own death would ensue upon his killing Hector,
but that if he refrained from it he might return home
and die in old age, yet preferred revenging and honour-
180 ing his beloved Patroclus; not to die for him merely,
but to disdain and reject that life which he had ceased
to share. Therefore the Greeks honoured Achilles be-
yond all other men, because he thus preferred his friend
to all things else.
(6
On this account have the Gods rewarded Achilles
more amply than Alcestis; permitting his spirit to in-
habit the islands of the blessed. Hence do I assert
that Love is the most ancient and venerable of deities,
and most powerful to endow mortals with the possession
of happiness and virtue, both whilst they live and after
they die."
Thus Aristodemus reported the discourse of Phædrus;
and after Phædrus, he said that some others spoke,
whose discourses he did not well remember. When
they had ceased, Pausanias began thus :-
CC
Simply to praise Love, O Phædrus, seems to me
too bounded a scope for our discourse. If Love were
one, it would be well. But since Love is not one, I will
endeavour to distinguish which is the Love whom it
becomes us to praise, and having thus discriminated
one from the other, will attempt to render him who is
the subject of our discourse the honour due to his
divinity. We all know that Venus is never without
Love; and if Venus were one, Love would be one; but
since there are two Venuses, of necessity also must
there be two Loves. For assuredly are there two
Venuses; one, the eldest, the daughter of Uranus,
born without a mother, whom we call the Uranian;
the other younger, the daughter of Jupiter and Dione,
whom we call the Pandemian;-of necessity must there
also be two Loves, the Uranian and Pandemian com-
The Banquet
27
panions of these goddesses. It is becoming to praise
all the Gods, but the attributes which fall to the lot of
each may be distinguished and selected. For any par-
ticular action whatever in itself is neither good nor
evil; what we are now doing-drinking, singing, talk- 181
ing, none of these things are good in themselves, but
the mode in which they are done stamps them with
its own nature; and that which is done well, is good,
and that which is done evil, is evil. Thus, not all love,
nor every mode of love is beautiful, or worthy of com-
mendation, but that alone which excites us to love
worthily. The Love, therefore, which attends upon
Venus Pandemos is, in truth, common to the vulgar,
and presides over transient and fortuitous connexions,
and is worshipped by the least excellent of mankind.
The votaries of this deity seek the body rather than the
soul, and the ignorant rather than the wise, disdaining
all that is honourable and lovely, and considering how
they shall best satisfy their sensual necessities. This
Love is derived from the younger goddess, who partakes
in her nature both of male and female. But the atten-
dant on the other, the Uranian, whose nature is entirely
masculine, is the Love who inspires us with affection,
and exempts us from all wantonness and libertinism.
Those who are inspired by this divinity seek the affec-
tions of those who are endowed by nature with greater
excellence and vigour both of body and mind. And it
is easy to distinguish those who especially exist under
the influence of this power, by their choosing in early
youth as the objects of their love those in whom the
intellectual faculties have begun to develop. For those
who begin to love in this manner seem to me to be
preparing to pass their whole life together in a com-
munity of good and evil, and not ever lightly deceiving
those who love them, to be faithless to their vows.
There ought to be a law that none should love the very
young; so much serious affection as this deity enkindles
should not be doubtfully bestowed; for the body and
mind of those so young are yet unformed, and it is
difficult to foretell what will be their future tendencies
and power.
The good voluntarily impose this law upon
28
Plato
themselves, and those vulgar lovers ought to be com-
pelled to the same observance, as we deter them with
all the power of the laws from the love of free matrons.
182 For these are the persons whose shameful actions
embolden those who observe their importunity and in-
temperance to assert, that it is dishonourable to serve
and gratify the objects of our love. But no one who
does this gracefully and according to law, can justly be
liable to the imputation of blame.
"Not only friendship, but philosophy and the practice
of the gymnastic exercises, are represented as dis-
honourable by the tyrannical governments under which
the barbarians live. For I imagine it would little con-
duce to the benefit of the governors, that the governed
should be disciplined to lofty thoughts, and to the unity
and communion of steadfast friendship, of which admir-
able effects the tyrants of our own country have also
learned that Love is the author. For the love of
Harmodius and Aristogiton, strengthened into a firm
friendship, dissolved the tyranny. Wherever, therefore,
it is declared dishonourable in any case to serve and
benefit friends, that law is a mark of the depravity of
the legislator, the avarice and tyranny of the rulers,
and the cowardice of those who are ruled. Wherever it
is simply declared to be honourable without distinction
of cases, such a declaration denotes dulness and want
of subtlety of mind in the authors of the regulation.
Here the degrees of praise or blame to be attributed by
law are far better regulated; but it is yet difficult to
determine the cases to which they should refer.
"It is evident, however, for one in whom passion is
enkindled, it is more honourable to love openly than
secretly; and most honourable to love the most excellent
and virtuous, even if they should be less beautiful than
others. It is honourable for the lover to exhort and
sustain the object of his love in virtuous conduct.
considered honourable to attain the love of those whom
we seek, and the contrary shameful; and to facilitate
this attainment, opinion has given to the lover the per-
mission of acquiring favour by the most extraordinary.
devices, which if a person should practise for any pur-
It is
ઘણી
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29
pose besides this, he would incur the severest reproof of 183
philosophy. For if any one desirous of accumulating
money, or ambitious of procuring power, or seeking any
other advantage, should, like a lover seeking to acquire
the favour of his beloved, employ prayers and entreaties
in his necessity, and swear such oaths as lovers swear,
and sleep before the threshold, and offer to subject him-
self to such slavery as no slave even would endure;
he would be frustrated of the attainment of what he
sought, both by his enemies and friends, these reviling
him for his flattery, those sharply admonishing him,
and taking to themselves the shame of his servility.
But there is a certain grace in a lover who does all these
things, so that he alone may do them without dishonour.
It is commonly said that the Gods accord pardon to the
lover alone if he should break his oath, and that there
is no oath by Venus. Thus, as our law declares, both
gods and men have given to lovers all possible indul-
gence.
The affair, however, I imagine, stands thus: As I
have before said, love cannot be considered in itself as
either honourable or dishonourable: if it is honourably
pursued, it is honourable; if dishonourably, dishonour-
able: it is dishonourable basely to serve and gratify a
worthless person; it is honourable honourably to serve
a person of virtue. That Pandemic lover who loves
rather the body than the soul is worthless, nor can be
constant and consistent, since he has placed his affec-
tions on that which has no stability. For as soon as
the flower of the form, which was the sole object of
his desire, has faded, then he departs and is seen no
more; bound by no faith nor shame of his many pro-
mises and persuasions. But he who is the lover of
virtuous manners is constant during life, since he has
placed himself in harmony and desire with that which
is consistent with itself.
J
"These two classes of persons we ought to distin-
guish with careful examination, so that we may serve 184
and converse with the one and avoid the other; deter-
mining, by that inquiry, by what a man is attracted, and
for what the object of his love is dear to him.
On the
30
Plato
185
same account it is considered as dishonourable to be
inspired with love at once, lest time should be wanting
to know and approve the character of the object. It is
considered dishonourable to be captivated by the allure-
ments of wealth and power, or terrified through injuries
to yield up the affections, or not to despise in the com-
parison with an unconstrained choice all political in-
fluence and personal advantage. For no circumstance
is there in wealth or power so invariable and consistent,
as that no generous friendship can ever spring up from
amongst them. We have an opinion with respect to
lovers which declares that it shall not be considered
servile or disgraceful, though the lover should submit
himself to any species of slavery for the sake of his
beloved. The same opinion holds with respect to those
who undergo any degradation for the sake of virtue.
And also it is esteemed among us, that if any one
chooses to serve and obey another for the purpose of
becoming more wise or more virtuous through the inter-
course that might thence arise, such willing slavery
is not the slavery of a dishonest flatterer. Through
this we should consider in the same light a servitude
undertaken for the sake of love as one undertaken for
the acquirement of wisdom or any other excellence, if
indeed the devotion of a lover to his beloved is to be
considered a beautiful thing. For when the lover and
the beloved have once arrived at the same point, the
province of each being distinguished; the one able to
assist in the cultivation of the mind and in the acquire-
ment of every other excellence; the other yet requiring
education, and seeking the possession of wisdom; then
alone, by the union of these conditions, and in no other
case, is it honourable for the beloved to yield up the
affections to the lover. In this servitude alone there
is no disgrace in being deceived and defeated of the
object for which it was undertaken, whereas every other,
is disgraceful, whether we are deceived or no.
"On the same principle, if any one seeks the friend-
ship of another, believing him to be virtuous, for the
sake of becoming better through such intercourse and
affection, and is deceived, his friend turning out to be
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worthless, and far from the possession of virtue; yet
it is honourable to have been so deceived. For such
a one seems to have submitted to a kind of servitude,
because he would endure anything for the sake of be-
coming more virtuous and wise; a disposition of mind
eminently beautiful.
"This is that Love who attends on the Uranian deity,
and is Uranian; the author of innumerable benefits
both to the state and to individuals, and by the necessity.
of whose influence those who love are disciplined into
the zeal of virtue. All other loves are the attendants on
Venus Pandemos. So much, although unpremeditated,
is what I have to deliver on the subject of love, O
Phædrus.'
""
Pausanias having ceased (for so the learned teach
me to denote the changes of the discourse), Aristodemus
said that it came to the turn of Aristophanes to speak;
but it happened that, from repletion or some other
cause, he had an hiccough which prevented him; so
he turned to Eryximachus, the physician, who was
reclining close beside him, and said "Eryximachus, it
is but fair that you should cure my hiccough, or speak
instead of me until it is over."-"I will do both," said
Eryximachus; "I will speak in your turn, and you,
when your hiccough has ceased, shall speak in mine.
Meanwhile, if you hold your breath some time, it will
subside. If not, gargle your throat with water; and if
it still continue, take something to stimulate your
nostrils, and sneeze; do this once or twice, and even
though it should be very violent it will cease. "Whilst
you speak," said Aristophanes, "I will follow your
directions."-Eryximachus then began:-
"Since Pausanias, beginning his discourse excel-
lently, placed no fit completion and development to it, I
think it necessary to attempt to fill up what he has left 186
unfinished. He has reasoned well in defining love as of
a double nature. The science of medicine, to which I
have addicted myself, seems to teach me that the love
which impels towards those who are beautiful, does not
subsist only in the souls of men, but in the bodies also
of those of all other living beings which are produced
32
Plato
So
upon earth, and, in a word, in all things which are.
wonderful and mighty is this divinity, and so widely is
his influence extended over all divine and human things!
For the honour of my profession, I will begin by ad-
ducing a proof from medicine. The nature of the body
contains within itself this double love. For that which
is healthy and that which is diseased in a body differ
and are unlike that which is unlike loves and desires
that which is unlike. Love, therefore, is different in a
sane and in a diseased body. Pausanias has asserted
rightly that it is honourable to gratify those things in
the body which are good and healthy, and in this con-
sists the skill of the physician; whilst those which are
bad and diseased ought to be treated with no indulg-
ence. The science of medicine, in a word, is a know-
ledge of the love affairs of the body, as they bear relation
to repletion and evacuation; and he is the most skilful
physician who can trace those operations of the good
and evil love, can make the one change places with the
other, and attract love into those parts from which he is
absent, or expel him from those which he ought not to
occupy. He ought to make those things which are
most inimical, friendly, and excite them to mutual love.
But those things are most inimical which are most
opposite to each other; cold to heat, bitterness to sweet-
ness, dryness to moisture. Our progenitor, Esculapius,
as the poets inform us, (and indeed I believe them,)
through the skill which he possessed to inspire love and
concord in these contending principles, established the
science of medicine.
"The gymnastic arts and agriculture, no less than
187 medicine, are exercised under the dominion of this God.
Music, as any one may perceive who yields a very slight
attention to the subject, originates from the same
source; which Heraclitus probably meant, though he
could not express his meaning very clearly in words,
when he says, 'One though apparently differing, yet so
agrees with itself, as the harmony of a lyre and a bow.'
It is great absurdity to say that a harmony differs, and
can exist between things whilst they are dissimilar; but
probably he meant that from sounds which first differed,
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like the grave and the acute, and which afterwards
agreed, harmony was produced according to musical
art. For no harmony can arise from the grave and the
acute whilst yet they differ. But harmony is symphony:
symphony is, as it were, concord. But it is impossible
that concord should subsist between things that differ,
so long as they differ. Between things which are dis-
cordant and dissimilar there is then no harmony. A
rhythm is produced from that which is quick, and that
which is slow, first being distinguished and opposed to
each other, and then made accordant; so does medicine,
no less than music, establish a concord between the
objects of its art, producing love and agreement between
adverse things.
"Music is then the knowledge of that which relates
to love in harmony and system. In the very system of
harmony and rhythm, it is easy to distinguish love.
The double love is not distinguishable in music itself;
but it is required to apply it to the service of mankind
by system and harmony, which is called poetry, or the
composition of melody; or by the correct use of songs
and measures already composed, which is called disci-
pline; then one can be distinguished from the other, by
the aid of an extremely skilful artist. And the better
love ought to be honoured and preserved for the sake of
those who are virtuous, and that the nature of the
vicious may be changed through the inspiration of its
spirit. This is that beautiful Uranian love, the attendant
on the Uranian muse: the Pandemian is the attendant
of Polyhymnia; to whose influence we should only so
far subject ourselves, as to derive pleasure from it with-
out indulging to excess; in the same manner as, accord-
ing to our art, we are instructed to seek the pleasures
of the table, only so far as we can enjoy them without
the consequences of disease. In music, therefore, and
in medicine, and in all other things, human and divine,
this double love ought to be traced and discriminated;
for it is in all things.
"Even the constitution of the seasons of the year is 188
penetrated with these contending principles. For so
often as heat and cold, dryness and moisture, of which
VOL. I.
D
34
Plato
I spoke before, are influenced by the more benignant
love, and are harmoniously and temperately inter-
mingled with the seasons, they bring maturity and
health to men, and to all the other animals and plants.
But when the evil and injurious love assumes the
dominion of the seasons of the year, destruction is
spread widely abroad. Then pestilence is accustomed
to arise, and many other blights and diseases fall upon
animals and plants: and hoar frosts, and hails, and
mildew on the corn, are produced from that excessive.
and disorderly love, with which each season of the year
is impelled towards the other; the motions of which
and the knowledge of the stars, is called astronomy.
All sacrifices, and all those things in which divination
is concerned (for these things are the links by which
is maintained an intercourse and communion between
the Gods and men), are nothing else than the science
of preservation and right government of Love. For
impiety is accustomed to spring up, so soon as any one
ceases to serve the more honourable Love, and worship
him by the sacrifice of good actions; but submits him-
self to the influences of the other, in relation to his
duties towards his parents, and the Gods, and the
living, and the dead. It is the object of divination to
distinguish and remedy the effects of these opposite
loves; and divination is therefore the author of the
friendship of Gods and men, because it affords the
knowledge of what in matters of love is lawful or
unlawful to men.
"Thus every species of love possesses collectively a
various and vast, or rather universal power. But love
which incites to the acquirement of its objects accord-
ing to virtue and wisdom, possesses the most exclusive
dominion, and prepares for his worshippers the highest
happiness through the mutual intercourse of social
kindness which it promotes among them, and through
the benevolence which he attracts to them from the
Gods, our superiors.
"Probably in thus praising Love, I have unwillingly
omitted many things; but it is your business, O Aristo-
phanes, to fill up all that I have left incomplete; or, if
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35.
you have imagined any other mode of honouring the
divinity: for I observe your hiccough is over.
""
"Yes," said Aristophanes, "but not before I applied 189
the sneezing. I wonder why the harmonious construc-
tion of our body should require such noisy operations
as sneezing; for it ceased the moment I sneezed.
"Do you not observe what you do, my good Aristo-
phanes?" said Eryximachus; "you are going to speak,
and you predispose us to laughter, and compel me to
watch for the first ridiculous idea which you may start
in your discourse, when you might have spoken in
peace. "Let me unsay what I have said, then,"
replied Aristophanes, laughing. "Do not watch me,
I entreat you; though I am not afraid of saying what is
laughable (since that would be all gain, and quite in the
accustomed spirit of my muse), but lest I should say
what is ridiculous.". "Do you think to throw your
dart, and escape with impunity, Aristophanes? Attend,
and what you say be careful you maintain; then, per-
haps, if it pleases me, I may dismiss you without
question."
'Indeed, Eryximachus," proceeded Aristophanes, “I
have designed that my discourse should be very different
from yours and that of Pausanias. It seems to me
that mankind are by no means penetrated with a con-
ception of the power of Love, or they would have built
sumptuous temples and altars, and have established
magnificent rites of sacrifice in his honour; he deserves
worship and homage more than all the other Gods, and
he has yet received none. For Love is of all the Gods
the most friendly to mortals; and the physician of those
wounds, whose cure would be the greatest happiness.
which could be conferred upon the human race. I will
endeavour to unfold to you his true power, and you can
relate what I declare to others.
"You ought first to know the nature of man, and the
adventures he has gone through; for his nature was
anciently far different from that which it is at present.
First, then, human beings were formerly not divided
into two sexes, male and female; there was also a third,
common to both the others, the name of which remains
36
Plato
though the sex itself has disappeared. The androgyn-
ous sex, both in appearance and in name, was common
both to male and female; its name alone remains, which
labours under a reproach.
"At the period to which 1 refer, the form of every
human being was round, the back and the sides being
190 circularly joined, and each had four arms and as many
legs; two faces fixed upon a round neck, exactly like
each other; one head between the two faces; four ears,
and everything else as from such proportions it is easy
to conjecture. Man walked upright as now, in what-
ever direction he pleased; but when he wished to go fast
he made use of all his eight limbs, and proceeded in a
rapid motion by rolling circularly round,-like tumblers,
who, with their legs in the air, tumble round and round.
We account for the production of three sexes by sup-
posing that, at the beginning, the male was produced
from the sun, the female from the earth; and that sex
which participated in both sexes, from the moon, by
reason of the androgynous nature of the moon. They
were round, and their mode of proceeding was round,
from the similarity which must needs subsist between
then and their parent.
"They were strong also, and had aspiring thoughts.
They it was who levied war against the Gods; and
what Homer writes concerning Ephialtus and Otus, that
they sought to ascend heaven and dethrone the Gods, in
reality relates to this primitive people. Jupiter and the
other Gods debated what was to be done in this emer-
gency. For neither could they prevail on themselves to
destroy them, as they had the giants, with thunder, so
that the race should be abolished; for in that case they
would be deprived of the honours of the sacrifices which
they were in the custom of receiving from them; nor
could they permit a continuance of their insolence and
impiety. Jupiter, with some difficulty having desired
silence, at length spoke. 'I think,' said he, I have
contrived a method by which we may, by rendering the
human race more feeble, quell the insolence which they
exercise, without proceeding to their utter destruction.
I will cut each of them in half; and so they will at once
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37
be weaker and more useful on account of their numbers.
They shall walk upright on two legs. If they show any
more insolence, and will not keep quiet, I will cut them
up in half again, so they shall go about hopping on one
leg.'
So saying, he cut human beings in half, as people
cut eggs before they salt them, or as I have seen eggs
cut with hairs. He ordered Apollo to take each one
as he cut him, and turn his face and half his neck
towards the operation, so that by contemplating it he
might become more cautious and humble; and then, to
cure him, Apollo turned the face round, and drawing
the skin upon what we now call the belly, like a con-
tracted pouch, and leaving one opening, that which is
called the navel, tied it in the middle. He then
smoothed many other wrinkles, and moulded the breast 191
with much such an instrument as the leather-cutters use
to smooth the skins upon the block. He left only a few
wrinkles in the belly, near the navel, to serve as a record
of its former adventure. Immediately after this divi-
sion, as each desired to possess the other half of him-
self, these divided people threw their arms around and
embraced each other, seeking to grow together; and
from this resolution to do nothing without the other
half, they died of hunger and weakness: when one half
died and the other was left alive, that which was thus
left sought the other and folded it to its bosom; whether
that half were an entire woman (for we now call it a
woman) or a man; and thus they perished. But Jupiter,
pitying them, thought of another contrivance. In this
manner is generation now produced, by the union of
male and female; so that from the embrace of a man
and woman the race is propagated.
"From this period, mutual love has naturally existed
between human beings; that reconciler and bond of
union of their original nature, which seeks to make two
one, and to heal the divided nature of man. Every one
of us is thus the half of what may be properly termed
a man, and like a [flatfish] cut in two, is the imperfect
portion of an entire whole, perpetually necessitated to
seek the half belonging to him.
کرد
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Plato
192
"Such as I have described is ever an affectionate
lover and a faithful friend, delighting in that which is in
conformity with his own nature. Whenever, therefore,
any such as I have described are impetuously struck,
through the sentiment of their former union, with love
and desire and the want of community, they are un-
willing to be divided even for a moment. These are
they who devote their whole lives to each other, with a
vain and inexpressible longing to obtain from each other
something they know not what; for it is not merely the
sensual delights of their intercourse for the sake of
which they dedicate themselves to each other with such
serious affection; but the soul of each manifestly thirsts
for, from the other, something which there are no words
to describe, and divines that which it seeks, and traces
obscurely the footsteps of its obscure desire. If Vulcan
should say to persons thus affected, 'My good people,
what is it that you want with one another?' And if,
while they were hesitating what to answer, he should
proceed to ask, 'Do you not desire the closest union
and singleness to exist between you, so that you may
never be divided night or day? If so, I will melt you
together, and make you grow into one, so that both in
life and death ye may be undivided. Consider, is this
what you desire? Will it content you if you become
that which I propose?' We all know that no one would
refuse such an offer, but would at once feel that this was
what he had ever sought; and intimately to mix and
melt and to be melted together with his beloved, so that
one should be made out of two.
The cause of this desire is, that according to our
original nature, we were once entire. The desire and
193 the pursuit of integrity and union is that which we all
love. First, as I said, we were entire, but now we
have been dwindled through our own weakness, as the
Arcadians by the Lacedæmonians.
There is reason to
fear, if we are guilty of any additional impiety towards
the Gods, that we may be cut in two again, and may go
about like those figures painted on the columns, divided
through the middle of our nostrils, as thin as lispæ.
On which account every man ought to be exhorted to
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pay due reverence to the Gods, that we may escape so
severe a punishment, and obtain those things which
Love, our general and commander, incites us to desire;
against whom let none rebel by exciting the hatred of
the Gods. For if we continue on good terms with them,
we may discover and possess those lost and concealed
objects of our love; a good-fortune which now befalls.
to few.
If
"I assert, then, that the happiness of all, both men
and women, consists singly in the fulfilment of their
love, and in that possession of its objects by which we
are in some degree restored to our ancient nature.
this be the completion of felicity, that must necessarily
approach nearest to it, in which we obtain the posses-
sion and society of those whose natures most intimately
accord with our own. And if we would celebrate any
God as the author of this benefit, we should justly cele-
brate Love with hymns of joy; who, in our present con-
dition, brings good assistance in our necessity, and
affords great hopes, if we persevere in piety towards the
Gods, that he will restore us to our original state, and
confer on us the complete happiness alone suited to our
nature.
"Such, Eryximachus, is my discourse on the subject
of Love; different indeed from yours, which I neverthe-
less entreat you not to turn into ridicule, that we may
not interrupt what each has separately to deliver on the
subject."
"I will refrain at present," said Eryximachus, "for
your discourse delighted me. And if I did not know
that Socrates and Agathon were profoundly versed in
the science of love affairs, I should fear that they had
nothing new to say, after so many and such various
imaginations. As it is, I confide in the fertility of their
geniuses."—"Your part of the contest, at least, was
strenuously fought, Eryximachus," said Socrates, "but 194
you had been in the situation in which I am, or rather
shall be, after the discourse of Agathon, like me, you
would then have reason to fear, and be reduced to your
wits' end."—" Socrates," said Agathon, "wishes to con-
fuse me with the enchantments of his wit, sufficiently
if
40
Plato
confused already with the expectation I see in the
assembly in favour of my discourse."-"I must have
lost my memory, Agathon," replied Socrates, “if I
imagine that you could be disturbed by a few private.
persons, after having witnessed your firmness and
courage in ascending the rostrum with the actors, and
in calmly reciting your compositions in the presence of
so great an assembly as that which decreed you the
prize of tragedy."- What then, Socrates," retorted
Agathon, "do you think me so full of the theatre as to
be ignorant that the judgment of a few wise is more
awful than that of a multitude of others, to one who
rightly balances the value of their suffrages?"—“I
should judge ill indeed, Agathon," answered Socrates,
"in thinking you capable of any rude and unrefined
conception, for I well know that if you meet with any
whom you consider wise, you esteem such alone of more
value than all others. But we are far from being
entitled to this distinction, for we were also of that
assembly, and to be numbered among the rest. But
should you meet with any who are really wise, you
would be careful to say nothing in their presence which
you thought they would not approve-is it not so?".
Certainly,"
"replied Agathon."You would not then
exercise the same caution in the presence of the multi-
tude in which they were included?"—"My dear Aga-
thon," said Phædrus, interrupting him, "if you answer
all the questions of Socrates, they will never have an
end; he will urge them without conscience so long as
he can get any person, especially one who is so beau-
tiful, to dispute with him. I own it delights me to hear
Socrates discuss; but at present, I must see that Love
is not defrauded of the praise, which it is my province
to exact from each of you. Pay the God his due, and
then reason between yourselves if you will.”
"Your admonition is just, Phædrus," replied
Agathon, "nor need any reasoning I hold with Socrates
impede me we shall find many future opportunities
for discussion. I will begin my discourse then; first
having defined what ought to be the subject of it. All.
who have already spoken seem to me not so much to
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have praised Love, as to have felicitated mankind on
the many advantages of which that deity is the cause;
what he is, the author of these great benefits, none
have yet declared. There is one mode alone of celebra- 195
tion which would comprehend the whole topic, namely,
first to declare what are those benefits, and then what
he is who is the author of those benefits, which are the
subject of our discourse. Love ought first to be praised,
and then his gifts declared. I assert, then, that
although all the Gods are immortally happy, Love, if I
dare trust my voice to express so awful a truth, is the
happiest, and most excellent, and the most beautiful.
That he is the most beautiful is evident; first, O
Phædrus, from this circumstance, that he is the
youngest of the Gods; and, secondly, from his fleetness,
and from his repugnance to all that is old; for he
escapes with the swiftness of wings from old age; a
thing in itself sufficiently swift, since it overtakes us
sooner than there is need; and which Love, who de-
lights in the intercourse of the young, hates, and in no
manner can be induced to enter into community with.
The ancient proverb, which says that like is attracted
by like, applies to the attributes of Love. I concede
many things to you, O Phædrus, but this I do not con-
cede, that Love is more ancient than Saturn and Jupiter.
I assert that he is not only the youngest of the Gods,
but invested with everlasting youth. Those ancient
deeds among the Gods resorded by Hesiod and Par-
menides, if their relations are to be considered as true,
were produced not by Love, but by Necessity. For if
Love had been then in Heaven, those violent and san-
guinary crimes never would have taken place; but there
would ever have subsisted that affection and peace, in
which the Gods now live, under the influence of Love.
He is young, therefore, and being young is tender
and soft. There were need of some poet like Homer
to celebrate the delicacy and tenderness of Love. For
Homer says, that the goddess Calamity is delicate, and
that her feet are tender. Her feet are soft,' he says,
for she treads not upon the ground, but makes her path
upon the heads of men.' He gives as an evidence of
"
42
Plato
196
her tenderness, that she walks not upon that which is
hard, but that which is soft. The same evidence is
sufficient to make manifest the tenderness of Love. For
Love walks not upon the earth, nor over the heads of
men, which are not indeed very soft; but he dwells
within, and treads on the softest of existing things,
having established his habitation within the souls and
inmost nature of Gods and men; not indeed in all souls
-for wherever he chances to find a hard and rugged
disposition, there he will not inhabit, but only where it
is most soft and tender. Of needs must he be the
most delicate of all things, who touches lightly with his
feet only the softest parts of those things which are the
softest of all.
"He is then the youngest and the most delicate of
all divinities; and in addition to this, he is, as it were,
the most moist and liquid. For if he were otherwise,
he could not, as he does, fold himself around every-
thing, and secretly flow out and into every soul. His
loveliness, that which Love possesses far beyond all
other things, is a manifestation of the liquid and flowing
symmetry of his form; for between deformity and Love
there is eternal contrast and repugnance. His life is
spent among flowers, and this accounts for the immortal
fairness of his skin; for the winged Love rests not in
his flight on any form, or within any soul the flower
of whose loveliness is faded, but there remains most
willingly where is the odour and radiance of blossoms,
yet unwithered. Concerning the beauty of the God, let
this be sufficient, though many things must remain un-
said. Let us next consider the virtue and power of
Love.
“What is most admirable in Love is, that he neither
inflicts nor endures injury in his relations either with
Gods or men. Nor if he suffers any thing does he
suffer it through violence, nor doing any thing does he
act it with violence, for Love is never even touched with
violence. Every one willingly administers every thing to
Love; and that which every one voluntarily concedes to
another, the laws, which are the kings of the republic,
decree that is just for him to possess. In addition to
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justice, Love participates in the highest temperance;
for if temperance is defined to be the being superior to
and holding under dominion pleasures and desires;
then Love, than whom no pleasure is more powerful,
and who is thus more powerful than all persuasions and
delights, must be excellently temperate. In power and
valour Mars cannot contend with Love: the love of
Venus possesses Mars; the possessor is always superior
to the possessed, and he who subdues the most power-
ful must of necessity be the most powerful of all.
"The justice and temperance and valour of the God
have been thus declared;-there remains to exhibit his
wisdom. And first, that, like Eryximachus, I may
honour my own profession, the God is a wise poet;
so wise that he can even make a poet one who was
not before: for every one, even if before he were ever
so undisciplined, becomes a poet as soon as he is
touched by Love;-a sufficient proof that Love is a
great poet, and well skilled in that science according
to the discipline of music. For what any one possesses
not, or knows not, that can he neither give nor teach
another. And who will deny that the divine poetry, 197
by which all living things are produced upon the earth,
is not harmonised by the wisdom of Love? Is it not
evident that Love was the author of all the arts of life
with which we are acquainted, and that he whose
teacher has been Love, becomes eminent and illustrious,
whilst he who knows not Love, remains forever un-
regarded and obscure? Apollo invented medicine, and
divination, and archery, under the guidance of desire.
and Love; so that Apollo was the disciple of Love.
Through him the Muses discovered the arts of litera-
ture, and Vulcan that of moulding brass, and Minerva
the loom, and Jupiter the mystery of the dominion which
he now exercises over gods and men. So were the
Gods taught and disciplined by the love of that which is
beautiful; for there is no love towards deformity.
"At the origin of things, as I have before said, many
fearful deeds are reported to have been done among the
Gods, on account of the dominion of Necessity. But
so soon as this deity sprang forth from the desire which
44
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198
forever tends in the universe towards that which is
lovely, then all blessings descended upon all living
things, human and divine. Love seems to me, O
Phædrus, a divinity the most beautiful and the best of
all, and the author to all others of the excellencies with
which his own nature is endowed. Nor can I restrain
the poetic enthusiasm which takes possession of my
discourse, and bids me declare that Love is the divinity
who creates peace among men, and calm upon the sea,
the windless silence of storms, repose and sleep in sad-
ness. Love divests us of all alienation from each other,
and fills our vacant hearts with overflowing sympathy;
he gathers us together in such social meetings as we
now delight to celebrate, our guardian and our guide in
dances, and sacrifices, and feasts. Yes, Love, who
showers benignity upon the world, and before whose
presence all harsh passions flee and perish; the author
of all soft affections; the destroyer of all ungentle
thoughts; merciful, mild; the object of the admiration
of the wise, and the delight of gods; possessed by the
fortunate, and desired by the unhappy, therefore un-
happy because they possess him not; the father of
grace, and delicacy, and gentleness, and delight, and
persuasion, and desire; the cherisher of all that is good,
the abolisher of all evil; our most excellent pilot,
defence, saviour and guardian in labour and in fear, in
desire and in reason; the ornament and governor of all
things human and divine; the best, the loveliest; in
whose footsteps every one ought to follow, celebrating
him excellently in song, and bearing each his part in
that divinest harmony which Love sings to all things
which live and are, soothing the troubled minds of Gods
and men. This, O Phædrus, is what I have to offer in
praise of the divinity; partly composed, indeed, of
thoughtless and playful fancies, and partly of such
serious ones as I could well command.”
No sooner had Agathon ceased, than a loud murmur
of applause arose from all present; so becomingly had
the fair youth spoken, both in praise of the God, and
in extenuation of himself. Then Socrates, addressing
Eryximachus, said, “Was not my fear reasonable, son
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of Acumenus? Did I not divine what has, in fact,
happened, that Agathon's discourse would be so won-
derfully beautiful, as to preoccupy all interest in what
I should say?""You, indeed, divined well so far,
O Socrates," said Eryximachus, "that Agathon would
speak eloquently, but not that, therefore, you would be
reduced to any difficulty."-"How, my good friend,
can I or any once else be otherwise than reduced to
difficulty, who speak after a discourse so various and
so eloquent, and which otherwise had been sufficiently
wonderful, if, at the conclusion, the splendour of the
sentences, and the choice selection of the expressions,
had not struck all the hearers with astonishment; so
that I, who well know that I can never say anything
nearly so beautiful as this, would, if there had been any
escape, have run away for shame. The story of Gor-
gias came into my mind, and I was afraid lest in reality
I should suffer what Homer describes; and lest
Agathon, scanning my discourse with the head of the
eloquent Gorgias, should turn me to stone for speech-
lessness. I immediately perceived how ridiculously I
had engaged myself with you to assume a part in
rendering praise to love, and had boasted that I was
well skilled in amatory matters, being so ignorant of
the manner in which it is becoming to render him
honour, as I now perceive myself to be. I, in my
simplicity, imagined that the truth ought to be spoken
concerning each of the topics of our praise, and that it
would be sufficient, choosing those which are the most
honourable to the God, to place them in as luminous an
arrangement as we could. I had, therefore, great hopes
that I should speak satisfactorily, being well aware that
I was acquainted with the true foundations of the
praise which we have engaged to render. But since,
as it appears, our purpose has been, not to render Love
his due honour, but to accumulate the most beautiful
and the greatest attributes of his divinity, whether they
in truth belong to it or not, and that the proposed ques-
tion is not how Love ought to be praised, but how we
should praise him most eloquently, my attempt must of
necessity fail. It is on this account, I imagine, that in
46
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your discourses you have attributed everything to Love,
and have described him to be the author of such and so
199 great effects as, to those who are ignorant of his true
nature, may exhibit him as the most beautiful and the
best of all things. Not, indeed, to those who know the
truth. Such praise has a splendid and imposing effect,
but as I am unacquainted with the art of rendering
it, my mind, which could not foresee what would be
required of me, absolves me from that which my tongue
promised. Farewell, then, for such praise I can never
render.
"But if you desire, I will speak what I feel to be
true; and that I may not expose myself to ridicule, I
entreat you to consider that I speak without entering
into competition with those who have preceded me.
Consider, then, Phædrus, whether you will exact from
me such a discourse, containing the mere truth with
respect to Love, and composed of such unpremeditated
expressions as may chance to offer themselves to my
mind."-Phædrus and the rest bade him speak in the
manner which he judged most befitting.-"Permit me,
then, O Phædrus, to ask Agathon a few questions, so
that, confirmed by his agreement with me, I may pro-
ceed."—"Willingly," replied Phædrus, "ask."-Then
Socrates thus began:
"I applaud, dear Agathon, the beginning of your dis-
course, where you say we ought first to define and
declare what Love is, and then his works. This rule
I particularly approve. But, come, since you have
given us a discourse of such beauty and majesty con-
cerning Love, you are able, I doubt not, to explain this
question, whether Love is the love of something or
nothing? I do not ask you of what parents Love is;
for the inquiry, of whether Love is the love of any
father or mother, would be sufficiently ridiculous. But
if I were asking you to describe that which a father
is, I should ask, not whether a father was the love of
any one, but whether a father was the father of any one
or not; you would undoubtedly reply, that a father was
the father of a son or daughter; would you not?
"Assuredly."—"You would define a mother in the same
""
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47
manner? ”—“Without doubt.
"Without doubt."-"Yet bear with me,
and answer a few more questions, for I would learn
from you that which I wish to know. If I should in-
quire, in addition, is not a brother, through the very
nature of his relation, the brother of some one?'
(C
Certainly."—"Of a brother or sister, is he not?
'Without question."-"Try to explain to me then the
nature of Love; Love is the love of something or
nothing?"—"Of something, certainly."
<<
Observe and remember this concession. Tell me 200
yet farther, whether Love desires that of which it is the
Love or not?"—"It desires it, assuredly.”—“Whether
possessing that which it desires and loves, or not
possessing it, does it desire and love?"—"Not possess-
ing it, I should imagine."—"Observe now, whether it
does not appear, that, of necessity, desire desires that
which it wants and does not possess, and no longer
desires that which it no longer wants: this appears to
me, Agathon, of necessity to be; how does it appear to
you?"
"—"It appears so to me also." "Would any one
who was already illustrious, desire to be illustrious;
would any one already strong, desire to be strong?
From what has already been conceded, it follows that
he would not. If any one already strong, should desire
to be strong; or any one already swift, should desire to
be swift; or any one already healthy, should desire to
be healthy, it must be concluded that they still desired
the advantages of which they already seemed possessed.
To destroy the foundation of this error, observe,
Agathon, that each of these persons must possess the
several advantages in question, at the moment present
to our thoughts, whether he will or no. And, now, is it
possible that those advantages should be at that time
the objects of his desire? For, if any one should say,
being in health, 'I desire to be in health; ' being rich,
'I desire to be rich, and thus still desire those things
which I already possess;' we might say to him, 'You,
my friend, possess health, and strength, and riches;
you do not desire to possess now, but to continue to
possess them in future; for, whether you will or no,
they now belong to you. Consider then, whether, when
48
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+
""
""
you say that you desire things present to you, and in
your own possession, you say anything else than that
you desire the advantages to be for the future also in
your possession.' What else could he reply?"-
"Nothing, indeed.""Is not Love, then, the love of
that which is not within its reach, and which cannot
hold in security, for the future, those things of which
it obtains a present and transitory possession?"-
"Evidently."-"Love, therefore, and everything else
that desires anything, desires that which is absent and
beyond his reach, that which it has not, that which is
not itself, that which it wants; such are the things of
which there are desire and love?" 'Assuredly."
"Come," said Socrates, "let us review your con-
cessions. Is Love anything else than the love first of
something; and, secondly, of those things of which it
201 has need? "Nothing. "Now, remember of those
things you said in your discourse, that Love was the
love-if you wish I will remind you. I think you said
something of this kind, that all the affairs of the Gods
were admirably disposed through the love of the things
which are beautiful; for, there was no love of things.
deformed; did you not say so?"-"I confess that I
did.""You said what was most likely to be true, my
friend; and if the matter be so, the love of beauty must
be one thing, and the love of deformity another.".
"Certainly.""It is conceded, then, that Love loves
that which he wants but possesses not?"-"Yes, cer-
tainly."-"But Love wants and does not possess
beauty?"-"Indeed it must necessarily follow."
"What, then! call you that beautiful which has need of
beauty and possesses not?"-"Assuredly no."-"Do
you still assert, then, that Love is beautiful, if all that
we have said be true?"-"Indeed, Socrates," said
Agathon, “I am in danger of being convicted of ignor-
ance, with respect to all that I then spoke.
"You
spoke most eloquently, my dear Agathon; but bear
with my questions yet a moment. You admit that
things which are good are also beautiful? "No
doubt."—"If Love, then, be in want of beautiful things,
and things which are good are beautiful, he must be
99.
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49
in want of things which are good?”—“I cannot refute
your arguments, Socrates."-" You cannot refute truth,
my dear Agathon: to refute Socrates is nothing difficult.
"But I will dismiss these questionings. At present
let me endeavour, to the best of my power, to repeat to
you, on the basis of the points which have been agreed
upon between me and Agathon, a discourse concerning
Love, which I formerly heard from the prophetess
Diotima, who was profoundly skilled in this and many
other doctrines, and who, ten years before the pesti-
lence, procured to the Athenians, through their sacri-
fices, a delay of the disease; for it was she who taught
me the science of things relating to Love.
"As you well remarked, Agathon, we ought to declare
who and what is Love, and then his works. It is
easiest to relate them in the same order as the foreign
prophetess observed when, questioning me, she related
them. For I said to her much the same things that
Agathon has just said to me-that Love was a great
deity, and that he was beautiful; and she refuted me
with the same reasons as I have employed to refute
Agathon, compelling me to infer that he was neither
beautiful nor good, as I said.—' What then,' I objected,
'O Diotima, is Love ugly and evil? '—' Good words, I
entreat you,' said Diotima; 'do you think that every
thing which is not beautiful, must of necessity be ugly?
- Čertainly. '—' And everything that is not wise, 202
ignorant? Do you not perceive that there is something
between ignorance and wisdom? '-'What is that?'-
To have a right opinion or conjecture. Observe, that
this kind of opinion, for which no reason can be ren-
dered, cannot be called knowledge; for how can that be
called knowledge, which is without evidence or reason?
Nor ignorance, on the other hand; for how can that be
called ignorance which arrives at the persuasion of that
which it really is? A right opinion is something be-
tween understanding and ignorance.'-I confessed that
what she alleged was true.-'Do not then say,' she
continued, that what is not beautiful is of necessity
deformed, nor what is not good is of necessity evil;
nor, since you have confessed that Love is neither
VOL. I.
E
50
Plato
beautiful nor good, infer, therefore, that he is deformed
or evil, but rather something intermediate.
(
,
"But,' I said, 'love is confessed by all to be a great
God.'-' Do you mean, when you say all, all those who
know, or those who know not, what they say?'' All
collectively.'-' And how can that be, Socrates?' said
she laughing; how can he be acknowledged to be a
great God, by those who assert that he is not even a
God at all?'' And who are they?' I said-' You for
one, and I for another.'-' How can you say that,
Diotima?'' Easily,' she replied, and with truth; for
tell me, do you not own that all the Gods are beautiful
and happy? or will you presume to maintain that any
God is otherwise?'' By Jupiter, not I!'—' Do you
not call those alone happy who possess all things that
are beautiful and good?'-' Certainly. You have
confessed that Love, through his desire for things
beautiful and good, possesses not those materials of
happiness.'' Indeed such was my concession.'-' But
how can we conceive a God to be without the posses-
sion of what is beautiful and good? '—' In no manner,
I confess. Observe, then, that you do not consider
Love to be a God.'-' What, then,' I said, 'is Love a
mortal? '-' By no means. But what, then?
6
Like those things which I have before instanced, he
is neither mortal nor immortal, but something inter-
mediate.'. 'What is that, O Diotima?'-'A great
dæmon, Socrates; and everything dæmoniacal holds an
intermediate place between what is divine and what is
mortal.'
"What is his power and nature?' I inquired.
• He
interprets and makes a communication between divine
and human things, conveying the prayers and sacrifices
of men to the Gods, and communicating the commands
and directions concerning the mode of worship most
pleasing to them, from Gods to men. He fills up that
intermediate space between these two classes of beings,
so as to bind together, by his own power, the whole
universe of things. Through him subsist all divination,
and the science of sacred things as it relates to
sacrifices, and expiations, and disenchantments, and
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prophecy, and magic. The divine nature cannot im- 203
mediately communicate with what is human, but all that
intercourse and converse which is conceded by the Gods
to men, both whilst they sleep and when they wake,
subsists through the intervention of Love; and he who d
is wise in the science of this intercourse is supremely
happy, and participates in the dæmoniacal nature;
whilst he who is wise in any other science or art,
remains a mere ordinary slave. These dæmons are,
indeed, many and various, and one of them is Love.'
Who are the parents of Love?' I inquired.—' The
history of what you ask,' replied Diotima, is somewhat
long; nevertheless I will explain it to you. On the
birth of Venus the Gods celebrated a great feast, and
among them came Plenty, the son of Metis. After
supper, Poverty, observing the profusion, came to beg,
and stood beside the door. Plenty being drunk with
nectar, for wine was not yet invented, went out into
Jupiter's garden, and fell into a deep sleep. Poverty
wishing to have a child by Plenty, on account of her
low estate, lay down by him, and from his embraces
conceived Love. Love is, therefore, the follower and
servant of Venus, because he was conceived at her
birth, and because by nature he is a lover of all that is
beautiful, and Venus was beautiful. And since Love is
the child of Poverty and Plenty, his nature and fortune
participate in that of his parents. He is for ever poor,
and so far from being delicate and beautiful, as man-
kind imagine, he is squalid and withered; he flies low
along the ground, and is homeless and unsandalled; he
sleeps without covering before the doors, and in the
unsheltered streets; possessing thus far his mother's
nature, that he is ever the companion of want. But,
inasmuch as he participates in that of his father, he is
for ever scheming to obtain things which are good and
beautiful; he is fearless, vehement, and strong; a dread-
ful hunter, for ever weaving some new contrivance;
exceedingly cautious and prudent, and full of resources;
he is also, during his whole existence, a philosopher, a
powerful enchanter, a wizard, and a subtle sophist.
And, as his nature is neither mortal nor immortal, on
52
Plato
the same day when he is fortunate and successful, he
will at one time flourish, and then die away, and then,
according to his father's nature, again revive. All that
he acquires perpetually flows away from him, so that
Love is never either rich or poor, and holding for ever
an intermediate state between ignorance and wisdom.
204 The case stands thus ;-no God philosophises or desires
to become wise, for he is wise; nor, if there exist any
other being who is wise, does he philosophise. Nor do
the ignorant philosophise, for they desire not to become
wise; for this is the evil of ignorance, that he who has
neither intelligence, nor virtue, nor delicacy of senti-
ment, imagines that he possesses all those things suffi-
ciently. He seeks not, therefore, that possession, of
whose want he is not aware.'-' Who, then, O Dio-
tima,' I inquired, are philosophers, if they are neither
the ignorant nor the wise? '-'It is evident, even to a
child, that they are, those intermediate persons, among
whom is Love. For Wisdom is one of the most
beautiful of all things; Love is that which thirsts for
the beautiful, so that Love is of necessity a philosopher,
philosophy being an intermediate state between ignor-
ance and wisdom. His parentage accounts for his
condition, being the child of a wise and well provided
father, and of a mother both ignorant and poor.
Such is the dæmoniacal nature, my dear Socrates;
nor do I wonder at your error concerning Love, for you
thought, as I conjecture from what you say, that Love
was not the lover but the beloved, and thence, well con- · ·
cluded that he must be supremely beautiful; for that
which is the object of Love must indeed be fair, and
delicate, and perfect, and most happy; but Love in-
herits, as I have declared, a totally opposite nature.'
-Your words have persuasion in them, O stranger,'
I said; 'be it as you say. But this Love, what advan-
tages does he afford to men?' I will proceed to
explain it to you, Socrates. (Love being such and so
produced as I have described, is, indeed, as you say,
the love of things which are beautiful. But if any one
should ask us, saying: O Socrates and Diotima, why
is Love the love of beautiful things? Or, in plainer
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(
<
words, what does the lover of that which is beautiful,
love in the object of his love, and seek from it?'-' He
seeks,' I said, interrupting her, the property and pos-
session of it.' But that,' she replied, might still be
met with another question, What has he, who possesses
that which is beautiful? Indeed, I cannot imme-
diately reply.'-' But, if changing the beautiful for
good, any one should inquire,-I ask, O Socrates, what
is that which he who loves that which is good, loves in
the object of his love?'-' To be in his possession,'
I replied.—' And what has he, who has the possession
of good? This question is of easier solution, he is
happy.'' Those who are happy, then, are happy 205
through the possession; and it is useless to inquire what
he desires, who desires to be happy; the question seems
to have a complete reply. But do you think that this
wish and this love are common to all men, and that all
desire that that which is good should be for ever present
to them? '-' Certainly, common to all.'-'Why do we
not say then, Socrates, that every one loves? if, indeed,
all love perpetually the same thing? But we say that
some love, and some do not.'-' Indeed I wonder why
it is so.'- Wonder not,' said Diotima, 'for we select
a particular species of love, and apply to it distinctively,
the appellation of that which is universal.
"Give me an example of such a select application."
'Poetry; which is a general name signifying every
cause whereby anything proceeds from that which is
not, into that which is; so that the exercise of every
inventive art is poetry, and all such artists poets. Yet
they are not called poets, but distinguished by other
names; and one portion or species of poetry, that which
has relation to music and rhythm, is divided from all
others, and known by the name belonging to all. For
this is alone properly called poetry, and those who
exercise the art of this species of poetry, poets. So
with respect to Love. Love is indeed universally all
that earnest desire for the possession of happiness and
that which is good; the greatest and the subtlest love, and
which inhabits the heart of every living being; but those
who seek this object through the acquirement of wealth
or the exercise of the gymnastic arts, or philosophy,
54
Plato
are not said to love, nor are called lovers; one species
alone is called love, and those alone are said to be
lovers, and to love, who seek the attainment of the
universal desire through one species of love, which is
peculiarly distinguished by the name belonging to the
whole. It is asserted by some, that they love, who are
seeking the lost half of their divided being. But I
assert, that Love is neither the love of half nor of the
whole, unless, my friend, it meets with that which is
good; since men willingly cut off their own hands and
feet, if they think that they are the cause of evil to them.
Nor do they cherish and embrace that which may belong
to themselves, merely because it is their own; unless,
indeed, any one should choose to say, that that which is
good is attached to his own nature and is his own, whilst
206 that which is evil is foreign and accidental; but love
nothing but that which is good. Does it not appear so
to you?'- - Assuredly.'-Can we then simply affirm
that men love that which is good? '-' Without doubt.'
(
What, then, must we not add, that, in addition to
loving that which is good, they love that it should be
present to themselves? '- Indeed that must be added.'
And not merely that it should be present, but that it
should ever be present? '-' This also must be added.'
Love, then, is collectively the desire in men that
good should be for ever present to them. Most true.'
'Since this is the general definition of Love, can you
explain in what mode of attaining its object, and in what
species of actions, does Love peculiarly consist? '-
If I knew what you ask, O Diotima, I should not have.
so much wondered at your wisdom, nor have sought you
out for the purpose of deriving improvement from your
instructions.''I will tell you,' she replied: Love is
the desire of generation in the beautiful, both with re-
lation to the body and the soul.''I must be a diviner
to comprehend what you say, for, being such as I am,
I confess that I do not understand it.'' But I will
explain it more clearly. The bodies and the souls of all
human beings are alike pregnant with their future pro-
geny, and when we arrive at a certain age, our nature
impels us to bring forth and propagate. This nature is
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55
unable to produce in that which is deformed, but it can
produce in that which is beautiful. The intercourse of
the male and female in generation, a divine work,
through pregnancy and production, is, as it were, some-
thing immortal in mortality. These things cannot take
place in that which is incongruous; for that which is
deformed is incongruous, but that which is beautiful is
congruous with what is mortal and divine. Beauty is,
therefore, the fate, and the Juno Lucina to generation.
Wherefore, whenever that which is pregnant with the
generative principle, approaches that which is beautiful,
it becomes transported with delight, and is poured forth
in overflowing pleasure, and propagates. But when it
approaches that which is deformed it is contracted by
sadness, and being repelled and checked, it does not
produce, but retains unwillingly that with which it is
pregnant. Wherefore, to one pregnant, and, as it were,
already bursting with the load of his desire, the impulse
towards that which is beautiful is intense, on account of
the great pain of retaining that which he has conceived.
Love, then, O Socrates, is not as you imagine the love
of the beautiful.'-'What, then?'' Of generation and
production in the beautiful.'-'Why then of genera-
tion?' Generation is something eternal and immortal
in mortality. It necessarily, from what has been con-
fessed, follows, that we must desire immortality to- 207
gether with what is good, since Love is the desire that
good be for ever present to us. Of necessity Love
must also be the desire of immortality.
'Diotima taught me all this doctrine in the discourse
we had together concerning Love; and, in addition,
she inquired, 'What do you think, Socrates, is the 1
cause of this love and desire? Do you not perceive how
all animals, both those of the earth and of the air, are
affected when they desire the propagation of their
species, affected even to weakness and disease by the
impulse of their love; first, longing to be mixed with
each other, and then seeking nourishment for their off-
spring, so that the feeblest are ready to contend with
the strongest in obedience to this law, and to die for the
sake of their young, or to waste away with hunger, and
56
Plato
ment.
do or suffer anything so that they may not want nourish-
It might be said that human beings do these
things through reason, but can you explain why other
animals are thus affected through love?'-I confessed
that I did not know.-' Do you imagine yourself,' said
she, 'to be skilful in the science of Love, if you are
ignorant of these things?'-' As I said before, O Dio-
tima, I come to you, well knowing how much I am in
need of a teacher. But explain to me, I entreat you, the
cause of these things, and of the other things relating
to Love.'' If,' said Diotima, 'you believe that Love is
of the same nature as we have mutually agreed upon,
wonder not that such are its effects. For the mortal
nature seeks, so far as it is able, to become deathless
and eternal. But it can only accomplish this desire by
generation, which for ever leaves another new in place
of the old. For, although each human being be
severally said to live, and be the same from youth to old
age, yet, that which is called the same, never contains
within itself the same things, but always is becoming
new by the loss and change of that which it possessed
before; both the hair and the flesh, and the bones, and
the entire body.
And not only does this change take place in the
body, but also with respect to the soul. Manners,
morals, opinions, desires, pleasures, sorrows, fears;
none of these ever remain unchanged in the same
persons; but some die away, and others are produced.
And, what is yet more strange is, that not only does
some knowledge spring up, and another decay, and that
208 we are never the same with respect to our knowledge,
but that each several object of our thoughts suffers the
same revolution. That which is called meditation, or
the exercise of memory, is the science of the escape or
departure of memory; for, forgetfulness is the going
out of knowledge; and meditation, calling up a new
memory in the place of that which has departed, pre-
serves knowledge; so that, though for ever displaced
and restored, it seems to be the same. In this manner
every thing mortal is preserved: not that it is constant
and eternal, like that which is divine; but that in the
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place of what has grown old and is departed, it leaves
another new like that which it was itself. By this con-
trivance, O Socrates, does what is mortal, the body and
all other things, partake of immortality; that which is
immortal, is immortal in another manner. Wonder
not, then, if every thing by nature cherishes that which
was produced from itself, for this earnest Love is a
tendency towards eternity.'
"Having heard this discourse, I was astonished, and
asked, 'Can these things be true, O wisest Diotima?'
And she, like an accomplished sophist, said, 'Know
well, O Socrates, that if you only regard that love of
glory which inspires men, you will wonder at your own
unskilfulness in not having discovered all that I now
declare. Observe with how vehement a desire they are
affected to become illustrious and to prolong their
glory into immortal time, to attain which object, far
more ardently than for the sake of their children, all
men are ready to engage in many dangers, and expend
their fortunes, and submit to any labours and incur
any death.
Do you believe that Alcestis would have
died in the place of Admetus, or Achilles for the revenge
of Patroclus, or Codrus for the kingdom of his posterity,
if they had not believed that the immortal memory
of their actions, which we now cherish, would have
remained after their death? Far otherwise; all such
deeds are done for the sake of ever-living virtue, and
this immortal glory which they have obtained; and
inasmuch as any one is of an excellent nature, so much
the more is he impelled to attain this reward. For
they love what is immortal.
"Those whose bodies alone are pregnant with this
principle of immortality are attracted by women, seeking
through the production of children what they imagine to
be happiness and immortality and an enduring remem-
brance; but they whose souls are far more pregnant 209
than their bodies, conceive and produce that which is
more suitable to the soul. What is suitable to the soul?
Intelligence, and every other power and excellence of
the mind; of which all poets, and all other artists who
are creative and inventive, are the authors. The
58
Plato
greatest and most admirable wisdom is that which
regulates the government of families and states, and
which is called moderation and justice. Whosoever,
therefore, from his youth feels his soul pregnant with
the conception of these excellences, is divine; and when
due time arrives, desires to bring forth; and wandering
about, he seeks the beautiful in which he may propagate
what he has conceived; for there is no generation in
that which is deformed; he embraces those bodies
which are beautiful rather than those which are de-
formed, in obedience to the principle which is within
him, which is ever seeking to perpetuate itself. And if
he meets, in conjunction with loveliness of form, a
beautiful, generous, and gentle soul, he embraces both
at once, and immediately undertakes to educate this
object of his love, and is inspired with an overflowing
persuasion to declare what is virtue, and what he ought
to be who would attain to its possession, and what are
the duties which it exacts. For, by the intercourse
with, and as it were, the very touch of that which is
beautiful, he brings forth and produces what he had
formerly conceived; and nourishes and educates that
which is thus produced together with the object of his
love, whose image, whether absent or present, is never
divided from his mind. So that those who are thus
united are linked by a nobler community and a firmer
love, as being the common parents of a lovelier and
more endearing progeny than the parents of other
children. And every one who considers what posterity
Homer and Hesiod, and the other great poets, have left
behind them, the sources of their own immortal memory
and renown, or what children of his soul Lycurgus has
appointed to be the guardians, not only of Lacedæmon,
but of all Greece; or what an illustrious progeny of laws
Solon has produced, and how many admirable achieve-
ments, both among the Greeks and Barbarians, men
have left as the pledges of that love which subsisted
between them and the beautiful, would choose rather to
be the parent of such children than those in a human
shape. For divine honours have often been rendered
to them on account of such children, but on account of
those in human shape, never.
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:
"Your own meditation, O Socrates, might perhaps
have initiated you in all these things which I have 210
already taught you on the subject of Love. But those
perfect and sublime ends to which these are only the
means, I know not that you would have been competent
to discover. I will declare them, therefore, and will
render them as intelligible as possible: do you mean-
while strain all your attention to trace the obscure depth
of the subject. He who aspires to love rightly, ought
from his earliest youth to seek an intercourse with
beautiful forms, and first to make a single form the
object of his love, and therein to generate intellectual
excellences. He ought, then, to consider that beauty
in whatever form it resides is the brother of that beauty
which subsists in another form; and if he ought to
pursue that which is beautiful in form, it would be
absurd to imagine that beauty is not one and the same
thing in all forms, and would therefore remit much of
his ardent preference towards one, through his percep-
tion of the multitude of claims upon his love. In addi-
tion, he would consider the beauty which is in souls
more excellent than that which is in form. So that
one endowed with an admirable soul, even though the
flower of the form were withered, would suffice him
as the object of his love and care, and the companion
with whom he might seek and produce such conclusions
as tend to the improvement of youth; so that it might
be led to observe the beauty and the conformity which
there is in the observation of its duties and the laws,
and to esteem little the mere beauty of the outward
form. He would then conduct his pupil to science, so
that he might look upon the loveliness of wisdom; and
that contemplating thus the universal beauty, no longer
would he unworthily and meanly enslave himself to
the attractions of one form in love, nor one subject
of discipline or science, but would turn towards the
wide ocean of intellectual beauty, and from the sight
of the lovely and majestic forms which it contains,
would abundantly bring forth his conceptions in philo-
sophy; until, strengthened and confirmed, he should at
length steadily contemplate one science, which is the
science of this universal beauty.
60
Plato
L
Attempt, I entreat you, to mark what I say with
as keen an observation as you can. He who has been
disciplined to this point in Love, by contemplating
beautiful objects gradually, and in their order, now
arriving at the end of all that concerns Love, on a
sudden beholds a beauty wonderful in its nature. This
is it, O Socrates, for the sake of which all the former
211 labours were endured. It is eternal, unproduced, in-
destructible; neither subject to increase nor decay: not,
like other things, partly beautiful and partly deformed;
not at one time beautiful and at another time not; not
beautiful in relation to one thing and deformed in rela-
tion to another; not here beautiful and there deformed;
not beautiful in the estimation of one person and
deformed in that of another; nor can this supreme
beauty be figured to the imagination like a beautiful
face, or beautiful hands, or any portion of the body,
nor like any discourse, nor any science. Nor does it
subsist in any other that lives or is, either in earth, or
in heaven, or in any other place; but it is eternally
uniform and consistent, and monoeidic with itself. All
other things are beautiful through a participation of it,
with this condition, that although they are subject to
production and decay, it never becomes more or less,
or endures any change. When any one, ascending
from a correct system of Love, begins to contemplate
this supreme beauty, he already touches the consumma-
tion of his labour. For such as discipline themselves
upon this system, or are conducted by another beginning
to ascend through these transitory objects which are
beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself, proceed-
ing as on steps from the love of one form to that of two,
and from that of two, to that of all forms which are
beautiful; and from beautiful forms to beautiful habits
and institutions, and from institutions to beautiful doc-
trines; until, from the meditation of many doctrines,
they arrive at that which is nothing else than the
doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge
and contemplation of which at length they repose.
"Such a life as this, my dear Socrates,' exclaimed
the stranger Prophetess, spent in the contemplation of
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the beautiful, is the life for men to live; which if you
chance ever to experience, you will esteem far beyond
gold and rich garments, and even those lovely persons
whom you and many others now gaze on with astonish-
ment, and are prepared neither to eat nor drink so that
you may behold and live for ever with these objects
of your love! What then shall we imagine to be the
aspect of the supreme beauty itself, simple, pure, uncon-
taminated with the intermixture of human flesh and
colours, and all other idle and unreal shapes attendant
on mortality; the divine, the original, the supreme, the
monoeidic beautiful itself? What must be the life of 212
him who dwells with and gazes on that which it becomes
us all to seek? Think you not that to him alone is
accorded the prerogative of bringing forth, not images
and shadows of virtue, for he is in contact not with a
shadow but with reality; with virtue itself, in the pro-
duction and nourishment of which he becomes dear to
the Gods, and if such a privilege is conceded to any
human being, himself immortal.
"Such, O Phædrus, and my other friends, was what
Diotima said. And being persuaded by her words, I
have since occupied myself in attempting to persuade
others, that it is not easy to find a better assistant than
Love in seeking to communicate immortality to our
human natures. Wherefore I exhort every one to
honour Love; I hold him in honour, and chiefly exercise
myself in amatory matters, and exhort others to do so;
and now and ever do I praise the power and excellence
of Love, in the best manner that I can. Let this dis-
course, if it pleases you, Phædrus, be considered as an
encomium of Love; or call it by what other name you
will."
The whole assembly praised his discourse, and Aristo-
phanes was on the point of making some remarks on
the allusion made by Socrates to him in a part of his
discourse, when suddenly they heard a loud knocking
at the door of the vestibule, and a clamour as of
revellers, attended by a flute-player.—“Go, boys," said
Agathon, "and see who is there: if they are any of our
friends, call them in; if not, say that we have already
62
Plato
213
(6
done drinking."-A minute afterwards, they heard the
voice of Alcibiades in the vestibule excessively drunk
and roaring out: Where is Agathon? Lead me to
Agathon!"-The flute-player, and some of his com-
panions then led him in, and placed him against the
door-post, crowned with a thick crown of ivy and
violets, and having a quantity of fillets on his head.-
"My friends," he cried out, "hail! I am excessively
drunk already, but I'll drink with you, if you will. If
not, we will go away after having crowned Agathon, for
which purpose I came. I assure you that I could not
come yesterday, but I am now here with these fillets.
round my temples, that from my own head I may crown
his who, with your leave, is the most beautiful and
wisest of men. Are you laughing at me because I am
drunk? Ay, I know what I say is true, whether you
laugh or not. But tell me at once whether I shall come
in, or no. Will you drink with me?"
Agathon and the whole party desired him to come in,
and recline among them; so he came in, led by his
companions. He then unbound his fillets that he might
crown Agathon, and though Socrates was just before
his eyes, he did not see him, but sat down by Agathon,
between Socrates and him, for Socrates moved out of
the way to make room for him. When he sat down, he
embraced Agathon and crowned him; and Agathon
desired the slaves to untie his sandals, that he might
make a third, and recline on the same couch. "By all
means," said Alcibiades, "but what third companion
have we here?" And at the same time turning round
and seeing Socrates, he leaped up and cried out :-"O
Hercules ! what have we here? You, Socrates, lying in
ambush for me wherever I go! and meeting me just as
you always do, when I least expected to see you! And,
now, what are you come here for? Why have you
chosen to recline exactly in this place, and not near
Aristophanes, or any one else who is, or wishes to be
ridiculous, but have contrived to take your place beside
the most delightful person of the whole party?
<<
Agathon," said Socrates, see if you cannot defend
me. I declare my friendship for this man is a bad
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63
business: from the moment that I first began to know
him I have never been permitted to converse with, or
so much as look upon any one else. If I do, he is so
jealous and suspicious that he does the most extrava-
gant things, and hardly refrains from beating me. I
entreat you to prevent him from doing anything of that
kind at present. Procure a reconciliation: or, if he
perseveres in attempting any violence, I entreat you to
defend me."—"Indeed," said Alcibiades, "I will not be
reconciled to you; I shall find another opportunity to
punish you for this. But now," said he, addressing
Agathon, "lend me some of those fillets, that I may
crown the wonderful head of this fellow, lest I incur the
blame, that having crowned you, I neglected to crown
him who conquers all men with his discourses, not
yesterday alone as you did, but ever."
(6
Saying this he took the fillets, and having bound the
head of Socrates, and again having reclined, said:
Come, my friends, you seem to be sober enough.
You must not flinch, but drink, for that was your agree-
ment with me before I came in. I choose as president,
until you have drunk enough-myself. Come, Agathon,
if you have got a great goblet, fetch it out.
But no
matter, that wine-cooler will do; bring it, boy!" And
observing that it held more than eight cups, he first 214
drank it off, and then ordered it to be filled for Socrates,
and said :-"Observe, my friends, I cannot invent any
scheme against Socrates, for he will drink as much as
any one desires him, and not be in the least drunk.”
Socrates, after the boy had filled up, drank it off; and
Eryximachus said :-"Shall we then have no conversa-
tion or singing over our cups, but drink down stupidly,
just as if we were thirsty?" And Alcibiades said:
"Ah, Eryximachus, I did not see you before; hail, you
excellent son of a wise and excellent father!" Hail
to you also," replied Eryximachus, "but what shall we
do?”—“Whatever you command, for we ought to sub-
mit to your directions; a physician is worth a hundred
common men. Command us as you please."—“ Listen
then," said Eryximachus, "before you came in, each of
us had agreed to deliver as eloquent a discourse as he
64
Plato
could in praise of Love, beginning at the right hand;
all the rest of us have fulfilled our engagement; you
have not spoken, and yet have drunk with us: you
ought to bear your part in the discussion; and having
done so, command what you please to Socrates, who
shall have the privilege of doing so to his right-hand
neighbour, and so on to the others. "Indeed, there
appears some justice in your proposal, Eryximachus,
though it is rather unfair to induce a drunken man to
set his discourse in competition with that of those who
are sober. And, besides, did Socrates really persuade
you that what he just said about me was true, or do
you not know that matters are in fact exactly the
reverse of his representation? For I seriously believe
that, should I praise in his presence, be he god or man,
any other beside himself, he would not keep his hands
off me.
But I assure you, Socrates, I will praise no
one beside yourself in your presence.
""
are
"Do so, then," said Eryximachus, "praise Socrates.
if you please."-"What," said Alcibiades, "shall I
attack him, and punish him before you all? "—"What
have you got into your head now," said Socrates,
you going to expose me to ridicule, and to misrepresent
me? Or what are you going to do?"-"I will only
speak the truth; will you permit me on this condition?
"I not only permit, but exhort you to say all the truth
you know," replied Socrates.-"I obey you willingly,"
said Alcibiades, "and if I advance anything untrue, do
you, if you please, interrupt me, and convict me of mis-
representation, for I would never willingly speak falsely.
215 And bear with me if I do not relate things in their order,
but just as I remember them, for it is not easy for a
man in my present condition to enumerate systemati-
cally all your singularities.
"I will begin the praise of Socrates by comparing
him to a certain statue. Perhaps he will think that
this statue is introduced for the sake of ridicule, but I
assure you that it is necessary for the illustration of
truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is exactly like those
Silenuses that sit in the sculptors' shops, and which are
carved holding flutes or pipes, but which, when divided
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65
in two, are found to contain withinside the images of
the gods. I assert that Socrates is like the satyr
Marsyas. That your form and appearance are like
these satyrs', I think that even you will not venture to
deny; and how like you are to them in all other things,
now hear.
Are you not scornful and petulant? If you
deny this, I will bring witnesses. Are you not a piper,
and far more wonderful a one than he? For Marsyas,
and whoever now pipes the music that he taught, for
that music which is of heaven, and described as being
taught by Marsyas, enchants men through the power of
the mouth. For if any musician, be he skilful or not,
awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain the
minds of men, and from the divinity of its nature makes
evident those who are in want of the gods and initiation.
You differ only from Marsyas in this circumstance, that
you effect without instruments, by mere words, all that
he can do. For when we hear Pericles, or any other
accomplished orator, deliver a discourse, no one, as it
were, cares any thing about it.
But when any one
hears you, or even your words related by another,
though ever so rude and unskilful a speaker, be that
person a woman, man or child, we are struck and
retained, as it were, by the discourse clinging to our
mind.
"If I was not afraid that I am a great deal too
drunk, I would confirm to you by an oath the strange
effects which I assure you I have suffered from his
words, and suffer still; for when I hear him speak, my
heart leaps up far more than the hearts of those who
celebrate the Corybantic mysteries; my tears are poured
out as he talks, a thing I have seen happen to many
others beside myself. I have heard Pericles and other
excellent orators, and have been pleased with their
discourses, but I suffered nothing of this kind; nor
was my soul ever on those occasions disturbed and filled
with self-reproach, as if it were slavishly laid prostrate.
But this Marsyas here has often affected me in the way
I describe, until the life which I lead seemed hardly
worth living. Do not deny it, Socrates, for I well know
that if even now I chose to listen to you, I could not
VOL. I.
F
216
66
Plato
resist, but should again suffer the same effects. For,
my friends, he forces me to confess that while I myself
am still in want of many things, I neglect my own
necessities, and attend to those of the Athenians. I
stop my ears, therefore, as from the Syrens, and flee
away as fast as possible, that I may not sit down beside
him and grow old in listening to his talk. For this man
has reduced me to feel the sentiment of shame, which
I imagine no one would readily believe was in me; he
alone inspires me with remorse and awe. For I feel
in his presence my incapacity of refuting what he says,
or of refusing to do that which he directs; but when I
depart from him, the glory which the multitude confers
overwhelms me. I escape, therefore, and hide myself
from him, and when I see him I am overwhelmed with
humiliation, because I have neglected to do what I have
confessed to him ought to be done; and often and often
have I wished that he were no longer to be seen among
men. But if that were to happen, I well know that I
should suffer far greater pain; so that where I can turn,
or what I can do with this man, I know not. All this
have I and many others suffered from the pipings of
this satyr.
"And observe, how like he is to what I said, and
what a wonderful power he possesses.
Know that
there is not one of you who is aware of the real nature of
Socrates; but since I have begun, I will make him plain
to you. You observe how passionately Socrates affects.
the intimacy of those who are beautiful, and how
ignorant he professes himself to be; appearances in
themselves excessively Silenic. This, my friends, is the
external form with which, like one of the sculptured
Sileni, he has clothed himself; for if you open him, you
will find within admirable temperance and wisdom.
For he cares not for mere beauty, but despises more
than any one can imagine all external possessions,
whether it be beauty or wealth, or glory, or any other
thing for which the multitude felicitates the possessor.
He esteems these things and us who honour them, as
nothing, and lives among men, making all the objects
of their admiration the playthings of his irony. But
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67
I know not if any one of you have ever seen the divine
images which are within, when he has been opened
and is serious. I have seen them, and they are so
supremely beautiful, so golden, so divine, and wonder-
ful, that everything which Socrates commands surely 217
ought to be obeyed, even like the voice of a God.
66
At one time we were fellow-soldiers, and had our 219
mess together in the camp before Potidea. Socrates
there overcame not only me, but every one beside, in
endurance of toils: when, as often happens in a cam-
paign, we were reduced to few provisions, there were
none who could sustain hunger like Socrates; and when 220
we had plenty, he alone seemed to enjoy our military
fare. He never drank much willingly, but when he was
compelled he conquered all even in that to which he
was least accustomed; and what is most astonishing,
no person ever saw Socrates drunk either then or at
any other time. In the depth of winter (and the winters
there are excessively rigid,) he sustained calmly in-
credible hardships; and amongst other things, whilst
the frost was intolerably severe, and no one went out of
their tents, or if they went out, wrapt themselves up
carefully, and put fleeces under their feet, and bound
their legs with hairy skins, Socrates went out only with
the same cloak on that he usually wore, and walked
barefoot upon the ice; more easily, indeed, than those
who had sandalled themselves so delicately so that the
soldiers thought that he did it to mock their want of
fortitude. It would indeed be worth while to com-
memorate all that this brave man did and endured in
that expedition. In one instance he was seen early in
the morning, standing in one place wrapt in meditation;
and as he seemed not to be able to unravel the subject
of his thoughts, he still continued to stand as inquiring
and discussing within himself, and when noon came, the
soldiers observed him, and said to one another-
'Socrates has been standing there thinking, ever since.
the morning.' At last some Ionians came to the spot,
and having supped, as it was summer, bringing their
blankets, they lay down to sleep in the cool; they
observed that Socrates continued to stand there the
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Plato
whole night until morning, and that, when the sun rose,
he saluted it with a prayer and departed.
"I ought not to omit what Socrates is in battle. For
in that battle after which the generals decreed to me
the prize of courage, Socrates alone of all men was the
saviour of my life, standing by me when I had fallen
and was wounded, and preserving both myself and my
arms from the hands of the enemy. On that occasion
I entreated the generals to decree the prize, as it was
most due, to him. And this, O Socrates, you cannot
deny, that the generals wishing to conciliate a person of
my rank, desired to give me the prize, you were far
more earnestly desirous than the generals that this glory
should be attributed not to yourself, but me.
"But to see Socrates when our army was defeated and
scattered in flight at [Delium], was a spectacle worthy
221 to behold. On that occasion I was among the cavalry,
and he on foot, heavily armed. After the total rout of
our troops, he and Laches retreated together; I came
up by chance, and seeing them, bade them be of good
cheer, for that I would not leave them. As I was on
horseback, and therefore less occupied by a regard of
my own situation, I could better observe than at Potidæa
the beautiful spectacle exhibited by Socrates on this
emergency. How superior was he to Laches in presence.
of mind and courage! Your representation of him on
the stage, O Aristophanes, was not wholly unlike his
real self on this occasion, for he walked and darted his
regards around with a majestic composure, looking
tranquilly both on his friends and enemies; so that it
was evident to every one, even from afar, that whoever
should venture to attack him would encounter a
desperate resistance. He and his companion thus de-
parted in safety; for those who are scattered in flight
are pursued and killed, whilst men hesitate to touch
those who exhibit such a countenance as that of
Socrates even in defeat.
"Many other and most wonderful qualities might well
be praised in Socrates; but such as these might singly
be attributed to others. But that which is unparalleled
in Socrates, is, that he is unlike, and above comparison,
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no
with all other men, whether those who have lived in
ancient times, or those who exist now. For it may be
conjectured, that Brasidas and many others are such as
was Achilles. Pericles deserves comparison with Nestor
and Antenor; and other excellent persons of various
times may, with probability, be drawn into comparison
with each other. But to such a singular man as this,
both himself and his discourses are so uncommon,
one, should he seek, would find a parallel among the
present or the past generations of mankind; unless they
should say that he resembled those with whom I lately
compared him, for, assuredly, he and his discourses are
like nothing but the Sileni and the Satyrs. At first I
forgot to make you observe how like his discourses are
to those Satyrs when they are opened, for, if any one.
will listen to the talk of Socrates, it will appear to him
at first extremely ridiculous; the phrases and expres-
sions which he employs, fold around his exterior the
skin, as it were, of a rude and wanton Satyr. He is
always talking about great market-asses, and brass-
founders, and leather-cutters, and skin-dressers; and
this is his perpetual custom, so that any dull and un-
observant person might easily laugh at his discourse.
But if any one should see it opened, as it were, and 222
get within the sense of his words, he would then find
that they alone of all that enters into the mind of man
to utter, had a profound and persuasive meaning, and
that they were most divine; and that they presented to
the mind innumerable images of every excellence, and
that they tended towards objects of the highest moment,
or rather towards all that he who seeks the possession
of what is supremely beautiful and good need regard as
essential to the accomplishment of his ambition.
These are the things, my friends, for which I praise
Socrates."
Alcibiades having said this, the whole party burst.
into a laugh at his frankness, and Socrates said, "You
seem to be sober enough, Alcibiades, else you would
not have made such a circuit of words, only to hide the
main design for which you made this long speech, and
which, as it were carelessly, you just throw in at the
70
Plato
(C
´last; now, as if you had not said all this for the mere
purpose of dividing me and Agathon? You think that
I ought to be your friend, and to care for no one else.
I have found you out; it is evident enough for what
design you invented all this Satyrical and Silenic drama.
But, my dear Agathon, do not let his device succeed.
I entreat you to permit no one to throw discord between
us.”—“No doubt," said Agathon, "he sat down be-
tween us only that he might divide us; but this shall
not assist his scheme, for I will come and sit near you."
"Do so," said Socrates, come, there is room for
you by me.”—“Oh, Jupiter!" exclaimed Alcibiades,
what I endure from that man! He thinks to subdue
every way; but, at least, I pray you, let Agathon remain
between us.""Impossible," said Socrates, "you have
just praised me; I ought to praise him sitting at my
right hand. If Agathon is placed beside you, will he
not praise me before I praise him? Now, my dear
223 friend, allow the young man to receive what praise I
can give him. I have a great desire to pronounce his
encomium."-"Quick, quick, Alcibiades," said Agathon,
"I cannot stay here, I must change my place, or
Socrates will not praise me."-Agathon then arose to
take his place near Socrates.
He had no sooner reclined than there came in a
number of revellers for some one who had gone out
had left the door open-and took their places on the
vacant couches, and everything became full of confu-
sion; and no order being observed, every one was
obliged to drink a great quantity of wine. Eryxima-
chus, and Phædrus, and some others, said Aristodemus,
went home to bed; that, for his part, he went to sleep
on his couch, and slept long and soundly-the nights
were then long-until the cock crew in the morning.
When he awoke he found that some were still fast
asleep, and others had gone home, and that Aristo-
phanes, Agathon, and Socrates had alone stood it out,
and were still drinking out of a great goblet which
they passed round and round. Socrates was disputing
between them. The beginning of their discussion
Aristodemus said that he did not recollect, because he
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71
was asleep; but it was terminated by Socrates forcing
them to confess, that the same person is able to com-
pose both tragedy and comedy, and that the foundations
of the tragic and comic arts were essentially the same.
They, rather convicted than convinced, went to sleep.
Aristophanes first awoke, and then, it being broad day-
light, Agathon. Socrates, having put them to sleep,
went away, Aristodemus following him, and coming to
the Lyceum he washed himself, as he would have done
anywhere else, and after having spent the day there in
his accustomed manner, went home in the evening.
THE MENO
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE
St. Meno, Socrates, A Servant Boy of Meno's, Anytus.
II.
p.
до
SCENE.-The Lycæum.
Meno. CAN you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue is
to be taught; or whether it is acquired, not through
teaching, but through exercise and habit; or whether it
comes neither by exercise, nor yet by teaching, but is
by nature with those who are possessed of it; or comes
it to them by some other way?
Socrates. You Thessalians, Meno, have been of old
eminent among the Grecians. You have been long
admired for your superior skill in horsemanship, and
famed for the great wealth you are possessed of. But
I think you have now acquired no less fame for wisdom.
And amongst others of you, the fellow-citizens of your
friend Aristippus of Larissa have distinguished them-
selves not a little in this respect. Now this is entirely
the work of Gorgias. For in his travels, when he came
to their city, he drew the chiefs of the Aleuadian family
(one of whom is your friend Aristippus), and indeed all
of highest quality in other states of Thessaly, to be the
admirers of his wisdom. From him you Thessalians
learned the habit of answering to any question whatever
with an undaunted and a noble confidence, such indeed
as becomes those who have a thorough knowledge of the
subject proposed to them. For he in the same manner
offered himself to be freely interrogated by any one of
the Grecians, whom it should please to ask him, con-
cerning any point which the party questioning might
choose and to no question of any person did he ever
refuse an answer. But we in this place, my friend
Meno, are in a condition quite the contrary. Amongst
71 us there is a dearth, as it were, of wisdom; which seems
:
72
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73
to have forsaken our country, and to have fled to yours.
So that if you should take it into your head to propose
to any one here the question you have proposed to me,
there is not a man of us who would not laugh and say,
"Friend stranger, you must think me wonderfully wise,
to know whether virtue is a thing which can be taught,
or by what other means it is attained: when I am so far
from knowing whether it can be taught or not, that I
have not the good fortune to know so much as what
virtue is." Now this, Meno, is exactly my own case.
I am in the same poverty of knowledge as to this affair,
and confess myself to be totally ignorant concerning the
essence of virtue. How then should I be able to say
what qualities are to be attributed to that which is
utterly unknown to me? Or do you think it possible.
for a man, wholly ignorant who Meno is, to know
whether Meno is a man of honour, a man of fortune, a
man of generous spirit, or whether he is the reverse of
all these characters? Do you think it possible?
Meno. I do not. But in good earnest, Socrates, do
you really not know what virtue is? and do you give me
leave to carry home such a character of you, and to
make this report of you in my country?
Socrates. Not only that, my friend, but this further-
that I never met anywhere with a man whom I thought
master of such a piece of knowledge.
Meno. Did you never then meet with Gorgias, during
his stay in this city?
Socrates. I did.
Meno. And did you think that he knew nothing of the
matter?
Socrates. I do not perfectly remember, Meno, and
therefore am not able to say directly what I then thought
of him. But perhaps not only was he himself knowing
in the nature of virtue, but what he used to say on that
subject you also know. Do you then remind me what
account he gave of virtue; or, if you are unwilling so
to do, give me an account of it yourself; for I suppose
you agree with him in opinion.
Meno. I do.
Socrates. Let us leave him, therefore, out of the
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question, especially considering that he is absent. But
what you yourself think virtue to be, tell me, Meno, and
freely communicate your knowledge of it, that I may be
happy in being convicted of having uttered what is so
happily an untruth, when I said that I never anywhere
met with a man who knew what virtue was; when, at
the same time, both yourself and Gorgias shall appear
to have been so well acquainted with the nature of it.
Meno. Whatever you may imagine, Socrates, it is by
no means difficult to tell you what you desire to know.
In the first place, to instance in the virtue of a man,
nothing is easier to tell than that a man's virtue consists
in his ability to manage affairs of state, and, in manag-
ing them, to be of service to the public and to its friends,
to distress its enemies, and to guard, at the same time,
with vigilance and circumspection, against any harm that
might arise from those enemies in their turn. Then, if
you would know what is the virtue of a woman, it is easy
enough to run over the particulars: it is to manage well
the affairs of her family, carefully to keep safe all that
is in the house, and to hearken with due observance to
her husband. Another kind of virtue belongs to a child,
different too in a girl from what it is in a boy so is it
likewise of the aged. And if you choose to proceed
further, the virtue of a free man is one thing, that of a
72 slave is another thing. Many more virtues are there, of
all sorts; so that one cannot be at a loss to tell, concern-
ing virtue, what it is. For in every action, and in every
age of life, with reference to every kind of business,
some peculiar virtue belongs to each person: and in vice
also, I suppose, Socrates, there is the same respective
difference, and the same variety.
Socrates. I think myself much favoured by Fortune,
Meno; for, when I was only in quest of one virtue, I
have found, it seems, a whole swarm of virtues hiving
in your mind. But, to pursue this similitude, taken
from bees-Supposing, Meno, I had asked you what
was the nature of a bee, and you had told me that bees
were many and various, what would you have answered
me if I had demanded of you further, whether you called
them many and various, and differing one from another,
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75
in respect of their being bees; or whether you thought
they differed not in this respect, but with regard to
something else, as beauty, or size, or other thing of like
kind, accidental? What answer would you have made
to such a question?
Meno. I should have answered thus; that so far as
they were bees, and in this respect, they differed not at
all one from another.
Socrates. Suppose, then, that I had afterwards said,
Tell me, therefore, Meno, concerning this very nature
of bees, in respect of which they do not differ, but all
agree and are alike; what say you that it is? Should
you have had any answer to have given me to this
question?
Meno. I should.
Socrates. Just so is it with the virtues. Many indeed
are they, and of various kinds : but they all agree in one
and the same idea; through their agreement in which
they are, all of them alike, virtues. This idea the man,
who is asked the question which I have asked of you,
ought to have in his eye when he answers it; and, copy-
ing from this idea, to draw a description of virtue. Do
you not apprehend the meaning of what I say?
Meno. Tolerably well, I think I do. But I am not in
the possession of it so fully as I could wish.
Socrates. Take it thus then.- Do you think after
this manner concerning virtue only, that the virtue of a
man is one thing, the virtue of a woman another thing,
and so of other respective virtues, that they are all
different? or have you the same way of thinking as to
the health, size, and strength of the body? Do you
think the health of a man to be one thing, the health of
a woman to be a thing different? or is the same idea
of health everywhere, wherever health is, whether it be
in a man, or in whatever subject it be found?
Meno. The health of a man and the health of a
woman, I think, are equally and alike health, one and
the same thing.
Socrates. Do you not think after the same manner
with regard to size and strength; that a woman, if she
be strong, is strong according to the same idea, and with
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the same strength, which gives a strong man the de-
nomination of strong? By the same strength I mean
this, that whether strength be in a man, or in a woman,
considering it as strength, there is no difference; or do
you think that there is any difference between strength
and strength?
Meno. I think there is not any.
Socrates. And will any difference, think you then, be
73 found in virtue, with respect to its being virtue, whether
it be in a child or in an aged person, in a woman or in
a man?
Meno. This case of virtue, Socrates, seems somehow
to be not exactly parallel with those other instances.
Socrates. Why? Did you not tell me that the virtue
of a man consisted in his well-managing of civil affairs,
and that of a woman in the well-managing of her
household?
Meno. I did.
Socrates. I ask you, then, whether it is possible to
manage any affairs well, whether civil or domestic, or
any other affairs whatever, without a prudent and a just
management?
Meno. By no means.
Socrates. If then the management be just and
prudent, must not the managers manage with justice
and with prudence?
Meno. They must.
Socrates. Both of them, therefore, have occasion for
the same things, to qualify them for being good
managers, both the woman and the man, namely,
justice and prudence.
Meno. It appears they have.
Socrates. And how is it in the case of a child, or that
of an old man? Can these ever be good, if they are
dissolute and dishonest?
Meno. By no means.
Socrates. But only by their being sober and honest?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. All persons, therefore, who are good, are
good in the same way; for they are good by being
possessed of the same qualities.
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77
Meno. It seems so.
Socrates. Now if virtue were not the same thing in
them all, they would not be good in the same way.
Meno. They would not.
Socrates. Seeing, therefore, that virtue is the same
thing in all of them, endeavour to recollect and tell me,
what was the account given of it by Gorgias, which was
the same, it seems, with the account you would give of
it yourself?
Meno. What else is it than to be able to govern men?
If you are in search of that, which is one and the same
thing in all persons who have virtue.
Socrates. It is the very thing I am in search of. But
is this then the virtue of a child, Meno? And is it the
virtue of a slave, to be able to govern his master? Do
you think him to be any longer a slave, when he can
govern?
Meno. I think he is then by no means a slave indeed,
Socrates.
Socrates. Neither is it proper, my friend, that he
should be so. Consider this also further. You say it is
virtue to be able to govern. Should we not immediately
subjoin the word justly, and say, to govern justly?
For you would not say, that to govern unjustly is
virtue.
Meno. I think we should. For justice, Socrates, is
virtue.
Socrates. Virtue is it, Meno, or some certain virtue?
Meno. How mean you by this distinction?
Socrates. I mean no otherwise than as everything
else whatever is distinguished: to instance, if you please,
in roundness. Of this I should say that it is some
certain figure, and not thus simply and absolutely that
it is figure. And for this reason should I express myself
in that manner, because there are other figures beside
the round.
Meno. You would thus speak rightly. And indeed,
to say the truth, I myself not only call justice a virtue,
but say that other virtues there are beside.
Socrates. Say, what these other virtues are.
As I 74
would recount to you, were you to bid me, other figures
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Plato
beside the round; do you recount to me, in like manner,
other virtues beside justice.
Meno. Well then; courage I think to be a virtue, and
temperance another, and wisdom, and magnanimity,
and a great many more.
Socrates. Again, Meno, we have met with the same
accident as before; we have again found many virtues,
while in search of one only; though then indeed in a
different way from that in which we have now alighted
on them: but the one virtue, which is the same through
all these, we are not able to find.
Meno. For I am not able as yet, Socrates, to appre-
hend such virtue as you are inquiring after, that one in
all, as in other things I am able.
Socrates. Probably so; but I will do the best I can
to help us onward in our inquiry. Already you appre-
hend, in some measure, that thus it is in everything.
For should any person have asked you what was figure,
the thing I just now mentioned, and you had said it
was roundness; were he then to ask you, according to
the same distinction which I made concerning justice,
whether roundness was figure, or some certain figure;
you would answer, it was some certain figure.
Meno. Without all doubt.
Socrates. And would you not answer thus for this
reason, because there are other figures beside the
round?
Meno. For that very reason.
Socrates. And were he to ask you further, of what
sort those other figures were, you would tell him?
Meno. I should.
Socrates. Again; questioned in the same manner con-
cerning colour, what it is? had you answered, It is
whiteness; should the questioner immediately proceed
to this further question, whether whiteness is colour,
or some certain colour? you would say, Some certain
colour; because there happen to be other colours.
Meno. I should.
Socrates. And if he were to bid you enumerate those
other colours, you would speak of colours, which happen
to be colours no less than the white.
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79
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. If then he were to prosecute the argument,
as I do, he would say, We are always getting into
multitude; deal not with me in this manner: but since
to all this multitude you give one common name; since
you tell me there is none of them which is not figure;
and that, notwithstanding, they are contrary some to
others; what is this which comprehends the round as
well as the straight, this thing to which you give the
name of figure, and tell me that the round is figure not
more than is the straight? or do you not say this?
Meno. I do.
Socrates. I ask you, then, whether when you say
this, you mean it in respect of roundness, and that the
round is not more round than is the straight? or with
regard to straightness, and that the straight is not more
straight than is the round?
Meno. I mean not thus, Socrates.
Socrates. But it is with a view to figure, that you
assert the round not more to be figure than is the
straight, nor the straight more than is the round.
Meno. True.
Socrates. Try then if you can tell me, what that thing
is which is called by this general name of figure. Now
suppose, that to an inquirer in this way concerning 75
figure, or concerning colour, you were to say, I do not
comprehend what it is you would have, man; nor do I
know what it is you mean: he perhaps would wonder;
and would say, Do you not comprehend that I am
inquiring, what is the same in all these? Would you
have nothing to say neither after this, Meno, were you
to be asked, what that was in the round, in the straight,
and in the other things you call figures, in all of them
the same? Endeavour to find out and tell me what it
is; that you may the better afterwards consider of, and
answer to, the like kind of question concerning virtue.
Meno. Not so, Socrates; but do you yourself rather
say what figure is.
Socrates. Would you have me oblige you in this
point?
Meno. By all means.
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Socrates. Shall you then be willing to tell me what
virtue is?
Meno. I shall,
Socrates. Let us then do our best; for the cause
deserves it.
Meno. Without all doubt.
Socrates. Come then; let us try if we can tell you
what figure is. See if you can accept the following
account of figure. Let us say, figure is that which of
all things is the only one that always accompanies
colour. Are you satisfied with this account? or do you
inquire any further? For my part, I should be well
contented if you would give me but as good an account
of virtue.
Meno. But, Socrates, this is weak and silly.
Socrates. How so?
Meno. According to your account, that is figure
which always accompanies colour.
Socrates. Well.
Meno. But should any person now reply, that he
knew not what colour was, and was equally at a loss
concerning colour and concerning figure, what could
you think of the answer that you had given to his
question?
Socrates. I?-that I had answered with truth. And
if my questioner happened to be one of your wise men,
your disputers and contenders, I would tell him, that I
had spoken; and that, if I had not spoken rightly, it
was his business to take up the argument, and to refute
what I had said. But if two parties, such as you and
I here, as friends, and in a friendly way, were inclined
to have discourse together, their answers to each other's
questions ought to be made in a milder manner, and to
be more rational. Now it is perhaps more rational, that
an answer should not only be agreeable to truth, but
besides, should be conceived in terms confessedly under-
stood by the party questioning. Accordingly, I shall
now attempt to make you such a kind of answer. For
tell me; do you not call some certain thing by the name
of end, speaking of such a thing as bound or extreme?
For by all these words I mean the same thing. Prod-
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81
1
icus, indeed, might possibly dispute it with us: but
you would use these expressions indifferently, that such
or such a thing is bounded, or, that it has an end. This
is all I mean; nothing of subtle disquisition, or nice
distinction.
Meno. Well; there is something which I call end;
and I think I understand what you mean.
Socrates. And is there not something which you call 76
superficies? another, which you call solid? such as
those, I mean, which are the subjects of geometry.
Meno. I call certain things by the names you mention.
Socrates. Now then, from these premises which you
admit, you may understand what I mean by figure in
general. In every figure, that which bounds the solid,
I call figure. And to express this in one short proposi-
tion, I should say that figure is the bound of solid.
Meno. And what say you colour is?
Socrates. You use me ill now, Meno. You put an
old man to the task of answering, yet are unwilling
yourself to take the trouble only of recollecting and
telling me what Gorgias said that virtue was.
Meno. But I will; after you have told me what
colour is.
Socrates. A man with his eyes hoodwinked might
perceive from your way of conversing, Meno, that you
are handsome, and still have your admirers.
Meno. How so?
Socrates. Because you do nothing but command in
conversation, as fine ladies do, that are used to have
their wills in all things; for they tyrannize so long as
their beauty lasts. At the same time too, perhaps you
have discovered me, how easy I am to be subdued by
beauty, and how apt to stoop to it. I shall do therefore
as you would have me, and shall answer to your
question.
Meno. By all means do, and gratify my request.
Socrates. Do you choose that I should make my
answer in the style of Gorgias, that by this means you
may apprehend it the more easily?
Meno. I should be glad that you would do so, most
undoubtedly.
VOL. I.
G
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4
77
Socrates. Do you not hold, you and Gorgias, that
certain effluvia flow forth from bodies, agreeably to the
doctrine of Empedocles?
Meno. We hold that doctrine strongly.
Socrates. And do you not hold certain pores, into
which and through which those effluvia pass?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. And that some of those effluvia are adapted
to some of these pores, but are either less or greater
than other pores?
Meno. Things are so framed.
Socrates. And do you not admit of something which
you call sight?
Meno. I do.
Socrates. These premises being granted, "Now let
your mind accompany my words,'
as Pindar says.
Colour then is the flowing off from figures, commensu-
rate with the sight, and by that sense perceived.
Meno. In this answer, Socrates, I think you have
answered as well as possible.
Socrates. It may be that you think so, because you
are accustomed to a language of this kind; and because
at the same time you perceive yourself, as I imagine,
able from thence to account in the same way for sound,
and smell, and many other things of like kind.
Meno. It really is so.
Socrates. The answer, Meno, was theatrical and
pompous; and so it pleased you more than that which
I gave you concerning figure.
Meno. Indeed it did.
Socrates. And yet I persuade myself, O son of
Alexidemus, that not this, but that other, was the better
answer. I think too, that you yourself would be of the
same opinion, if you are not, as you said you were
yesterday, under a necessity of going away before the
mysteries, but could stay and be initiated.
Meno. But if you would tell me many other things
such as this, I would certainly stay and hear them.
Socrates. My best endeavours to say other such
things shall certainly not be wanting, for my own sake
as well as yours. But I fear I shall not be able to utter
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83
many sentences of that kind. But now it comes to your
turn to try if you can perform your part of the engage-
ment, in giving me an account of what virtue is, virtue
in general, the same in all particular virtues. And do
not go on, making many out of one; as is often said
jocosely of those who pound or beat anything to pieces.
But leaving virtue as it is, whole and entire, define the
nature of it, and tell me what it is. Patterns of such
a definition you have had from me.
Meno. I think then, Socrates, that virtue is agreeably
to that of the poet,
To feel a joy from what is fair,
And [o'er it] to have power-
and accordingly I say, that virtue is this; having the
desire of things that are fair, to have it in our power
to gain them.
Socrates. I ask you then, whether you suppose the
persons who desire things that are fair, to desire things
that are good?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. In giving that definition of virtue then, did
you suppose that some men there were who desire things
which are evil, others who desire things which are
good? Do you not think, my friend, that all men desire
things which are good?
Meno. I do not.
Socrates. But that some desire things which are evil?
Meno. I do.
Socrates. Think you that these men desire things evil,
with an opinion of their being good? or that, knowing
them to be evil, yet they nevertheless desire them?
Meno. I answer Yes to both those questions.
Socrates. Is there any man then, do you imagine,
who knowing the things which are evil to be what they
are, that is, evil, yet nevertheless desire them?
Meno. Without doubt.
Socrates. What do you mean, when you say he
desires them? Do you not mean, that he desires to
have them?
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78
Meno. To have them? For what can I mean besides?
Socrates. Does he desire them, think you, imagining
that evil things are advantageous to the person who has
them, or knowing that evil things are hurtful wherever
they are?
Meno. There are persons who imagine of things
which are indeed evil, that they are advantageous; and
there are who know them to be hurtful.
Socrates. Do you think that they know the evil things
to be evil, those who imagine such evil things to be
advantageous?
Meno. By no means do I think that.
Socrates. Is it not then evident, that such persons
desire not things evil, such as know not the nature of
those things which they desire; but rather, that they
desire things which they imagine to be good, but which
in reality are evil? So that those who are ignorant of
them, and falsely imagine them to be good, plainly
desire good things. Do they not?
Meno. Such sort of persons, I must own, seem to
be desirous of good things.
Socrates. But those others, those who desire things
which are evil, as you say, and who at the same time
know that evil things are hurtful to the possessor, do
they know that they themselves shall receive harm from
those evil things in their having them?
Meno. It is clear that they must know it.
Socrates. But know they not, that such as receive
harm are in evil plight, so far as harm has befallen
them?
Meno. This also must they know.
Socrates. And know they not besides, that such as
are in evil plight are unhappy too?
Meno. I presume they do.
Socrates. Is there any man then, who chooses to be
in evil plight, and to be unhappy?
Meno. I suppose there is not any, Socrates.
Socrates. No man, therefore, O Meno, wills or
chooses anything evil; if it be true, that no man wills
or chooses to be in evil plight, or to be unhappy. For
indeed what else is it to be thoroughly unhappy, than to
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85
desire things which are evil, and to have them our
own?
Meno. I suspect that what you say, Socrates, is true.
And no man wills or chooses anything evil.
Socrates. Did you not say just now, that virtue con-
sisted in the willing or desiring things which are good,
and in the having it in our power to gain them?
Meno. I did say so; it is true.
Socrates. Is not this will or desire according to what
has been said in all men? so that, in this respect, one
man is not at all better than another man?
Meno. It appears so.
Socrates. It appears, therefore, that if one man is bet-
ter than another, he must be so in respect of his power.
Meno. Undoubtedly.
Socrates. This therefore, as it seems, according to
your account, is virtue, the power of gaining things
which are good.
Meno. The case seems to me, Socrates, to be entirely
so, as you now state it.
Socrates. Let us examine then if this account of yours
be true for perhaps it may be so. You say, that to be
able to gain good things is virtue.
:
Meno. I do.
Socrates. Good things do you not call such things as
health and riches, that is, the possession of gold and
silver, honours also in the state, and offices in the
government? You do not speak of any other things as
good, beside things of this kind?
Meno. No other; I mean all such sort of things.
Socrates. Well then, to get money is virtue; as says
Meno, the hereditary guest of the great king. But let
me ask you a question concerning this point; whether
you would choose to add something to this account of
virtue, and to say that virtue is to get money honestly
and religiously? or whether this addition makes no
difference in your account; but that, however unjustly
it be acquired, you call the mere acquisition of money,
equally in any way, virtue?
Meno. By no means; for, to acquire it unjustly, I call
vice and wickedness.
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79
Socrates. By all means, therefore, as it appears, this
acquisition of money ought to be accompanied by
honesty, or prudence, or sanctity, or some other part of
virtue; for otherwise it will not be virtue, notwithstand-
ing it procures for us good things.
Meno. For without that how should it be virtue?
Socrates. And if a man forbear to gain money,
whether for himself or others, when he cannot gain it
without dishonesty, is not the forbearance of this gain
also virtue?
Meno. It is apparent.
Socrates. Not the gaining of these good things, there-
fore, must be virtue, more than the forbearance of that
gain; but, as it seems, that which comes accompanied
by honesty is virtue; that which is without anything of
that kind is vice and wickedness.
Meno. I think it must of necessity be as you say.
Socrates. Did we not say, a little while since, that
honesty and prudence, and everything of that kind, was
a part of virtue?
Meno. We did.
Socrates. Then, Meno, you are in jest with me.
Meno. How so, Socrates?
Socrates. Because, when I had desired you, as I did
just now, not to split virtue into pieces, and had given
you patterns to copy after, that you might answer as
you ought; you, without paying any regard to them,
tell me that virtue is the power of gaining good things
with honesty or justice; yet this, you say, is only a part
of virtue.
Meno. I do.
Socrates. It is to be collected then, from your own
concessions, that with a part of virtue, to do whatever
one does, this is virtue. For justice, you say, is but a
part of virtue, and so of every other thing of like kind.
Meno. What then? granting that I say this.
Socrates. It follows that, having been requested to
tell me what the whole of virtue is, you are far from
giving such a complete account of it: for you say, that
every action is virtue which is performed with a part of
virtue; as though you had already told me what virtue
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87
was in the whole, and that I should know it when you
come to split it into parts. We must therefore, as it
seems to me, take the matter again from the beginning,
and recur to this question, What is virtue? Or should
every action, accompanied with a part of virtue, be said
to be virtue itself? For it is saying this, to say that
every action, accompanied with justice, is virtue. Do
you think there is no occasion for us to resume the same
question; but that a man may know a part of virtue,
what it is, without knowing what virtue is itself?
Meno. I think he cannot.
Socrates. For, if you remember, when I answered just
now your question concerning figure, we rejected such
a kind of answer as aimed at explaining the proposed
subject in terms not as yet confessedly understood, but
whose meaning was still the subject of inquiry.
Meno. And we did right, Socrates, in rejecting such
an answer.
Socrates. I would not have you imagine then, while
we are as yet inquiring what virtue is, the whole of it,
that by answering in terms which signify the parts of
virtue, you will be able to explain to any man the nature
of virtue; or, indeed, that the nature of any other thing
can be explained in such a way, but that still there will
be need of repeating the same question what virtue is,
that which is the subject of our conversation. Or do
you think that I speak idly and nothing to the purpose?
Meno. I think you speak rightly.
Socrates. Begin again, therefore, and tell me what it
is you hold virtue to be, you and your friend Gorgias?
Meno. Socrates, I heard, before I had conversed with
you, that the only part you take in conversation is this: 80
You pretend to be at a loss and doubtful yourself upon
all subjects, and make others too no less to be at a loss
what to think and say. You seem to be now playing the
same conjurers' tricks upon me; you manifestly use
incantations to bewitch me, and to fill me with such
perplexity that I know not what to say. If you will
allow me to joke a little, I think you resemble exactly,
not only in form but in other respects also, that broad
sea-fish called the cramp-fish; for that too never fails to
88
Plato
give a numbness to every person who either touches or
approaches it. You seem to have done some such thing
at present to me, and to have benumbed me. For I
actually suffer a kind of numbness and stupidity, both in
mind and body, and find myself disabled from giving
you any answer; and yet have I a thousand times dis-
coursed much about virtue, and to many persons, and
extremely well too, as I thought; but I am now not in
the least able to tell so much as what virtue is. I think
that you have acted very prudently in never going out
of your own country either by sea or land. For if you
was to behave in this manner in any other city where
you are a stranger, you would run a risk of being
driven thence as a magician or enchanter.
Socrates. You are full of craftiness, Meno; and I was
very near being deceived by you.
Meno. Tell me how, Socrates, I pray you?
Socrates. I know with what design you brought a
simile to which you likened me.
Meno. With what design now, do you imagine?
Socrates. That I, on my part, might bring some
simile or resemblance of you. For this I know to be
true of all handsome persons, they love to have images
and pictures made of them. And indeed it is their
interest; for of handsome persons the pictures are
handsome too. But I shall forbear the drawing of your
picture in return. And as to that which you have pro-
duced of me, if the cramp-fish be itself numb, and
through its numbness benumb others also, then am I
like to it, but otherwise I am not. For I do not lead
others into doubtfulness on any subject, and make them
be at a loss what to say; when at the same time I can
easily explain the matter in hand, and have no doubts.
at all within my own mind: but as I am entirely dis-
tressed for true definitions of things myself; in this
condition I involve in the same distresses those with
whom I am conversing. Thus at present concerning
the nature of virtue; what it is, I, for my part, know
not: you indeed knew formerly, perhaps, before that
you had touched me; but now you are like one who
knows nothing of the matter. I am desirous, however,
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89
of considering it together with you, and of our search-
ing out jointly what kind of a thing virtue is.
Meno. But in what way, Socrates, will you search
for a thing of which you are entirely ignorant? For by
what mark which may discover it will you look for it
when you know none of the marks that distinguish it?
Or, if you should not fail of meeting with it, how will
you discern it, when met with, to be the very thing you
was in search of, and knew nothing of before?
Socrates. I apprehend, Meno, what it is you mean.
Do you observe how captious a way of reasoning you
introduce? For it follows from hence, that it is impos-
sible for a man to seek, either for that which he knows,
or for that of which he is ignorant. For no man would
seek to know what he knows, because he has the know-
ledge of it already, and has no need of seeking for what
he has. Nor could any man seek for what he is ignorant
of, because he would not know what he is seeking for.
Meno. Do you not think then, Socrates, that this 81
way of reasoning is fair and right?
Socrates. Not I, for my part.
Meno. Can you say in what respect it is wrong?
Socrates. I can. For I have heard the sayings of
men and women who were wise, and knowing in divine
things.
Meno. What sayings?
Socrates. Such as I think true, as well as beautiful.
Meno. But what sayings were they? and by whom
were they uttered?
Socrates. Those who uttered them were of the priests
and priestesses, such as made it their business to be
able to give a rational account of those things in which
they were employed. The same sayings are delivered
also by Pindar, and many other of the poets, as many
as are divine. The sayings are these; but do you con-
sider with yourself whether you think them true. These
persons then tell us that the soul of man is immortal;
that sometimes it ends, which is called dying; and that
afterwards it begins again, but never is dissolved; and
that for this reason we ought to live, throughout our
lives, with all sanctity. For
90
Plato
STROPHE
When guilt of lesser crimes the soul hath stain'd,
Not meriting sharp pains for aye;
And eight dark dreary years she hath remain'd
In Hades, barr'd from gladd'ning day;
Preserving all that time her sense
Of good, lamenting her lost innocence;
With sorrow if her guilt she rue,
And Proserpine should deem that sorrow true,
She accepts in full atonement such repentance due.
ANTISTROPHE
Then the ninth year sends back the soul to light,
And former objects here on earth :
Of these, thro' death, again she loses sight;
Again to life renews her birth.
At length, two trials well endur'd,
The soul, to lesser virtues well inur'd,
Is born some king, for good renown'd;
Or sage, well learn'd in wisdom's lore profound;
Or hero, by his prowess spreading peace around.
EPODE
Thro' goodness, wisdom, virtue, truly great;
And greatly meriting advancement high;
Loosen'd from body, wing'd and fleet,
Freely she mounts to purest sky;
Ne'er more on earth to live, ne'er more to die.
Amongst the gods in starry sheen,
Far off and wide thro' Nature seen,
She fixes her abode;
Assuming her celestial throne,
To godlike state of being grown,
A deathless demi-god.
Thence thro' the rest of time,
In hymns religious and in holy rhyme,
Mortals below shall lift their lays,
The deathless demi-god to praise ;
Who, freed from earthly dross,
And ev'ry element of body gross,
To intellectual bliss in heav'nly seat could climb.
The soul then being immortal, having been often born,
having beheld the things which are here, the things
which are in Hades, and all things, there is nothing of
which she has not gained the knowledge. No wonder,
therefore, that she is able to recollect, with regard to
virtue as well as to other things, what formerly she
The Meno
91
knew. For all things in nature being linked together in
relationship, and the soul having heretofore known all
things, nothing hinders but that any man, who has
recalled to mind, or, according to the common phrase,
who has learnt, one thing only, should of himself recover
all his ancient knowledge, and find out again all the
rest of things; if he has but courage, and faints not in
the midst of his researches. For inquiry and learning
is reminiscence all. We therefore ought not to
hearken to that sophistical way of reasoning afore-
mentioned; for our believing it to be true would make
us idle. And, accordingly, the indolent, and such as are
averse to taking pains, delight to hear it. But this
other way of thinking, which I have just now given you
an account of, makes men diligent, sets them at work,
and puts upon them inquiry. And as I believe it to be
true, I am willing, with your assistance, to inquire into
the nature of virtue.
Meno. With all my heart, Socrates. But say you
this absolutely, that we do not learn anything; and that
all, which we call learning, is only reminiscence? Can
you teach me to know this doctrine to be true?
Socrates. I observed to you before how full you are
of craftiness, O Meno. And, to confirm my observation,
you now ask me if I can teach you; I, who say that 82
there is no such thing as teaching, but that all our
knowledge is reminiscence; that I may appear directly
to contradict myself.
Meno. Not so, Socrates, by Jupiter. I did not
express myself in those terms with any such design;
but merely from habit, and the common usage of that
expression. But if any way you can prove to me that
your doctrine is true, do so.
Socrates. This is by no means an easy talk. How-
ever, for your sake, I am willing to try and do my
utmost. Call hither to me then one of those your
numerous attendants, which ever you please, that I may
prove in him the truth of what I say.
Meno. I will, gladly. Come hither, you.
Socrates. Is he a Grecian, and speaks he the Greek
language?
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Plato
Meno. Perfectly well. He was born in my own
family.
Socrates. Be attentive now, and observe whether he
appears to recollect within himself, or to learn anything
from me.
Meno. I shall.
Socrates. Tell me, boy; do you know what a square
space is? Is it of such a figure as this?
Boy. It is.
Socrates. A square space then is that which has all
these lines equal, A B, BC, CD, DA, four in number.
Boy. It is so truly.
Socrates. Has it not also these lines, which are
drawn through the middle of it, AC and BD, equal
each to the other?
Boy. Yes.
Socrates. Cannot you imagine a space, square like
this, but larger; and another such, but lesser?
Boy. Yes, for certain.
Socrates. Now if the side A B should be two feet
long, and the side A D should be two feet long also,
how many feet square will the whole space contain?
Consider it in this manner. If, in the side A B, the
space should be two feet long, and in the side AD it
should be but one foot; would not the square be that of
two feet once told?
Boy. It would.
Socrates. But since it is two feet this way as well as
the other way, is it not a space of two feet twice told?
Boy. Just so.
Socrates. It is then a space of two feet?
Boy. So it is.
Socrates. How many feet are twice two? reckon
them, and tell me.
Boy. Four feet, Socrates.
Socrates. May not a space be made E F G H, double
to that other in size, but of the same kind, having, like
that, all its sides equal?
Boy. Yes, sure.
Socrates. How many square feet then will this space
be of?
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93
Boy. Eight.
Socrates. Come now, try and tell me, of what length
is each of the sides in this square space. Now the
sides of that square, you know, we have supposed to
be two feet long. Of what length then are the sides
of this square, which is double in largeness to that
other?
Boy. It is plain, Socrates, that they are twice as
long.
Socrates. You see, Meno, that I teach him none of
these things which he asserts; I only ask him questions.
And now this boy imagines that he knows of what
length the lines are which contain a space of eight
square feet. Do you not think he does?
Meno. I do.
Socrates. And does he really know?
Meno. Certainly not.
Socrates. But he imagines them to be twice as long
as the lines, which contain a space of four square feet.
Meno. He does.
Socrates. I now view him ready to recollect, from
this time forward, rightly and as he ought. Now hear
me, boy. You say that lines, double in length to the
sides of the square A B CD, contain a space double to 83
it in largeness: I mean a space of the same kind; not
one way long, the other way short; but every way of
equal length, like the space ABCD, only twice as
large, that is, a space of eight square feet. Consider
now whether you still think this square EFGH to
be measured by a line twice as long as the line which
measures the square A B C D.
Boy. I do.
Socrates. Suppose we add to the line AB, from
hence, from the point B, another line of equal length
the line B I. Is not the line AI of a length double to
that of the line A B?
Boy. Yes, sure.
Socrates. Now, from the line A I, do you say that a
space will be made of eight square feet, if four lines,
each of them as long as the line A I, be drawn so as to
contain space?
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Plato
Boy. I do.
Socrates. Let us then draw these four equal lines
so as to contain space, AI, IK, KL, LA. Is this
space now any other than that which you say is of eight
square feet?
Boy. No; it is the very same.
Socrates. Are there not in this space AIK L these
four spaces, ABMO, BIPM, MP KN, NLOM,
each of which is equal to that space of four square feet,
A B C D?
Boy. So there be.
Socrates. How large is the whole space A IKL? Is
it not four times as large as the space A B C D ?
Boy. To be sure it is.
Socrates. Is it only double now to the space A B C D,
when it is four times as large?
Boy. No, by Jupiter.
Socrates. What proportion has it then to the space.
A B C D?
Boy. A quadruple one.
Socrates. From a line, therefore, double in length,
is drawn a square space, not double, but quadruple, in
largeness.
Boy. Why, it is very true.
Socrates. Four times four make sixteen: do they
not?
Boy. They do.
Socrates. But from a line of what length is to be
drawn a square, such a one as we suppose the square
EFGH to be, that is, a space of eight square feet?
You see that from the line AI is drawn a square, quad-
ruple in largeness to the square A B C D.
Boy. I see it.
Socrates. And from the line A B, which is half of the
line A I, a square, you see, is drawn, which is but the
fourth part of the square A K.
Boy. It is.
Socrates. Well; but that square of eight feet
EFGH, is it not twice as large as the square A B C D,
and half as large as the square A I KL?
Boy. It is so, to be sure.
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95
Socrates. Must it not then be drawn from a line
longer than the line A B, and shorter than the line A I?
Boy. I think it must.
Socrates. You say well; for speak that only which
you think. And tell me, was not the line A B supposed
to be two feet long, and the line A I four feet long?
Boy. Yes.
Socrates. The side therefore of the square E F G H
must be shorter than a line of four feet, and longer than
a line of two feet.
Boy. It must so.
Socrates. Try now, and tell me how long you think
it is.
Boy. Three feet long.
Socrates. If then it be so, let us take half of the line
BI, namely, BQ, and add it to the line A B; and
now this line AQ will be such a line as you speak
of, a line three feet long. For the lines A B, BI, are
each of them two feet long, and the line BQ is half of
the line B I, and therefore is one foot long. In the
same manner, let us take half the line O L, namely,
OR, and add it to the line A O; and thus the line AR
will be three feet long also. For the lines A O, O L,
are each of them two feet long, and the line O R is one
foot long. From these two lines, AQ, AR, let us
complete the square A QSR; and it is such a square.
as you was speaking of, the square of a line three feet
long.
Boy. It is so.
Socrates. If then the whole space be three feet long
and three feet broad, it is a space of thrice three feet.
Boy. It appears so to be.
Socrates. And how many feet are thrice three?
Boy. Nine.
Socrates. But how many feet were there to be in a
square twice as large as the square A B C D ?
Boy. Eight.
Socrates. It is not true then that from a line three
feet long is to be drawn a square containing only eight
feet.
Boy. It is not.
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Plato
84
Socrates. Try and tell us then exactly how long the
line must be from which such a square is to be drawn.
Or, if you choose not to tell us the measure of it in
numbers, at least point out to us from what line it may
be drawn.
Boy. Now, by Jove, Socrates, I do not know.
Socrates. Do you observe, Meno, what progress this
boy has already made, and whereabouts he is, in the
way to recollection? You see that, from the beginning
of his examination, he knew not from what line a square
eight feet large was to be drawn; as indeed neither does
he yet know; but he then fancied that he knew, and
answered boldly as a knowing person would, without
suspecting that he should ever be at a loss for a true
answer. But he now finds himself at a loss, and thinks
himself as ignorant as he really is.
Meno. You say what is true.
Socrates. Is he not then in a better disposition with
regard to the matter which he was ignorant of?
Meno. I agree with you in this too.
Socrates. In making him therefore to be at a loss
what to answer, and in benumbing him after the manner
of the cramp-fish, have we done him any harm?
Meno. I think, we have not.
Socrates. And more than this, we have advanced him
a little, as it seems, in the way of finding out the truth
in the subject laid before him. For, being now sensible
of his ignorance, he is prepared to seek and to inquire.
But he then fancied, that he could readily, at any time,
and in the presence of any number of people, show with
certainty, that a square, twice as large as some other
square, was produced from a line twice as long.
Meno. So it seemed.
Socrates. Think you then, that he would have set
about seeking or learning that, which, however ignorant
of it, he fancied that he knew; till he had found himself
at a loss, and felt his ignorance; and was become there-
fore desirous of finding it out?
Meno. I think, Socrates, that he never would.
Socrates. The benumbing him then was of advantage
to him.
The Meno
97
Meno. I think it was.
Socrates. Now observe how, from this sense of his
ignorance, he will find out the truth in searching for it
with me; though the part which I shall bear in the
inquiry will be merely to ask questions, and not to teach.
But be sure to mind, if anywhere you can catch me
teaching or telling him anything, instead of asking him
his own opinions. Now, boy, tell me, is not this space.
ABCD our square, four feet large? Do you appre-
hend me?
Boy. I do.
Socrates. Suppose we add to it this other square
BTU C, equal to it in largeness?
Boy. Well.
Socrates. And a third square, too, this, DC WX,
equal in largeness to either of the others?
Boy. Very well.
Socrates. What, if we add another square of equal
size, to fill up the corner here, this UCŴY?
Boy. Very well: and so it does.
Socrates. Are not then these four squares equal all,
A B C D, B TUC, C D X W, W Y UC?
Boy. Yes.
Socrates. This whole large square then, ATYX,
how much larger is it than the square A B C D ?
Boy. Four times as big.
Socrates. But we wanted a square only twice as big.
Do you not remember?
Boy. I remember it very well.
Socrates. Do not these lines, which I draw from
corner to corner in each of these squares, BD, BU,
DW, W U, cut each square in half?
Boy. They do.
Socrates. Are not these four lines drawn of equal
length, these, which
BDWU?
which enclose the square space,
Boy. They be so.
Socrates. Now consider, how large this square is
which is enclosed by those four lines.
Boy. Why, I do not know.
Socrates. Are not those four squares, ABCD,
VOL. I.
H
85
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Plato
BTUC, CDXW, WYU C, cut each of them in half
by these four lines, BD, BU, DW, W U, drawn
within them; or are they not?
Boy. They be.
Socrates. In the square, A TY X, how many spaces
are there then, as large as the space A B C D ?
Boy. Four.
Socrates. And how many such in the square,
BD WU, from which half the other is cut off?
Boy. Two.
Socrates. How many more are four than two?
Boy. Twice as many.
Socrates. How many square feet then doth this
square, B D W U, contain?
Boy. Eight.
Socrates. From what line is it drawn?
Boy. From this here.
Socrates. From the line BD, do you say, reaching
from corner to corner of the square A B CD, which
contains four square feet?
Boy. Yes.
Socrates. The sophists call such a line the diameter.
If the diameter then be its name, from the diameter of
a square, as you say, you boy of Meno's, may be drawn
a square twice as large as the square of which it is the
diameter.
Boy. It is so, Socrates, for certain.
Socrates. Well; what think you, Meno? Has this
boy, in his answers, given any other opinion than his
own?
Meno. None other: he has given his own opinion
only.
Socrates. And yet, but a little before, as we both
observed, he had no knowledge of the matter proposed,
and knew not how to give a right answer.
Meno. True.
Socrates. But those very opinions, which you acknow-
ledge to be his own, were in him all the time: were they
not?
Meno. They were.
Socrates. In a man therefore, who is ignorant, there
The Meno
99
are true opinions concerning those very things of which
he is ignorant.
Meno. It appears there are.
Socrates. Those opinions then are stirred up afresh in
the mind of that boy, as fancies are in dreaming. And
if he should frequently be questioned of these things,
and by many different persons, you may be assured he
will at length know them with as much certainty as any
man.
Meno. Indeed, it seems so.
Socrates. Will he not then know them without being
taught them, having only been asked questions, and
recovering of himself from within himself his lost know-
ledge?
Meno. He will.
Socrates. But our recovery of knowledge from within
ourselves, is not this what we call reminiscence?
Meno. Without doubt.
Socrates. And this knowledge, which he now has,
must he not at some time or other have acquired it, or
else have always been possessed of it?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. Now if he was always possessed of it, he
was always a person of knowledge. But if at any time
he first received it, was it not in this present life? unless
some person has taught him the science of geometry.
For he will make his answers with no less certainty in
every part of geometry, and indeed in all the other
mathematical sciences. Is there any one, then, who
has taught the boy all this? I ask you; because you
ought to know, since he was born and bred up in your
family.
Meno. I am certain that no person has ever taught
him those sciences.
Socrates. And yet he entertains those opinions, which
he has just now declared: does he not?
Meno. It appears, Socrates, that he must.
Socrates. If then he had this knowledge within him, 86
not having acquired it in this present life, it is plain
that in some other time he had learnt it and actually
possessed it.
Un
100
Plato
"
Meno. It appears so.
Socrates. And was not that time then, when he was
not a man?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. If true opinions then are in him, at both
these times, the time when he is, and the time when he
is not a man; opinions which, awakened and roused by
questions, rise up into science; must not his soul be well
furnished with this discipline throughout all ages? for
it is plain, that in every age he either is, or is not a
man.
Meno. In all appearance it must be so.
Soc. If the truth of things therefore is always in the
soul, the soul should be immortal. So that whatever
you happen now not to know, that is, not to remember,
you ought to undertake with confidence to seek within
yourself, and recall it to your mind.
Meno. You seem to me, Socrates, somehow or other
to speak rightly.
Socrates. As for my own part, Meno, I would not
contend very strenuously for the truth of my argument
in other respects; but that in thinking it our duty to
seek after the knowledge of things we are at present
ignorant of, we should become better men, more manly,
and less idle, than if we suppose it not possible for us
to find out, nor our duty to inquire into, what we know
not; this I would, if I was able, strongly, both by word
and deed, maintain.
Meno. In this also, Socrates, you seem to me to say
well.
Socrates. Since then we are agreed in this point, that
what a man knows not, he ought to inquire after and
seek to know, are you willing that we attempt jointly to
inquire into the nature of virtue?
Meno. By all means, willing. Not but that I should
have most pleasure in taking into consideration, and
hearing what you have to say on the question I first
asked you, whether, in setting about our inquiries
concerning virtue, we should consider it as a thing that
may be taught, or as being by nature with those who
have it, or as attainable by some other means, and what
they are.
"
The Meno
IOI
Socrates. Were I to govern not only myself, Meno,
but you too, we would not consider whether virtue could
be taught or not, before we had inquired, in the first
place, what virtue was. But since you, without so much
as attempting to govern yourself, for fear (I suppose)
of being less free and less a gentleman, undertake how-
ever to govern me, and actually do govern me, I shall
yield to you. For indeed how can I help myself? or
what is to be done without it? We are to consider
then, it seems, what belongs to some certain thing,
whilst yet we know not what the thing is. But if you
still persist, however relax a little the strictness of your
command, and suffer the question, whether virtue can
be taught a man, or how otherwise it is attained, to be
considered hypothetically. By hypothetically I mean in
the same manner as geometricians often treat a ques-
tion, for instance; when they are asked concerning
some geometrical figure, whether it is possible for such
a particular triangle to be inscribed in such a particular
circle. A geometrician would answer, I know not 37
as yet, of what kind this triangle is. But I can make
a supposition, which I think may be of use in answer-
ing your question, -this ;
Supposing the tri-
angle be of such a kind, as that a circle being drawn
about a given side of it, the whole space of the tri-
angle be included within the circular space described
around it, the consequence will then be one thing; but
quite another consequence will follow, if it cannot be so
included. Laying down therefore these two hypotheses.
distinctly, I can tell you what will follow, in each of
these cases, as to the inscribing that triangle within the
circle, whether it be impossible or possible. Now the
same way shall we take in our inquiry concerning
virtue since we know not, either what it is, or what is
to be attributed to it, we shall lay down an hypothesis
concerning it; and, on the footing of that hypothesis,
shall consider whether it is to be taught or not. Let us
then state the question thus Supposing virtue to be in
that order of things which belongs to the soul, is virtue,
on this hypothesis, to be taught, or not to be taught?
In the first place, it is either a different kind of thing
from knowledge, or a thing of the same kind with
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Plato
3
knowledge and on each of these hypotheses let us
inquire, whether virtue is or is not to be taught, or (as
we lately expressed it) recalled to mind; for whichever
of these expressions we use, let it make no difference
to us.
The question is then, whether virtue is to be
taught. Now is it not evident to every one, that man
is taught no other thing than knowledge?
Meno. To me it seems so.
Socrates. If virtue, therefore, be a certain kind of
knowledge, it is evident that virtue is to be taught.
Meno. Undoubtedly.
Socrates. We have quickly then dispatched this part
of the inquiry; and are fairly come to this conclusion,
that if virtue be a thing of the same kind with know-
ledge, it is to be taught; otherwise not.
Meno. Very true.
Socrates. Next after this, it seems, that we should
consider whether virtue be knowledge or of a kind.
different from knowledge.
Meno. We ought, I think, in the next place to con-
sider this.
Socrates. Well now; shall we suppose that virtue is
a thing which is good; and shall we, abide by this
hypothesis, laying it down for certain that virtue is
something good?
Meno. By all means.
Socrates. Now if there be also any other good
separated from knowledge, then perhaps virtue may
not be a certain kind of knowledge. But if there be
no sort of good which is not comprehended under know-
ledge, then a suspicion that virtue was knoweldge of a
certain kind would be a just suspicion.
Meno. What you say is true.
Socrates. But further; is it not through virtue that
we are good?
Meno. It is.
Socrates. And if good, then advantageous. For all
things that are good are advantageous: are they
not?
Meno. They are.
Socrates. Virtue then is a thing advantageous too.
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103
Meno. It follows of necessity from what we just now
granted.
Socrates. Now let us consider what sort of things
those are which profit and are advantageous to us;
enumerating the particulars: health, we all say, and
strength, and beauty, and riches. These things and
others of like kind we call advantageous: do we note
Meno. We do.
Socrates. And say we not, that these very things are 85
sometimes hurtful to us? or do you pronounce other-
wise?
Meno. No otherwise; I say the same.
Socrates. Consider now, what is the leading cause
when any of these things profit us; and what when
they hurt us. Is it not, when right use presides in the
management of them, that they profit us, and when
right use is wanting, that they hurt us?

Meno. Certainly so.
Socrates. Further then, let us consider things belong-
ing to the soul. Do you admit that temperance is some-
thing in the soul; and so of justice, and fortitude, and
docility, and memory, and magnanimity, and all things
of like kind?
Meno. I do.
Socrates. Now consider such of these things, as you
think not to consist in knowledge, but to be of a kind
different from knowledge. Do not these procure us
sometimes hurt, and sometimes advantage? for instance,
fortitude; unless fortitude is not where prudence is
wanting: let our instance then be boldness. When a
man is bold without reason or understanding, does he
not incur mischief? And when he is bold rationally and
wisely, does he not gain advantage?
Meno. It is true.
Socrates. Is it not true of temperance also, and
docility, that to a man who has learnt and is provided
with them, if his soul at the same time be fraught with
understanding, they are advantageous; but, if he wants
understanding, they are hurtful?
Meno. Most undoubtedly.
Socrates. In a word, all the abilities of the soul,
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Plato
whether they be of the active kind or of the passive,
under the conduct of prudence, do they not tend to
happiness; but managed with imprudence, do they not
produce the contrary effect?
Meng. It is probable they do.
Socrates. If virtue then be one of those things belong-
ing to the soul, and if it be of necessity, as you say,
always advantageous, virtue must be prudence: for we
see, that all other things belonging to the soul are of
themselves neither advantageous nor hurtful; but let
there be added to them imprudence or prudence, and
they thus become either hurtful or advantageous. Now
according to this reasoning, virtue being always advan-
tageous, must be some kind of prudence.

Meno. To me it seems so.
Socrates. Now then as to those other things, which we
said just now were sometimes beneficial and sometimes
hurtful, riches, and the rest of external goods; I ask
whether or no as prudence, presiding in the soul, and
governing her other powers and possessions, applies
them to our advantage; and as imprudence, having the
lead, turns them all to mischief; whether in the same
manner the soul, rightly using and administering those
outward things, employs them for our benefit, but by a
wrong use renders them prejudicial and pernicious?
Meno. Most certainly.
Socrates. And are not things administered and used
rightly by a soul possessed of prudence; but amiss and
ill by a soul possessed with folly?
Meno. They are.
Socrates. Thus then we may pronounce it to hold
good universally to man all external things depend on
his soul; and all things belonging to the soul itself
depend on prudence for their being good and beneficial
89 to him. Now it follows from this reasoning, that
prudence is always advantageous. But did we not just
now say the same of virtue too?
Meno. True.
Socrates. We conclude, therefore, that prudence ˚is
virtue; either the whole of virtue, or some part at
least.
The Meno
105
Meno. What has been said seems to me, Socrates, to
have been well said.
Socrates. If then it be so, the good are not good by
nature.
Meno. It seems to me, they are not.
Socrates. For then, this too would follow. If the
good were good by nature we should have, somewhere
or other, persons who knew which of our youth were
good and virtuous in their natures; and these, when
they had discovered them to us, we should take and
guard in the citadel, putting our seal on them more
carefully than we should on gold; that no person might
corrupt them, and that when they arrived at the age of
manhood, they might become useful to the state.
Meno. It is likely, Socrates, that in that case this
would be done.
Socrates. Since the good, therefore, are not good by
nature, whether are they good by teaching or not?
Meno. I think it now necessary to hold this in the
affirmative. And it is plain, Socrates, that if virtue be
knowledge, according to our hypothesis before, then it
may be taught.
Socrates. Perhaps so, by Jove. But I fear we did
amiss in admitting that hypothesis.
Meno. And yet very lately it seemed to be maintained
fairly.
Socrates. But I suspect, it ought not only to have
lately seemed to be maintained fairly, but to seem so at
present, and hereafter too, if there be anything in it
sound or faultless.
Meno. What is the matter now? in what respect do
you find fault with it? and why doubt of its being true,
that virtue is a kind of knowledge?
Socrates. I will tell you, Meno. That virtue is to be
taught, supposing it to be a science, or some kind of
knowledge, this position of ours I call not into question,
nor have any doubt of its being true. But consider
whether I appear not to have reason for doubting the
truth of the supposition, that virtue is a kind of know-
ledge. For answer me to this question; whatever is
taught, I speak not of virtue only, but of every other
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Plato
subject of discipline or teaching, must there not be of
necessity both teachers of it and scholars?
Meno. I think there must.
Socrates. That thing, therefore, on the contrary, of
which there are neither teachers nor scholars to be
found, should we not think rightly, in thinking it
probable that it is not the subject of teaching?
Meno. True. But do you really think that no masters
are to be found who teach virtue?
Socrates. Though I have often sought about, and
inquired if there were any teachers of virtue, with my
utmost endeavours I cannot find any. And yet I invite
any persons to join me in the search, especially such as I
might presume to have the most experience in that affair.
And just now, Meno, in happy time, is this man Anytus
sat down by us, who may be a party in our inquiry. And
it should seem reasonable for us to make him a party:
go for, in the first place, he is the son of the wealthy and
the wise Anthemion, a man who is become rich, not by
accident, nor yet by legacy, as he has done to whom the
riches of Polycrates are now of late devolved, Ismenias
of Thebes, but having acquired his wealth through his
own wisdom and industry; and then as to his other
good qualities, he is a citizen who is thought neither
contemptuous and insolent, nor ostentatious and giving
trouble to all about him, but behaves decently and con-
ducts himself like a modest and frugal man. And besides
all this, he has educated and instructed his son here
excellently well, in the opinion of the Athenian multi-
tude; for they elect him to the highest offices in the state.
Such men it is right to make of our party, when we are
inquiring after masters who teach virtue, whether any
are to be found and who they are. Join yourself there-
fore, Anytus, to us, to me, and Meno here, your guest
at Athens, in our inquiry concerning virtue, who are
the teachers of it. And consider the question thus:
Suppose this Meno had an inclination to be made a
good physician, and applied to us for our advice in the
affair, to what masters should we send him? should we
not send him to the physicians?
Anytus. By all means.
The Meno
107
Socrates. And to make him a good currier, should
we not send him to the curriers?
Anytus. To be sure.
Socrates. And in all other subjects of instruction,
should we not take the same way?
Anytus. Without doubt.
Socrates. But concerning this point, let me ask you
another question. In sending him to the physicians, we
say we should do well, if we intended the making him
a good physician. Now when we say this, do we not
mean, that we should act with prudence in sending him,
not to any one who profess not the art of healing, but
to those who make it their profession; and who, besides,
are paid for teaching it to others; and thus, by this very
acceptance of pay, take upon themselves to teach any
one who is willing to come and learn; I ask you whether
it is not from these considerations that we should do
well in sending him to the physicians?
Anytus. I answer, yes.
Socrates. In the learning music too, and every other
art, are not the same considerations just? Surely it is
great want of understanding in us, if we are desirous of
having some person taught music, not to choose for his
masters such as profess the teaching of the art, and the
taking of money too for their teaching; but, instead of
this, to give trouble to other people, expecting him to
learn from those who do not pretend to be teachers, and
have not one scholar in that learning in which we expect
our student should be by them instructed. Think you
not that such an expectation would be very unreason-
able?
Anytus. I do, by Jupiter; and a great sign of ignor-
ance too, besides.
Socrates. You say well. Now then you have an
opportunity of considering together with me, and giving
your advice about this guest of yours, Meno here. For 91
he has often told me long ago, Anytus, that he wished to
acquire that wisdom and virtue, through which men
govern well both their families and their commonwealth;
through which also they behave respectfully to their
parents; and know how to entertain both their country-
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Plato
men and foreigners, and what presents to make them at
their departure, in such a manner as becomes a good
man. Were we then to recommend to him any persons
from whom he might learn this virtue, consider whom
we should do right in recommending. Is it not clear
that, agreeably to what we have just now said in other
cases, they would be those persons who profess to be
teachers of virtue, and publicly through all Greece offer
themselves to teach it to any one who desires to learn;
fixing the price of this their teaching, and demanding it
as their just fee
Anytus. And what persons, Socrates, do you mean?
Socrates. You cannot be ignorant that I speak of
those who are called sophists.
Anytus. O Hercules! speak not so shamefully,
Socrates. May none of my relations, friends, or
acquaintance, fellow-citizens, or foreign guests, ever be
seized with such a madness as to go and be spoiled by
those men. For the bane and corruption those men are
of all who follow them.
Socrates. How say you, Anytus? Are these the only
men among those who profess the knowledge of some-
thing beneficial to human kind, so widely different from
all the rest, as not only not to improve and make better
what is put into their hands as the others do, but on
the contrary to corrupt and spoil it? and do they think
fit openly to demand fees to be paid them for so doing?
I cannot tell how I should give credit to this account of
yours. For I know one man in particular, Protagoras,
to have acquired singly more riches from having this
wisdom, than Phidias has from his works so celebrated
for their beauty, together with any ten other statuaries
besides. It is a prodigy what you tell me; when the
menders of old shoes and of old clothes could not escape
a month from being publicly known, if they returned
the clothes or shoes in a worse condition than they
received them; but doing so would be soon reduced to
starving; yet, that Protagoras should corrupt and spoil
his followers, and send them home worse men than when
they first came to him, without being discovered by all
Greece, and this for above forty years. For I think he
The Meno
109
was near seventy years of age when he died, after
having spent forty of them in the practice of his pro-
fession. And during all that time he maintained a high
reputation, which continues even to this day. And not
only Protagoras met with this success, but very many 92
others: some of whom were prior to him in time, and
some flourish at present. Now shall we suppose that
they deceived and corrupted the youth, as you say they
did, knowingly? or shall we suppose they did so uncon-
scious of it to themselves? Shall we deem them to be
so much out of their senses, such men, who are said by
some to be the wisest of mankind?
Anytus. They are far from being out of their senses,
Socrates: rather so are those of the youth, who give
them money for corrupting them; and still more so than
these youths are their relations in committing them to
the guidance of such men; but most of all so are those
cities which suffer such men to come in amongst them,
and drive not away and banish every man, whether
foreigner or citizen, who sets up in any such profession.
Socrates. Has any of the sophists done you any
injury, Anytus? or why else are you so angry with
them?
Anytus. I have never, by Jupiter, conversed with one
of them myself; nor would I suffer so to do any person
who belonged to me.
Socrates. You have no experience at all then of those
men.
Anytus. And never desire to have any.
Socrates. How then should you know if there is any
good or any harm in their teaching, when you have no
experience of it at all?
Anytus. Easily enough. For I know what sort of
fellows they are, whether I have had any experience or
not of them and of their teaching.
Socrates. You have the gift of divination perhaps,
Anytus. For how otherwise you could know what they
are, according to your own account, I should much
wonder. But we were not inquiring to what persons
Meno might go and be made a bad man. As to these,
if you will, let them be the sophists. But now tell us
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Plato
of those others: and do an act of kindness to this
hereditary friend of yours, in directing him to what
persons in this great city he may go and be made
eminent in that virtue which I gave you a description
of just now.
Anytus. But why did not you direct him to such
persons yourself?
Socrates. What persons I had imagined were the
teachers of these duties I have told you. But I happen
to have said nothing to the purpose, as you inform me.
Anytus. There is some truth however in that perhaps.
Socrates. Now, therefore, do you in your turn tell
him to whom of the Athenians he should go. Name any
one you choose.
Anytus. What occasion has he to hear any one man's
name? For of the men of honour and virtue among the
Athenians, there is not one, the first he meets with, who
would not make him a better man than the sophists
would, if he will but hearken and be observant.
Socrates. But did these men of honour and virtue
become such spontaneously, and without having learnt
from any man to be what they are? and are they able
93 to teach others what they were never taught themselves?
Anytus. They, I presume, learn from those who went
before them, men of like honour and virtue. Or think
you not that our city has produced many excellent men?
Socrates. I think, Anytus, that in this city there are
men excellent in political affairs, and that there have
been others no less excellent before them.
But were
they good teachers of that political excellence? For it
is this which happens to be the subject of our present
debate: not whether men of honour and virtue are to
be found at present in this city or not; nor whether
such were to be found here formerly: but whether virtue
is to be taught or not. This we have been of a long
time considering and inquiring; and in prosecuting the
inquiry, we are fallen upon this question, whether those
excellent men, either of these or of former days, knew
how to impart, or to deliver down to others, that virtue
in which they themselves are so excellent; or whether
it be impossible for man to deliver down or to impart
The Meno
III
virtue, and for men to receive it one from another. This
it is which we have been long examining, I and Meno,
Consider the question now in this manner, on the foot-
ing of your own argument. Would you not say that
Themistocles was a man of virtue?
Anytus. I would; and that he was so the most of all
men too.
Socrates. And would you not then say, that if ever
any man could teach his own virtue to another, Themis-
tocles was a good teacher?
Anytus. I suppose he was, had he had a mind to
teach.
Socrates. But do you suppose that he had no mind to
have some others made men of honour and virtue, and
especially his own son? or do you imagine that he
maliciously and designedly withheld from him that virtue.
in which he himself was excellent? Did you never hear
that Themistocles taught his son Cleophantus to be an
excellent horseman? and that his son attained to such a
pitch of excellence, that he would keep himself for a
long time standing upright upon horses in full speed,
and in this situation would throw his javelin; and per-
formed many other surprising feats of horsemanship, in
which his father had him instructed; and that he made
him skilled in all other accomplishments, such as depend
on having had good masters? Have you heard all this
from elderly people who remember it?
Anytus. I have.
Socrates. The disposition of his son therefore is not
to be found fault with as untowardly and unteachable?
Anytus. Perhaps it is not.
Socrates. But what say you to this? That Cleo-
phantus the son of Themistocles was a skilful and an
excellent man in the same way as his father was, have
you ever heard this from any man, either young or old?
Anytus. No, truly.
Socrates. Do we imagine then that he chose to breed
him up in such studies and exercises as he did; and yet,
in that wisdom and skill in which he himself excelled,
to make him, his own son, not at all a better man tham
his neighbours, if virtue could be taught?
I12
Plato
Anytus. That indeed is, perhaps, not to be supposed.
Socrates. Such a teacher of virtue now is this teacher
of yours, a man whom you yourself acknowledge to
have been one of the best men of the last age. And
now let us consider another, Aristides, the son of
94 Lysimachus. Do you not agree that he was a man of
virtue?
Anytus. I do entirely.
Socrates. And did he not give his son Lysimachus the
best education to be had at Athens, so far as depended
on masters and teachers? and do you think he has made
him a better man than common? You have had some
acquaintance with him, and you see what sort of a man
he is. Let another instance, if you please, be Pericles,
a man so magnanimously wise. "You know that he bred
up two sons, Paralus and Xanthippus.
Anytus. I do.
Socrates. These, as you know also, he taught horse-
manship so as to make them equal in that skill to any
of the Athenians. In music too, and gymnastic, and all
other accomplishments which depend on art, he in-
structed them so well that none excelled them. But had
he no mind to make them good men? I believe he wanted
not inclination so to do; but I suspect it to be impossible
to teach virtue. And that you may not imagine that I
speak only of a few, and those of the meanest birth
among the Athenians, and such as wanted abilities for
such an affair, consider that Thucydides also bred up
two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, giving them a good
education in all other respects, and particularly in the
exercise of wrestling, in which they excelled all their
countrymen. For he had one of his sons instructed by
Xanthius, the other by Eudorus; and these two masters,
in the art of wrestling, were thought to be the best of
the age.
Do you not remember this?
Anytus. I remember that I have heard so.
Socrates. Is it not evident then, that he would never
have taught his children those things, the teaching of
which must have put him to expense, and, at the same
time, have neglected what would have cost him nothing,
the teaching them to be good men, if such a thing was
The Meno
113
possible to be taught? But Thucydides, perhaps it may
be imagined, was a mean inconsiderable person, who
had but few friends among the Athenians or their allies.
It was not so. For he was of a noble house, and had
great power in Athens, and much weight in the other
Grecian states. So that, if his sons could have made
good men by teaching, he might easily have found out
some person to make them so, either one of his own
countrymen, or a foreigner, if he himself wanted leisure,
on account of his public employments and his adminis-
tration of the state. But I fear, friend Anytus, that
virtue is a thing impossible to be taught.
Anytus. You seem to me, Socrates, to be ready at
abuse, and to speak ill of others with great facility.
But I would advise you, if you choose to hearken to me,
to be more cautious, and to take care of yourself. For
that, in other cities too, it is perhaps an easy matter to
do a man a mischief, as well as a piece of service; but
here, at Athens, it is so more especially; and, if I 95
mistake not, you are sensible of it yourself.
Socrates. Anytus seems to me to be angry, Meno.
And I am not at all surprised at it. For, in the first
place, he supposes that I spoke ill of those persons I
mentioned: and then he takes himself to be such another
as they were. Now if this man should ever come to
know what it is to speak ill of others, he will cease to
be angry but at present he is ignorant of it.
Do you
therefore answer now, and tell me; are there not
amongst us men of honour and virtue?
Meno. Certainly there are.
Socrates. But are these men willing to offer them-
selves to the youth to teach them virtue? do they profess
the teaching of it? or do they agree that virtue is a
thing which can be taught?
For
Meno. No, by Jupiter, Socrates, they do not.
you may hear them sometimes maintaining that it may
be taught, at other times that it cannot be taught.
Socrates. Shall we say then that these men are
teachers of virtue, when they have not settled so much
as this point, whether virtue can be taught or not?
Meno. I should think we should not, Socrates.
VOL. I.
I
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Plato
Socrates. Well; but what say you of those sophists,
the only persons who profess to teach virtue, think you
that they are the teachers?
Meno. It is for this, O Socrates, that I especially
admire Gorgias; for that one shall never hear him
making any such professions, or taking upon himself
an office of that kind. On the contrary, he laughs at
those others whenever he hears them engaging to teach
men to be virtuous; and thinks it the office of a sophist
only to make men great orators and powerful in
speaking.
Socrates. You do not think then that the sophists
neither are the teachers of virtue?
Meno. I know not what to say, Socrates, to this
point. They have the same effect on me as they have
on most other people; sometimes I think they are, and
sometimes that they are not.
Socrates. Do you know, that not only yourself and
those others, who are versed in civil affairs, sometimes
think that virtue is acquired through teaching, and
sometimes that it is not; do you know that Theognis
the poet is of the same mind, and speaks exactly in the
same manner?
Meno. In what verses of his?
Socrates. In his Elegiacs; where he says,
Mix evermore with men, through virtue, great;
And near to theirs be placed thy happy seat:
Still be companion of their board and bowl,
And still to what delights them bend thy soul,
For good through sweet contagion shall be caught,
And virtue be by living manners taught.
But converse of bad men is folly's school;
Where sense, taught backward, sinks into a fool.
Do you perceive that in these verses he speaks of virtue
as if it might be acquired through teaching?
Meno. It appears so to me.
Socrates. And yet in other verses a little farther on
he says,
To fools their wisdom could the wise impart ;
Could understanding be infus'd by art;
Or could right thought into the mind be driv'n;
For this how oft would great rewards be giv'n?
The Meno
115
96
That is, to those men who were complete masters in this
skill. And again he says,
Ne'er did bad son from virtuous father rise,
If duly nurtur'd by his precepts wise.
But whate'er culture careful we bestow,
Ne'er in bad soil can seed of virtue grow.
Do you observe, that in speaking again upon the same
subject, he contradicts himself, and says the very reverse
of what he had said before?
Meno. So it appears.
Socrates. Can you tell me now of any other thing,
where they who profess to be teachers are held by all
men to be so far from teaching it to others, as to be
ignorant of it themselves, and to have no merit in that
very thing which they pretend to teach; and where those
who are by all men allowed to be excellent themselves,
sometimes say it may be taught, and sometimes that it
cannot? Those who are so unsettled and perplexed
about any subject whatever, would you say that they
are the proper masters and teachers of it?
Meno. By Jupiter, not I.
Socrates. If then neither the sophists, nor those who
are themselves excellent men, are teachers of virtue,
it is plain there can be no others beside.
Meno. I think there can be none.
Socrates. And if no teachers, then no scholars neither.
Meno. I think what you say is true.
Socrates. But we agreed before, that a thing in which
neither teachers of it nor scholars are to be found, is
not the subject of teaching, and cannot be taught.
Meno. We were agreed in this.
Socrates. Of virtue now there appear nowhere any
teachers.
Meno. Very true.
Socrates. And if no teachers of it, then no scholars
in it neither.
Meno. It appears so.
Socrates. Virtue therefore must be a thing which
cannot be taught.
Meno. It seems so, if we have considered the matter
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Plato
rightly. And hence, Socrates, I am led to wonder,
whether any men really good are ever to be found or
not; and if there are, by what means they became such.
Socrates. We are in danger, O Meno! of being found,
you and I, both of us, very insufficient reasoners on the
point in question; and you not to have been fully
instructed by Gorgias, nor I by Prodicus. Above all
things therefore ought we to apply our minds to our-
selves; and to search out a person who by some certain
means would make us better men. I say this with
regard to the inquiry now before us; in which we have
been so foolish as not to consider, that it is not under
the conduct of science that the affairs of men are
administered rightly and well; or, if we should not
choose to grant that, at least that it is not under the
conduct of science only, but of some other thing also
which is different from science; and perhaps the know-
ledge of the means by which men become good hath
escaped us.
Meno. How so, Socrates?
Socrates. I will tell you how. That those men who
are good and virtuous must also be advantageous to us
97 we have agreed rightly; and that it is impossible it
should be otherwise. Is not this true?
Meno. Certainly.
Socrates. And that they are advantageous to us on
this account, because they conduct our affairs rightly,
should we not do well in admitting this?
Meno. Without doubt.
Socrates. But we seem not to have done well in grant-
ing, that unless a man be prudent, it is not possible for
him to conduct affairs rightly.
Meno. What mean you now by the word rightly?
Socrates. I will tell you what I mean. If a man who
knew the way to Larissa, or wherever else you please,
were to walk at the head of others whom he had under-
taken to conduct thither, would he not conduct them
well and rightly?
Meno. Without doubt.
Socrates. And how would it be were a man to under-
take this who had only a right opinion about the way,
The Meno
117
but had never gone thither himself, nor had any certain
knowledge of the way, would not he also conduct them
rightly?
Meno. To be sure.
Socrates. And so long as he had anyhow a right
opinion of the way, which the other man knew with
certainty, he would not in the least be a worse guide,
though only surmising justly, and not knowing clearly,
than the other with all his perfect knowledge?
Meno. Not at all worse.
Socrates. Right opinion, therefore, with regard to
right action, is not at all a worse guide than science or
perfect knowledge. And this it is which we omitted just
now in considering the nature of virtue; when we said
that prudence only or knowledge led to right action; it
is this, right opinion.
Meno. It seems so.
Socrates. Right opinion therefore is not at all of less
advantage to man than certain knowledge.
Meno. In this respect, however, Socrates, it is; in
that he who has a perfect knowledge of his end, would
always attain it; but the man who had only a right
opinion of it, sometimes would attain to it, and some-
times would not.
Socrates. How say you? would not the man, who had
a right opinion of it, always attain to it, so long as he
entertained that right opinion?
Meno. It appears to me that he must. And therefore
I wonder, Socrates, this being the case, on what account
it is that science is so much more valuable than right
opinion; and indeed in what respect it is that they differ
at all one from the other.
Socrates. Do you know now why you wonder? or
shall I tell you?
Meno. By all means tell me.
Socrates. It is because you never considered atten-
tively those images made by Dædalus.
you have none of them in your country.
But perhaps
Meno. With what view is it now that you speak of
these images?
Socrates. Because these, if they are not fastened, run
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away from us, and become fugitives; but if they are
fastened, they abide by us.
Meno. Well; and what then?
Socrates. To have in one's possession any of these
works of his loose and unfastened, is like to the being
master of a runaway slave, a matter of little value,
because not permanent: but when fastened and secured,
they are things of great value; for indeed they are works
of great beauty. But you ask, with what view it is that
I speak of these images. I answer,-It is with a view
to true opinions. For true opinions also, so long as
they abide by us, are valuable goods, and procure for
98 us all good things: but they are not disposed to abide
with us a long time; for they soon slip away out of our
souls, and become fugitives. Hence are they of small
value to a man, until he has fastened and bound then
down, by deducing them rationally from their cause.
And this, my friend Meno, is reminiscence, as we before
agreed. But when they are thus bound and fastened, in
the first place they become truly known, and in con-
sequence of this they become stable and abide with us.
Now it is on this very account that science is a thing
more valuable than right opinion; and in this respect
it is they differ, in that the parts of science only are
fastened one to another, and bound down together.
Meno. By Jupiter, Socrates, they are similar to some
such things as those to which you resemble them.
Socrates. Nay, for my part, I speak thus not from
knowledge; but only from conjecture. But that right
opinion and science are two different things, this, as it
appears to me, I do not merely imagine or conjecture.
For if I were to profess the knowledge of any things.
whatever (and there are but a few things which I could
profess to know), this I would set down for one of them.
Meno. You are entirely right, Socrates.
Socrates. Well; and am I not right in this also, that
true opinion, having the conduct of any work or action
whatever, executes her office full as well as science?
Meno. In this too I think you are in the right.
Socrates. Right opinion, therefore, is a thing not at
all inferior to science, nor less beneficial with regard to
The Meno
119
the execution of any work, or the performance of any
action; nor is the man, who has right opinions, inferior
(in this respect) to the man of science.
Meno. Very true.
Socrates. And we agreed before, that a good man was
beneficial or advantageous to others.
Meno. We did.
Socrates. Since, therefore, it is not through science
only that men have been good and beneficial to their
country (if any such men there may have been), but also
by means of right opinion; and since neither of these is
with men by nature, neither science nor right opinion;
or do you think that either of them comes by nature?
Meno. Not I.
Socrates. Since, then, they are not by nature, by
nature neither is it that men could have been good and
virtuous.
Meno. Certainly not.
Socrates. Seeing now, that virtue comes not by
nature, we should, in the next place, after this consider
if it comes through teaching.
Meno. To be sure we should.
Socrates. Did it not appear to us both, that if virtue
was wisdom, then it came through teaching?
Meno. It did.
Socrates. And that if virtue came through teaching,
then virtue would be wisdom?
Meno. Very true.
Socrates. And that if there were any teachers of
virtue, virtue would in that case be a thing that came
through teaching; otherwise not?
Meno. Just so.
Socrates. But we have agreed that there were no
teachers of it.
Meno. True.
Socrates. We are agreed, therefore, that virtue comes
not through teaching; and that virtue is not wisdom.
Meno. Certainly so.
Socrates. But we agreed besides, that virtue was
something good.
Meno. True.
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99
Socrates. And that whatever conducted affairs rightly
was a thing good and serviceable to us.
Meno. We did clearly.
Socrates. And that affairs are conducted rightly by
these two things only, true opinion and science; pos-
sessed of either of which two, a man makes a good
leader and guide. Whatever comes from fortune is not
the effect of human conduct. But so far as man has to
do in conducting rightly, it is only through one of these
means, true opinion and science.
Meno. I think so.
Socrates. Now since virtue comes not through teach-
ing, it is not the effect of science.
Meno. It appears that it is not.
Socrates. Of the two only things then, which are good
and serviceable to man's right conduct, we have thrown
one out of the question; having agreed that science is
not the thing through which civil affairs are adminis-
tered and conducted rightly.
Meno. I think it is not.
Socrates. Not therefore through any wisdom, nor as
being wise, did such men govern in the state; such as
Themistocles, and the rest, whom Anytus here just now
recounted. And for this very reason they were not
capable of making others to be such men as themselves;
because it was not science that made them what they
were.
Meno. The case, O Socrates, seems to be as you
represent it.
Socrates. If then it is not science, it follows that it
must be the other thing which remains of the two,
namely, right opinion, through which public affairs are
administered rightly by our statesmen and politicians;
men who, in point of wisdom, are not at all superior to
the oracle singers and divine prophets. For these also
utter many true sayings, but have no real knowledge of
any one thing they utter.
Meno. I suspect this to be the case.
Socrates. Now do not those men, O Meno, deserve the
character of divine men, who either speak or act aright
in many things of great importance, without any intel-
The Meno
121
lectual knowledge of the subjects concerning which they
speak or act?
Meno. By all means do they.
Socrates. Rightly then should we call those men
divine, whom we just now mentioned, the oracle singers
and the prophets, and all who are inspired by the Muses.
Nor at all less divine men than these should we say
that the politicians are, no less enthusiasts, inspired
divinely, and possessed by the Divinity, when in their
speeches they direct aright many and great affairs, with-
out any real knowledge of the subjects they are speaking
of.
Meno. Certainly we should.
Socrates. And accordingly the women, you know,
Meno, call men of virtue by the name of divine men.
And the Lacedæmonians, when they celebrate with
encomiums any man of virtue, are used to say of him
that he is a divine man.
Meno. And they appear, O Socrates, to speak justly
too. And yet, perhaps, Anytus here is offended at what
you say.
Socrates. I give myself no manner of concern about
it. With him, Meno, we shall have some discourse at
another time. But if we, at this time, during all this
conversation, have pursued our inquiries and reasonings.
aright, virtue can neither come by nature, nor yet
through teaching; but to those with whom it is, it must
come by a divine portion or allotment, without the
intelligence or true knowledge of it; unless amongst the 100
politicians there should be found some person capable
of making another man a good politician. But if there
should, he might almost be said to be such a one
amongst the living, as Homer tells us that Teresias is
amongst the dead; where, speaking of him and of the
rest who are in Hades, he says,
Fill'd is he only with discerning mind;
The rest flit, empty shadows, dark and blind.
Exactly the same pre-eminence hath such a man; being
as it were the truth and substance of things, compared
with shadows, in respect of virtue.
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Meno. What you say, O Socrates, seems to me to be
in the highest degree just.
Socrates. From this reasoning, then, Meno, it appears
to us, that such as are possessed of virtue, have it as a
divine portion or allotment to them. But on this point.
we shall then arrive at certainty, when, previous to our
inquiries by what means it is that virtue comes to men,
we set about searching first, what the essence is of
virtue. But it is now time for me to go some-
where else. And do you, since you are persuaded your-
self of the truth of those conclusions, the result of our
inquiries, persuade your friend Anytus to believe them
also. For he may thus be softened and become milder;
and you, by thus persuading him, may possibly do a
piece of service to your country.
PHÆDO,
OR
THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL
First Echecrates, Phædo.
St.
Then Socrates, Apollodorus, Cebes, Simmias and Crito. I.
Ech. WERE you personally present, Phædo, with
Socrates on that day when he drank the poison in
prison? or did you hear an account of it from some one
else?
Phad. I was there myself, Echecrates.
Ech. What then did he say before his death? and
how did he die? for I should be glad to hear: for
scarcely any citizen of Phlius ever visits Athens now,
nor has any stranger for a long time come from thence,
who was able to give us a clear account of the particu-
lars, except that he died from drinking poison; but he
was unable to tell us any thing more.
p.
57
Phæd. And did you not hear about the trial how it 58
went off?
Ech. Yes; some one told me this; and I wondered,
that as it took place so long ago, he appears to have
died long afterwards. What was the reason of this,
Phædo?
Phæd. An accidental circumstance happened in his
favour, Echecrates: for the poop of the ship which the
Athenians send to Delos, chanced to be crowned on the
day before the trial.
Ech. But what is this ship?
Phæd. It is the ship, as the Athenians say, in which
Theseus formerly conveyed the fourteen boys and girls
to Crete, and saved both them and himself. They,
therefore, made a vow to Apollo on that occasion, as
it is said, that if they were saved they would every year
123
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59
despatch a solemn embassy to Delos; which from that
time to the present, they send yearly to the god. When
they begin the preparations for this solemn embassy,
they have a law that the city shall be purified during this
period, and that no public execution shall take place
until the ship has reached Delos, and returned to
Athens and this occasionally takes a long time, when
the winds happen to impede their passage. The com-
mencement of the embassy is when the priest of Apollo
has crowned the poop of the ship. And this was done,
as I said, on the day before the trial: on this account
Socrates had a long interval in prison between the trial
and his death.
:
Ech. And what, Phædo, were the circumstances of
his death? what was said and done? and who of his
friends were with him? or would not the magistrates
allow them to be present, but did he die destitute of
friends?
Phæd. By no means; but some, indeed several, were
present.
Ech. Take the trouble, then, to relate to me all the
particulars as clearly as you can, unless you have any
pressing business.
Phad. I am at leisure, and will endeavour to give you
a full account: for to call Socrates to mind, whether
speaking myself or listening to some one else, is always
most delightful to me.
Ech. And indeed, Phædo, you have others to listen
to you who are of the same mind. However, endeavour
to relate every thing as accurately as you can.
Phæd. I was indeed wonderfully affected by being
present, for I was not impressed with a feeling of pity,
like one present at the death of a friend; for the man
appeared to me to be happy, Echecrates, both from his.
manner and discourse, so fearlessly and nobly did he
meet his death: so much so, that it occurred to me,
that in going to Hades he was not going without a
divine destiny, but that when he arrived there he would
be happy, if any one ever was. For this reason I was
entirely uninfluenced by any feeling of pity, as would
seem likely to be the case with one present on so mourn-
Phædo
125
ful an occasion; nor was I affected by pleasure from
being engaged in philosophical discussions, as was our
custom; for our conversation was of that kind. But
an altogether unaccountable feeling possessed me, a
kind of unusual mixture compounded of pleasure and
pain together, when I considered that he was imme-
diately about to die. And all of us who were present
were affected in much the same manner, at one time
laughing, at another weeping, one of us especially,
Apollodorus, for you know the man and his manner.
Ech. How should I not?
Phad. He, then, was entirely overcome by these
emotions; and I, too, was troubled, as well as the
others.
Ech. But who were present, Phædo?
Phæd. Of his fellow-countrymen, this Apollodorus
was present, and Critobolus, and his father Crito, more-
over Hermogenes, Epigenes, Æschines, and Anti-
sthenes; Ctesippus the Pæanian, Menexenus, and some
other of his countrymen were also there: Plato I think
was sick.
Ech. Were any strangers present?
Phæd. Yes: Simmias the Theban, Cebes, and Phæ-
dondes and from Megara, Euclides and Terpsion.
Ech. But what! were not Aristippus and Cleom-
brotus present?
Phæd. No: for they were said to be at Ægina.
Ech. Was any one else there?
Phæd. I think that these were nearly all who were
present.
Ech. Well now: what do you say was the subject of
conversation?
Phæd. I will endeavour to relate the whole to you
from the beginning. On the preceding days I and the
others were constantly in the habit of visiting Socrates,
meeting early in the morning at the court-house where
the trial took place, for it was near the prison. Here
then we waited every day till the prison was opened,
conversing with each other; for it was not opened very
early, but, as soon as it was opened we went in to
Socrates, and usually spent the day with him. On that
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Plato
occasion, however, we met earlier than usual; for on
the preceding day, when we left the prison in the even-
ing, we heard that the ship had arrived from Delos.
We therefore urged each other to come as early as
possible to the accustomed place; accordingly we came,
and the porter, who used to admit us, coming out, told
us to wait, and not enter until he called us.
"For,"
he said, "the Eleven are now freeing Socrates from his
bonds, and announcing to him that he must die to-
day." But in no long time he returned, and bade us
enter.
When we entered, we found Socrates just freed from
60 his bonds, and Xantippe, you know her, holding his
little boy and sitting by him. As soon as Xantippe saw
us, she wept aloud and said such things as women
usually do on such occasions, as "Socrates, your friends
will now converse with you for the last time and you
with them.” But Socrates, looking towards Crito,
said, "Crito, let some one take her home.
Upon
which some of Crito's attendants led her away, wailing
and beating herself.
""
But Socrates sitting up in bed, drew up his leg, and
rubbed it with his hand, and as he rubbed it, said,
"What an unaccountable thing, my friends, that seems
to be, which men call pleasure; and how wonderfully
is it related towards that which appears to be its con-
trary, pain; in that they will not both be present to a
man at the same time, yet, if any one pursues and
attains the one, he is almost always compelled to receive
the other, as if they were both united together from one
head.
"And it seems to me, " he said, "that if sop had
observed this he would have made a fable from it, how
the deity, wishing to reconcile these warring principles,
when he could not do so, united their heads together,
and from hence whomsoever the one visits the other
attends immediately after; as appears to be the case
with me, since I suffered pain in my leg before from
the chain, but now pleasure seems to have succeeded."
Hereupon Cebes, interrupting him, said, "By Jupiter,
Socrates, you have done well in reminding me with
Phædo
127
respect to the poems which you made, by putting into
metre those Fables of Æsop and the hymn to Apollo,
several other persons asked me, and especially Evenus.
recently, with what design you made them after you
came here, whereas before you had never made any.
If, therefore, you care at all that I should be able to
answer Evenus, when he asks me again, for I am sure
he will do so, tell me what I must say to him."
"Tell him the truth then, Cebes," he replied, "that I
did not make them from a wish to compete with him,
or his poems, for I knew that this would be no easy
matter; but that I might discover the meaning of cer-
tain dreams, and discharge my conscience, if this
should happen to be the music which they have often
ordered me to apply myself to. For they were to the
following purport; often in my past life the same dream
visited me, appearing at different times in different
forms, yet always saying the same, thing, 'Socrates,'
it said, 'apply yourself to and practise music. And I
formerly supposed that it exhorted and encouraged me
to continue the pursuit I was engaged in, as those who 61
cheer on racers, so that the dream encouraged me to
continue the pursuit I was engaged in, namely, to
apply myself to music, since philosophy is the highest
music, and I was devoted to it. But now since my trial
took place, and the festival of the god retarded my
death, it appeared to me that, if by chance the dream
so frequently enjoined me to apply myself to popular
music, I ought not to disobey it but do so, for that
it would be safer for me not to depart hence before I
had discharged my conscience by making some poems
in obedience to the dream. Thus, then, I first of all
composed a hymn to the god whose festival was pre-
sent, and after the god, considering that a poet, if he
means to be a poet, ought to make fables and not dis-
courses, and knowing that I was not skilled in making
fables, I therefore put into verse those fables of Æsop,
which were at hand, and were known to me, and which
first occurred to me.
"Tell this then to Evenus, Cebes, and bid him fare-
well, and, if he is wise, to follow me as soon as he can.
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62
But I depart, as it seems, to-day; for so the Athenians
order."
To this Simmias said, "What is this, Socrates,
which you exhort Evenus to do? for I often meet with
him; and from what I know of him, I am pretty certain
that he will not at all be willing to comply with your
advice."
"What then," said he, "is not Evenus a philo-
sopher?"
"To me he seems to be so," said Simmias.
"Then he will be willing," rejoined Socrates, "and
so will every one who worthily engages in this study;
perhaps indeed he will not commit violence on himself,
for that they say is not allowable." And as he said this
he let down his leg from the bed on the ground, and
in this posture continued during the remainder of the
discussion.
Cebes then asked him, "What do you mean,
Socrates, by saying that it is not lawful to commit.
violence on one's-self, but that a philosopher should be
willing to follow one who is dying?"
"What, Cebes, have not you and Simmias, who have
conversed familiarly with Philolaus on this subject,
heard?
"Nothing very clearly, Socrates."
"I however speak only from hearsay; what then I
have heard I have no scruple in telling. And perhaps.
it is most becoming for one who is about to travel there,
to enquire and speculate about the journey thither, what
kind we think it is. What else can one do in the
interval before sunset?
"Why then, Socrates, do they say that it is not
allowable to kill one's-self? for I, as you asked just
now, have heard both Philolaus, when he lived with
us, and several others say that it was not right to do
this; but I never heard any thing clear upon the subject.
from any one.
""
"Then you should consider it attentively," said
Socrates, "for perhaps you may hear: probably, how-
ever, it will appear wonderful to you, if this alone of
all other things is an universal truth, and it never
Phædo
129
happens to a man, as is the case in all other things,
that at some times and to some persons only it is better
to die than to live; yet that these men for whom it is
better to die—this probably will appear wonderful to
you-may not without impiety do this good to them-
selves, but must await another benefactor.
Then Cebes, gently smiling, said, speaking in his
own dialect, "Jove be witness."
'And indeed," said Socrates, "it would appear to be
unreasonable, yet still perhaps it has some reason on
its side. The maxim indeed given on this subject in
the mystical doctrines, that we men are in a kind of
prison, and that we ought not to free ourselves from
it and escape, appears to me difficult to be understood,
and not easy to penetrate. This, however, appears to
me, Cebes, to be well said, that the gods take care of
us, and that we men are one of their possessions. Does
it not seem so to you?
"It does,” replied Cebes.
"Therefore," said he, "if one of your slaves were to
kill himself, without your having intimated that you
wished him to die, should you not be angry with him,
and should you not punish him if you could?"
"Certainly," he replied.
"Perhaps then in this point of view, it is not un-
reasonable to assert, that a man ought not to kill him-
self before the deity lays him under a necessity of doing
so, such as that now laid on me.”
"This, indeed," said Cebes, "appears to be probable.
But what you said just now, Socrates, that philosophers
should be very willing to die, appears to be an absurdity,
if what we said just now is agreeable to reason, that it
is God who takes care of us, and that we are his pro-
perty. For that the wisest men should not be grieved
at leaving that service in which they who govern them
are the best of all masters, namely the gods, is not con-
sistent with reason. For surely he cannot think that
he will take better care of himself when he has become
free but a foolish man might perhaps think thus, that
he should fly from his master, and would not reflect that
he ought not to fly from a good one, but should cling
:
VOL. I.
K
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Plato
63
to him as much as possible, therefore he would fly
against all reason: but a man of sense would desire to
be constantly with one better than himself. Thus,
Socrates, the contrary of what you just now said is
likely to be the case; for it becomes the wise to be
grieved at dying, but the foolish to rejoice."
Socrates, on hearing this, appeared to me to be
pleased with the pertinacity of Cebes, and looking to-
wards us, said, "Cebes, you see, always searches out
arguments, and is not at all willing to admit at once
any thing one has said.”
Whereupon Simmias replied, "But indeed, Socrates,
Cebes appears to me, now, to say something to the
purpose for with what design should men really wise
fly from masters who are better than themselves, and
so readily leave them? And Cebes appears to me to
direct his argument against you, because you so easily
endure to abandon both us, and those good rulers, as
you yourself confess, the gods."
(6
'You speak justly," said Socrates, “for 1 think you
mean that I ought to make my defence to this charge,
as if I were in a court of justice.”
<<
Certainly," replied Simmias.
Come then," said he, "I will endeavour to defend
myself more successfully before you than before the
judges. For," he proceeded, "Simmias and Cebes, if
I did not think that I should go first of all amongst
other deities who are both wise and good, and, next,
amongst men who have departed this life, better than
any here, I should be wrong in not grieving at death:
but now be assured, I hope to go amongst good men,
though I would not positively assert it, that, however,
I shall go amongst gods who are perfectly good
masters, be assured I can positively assert this, if I
can any thing of the kind. So that, on this account,
I am not so much troubled, but I entertain a good hope
that something awaits those who die, and that, as was
said long since, it will be far better for the good than
the evil."
"What then, Socrates," said Simmias, "would you
go away keeping this persuasion to yourself, or would
Phædo
131
you impart it to us? For this good appears to me to
be also common to us; and at the same time it will be
an apology for you, if you can persuade us to believe
what you say.
"I will endeavour to do so," he said. "But first let
us attend to Crito here, and see what it is he seems to
have for some time wished to say."
"What else, Socrates," said Crito, "but what he who
is to give you the poison told me some time ago, that
I should tell you to speak as little as possible? For he
says that men become too much heated by speaking,
and that nothing of this kind ought to interfere with
the poison, and that otherwise, those who did so were
sometimes compelled to drink two or three times."
To which Socrates replied, "Let him alone, and let
him attend to his own business, and prepare to give it
me twice, or, if occasion requires, even thrice."
"I was almost certain what you would say,"
answered Crito, "but he has been some time pestering
me."
"Never mind him," he rejoined.
(4
But now I wish to render an account to you, my
judges, of the reason why a man who has really devoted
his life to philosophy, when he is about to die, appears.
to me, on good grounds, to have confidence, and to
entertain a firm hope that the greatest good will befal 64
him in the other world, when he has departed this life.
How then this comes to pass, Simmias and Cebes, I
will endeavour to explain.
"For as many as rightly apply themselves to philo-
sophy seem to have left all others in ignorance, that
they aim at nothing else than to die and be dead. If
this then is true, it would surely be absurd to be anxious
about nothing else than this during their whole life,
but, when it arrives, to be grieved at what they have
been long anxious about and aimed at.”
Upon this, Simmias, smiling, said, "By Jupiter,
Socrates, though I am not now at all inclined to smile,
you
have made me do so; for I think that the multitude,
if they heard this, would think it was very well said in
reference to philosophers, and that our countrymen
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Plato
particularly would agree with you, that true philoso-
phers do desire death, and that they are by no means
ignorant that they deserve to suffer it."
And indeed, Simmias, they would speak the truth,
except in asserting that they are not ignorant; for they
are ignorant of the sense in which true philosophers
desire to die, and in what sense they deserve death,
and what kind of death. But," he said, "let us take
leave of them, and speak to one another. Do we think
that death is any thing?
"Certainly," replied Simmias.
"Is it any thing else than the separation of the soul
from the body? and is not this to die, for the body to
be apart by itself separated from the soul, and for the
soul to subsist apart by itself separated from the body?
Is death any thing else than this?"
"No, but this," he replied.
"Consider then, my good friend, whether you are
of the same opinion as me; for thus I think we shall
understand better the subject we are considering. Does
it appear to you to be becoming in a philosopher to be
anxious about pleasures, as they are called, such as
meats and drinks?"
"By no means, Socrates," said Simmias.
"But what? about the pleasures of love?"
"Not at all."
"What then? does such a man appear to you to
think other bodily indulgences of value? for instance,
does he seem to you to value or despise the possession
of magnificent garments and sandals, and other orna-
ments of the body, except so far as necessity compels
him to use them?
"The true philosopher," he answered, "appears to
me to despise them."
"Does not then," he continued, "the whole employ-
ment of such a man appear to you to be, not about the
body, but to separate himself from it as much as
possible, and be occupied about his soul?"
"It does."
"First of all then, in such matters, does not the
65 philosopher, above all other men, evidently free his soul
as much as he can from communion with the body?'
Phædo
133
so."
"It appears so.
"And it appears, Simmias, to the generality of men,
that he who takes no pleasure in such things, and who
does not use them, does not deserve to live; but that
he nearly approaches to death who cares nothing for the
pleasures that subsist through the body.
"You speak very truly."
'But what with respect to the acquisition of wisdom,
is the body an impediment or not, if any one takes it
with him as a partner in the search? What I mean
is this: Do sight and hearing convey any truth to men,
or are they such as the poets constantly sing, who say
that we neither hear nor see any thing with accuracy?
If, however, these bodily senses are neither accurate nor
clear, much less can the others be so: for they are all
far inferior to these. Do they not seem so to you?
Certainly," he replied.
""
"When then," said he, "does the soul light on the
truth? for, when it attempts to consider any thing in
conjunction with the body, it is plain that it is then led
astray by it."
"C
You say truly."
"Must it not then be by reasoning, if at all, that any
of the things that really are become known to it?"
"Yes."
((
'And surely the soul then reasons best when none
of these things disturb it, neither hearing, nor sight,
nor pain, nor pleasure of any kind, but it retires as
much as possible within itself, taking leave of the body,
and, as far as it can, not communicating or being in
contact with it, it aims at the discovery of that which
is.
'Such is the case."
"Does not then the soul of the philosopher, in these
cases, despise the body, and flee from it, and seek to
retire within itself?
“It appears so.”
>>
But what as to such things as these, Simmias?
Do we say that justice itself is something or nothing?
'We say it is something, by Jupiter.
And that beauty and goodness are something?
How not?"
134
Plato
"Now then have you ever seen any thing of this
kind with your eyes?"
<<
By no means," he replied.
Did you ever lay hold of them by any other bodily
sense? but I speak generally, as of magnitude, health,
strength, and, in a word, of the essence of every thing,
that is to say, what each is. Is then the exact truth
of these perceived by means of the body, or is it thus,
whoever amongst us habituates himself to reflect most
deeply and accurately on each several thing about which
he is considering, he will make the nearest approach to
the knowledge of it?"
Certainly.
'Would not he, then, do this with the utmost purity,
who should in the highest degree approach each subject
by means of the mere mental faculties, neither employ-
ing the sight in conjunction with the reflective faculty,
66 nor introducing any other sense together with reason-
ing; but who, using pure reflection by itself, should
attempt to search out each essence purely by itself,
freed as much as possible from the eyes and ears, and,
in a word, from the whole body, as disturbing the soul,
and not suffering it to acquire truth and wisdom, when
it is in communion with it. Is not he the person, Sim-
mias, if any one can, who will arrive at the knowledge
of that which is?
""
'You speak with wonderful truth, Socrates," replied
Simmias.
"Wherefore," he said, "it necessarily follows from
all this, that some such opinion as this should be enter-
tained by genuine philosophers, so that they should
speak among themselves as follows: A by-path, as it
were, seems to lead us on in our researches undertaken
by reason,' because as long as we are encumbered with
the body, and our soul is contaminated with such an
evil, we can never fully attain to what we desire; and
this, we say, is truth. For the body subjects us to
innumerable hindrances on account of its necessary.
support, and moreover if any diseases befal us, they
impede us in our search after that which is; and it fills
us with longings, desires, fears, all kinds of fancies, and
Phædo
135
a multitude of absurdities, so that, as it is said in real
truth, by reason of the body it is never possible for us
to make any advances in wisdom. For nothing else
but the body and its desires occasion wars, seditions,
and contests; for all wars amongst us arise on account
of our desire to acquire wealth; and we are compelled
to acquire wealth on account of the body, being enslaved
to its service; and consequently on all these accounts
we are hindered in the pursuit of philosophy. But the
worst of all is, that if it leaves us any leisure, and we
apply ourselves to the consideration of any subject, it
constantly obtrudes itself in the midst of our researches,
and occasions trouble and disturbance, and confounds
us so that we are not able by reason of it to discern the
truth. It has then in reality been demonstrated to us,
that if we are ever to know any thing purely, we must
be separated from the body, and contemplate the things
themselves by the mere soul. And then, as it seems,
we shall obtain that which we desire, and which we
profess ourselves to be lovers of, wisdom, when we are
dead, as reason shows, but not while we are alive.
if it is not possible to know any thing purely in con-
junction with the body, one of these two things must
follow, either that we can never acquire knowledge, or
only after we are dead; for then the soul will subsist
apart by itself, separate from the body, but not before.
And while we live, we shall thus, as it seems, approach
nearest to knowledge, if we hold no intercourse or com-
munion at all with the body, except what absolute
necessity requires, nor suffer ourselves to be polluted by
its nature, but purify ourselves from it, until God him-
self shall release us. And thus being pure, and freed
from the folly of body, we shall in all likelihood be
with others like ourselves, and shall of ourselves know
the whole real essence, and that probably is truth; for
it is not allowable for the impure to attain to the pure.
Such things, I think, Simmias, all true lovers of wisdom
must both think and say to one another. Does it not
seem so to you?
99
"Most assuredly, Socrates.'
For
"If this then," said Socrates, "is true, my friend,
67
136
Plato
there is great hope for one who arrives where I am
going, there, if any where, to acquire that in perfection
for the sake of which we have taken so much pains
during our past life; so that the journey now appointed
me is set out upon with good hope, and will be so by
any other man who thinks that his mind has been as
it were purified."
"Certainly," said Simmias.
"But does not purification consist in this, as was
said in a former part of our discourse, in separating as
much as possible the soul from the body, and in accus-
toming it to gather and collect itself by itself on all
sides apart from the body, and to dwell, as far as it can,
both now and hereafter, alone by itself, delivered as it
were from the shackles of the body?
"Certainly," he replied.
""
"Is this then called death, this deliverance and
separation of the soul from the body?"
"Assuredly," he answered.
But, as we affirmed, those who pursue philosophy
rightly, are especially and alone desirous to deliver it,
and this is the very study of philosophers, the deliver-
ance and separation of the soul from the body, is it
not?"
"It appears so."
"Then, as I said at first, would it not be ridiculous
for a man who has endeavoured throughout his life to
live as near as possible to death, then, when death
arrives, to grieve? would not this be ridiculous?"
"How should it not?"
"In reality then, Simmias," he continued, "those
who pursue philosophy rightly study to die; and to them
of all men death is least formidable. Judge from this.
Since they altogether hate the body and desire to keep
the soul by itself, would it not be irrational if, when
this comes to pass, they should be afraid and grieve,
68 and not be glad to go to that place, where on their
arrival they may hope to obtain that which they longed
for throughout life; but they longed for wisdom; and
to be freed from association with that which they hated?
Have many of their own accord wished to descend into
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137
Hades, on account of human objects of affection, their
wives and sons, induced by this very hope of there
seeing and being with those whom they have loved; and
shall one who really loves wisdom, and firmly cherishes
this very hope, that he shall no where else attain it in
a manner worthy of the name, except in Hades, be
grieved at dying, and not gladly go there? We must
think that he would gladly go, my friend, if he be in
truth a philosopher; for he will be firmly persuaded of
this, that he will no where else but there attain wisdom
in its purity; and if this be so, would it not be very
irrational, as I just now said, if such a man were to be
afraid of death?
"Very much so, by Jupiter," he replied.
“Would not this then," he resumed, "be a sufficient
proof to you, with respect to a man whom you should
see grieved when about to die, that he was not a lover
of wisdom but a lover of his body? and this same person
is probably a lover of riches and a lover of honour, one
or both of these."
It certainly is as you say, ” he replied.
"Does not then," he said, "that which is called forti-
tude, Simmias, eminently belong to philosophers?"
By all means," he answered.
"And temperance also, which even the multitude call
temperance, and which consists in not being carried
away by the passions, but in holding them in contempt,
and keeping them in subjection, does not this belong
to those only who most despise the body, and live in
the study of philosophy?"
Necessarily so," he replied.
"For," he continued, "if you will consider the forti-
tude and temperance of others, they will appear to you
to be absurd.
How so, Socrates?
"Do you know," he said, "that all others consider
death among the great evils?'
""
"They do indeed," he answered.
"Then do the brave amongst them endure death,
when they do endure it, through dread of greater
evils? "
138
Plato
It is so."
"All men, therefore, except philosophers, are brave
through being afraid and through fear; though it is
absurd that any one should be brave through fear and
cowardice."
"Certainly."
"But what? are not these amongst them who keep
their passions in subjection, affected in the same way?
and are they not temperate through a kind of intemper-
ance? and although we may say, perhaps, that this is
impossible, nevertheless the manner in which they are
affected with respect to this silly temperance resembles
this; for, fearing to be deprived of other pleasures, and
desiring them, they abstain from some, being mastered
69 by others. And though they call intemperance the
being governed by pleasures, yet it happens to them
that, by being mastered by some pleasures, they master
others; and this is similar to what was just now said,
that in a certain manner they become temperate through
intemperance."
"So it seems."
"My dear Simmias, consider that this is not a right
exchange for virtue, to barter pleasures for pleasures,
pains for pains, fear for fear, and the greater for the
lesser, like pieces of money; but that that alone is the
right coin, for which we ought to barter all these things,
wisdom; and for this, and with this every thing is in
reality bought and sold, fortitude, temperance, and
justice, and, in a word, true virtue subsists with
wisdom, whether pleasures and fears, and every thing
else of the kind, are present or absent; but when
separated from wisdom, and changed one for another,
consider whether such virtue is not a mere outline, and
in reality servile, possessing neither soundness nor
truth; but the really true virtue is a purification from
all such things, and temperance, justice, fortitude, and
wisdom itself, are a kind of initiatory purification. And
those who instituted the mysteries for us appear to have
been by no means contemptible, but in reality to have
intimated long since that whoever shall arrive in Hades
unexpiated and uninitiated shall lie in mud, but he that
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139
arrives there purified and initiated, shall dwell with the
gods. For there are,' say those who preside at the
mysteries, many wand-bearers, but few inspired.'
These last, in my opinion, are no other than those who
have pursued philosophy rightly: that I might be of
their number, I have, to the utmost of my ability, left
no means untried, but have endeavoured to the utmost
of my power. But whether I have endeavoured rightly
and have in any respect succeeded, on arriving there I
shall know clearly, if it please God, very shortly, as it
appears to me.
"Such then, Simmias and Cebes," he added, "is the
defence I make, for that I, on good grounds, do not
repine or grieve at leaving you and my masters here,
being persuaded that there, no less than here, I shall
meet with good masters and friends. But to the multi-
tude this is incredible. If, however, I have succeeded
better with you in my defence than I did with the
Athenian judges, it is well."
When Socrates had thus spoken, Cebes, taking up
the discussion, said, "Socrates, all the rest appears to
me to be said rightly, but what you have said respect- 70
ing the soul will occasion much incredulity in many from
the apprehension that, when it is separated from the
body, it no longer exists any where, but is destroyed
and perishes on the very day in which a man dies, and
that immediately it is separated and goes out from the
body, it is dispersed and vanishes like breath or smoke,
and is no longer any where; since, if it remained any
where united in itself, and freed from those evils which
you have just now enumerated, there would be an
abundant and good hope, Socrates, that what you say is
true. But this probably needs no little persuasion and
proof, that the soul of a man who dies, exists, and
possesses activity and intelligence."
"You say truly, Cebes," said Socrates, "but what
shall we do? Are you willing that we should converse
on these points, whether such is probably the case or
not?"
"Indeed,” replied Cebes, "I should gladly hear your
opinion on these matters."
140
Plato
71
"I do not think," said Socrates, "that any one who
should now hear us, even though he were a comic poet,
would say that I am talking idly, or discoursing on
subjects that do not concern me. If you please, then,
we will examine into it. Let us consider it in this point
of view, whether the souls of men who are dead exist
in Hades, or not. This is an ancient saying, which we
now call to mind, that souls departing hence exist there,
and return hither again, and are produced from the
dead. And if this is so, that the living are produced
again from the dead, can there be any other conse-
quence than that our souls are there? for surely they
could not be produced again if they did not exist; and
this would be a sufficient proof that these things are so,
if it should in reality be evident that the living are pro-
duced from no other source than the dead. But, if
this is not the case, there will be need of other
arguments.
"Certainly," said Cebes.
"You must not, then," he continued, "consider this
only with respect to men, if you wish to ascertain it
with greater certainty, but also with respect to all
animals and plants, and, in a word, with respect to
every thing that is subject to generation, let us see
whether they are not all so produced, no otherwise than
contraries from contraries, wherever they have any such
quality, as for instance the honourable is contrary to
the base, and the just to the unjust, and so with ten
thousand other things. Let us consider this, then,
whether it is necessary that all things which have a
contrary should be produced from nothing else than
their contrary. As, for instance, when any thing be-
comes greater, is it not necessary that, from being
previously smaller, it afterwards became greater?"
"Yes."
"And if it becomes smaller, will it not, from being
previously greater, afterwards become smaller?"
"It is so," he replied.
"And from stronger, weaker? and from slower,
swifter?"
6(
'Certainly."
Phædo
141
What then? if any thing becomes worse, must it
not become so from better? and if more just, from more
unjust? "
'How should it not?"
"We have then," he said, "sufficiently determined
this, that all things are thus produced, contraries from
contraries?"
"Certainly."
"What next? is there also something of this kind in
them, for instance, between all two contraries a mutual
twofold production, from one to the other, and from
that other back again? for between a greater thing
and a smaller there is increase and decrease, and do we
not accordingly call the one to increase, the other to
decrease?"
"Yes," he replied.
“And must not to be separated and commingled, to
grow cold and to grow warm, and every thing in the
same manner, even though sometimes we have not
names to designate them, yet in fact be every where
thus circumstanced of necessity, as to be produced from
each other, and be subject to a reciprocal generation?"
Certainly," he replied.
<<
"What then?" said Socrates, "has life any contrary,
as waking has its contrary, sleeping? "
"Certainly," he answered.
"What?
"Death," he replied.
(C
Are not these, then, produced from each other, since
they are contraries, and are not the modes by which they
are produced twofold, intervening between these two?
How should it be otherwise?"
"I then," continued Socrates, "will describe to you
one pair of the contraries which I have just now men-
tioned, both what it is and its mode of production; and
do you describe to me the other. I say that one is to
sleep, the other to awake; and from sleeping awaking
is produced, and from awaking sleeping, and that the
modes of their production are the one to fall asleep,
the other to be roused. Have I sufficiently explained
this to you or not?"
142
Plato
"Certainly.
"Do you then," he said, "describe to me, in the same
manner, with respect to life and death? Do you not
say that life is contrary to death?"
"I do."
"And that they are produced from each other?"
"Yes."
"What, then, is produced from life?"
"Death," he replied.
"What, then," said he, "is produced from death?"
"I must needs confess," he replied, "that life is."
"From the dead, then, O Cebes, living things and
living men are produced."
"It appears so,” he said.
"Our souls, therefore," said Socrates, "exist in
Hades."
So it seems."
"With respect, then, to their mode of production, is
not one of them very clear? for to die surely is clear,
is it not?"
"Certainly," he replied.
"What, then, shall we do?" he continued; "shall we
not find a corresponding contrary mode of production,
or will nature be defective in this? Or must we dis-
cover a contrary mode of production to dying?'
"By all means," he said.
What is this?
"To revive."
""
"Therefore," he proceeded, "if there is such a thing
72 as to revive, will not this reviving be a mode of pro-
duction from the dead to the living?
"Certainly.
""
""
"Thus, then, we have agreed, that the living are pro-
duced from the dead, no less than the dead from the
living but, this being the case, there appears to me
sufficient proof that the souls of the dead must neces-
sarily exist somewhere, from whence they are again.
produced."
"It appears to me, Socrates," he said, "that this
must necessarily follow from what has been admitted.”
"See now, O Cebes," he said, "that we have not
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143
:
agreed on these things improperly, as it appears to
me for if one class of things were not constantly given
back in the place of another, revolving as it were in
a circle, but generation were direct from one thing alone
into its opposite, and did not turn round again to the
other, or retrace its course, do you know that all things
would at length have the same form, be in the same
state, and cease to be produced?
How say you?" he asked.
"It is by no means difficult," he replied, "to under-
stand what I mean; if, for instance, there should be
such a thing as falling asleep, but no reciprocal waking
again produced from a state of sleep, you know that at
length all things would show the fable of Endymion
to be a jest, and it would be thought nothing at all of,
because every thing else would be in the same state as
him, namely, asleep. And if all things were mingled
together, but never separated, that doctrine of Anax-
agoras would soon be verified, all things would be
together.' Likewise, my dear Cebes, if all things that
partake of life should die, and after they are dead should
remain in this state of death, and not revive again,
would it not necessarily follow that at length all things
should be dead, and nothing alive? for if living beings
are produced from other things, and living beings die,
what could prevent their being all absorbed in death? "
"Nothing whatever, I think, Socrates," replied
Cebes, "but you appear to me to speak the exact truth."
"For, Cebes," he continued, "as it seems to me, such
undoubtedly is the case, and we have not admitted these
things under a delusion, but it is in reality true that
there is a reviving again, that the living are produced
from the dead, that the souls of the dead exist, and
that the condition of the good is better, and of the
evil, worse.
""
"And indeed," said Cebes, interrupting him,
'according to that doctrine, Socrates, which you are
frequently in the habit of advancing, if it is true, that
our learning is nothing else than reminiscence, accord-
ing to this it is surely necessary that we must at some
former time have learned what we now remember.
144
Plato
But this is impossible, unless our soul existed some-
73 where before it came into this human form; so that
from hence also the soul appears to be something
immortal.
"But, Cebes,” said Simmias, interrupting him, "what
proofs are there of these things? remind me of them,
for I do not very well remember them at present."
"It is proved," said Cebes, "by one argument, and
that a most beautiful one, that men, when questioned,
if one questions them properly, of themselves describe
all things as they are: however, if they had not innate
knowledge and right reason, they would never be able
to do this. Moreover, if one leads them to diagrams,
or any thing else of the kind, it is then most clearly
apparent that this is the case.
""
""
"But if you are not persuaded in this way, Simmias,'
said Socrates, see if you will agree with us on con-
sidering the matter thus. For do you doubt how that
which is called learning is reminiscence?"
"I do not doubt," said Simmias, "but I require this
very thing of which we are speaking, to be reminded;
and indeed, from what Cebes has begun to say, I almost
now remember, and am persuaded; nevertheless, how-
ever, I should like to hear now how you would attempt
to prove it."
"I do it thus," he replied: "we admit surely that if
any one be reminded of any thing, he must needs have
known that thing at some time or other before."
"Certainly," he said.
"Do we then admit this also, that when knowledge
comes in a certain manner it is reminiscence? But the
manner I mean is this; if any one, upon seeing or hear-
ing, or perceiving through the medium of any other
sense, some particular thing, should not only know that,
but also form an idea of something else, of which the
knowledge is not the same, but different, should we not
justly say, that he remembered that of which he received
the idea?"
"How mean you?'
""
"For instance; the knowledge of a man is different
from that of a lyre."
Phædo
145
"How not?"
"Do you not know, then, that lovers when they see a
lyre, or a garment, or any thing else which their
favourite is accustomed to use, are thus affected; they
both recognise the lyre, and receive in their minds the
form of the person to whom the lyre belonged? This
is reminiscence: just as any one, seeing Simmias, is
often reminded of Cebes, and so in an infinite number
of similar instances."
"An infinite number indeed, by Jupiter," said
Simmias.
"Is not then," he said, "something of this sort a
kind of reminiscence? especially when one is thus
affected with respect to things which, from lapse of
time, and not thinking of them, one has now for-
gotten?"
Certainly," he replied.
"But what?" he continued, "does it happen, that
when one sees a painted horse or a painted lyre, one
is reminded of a man, and that when one sees a picture
of Simmias one is reminded of Cebes?"
(C
Certainly.
And does it not also happen, that on seeing a picture
of Simmias one is reminded of Simmias himself?
"It does indeed," he replied.
"Does it not happen, then, according to all this, that
reminiscence arises partly from things like, and partly
from things unlike?
"It does."
"But when one is reminded by things like, is it not
necessary that one should be thus further affected, so as
to perceive whether, as regards likeness, this falls short
or not of the thing of which one has been reminded?"
"It is necessary," he replied.
'Consider, then," said Socrates, "if the case is thus.
Do we allow that there is such a thing as equality?
I do not mean of one log with another, nor one stone
with another, nor any thing else of this kind, but some-
thing altogether different from all these,-abstract
equality; do we allow that there is any such thing or
not?"
VOL. I.
L
74
146
Plato
"By Jupiter, we most assuredly do allow it," replied
Simmias.
And do we know what it is itself?"
"Certainly," he replied.
'Whence have we derived the knowledge of it? Is
it not from the things we have just now mentioned, and
that from seeing logs, or stones, or other things of the
kind, equal, we have from these formed an idea of
that which is different from these? for does it not appear
to you to be different? Consider the matter thus. Do
not stones that are equal, and logs sometimes that are
the same, appear at one time equal, and at another
not?"
"Certainly."
(6
But what? does abstract equality ever appear to
you unequal? or equality inequality?
"Never, Socrates, at any time.”
"These equal things, then," he said, "and abstract
equality, are not the same e?
"By no means, Socrates, as it appears.
"However, from these equal things," he said, "which
are different from that abstract equality, have you not
formed your idea and derived your knowledge of it?"
'You speak most truly," he replied.
44
"Is it not, therefore, from its being like or unlike
them? "
"Certainly."
"But it makes no difference," he said. 'When,
therefore, on seeing one thing, you form, from the sight
of it, the notion of another, whether like or unlike,
this," he said, "must necessarily be reminiscence."
66
Certainly.'
"What, then, as to this?" he continued; "are we
affected in any such way with regard to logs and the
equal things we have just now spoken of? and do they
appear to us to be equal in the same manner as abstract
equality itself is, or do they fall short in some degree,
or not at all, of being such as equality itself is?"
They fall far short," he replied.
"Do we admit, then, that when one, on beholding
some particular thing, perceives that it aims, as that
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147
which I now see, at being like something else that
exists, but falls short of it, and cannot become such
as that is, but is inferior to it, do we admit that he who
perceives this must necessarily have had a previous
knowledge of that which he says it resembles, though
imperfectly?"
It is necessary.
"What then? are we affected in some such way, or
not, with respect to things equal and abstract equality
itself?"
"Assuredly."
"It is necessary, therefore, that we must have known
abstract equality before the time when on first seeing 75
equal things, we perceived that they all aimed at
resembling equality, but failed in doing so."
"Such is the case."
((
'Moreover, we admit this too, that we perceived
this, and could not possibly perceive it by any other
means than the sight, or touch, or some other of the
senses for I say the same of them all."
"For they are the same, Socrates, so far as our argu-
ment's concerned."
"However, we must perceive by means of the senses,
that all things which come under the senses aim at that
abstract equality, and yet fall short of it: or how shall
we say it is? "
Even so.'
'Before, then, we began to see, and hear, and use
ou: other senses, we must have had a knowledge of
equality itself, what it is, if we were to refer to it those
equal things that come under the senses, and observe
that all such things aim at resembling that, but fall
far short of it."
"This necessarily follows, Socrates, from what has
been already said."
“But did we not, as soon as we were born, see and
hear, and possess our other senses?
"Certainly."
""
"But, we have said, before we possessed these, we
must have had a knowledge of abstract equality?"
"Yes."
148
Plato
76
"We must have had it, then, as it seems, before
we were born."
"It seems so."
"If, therefore, having this before we were born, we
were born possessing it, we knew both before we were
born, and as soon as we were born, not only the equal
and the greater and smaller, but all things of the kind;
for our present discussion is not more respecting
equality than the beautiful itself, the good, the just, and
the holy, and in one word, respecting every thing which
we mark with the seal of existence, both in the ques-
tions we ask, and the answers we give. So that we
must necessarily have had a knowledge of all these
before we were born."
"Such is the case."
"And if, having once had it, we did not constantly
forget it, we should always be born with this know-
ledge, and should always retain it through life for to
know is this, when one has got a knowledge of any
thing, to retain and not lose it; for do we not call this
oblivion, Simmias, the loss of knowledge?”
"Assuredly, Socrates," he replied.
"But if, having had it before we were born, we lose
it at our birth, and afterwards, through exercising the
senses about these things, we recover the know ledge
which we once before possessed, would not that hich
we call learning be a recovery of our own knowledge?
and in saying that this is to remember should we not
say rightly?
Certainly."
1
"For this appeared to be possible, for one having
perceived any thing, either by seeing or hearing, or
employing any other sense, to form an idea of sonie-
thing different from this, which he had forgotten, and
with which this was connected by being unlike or lile.
So that, as I said, one of these two things must follow,
either we are all born with this knowledge, and we
retain it through life, or those whom we say learn after-
wards do nothing else but remember, and this learning
will be reminiscence.'
"Such certainly is the case, Socrates."
ļ
Phædo
149
Which, then, do you choose, Simmias: that we are
born with knowledge, or that we afterwards remember
what we had formerly known?"
"At present, Socrates, I am unable to choose?"
<<
But what? are you able to choose in this case, and
what do you think about it? Can a man, who possesses
knowledge, give a reason for the things that he knows,
or not?"
"He needs must be able to do so, Socrates," he
replied.
(C
And do all men appear to you, to be able to give
a reason for the things of which we have just now been
speaking?"
"I wish they could," said Simmias; "but I am much
more afraid, that at this time to-morrow, there will
no longer be any one able to do this properly."
((
"Do not all men then, Simmias," he said, seem to
you to know these things?”
"By no means.
""
"Do they remember, then, what they once learned?"
"Necessarily so."
"When did our souls receive this knowledge? not
surely, since we were born into the world."
(
Assuredly not.”
Before, then?"
"Yes."
"Our souls therefore, Simmias, existed before they
were in a human form, separate from bodies, and
possessed intelligence."
Unless, Socrates, we receive this knowledge at our
birth, for this period yet remains."
"Be it so, my friend.
But at what other time do we
lose it? for we are not born with it, as we have just
now admitted. Do we lose it then at the very time.
in which we receive it? Or can you mention any other
time?"
66
'By no means, Socrates: I was not aware that I was
saying nothing to the purpose."
'Does the case then stand thus with us, Simmias,"
he proceeded. "If those things which we are con-
tinually talking about really exist, the beautiful, the
150
Plato
good, and every such essence, and to this we refer all
things that come under the senses, as finding it to have
a prior existence, and to be our own, and if we com-
pare these things to it, it necessarily follows, that as
these exist, so likewise our soul exists even before we
are born; but if these do not exist this discussion will
have been undertaken in vain. Is it not so? and is
there not an equal necessity, both that these things
should exist, and our souls also before we are born,
and if not the former neither the latter?
"Most assuredly, Socrates," said Simmias, "there
appears to me to be the same necessity, and the argu-
77 ment admirably tends to prove that our souls exist
before we are born, just as that essence does which you
have now mentioned. For I hold nothing so clear to
me as this, that all such things most certainly exist,
as the beautiful, the good, and all the rest that you
just now spoke of; and as far as I am concerned the
case is sufficiently demonstrated.”
"(
'But how does it appear to Cebes?" said Socrates;
“for it is necessary to persuade Cebes too."
"He is sufficiently persuaded, I think," said Simmias,
"although he is the most pertinacious of men in dis-
trusting arguments. Yet I think he is sufficiently per-
suaded of this, that our soul existed before we were
born. But whether when we are dead, it will still exist,
does not appear to me to have been demonstrated,
Socrates," he continued, "but that popular doubt,
which Cebes just now mentioned, still stands in our
way, whether, when a man dies, the soul is not dis-
persed, and this is the end of its existence. For what
hinders its being born, and formed from some other
source, and existing before it came into a human body,
and yet when it has come, and is separated from this
body, its then also dying itself, and being destroyed?"
"You say well, Simmias," said Cebes; "for it appears.
that only one half of what is necessary has been demon-
strated, namely, that our soul existed before we were
born: but it is necessary to demonstrate further, that
when we are dead, it will exist no less than before we
were born, if the demonstration is to be made com-
plete."
Phædo
151
"This has been even now demonstrated, Simmias
and Cebes," said Socrates, "if you will only connect
this last argument with that which we before assented
to, that every thing living is produced from that which
is dead. For if the soul exists before, and it is neces-
sary for it when it enters into life, and is born, to be
produced from nothing else than death, and from being
dead, how is it not necessary for it also to exist after
death, since it must needs be produced again? What
you require, then, has been already demonstrated. How-
ever, both you and Simmias appear to me as if you
wished to sift this argument more thoroughly, and to
be afraid like children, lest on the soul's departure from
the body the winds should blow it away and disperse
it, especially if one should happen to die not in a calm,
but in a violent storm."
Upon this Cebes, smiling, said, "Endeavour to teach
us better, Socrates, as if we were afraid, or rather not
as if we were afraid, though perhaps there is some boy
within us who has such a dread. Let us, then, endeav-
our to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of
hobgoblins."
(6
"But you must charm him every day," said Socrates,
"until you have quieted his fears."
"But whence, Socrates," he said, can we procure a 78
skilful charmer for such a case, now that you are about
to leave us?
,,
"Greece is wide, Cebes," he replied, "and in it surely
there are skilful men, there are also many barbarous
nations, all of which you should search through, seek-
ing such a charmer, sparing neither money nor toil, as
there is nothing on which you can more seasonably
spend your money. You should also seek for him
among yourselves; for perhaps you could not easily find
any more competent than yourselves to do this."
"This shall be done," said Cebes, "but, if it is agree-
able to you, let us return to the point from whence we
digressed.
>>
"It will be agreeable to me, for how should it
not?'
"You say well," rejoined Cebes.
"We ought then," said Socrates, "to ask ourselves
4
152
Plato
79
some such question as this, to what kind of thing it
appertains to be thus affected, namely to be dispersed,
and for what we ought to fear, lest it should be so
affected, and for what not. And after this, we should
consider which of the two the soul is; and in the result
should either be confident or fearful for our soul.'
"You speak truly," said he.
"Does it not, then, appertain to that which is formed
by composition, and is naturally compounded, to be thus
affected, to be dissolved in the same manner as that in
which it was compounded; and if there is any thing
not compounded, does it not appertain to this alone,
if to any thing, not to be thus affected?'
"It appears to me to be so," said Cebes.
"Is it not most probable then that things which are
always the same, and in the same state, are uncom-
pounded, but that things which are constantly chang-
ing, and are never in the same state, are compounded?”
"To me it appears so.
""
"Let us return then," he said, "to the subjects on
which we before discoursed. Whether is essence it-
self, of which we gave this account that it exists, both
in our questions and answers, always the same, or does
it sometimes change? Does equality itself, the beauti-
ful itself, and each several thing which is, ever undergo
any change, however small? Or does each of them
which exists, being an unmixed essence by itself, con-
tinue always the same, and in the same state, and never
undergo any variation at all under any circumstances?"
"They must of necessity continue the same and in
the same state, Socrates," said Cebes.
“But what shall we say of the many beautiful things,
such as men, horses, garments, or other things of the
kind, whether equal, or beautiful, or of all things
synonymous with them? Do they continue the same,
or, quite contrary to the former, are they never at any
time, so to say, the same, either with respect to them-
selves or one another?
"These, on the other hand," replied Cebes, "never
continue the same.
""
"These then you can touch, or see, or perceive by
Phædo
153
the other senses; but those that continue the same, you
cannot apprehend in any other way than by the exercise
of thought; for such things are invisible, and are not
seen?'
""
"You say what is strictly true," replied Cebes.
“We may assume then, if you please," he continued,
"that there are two species of things, the one visible,
the other invisible?
"We may," he said.
"And the invisible always continuing the same, but
the visible never the same?"
(6
"This too," he said, we may assume.
""
"Come then," he asked, "is there any thing else be-
longing to us, than on the one hand body, and on the
other soul? "
"Nothing else," he replied.
"To which species, then, shall we say the body is
more like, and more nearly allied?
""
"It is clear to every one," he said, "that it is to the
visible."
"But what of the soul? Is it visible or invisible?'
It is not visible to men, Socrates,” he replied.
"But we speak of things which are visible or not so
to the nature of men: or to some other nature, think
you?
""
"To that of men.
"What then shall we say of the soul, that it is visible,
or not visible?"
(C
Not visible."
"Is it then invisible? "
"Yes."
"The soul then is more like the invisible than the
body, and the body, the visible? "
"It must needs be so, Socrates."
"And did we not some time since say this too, that
the soul, when it employs the body to examine any
thing, either by means of the sight or hearing, or any
other sense, (for to examine any thing by means of the
body is to do so by the senses,) is then drawn by the
body to things that never continue the same, and
wanders and is confused, and reels as if intoxicated
154
Plato
through coming into contact with things of this
kind?"
"Certainly."
"But when it examines any thing by itself, does it
approach that which is pure, eternal, immortal, and
unchangeable, and, as being allied to it, continue con-
stantly with it, so long as it subsists by itself, and has
the power, and does it cease from its wandering, and
constantly continue the same with respect to those
things, through coming into contact with things of this
kind? and is this affection of the soul called wisdom?"
"You speak," he said, "in every respect, well and
truly, Socrates.”
"To which species of the two, then, both from what
was before, and now said, does the soul appear to you
to be more like and more nearly allied?"
"Every one, I think, would allow, Socrates," he
replied, "even the dullest person, from this method of
reasoning that the soul is in every respect more like
that which continues constantly the same, than that
which does not so."
But what as to the body?
"It is more like the other.”
Consider it also thus, that, when soul and body are
80 together, nature enjoins the latter to be subservient and
obey, the former to rule and exercise dominion. And
in this way, which of the two appears to you to be like
the divine, and which the mortal? Does it not appear
to you to be natural that the divine should rule and com-
mand, but the mortal obey and be subservient?
"To me it does so."
Which, then, does the soul resemble?'
"It is clear, Socrates, that the soul resembles the
divine, but the body, the mortal."
"Consider then, Cebes," said he, "whether, from all
that has been said, these conclusions follow, that the
soul is most like that which is divine, immortal, intelli-
gent, uniform, indissoluble, and which always continues
in the same state, but that the body on the other hand
is most like that which is human, mortal, unintelligent,
multiform, dissoluble, and which never continues in the
Phædo
155
same state. Can we say any thing against this, my
dear Cebes, to show that it is not so?
"We cannot."
"What then? Since these things are so, does it not
appertain to the body to be quickly dissolved, but to
the soul, on the contrary, to be altogether indissoluble,
or nearly so?"
"How not?"
You perceive, however," he said, "that when a man
dies, the visible part of him, the body, which is exposed
to sight, and which we call a corpse, to which it apper-
tains to be dissolved, to fall asunder and be dispersed,
does not immediately undergo any of these affections,
but remains for a considerable time, and especially so
if any one should die with his body in full vigour, and
at a corresponding age; for when the body has collapsed
and been embalmed, as those that are embalmed in
Egypt, it remains almost entire for an incredible length
of time; and some parts of the body, even though it
does decay, such as the bones and nerves, and every
thing of that kind, are nevertheless, as one may say,
immortal. Is it not so?”
"Yes."
"Can the soul, then, which is invisible, and which
goes to another place like itself, excellent, pure, and
invisible, and therefore truly called the invisible world,
to the presence of a good and wise God, (whither if God
will, my soul also must shortly go,) can this soul of
ours, I ask, being such and of such a nature, when
separated from the body be immediately dispersed and
destroyed, as most men assert? Far from it, my dear
Cebes and Simmias. But the case is much rather thus ;
if it is separated in a pure state, taking nothing of the
body with it, as not having willingly communicated with
it in the present life, but having shunned it and gathered
itself within itself, as constantly studying this; but this
is nothing else than to pursue philosophy aright, and in
reality to study how to die easily; would not this be to 81
study how to die?
"Most assuredly."
"Does not the soul, then, when in this state, depart
156
Plato
to that which resembles itself, the invisible, the divine,
immortal, and wise? and on its arrival there, is it not
its lot to be happy, free from error, ignorance, fears,
wild passions, and all the other evils to which human
nature is subject, and, as is said of the initiated, does it
not in truth pass the rest of its time with the gods?
Must we affirm that it is so, Cebes, or otherwise?
"So, by Jupiter," said Cebes.
"But, I think, if it departs from the body polluted
and impure, as having constantly held communion with
the body, and having served and loved it, and been be-
witched by it, through desires and pleasures, so as to
think that there is nothing real except what is corporeal,
which one can touch and see, and drink and eat, and
employ for sensual purposes; but what is dark and
invisible to the eyes, which is intellectual and appre-
hended by philosophy, having been accustomed to hate,
fear, and shun this, do you think that a soul thus
affected can depart from the body by itself, and uncon-
taminated?
"By no means whatever," he replied.
"But I think it will be impressed with that which is
corporeal, which the intercourse and communion of the
body, through constant association and great attention,
have made natural to it."
"Certainly."
"We must think, my dear Cebes, that this is ponder-
ous and heavy, earthly and visible, by possessing which
such a soul is weighed down, and drawn again into the
visible world through dread of the invisible and of
Hades, wandering, as it is said, amongst monuments
and tombs, about which, indeed, certain shadowy phan-
toms of souls have been seen, being such images as
those souls produced which have not departed pure from
the body, but which partake of the visible, on which
account also they are visible."
"That is probable, Socrates."
"Probable indeed, Cebes; and not that these are the
souls of the good, but of the wicked, which are com-
pelled to wander about such places, paying the penalty
of their former conduct, which was evil; and they
Phædo
157
wander about so long, until, through the desire of the
corporeal nature that accompanies them, they are again
united to a body; and they are united, as is probable,
to animals having the same habits as those they have
given themselves up to during life."
(6
But what do you say these are, Socrates?'
"For instance, those who have given themselves up
to gluttony, wantonness, and drinking, and having put
no restraint on themselves, will probably be clothed in
the form of asses and brutes of that kind. Do you not 82
think so?"
(6
<<
You say what is very probable."
'And that such as have set great value on injustice,
tyranny, and rapine, will be clothed in the species of
wolves, hawks, and kites? Where else can we say
such souls go?
""
Without doubt," said Cebes, "into such as these.”
"Is it not then evident," he continued, "as to the
rest, whither each will go, according to the resemblances
of their several pursuits?"
"It is evident,” he replied, "how not?"
"Of these, then," he said, "are not they the most
happy, and do they not go to the best place, who have
practised that social and civilized virtue, which they call
temperance and justice, and which is produced from
habit and exercise, without philosophy and reflection?'
"In what respect are these the most happy?
"Because it is probable that these should again
migrate into a corresponding civilized and peaceable
kind of animals, such as bees perhaps, or wasps, or
ants, or even into the same human species again, and
from these become moderate men.
"It is probable."
(C
But it is not lawful for any one, who has not studied
philosophy and departed this life perfectly pure, to pass
into the rank of gods, but only for the true lover of
wisdom. And on this account, my friends Simmias and
Cebes, those who philosophize rightly abstain from all
bodily desires, and persevere in doing so, and do not
give themselves up to them, not fearing the loss of
property and poverty, as the generality of men and the
158
Plato
lovers of wealth; nor again dreading disgrace and igno-
miny like those who are lovers of power and honour, do
they then abstain from them."
For it would not become them to do so, Socrates,"
says Cebes.
"It would not, by Jupiter," he rejoined. "Where-
fore, Cebes, they who care at all for their soul, and do
not spend their lives in the culture of their bodies,
despising all these, proceed not in the same way with
them, as being ignorant whither they are going, but
being convinced that they ought not to act contrary to
philosophy, but in accordance with the freedom and
purification she affords, they give themselves up to her
direction, following her wherever she leads."
"How, Socrates?
""
"I will tell you," he replied. "The lovers of wisdom
know, that philosophy receiving their soul plainly bound
and glued to the body, and compelled to view things
through this, as through a prison, and not directly by
herself, and sunk in utter ignorance, and perceiving too
the strength of the prison, that it arises from desire, so
that he that is bound as much as possible assists in
83 binding himself. I say, then, the lovers of wisdom
know that philosophy, receiving their soul in this state,
gently exhorts it, and endeavours to free it, by showing
that the view of things by means of the eyes is full of
deception, as also is that through the ears and the
other senses, persuading an abandonment of these so
far as it is not absolutely necessary to use them, and
advising the soul to be collected and concentrated
within itself, and to believe nothing else but herself,
with respect to what she herself understands of things
that have a real subsistence, and to consider nothing
true which she views through the medium of others,
and which differ under different aspects; for that a
thing of this kind is sensible and visible, but that what
she herself perceives is intelligible and invisible. The
soul of the true philosopher, therefore, thinking that
she ought not to oppose this deliverance, accordingly
abstains as much as possible from pleasures and
desires, griefs and fears, considering that when any one

Phædo
159
is exceedingly delighted or alarmed, grieved or in-
fluenced by desire, he does not merely suffer such evil
from these things as one might suppose, such as either
being sick or wasting his property, through indulging
his desires; but that which is the greatest evil, and the
worst of all, this he suffers and is not conscious of it."
"But what is this evil, Socrates?" said Cebes.
"That the soul of every man is compelled to be either
vehemently delighted or grieved about some particular
thing, and at the same time to consider that the thing
about which it is thus strongly affected is most real
and most true, though it is not so. But these are
chiefly visible objects; are they not?"
"Certainly."
"In this state of affection, then, is not the soul
especially shackled by the body?
"How so?"
""
"Because each pleasure and pain, having a nail as it
were, nails the soul to the body, and fastens it to it,
and causes it to become corporeal, deeming those things
to be true whatever the body asserts to be so. For, in
consequence of its forming the same opinions with the
body, and delighting in the same things, it is com-
pelled, I think, to possess similar manners, and to be
similarly nourished, so that it can never pass into Hades
in a pure state, but must ever depart polluted by the
body, and so quickly falls again into another body, and
grows up as if it were sown, and consequently is de-
prived of all association with that which is divine, and
pure, and uniform."
"You speak most truly, Socrates," said Cebes.
'For these reasons, therefore, Cebes, those who are
truly lovers of wisdom are moderate and resolute, and
not for the reasons that most people say. Do you think
as they do?
""
"Assuredly not."
"No, truly. But the soul of a philosopher would
reason thus, and would not think that philosophy ought
to set it free, and that when it is freed it should give
itself up again to pleasures and pains, to bind it down
again, and make her work void, weaving a kind of
84
160
Plato
Penelope's web the reverse way.
On the contrary,
effecting a calm of the passions, and following the guid-
ance of reason, and being always intent on this, con-
templating that which is true and divine, and not subject
to opinion, and being nourished by it, it thinks that it
ought to live in this manner as long as it does live, and
that when it dies it shall go to a kindred essence, and
one like itself, and shall be freed from human evils.
From such a regimen as this the soul has no occasion
to fear, Simmias and Cebes, while it strictly attends to
these things, lest being torn to pieces at its departure
from the body it should be blown about and dissipated
by the winds, and no longer have an existence any
where."
When Socrates had thus spoken, a long silence
ensued; and Socrates himself was pondering upon what
had been said, as he appeared, and so did most of us:
but Cebes and Simmias were conversing a little while
with each other. At length Socrates perceiving them,
said, "What think you of what has been said? does it
appear to you to have been proved sufficiently? for many
doubts and objections still remain if any one will
examine them thoroughly. If, then, you are consider-
ing some other subject, I have nothing to say; but if
you are doubting about this, do not hesitate both your-
selves to speak and express your opinion, if it appears
to you in any respect that it might have been argued
better, and to call me in again to your assistance, if you
think you can be at all benefited by my help.”
Upon this Simmias said, "Indeed, Socrates, I will tell
you the truth: for some time each of us, being in doubt,
has been urging and exhorting the other to question
you, from a desire to hear our doubts solved, but we
were afraid of giving you trouble, lest it should be dis-
agreeable to you in your present circumstances."
But he, upon hearing this, gently smiled, and said,
"Bless me, Simmias; with difficulty indeed, could I
persuade other men that I do not consider my present
condition a calamity, since I am not able to persuade
even you; but you are afraid lest I should be more
morose now than during the former part of my life.
Phædo
IỔI
And, as it seems, I appear to you to be inferior to swans
with respect to divination, who, when they perceive
that they must needs die, though they have been used
to sing before, sing then more than ever, rejoicing that 85
they are about to depart to that deity whose servants
they are. But men, through their own fear of death,
belie the swans too, and say that they, lamenting their
death, sing their last song through grief, and they do
not consider that no bird sings when it is hungry or cold,
or is afflicted with any other pain, not even the night-
ingale, or swallow, or the hoopoes, which they say sing
lamenting through grief. But neither do these birds
appear to me to sing through sorrow, nor yet do swans;
but in my opinion, belonging to Apollo, they are pro-
phetic, and foreseeing the blessings of Hades, they sing
and rejoice on that day more excellently than at any
preceding time. But I too consider myself to be a
fellow-servant of the swans, and sacred to the same
god, and that I have received the power of divination
from our common master no less than they, and that I
do not depart from this life with less spirits than they.
On this account, therefore, it is right that you should
both speak and ask whatever you please, as long as the
Athenian Eleven permit."
'You say well," said Simmias, "and both I will tell
you what are my doubts, and he in turn how far he
does not assent to what has been said. For it appears
to me, Socrates, probably as it does to you with respect
to these matters, that to know them clearly in the
present life is either impossible, or very difficult: on the
other hand, however, not to test what has been said of
them in every possible way, so as not to desist until on
examining them in every point of view, one has ex-
hausted every effort, is the part of a very weak man.
For we ought with respect to these things, either to
learn from others how they stand, or to discover them
for one's-self, or, if both these are impossible, then,
taking the best of human reasonings and that which is
the most difficult to be confuted, and embarking on this,
as one who risks himself on a raft, so to sail through
life, unless one could be carried more safely, and with
VOL. I.
M
162
Plato
less risk, on a surer conveyance or some divine reason.
I, therefore, shall not now be ashamed to question you,
since you bid me do so, nor shall I blame myself here-
after, for not having now told you what I think; for to
me, Socrates, when I consider the matter, both with
myself and with Cebes, what has been said does not
appear to have been sufficiently proved."
Then said Socrates, "Perhaps, my friend, you have
the truth on your side; but tell me in what respect it
was not sufficiently proved."
66
In this," he answered, “because any one might use
the same argument with respect to harmony, and a
lyre, and its chords, that harmony is something invisible
and incorporeal, very beautiful and divine, in a well-
86 modulated lyre: but the lyre and its chords are bodies,
and of corporeal form, compounded and earthly, and
akin to that which is mortal. When any one, then, has
either broken the lyre, or cut or burst the chords, he
might maintain from the same reasoning as yours, that
it is necessary the harmony should still exist and not be
destroyed; for there could be no possibility that the lyre
should subsist any longer when the chords are burst,
and that the chords which are of a mortal nature should
subsist, but that the harmony, which is of the same.
nature and akin to that which is divine and immortal,
should become extinct, and perish before that which is
mortal; but he might say that the harmony must needs
subsist somewhere, and that the wood and chords must
decay, before it can undergo any change. For I think,
Socrates, that you yourself have arrived at this conclu-
sion, that we consider the soul to be pretty much of
this kind, namely, that our body being compacted and
held together by heat and cold, dryness and moisture,
and other such qualities, our soul is the fusion and
harmony of these, when they are well and duly com-
bined with each other. If then, the soul is a kind of
harmony, it is evident that when our body is unduly
relaxed or strained through diseases and other maladies,
the soul must of necessity immediately perish, although
it is most divine, just as other harmonies which subsist
in sounds or in the various works of artizans, but that
Phædo
163
the remains of the body of each person last for a long
time, till they are either burnt or decayed. Consider
then what we shall say to this reasoning, if any one
should maintain that the soul being a fusion of the
several qualities in the body, perishes first in that which
is called death."
Socrates, therefore, looking steadfastly at us, as he
was generally accustomed to do, and smiling, said,
Simmias indeed speaks justly. If then, any one of
you is more prompt than I am, why does he not answer?
for he seems to have handled my argument not badly.
It appears to me, however, that before we make our
reply we should first hear from Cebes, what he too
objects to our argument, in order that, some time inter-
vening, we may consider what we shall say, and then
when we have heard them, we may give up to them, if
they appear to speak agreeably to truth, or if not, we
may then uphold our own argument. Come then,
Cebes," he continued, "say what it is that disturbs you,
so as to cause your unbelief."
"I will tell you," said Cebes; "the argument seems
to me to rest where it was, and to be liable to the same
objection that we mentioned before. For, that our soul 87
existed even before it came into this present form, I
do not deny has been very elegantly, and, if it is not
too much to say so, very fully demonstrated: but that
it still exists any where when we are dead, does not
appear to me to have been clearly proved; nor do I give
in to the objection of Simmias, that the soul is not
stronger and more durable than the body, for it appears
to me to excel very far all things of this kind. Why
then,' reason might say, do you still disbelieve? for,
since you see that when a man dies his weaker part still
exists, does it not appear to you to be necessary that
the more durable part should still be preserved during
this period?' Consider then, whether I say any thing
to the purpose in reply to this. For I too, as well as
Simmias, as it seems, stand in need of an illustration:
for the argument appears to me to have been put thus,
as if any one should advance this argument about an
aged weaver who had died, that the man has not yet
<
164
Plato
perished, but perhaps still exists somewhere; and as a
proof, should exhibit the garment which he wore and
had woven himself, that it is entire and has not perished;
and if any one should disbelieve him he would ask,
whether of the two is the more durable, the species of a
man or of a garment, that is constantly in use and being
worn; then should any one answer, that the species of
man is much more durable, he would think it demon-
strated, that beyond all question the man is preserved,
since that which is less durable has not perished. But
I do not think, Simmias, that this is the case, and do
you consider what I say, for every one must think that
he who argues thus argues foolishly. For this weaver,
having worn and woven many such garments, perished
after almost all of them, but before the last I suppose,
and yet it does not on this account follow any the more
that a man is inferior to or weaker than a garment.
And I think the soul might admit this same illustration
with respect to the body, and he who should say the
same things concerning them would appear to me to
speak correctly, that the soul is more durable, but the
body weaker and less durable; for he would say that
each soul wears out many bodies, especially if it lives
many years; for, if the body wastes and is dissolved
while the man still lives, but the soul continually weaves
anew what is worn out, it must necessarily follow that
when the soul is dissolved it must then have on its last
garment, and perish before this alone; but when the
soul has perished the body would show the weakness of
its nature, and quickly rot and vanish. So that it is
not by any means right to place implicit reliance on
this argument, and to believe that when we die our soul
88 still exists somewhere. For, if any one should concede
to him who admits even more than you do, and should
grant to him that not only did our soul exist before we
were born, but that even when we die nothing hinders
the souls of some of us from still existing, and continu-
ing to exist hereafter, and from being often born, and
dying again; for so strong is it by nature, that it can
hold out against repeated births; if he granted this, he
would not yet concede that it does not exhaust itself in
Phædo
165
its many births, and at length perish altogether in some
one of the deaths. But he would say that no one knows
this death and dissolution of the body, which brings
destruction to the soul; for it is impossible for any one
of us to perceive it. If, however, this be the case, it
follows that every one who is confident at the approach
of death is foolishly confident, unless he is able to prove
that the soul is absolutely immortal and imperishable:
otherwise it necessarily follows that he who is about
to die must be alarmed for his soul, lest in its present
disunion from the body it should entirely perish.
""
Upon this, all of us who had heard them speaking
were disagreeably affected, as we afterwards mentioned
to each other; because, after we had been fully per-
suaded by the former arguments, they seemed to disturb
us anew, and to cast us into a distrust, not only of the
arguments already adduced, but of such as might after-
wards be urged, for fear lest we should not be fit judges
of any thing, or lest the things themselves should be
incredible.
Ech. By the gods, Phædo, I can readily excuse you :
for, while I am now hearing you, it occurs to me to ask
myself some such question as this, What arguments
can we any longer believe? since the argument which
Socrates advanced, and which was exceedingly credible,
has now fallen into discredit. For this argument, that
our soul is a kind of harmony, produces a wonderful
impression on me, both now and always, and in being
mentioned, it has reminded me, as it were, that I too
was formerly of the same opinion: so that I stand in
need again, as if from the very beginning, of some
other argument which may persuade me that the soul
of one who dies does not die with the body. Tell me
therefore, by Jupiter, how Socrates followed up the
argument; and whether he too, as you confess was the
case with yourselves, seemed disconcerted at all, or not,
but calmly maintained his position; and maintained it
sufficiently, or defectively. Relate every thing to me as
accurately as you can.
Phæd. Indeed, Echecrates, though I have often
admired Socrates, I was never more delighted than at
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being with him on that occasion. That he should be
89 able to say something is perhaps not at all surprising;
but I especially admired this in him, first of all that he
listened to the argument of the young men so sweetly,
affably, and approvingly; in the next place, that he so
quickly perceived how we were affected by their argu-
ments; and lastly, that he cured us so well and recalled
us, when we were put to flight as it were and van-
quished, and encouraged us to accompany him, and
consider the argument with him.
Ech. How was that?
Phad. I will tell you: I happened to be sitting at his
right hand, near the bed, upon a low seat, but he himself
sat much higher than I. Stroking my head, then, and
laying hold of the hair that hung on my neck, for he
used, often, to play with my hairs, "To-morrow," he
said, "perhaps, Phædo, you will cut off these beautiful
locks?"
"It seems likely, Socrates," said I.
"Not if you are persuaded by me."
"Why so?" I asked.
"To-day," he replied, "both I ought to cut off mine
and you yours, if our argument must die, and we are
unable to revive it. And I, if I were you, and the argu-
ments were to escape me, would take an oath, as the
Argives do, not to suffer my hair to grow until I had
renewed the contest, and vanquished the arguments of
Simmias and Cebes.
But," I said, “even Hercules himself is said not to
have been a match for two."
"Call upon me, then," he said, “as your Iolaus, while
it is yet day."
"I do call on you, then," I said, "not as Hercules
upon Iolaus, but as Iolaus upon Hercules."
"It will make no difference," he replied. "But first
of all we must beware lest we meet with some mis-
chance."
""
"What? I asked.
"That we do not become," he answered, "haters of
reasoning as some become haters of men; for no greater
evil can happen to any one than to hate reasoning.
Phædo
167
F
But hatred of reasoning and hatred of mankind both
spring from the same source. For hatred of mankind
is produced in us from having placed too great reliance
on some one without sufficient knowledge of him, and
from having considered him to be a man altogether
true, sincere, and faithful, and then after a little while.
finding him depraved and unfaithful, and after him
another. And when a man has often experienced this,
and especially from those whom he considered his most
intimate and best friends, at length, having frequently
stumbled, he hates all men, and thinks that there is no
soundness at all in any of them. Have you not per-
ceived that this happens so?"
"Certainly," I replied.
"Is it not a shame?" he said, "and is it not evident
that such a one attempts to deal with men, without
sufficient knowledge of human affairs? For if he had
dealt with them with competent knowledge, as the case
really is, so he would have considered that the good and
the bad are each very few in number, and that those
between both are most numerous.'
"How say you?" I asked.
"In the same manner," he replied, "as with things
very little and very large. Do you think that any thing
is more rare than to find a very large or a very little
man, or dog, or any thing else? and again swift or
slow, beautiful or ugly, white or black? Do you not
perceive that of all such things the extremes are rare go
and few, but that the intermediate are abundant and
numerous?"
"Certainly," I replied.
"Do you not think, then," he continued, "that if a
contest in wickedness were proposed, even here very
few would be found pre-eminent?"
"It is probable,” I said.
"It is so," he said; "but in this respect reasonings
do not resemble men, for I was just now following you
as my leader, but in this they do resemble them, when
any one believes in any argument as true without being
skilled in the art of reasoning, and then shortly after-
wards it appears to him to be false, at one time being
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Plato
so and at another time not, and so on with one after
another; and especially they who devote themselves to
controversial arguments, you are aware at length that
they have become very wise, and have alone discovered
that there is nothing sound and stable either in things
or reasonings, but that all things that exist, as is the
case with the Euripus, are in a constant state of flux
and reflux, and never continue in any one condition for
any length of time.”
'You speak perfectly true," I said.
"Would it not then, Phædo," he said, "be a sad
thing if, when there is a true and sound reasoning,
and such as one can understand, one should then,
through lighting upon such arguments as appear to be
at one time true, and at another false, not blame one's-
self and one's own want of skill, but at length through
grief should anxiously transfer the blame from one's-
self to the arguments, and thereupon pass the rest of
one's life in hating and reviling arguments, and so be
deprived of the truth and knowledge of things that
exist? "
"By Jupiter," I said, "it would be sad indeed."
"In the first place, then," he said, "let us beware of
this, and let us not admit into our souls the notion that
there appears to be nothing sound in reasoning, but
much rather that we are not yet in a sound condition,
and that we ought vigorously and strenuously to en-
deavour to become sound, you and the others on
account of your whole future life, but I on account of
91 my death, since I am in danger at the present time of
not behaving as becomes a philosopher with respect to
this very subject, but as a wrangler like those who are
utterly uninformed. For they, when they dispute about
any thing, care nothing at all for the subject about
which the discussion is, but are anxious about this,
that what they have themselves advanced shall appear
true to the persons present. And I seem to myself on
the present occasion to differ from them only in this
respect; for I shall not be anxious to make what I say
appear true to those who are present, except that may
happen by the way, but that it may appear certainly
Phædo
169
to be so to myself. For I thus reason, my dear friend,
and observe how interestedly, if what I say be true,
it is well to be persuaded of it; but if nothing remains.
to one that is dead, I shall at least during the interval
before death, be less disagreeable to those present by
my lamentations. But this ignorance of mine will not
continue long, for that would be bad, but will shortly be
put an end to. Thus prepared then, Simmias and
Cebes," he continued, "I now proceed to my argument.
Do you however, if you will be persuaded by me, pay
little attention to Socrates, but much more to the truth,
and if I appear to you to say any thing true, assent to
it, but if not, oppose me with all your might, taking
good care that in my zeal I do not deceive both myself
and you, and like a bee depart leaving my sting
behind.
"But let us proceed," he said; "first of all, remind
me of what you said, if I should appear to have for-
gotten it.
For Simmias, as I think, is in doubt and
fears lest the soul, though more divine and beautiful
than the body, should perish before it, as being a species
of harmony. But Cebes appeared to me to grant me
this, that the soul is more durable than the body, but
he argued that it is uncertain to every one, whether
when the soul has worn out many bodies, and that
repeatedly, it does not, on leaving the last body, itself
also perish, so that this very thing is death, the destruc-
tion of the soul, since the body never ceases decaying.
Are not these the things, Simmias and Cebes, which we
have to inquire into?"
They both agreed that they were.
"Whether then," he continued, "do you reject all our
former arguments, or some of them only, and not
others?'
(C
""
Some we do," they replied, "and others not."
What then," he proceeded, "do you say about that
argument, in which we asserted that knowledge is
reminiscence, and that, this being the case, our soul
must necessarily have existed somewhere before it was
enclosed in the body?"
"I, indeed," replied Cebes, "was both then wonder-
92
170
Plato
fully persuaded by it, and now persist in it, as in no
other argument.
"And I too," said Simmias, "am of the same mind,
and should very much wonder if I should ever think
otherwise on that point."
"Then," Socrates said, "you must needs think other-
wise, my Theban friend, if this opinion holds good,
that harmony is something compounded, and that the
soul is a kind of harmony that results from the parts
compacted together in the body. For surely you will
not allow yourself to say that harmony was composed.
prior to the things from which it required to be com-
posed. Would you allow this?"
By no means, Socrates," he replied.
"Do you perceive then," he said, "that this results
from what you say, when you assert that the soul
existed before it came into a human form and body, but
that it was composed from things that did not yet exist?
For harmony is not such as that to which you compare
it; but first the lyre, and the chords, and the sounds yet
unharmonized, exist, and last of all harmony is pro-
duced, and first perishes. How then will this argument
accord with that?"
<<
'Not at all," said Simmias.
And yet," he said, "if in any argument, there ought
to be an accordance in one respecting harmony.
"There ought," said Simmias.
"This of yours however," he said, "is not in accord-
ance. Consider then, which of these two statements
do you prefer, that knowledge is reminiscence, or the
soul harmony?"
"The former, by far, Socrates," he replied, "for the
latter occurred to me without demonstration, through
a certain probability and speciousness whence most men.
derive their opinions. But I am well aware that argu-
ments which draw their demonstrations from probabili-
ties are idle; and unless one is on one's guard against
them, they are very deceptive, both in geometry and all
other subjects. But the argument respecting reminis-
cence and knowledge may be said to have been demon-
strated by a satisfactory hypothesis. For in this way
Phædo
171
it was said that our soul existed before it came into
the body, because the essence that bears the appellation
of that which is,' belongs to it. But of this, as I
persuade myself, I am fully and rightly convinced. It
is therefore necessary, as it seems, that I should neither
allow myself nor any one else to maintain that the soul
is harmony."
"But what, Simmias," said he, "if you consider it
thus? Does it appear to you to appertain to harmony,
or to any other composition, to subsist in any other
way than the very things do of which it is composed?" 93
By no means.
66
""
“And indeed, as I think, neither to do any thing, nor
suffer any thing else, besides what they do or suffer."
He agreed.
"It does not, therefore, appertain to harmony to take
the lead of the things of which it is composed, but to
follow them."
He assented.
"It is then far from being the case that harmony is
moved or sends forth sounds contrariwise, or is in any
other respect opposed to its parts?"
"Far indeed,” he said.
"What then? is not every harmony naturally har-
mony, so far as it has been made to accord?
"I do not understand you," he replied.
"Whether," he said, "if it should be in a greater
degree and more fully to accord, supposing that were
possible, would the harmony be greater and more full,
but if in a less degree and less fully, then would it be
inferior and less full?"
(
"
Certainly."
'Is this then the case with the soul, that, even in the
smallest extent, one soul is more fully and in a greater
degree, or less fully and in a less degree this very thing,
a soul, than another?
'In no respect whatever," he replied.
"Well then," he said, "by Jupiter, is one soul said to
possess intelligence and virtue, and to be good, and
another folly and vice, and to be bad? and is this said
with truth?"
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Plato
94
“With truth, certainly."
"Of those, then, who maintain that the soul is har-
mony, what will any one say that these things are in
the soul, virtue and vice? Will he call them another
kind of harmony and discord? and say that the one,
the good soul, is harmonized, and, being harmony, con-
tains within itself another harmony, but that the other
is discordant, and does not contain within itself another
harmony?"
"I am unable to say," replied Simmias, "but it is
clear that he who maintains that opinion would say
something of the kind."
"But it has been already granted," said he, "that one
soul is not more or less a soul than another; and this is
an admission that one harmony is not to a greater
degree or more fully, or to a less degree or less fully,
a harmony, than another: is it not so?
Certainly."
'And that that which is neither more nor less har-
mony, is neither more nor less harmonized: is it so?"
"It is."
"But does that which is neither more nor less har-
monized partake of more or less harmony, or an equal
amount?"
66
'An equal amount."
'A soul, therefore, since it is not more or less this
very thing, a soul, than another, is not more or less
harmonized?
"Even so."
"Such then being its condition, it cannot partake of
a greater degree of discord or harmony?'
"Certainly not."
"And again, such being its condition, can one soul
partake of a greater degree of vice or virtue than
another, if vice be discord, and virtue harmony?"
"It cannot."
"Or rather, surely, Simmias, according to right
reason, no soul will partake of vice, if it is harmony:
for doubtless harmony, which is perfectly such, can
never partake of discord?"
"Certainly not.”
Phædo
173
Neither, therefore, can a soul, which is perfectly a
soul, partake of vice.”
"How can it, from what has been already said?'
"From this reasoning, then, all souls of all animals
will be equally good, if at least they are by nature
equally this very thing, souls?"
"It appears so to me, Socrates," he said.
(C
And does it appear to you," he said, "to have been
thus rightly argued, and that the argument would lead
to this result, if the hypothesis were correct, that the
soul is harmony?"
"On no account whatever," he replied.
But what," said he, "of all the things that are in
man, is there any thing else that you say bears rule
except the soul, especially if it be wise?"
"I should say not."
"Whether by yielding to the passions in the body, or
by opposing them? My meaning is this: for instance,
when heat and thirst are present, by drawing it the con-
trary way, so as to hinder it from drinking, and when
hunger is present, by hindering it from eating; and in
ten thousand other instances we see the soul opposing
the desires of the body. Do we not?"
"Certainly."
"But have we not before allowed that if the soul were
harmony, it would never utter a sound contrary to the
tension, relaxation, vibration, or any other affection to
which its component parts are subject, but would follow,
and never govern them?
"We did allow it," he replied, "for how could we
do otherwise? "
CC
'What, then, does not the soul now appear to act
quite the contrary, ruling over all the parts, from which
any one might say it subsists, and resisting almost all
of them through the whole of life, and exercising
dominion over them in all manner of ways, punishing
some more severely even with pain, both by gymnastics.
and medicine, and others more mildly, partly threaten-
ing, and partly admonishing the desires, angers, and
fears, as if, being itself of a different nature, it were
conversing with something quite different? Just as
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Plato
Homer has done in the Odyssey, where he speaks of
Ulysses Having struck his breast, he chid his heart
in the following words, Bear up, my heart; ere this
thou hast borne far worse.' Do you think that he com-
posed this in the belief that the soul was harmony, and
capable of being led by the passions of the body, and
not rather that it was able to lead and govern them,
as being something much more divine than to be com-
pared with harmony?"
"By Jupiter, Socrates, it appears so to me."
'Therefore, my excellent friend, it is on no account
95 correct for us to say that the soul is a kind of harmony;
for as it appears, we should neither agree with Homer,
that divine poet,, nor with ourselves."
<<
Such is the case," he replied.
"Be it so, then," said Socrates, "we have already,
as it seems, sufficiently appeased this Theban harmony.
But how, Cebes, and by what arguments shall we
appease this Cadmus?"
"You appear to me,” replied Cebes, "to be likely to
find out; for you have made out this argument against
harmony wonderfully beyond my expectation. For
when Simmias was saying what his doubts were, I
wondered very much whether any one would be able to
answer his reasoning. It therefore appeared to me un-
accountable that he did not withstand the very first
onset of your argument. I should not, therefore, be
surprised if the arguments of Cadmus met with the
same fate."
"My good friend," said Socrates, "do not speak so
boastfully, lest some envious power should overthrow
the argument that is about to be urged. These things,
however, will be cared for by the deity, but let us, meet-
ing hand to hand, in the manner of Homer, try whether
you say any thing to the purpose. This, then, is the
sum of what you inquire: you require it to be proved
that our soul is imperishable and immortal; if a
philosopher that is about to die, full of confidence and
hope that after death he shall be far happier than if he
had died after leading a different kind of life, shall not
entertain this confidence foolishly and vainly. But to
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175
show that the soul is something strong and divine, and
that it existed before we men were born, you say not
at all hinders, but that all these things may evince, not
its immortality, but that the soul is durable, and existed
an immense space of time before, and knew and did
many things. But that, for all this, it was not at all
the more immortal, but that its very entrance into the
body of a man was the beginning of its destruction, as
if it were a disease, so that it passes through this life
in wretchedness, and at last perishes in that which is
called death. But you say that it is of no consequence
whether it comes into a body once or often, with respect
to our occasion of fear: for it is right he should be
afraid, unless he is foolish, who does not know, and
cannot give a reason to prove, that the soul is immortal.
Such, I think, Cebes, is the sum of what you say; and
I purposely repeat it often, that nothing may escape.
us, and, if you please, you may add to or take from it."
Cebes replied, "I do not wish at present either to take
from or add to it; that is what I mean.”
Socrates, then, having paused for some time, and
considered something within himself, said, "You inquire
into no easy matter, Cebes; for it is absolutely neces-
sary to discuss the whole question of generation and
corruption. If you please, then, I will relate to you 96
what happened to me with reference to them; and
afterwards, if any thing that I shall say shall appear
to you useful, towards producing conviction on the
subject you are now treating of, make use of it."
I
"I do indeed wish it," replied Cebes.
"Hear my relation then. When I was a young man,
Cebes, I was wonderfully desirous of that wisdom which
they call a history of nature: for it appeared to me to
be a very sublime thing to know the causes of every
thing, why each thing is generated, why it perishes,
and why it exists. And I often tossed myself upwards.
and downwards, considering first such things as these,
whether when heat and cold have undergone a certain
corruption, as some say, then animals are formed; and
whether the blood is that by means of which we think,
or air, or fire, or none of these, but that it is the brain
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that produces the perceptions of hearing, seeing, and
smelling, and that from these come memory and
opinion, and from memory and opinion, when in a state
of rest, in the same way knowledge is produced? And
again considering the corruptions of these, and the
affections incidental to the heavens and the earth, I at
length appeared to myself so unskilful in these specula-
tions, that nothing could be more so. But I will give
you a sufficient proof of this: for I then became, by
these very speculations, so very blind with respect to
things which I knew clearly before, as it appeared to
myself and others, that I unlearnt even the things which
I thought I knew before, both on many other subjects
and also this, why a man grows. For before I thought
this was evident to every one, that it proceeds from
eating and drinking; for that, when, from the food,
flesh is added to flesh, bone to bone, and so on in the
same proportion, what is proper to them is added to the
several other parts, then the bulk which was small be-
comes afterwards large, and thus that a little man
becomes a big one. Such was my opinion at that time:
does it appear to you correct?"
"To me it does," said Cebes.
"Consider this further. I thought that I had formed
a right opinion, when on seeing a tall man standing by
a short one, I judged that he was taller by the head,
and in like manner one horse than another: and still
more clearly than this, ten appeared to me to be more
than eight, by two being added to them, and that two
cubits are greater than one cubit, by exceeding it a
half."
"But now," said Cebes, "what think you of these
matters?"
"By Jupiter," said he, "I am far from thinking that
I know the cause of these, for that I cannot even per-
suade myself of this, when a person has added one to
one, whether the one to which the addition has been
made has become two, or whether that which has been
added, and that to which the addition has been made,
97 have become two by the addition of the one to the
other. For I wonder, if when each of these was
Phædo
177
separate from the other, each was one, and they were
not yet two, but when they have approached nearer
each other, this should be the cause of their becoming
two, namely, the union by which they have been placed
nearer one another. Nor yet, if any person should
divide one, am I able to persuade myself that this, their
division, is the cause of its becoming two. For this
cause is the contrary to the former one of their becom-
ing two; for then it was because they were brought
nearer to each other, and the one was added to the
other; but now it is, because one is removed and
separated from the other. Nor do I yet persuade my-
self, that I know why one is one, nor, in a word, why
any thing else is produced or perishes, or exists, accord-
ing to this method of proceeding; but I mix up another
method of my own at random, for this I can on no
account give in to.
"But having once heard a person reading from a
book, written, as he said, by Anaxagoras, and which
said that it is intelligence that sets in order and is the
cause of all things, I was delighted with this cause,
and it appeared to me in a manner to be well that
intelligence should be the cause of all things, and I
considered with myself, if this is so, that the regulating
intelligence orders all things, and disposes each in such
way as will be best for it. If any one, then, should
desire to discover the cause of every thing, in what
way it is produced, or perishes, or exists, he must dis-
cover this respecting it, in what way it is best for it
either to exist, or to suffer, or do anything else; from
this mode of reasoning, then, it is proper that a man
should consider nothing else, both with respect to him-
self and others, than what is most excellent and best:
and it necessarily follows that this same person must
also know that which is worst, for that the knowledge
of both of them is the same. Thus reasoning with my-
self, I was delighted to think I had found in Anax-
agoras a preceptor who would instruct me in the causes
of things, agreeably to my own mind, and that he would.
inform me, first, whether the earth is flat or round,
and when he had informed me, would moreover explain
VOL. I.
N
178
Plato
the cause and necessity of its being so, arguing on the
principle of the better, and showing that it is better
for it to be such as it is, and if he should say that it is
in the middle, that he would moreover explain how it is
better for it to be in the middle; and if he should make
all this clear to me, I was prepared no longer to require
any other species of cause. I was in like manner pre-
98 pared to inquire respecting the sun, and moon, and the
other stars, with respect to their velocities in reference
to each other and their revolutions, and other condi-
tions, in what way it is better for both to act and be
affected as it does and is. For I never thought that
after he had said that these things were set in order
by intelligence, he would introduce any other cause for
them than that it is best for them to be as they are:
hence, I thought, that in assigning the cause to each
of them, and to all in common, he would explain that
which is best for each, and the common good of all.
And I would not have given up my hopes for a good
deal, but having taken up his books with great eager-
ness, I read through them as quickly as I could, that
I might as soon as possible know the best, and the
worst.
"From this wonderful hope, however, my friend, I
was speedily thrown down, when, as I advance and read
over his works, I meet with a man who makes no use
of intelligence, nor assigns any causes for the ordering
of all things, but makes the causes to consist of air,
ether, and water, and many other things equally absurd.
And he appeared to me to be very like one who should
say, that whatever Socrates does he does by intelli-
gence, and then, attempting to describe the causes of
each particular action, should say, first of all, that for
this reason I am now sitting here, because my body
is composed of bones and sinews, and that the bones
are hard, and have joints separate from each other,
but that the sinews, being capable of tension and con-
traction, cover the bones, together with the flesh and
skin which contains them. The bones, therefore, being
suspended in their sockets, the nerves relaxing and
tightening enable me to bend my limbs as I now do,
Phædo
179
and from this cause I sit here bent up. And if again,
he should assign other similar causes for my conversing
with you, assigning as causes voice, and air, and hear-
ing, and ten thousand other things of the kind, omitting
to mention the real causes, that since it appeared better
to the Athenians to condemn me, I therefore thought
it better to sit here, and more just to remain and submit
to the punishment which they have ordered; for, by
the dog, I think these sinews and bones would have
been long ago either in Megara or Boeotia, borne thither 99
by an opinion of that which is best, if I had not thought
it more just and honourable to submit to whatever
sentence the city might order, than to flee and run
stealthily away. But to call such things causes is too
absurd. But if any one should say that without pos-
sessing such things as bones and sinews, and whatever
else I have, I could not do what I pleased, he would
speak the truth; but to say that I do as I do through
them, and that I act thus by intelligence, and not from
the choice of what is best, would be a great and
extreme disregard of reason.
For this would be not
to be able to distinguish that the real cause is one thing,
and that another without which a cause could not be a
cause which indeed the generality of men appear to
me to do, fumbling as it were in the dark, and making
use of strange names, so as to denominate them as the
very cause. Wherefore one encompassing the earth
with a vortex from heaven, makes the earth remain
fixed; but another, as if it were a broad trough, rests
it upon the air as its base: but the power by which these
things are now so disposed that they may be placed
in the best manner possible, this they neither inquire
into, nor do they think that it requires any superhuman
strength; but they think they will some time or other
find out an Atlas stronger and more immortal than
this, and more capable of containing all things, and
in reality, the good, and that which ought to hold them
together and contain them, they take no account of at
I then should most gladly have become the disciple
of any one who would teach me of such a cause, in what
way it is.
But when I was disappointed of this, and
all.
180
Plato
was neither able to discover it myself, nor to learn it
from another, do you wish, Cebes, that I should show
you in what way I set out upon a second voyage in
search of the cause?
""
"I wish it exceedingly," he replied.
"It appeared to me then," said he, “after this, when
I was wearied with considering things that exist, that
I ought to beware lest I should suffer in the same way
as they do who look at and examine an eclipse of the
sun, for some lose the sight of their eyes, unless they
behold its image in water, or some similar medium.
And I was affected with a similar feeling, and was
afraid lest I should be utterly blinded in my soul through
beholding things with the eyes, and endeavouring to
grasp them by means of the several senses. It seemed
to me, therefore, that I ought to have recourse to
reasons, and to consider in them the truth of things.
Perhaps, however, this similitude of mine may in some
100 respect be incorrect; for I do not altogether admit that
he who considers things in their reasons considers them
in their images, more than he does who views them in
their effects. However, I proceeded thus, and on each
occasion laying down the reason, which I deem to be
the strongest, whatever things appear to me to accord
with this I regard as true, both with respect to the
cause and every thing else, but such as do not accord
I regard as not true. But I wish to explain my mean-
ing to you in a clearer manner; for I think that you
do not yet understand me.
""
"No, by Jupiter," said Cebes, "not well."
"However," continued he, "I am now saying nothing
new, but what I have always at other times, and in a
former part of this discussion, never ceased to say.
I proceed then to attempt to explain to you that species
of cause which I have busied myself about, and return
again to those well-known subjects, and set out from
them, laying down as an hypothesis, that there is a
certain abstract beauty, and goodness, and magnitude,
and so of all other things; which if you grant me, and
allow that they do exist, I hope that I shall be able
from these to explain the cause to you, and to discover
that the soul is immortal."
Phædo
181
"But," said Cebes, "since I grant you this, you may
draw your conclusion at once."
"But consider," he said, "what follows from thence,
and see if you can agree with me. For it appears to
me, that if there be any thing else beautiful, besides
beauty itself, it is not beautiful for any other reason
than because it partakes of that abstract beauty; and I
say the same of every thing. Do you admit such a
cause?"
"I do admit it,” he replied.
"I do not yet understand," he continued, "nor am I
able to conceive, those other wise causes; but if any one
should tell me why any thing is beautiful, either because
it has a blooming florid colour, or figure, or any thing
else of the kind, I dismiss all other reasons, for I am
confounded by them all; but I simply, wholly, and
perhaps foolishly, confine myself to this, that nothing
else causes it to be beautiful, except either the presence
or communication of that abstract beauty, by whatever
means and in whatever way communicated: for I can-
not yet affirm this with certainty, but only that by
means of beauty all beautiful things become beautiful.
For this appears to me the safest answer to give both
to myself and others, and adhering to this, I think that
I shall never fall, but that it is a safe answer both for
me and any one else to give, that by means of beauty
beautiful things become beautiful. Does it not also
seem so to you?”
"It does.
'And that by magnitude great things become great,
and greater things, greater; and by littleness less things
become less?"
"Yes."
'You would not then approve of it, if any one said
that one person is greater than another by the head,
and that the less is less by the very same thing, but you
would maintain that you mean nothing else than that 101
every thing that is greater than another is greater by
nothing else than magnitude, and that it is greater on
this account, that is on account of magnitude, and that
the less is less by nothing else than littleness, and on
this account less, that is, on account of littleness, being
182
Plato
afraid, I think, lest some opposite argument should
meet you if you should say that any one is greater
and less by the head; as first, that the greater is greater,
and the less less, by the very same thing; and next,
that the greater is greater by the head, which is small;
and that it is monstrous to suppose that any one is
great through something small. Should you not be
afraid of this?
To which said Cebes, smilingly, "Indeed I should."
Should you not, then," he continued, “be afraid to
say that ten is more than eight by two, and for this
cause exceeds it, and not by number, and on account of
number? and that two cubits are greater than one cubit
by half, and not by magnitude? for the fear is surely
the same.
(4
Certainly," he replied.
•
"What then? when one has been added to one, would
you not beware of saying that the addition is the cause
of its being two, or division when it has been divided;
and would you not loudly assert that you know no
other way in which each thing subsists, than by par-
taking of the peculiar essence of each of which it par-
takes, and that in these cases you can assign no other
cause of its becoming two than its partaking of duality;
and that such things as are to become two must needs
partake of this, and what is to become one, of unity;
but these divisions and additions, and other such
subtleties, you would dismiss, leaving them to be given
as answers by persons wiser than yourself: whereas
you, fearing, as it is said, your own shadow and in-
experience, would adhere to this safe hypothesis, and
answer accordingly? But if any one should assail this
hypothesis of yours, would you not dismiss him and
refrain from answering him till you had considered the
consequences resulting from it, whether in your opinion
they agree with or differ from each other? But when
it should be necessary for you to give a reason for it,
would you give one in a similar way, by again laying
down another hypothesis, which should appear the best
of higher principles, until you arrived at something
satisfactory, but at the same time you would avoid
1
Phædo
183
[
making confusion, as disputants do, in treating of the
first principle and the results arising from it, if you
really desire to arrive at the truth of things. For they,
perhaps, make no account at all of this, nor pay any
attention to it, for they are able, through their wisdom,
to mingle all things together, and at the same time
please themselves. But you, if you are a philosopher, 102
would act, I think, as I now describe."
"You speak most truly," said Simmias and Cebes
together.
Ech. By Jupiter, Phædo, they said so with good
reason: for he appears to me to have explained these
things with wonderful clearness, even to one endued
with a small degree of intelligence.
Phæd. Certainly, Echecrates, and so it appeared to
all who were present.
Ech. And so it appears to me, who was absent, and
now hear it related. But what was said after this?
Phad. As well as I remember, when these things had
been granted him, and it was allowed that each several
idea exists of itself, and that other things partaking of
them receive their denomination from them, he next
asked: “If then," he said, "you admit that these
things are so, whether, when you say that Simmias is
greater than Socrates, but less than Phædo, do you not
then say that magnitude and littleness are both in
Simmias?"
"I do."
"And yet," he said, "you must confess that Sim-
mias's exceeding Socrates is not actually true in the
manner in which the words express it; for Simmias
does not naturally exceed Socrates, in that he is Sim-
mias, but in consequence of the magnitude which he
happens to have; nor, again, does he exceed Socrates,
because Socrates is Socrates, but because Socrates
possesses littleness in comparison with his magnitude?"
"True."
"Nor, again, is Simmias exceeded by Phædo, be-
cause Phædo is Phædo, but because Phædo possesses
magnitude in comparison with Simmias's littleness?"
"It is so."
184
Plato
"Thus, then, Simmias has the appellation of being
both little and great, being between both, by exceeding
the littleness of one through his own magnitude, and
to the other yielding a magnitude that exceeds his own
littleness." And at the same time, smiling, he said,
"I seem to speak with the precision of a short-hand
writer; however, it is as I say."
He allowed it.
"But I say it for this reason, wishing you to be of
the same opinion as myself. For it appears to me, not
only that magnitude itself is never disposed to be at
the same time great and little, but that magnitude in
us never admits the little, nor is disposed to be ex-
ceeded, but one of two things, either to flee and with-
draw when its contrary, the little, approaches it, or
when it has actually come, to perish; but that it is not
disposed, by sustaining and receiving littleness, to be
different from what it was. Just as I, having received
and sustained littleness, and still continuing the same
person that I am, am this same little person: but that,
while it is great, never endures to be little. And in
like manner the little that is in us is not disposed at
any time to become or to be great, nor is any thing else
among contraries, while it continues what it was, at
103 the same time disposed to become and to be its con-
trary; but in this contingency it either departs or
perishes.
""
"It appears so to me," said Cebes,
respect.
>>
"in every
But some one of those present, on hearing this, I do
not clearly remember who he was, said, "By the gods,
was not the very contrary of what is now asserted
admitted in the former part of our discussion, that the
greater is produced from the less, and the less from
the greater, and in a word, that the very production
of contraries is from contraries? But now it appears
to me to be asserted that this can never be the case.
Upon this Socrates, having leant his head forward
and listened, said, “You have reminded me in a manly
way; you do not, however, perceive the difference be-
tween what is now and what was then asserted. For
1
Phædo
185
then it was said, that a contrary thing is produced from
a contrary; but now, that a contrary can never become
contrary to itself, neither that which is in us, nor that
which is in nature. For then, my friend, we spoke of
things that have contraries, calling them by the appel-
lation of those things; but now we are speaking of those
very things, from the presence of which things so called
receive their appellation, and of these very things we
say that they are never disposed to admit of produc-
tion from each other." And, at the same time looking
at Cebes, "Has any thing that has been said, Cebes,
disturbed you?"
"Indeed," said Cebes, "I am not at all so disposed;
however, I by no means say that there are not many
things that disturb me."
"Then," he continued, "we have quite agreed to
this, that a contrary can never be contrary to itself.”
"Most certainly," he replied.
"But further," he said, "consider whether you will
agree with me in this also. Do you call heat and cold
anything?"
"I do."
"The same as snow and fire?"
'By Jupiter, I do not.'
"But heat is something different from fire, and cold
something different from snow?'
"Yes."
""
"But this, I think, is apparent to you, that snow,
while it is snow, can never, when it has admitted heat,
as we said before, continue to be what it was, snow
and hot, but, on the approach of heat, it must either
withdraw or perish?
"Certainly."
""
And again, that fire, when cold approaches it, must
either depart or perish; but that it will never endure,
when it has admitted coldness, to continue what it was,
fire and cold?
>>
'You speak truly," he said.
"It happens then," he continued, "with respect to
some of such things, that not only is the idea itself
always thought worthy of the same appellation, but
186
Plato
likewise something else which is not indeed that idea
itself but constantly retains its form so long as it exists.
What I mean will perhaps be clearer in the following
examples. The odd in number must always possess
the name by which we now call it; must it not?
"Certainly."
>>
"Must it alone of all things, for this I ask, or is there
104 any thing else, which is not the same as the odd, but
yet which we must always call odd, together with its
own name, because it is so constituted by nature, that
it can never be without the odd? But this I say is the
case with the number three, and many others. For
consider with respect to the number three; does it not
appear to you that it must always be called by its own
name, as well as by that of the odd, which is not the
same as the number three? Yet such is the nature of
the number three, five, and the entire half of number,
that though they are not the same as the odd, yet each
of them is always odd. And again, two and four, and
the whole other series of number, though not the same
as the even, are nevertheless each of them always even :
do you admit this or not?
""
"How should I not?" he replied.
It
"Observe then," said he, "what I wish to prove.
is this, that it appears, not only that these contraries
do not admit each other, but that even such things as
are not contrary to each other, and yet always possess
contraries, do not appear to admit that idea which is
contrary to the idea that exists in themselves, but, when
it approaches, perish or depart. Shall we not allow
that the number three would first perish, and suffer any
thing whatever, rather than endure, while it is still
three, to become even?”
"Most certainly," said Cebes.
46
'And yet," said he, "the number two is not contrary
to three.
"9
"Surely not.
""
"Not only, then, do ideas that are contrary never
allow the approach of each other, but some other things
also do not allow the approach of contraries."
"You say very truly," he replied.
Phædo
187
"Do you wish, then," he said, "that, if we are able,
we should define what these things are?
"Certainly."
"Would they not then, Cebes," he said, "be such
things as whatever they occupy, compel that thing not
only to retain its own idea, but also that of something
which is always a contrary?"
66
How do you mean?
""
As we just now said. For you know surely, that
whatever things the idea of three occupies must of
necessity not only be three, but also odd?"
Certainly."
"To such a thing, then, we assert, that the idea con-
trary to that form which constitutes this can never
come."
((
(6
'It cannot.
""
But did the odd make it so?"
"Yes."
66
'And is the contrary to this the idea of the even?"
"Yes."
'The idea of the even, then, will never come to the
three?"
"No surely."
"Three, then, has no part in the even?'
เ 'None whatever."
'The number three is uneven?
"Yes."
39
"What therefore I said should be defined, namely,
what things they are which, though not contrary to
some particular thing, yet do not admit of the contrary
itself, as in the present instance, the number three
though not contrary to the even, does not any the more
admit it, for it always brings the contrary with it, just
as the number two does to the odd, fire to cold, and
many other particulars; consider then, whether you 105
would thus define, not only that a contrary does not
admit a contrary, but also that that which brings with
it a contrary to that to which it approaches, will never
admit the contrary of that which it brings with it. But
call it to mind again, for it will not be useless to hear
it often repeated. Five will not admit the idea of the
188
Plato
even, nor ten, its double, that of the odd. This double
then, though it is itself contrary to something else,
yet will not admit the idea of the odd; nor will half as
much again, nor other things of the kind, such as the
half and the third part admit the idea of the whole, if
you follow me and agree with me that it is so."
"I entirely agree with you," he said, "and follow
you."
"Tell me again, then," he said, "from the begin-
ning; and do not answer me in the terms in which I put
the question, but in different ones, imitating my
example. For I
For I say this because, besides that safe
mode of answering, which I mentioned at first, from
what has now been said, I see another no less safe.
one. For if you should ask me what that is, which if
it be in the body will cause it to be hot, I should not
give you that safe but unlearned answer, that it is heat,
but one more elegant, from what we have just now said,
that it is fire: nor, if you should ask me what that is,
which if it be in the body, will cause it to be diseased,
should I say that it is disease, but fever; nor, if you
should ask what that is, which if it be in number,
will cause it to be odd, should I say that it is un-
evenness, but unity, and so with other things. But
consider whether you sufficiently understand what I
mean."
"Perfectly so," he replied.
"Answer me then," he said, "what that is, which
when it is in the body, the body will be alive?
(C
Soul," he replied.
"Is not this, then, always the case?"
"How should it not be?" said he.
'Does the soul, then, always bring life to whatever
it occupies?'
>>
"It does indeed," he replied.
"Whether, then, is there any thing contrary to life
or not?
"There is," he replied.
'What?
"Death.'
""
"The soul, then, will never admit the contrary of
Phædo
189
that which it brings with it, as has been already
allowed?"
"Most assuredly," replied Cebes.
" What then? how do we denominate that which does
not admit the idea of the even?
(C
'Uneven," he replied.
"And that which does not admit the just, nor the
musical?"
"Unmusical," he said, "and unjust."
"Be it so.
admit death?
""
But what do we call that which does not
"Immortal," he replied.
"Therefore does not the soul admit death?"
"No."
"Is the soul, then, immortal? "
"Immortal."
(C
Be it so," he said. Shall we say then, that this
has been now demonstrated? or how think you?"
"Most completely, Socrates."
"What then," said he, "Cebes, if it were necessary
for the uneven to be imperishable, would the number 106
three be otherwise than imperishable?"
How should it not?'
""
"If, therefore, it were also necessary that what is
without heat should be imperishable, when any one
should introduce heat to snow, would not the snow with-
draw itself, safe and unmelted? For it would not
perish; nor yet would it stay and admit the heat."
"You say truly," he replied.
"In like manner, I think, if that which is insus-
ceptible of cold were imperishable, that when any thing
cold approached the fire, it would neither be extin-
guished nor perish, but would depart quite safe.”
"Of necessity," he said.
46
"Must we not then of necessity," he continued,
'speak thus of that which is immortal? if that which
is immortal is imperishable, it is impossible for the soul
to perish, when death approaches it. For, from what
has been said already, it will not admit death, nor will
ever be dead, just as we said that three will never be
even, nor again will the odd, nor will fire be cold, nor
190
Plato
yet the heat that is in fire. But some one may say,
what hinders, though the odd can never become even
by the approach of the even, as we have allowed, yet,
when the odd is destroyed, that the even should suc-
ceed in its place? We could not contend with him who
should make this objection, that it is not destroyed;
for the uneven is not imperishable; since, if this were
granted us, we might easily have contended, that on
the approach of the even the odd and the three depart;
and we might have contended in the same way with
respect to fire, heat, and the rest; might we not?"
"Certainly."
'Wherefore, with respect to the immortal, if we
have allowed that it is imperishable, the soul, in addi-
tion to its being immortal, must also be imperishable;
if not, there will be need of other arguments."
"But there is no need," he said, as far as that is
concerned; for scarcely could any thing not admit of
corruption, if that which is immortal and eternal is
liable to it."
"The deity, indeed, I think," said Socrates, "and
the idea itself of life, and if any thing else is immortal,
must be allowed by all beings to be incapable of dis-
solution."
"By Jupiter," he replied, "by all men indeed, and
still more, as I think, by the gods."
Since, then, that which is immortal is also incor-
ruptible, can the soul, since it is immortal, be any thing
else than imperishable?"
"It must of necessity be so.
"When, therefore, death approaches a man, the
mortal part of him, as it appears, dies, but the immortal
part departs safe and uncorrupted, having withdrawn
itself from death?"
"It appears so.
"The soul, therefore," he said, "Cebes, is most cer-
107 tainly immortal and imperishable, and our souls will
really exist in Hades."
"Therefore, Socrates," he said, "I have nothing
further to say against this, nor any reason for doubt-
ing your arguments. But if Simmias here or any one
Phædo
191
else has any thing to say, it were well for him not to
be silent: for I know not to what other opportunity
beyond the present any one can defer it, who wishes
either to speak or hear about these things."
"But indeed," said Simmias, "neither have I any
reason to doubt what has been urged; yet from the
magnitude of the subject discussed, and from my low
opinion of human weakness, I am compelled still to
retain a doubt within myself with respect to what has
been said."
"Not only so, Simmias," said Socrates, "but you say
this well, and moreover the first hypotheses, even
though they are credible to you, should nevertheless
be examined more carefully; and if you should investi-
gate them sufficiently, I think you will follow my
reasoning as far as it is possible for man to do so;
and if this very point becomes clear, you will inquire
no further."
You speak truly," he said.
1
"But it is right, my friends," he said, "that we
should consider this, that if the soul is immortal, it
requires our care not only for the present time, which
we call life, but for all time; and the danger would now
appear to be dreadful, if one should neglect it. For
if death were a deliverance from every thing, it would
be a great gain for the wicked, when they die, to be
delivered at the same time from the body, and from
their vices together with the soul: but now, since it
appears to be immortal, it can have no other refuge
from evils, nor safety, except by becoming as good and
wise as possible. For the soul goes to Hades, possess-
ing nothing else but its discipline and education, which
are said to be of the greatest advantage or detriment to
the dead, on the very beginning of his journey thither.
For thus it is said; that each person's demon who was
assigned to him while living, when he dies conducts him
to some place, where they that are assembled together
must receive sentence and then proceed to Hades with
that guide, who has been ordered to conduct them from
hence thither. But there having received their deserts,
and having remained the appointed time, another guide
192
Plato
brings them back hither again, after many and long
revolution of time. The journey, then, is not such as
108 the Telephus of Eschylus describes it.
For he says
that a simple path leads to Hades; but it appears to
me to be neither simple nor one for there would be no
need of guides, nor could any one ever miss the way, if
there were but one. But now it appears to have many
divisions and windings; and this I conjecture from our
religious and funeral rites. The well-ordered and wise
soul, then, both follows, and is not ignorant of its
present condition; but that which through passion.
clings to the body, as I said before, having longingly
fluttered about it for a long time, and about its visible
place, after vehement resistance and great suffering, is
forcibly and with great difficulty led away by its
appointed demon. And when it arrives at the place
where the others are, impure and having done any such
thing as the committal of unrighteous murders or other
similar actions, which are kindred to these, and are the
deeds of kindred souls, every one shuns it and turns
away from it, and will neither be its fellow-traveller or
guide, but it wanders about, oppressed with every kind
of helplessness until certain periods have elapsed and
when these are completed, it is carried of necessity to
an abode suitable to it; but the soul which has passed
through life with purity and moderation, having ob-
tained the gods for its fellow-travellers and guides,
settles each in the place suited to it. There are indeed
many and wonderful places in the earth, and it is itself
neither of such a kind, nor of such a magnitude, as is
supposed by those who are accustomed to speak of the
earth, as I have been persuaded by a certain person."
Whereupon Simmias said,
"How mean you,
Socrates? For I too have heard many things about
the earth, not however those things which have obtained
your belief: I would therefore gladly hear them."
66
'Indeed, Simmias, the art of Glaucus does not seem
to me to be required to relate what these things are;
that they are true however, appears to me more than
the art of Glaucus can prove, and besides, I should
probably not be able to do it, and even if I did know
Phædo
193
how, what remains to me of life, Simmias, seems in-
sufficient for the length of the subject. However, the
form of the earth, such as I am persuaded it is, and the
different places in it, nothing hinders me from telling."
"But that will be enough," said Simmias.
"I am persuaded, then," said he, "in the first place,
that, if the earth is in the middle of the heavens, and
is of a spherical form, it has no need of air, nor of any 109
other similar force, to prevent it from falling, but that
the similarity of the heavens to themselves on every
side, and the equilibrium of the earth itself, are suffi-
cient to support it; for a thing in a state of equilibrium
when placed in the middle of something that presses it
equally on all sides cannot incline more or less on any
side, but being equally affected all around remains un-
moved. In the first place then," he said, "I am per-
suaded of this."
66
And very properly so," said Simmias.
"Yet further," said he, "that it is very large, and
that we who inhabit some small portion of it, from the
river Phasis to the pillars of Hercules, dwell about the
sea, like ants or frogs about a marsh, and that many
others elsewhere dwell in many similar places, for that
there are every where about the earth many hollows of
various forms and sizes into which there is a confluence
of water, mist, and air; but that the earth itself, being
pure, is situated in the pure heavens, in which are the
stars, and which most persons who are accustomed to
speak about such things call ether; of which these
things are the sediment and are continually flowing into
the hollow parts of the earth. That we are ignorant,
then, that we are dwelling in its hollows, and imagine
that we inhabit the upper parts of the earth, just as if
any one dwelling in the bottom of the sea, should think
that he dwelt on the sea, and, beholding the sun and the
other stars through the water, should imagine that the
sea was the heavens, but through sloth and weakness
should never have reached the surface of the sea, nor,
having emerged and risen up from the sea to this region,
have seen how much more pure and more beautiful it
is than the place where he is, nor has heard of it from
VOL. I.
O
194
Plato
any one else who has seen it. This then is the very
condition in which we are; for, dwelling in some hollow
of the earth, we think that we dwell on the surface of
it, and call the air heaven, as if the stars moved through
this, being heaven itself. But this is because by reason
of our weakness and sloth, we are unable to reach to
the summit of the air. Since, if any one could arrive
at its summit, or, becoming winged, could fly up
thither, or emerging from hence, he would see,-just
as with us, fishes emerging from the sea, behold what
is here, so any one would behold the things there,
and if his nature were able to endure the contempla-
tion, he would know that that is the true heaven, and
110 the true light, and the true earth. For this earth and
these stones, and the whole region here, are decayed
and corroded, as things in the sea by the saltness; for
nothing of any value grows in the sea, nor, in a word,
does it contain any thing perfect, but there are caverns
and sand, and mud in abundance, and filth, in whatever
parts of the sea there is earth, nor are they at all worthy
to be compared with the beautiful things with us. But
on the other hand, those things in the upper regions of
the earth would appear far more to excel the things
with us.
For, if we may tell a beautiful fable, it is
well worth hearing, Simmias, what kind the things are
on the earth beneath the heavens.'
"Indeed, Socrates," said Simmias, "we should be
very glad to hear that fable."
"First of all then, my friend," he continued, “this
earth, if any one should survey it from above, is said
to have the appearance of balls covered with twelve
different pieces of leather, variegated and distinguished
with colours, of which the colours found here, and
which painters use, are as it were copies. But there the
whole earth is composed of such, and far more brilliant.
and pure than these; for one part of it is purple, and
of wonderful beauty, part of a golden colour, and part
of white, more white than chalk or snow, and in like
manner composed of other colours, and those more in
number and more beautiful than any we have ever be-
held. And those very hollow parts of the earth, though
Phædo
195
filled with water and air, exhibit a certain species of
colour, shining among the variety of other colours, so
that one continually variegated aspect presents itself
to the view. In this earth, being such, all things that
grow, grow in a manner proportioned to its nature,
trees, flowers, and fruits; and again, in like manner,
its mountains and stones possess, in the same propor-
tion, smoothness and transparency, and more beautiful
colours; of which the well-known stones here that are
so highly prized are but fragments, such as sardin-
stones, jaspers, and emeralds, and all of that kind.
But there, there is nothing subsists that is not of this
character, and even more beautiful than these. But the
reason of this is, because the stones there are pure, and
not eaten up and decayed, like those here, by rottenness
and saltness, which flow down hither together, and
which produce deformity and disease in the stones and
the earth, and in other things, even animals and plants.
But that earth is adorned with all these, and moreover
with gold and silver, and other things of the kind: for 111
they are naturally conspicuous, being numerous and
large, and in all parts of the earth; so that to behold
it is a sight for the blessed. There are also many other
animals and men upon it, some dwelling in mid-earth,
others about the air, as we do about the sea, and others
in islands which the air flows round, and which are
near the continent: and in one word, what water and
the sea are to us, for our necessities, the air is to
them; and what air is to us, that ether is to them. But
their seasons are of such a temperament that they are
free from disease, and live for a much longer time than
those here, and surpass us in sight, hearing, and smell-
ing, and every thing of this kind, as much as air excels
water, and ether air, in purity. Moreover, they have
abodes and temples of the gods, in which gods really
dwell, and voices and oracles, and sensible visions of
the gods, and such-like intercourse with them; the sun
too, and moon, and stars, are seen by them such as
they really are, and their felicity in other respects is
correspondent with these things.
'And such indeed is the nature of the whole earth,
196
Plato
and the parts about the earth; but there are many places
all round it throughout its cavities, some deeper and
more open than that in which we dwell: but others that
are deeper, have a less chasm than our region, and
others are shallower in depth than it is here and
broader. But all these are in many places perforated
one into another under the earth, some with narrower
and some with wider channels, and have passages
through, by which a great quantity of water flows from
one into another, as into basins, and there are immense
bulks of ever-flowing rivers under the earth, both of
hot and cold water, and a great quantity of fire, and
mighty rivers of fire, and many of liquid mire, some
purer, and some more miry, as in Sicily there are rivers
of mud that flow before the lava, and the lava itself,
and from these the several places are filled, according
as the overflow from time to time happens to come to
each of them. But all these move up and down as it
were by a certain oscillation existing in the earth. And
this oscillation proceeds from such natural cause as
112 this one of the chasms of the earth is exceedingly
large, and perforated through the entire earth, and is
that which Homer speaks of, very far off, where is
the most profound abyss beneath the earth,' which else-
where both he and many other poets have called Tar-
tarus. For into this chasm all rivers flow together, and
from it flow out again: but they severally derive their
character from the earth through which they flow. And
the reason why all streams flow out from thence, and
flow into it, is because this liquid has neither bottom nor
base. Therefore it oscillates and fluctuates up and
down, and the air and the wind around it do the same;
for they accompany it both when it rushes to those parts
of the earth, and when to these. And as in respiration
the flowing breath is continually breathed out and
drawn in, so there the wind oscillating with the liquid,
causes certain vehement and irresistible winds both as
it enters and goes out. When, therefore, the water
rushing in descends to the place which we call the lower
region, it flows through the earth into the streams there
and fills them, just as men pump up water. But when
(
Phædo
197
again it leaves those regions and rushes hither, it again
fills the rivers here, and these, when filled, flow through
channels and through the earth, and having severally
reached the several places to which they are journey-
ing, they make seas, lakes, rivers, and fountains. Then
sinking again from thence beneath the earth, some of
them having gone round longer and more numerous
places, and others round fewer and shorter, they again
discharge themselves into Tartarus, some much lower
than they were drawn up, others only a little so, but all
of them flow in again beneath the point at which they
flowed out. And some issue out directly opposite the
place by which they flow in, others on the same side:
there are also some which having gone round altogether
in a circle, folding themselves once or several times
round the earth, like serpents, when they had descended
as low as possible, discharge themselves again: and it
is possible for them to descend on either side as far as
the middle, but not beyond; for in each direction there
is an acclivity to the streams both ways.
"Now there are many other large and various
streams, and among this great number there are four
certain streams, of which the largest, and that which
flows most outwardly round the earth, is called Ocean,
but directly opposite this, and flowing in a contrary
direction, is Acheron, which flows through other desert
places, and moreover passing under the earth, reaches 113
the Acherusian lake, where the souls of most who die
arrive, and having remained there for certain destined
periods, some longer and some shorter, are again sent
forth into the generations of animals. A third river
issues midway between these, and near its source falls
into a vast region, burning with abundance of fire, and
forms a lake larger than our sea, boiling with water
and mud; from hence it proceeds in a circle, turbulent
and muddy, and folding itself round it reaches both
other places and the extremity of the Acherusian lake,
but does not mingle with its water; but folding itself
oftentimes beneath the earth, it discharges itself into
the lower parts of Tartarus. And this is the river
which they call Pyriphlegethon, whose burning streams.
198
Plato
emit dissevered fragments in whatever part of the earth
they happen to be. Opposite to this again the fourth
river first falls into a place dreadful and savage, as it
is said, having its whole colour like cyanus: this they
call Stygian, and the lake, which the river forms by
its discharge, Styx. This river having fallen in here,
and received awful power in the water, sinking beneath
the earth, proceeds, folding itself round, in an opposite
course to Pyriphlegethon, and meets it in the Acheru-
sian lake from a contrary direction. Neither does the
water of this river mingle with any other, but it too,
having gone round in a circle, discharges itself into
Tartarus, opposite to Pyriphlegethon. Its name, as the
poets say, is Cocytus.
"These things being thus constituted, when the dead
arrive at the place to which their demon leads them
severally, first of all they are judged, as well those who
have lived well and piously, as those who have not.
And those who appear to have passed a middle kind of
life, proceeding to Acheron, and embarking in the
vessels they have, on these arrive at the lake, and there
dwell, and when they are purified, and have suffered
punishment for the iniquities they may have committed,
they are set free, and each receives the reward of his
good deeds, according to his deserts: but those who
appear to be incurable, through the magnitude of their
offences, either from having committed many and great
sacrileges, or many unjust and lawless murders, or
other similar crimes, these a suitable destiny hurls into
Tartarus, whence they never come forth. But those
who appear to have been guilty of curable, yet great
offences, such as those who through anger have com-
114 mitted any violence against father or mother, and have
lived the remainder of their life in a state of penitence,
or they who have become homicides in a similar manner,
these must of necessity fall into Tartarus, but after
they have fallen, and have been there for a year, the
wave casts them forth, the homicides into Cocytus, but
the parricides and matricides into Pyriphlegethon: but
when, being borne along, they arrive at the Acherusian
lake, there they cry out to and invoke, some those whom
Phædo
199
they slew, others those whom they injured, and invok-
ing them, they entreat and implore them to suffer them
to go out into the lake, and to receive them, and if they
persuade them, they go out, and are freed from their
sufferings, but if not, they are borne back to Tartarus,
and thence again to the rivers, and they do not cease
from suffering this until they have persuaded those
whom they have injured, for this sentence was imposed
on them by the judges. But those who are found to
have lived an eminently holy life, these are they, who,
being freed and set at large from these regions in the
earth, as from a prison, arrive at the pure abode above,
and dwell on the upper parts of the earth. And among
these, they who have sufficiently purified themselves by
philosophy shall live without bodies, throughout all
future time, and shall arrive at habitations yet more
beautiful than these, which it is neither easy to describe,
nor at present is there sufficient time for the purpose.
"But for the sake of these things which we have
described, we should use every endeavour, Simmias, so
as to acquire virtue and wisdom in this life; for the
reward is noble, and the hope great.
"To affirm positively, indeed, that these things are
exactly as I have described them, does not become a
man of sense; that however either this, or something
of the kind, takes place with respect to our souls and
their habitations-since our soul is certainly immortal-
this appears to me most fitting to be believed, and
worthy the hazard for one who trusts in its reality; for
the hazard is noble, and it is right to allure ourselves
with such things, as with enchantments; for which
reason I have prolonged my story to such a length.
On account of these things, then, a man ought to be
confident about his soul, who during this life has dis-
regarded all the pleasures and ornaments of the body
as foreign from his nature, and who, having thought
that they do more harm than good, has zealously applied
himself to the acquirement of knowledge, and who
having adorned his soul not with a foreign but its own
proper ornament, temperance, justice, fortitude, free- 115
dom, and truth, thus waits for his passage to Hades,
200
Plato
<<
as one who is ready to depart whenever destiny shall
summon him. You then," he continued, Simmias and
Cebes, and the rest, will each of you depart at some
future time; but now destiny summons me, as a tragic
writer would say, and it is nearly time for me to betake
myself to the bath; for it appears to me to be better
to drink the poison after I have bathed myself, and not
to trouble the women with washing my dead body.'
39
When he had thus spoken, Crito said, "So be it,
Socrates, but what commands have you to give to these
or to me, either respecting your children, or any other
matter, in attending to which we can most oblige you?"
"What I always say, Crito," he replied, "nothing
new; that by taking care of yourselves you will oblige
both me and mine, and yourselves, whatever you do,
though you should not now promise it; but if you neg-
lect yourselves, and will not live as it were in the foot-
steps of what has been now and formerly said, even
though you should promise much at present, and that
earnestly, you will do no good at all."
"We will endeavour then so to do," he said; "but
how shall we bury you?'
"Just as you please," he said, "if only you can catch
me, and I do not escape from you." And at the same
time smiling gently, and looking round on us, he said;
"I cannot persuade Crito, my friends, that I am that
Socrates who is now conversing with you, and who
methodizes each part of the discourse; but he thinks
that I am he whom he will shortly behold dead, and
asks how he should bury me. But that which I some
time since argued at length, that when I have drunk
the poison I shall no longer remain with you, but shall
depart to some happy state of the blessed, this I seem
to have urged to him in vain, though I meant at the
same time to console both you and myself. Be ye then
my sureties to Crito," he said, “in an obligation con-
trary to that which he made to the judges; for he under-
took that I should remain; but do you be sureties that,
when I die, I shall not remain, but shall depart, that
Crito may more easily bear it, and when he sees my
body either burnt or buried, may not be afflicted for
Phædo
201
me, as if I suffered some dreadful thing, nor say at my
interment that Socrates is laid out, or is carried out, or
is buried. For be well assured," he said, "most excel-
lent Crito, that to speak improperly is not only culpable
as to the thing itself, but likewise occasions some injury
to our souls. You must have a good courage then, and
say that you bury my body, and bury it in such a manner 116
as is pleasing to you, and as you think is most agree-
able to our laws."
When he had said thus he rose, and went into a
chamber to bathe, and Crito followed him, but he
directed us to wait for him. We waited, therefore, con-
versing among ourselves about what had been said, and
considering it again, and sometimes speaking about our
calamity, how severe it would be to us, sincerely think-
ing that, like those who are deprived of a father, we
should pass the rest of our life as orphans. When he
had bathed, and his children were brought to him, for
he had two little sons and one grown up, and the women
belonging to his family were come, having conversed
with them in the presence of Crito, and given them such
injunctions as he wished, he directed the women and
children to go away, and then returned to us. And it
was now near sun-set; for he spent a considerable time
within. But when he came from bathing he sat down,
and did not speak much afterwards; then the officer of
the Eleven came in, and standing near him, said,
Socrates, I shall not have to find that fault with you
that I do with others, that they are angry with me, and
curse me, when, by order of the archons, I bid them
drink the poison. But you, on all other occasions
during the time you have been here, I have found to
be the most noble, meek, and excellent man of all that
ever came into this place: and, therefore, I am now
well convinced that you will not be angry with me, for
you know who are to blame, but with them. Now,
then, for you know what I came to announce to you,
farewell, and endeavour to bear what is inevitable as
easily as possible. And at the same time, bursting
into tears, he turned away and withdrew.
(C
""
And Socrates, looking after him, said, “And thou,
202
Plato
too, farewell, we will do as you direct." At the same
time turning to us, he said, "How courteous the man
is; during the whole time I have been here he has visited
me, and conversed with me sometimes, and proved the
worthiest of men; and now how generously he weeps
for me.
But come, Crito, let us obey him, and let some
one bring the poison, if it is ready pounded, but if not,
let the man pound it."
Then Crito said, "But I think, Socrates, that the sun
is still on the mountains, and has not yet set. Besides,
I know that others have drunk the poison very late,
after it had been announced to them, and have supped
and drunk freely, and some even have enjoyed the
objects of their love. Do not hasten then, for there is
yet time."
Upon this Socrates replied, "These men whom you
mention, Crito, do these things with good reason, for
they think they shall gain by so doing, and I too with
good reason shall not do so; for I think I shall gain
nothing by drinking a little later, except to become
117 ridiculous to myself, in being so fond of life, and sparing
of it when none any longer remains. Go then," he said,
obey, and do not resist."
near.
Crito having heard this, nodded to the boy that stood
And the boy having gone out, and staid for
some time, came, bringing with him the man that was
to administer the poison, who brought it ready pounded
in a cup.
And Socrates, on seeing the man, said,
"Well, my good friend, as you are skilled in these
matters, what must I do?"
And
"Nothing else," he replied, "than when you have
drunk it walk about, until there is a heaviness in your
legs, then lie down; thus it will do its purpose." And
at the same time he held out the cup to Socrates.
he having received it very cheerfully, Echecrates,
neither trembling, nor changing at all in colour or coun-
tenance, but, as he was wont, looking steadfastly at the
man, said, “What say you of this potion, with respect
to making a libation to any one, is it lawful or not? "
"We only pound so much, Socrates," he said, "as we
think sufficient to drink."
Phædo
203
“I understand you," he said, "but it is certainly both
lawful and right to pray to the gods, that my departure
hence thither may be happy; which therefore I pray,
and so may it be.” And as he said this he drank it off
readily and calmly. Thus far, most of us were with
difficulty able to restrain ourselves from weeping, but
when we saw him drinking, and having finished the
draught, we could do so no longer; but in spite of my-
self the tears came in full torrent, so that, covering
my face, I wept for myself, for I did not weep for him,
but for my own fortune, in being deprived of such a
friend. But Crito, even before me, when he could not
restrain his tears, had risen up. But Apollodorus even
before this had not ceased weeping, and then bursting
into an agony of grief, weeping and lamenting, he
pierced the heart of every one present, except Socrates
himself. But he said, "What are you doing, my
admirable friends? I indeed, for this reason chiefly,
sent away the women, that they might not commit any
folly of this kind. For I have heard that it is right to
die with good omens. Be quiet, therefore, and bear
up."
When we heard this we were ashamed, and restrained
our tears. But he, having walked about, when he said
that his legs were growing heavy, laid down on his
back; for the man so directed him. And at the same
time he who gave him the poison, taking hold of him,
after a short interval examined his feet and legs; and
then having pressed his foot hard, he asked if he felt it: 118
he said that he did not. And after this he pressed his
thighs; and thus going higher, he showed us that he
was growing cold and stiff. Then Socrates touched
himself, and said, that when the poison reached his
heart he should then depart. But now the parts around
the lower belly were almost cold; when uncovering him-
self, for he had been covered over, he said, and they
were his last words, "Crito, we owe a cock to Æscula-
pius; pay it, therefore, and do not neglect it."
"It shall be done," said Crito, "but consider whether
you have any thing else to say.
"}
To this question he gave no reply; but shortly after
A
204
Plato
he gave a convulsive movement, and the man covered
him, and his eyes were fixed; and Crito, perceiving it,
closed his mouth and eyes.
This, Echecrates, was the end of our friend, a man,
as we may say, the best of all of his time that we have
known, and moreover, the most wise and just.
PHÆDRUS
Socrates-Phædrus
St.
Socrates. WHENCE come you, friend Phædrus, and III.
whither are you bound?
p.
Phæd. I come from Lysias, the son of Cephalus; 227
and I am going for a walk outside the walls, as I have
been sitting with him a long time, in fact ever since
daybreak. And it is by the advice, Socrates, of our
common friend Acumenus, that I take my walks in the
open roads; for he tells me they are more refreshing
than the covered promenades.
Socrates. And he's right there, my good friend. So
Lysias, it appears, was in the city.
Phæd. Yes, staying with Epicrates at the Morychian
yonder, close by the Olympian.
Socrates. Well, how did you pass your time there?
though I can hardly doubt that Lysias regaled you with
his speeches.
Phæd. You shall hear, if you are not too much
engaged to join me in my walk.
Socrates. Engaged, indeed? don't you believe that in
the words of Pindar I would count it "a matter far
above all engagement" to hear what passed between
you and Lysias?
Phæd. Come on then.
Socrates. If you will begin your tale.
Phæd. I will; and I can assure you, Socrates, you
will find it very much in your way. For the speech
which engaged our attention was in a certain fashion of
an amatory character; that is to say, Lysias introduced
one of our beautiful boys as being courted, though not
by a lover; in fact, this is the very point on which he
has displayed his ingenuity, as he maintains that favour
ought to be shown to one who is not in love, rather
than to one who is.

205
206
Plato
Socrates. What a generous man! I wish he would
maintain that poverty has a better claim than wealth,
and age than youth; and in short, that the preference
ought to be given to all the other properties that belong
to myself in common with the bulk of mankind. In
that case his speeches would be really delightful, and of
public utility. But whether he does so or not, I have
conceived such a desire to hear what he says, that even
if you extend your walk to Megara, and, as Herodicus
prescribes, go close up to the wall and then turn back
again, you will not shake me off, I can promise you.
Phad. What are you talking about, my good friend
228 Socrates? It took Lysias, the cleverest writer of the
day, a long while to compose this speech at his leisure;
and do you imagine that a novice like myself could
repeat it from memory without doing injustice to the
author? No, that I am very sure I could not; and yet
I would sooner be able to do so than come into the'
possession of a large sum of money.
Socrates. My good friend Phædrus, if I do not know
Phædrus, I do not know myself any longer. But
neither the one nor the other is the case; I do know
Phædrus; I know full well that on hearing Lysias read
the speech, he was not content with hearing it once
only, but kept urging him to repeat it again and again;
and Lysias was quite as eager to comply. Phædrus
however was not satisfied even with this, but at last
took the book from the other's hands, and looked over
again the parts he especially fancied. And being
wearied with sitting all the morning thus engaged, he
set out for a walk, though not, I fully believe, till he
had learnt the entire speech by heart, unless it was a
very long one. And he was going outside the walls to
con it over by himself. But on his way he met with a
man who is afflicted with a weakness for listening to
speeches, and when he saw him he was charmed (oh so
charmed) at the sight, for says he, "I shall now have a
friend to share in my raptures." So he requested his
friend to join him in his walk. When, however, this
lover of speeches asked him to commence, he began to
be coy, as though disinclined, albeit determined I am

Phædrus
207
sure, if he could get no willing hearer, to speak out at
last even to unwilling ears. Do you therefore, Phædrus,
request him to do at once what at all events he is sure
to do presently.
Phad. My wisest plan, there seems little doubt, is to
repeat the speech as well as I am able; for I believe
you have made up your mind on no account to let me
go, till I have given it you in some way or other.
Socrates. You have defined my intentions to a nicety.
Phæd. Well then, I'll do my best, though really,
Socrates, I can assure you that I have not learnt the
words by heart; but if you are content with a general
view of the points of difference, as Lysias laid them
down, between the claims of the impassioned and
unimpassioned suitor, I am ready to go through them
in order under their several heads, beginning where he
began.
Socrates. Thank you, my obliging friend; not till you
have shown me though, what it is you have got there
in your left hand beneath your cloak, as I have a shrewd
suspicion that it is the speech itself. If so, I must beg
you to understand that, fond as I am of you, I have yet
no intention at all of lending myself for you to practise
upon, while Lysias is also present. So let us see what
you have got.
Phæd. Enough, Socrates, I confess; you have dashed
down the hope I entertained of practising my memory
on you.
But where would you like us to sit down and
read the speech?
Socrates. Let us turn aside here, and go down by the
Ilissus, and then wherever we find a spot to our taste 229
we will sit down and rest.
Phad. How lucky that I happened to come out with-
out my shoes-and you, Socrates, we know never wear
them. Our easiest plan then is to walk down the
streamlet with our feet in the water, and we shall find
it by no means disagreeable, considering the season of
the year, and the hour of the day.
Socrates. Come on then, and keep at the same time
a look out for a seat.
Phæd. Do you see that towering plane-tree yonder?

208
Plato
Socrates. Of course I do.
Phæd. Well, there we shall find shade and a gentle
breeze, and grass enough for a seat, or if we prefer it,
for a bed.
Socrates. Let us walk towards it.
Phæd. Tell me, Socrates, was it not from somewhere
hereabouts on the Ilissus that Boreas is said to have
carried off Orithyia?
Socrates. So the tale goes.
Phæd. Must it not have been from this very spot?
So beautiful is the water here, so clear and transparent,
and just such as one can fancy maidens loving to play
by.
Socrates. No, not here, but about a quarter of a mile
lower down, just where we cross over to the temple of
the Huntress. And if I am not mistaken, there is an
altar on the spot to Boreas.
Phæd. I have never noticed it. But tell me honestly,
Socrates, do you believe this tale of mythology to be
true?
the
Socrates. Why, I should do nothing strangely out of
way if I were to refuse to it credit, as the learned do;
and go on in their rationalizing method to say that as
the girl was playing with Pharmacæa she was blown
over the adjoining cliffs by a blast of the wind Boreas;
and that having met with her death in this manner, she
was fabled to have been carried off by the god Boreas-
either from this place, or if you like from Mars's hill,
which, according to another account, was the scene of
her adventure. But for my part, Phædrus, though I
consider such explanations sufficiently pretty, yet I
esteem them the peculiar province of a very subtle,
painstaking, and by no means particularly enviable per-
son; if for no other reason than that he will be called
upon, as soon as he has finished this subject, to set us
right as to the form of the Hippocentaurs, and again as
to that of the Chimæra, and then he will have pouring
in upon him a like crowd of Gorgons and Pegasuses,
and such a wondrous host of portentous and impossible
creations, that if he were to disbelieve them all, and,
with a kind of vulgar acuteness, apply to each succes-

Phædrus
209
sively the test of probability, he would require no small
amount of time and labour for his task. But I have no
leisure for such studies—and the reason, my friend, is
this: I cannot as yet obey the Delphic inscription, which
bids me know myself; and it seems to me ridiculous for
one who is still destitute of this knowledge to busy
himself with matters which in no wise concern him. I
therefore leave these subjects alone, and acquiescing in 230
the received opinion regarding them, I devote myself,
as I just now said, to the study, not of fables, but of my
own self, that I may see whether I am really a more
complicated and a more furious monster than Typhon,
or a creature of a gentler and a simpler sort, the born
heir of a divine and tranquil nature. But by the by,
Phædrus, was not this the tree to which you were lead-
ing me?

Phad. The very one.
How
Socrates. Well, really, this is a glorious resting-place.
For the plane-tree I find is thick and spreading, as well
as tall, and the size and shadiness of the agnus castus
here is very beautiful, and being at the height of its
flower, it must render our retreat most fragrant.
delicious too is this spring trickling under the plane-
tree, and how cold its water, to judge by the foot! It
would seem from these images and votive offerings that
the place is sacred to some nymphs and river-god.
Again, how lovely and enjoyable above measure is the
airiness of the spot! summer-like and clear there rings
an answer to the choir of the cicalas. But the most
charming thing of all is this abundant grass, with its
gentle slope just made for the head to fall back on
luxuriously. Really, Phædrus, you make a most admir-
able guide.
Phæd. And you, Socrates, are a most unaccountable
being. In fact, as you say, you are just like a stranger
who is being shown the beauties of the place, and not
like a native of the country; the consequence this of
your never leaving the city either to cross the frontier,
or even, I do believe, for so much as a walk outside the
walls.
Socrates. You must bear with me, dear Phædrus-I
VOL. I.
P
1
210
Plato
am so fond of learning. Now trees, you know, and
fields cannot teach me anything, but men in the city can.
You, however, would appear to have discovered the
charm that can entice me out. For as shepherds & aw
after them their hungry flocks by shaking branches or
grain up and down before their eyes, so could you, I
believe, make me follow you, not only all round Attica,
but also wherever else you might wish to lead, by simply
holding out to me a written speech as a bait. And
since we have reached this spot on the present occasion,
I cannot do better than lay me down to listen, and do
you choose that posture which you think most con-
venient for reading in, and begin the speech.
Phæd. Attend then:
"With the state of my affairs you are acquainted, and
how I expect advantage to us both from this arrange-
231 ment you have heard. Now I claim not to be dis-
appointed in my suit on the ground of my not belonging
to the number of your lovers. For they repent of the
benefits they have conferred the moment that their desire
ceases; but for us, who never love, there is no particular
time at which we may be expected to change our minds.
For it is not under the influence of a resistless passion,
but of our own free choice that we do you a kindness,
consulting what our means will allow, and what is best
for our interests to bestow. Again, lovers take into
consideration the derangement of their private affairs
which their love has occasioned, and the services they
have rendered their favourites; and adding all the
trouble they have taken to the reckoning, they conceive.
that by all this they have long ago paid the return which
is due to the object of their affection. We, on the other
hand, are not able to pretend that we have neglected
our fortunes for love; we cannot take into account the
labours we have endured, nor plead the domestic
quarrels which have resulted from our devotion; so that,
as our suit is divested of all such evils as these, we have
nothing left us but cheerfully to do whatever we may
think we shall please you by performing. Again, if it
be a fair reason for setting store on a lover, that he
professes greater attachment for his favourite than for

Phædrus
211
any one else, and is ready both by word and deed to
incur the enmity of all the world beside, if he can but
gratify the object of his passion, it is easy to perceive
that if his profession be a true one, all of whom he may
hereafter become enamoured, will be held of greater
account than his earlier love, and it is clear that, if the
former wish it, he will not hesitate to do even harm to
the latter. And how can you think it reasonable to
lavish so costly a treasure on one suffering under a fatal
infliction, which no man acquainted with its nature
would even attempt to avert; when even the sufferer
himself owns that his mind is diseased, and that he
knows his own folly, but cannot restrain it? And when
this man is restored to his senses, how can he possibly
judge that to be well done about which he was so
desirous when in such a state of mind? And further, if
you were to select the best from among your lovers,
your choice would be made from a small number; but
if from the rest of the world you were to select the
man who is most suitable to yourself, it would be made
from a large number; so that there is far more reason
to expect that in the larger number exists the one who
is deserving of your attachment. If, moreover, you
stand in awe of public opinion, and dread its reproaches
on the affair being discovered, it is but natural to sup-
pose that lovers, from an idea that others will deem 232
them as happy as they esteem themselves, will be so
elated as to talk of their intimacy, and with ostentatious
vanity give all men to know that their labour has not
been spent in vain; but that we on the other hand, who
by never loving, never lose the dominion over ourselves,
should prefer what is truly advantageous to any cele-
brity that is to be had in the world. Again, men cannot
help hearing and seeing how lovers run after their
favourites, and that too with elaborate parade; so that
the mere fact of their being seen together is sufficient to
give rise to suspicion; whereas no one would think of
suspecting us for holding conversation with you, as they
know that people cannot help talking with some one or
other, either from friendship or for some other pleasure.
And further, if you have ever conceived an alarm from
212
Plato
remembering how difficult it is for a friendship to last,
and from the reflection, that in ordinary cases when a
quarrel has taken place, the misfortune is felt equally
on both sides, but that in love, as it is you who have
lavished what you prize most highly, so it is you who
will suffer most deeply by a rupture, let me remind you
that here again it is those who are in love that you
have most reason to look upon with terror. For many
are the causes that irritate lovers, and they think that
everything is done to hurt and annoy them. For which
reason also they are anxious to deter you from associat-
ing with the world, fearing those who are possessed
of substance, lest they outbid them with money, and
those who are educated, lest they outshine them in
ability; and so whatever may be the advantage a man
possesses, they look with suspicion on his influence in
that particular. If then they succeed in persuading you
to abstain from society, they leave you at last without
a friend in the world; but if, with an eye to your own
interests, you adopt a different and wiser course, a
quarrel will be the inevitable result. By us, on the other
hand, who are not in love, but owe to our merit the
accomplishment of our desires, no jealousy would be
entertained for those who cultivate your acquaintance,
but rather dislike for such as avoid it; as we should
consider ourselves slighted by the neglect of the latter,
but benefited by the intimacy of the former. And such
being our feelings, surely you have reason to expect that
friendship rather than hatred will result from our inter-
course. And further, lovers frequently conceive a desire
for the person before they have discovered the character
or become acquainted with the other properties of their
favourites, so that it is impossible for you to tell whether
their disposition for friendship will outlast the continu-
233 ance of their desire. But when passion has never
existed, when your favours have been obtained by those
who were your friends before, it is not likely that this
friendship will be lessened by what has been the source
of so much delight-rather will the memory of the past
be an earnest of future attachment. And further, you
must not forget the superior opportunities of improve-

Phædrus
213
ment which will be afforded you by favouring my suit.
Lovers are so neglectful of your best interests, that
they praise everything you say and do, partly for fear
of giving offence, and partly because their own judg-
ment is debased by their passion. For such are the
caprices of love; if its victim be unsuccessful, it makes
trifles which trouble no one else seem distressing to him;
if successful, it exacts from him admiration for what
contains no cause of satisfaction. So that I consider
pity to be far more suitable than congratulation for the
objects of such an attachment. I on the other hand, if
you yield to my wishes, will associate with you on the
following terms. Not consulting our present gratifica-
tion so much as our future advantage; not enslaved
by passion, but master of myself; not ready to contract
a violent animosity on slight provocation, but slow to
conceive a moderate displeasure for serious offences, I
will freely pardon all involuntary faults, while such as
are intentional I will endeavour to correct. For such
conduct is a sure sign of a friendship that will long
endure. But if the thought, as is not unlikely, has
suggested itself to you, that it is impossible for attach-
ment to be strong if unaccompanied by passion, you
ought to bear in mind, that in that case we should care
but little either for our sons or for our fathers and
mothers, nor should we ever possess faithful friends on
any other footing than an amatory connection. Again.
if it is proper to bestow favours most on those who need
them most, it follows that from the world in general
you ought to select, not the best, but the neediest as
the objects of your charity-for the greater the misery
they are rescued from, the greater is the debt of grati-
tude they will owe you. Nay further, when you give
an entertainment, you will be expected to ask not friends
to your board, but those who beg an invitation and
require a meal; for they will be charmed with your
kindness, and will follow in your train and throng your
doors, and express themselves highly delighted and
deeply grateful, and invoke countless blessings on your
head. It may be though that this is not the true ground
of selection; it may be that you ought to bestow your

214
Plato
favours, not on those who need them most, but on
those who are best able to repay them; not on lovers
merely, but on those who are worthy of the favour in
234 question; not on men who will enjoy the flower of your
youth, but on those who in your more advanced years
will share with you their fortunes; not on such as when
they have achieved their purpose will parade their suc-
cess to the world, but on such as from feelings of
delicacy will never open their mouths on the subject;
not on suitors who sue you with a short-lived enthusi-
asm, but on friends who will continue friends all your
life long; not on men, who when they are released from
their passion, will seek some pretext for a quarrel, but
on those who when your bloom is faded, will then dis-
play their own true excellence. Remember now, I pray
you, all I have said; and also bear in mind that lovers
are taken to task by their friends on the score that their
course of life is a bad one; whereas never have those
who do not love been reproached by any of their relatives
with neglecting on that account their private affairs.
You may perhaps ask me whether I recommend you to
bestow your favours on all who do not love you. But
neither, I imagine, would a lover bid you entertain such
sentiments towards all your lovers alike. No, if you
view the matter reasonably, you cannot consider such
conduct deserving of equal gratitude, nor, however you
might wish it, would you be equally able to preserve
the affair secret from the world. And harm, you must
remember, ought to accrue to neither from the trans-
action; advantage should rather result to both.
"My suit has now been urged with arguments which
for my part I deem convincing-should you see in them
any defect or omission, they are open to any questions
you may choose to ask.”
Well, Socrates, what do you think of the speech? Is
it not wonderfully fine, especially in point of language?
Socrates. Nay, divinely, my good friend; it quite
threw me into an ecstasy. And this sensation I owe to
you, Phædrus; for all the time you were reading, I kept
my eye on your face, and saw it glow with rapture under
the influence of the speech. And esteeming you a better

Phædrus
215
judge in such matters than myself, I thought I could
not do better than follow your example, and so I have
shared with you in all your transports, my god-inspired
friend.
Phæd. Nay, Socrates, always so bent on jesting?
Socrates. Jesting! don't you believe I am in earnest?
. Phad. Oh, no more of this, Socrates; but tell me
honestly as you love me, do you believe that any man
in Greece could write more ably and fully on the same
subject?
Are we
Socrates. How do you mean, Phædrus?
required to praise the speech for the fitness of its
subject-matter, or merely on the ground that every word
in it is clear, and rounded and polished off with a nice
precision? If on the former ground as well, it is only
to please you that I can comply, since for my part my
incapacity is such, that I observed no excellence of the
kind. For I was merely directing my attention to its 235
rhetorical merit, though this I did not imagine even
Lysias himself would consider sufficient. In fact, I
thought, Phædrus-please correct me if I am wrong-
that he repeated the same things two or three times
over, as though he found it no such easy matter to say
much on one subject. Perhaps, though, it was that he
did not mind this sort of thing; nay, I could even fancy
that he was showing off with a young man's display
the power he possessed of expressing his ideas in two
different ways, and in both with the finest possible
language.
Phæd. You are quite wrong, Socrates; the very merit
which you deny is to be found in the speech in even an
eminent degree. Of all appropriate topics which the
subject contained, it has not omitted a single one; so
that I am sure, that after what he has said, no one
could ever support the same position at greater length,
or with arguments of greater value.
Socrates. On this point, Phædrus, it will be no longer
in my power to agree with you. For wise men and
women of old time, who have written and spoken on
the subject, will rise up and bear witness against me, if
out of complaisance to you I make this concession.
216
Plato
Phæd. Whom do you mean? where have you ever
heard the subject better treated?
Socrates. I cannot say just at the moment, though I
am sure I have heard it somewhere, either perhaps by
the fair Sappho, or the sage Anacreon, or may be by
some prose writer or other. What leads me, you will
ask, to this conclusion? The fact is, my worthy
Phædrus, that my breast, I know not how, is full of
matter, and I feel that I could be delivered of a speech
different from, and in no wise inferior to this. Now that
I have invented none of it myself, I am confident, as I
am no stranger to my own stupidity. It remains then, I
think, that like a pitcher I have been filled, through my
ears, from some foreign source; but here again so stupid
am I, that I have quite forgotten both how and where I
gained my information.
Phæd. Never mind, Socrates, you have told me most
excellent tidings; don't trouble yourself about telling me
how or from whom you heard it, but just do the very
thing that you say. Undertake to produce a speech of
equal length and merit with that which I have got
written here, without availing yourself of any of its
arguments, and for my part I promise you, after the
fashion of the nine archons, that I will dedicate to the
god at Delphi a golden statue as large as life, not only
of myself, but also of you.
Socrates. You are very kind, Phædrus, and quite
deserve the statue of gold, if you understand me to
mean that Lysias missed his mark altogether, and that
it is possible to produce a speech which shall contain
nothing that he said. No, I do not think this could
be done with even the most worthless writer. Since, to
take our present subject, do you suppose that any man
who was maintaining the superior claims of the unim-
passioned to those of the impassioned suitor, would be
able to proceed with his arguments if he were to omit
lauding the sanity of the one, and blaming the insanity
236 of the other? these being topics which are necessarily
inherent in the proposition. No, such arguments ought,
I think, to be allowed and conceded to the author; and
in all such it is not the invention, but the arrangement
Phædrus
217
that should be admired; whereas in those which, instead
of being impossible to miss are difficult to find, the
invention as well as the arrangement may claim our
approval.
Phæd. I admit the distinction, as it appears to me to
be fairly stated. And what is more, I will act up to it.
I will allow you to assume that a man in love is in a
more diseased condition than one who is not in love,
and if, when this point is put out of the question on
both sides, you surpass Lysias in the number and value
of your arguments, you may expect to figure in massive.
gold at Olympia by the side of the offering of the
Cypselidæ.
Socrates. You have taken it quite to heart, Phædrus,
that in teasing you I have laid hold upon your favourite;
and I see you expect that I shall really attempt, in
emulation of his skill, to produce something still more
skilfully wrought.
Phæd. For that matter, my friend, you have given
me quite as good a hold on you. For speak you must as
well as you are able; there is no help for it. But do take
care that we are not compelled to have recourse to the
vulgar stage-trick of retorting upon each other; pray
don't force me to say as you did just now: "My good
Socrates, if you don't know Socrates, I don't know
Phædrus any longer;" and again, "Socrates is dying to
speak, but affects to be coy." No, make up your mind
that we will not stir from this spot, till you have dis-
closed what you said your heart contained. For here
we are by ourselves in a retired place, and I am the
younger and stronger man of the two. All which
things being considered, you had better mind what I
say, and determine to speak of your own free will rather
than by compulsion.
Socrates. But really, Phædrus, it would be ludicrous
in a novice like me to set myself in comparison with an
experienced author, and extemporize on a subject which
he has discussed.
Phæd. I'll tell you what it is, Socrates; you must
let me have no more of this coquetting, as I am pretty
sure I have that to say which will compel you to speak.
218
Plato
237
Socrates. Pray don't say it then.
Phæd. Nay, but I will, and here it is. And it shall
be in the form of an oath. I swear to you-by whom,
by what god shall I swear? Shall it be by this plane-
tree? Yes, by this plane I swear, that if you do not
produce your speech here before her, I will never again
either report or recite to you the speech of any author
whatsoever.
Socrates. Ah, wretch, well have you discovered the
means of compelling a speech-enamoured man to do
your bidding, whatever it be !
Phæd. What makes you hang back, then?
Socrates. I will do so no more, since you, Phædrus,
have sworn this oath. For how could I ever have the
heart to exclude myself from such a feast?
Phæd. Begin then.
Socrates. Shall I tell you what I mean to do?
Phæd. About what?
Socrates. I mean to speak with my face covered, that
I may hurry through the speech as quickly as possible,
and not break down for shame, by looking at you.
Phæd. Well, do but speak, and you may settle every-
thing else as you like.
Socrates. Come now, ye Muses called Ligaan,
whether it be to the nature of your song, or to the
music-loving race of the Ligyans that ye owe the name,
-come help me in the tale which my kind friend here is
forcing me to tell, in order that his favourite, who even
heretofore seemed to him to be wise, may now seem
wiser than ever.
I
There was once upon a time a boy, say rather a
youth, of surpassing beauty. Now this youth had very
many lovers; but one of them was a cunning fellow,
who though he loved him no less warmly than his
rivals, had made the youth believe that he loved him
not. And one day as he was urging his suit, he under-
took to prove this very point, that the dispassionate
suitor had a better claim on his favour than the impas-
sioned lover. And here is his proof.
On every subject, my friend, there is but one mode
of beginning for those who would deliberate well. They
Phædrus
219
*
must know what the thing is on which they are deliberat-
ing, or else of necessity go altogether astray. Most
men, however, are blind to the fact that they are
ignorant of the essential character of each individual
thing. Fancying therefore that they possess this know-
ledge, they come to no mutual understanding at the
outset of their inquiry, and in the sequel they exhibit
the natural consequence, an inconsistency with them-
selves and each other. Let not you and me then fall
into the error which we condemn in others, but since
the question before us is, whether love or the absence
of love is desirable in friendship; let us first establish
by mutual consent a definition of love that will explain
its nature and its powers, and then, with this to look
back upon and refer to, let us proceed to consider
whether it is profitable or injurious in its results. Now
that love is a kind of desire is clear to every one, and
equally clear is it on the other hand, that without being
in love we desire beautiful objects. How then are we
to mark the lover? We should further observe, that in
every one of us there are two ruling and directing prin-
ciples, whose guidance we follow wherever they may
lead, the one being an innate desire of pleasure; the
other, an acquired judgment which aspires after excel-
lence. Now these two principles at one time maintain
harmony, while at another they are at feud within us,
and now one and now the other obtains the mastery.
When judgment leads us with sound reason to virtue, 238
and asserts its authority, we assign to that authority the
name of temperance; but when desire drags us irration-
ally to pleasures, and has established its sway within
us, that sway is denominated excess. Now excess, you
must know, is a thing of many names, as it is of many
parts and many forms. And of these forms, that which
may happen to have obtained the predominance brands
its possessor with its name, and that one neither honour-
able nor worth possessing. For instance, when desire
in regard of eating gets the better of the highest reason
and the other desires, it will be termed gluttony, and
cause its possessor to be called a glutton. If again it
has usurped dominion in the matter of drinking, and


220
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drags the individual affected by it in this direction, I
need not say what designation it will acquire. And since
in general names akin to these names are applied to
desires akin to these desires, it is sufficiently clear what
is the proper appellation of the desire which for the time
being happens to be dominant. Now my motive for
introducing these previous remarks must by this time
be pretty well evident; but nothing is so clear that it
does not admit of becoming clearer by being spoken.
When desire, having rejected reason and overpowered
judgment which leads to right, is set in the direction of
the pleasure which beauty can inspire, and when again
under the influence of its kindred desires it is moved
with violent motion towards the beauty of corporeal
forms, it acquires a surname from this very violent
motion, and is called love. But by the way, my dear
Phædrus, do I appear to you, as I do to myself, to have
been speaking under some influence divine?
Phad. There certainly can be no doubt, Socrates,
that an unusual kind of fluency has come upon you.
Socrates. Hearken then in silence to my words, for
in very truth the place where we are sitting seems holy
ground. So that if haply in the course of my oration
I become entranced by the spirits of the spot, you must
not marvel thereat; for my present utterance falls no
longer far short of a dithyrambic strain.
Phæd. Most true; it does not.
Socrates. And for this, Phædrus, you are answerable.
But listen to the remainder of my speech, for it may be
that I shall escape the trance. This, however, will be
as Heaven pleases; for ourselves, we must return in our
discourse to the beautiful boy.
تار ی کا دور شماره یا اینکه به اینکه او
Come then, my excellent youth. Since the defini-
tion of the subject under discussion has been stated and
accurately marked, let us now keep this in our view,
while we proceed to consider what advantage or injury
is likely to result to you from favouring the wishes of
an impassioned and unimpassioned suitor respectively.
If a man be governed by desire and the slave of pleasure,
he must of necessity, I think, endeavour to render his
beloved the source of as much pleasure to himself as he
Phædrus
221
possibly can. Now, to a sick man everything gives 239
pleasure that does not oppose itself to his wishes, but
whatever asserts a superiority or even an equality,
excites his dislike. A lover, therefore, if he can hel
it, will not bear his favourite to be either superior to
or on a level with himself, but is always striving to
lower him and make him his inferior. Now ignorance
is inferior to learning, cowardice to courage, incapacity
as a speaker to oratorical skill, heaviness of intellect
to a ready wit. Such, among many others, are the
mental defects which a lover must needs rejoice to find
in his loved one if they are naturally inherent, and
which, if they result from education, he must endeavour
to instil, or else forfeit his immediate gratification. The
consequence is, that your lover will regard you with a
jealous eye, and by debarring you from many valuable
acquaintances, the cultivation of which would be most
conducive to your growth in manliness, he will do you
serious harm, and the greatest harm of all by excluding
you from that which would make you truly wise; I
mean the study of Divine Philosophy, from which your
lover will be sure to keep you as far as possible asunder,
for fear of your there learning to despise him. And not
content with this, he will so scheme as to leave you in
total ignorance of every subject whatever, so that on
every subject you may be compelled to look to him for
information, as this is the condition for you to be in
that will cause him the keenest delight, but yourself the
most ruinous harm. So far then as mental improvement
is concerned, you cannot have a less profitable guide and
companion than a suitor who is under the influence of
love.
Let us now proceed to consider what will be your
corporeal habit, and what your course of bodily dis-
cipline, if you have for your lord and master a man who
cannot help pursuing pleasure in preference to virtue.
Such a person will be seen running after a delicate
stripling, not hardy in frame nor reared beneath a
scorching sun, but fondled under the shade of bending
trees; a stranger to manly toil and healthy sweatings,
but no stranger to the softness of a woman's life, deck-
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ing his person with false colours and ornaments, in lack
of nature's graces, and given in short to all such prac-
tices as are the natural concomitants of these. What
they are, you know so well that I need not dilate on
them further; but, summing them up under one general
head, I will proceed to another branch of my subject.
They are such that the youth whose body is trained in
them will not fail in time of battle and all serious
emergencies to inspire his enemies with confidence, but
his friends and lovers with alarm.
To pass from these obvious reflections, let us in the
next place examine what advantage or what injury to
your fortune we may expect to find resulting from the
companionship and management of a lover. Clear it
must be to every one, and to the lover himself most of
all, that there is nothing he would pray for so earnestly
as for the object of his attachment to be deprived of his
dearest, fondest, and holiest treasures. Gladly would
he see him bereft of father and mother, of relations and
240 friends, as in them he views only so many censors and
obstacles in the way of that commerce with his beloved
which he loves most dearly. Moreover, if a youth be
possessed of property in gold or other kind of substance,
he will not appear so ready a prey, nor so easy of
management when caught in the toils. And thus it
cannot possibly be but that a lover will grudge his
favourite the possession of fortune, and rejoice sincerely
in its loss. Nay more, he would fain have him remain
as long as possible without wife, or child, or home, in
his desire of reaping for the longest time he can the full
enjoyment of his own delights.
There are, I am aware, other evils beside this in
the world, though few with which some deity has not
mingled a temporary gratification. A parasite, for
instance, is a shocking and a baneful monster, yet
still nature has infused into his blandishments a not
unpolished charm. A mistress, moreover, may be con-
demned as a dangerous evil; and the same objection
may be made to a variety of similar creatures and pur-
suits, which are yet capable of affording, for the passing
hour at least, the keenest enjoyment. But a lover,
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223
beside being detrimental to his favourite, is of all dis-
tasteful things the most distasteful in daily intercourse.
We are told by an ancient saying, that youth is pleased
with youth, and age with age: I suppose because a
similarity of years leading to a similarity of pleasures,
by virtue of resemblance, engenders friendship. But
yet the intercourse even of equals is not unattended by
satiety. And further, in every transaction every one, it
is said, finds compulsion irksome; and this is an evil
which, in addition to their want of sympathy, is felt in
the highest degree by the favourite in the society of his
lover. For an old man is the companion of a young one,
never leaving him if he can help it by day or by night,
but driven onward by a resistless frenzy, which is all
the while ministering to him indeed exquisite pleasure
as long as by his sight, his hearing, his touch, his every
sense, he is made aware of the presence of the beautiful
boy, so that he would love nothing better than to cling
to his side unceasingly; but as for the object of that
attachment, what kind of solace, I ask, or what pleasure,
can he possibly receive in return to save him during
all that long companionship from reaching the very
extremity of disgust; when he has ever before his eyes.
the bloomless countenance of age, and that too with all
those accompaniments which we cannot hear even
spoken of without repugnance, much less feel actually
forced upon us by an ever-pressing necessity; when he
has, moreover, on every occasion, and in all company
to be on his guard against censorious observation; when
he has to listen either to unseasonable and extravagant
praises, or, with equal probability, to unendurable
reproaches from his lover's sober caprice, while from
his drunken excess he may expect an unveiled and
loathsome licentiousness of speech, which is not only
intolerable, but infamous to hear.
And if, during the continuance of his passion, a lover
is at once hurtful and disgusting, as surely, when his
passion is over, will he be for the remainder of his life
a traitor to one whom with many promises, aye, and
many an oath and prayer he could scarcely prevail on
to endure the present burden of his society in hope of 241
224
Plato
future advantage. Yes, I say, at the time when pay-
ment should be made, he finds that he has received
within his breast a new ruler and a new lord, to wit,
wisdom and temperance, in the stead of passion and
madness, and that he is become a new man, without his
favourite being conscious of the change. So the youth
demands a return for former favours, and reminds him
of all that has passed between them in word and deed,
under the impression that he is speaking to the same
person. But the other, for very shame, dares neither
avow the alteration that has come upon him, nor can
he bring himself to fulfil the oaths and promises of that
former insensate reign, now that wisdom and temper-
ance have set their throne in his heart, for fear that, if
he should act as he did before, he might become like
what he was before, and return back again to his old
condition. And thus it is that he is a runaway, and of
necessity a defrauder, where once he was a lover, and in
the turning of a potsherd is changed from pursuer into
pursued for the youth is compelled to give chase with
indignation and curses, having, alas! been ignorant
from the very first, that he ought not to bestow his
favours on one who was in love, and of consequence
a madman, but much rather on one who did not love
and retained his senses; as in the former case he would
have to surrender himself to a faithless, peevish, jealous
wretch, who would do harm to his substance, and harm
to his bodily habit, but far the greatest harm to the
cultivation of his soul, than which in the eyes both of
gods and men there neither is nor ever will be ought
more dearly prized. Think deeply, my beautiful boy, on
the words I have spoken, and remember that a lover's
friendship is no attachment of good will, but that with
an appetite which lusts for repletion,
As wolves love lambs, so lovers love their loves.
Ah, Phædrus, the very thing I dreaded! You must
not expect to hear another word from me, but be con-
tent that my speech should terminate here.
Phad. Why, Socrates, I thought it was only half

Phædrus
225
finished, and that it would have quite as much to say
in supporting the claim of the unimpassioned suitor,
and enumerating the advantages which he has to offer
in opposition. How is it then that you are leaving off

now?
Socrates. Did you not observe, my learned friend,
that I had already got beyond dithyrambics, and was
giving utterance to epics, and that too, while engaged
in blaming? Pray what do you imagine will become of
me, if I commence a panegyric? don't you know that
of a certainty I shall be lifted into ecstasy by the nymphs
to whose influence you have designedly exposed me?
For fear then of such a fate, I tell you in a single word,
that for all the evil I have spoken of the one, I attribute
just the opposite good to the other. And what need of
a protracted discourse, when enough has been said upon
both sides? And thus my tale will meet with that
reception which it deserves and for myself I will cross
the stream, and go home before you force me into some- 242
thing more serious still.
VINK
Phæd. Not yet, Socrates, not till the heat of the day
is past. Don't you see that the sun is already near
standing still at high noon, as they phrase it? so pray
wait, and let us talk over together what has been said,
and return home as soon as it becomes cool.
Socrates. You are a strange person with your
speeches, Phædrus; you quite amaze me. I do believe,
that of all the speeches that have been composed during
your lifetime, a greater number owe their existence to
you than to any other person in the world, whether they
be of your own composition, or extorted from some one
else by fair means or foul. If we except Simmias of
Thebes, there is no one who will bear competition with
you. And now again I believe we shall find another
speech which will have to thank you for its delivery.
Phæd. No bad tidings these, certainly; but how is
this the case, and what speech do you mean?
Socrates. Just as I was about to cross the river, I was
made aware of my divine monitor's wonted sign-now
it never occurs save to deter me from something or
other I am intending to do-and methought too, that I
VOL. I.
Q
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heard a voice from this very spot, forbidding me to
depart hence till I had purified myself, as though I had
been guilty of some offence against Heaven. Now, you
must know, I possess something of prophetic skill,
though no very great amount, but, like indifferent
writers, just enough for my own purposes.
And thus
it is that I have now at last a clear perception of my
error. I say at last, because I can assure you, my good
friend, that the soul is in some sort prophetic. For
mine pricked me some time ago, as I was uttering that
speech, and my face, as Ibycus says, was darkened for
fear lest I might be purchasing honour on earth by some
offence at the high court of heaven. But now I have
discovered my sin.
Phæd. And pray what is it?
Socrates. That was a shocking, shocking speech
which you brought here yourself, Phædrus, and so was
the one you forced me to utter.
Phæd. In what way were they shocking?
Socrates. They were foolish, and somewhat impious
withal; and what can be more shocking than this?
Phæd. Nothing, if your charge be a true one.
Socrates. And is it not? Don't you believe Love to
be the son of Aphrodite, and a god?
Phæd. He is said to be so, certainly.
Socrates. Certainly not by Lysias, nor by that speech
of yours which found utterance through my lips after
they had been bewitched by you. No, if Love be, as
indeed he is, a god, or of godly sort, he cannot be aught
that is evil; yet as such he is represented in both our
speeches. This, therefore, is the offence they were
guilty of with regard to Love; and not only this, but
with a naïveté that is highly amusing, though they do
not utter a single sound or true word throughout, they
yet talk as gravely as if they were of consequence, on
243 the strength, it may be, of expecting to impose upon
some poor simpletons, and win a fair name among
them. I therefore, for my part, Phædrus, must of neces-
sity purify myself. And for all who sin in matter of
legends, there is an ancient form of purification with
which Stesichorus was acquainted, though Homer was



Phædrus
227
not.
For when he was deprived of his eyesight for
maligning Helen, he was not ignorant, like Homer, of
the cause, but a true votary of the Muses, he learnt his
fault, and straightway sang
False was my tale-unpassed the rolling sea,
And Troy's proud turrets never viewed by thee.
And so, having composed all his palinode, as it is called,
he immediately recovered his sight. I, however, will be
wiser than either of those bards in one particular. Ere
any evil befall me, for my defamation of Love, I will
offer him my palinode by way of atonement, with my
head bare, and no longer, as before, muffled up for
shame.
Phæd. You could not have said anything that would
give me greater pleasure than this.
Socrates. I believe you, my good friend; for you feel
as well as I do, how shameless was the tone of both our
speeches. For just conceive their being overheard by
some gentleman of mild and generous feeling, who is
either now, or has at some time past of his life been,
enamoured of a youth of congenial disposition. If, for
instance, he were to hear us maintaining that on slight
provocation lovers contract violent animosities, and
make both jealous and dangerous companions to their
favourites, do you think it possible that he could help
fancying himself listening to persons who had been bred
among sailors, and had never witnessed an ingenuous
passion, and would he not, think you, be very far from
admitting the justice of our censures on love?
Phæd. I don't doubt it, Socrates.
Socrates. Out of delicacy then to such a lover as this,
and for fear of the god of love himself, I desire by a
fresh and sweet discourse to wash out, so to speak, the
brackish taste of the stuff I have just uttered.
And
I would recommend Lysias, too, to make all the haste
he can to prove that, under similar circumstances, the
suit of a lover should be preferred to that of one who
is not in love.
Phad. You need have no doubt of this being done,
Socrates. If you deliver your panegyric on love, Lysias
That s

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most certainly shall not escape composing another on
the same side.
Socrates. Well, I can trust you for this, so long as
you are the man you are.
Phæd. Speak on then with confidence.
Socrates. But where, I want to know, is the boy to
whom I addressed my former speech, as I should be
sorry for him to run away without hearing this as well,
and favour in his haste the suit of an unimpassioned
wooer.
Phad. Here he is by your side, quite ready for you
when you want him.
Socrates. You must understand then, my beautiful
244 boy, that my late speech was the production of the gay
Phædrus, son of the fame-loving Pythocles, the nurs-
ling of the myrtle-beds of Myrrhinus; but that I am
indebted for the one I am now about to deliver to the
inspired bard Stesichorus, son of the holy Euphemus,
bred at Himera in the mysteries of love. Now, it must
begin on this wise:
False is the tale which says that when a lover is
present, favour ought rather to be shown to one, who is
no lover, on the score, forsooth, of the one being mad
and the other sane. For if it were true, without excep-
“tion, that madness is an evil, there would be no harm in
the assertion; but as it is, we owe our greatest blessings
to madness, if only it be granted by Heaven's bounty.
For the prophetess at Delphi, you are well aware, and
the priestesses of Dodona, have in their moments of
madness done great and glorious service to the men and
the cities of Greece, but little or none in their sober
mood. And if we were to speak of the Sibyl and all
others, that by exercise of inspired divination have told
beforehand many things to many men, and thereby
guided them aright in their future courses, we should
run to a great length in telling only what every one
knows. There is one fact, however, to which it would
be worth our while solemnly to appeal; I mean that, in
the opinion of the name-givers of ancient times, madness
was no disgrace or reproach; else they would never have
attached this very name to that most glorious art



Phædrus
229
whereby the future is discerned. No, it was because
they judged of it as a glorious thing when inspired by
Heaven's grace, that they gave it the name of μaviký:
it is only the vulgar taste of a later age, that by insert-
ing the tau has made it μavтIKý instead. Since you will
find, in like manner, that the investigation of the future,
which is carried on by people in their senses through the
medium of birds and other signs, received at first the
name of olovoïσTIKý, inasmuch as by means of thought,
men furnished themselves out of their own minds with
intelligence and information; but moderns, not content
with this word, gave it dignity with their long o, and
called it οἰωνιστική. As much then as divination is a
more perfect, and a more precious thing than augury
both in name and efficiency, so much more glorious, by
the testimony of the ancients, is madness than sober
sense, the inspiration of Heaven than the creation of
men. Again, for those sore plagues and dire afflictions,
which you are aware lingered in certain families as the
wraith of some old ancestral guilt, madness devised a
remedy, after it had entered into the heart of the proper
persons, and to the proper persons revealed its secrets;
for it fled for refuge to prayer and services of the gods,
and thence obtaining purifications and atoning rights,
it made the sufferer whole for time present and time to
come, by showing him the way of escape from the evils
that encompassed him, if only he were rightly frenzied
and possessed. And thirdly, there is a possession and
a madness inspired by the Muses, which seizes upon a 245
tender and a virgin soul, and, stirring it up to rapturous
frenzy, adorns in ode and other verse the countless deeds
of elder time for the instruction of after ages.
But
whosoever without the madness of the Muses comes
to knock at the doors of poesy, from the conceit that
haply by force of art he will become an efficient poet,
departs with blasted hopes, and his poetry, the poetry
of sense, fades into obscurity before the poetry of
madness.
Such, and yet more, are the glorious results I can
tell you of as proceeding from a madness inspired by the
gods. Let us not therefore regard with apprehension



X
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Plato
}
the particular result we are considering, nor be per-
plexed and frightened by any arguments into the belief
that we ought to select the sensible rather than the
enraptured man as our friend. No, our opponent must
not carry off the palm of victory till he has likewise
made it evident, that for no good is love sent from
heaven to lover and beloved. With us, on the other
hand, rests the proof that such a madness as this is
given by God to man for his highest possible happiness.
Now my proof, I am aware, will meet with no credit
from the subtle disputant, but in the eyes of the truly
wise it will be convincing. First of all, then, I must
investigate the truth with regard to the nature of the
soul, both human and divine, by observing its conditions
and powers. And thus do I begin my demonstration.
Every soul is immortal-for whatever is in perpetual
motion is immortal. Now the thing which moves
another and is by another moved, as it may cease to be
moved, may cease also to live; it is only that which
moves itself, inasmuch as it never quits itself, that never
ceases moving, but is to everything else that is moved a
source and beginning of motion. Now a beginning is
uncreate; for everything that is created must be created
from a beginning, but a beginning itself from nothing
whatever for if a beginning were created from any-
thing, it would not be a beginning. Again, since it is
uncreate, it must also of necessity be indestructible. For
if a beginning be destroyed, it can neither itself be at
any time created from anything, nor can anything else
be created from it, if, as is evidently true, everything
must be created from a beginning. Thus we see then
that that which is self-moved is the beginning of motion,
and as being such can neither be created nor destroyed;
else must all the universe and all creation collapse and
come to a standstill, and never at any time find that
whereby they may be again set in motion and come into
being. And now that that which is moved by itself
has been found to be immortal, none will hesitate to
assert that this power of self-motion is implied in the
very essence and definition of a soul. For every body
which receives motion from without we call soulless;


Phædrus
231
but that which receives motion from within of itself, we
say is possessed of soul, as though in this lay the soul's
very nature. And if it be true, that that which is self-
moved is nothing else than the soul, it follows of neces-
sity that the soul must be a thing both uncreate and 246
immortal. For its immortality let this suffice.
In considering its form let us proceed in the follow-
ing manner. To explain what the soul is, would be a
long and most assuredly a god-like labour; to say what
it resembles, is a shorter and a human task. Let us
attempt then the latter; let us say that the soul resembles
the combined efficacy of a pair of winged steeds and a
charioteer. Now the horses and drivers of the gods are→
all both good themselves and of good extraction, but the
character and breed of all others is mixed. In the first
place, with us men the supreme ruler has a pair of
horses to manage, and then of these horses he finds one
generous and of generous breed, the other of opposite
descent and opposite character. And thus it necessarily
follows that driving in our case is no easy or agreeable
work. We must at this point endeavour to express
what we mean respectively by a mortal and an immortal
animal. All that is soul presides over all that is with-
out soul, and patrols all heaven, now appearing in one
form and now in another. When it is perfect and fully
feathered it roams in upper air, and regulates the entire
universe; but the soul that has lost its feathers is carried
down till it finds some solid resting place; and when it
has settled there, when it has taken to itself, that is, an
earthly body, which seems capable of self-motion, owing
to the power of its new inmate, the name of animal is
given to the whole, to this compound, I mean, of soul
and body, with the addition of the epithet mortal. The
immortal, on the other hand, has received its name from
the conclusion of no human reasoning; but without
having either seen or formed any adequate conception
of a god, we picture him to ourselves as an immortal
animal, possessed of soul and possessed of body, and of
both in intimate conjunction from all eternity. But this
matter I leave to be and to be told as Heaven pleases-
my task is to discover what is the cause that makes the


232
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feathers fall off the soul. It is something, I conceive,
of the following kind.
The natural efficacy of a wing is to lift up heavy
substances, and bear them aloft to those upper regions
which are inhabited by the race of the gods. And of
all the parts connected with the body it has perhaps
shared most largely (with the soul) in the divine nature.
Now of this nature are beauty, wisdom, virtue, and all
similar qualities. By these then the plumage of the soul
is chiefly fostered and increased; by deformity, vice, and
all such contraries, it is wasted and destroyed. Zeus,
the great chieftain in heaven, driving a winged car,
travels' first, arranging and presiding over all things;
and after him comes a host of gods and inferior deities,
247 marshalled in eleven divisions, for Hestia stays at home
alone in the mansion of the gods; but all the other
ruling powers that have their place in the number of
the twelve march at the head of a troop in the order to
which they have been severally appointed. Now there
are, it is true, many ravishing views and opening paths
within the bounds of heaven, whereon the family of the
blessed gods go to and fro, each in performance of his
own proper work; and they are followed by all who
from time to time possess both will and power; for envy
has no place in the celestial choir. But whenever they
go to feast and revel, they forthwith journey by an uphill
path to the summit of the heavenly vault. Now the
chariots of the gods being of equal poise, and obedient
to the rein, move easily, but all others with difficulty;
for they are burdened by the horse of vicious temper,
which sways and sinks them towards the earth, if haply
he has received no good training from his charioteer.
Whereupon there awaits the soul a crowning pain and
agony. For those which we called immortal go outside
when they are come to the topmost height, and stand
on the outer surface of heaven, and as they stand they
are borne round by its revolution, and gaze on the
external scene. Now of that region beyond the sky no
earthly bard has ever yet sung, or ever will sing in
worthy strains. But this is the fashion of it, for sure
"I must venture to speak the truth, especially as truth


Phædrus
233
is my theme. Real existence, colourless, formless, and
intangible, visible only to the intelligence which sits at
the helm of the soul, and with which the family of true
science is concerned, has its abode in this region. The
mind then of deity, as it is fed by intelligence and pure
science, and the mind of every soul that is destined to
receive its due inheritance, is delighted at seeing the
essence to which it has been so long a stranger, and
by the light of truth is fostered and made to thrive,
until, by the revolution of the heaven, it is brought
round again to the same point. And during the circuit
it sees distinctly absolute justice, and absolute temper-
ance, and absolute science; not such as they appear in
creation, nor under the variety of forms to which we
now-a-days give the name of realities, but the justice,
the temperance, the science, which exist in that which
is real and essential being. And when in like manner it
has seen all the rest of the world of essence, and feasted
on the sight, it sinks down again into the interior of
heaven, and returns to its own home. And on its
arrival, the charioteer takes his horses to the manger,
and sets before them ambrosia, and gives them nectar
to drink with it. Such is the life of the gods; but of the 248
other souls, that which follows a god most closely and
resembles him most nearly, succeeds in raising the head
of its charioteer into the outer region, and is carried
round with the immortals in their revolution, though
sore encumbered by its horses, and barely able to con-
template the real existences; while another rises and
sinks by turns, his horses plunging so violently that he
can discern no more than a part of these existences.
But the common herd follow at a distance, all of them
indeed burning with desire for the upper world, but,
failing to reach it, they make the revolution in the
moisture of the lower element, trampling on one another,
and striking against one another, in their efforts to rush
one before the other. Hence ensues the extremest tur-
moil and struggling and sweating; and herein, by the
awkwardness of the drivers, many souls are maimed,
and many lose many feathers in the crush; and all after
painful labour go away without being blessed by admis-


234
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sion to the spectacle of truth, and thenceforth live on
the food of mere opinion.
And now will I tell you the motives of this great
anxiety to behold the fields of truth. The suitable
pasturage for the noblest portion of the soul is grown
on the meadows there, and it is the nature of the wing,
which bears aloft the soul, to be fostered thereby; and
moreover, there is an irrevocable decree, that if any
soul has followed a god in close companionship and
discerned any of the true essences, it shall continue free
from harm till the next revolution, and if it be ever thus
successful, it shall be ever thus unharmed: but when-
ever, from inability to follow, it has missed that glorious
sight, and, through some mishap it may have encoun-
tered, has become charged with forgetfulness and vice,
and been thereby so burdened as to shed its feathers and
fall to the earth, in that case there is a law that the
soul thus fallen be not planted in any bestial nature
during the first generation, but that if it has seen more
than others of essential verity, it pass into the germ of
a man who is to become a lover of wisdom, or a lover of
beauty, or some votary of the Muses and Love; if it be
of second rank, it is to enter the form of a constitutional
ruler, a warrior, or a man fitted for command; the third
will belong to a politician, or economist, or merchant;
the fourth, to a laborious professor of gymnastics, or
some disciple of the healing art; the fifth will be pos-
sessed by a soothsayer, or some person connected with
mysteries; the sixth will be best suited by the life of
a poet or some other imitative artist; the seventh, by
the labour of an artisan or a farmer; the eighth, by the
trade of a sophist or a demagogue; and the ninth, by
the lot of an absolute monarch. And in all these various
conditions those who have lived justly receive afterwards
a better lot, those who have lived unjustly, a worse.
For to that same place from which each soul set out,
it does not return for ten thousand years; so long is it
249 before it recovers its plumage, unless it has belonged to
a guileless lover of philosophy, or a philosophic lover of
boys. But these souls, during their third millennium, if
only they have chosen thrice in succession this form of

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235
1
X
existence, do in this case regain their feathers, and at its
conclusion wing their departure. But all the rest are,
on the termination of their first life, brought to trial;
and, according to their sentence, some go to the prison-
houses beneath the earth, to suffer for their sins, while
others, by virtue of their trial, are borne lightly upwards
to some celestial spot, where they pass their days in
a manner worthy of the life they have lived in their
mortal form. But in the thousandth year both divisions
come back again to share and choose their second life,
and they select that which they severally please. And
then it is that a human soul passes into the life of a
beast, and from a beast who was once a man the soul
comes back into a man again. For the soul which has
never seen the truth at all can never enter into the
human form; it being a necessary condition of a man
that he should apprehend according to that which is
called a generic form, which, proceeding from a variety
of perceptions, is by reflection combined into unity.
And this is nothing more nor less than a recollection of
those things which in time past our soul beheld when it
travelled in the company of the gods, and, looking high
over what we now call real, lifted up its head into the
region of eternal essence. And thus you see it is with
justice, that the mind of the philosopher alone recovers
its plumage, for to the best of its power it is ever fixed
in memory on that glorious spectacle, by the contem-
plation of which the godhead is divine. And it is only
by the right use of such memorials as these, and by
ever perfecting himself in perfect mysteries, that a man
becomes really perfect. But because such an one stands
aloof from human interests, and is rapt in contemplation
of the divine, he is taken to task by the multitude as a
man demented, because the multitude do not see that he
is by God inspired.
It will now appear what conclusion the whole course
of our argument has reached with regard to the fourth
kind of madness, with which a man is inspired when-
ever, by the sight of beauty in this lower world, the
true beauty of the world above is so brought to his
remembrance that he begins to recover his plumage,


236
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and feeling new wings, longs to soar aloft, but the
power failing him, gazes upward like a bird, and
becomes heedless of all lower matters, thereby expos-
ing himself to the imputation of being crazed. And the
conclusion is this, that of all kinds of enthusiasm this is
the best, as well in character as in origin, for those who
possess it, whether fully or in part; and further, that he
who loves beautiful objects must partake of this mad-
ness before he can deserve the name of lover. For
though, as I said before, every man's soul has by the
law of his birth been a spectator of eternal truth, or it
250 would never have passed into this our mortal frame,
yet still it is no easy matter for all to be reminded of
their past by their present existence.
It is not easy
either for those who, during that struggle I told you of,
caught but a brief glimpse of upper glories, nor for
those who, after their fall to this world, were so unfor-
tunate as to be turned aside by evil associations into
the paths of wickedness, and so made to forget that
holy spectacle. Few, few only are there left, with
whom the world of memory is duly present. And these
few, whenever they see here any resemblance of what
they witnessed there, are struck with wonder, and can
no longer contain themselves, though what it is that
thus affects them they know not, for want of sufficient
discernment. Now in the likenesses existing here of
justice, and temperance, and all else which souls hold
precious, there is no brightness; but through the medium
of dull dim instruments, it is but seldom and with
difficulty that people are enabled on meeting with the
copies to recognize the character of the original. But
beauty not only shone brightly on our view at the time.
when in the heavenly choir we, for our part, followed
in the band of Zeus, as others in the bands of other
gods, and saw that blissful sight and spectacle, and were
initiated into that mystery which I fear not to pro-
nounce the most blessed of all mysteries; for we who
celebrated it were perfect and untainted by the evil that
awaited us in time to come, and perfect too, and simple,
and calm, and blissful were the visions which we were
solemnly admitted to gaze upon in the purest light,


Phædrus
237
I
ourselves being no less pure, nor as yet entombed in
that which we now drag about with us and call the
body, being fettered to it as an oyster to his shell.
Excuse my so far indulging memory, which has carried
me to a greater length than I intended, in my yearning
for a happiness that is past. I return to beauty. Not
only, as I said before, did she shine brightly among her
fellows there, but when we came hither we found her,
through the medium of our clearest sense, gleaming far
more clearly than them all. For sight is the keenest
of our bodily senses, though it fails of distinguishing
wisdom. For terrible would be the passion inspired by
her, or by any other of those lovely realities, if they
exhibited to the eye of sense any such clear resemblance
of themselves as is the image afforded by beauty. No,
to beauty alone is the privilege given of being at once
most conspicuous and most lovely. The man, it is
true, whose initiation is of ancient date, or who has lost
his purity here, is slow in being carried hence to the
essential beauty of the upper world, when he sees that
which bears its name in this. Accordingly, he feels no
reverence as he gazes on the beautiful object, but,
abandoning himself to lust, attempts like a brute beast
to gratify his appetite, and in his wanton approaches
knows nor fear nor shame at this unnatural pursuit of
pleasure. But whenever one who is fresh from those 251
mysteries, who saw much of that heavenly vision,
beholds in any god-like face or form a successful copy
of original beauty, he first of all feels a shuddering chill,
and there creep over him some of those terrors that
assailed him in that dire struggle; then, as he continues
to gaze, he is inspired with a reverential awe, and did
he not fear the repute of exceeding madness, he would
offer sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a god.
Afterwards follow the natural results of his chill, a
sudden change, a sweating and glow of unwonted heat.
For he has received through his eyes the emanation of
beauty, and has been warmed thereby, and his native
plumage is watered. And by the warmth the parts
where the feathers sprout are softened, after having
been long so closed up by their hardness as to hinder


238
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the feathers from growing. But as soon as this nourish-
ing shower pours in, the quill of the feather begins to
swell, and struggles to start up from the root, and
spread beneath the whole surface of the soul; for in old
time the soul was entirely feathered.
In this process, therefore, it boils and throbs all over,
and exactly the same sensation which is experienced
by children when cutting their teeth, a sensation of
itching and soreness about their gums, is experienced
by the soul of one who is beginning to put forth new
wings; it boils and is sore, and tingles as it shoots its
feathers. Whenever, indeed, by gazing on the beauty
of the beloved object, and receiving from that beauty
particles which fall and flow in upon it (and which are
therefore called uepos, desire), the soul is watered and
warmed, it is relieved from its pain, and is glad; but as
soon as it is parted from its love, and for lack of that
moisture is parched, the mouths of the outlets, by which
the feathers start, become so closed up by drought, that
they obstruct the shooting germs; and the germs being
thus confined underneath, in company of the desire
which has been infused, leap like throbbing arteries,
and prick each at the outlet which is shut against it;
so that the soul, being stung all over, is frantic with
pain. But then again it calls to mind the beautiful one,
and rejoices. And both these feelings being combined,
it is sore perplexed by the strangeness of its condition,
and not knowing what to do with itself, becomes
frenzied, and in its frenzy can neither sleep by night,
nor by day remain at rest, but runs to and fro with
wistful look wherever it may expect to see the possessor
of the beauty. And after it has seen him, and drunk
in fresh streams of desire, it succeeds in opening the
stoppages which absence had made, and taking breath,
it enjoys a respite from sting and throe, and now again
delights itself for the time being in that most delicious.
252 pleasure. And therefore, if it can help, it never quits
the side of its beloved, nor holds any one of more
account than him, but forgets father and mother, and
brothers, and friends, and though its substance be
wasting by neglect, it regards that as nothing, and of
all observances and decorums, on which it prided itself

·
Phædrus
239
once, it now thinks scorn, and is ready to be a slave
and lie down as closely as may be allowed to the object
of its yearnings; for, besides its reverence for the pos-
sessor of beauty, it has found in him the sole physician
for its bitterest pains. Now this affection, my beautiful
boy-you I mean to whom my speech is addressed-
is called by mortals Eros (Love); on hearing its name
among the gods, your young wit will naturally laugh.
There are put forth, if I mistake not, by certain
Homerids, out of their secret poems, two verses on
Eros, of which the second is quite outrageous, and not
at all particularly metrical. Thus they sing :
Him mortals indeed call winged Eros,
But immortals Peteros (Flyer), for his flighty nature.
Now these verses you may believe or not believe, as you
think proper; but whatever is thought of them, the
cause of love, and the condition of lovers, is all the
same, just as such as has been here stated.
Now, if it be one of the former followers of Zeus
who is seized by love, he is able to bear in greater weight
than others the burden of the wing-named god. But
all who were in the service of Ares, and patrolled the
heavens in his company, when they are taken captive
by Love, and fancy themselves in aught injured by the
object of their love, are thirsty of blood, and ready to
immolate both themselves and their favourites. And so
it is with the followers of the other gods. Every man
spends his life in honouring and imitating to the best of
his power that particular god of whose choir he was a
member, so long as he is exempt from decay, and living
his first generation here; and in keeping with the bent
thus acquired, he conducts his intercourse and behaviour
towards the beloved object, as well as all the world.
Accordingly, each man chooses himself his love out of
the ranks of beauty to suit his peculiar turn; and then,
as though his choice were his god, he builds him up for
himself, and attires him like a holy image, for the pur-
pose of doing him reverence, and worshipping him with
ecstatic festival. They then that belong to Zeus seek
to have for their beloved one who resembles Zeus in his

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soul. And so they look for a youth who is by nature
a lover of wisdom, and fitted for command; and when
they have found one, and become enamoured of him,
they strive all they can to make him truly such. And
if they have never previously entered upon this task,
they now apply themselves to it, both seeking instruc-
tion from every possible quarter, and searching in their
own souls. And this endeavour to discover the nature
253 of their patron god, by following the track in them-
selves, is attended with success, by reason of their being
ever constrained to gaze upon their god unflinchingly;
and when they grasp him with their memory, they are
inspired with his inspiration, and take from him their
character and habits, so far as it is possible for man to
partake of god. And attributing these blessings to their
beloved, they love him still more dearly than ever; and
whatever streams they may have drawn from Zeus, like
the inspired draughts of the Bacchanals, they pour into
their darling's soul, thereby making him resemble, as
far as possible, the god whom they resemble themselves.
Those again who followed in the train of Hera, search
out a youth of kingly mould, and when he is found, act
towards him in exactly the same manner as the former.
And so it is with the adherents of Apollo, and all other
gods. Walking themselves in the steps of their own
proper god, they look for the youth whom they are to
love to be of kindred nature; and when they have
gained such an one, both by imitation on their own
part, and by urging and attuning the soul of their
beloved, they guide him into the particular pursuit and
character of that god, so far as they are severally able,
not treating him with jealous or illiberal harshness, but
using every endeavour to bring him into all possible
conformity with themselves and the god whom they
adore. So beautiful is the desire of those who truly
love; and if they accomplish their desire, so beautiful
is the initiation, as I call it, into their holy mystery,
and so fraught with blessing at the hand of the friend,
whom love has maddened, to the object of the friendship,
if he be but won. Now he who is won, is won in the
following manner.


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A
ཏོ་
As at the commencement of this account I divided
every soul into three parts, two of them resembling
horses, and the third a charioteer, so let us here still
keep to that division. Now of the horses one, if you
remember, we said, was good, and the other bad; but
wherein consists the goodness of the one, and the bad-
ness of the other, is a point which, not distinguished
then, must be stated now. That horse of the two which
occupies the nobler rank, is in form erect and firmly
knit, high-necked, hook-nosed, white-coloured, black-
eyed; he loves honour with temperance and modesty,
and, a votary of genuine glory, he is driven without
stroke of the whip by voice and reason alone. The bad
horse, on the other hand, is crooked, bulky, clumsily
put together, with thick neck, short throat, flat face,
black coat, grey and bloodshot eyes, a friend to all riot
and insolence, shaggy about the ears, dull of hearing,
scarce yielding to lash and goad united. Whenever
therefore the driver sees the sight which inspires love,
and his whole soul being thoroughly heated by sense, is
surcharged with irritation and the stings of desire, the
obedient horse, yielding then as ever to the check of 254
shame, restrains himself from springing on the loved
one; but the other pays heed no longer to his driver's
goad or lash, but struggles on with unruly bounds, and
doing all violence to his yoke-fellow and master, forces
them to approach the beautiful youth, and bethink them-
selves of the joys of dalliance. And though at first they
resist him with indignation at the lawless and fearful
crime he is urging, yet at last when there is no end to
the evil, they move onward as he leads them, having
yielded him submission and agreed to do his bidding.
So they all come up to the beautiful boy, and see his
countenance gleaming with beauty. But as the driver
looks, his memory is carried back to the essence of
beauty, and again he sees her by the side of Continence.
standing on a holy pedestal. And at the sight he
shudders, and with a holy awe falls backward to the
ground, and falling cannot help pulling back the reins
so violently that he brings both the horses on their
haunches, the one indeed willingly, because he is not
VOL. 1.
R
242
Plato
resisting, but the rebel in spite of struggling. And
when they are withdrawn to some distance, the former
in his shame and ravishment drenches all the soul with
sweat, but the other when he is recovered from the pain
which the bit and the fall inflicted, and has with difficulty
regained his breath, breaks out into passionate revilings,
vehemently railing at his master and his comrade for
their treacherous cowardice in deserting their ranks
and agreement. And again he urges them, again refus-
ing, to approach, and barely yields a reluctant consent
when they beg to defer the attempt to another time.
But soon as the covenanted time is come, though they
affect forgetfulness, he reminds them of their engage-
ment, and plunging and neighing and dragging, he
again obliges them to approach the beautiful youth to
make the same proposals. And when they are near,
he stoops his head and gets the bit between his teeth,
and drags them on incontinently. But the driver experi-
ences, though still more strongly, the same sensation as
at first; backward he falls like racers at the barrier, and
with a wrench still more violent than before pulls back
the bit from between the teeth of the riotous horse,
thereby drenching his jaws and railing tongue with
blood; and bruising against the ground his legs and
haunches, consigns him to anguish. But as soon as by
this treatment oft repeated, the evil horse is recovered
from his vice, he follows with humbled steps the guid-
ance of his driver, and at sight of the fair one is con-
sumed with terror. So that then, and not till then, does
it happen that the soul of the lover follows his beloved
with reverence and awe. And the consequence is, that
255 the youth being now worshipped with all the worship of
a god, by a lover who does not feign the passion, but
feels it in his soul, and being himself by nature fondly
inclined to his worshipper, even though haply in time.
past he may have been set against lovers by the remarks
of his school-fellows or others on the scandal of allowing
their approaches, and is therefore disposed to reject his
present wooer, yet now that the latter is thus changed
he is led in course of time, by the instinct of his years,
and the law of destiny, to admit him to familiarity. For

Phædrus
243
surely it was never destined for the bad to be friends of
the bad, or the good aught but friendly to the good.
But when the advances have been accepted and speech
and intercourse allowed, the affection of the lover being
brought into near connection with the loved one, strikes
him with wonder, as it compels him to feel that the
friendship shown him by all the rest of his friends and
relations put together, is as nothing beside the love of
his god-inspired friend. And if he continues long thus
to indulge him, and allows him the closest contact both
in gymnastic schools and other places of meeting, then
it is that the stream of that effluence, to which Zeus
when enamoured of Ganymedes gave the name of desire,
pours upon the lover in a plenteous Hood, and partly
sinks within him, partly flows off him when he is full;
and just as a wind or a noise rebounds from smooth
and hard substances and is carried back again to the
place from which it came; so the tide of beauty passes
back into the beautiful boy through his eyes, the natural
channel into his soul; and when it is come there and
has fledged it anew, it waters the outlets of the feathers,
and forcing them to shoot up afresh fills the soul of the
loved one as well as that of his lover with love. He is
in love therefore, but with whom he cannot say; nay,
what it is that is come over him he knows not, neither
can he tell, but like one who has caught a disease in
the eye from the diseased gaze of another, he can assign
no reason for the affection, but sees himself in his lover,
as in a glass, without knowing who it is that he sees.
And when they are together, he enjoys the same respite
that his lover does from his anguish; but when they
are parted, he yearns for him as he himself is yearned
for, since he holds in his bosom love's reflected image,
love returned. He calls it, however, and believes it to
be not love but friendship, albeit, he feels the same
desire as the other does, though in a feebler degree, for
the sight, the touch, the kiss, the embrace. And con-
sequently, as might be expected, his conduct thence-
forward is as follows. When they are lying side by
side, the lover's unbridled horse has much to say to its
driver, and claims as the recompense of many labours.


244
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256 a short enjoyment; but the vicious horse of the other
has nothing to say, but burning and restless clasps the
lover and kisses him as he would kiss a dear friend, and
when they are folded in each other's embrace, is just of
such a temper as not for his part to refuse indulging the
lover in any pleasure he might request to enjoy; but his
yoke-fellow, on the other hand, joins the driver in
struggling against him with chastity and reason.
Should it appear then that the better part of their nature
has led both the lover and loved into a life of order and
philosophy, and established its own ascendancy, in bliss
and harmony they live out their existence here, being
masters of themselves and decorous before the world,
having enslaved that portion of the soul wherein vice is
contained, and liberated that where virtue dwells; and
at last when they come to die, being winged and
lightened, they have in one of their three truly Olympic
combats achieved the prize, than which no greater good
can either human prudence or godly madness bestow
on man. But if they have given in to a coarser habit of
life, and one unfriendly to wisdom, though not to
honour, it may well happen that in a moment of
drunkenness or like abandonment, those two unruly
beasts will surprise the souls off their guard, and bring-
ing them together into one place will choose and con-
summate that practice which the world deems happy,
and once consummated will for the future indulge in it,
though sparingly, as doing what is not approved by all
their mind. Dear, therefore, to each other, though not
so dear as the former two, do these continue both while
their love is burning and when it is extinct; for they
conceive themselves to have given and received the
strongest pledges, which it were impious at any time to
violate by becoming alienated. And in the end, without
their wings it is true, but not without having started
feathers, they go forth from the body, so that they carry
off no paltry prize for their impassioned madness; for
there is a law that the paths of darkness beneath the
earth shall never again be trodden by those who have
so much as set their foot on the heavenward road, but
that walking hand in hand they shall live a bright and-



Phædrus
245
blessed life, and when they recover their wings, recover
them together for their love's sake.
So great and so godly, my beautiful boy, are the
blessings which the affection of a lover will bestow.
But the commerce of one who does not love, being
alloyed with mortal prudence, and dispensing only
mortal and niggardly gifts, will breed in the soul of the
loved one a sordidness which the vulgar laud as virtue,
and doom it for nine thousand years to be tossed about 257
the earth and under the earth without reason.
Here, to thee, beloved Eros, fair and good as I can
make it, I offer and duly pay a recantation, composed
perforce for sake of Phædrus, both in phrase and other
points, in a poetic strain. But oh vouchsafe me pardon
for my former speech and indulgence for this, and of
thy tender mercy neither take from me the art of love,
which thou hast given me, nor cripple it in thy wrath,
but grant that still more than ever I may find favour
in the eyes of the fair. And, if in our former speech,
Phædrus and I said aught offensive to thee, set it to the
account of Lysias as the father of the speech, and make
him to cease from speeches of this sort, and turn him to
philosophy, even as his brother Polemarchus is turned,
in order that his lover also here before thee may no
longer halt, as now, between two opinions, but heart
and soul devote his life to love with philosophic talk.
Phæd. I join with you, Socrates, in praying that, if
this lot be better for us, so it may befall us.
regard to the speech, however, it has been long exciting
my admiration, so much more beautiful have you made
it than your former one; so much more indeed that!
am afraid I shall find Lysias making but a poor figure,
if indeed he be willing to match it with another of his
own. Which I have my doubts about. For it was
only the other day that one of our public men in an
attack he was making upon him, reproached him on this
very score, and throughout his attack kept calling him
a speech-writer. So that perhaps he may be led by a
care for his own reputation to desist from the practice.

With
Socrates. Your notion is an absurd one, my young
gentleman, and you are greatly mistaken in your
x


246
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258
favourite, if you imagine him to be a person so readily
scared. Perhaps you too believe that his assailant
meant what he said.
Phæd. He certainly seemed to do so, Socrates; and
besides, you must know as well as I do, that men of
the greatest influence and consideration in a state are
ashamed of writing speeches, and leaving behind them
compositions of their own, for fear of obtaining with
posterity the reputation and name of sophists.
Socrates. It has escaped you, Phædrus, that the
phrase “A charming bend," is derived from that long
and wearisome bend in the Nile; and so it escapes you
that under this affected dislike, our most self-satisfied
statesmen are especially fond of composing speeches,
and leaving behind them writings; so much so indeed,
that whenever they write a speech, they conceive such
an affection for its supporters, that they write down
in an additional clause at its head the names of those
who on each occasion accord it their approval.
Phæd. How do you mean? I don't understand
you.
Socrates. Don't you understand that at the beginning
of a statesman's writing the name of its supporter is
written first?
Phad. How so?
Socrates. "Approved." Thus, if I am not mistaken,
runs the writing: “Approved by the council, or people,
or both."
And the proposer, our speech-writer to wit,
naming his worthy self with all pomp and panegyric,
proceeds to make a speech, and to show off his wisdom
to his supporters, not unfrequently by the composition
of a very long writing. Or, do you conceive such a
production as this to be something different from a
written speech?
Phæd. No, I certainly don't.
Socrates. Well, if the speech stands, our poet goes
home from his theatre rejoicing; but if it be erased,
and he debarred from speech-writing, and the dignity of
authorship, he goes into mourning, himself and his
friends.
Phæd. So they do.
Phædrus
247
Socrates. Obviously not as disdaining the practice,
but as viewing it with admiration.
Phæd. Precisely.
Socrates. Again, whenever an orator or a monarch
has been found equal to the task of assuming the
authority of a Lycurgus, or a Solon, or a Darius, and
becoming a speech-writer for immortality in a state,
does not both he himself, during his life-time, look upon
himself in the light of a god, and do not after ages
conceive the same opinion of him, from a survey of his
written works?
Phæd. To be sure they do.
Socrates. Do you believe then that a person of this
sort, however strong his antipathy to Lysias, would
attack him simply on the score of being a writer?
Phæd. It is not at any rate to be expected that he
would from what you say; for in so doing he would
to all appearance be attacking his own particular
fancy.
Socrates. It must then, I think, be universally
acknowledged, that there is no disgrace in the mere
fact of writing speeches.
Phad. How can there be?
Socrates. But the disgrace, I imagine, commences
when they are composed not well, but awkwardly and
ill.
Phæd. Obviously.
Socrates. What then is the character of good and
bad writing? Ought we, think you, Phædrus, to take
on this matter the evidence of Lysias, and of every one
else who has either written or means to write a work,
political or otherwise, either in metre as a poet, or
without metre as a prose-writer?
Phæd. Do you ask if we ought? Why what other
object can a man be said to live for, than the enjoyment
of such pleasures as these? Surely not for those which
must be preceded by pain, before they can be so much
as enjoyed, which is the case you know with most of
our bodily pleasures, so that they have been justly
denominated servile.
Socrates. Well, we have time it seems to spare; and
248
Plato
moreover I cannot help fancying that the cicalas, while
chirping and talking together over our heads, as is their
wont in the heat of the day, have their eyes upon you
259 and me. Should they see us then, like common men,
falling asleep instead of conversing in the middle of
the day, and abandoning ourselves in laziness of soul to
their lulling music, they would regard us with merited
scorn, and fancy themselves looking upon some poor
slaves, who had sought the refuge of their retreat, to
take like sheep a mid-day nap by the waters of their
well. But if they see us proceeding with our conversa-
tion, and sailing past them unenchanted by their siren
strains, they may perhaps in their admiration confer on
us that boon, which they have from the gods to bestow
upon men.
Phæd. What boon is that? I do not remember to
have heard of it.
Socrates. A lover of the Muses is the last person who
should be ignorant of such matters as this. The story
goes, that once upon a time these cicalas were men, of
a race that lived before the birth of the Muses. But
when the Muses were born, and song appeared, it came
to pass that some of that race were so transported with
pleasure, that as they sang they forgot to eat and drink,
till death came upon them unawares. From them it is
that the race of the cicalas are sprung, having received
the boon from the Muses, that they should need no
nourishment after they were come into the world, but
spend their time in singing, without food or drink, from
the moment of their birth to the day of their death,
when they are to repair to the Muses, and tell each of
them of their worshippers here below. Terpsichore
they tell of those who have honoured her in the dance,
and thus make them dearer to her than before: Erato
they tell of her votaries in love, and so to each of the
other sisters they make their report according to the
character of her proper worship. But to Calliope the
eldest, and Urania the second of the nine, they bear
tidings of those who pass their lives in philosophic study
and observance of their peculiar music, these we know
being the Muses who, having heaven for their special
Phædrus
249
sphere, and words both divine and human, pour forth
the gladdest strains. You see therefore, Phædrus, there
are many reasons why we should talk and not slumber
in the middle of the day.
Phæd. Indeed there are.
Socrates. Let us then, resuming the subject which
we proposed to ourselves for consideration, examine in
what consists a good or a bad discourse, whether spoken
or written.
Phæd. Certainly.
Socrates. Is it not an essential condition of a good
and fine speech being made, that the mind of the speaker
be acquainted with the truth of the matter he is going
to discuss?
Phad. Why, I have heard men say on this subject,
Socrates, that there is no need at all for the intended 260
orator to learn what is really just, but only what is
likely to be considered just by the multitude who are
to sit as judges; nor, again, what is really good and
honourable, but only what will appear so; for by such
appearances, they add, is persuasion effected, and not
by truth.
Socrates. Sure we must not cast away a saying,
Phædrus, which wise men have uttered, but rather
examine whether there be anything in it or not. And
so we must not refuse a hearing to your present remark.
Phæd. Certainly not.
Socrates. Let us consider it then in the following
point of view. Suppose I were to set about persuading
you to buy a horse for the purposes of war, but neither
of us knew what a horse was; only this much I did
happen to know, that my friend Phædrus believed a
horse to be that domestic animal which has the longest
ears.
Phæd. Why, it would be absurd, Socrates.
Socrates. Wait a moment. What if I were to
proceed in a tone of serious persuasion, and compose a
panegyric on the ass, all the while calling him a horse,
and saying that he was a creature of infinite value, not
only for domestic purposes, but also on military service,
as he was both convenient to fight from, and capable
250
Plato
261
of bringing up baggage, and of being made useful in a
thousand other ways?
Phad. Well, there can be no doubt of its being
utterly absurd now, at any rate.
Socrates. Is it not better though to be absurd, than
a dangerous and malevolent friend?
Phæd. Doubtless it is.
Socrates. Whenever then an orator, who is ignorant
of good and evil, finds a people in a state of similar
ignorance, and takes upon himself to persuade them by
passing an eulogium, not upon a poor ass as though it
were a horse, but upon evil as though it were good;
and when, by having studied and learned the popular
opinions, he has succeeded in persuading them to do
that which is evil instead of that which is good, what
kind of fruit do you imagine his oratory will hereafter
reap as the harvest of the seed she has sown?
Phæd. No very good one, certainly.
Socrates. Is it not possible, though, my good
Phædrus, that we have been somewhat too rough in our
attack on rhetoric? may she not turn upon us and say,
What's all this trifling, ye wondrous wise? I force no
man to learn speaking without a knowledge of the
truth; on the contrary, if my advice be worth anything.
he will acquire the truth before he comes to me. But
what I do insist on is this, that without my aid he will
not be a whit the better able, for all his knowledge of
truth, to persuade according to art.
Phad. And do you not admit the justice of her plea?
Socrates. I do, provided only the arguments which
are coming up to attack her testify to her being an art.
For methinks I hear the rustle of certain arguments
approaching, and protesting that she is an impostor,
and no art at all, but an inartistic knack. But of speak-
ing, says the Spartan, there neither is, nor ever shall
be, genuine art without the grasp of truth.
Phad. We must have your arguments, Socrates;
bring them here into court, and examine what it is they
say, and how they say it.
Socrates. Hither then, fine creatures, and persuade
Phædrus, father of a fair progeny like you, that if he be
Phædrus
251
not a competent philosopher, neither at any time will
he be a competent speaker on any subject at all. And
let Phædrus reply.
Phæd. Put your questions.
Socrates. May not rhetoric in general be considered
as a method of winning men's souls by means of words,
not only in courts of law, and other public assemblies,
but also in private conversation indifferently on matters
great and small; and is not its correct use held in equal
honour whether the subject to which it is applied be
trivial or important? Or what have you heard say on
the matter?
Phæd. Why nothing at all of this kind, I can assure
you. No, the courts of law are the especial sphere of
rhetorical art, and it is also employed in addressing
deliberative assemblies; but I never heard of its
extending further.
Socrates. What, have you only heard of the arts of
speaking composed by Nestor and Ulysses, to while
away their leisure before Troy? and have you never
heard of those by Palamedes?
Phæd. No, nor of Nestor's either, unless you are
making a Nestor of Gorgias, and a Ulysses of Thra-
symachus or Theodorus.
Socrates. Possibly I am. However, to leave these.
gentlemen for the present, answer me this. In a court
of justice, what is it that the contending parties do?
Contradict each other, do they not?
Phæd. Precisely.
Socrates. On points of right and wrong?
Phæd. Yes.
Socrates. And if a man does this by rule of art, he
will make the same thing appear to the same people
to be at one time right, and at another, if he pleases,
wrong.
Phæd. Of course.
Socrates. And so in a popular harangue he will make
the public believe the same line of conduct to be at one
time for their advantage, and at another time just the
reverse.
Phæd. Certainly he will.
252
Plato
262
Socrates. But do we not also hear of the Eleatic
Palamedes speaking by aid of art in such a manner that
his hearers believed the same things to be at once like
and unlike, one and many, at rest and in motion?
Phæd. Undoubtedly we do.
Socrates. It appears, then, that the art of debate is not
confined either to courts of law or popular assemblies,
but that to everything that is said we are able to apply
this single art, if art it is, by which we shall be enabled
to make all things appear similar that are capable of so
appearing, and to drag to the light all such attempts in
others, however dexterously concealed.
Phæd. I don't quite understand what you mean by
this.
Socrates. My meaning will, I think, be apparent, if
we conduct our inquiry thus. Is deception more
generally practised in things which differ much or little?
Phæd. In those which differ little.
Socrates. And you will get round, I conceive, from
one side to the other, with less chance of detection, by
taking short steps than long ones.
Phæd. Unquestionably.
Socrates. If one man, then, would fain deceive
another, without being deceived himself, he ought to
be able to discriminate accurately the resemblances and
differences of things.
Phæd. Nay, he must be able.
Socrates. But if he be ignorant of the true nature of a
particular thing, will he be in a condition to distinguish
between a greater and less resemblance to it in other
things?
Phæd. Impossible.
Socrates. Whenever, therefore, people are deceived,
and form opinions wide of the truth, it is clear that the
error has slid into their minds through the medium of
certain resemblances to that truth.
Phæd. Such no doubt is generally the case.
Socrates. Is it possible, then, for a man ever to
possess the art of bringing over the mind of another
from truth to falsehood, by leading it from link to link
in the chain of resemblances, or to escape such delusion.
Phædrus
253
himself, without having first arrived at an understand-
ing of the true nature of each particular thing?
Phæd. No, never.
Socrates. An art of speaking then, composed by one,
who, without a knowledge of the truth, has entrapped
men's opinions, will present, I conceive, but a sorry and
inartistic appearance.
Phæd. I apprehend so.
Socrates. Now, Phædrus, what say you to our taking
the speech of Lysias, which you have got in your hand,
together with those of mine which followed, and looking
for instances in them of what we maintain to be in
accordance with, or in violation of, art?
Phæd. I should like it of all things; since there is
a sort of baldness in our present way of treating the
subject, arising from a want of proper examples.
Socrates. True, and by some lucky chance, as I take
it, both the speeches were made to afford an example
of the manner in which an author, who is himself
acquainted with the truth, may for mere amusement
lead his hearers away from it in discourse. And for
my part, Phædrus, I set this to the account of the
deities of the spot; or it may be that the ministers of
the Muses, our songsters overhead, have breathed into
us this happy gift. For sure I am that I at least am
innocent of any art of speaking.
Phæd. Be it as you will-only make your meaning
clear.
Socrates. Well, then, read me out the beginning of
Lysias' speech.
Phæd. With the state of my affairs you are
acquainted, and how I expect advantage to us both
from this arrangement you have heard. Now I claim
not to be disappointed in my suit on the ground of my
not happening to be your lover. For lovers repent.
Socrates. Stop-we are to notice, are we not, any
error or violation of art that our author commits?
Phæd. We are.
Socrates. Well, then, is it not obvious to all the
world, that on certain points of this kind we are all
agreed, on others all at variance?
263
254
Plato
Phæd. I think I know what you mean; but explain
yourself more clearly.
Socrates. When a man uses the words iron or silver,
do we not all understand by them the same things?
Phæd. To be sure we do.
Socrates. But what happens when he talks of justice
or virtue? Do we not all start off at once in different
directions, and quarrel both with one another and
ourselves?
Phæd. Too true.
Socrates. On some things, then, you allow we are
agreed, in others not?
Phad. Just so.
Socrates. Now in which of these two classes of things
is deception more easily practised; and in which has
rhetoric greater power?
Phad. Clearly in that in which we are liable to go
wrong.
Socrates. Before handling, then, an art of rhetoric,
a man ought in the first instance to have methodically
distinguished between these two classes, and discovered
some characteristic mark of each, of that in which men
in general are of necessity in error, and of that where
no such necessity exists.
Phæd. A fine generalization certainly, Socrates,
would he have devised who had seized on this distinc-
tion.
Socrates. And secondly, I imagine, when he comes
to any particular case, he must not be at fault, but
perceive with rapidity in which of the two classes the
subject of his intended remarks is contained.
Phæd. Exactly.
Socrates. Now what do you say to Love? Are we
to rank him in the debateable, or certain class?
Phæd. In the debateable, without a doubt. For how
else, think you, could I have allowed you to say all
that you have just now said about him, making him
out at one time to be a curse both to the lover and his
favourite; and then again their chiefest blessing?
Socrates. Admirably said: but tell me this too-for
I, you must know, was in such an ecstatic state, that
Phædrus
255
I do not quite remember-did I give a definition of
Love at the beginning of my speech?
Phæd. Aye, that you did, and a wonderfully thorough
one too.
Socrates. Alas for Lysias, son of Cephalus ! How
far less skilled do you make him in the art of speech-
writing than the nymphs of our river and Pan the son
of Hermes; or am I altogether wrong, and did Lysias
also, at the commencement of his love-speech, compel
us to form some one definite conception of love-the
conception that he himself preferred—and then proceed,,
in strict accordance with this conception, to arrange all
the subsequent parts of his discourse till he brought it
to a fitting conclusion? Just let us read the opening
sentence again.
Phæd. I will if you wish it, though what you are
looking for is not there.
Socrates. Let us hear it, that we may take his own
evidence on the point.
Phæd. "With the state of my affairs you are
acquainted, and how I expect advantage to us both
from this arrangement, you have heard. Now I claim
not to be disappointed in my suit on the ground of my 264
not belonging to the number of your lovers; for they,
indeed, repent of the benefits they have conferred as
soon as they are released from their passion."
Socrates. Yes, we seem to be far indeed from dis-
covering here what we are looking for, when we find
our author not even starting from the beginning, but
from the end of his subject, and essaying to get through
his discourse like a swimmer on his back-the wrong
way foremost; for you see he commences with what
the lover might be supposed to say to his favourite at
the end, and not before the end, of his address. Or
do you see nothing in my objection, Phædrus, noble
friend?
Phad. Yes, I must confess, Socrates, that what he is
talking about is a natural conclusion of the subject.
Socrates. And what do you say to the rest? Do not
the several parts of his discourse appear to have been
thrown together at random? or do you see some neces-
256
:
Plato
sity for the second sentence occupying the second place,
or any other sentence appearing in the position he has
assigned it? For my part, I must confess that he seems
to me, in my ignorance, to have put down on paper,
with a gentlemanly independence, whatever came first
into his head; but you, perhaps, are aware of some
law of composition which guided his sentences into that
particular order.
Phæd. You are too good to suppose me capable of
seeing through the design of a Lysias with so critical
an eye.
Socrates. But this I think you will allow, that every
speech ought to be put together like a living creature,
with a body of its own, lacking neither head nor foot,
but having both a middle and extremities in perfect
keeping with one another and the whole.

Phæd. Undoubtedly.
Socrates. Examine, then, whether your friend's
speech be composed on this principle or not, and you
will find it just like the epigram which people say is
inscribed on the tomb of Midas, the Phrygian.
Phæd. What is the epigram, and what is there
peculiar about it?
Socrates. It runs thus:
I am a maiden of brass, and I lie upon Midas's tomb :
Ever while water shall flow, and the trees of the forest shall bloom
Here will I stay on a grave that is watered with many a tear,
Telling to all who pass by me that Midas is sepulchred here.
Now, that it is utterly immaterial whether any line of
this epigram be put first or last, you must, I should
think, have observed.
Phæd. You make very merry with our speech,
Socrates.
Socrates. Well, Phædrus, to spare your feelings,
suppose we pass it by; not but that I conceive it to
contain a crowd of examples, which a man might study
with advantage to himself, provided only he does not
at all attempt to imitate them; and let us proceed to
the other two speeches, for there was something in
them, I imagine, well worthy the attention of those
265 who wish to consider the subject of speaking.
Phædrus
257
Phæd. What sort of thing do you mean?
Socrates. If I remember right, they were opposed to
each other; the one supporting the claims of the im-
passioned; and the other, those of the unimpassioned
suitor.
Phæd. And right manfully they did their work.
Socrates. I thought you were going to say, as the
truth would warrant, right madly. However, this is
the very point I was in quest of. We said that love was
a madness, did we not?
Phæd. We did.
Socrates. And that madness was of two kinds, the
one produced by human disease, the other by an inspired
departure from established usages.
Phæd. Exactly.
Socrates. And the inspired we divided into four parts,
and distributing them among four heavenly powers, we
set down the madness of prophecy to the inspiration of
Apollo; of mysteries, to the inspiration of Dionysus; to
the Muses agair we ascribed the madness of poesy;
and the fourth, to Aphrodite and Eros. And this last,
the madness of love, we said was the best of all the
four; and expressing the affection of love by a strange
kind of similitude, wherein we kept, I doubt not, some
true principle in our sight, though haply we swerved
into error on our path, we compounded a discourse not
altogether without plausibility, and sang a mythical
hymn in seemly and pious adoration of my lord and
hædrus of Eros, the patron of beautiful
th
boys.
Phæd. And one, I can assure you, which it afforded
me no slight pleasure to hear.
Socrates. Let us now, by an examination of the
speech itself, discover how it was that it found means
of passing from censure to praise.
Phæd. Well. And how was it?
•
Socrates. You must know that I consider the speech
itself, in its general character, to be nothing more than
a sportive effusion; but throughout all that was thus
casually uttered, there are two forms of method
apparent which would well repay our attention, if we
VOL. I.
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258
Plato
could but obtain a systematic view of their respective
efficiency.
Phad. What are they, pray?
Socrates. The first consists in comprehending at a
glance, whenever a subject is proposed, all the widely
scattered particulars connected with it, and bringing
them together under one general idea, in order that, by
a precise definition, we may make every one understand
what it is that at the time we are intending to discuss.
And this plan we just now, as you remember, adopted
with regard to love: we defined its nature; and what-
ever be the merit of the performance, certain it is that
to that definition my speech owes its clearness and
consistency.
Phæd. And what is your other method, Socrates?
Socrates. That, on the other hand, enables us to
separate a general idea into its subordinate elements,
by dividing it at the joints, as nature directs, and not
attempting to break any limb in half, after the fashion
of a bungling carver. And this plan was followed in
my two speeches with regard to mental derangement.
266 Just as from one body there proceed two sets of mem-
bers, called by the same name, but distinguished as
right and left, so when my speeches had formed the
general conception of mental derangement, as constitut
ing by nature one class within us, the speech which had
to divide the left-hand portion desisted not from dividing
it into smaller, and again smaller parts, till it found
among them a kind of left-handed love, which ed
at with well-deserved severity; while the other led us
to the right-hand side of madness, where it discovered
a love bearing indeed the same name as the former, bui
of an opposite and a godly sort, which it held up to be
gazed at and lauded as the author of our greatest'
blessings.

Phad. Perfectly true.
Socrates. Now, not only do I pursue myself, with all
a lover's assiduity, these methods of decomposing and
combining, but if ever I find any one else whom I judge
capable of apprehending the one and the many as they
are in nature, that man "I follow behind, as though in
Phædrus
259
the track of a god." And to all who are possessed of
this power I have been in the habit of giving, whether
rightly or wrongly, heaven knows, the name of dialec-
ticians. But tell me, what is the proper name for the
disciples of your school and Lysias's? is yours that
identical art of words by the use of which Thrasymachus
and his compeers have not only become clever speakers
themselves, but make such of all their pupils, who are
willing to bring them presents, as though they were
kings?
Phæd. And men of kingly mould they are, though
certainly not acquainted with that about which you are
now inquiring. However, you appear to me to be quite
right in calling this kind of method dialectical; but the
rhetorical, I take it, still eludes our grasp.
Socrates. Indeed! a fine thing truly that must be
which, not comprised in this, is yet apprehended by art.
On no account must it be slighted by you and me--come
now, let us consider what it is that is left to rhetoric.
Phæd. Oh, you'll find plenty of it, I doubt not,
Socrates, if you'll only look in the books written on
the art of speech-making.
Socrates. True, and I am obliged to you for remind-
ing me. We must have, in the first place, I think, an
exordium delivered at the opening of the speech. This
is what you mean-is it not? the refinements of the
art?

Phæd. Yes.
Socrates. And next we must have narration, they say,
and evidence to back it, and thirdly proofs, and fourthly
probabilities; and there's confirmation, if I remember
right, and after-confirmation to boot, according to that
prime tricker-out of speeches who comes from Byzan-
tium.
Phæd. Worthy Theodorus, eh?
Socrates. Exactly. He gives us rules too for refuta- 267
tion and after-refutation, both in charge and defence.
But the Parian wonder, Evenus, we must not leave
in the background, who was the first to discover sub-
intimation and bye-panegyric; nay, they tell me he
repeats his bye-censures in verse, to aid the memory.
W
260
Plato
So clever is he. Can we pass over in silence either
Tisias and Gorgias, who were enabled to see that the
probable ought to be more highly prized than the true;
who make small things appear great, and great things
small, by force of words; who talk of what is new as
though it were old, and of what is old as though it
were new; and who have invented for every subject a
terse brevity and illimitable prolixity? Once though,
when I told Prodicus of this, he burst out a-laughing,
and said that none but himself had discovered what
kind of speeches were required by art. We must have
them, says he, neither long nor short, but of moderate
length.
Phæd. Cleverly said, Prodicus.
Socrates. But we must not forget Hippias; for I
fancy our friend from Elis would be on the same side
with him of Ceos.

Phæd. Doubtless.
Socrates. But where shall we find words for all
Polus's museum of ornaments-his jingle-making,
maxim-making, image-making, and all the pretty
expressions which he borrowed from his master Licym-
nius, to create a harmonious diction?
Phæd. Was not this though, Socrates, something in
the style of Protagoras?
Socrates. A correctness of diction, young sir, was
what he taught, and a great many other fine things
too. But in the art of dragging in piteous whinings
on poverty and age, there never was, I believe, such a
master as the hero of Chalcedon. He was a terrible
man, too, for rousing the passions of a crowd, and
lulling them again when roused, by the magic of his
song, as he used to say; and at raising or rebutting a
calumny on any ground whatsoever, he was eminently
expert. To come, however, to the conclusion of the
speech, that is, I imagine, a point on which all men are
agreed, though some call it recapitulation, and others
by some different title.
Phæd. You mean, the summarily reminding the
hearers at the end of the speech of all that has been
said in the course of it?
Phædrus
277
Phæd. Isocrates the fair. What message will you
take him, Socrates? What shall we say that he is?
Socrates. Isocrates is still young, Phædrus; what I
augur of him, however, I am willing to tell you.
Phæd. What is that, pray?
Socrates. I think better of his genius than to compare
it with the speech-writing of Lysias. Moreover, I
account him endued with a nobler nature. So that
there will be nothing surprising if, as he advances in
years, he will in the art of speaking even, to which
he is now applying himself, leave all who have hitherto
handled it, far as children behind him; and nothing
surprising either if he be not content with such achieve-
ments, but be led by a godlier impulse to holier and
higher things. For nature, my friend, has implanted a
love of wisdom in the mind of the man. This then is
the message I will take from the gods of the spot to
Isocrates as my favourite, and do you take the one I
gave you to Lysias, as yours.
Phad. It shall be done-but let us depart, the rather
as the heat of the day is over.
Socrates. Were it not better to offer up a prayer to
these gods before we go?
Phæd. Oh yes.
Socrates. Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who
here abide, grant me to be beautiful in the inner man,
and all I have of outer things to be at peace with those
within. May I count the wise man only rich. And may
my store of gold be such as none but the good can bear.
Phædrus, need we anything more? For myself I
have prayed enough.
Phæd. For me too pray the same.
and share alike.
Socrates. Let us go.
Friends share
279
END OF VOL. I
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