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PLATO AND ARISTOTLE 
 
Edition Up ffiuxp 
 
 The 
 
 Dialogues of Plato 
 
 Translated into English with Analyses and Introductions 
 
 By 
 
 B. JOWETT, M. A. 
 
 Master of Balliol College 
 
 Regius Professor of Greek in the University of Oxford 
 
 In Four Volumes 
 Bnlum* IU 
 
 THE TRIAL AND DEATH 
 OF SOCRATES 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 -MENO; 
 
 The Immortality of the Soul . . 
 
 EUTHYPHRO: j / 
 
 Piety and Impiety . . 
 
 APOLOGY: 
 
 The Defence of Socrates - . . . 
 
 CRITO: 
 
 Socrates in Prison . 
 
 -PHAEDO. 
 
 The Last Day of Socrates’ Life . . 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM: / 
 
 The Character of Socrates 
 
 a 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 
 
MENO 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 This Dialogue begins abruptly with a question of Meno, who 
 asks “ whether virtue can be taught.” Socrates replies that he 
 does not as yet know what virtue is, and has never known any 
 one who did. “ Then he can not have met Gorgias when he was 
 at Athens.” Yes, Socrates had met him, but he has a bad mem¬ 
 ory, and has forgotten what Gorgias said. Will Meno tell him 
 his own notion, which is probably not very different from that 
 of Gorgias? “O yes — nothing easier; there is the virtue of 
 a man, of a woman, of an old man, and of a child; there is a 
 virtue of every age and state of life, all of which may be easily 
 described.” 
 
 Socrates reminds Meno that this is only an enumeration of 
 the virtues and not a definition of the notion which is common 
 to them all. Meno tries again; this time he defines virtue to 
 be “ the power of command.” But to this, again, exceptions are 
 taken. For there must be a virtue of those who obey, as well 
 as of those who command; and the power of command must 
 be justly or not unjustly exercised. Meno is ever ready to admit 
 that justice is virtue: “Would you say virtue or a virtue, for 
 there are other virtues, such as courage, temperance, and the 
 like; just as round is a figure, and black and white are colors, 
 and yet there are other figures and other colors. Let Meno take 
 the examples of figure and color, and try to define them.” Meno 
 confesses his inability, and after a process of interrogation, in 
 which Socrates explains to him the nature of a “ simile in mul- 
 tis,” Socrates himself defines figure as “ the accompaniment of 
 color.” But some one may object that he does not know the 
 meaning of the word “ color; ” and if he is a candid friend, and 
 not a mere disputant, Socrates is willing to furnish him with a 
 simpler and more philosophical definition, in which no disputed 
 word is allowed to intrude: “ Figure is the limit of form.” 
 Meno imperiously insists that he must still have a definition of 
 color. To which, after some playful raillery, Socrates is in¬ 
 duced to reply, “ that color is the effluence of form in due pro¬ 
 portion to the sight.” This definition is exactly suited to the 
 taste of Meno, who welcomes the familiar language of Gorgias 
 
 3 
 
4 
 
 MENO 
 
 and Empedocles. Socrates is of opinion that the more abstract 
 or dialectical definition of figure is far better. 
 
 Now that Meno has been made to understand the nature of 
 a general definition, he answers in the spirit of a Greek gentle¬ 
 man, and in the words of a poet, “ that virtue is to delight in 
 things honorable, and to have the power of getting them.” This 
 is a nearer approximation than he has yet made to a complete 
 definition, and, regarded as a piece of proverbial or popular 
 morality is not far from the truth. But the objection is urged 
 “ that the honorable is the good,” and as every one desires the 
 good, the point of the definition is contained in the last words, 
 “ the power of getting them.” “ And they must be got justly 
 or with justice.” The definition will then stand thus: “Virtue 
 is the power of getting good with justice.” But justice is a part 
 of virtue, and therefore virtue is the getting of good with a part 
 of virtue. The definition repeats the word defined. 
 
 Meno complains that the conversation of Socrates has the 
 effect of a torpedo’s shock upon him. When he talks with other 
 persons he has plenty to say about virtue; in the presence of 
 Socrates, his thoughts seem to desert him. Socrates replies that 
 he is only the cause of perplexity in others, because he is himself 
 perplexed. He proposes to continue the inquiry. But how, 
 asks Meno, can he inquire either into what he knows or into what 
 he does not know? This is a sophistical puzzle, which, as Soc¬ 
 rates remarks, saves a great deal of trouble to him who accepts 
 it. But the puzzle has a real difficulty latent under it, to which 
 Socrates replies in a figure. The difficulty is the origin of knowl¬ 
 edge. 
 
 He professes to have heard from priests and priestesses, and 
 from the poet Pindar, of an immortal soul which is always learn¬ 
 ing and forgetting in successive periods of existence, wandering 
 over all places of the upper and under world, having seen and 
 known all things at one time or other, and by association out of 
 one thing capable of recovering all. For nature is of one kin¬ 
 dred; and every soul has a seed or germ which may be devel¬ 
 oped into all knowledge. The existence of this latent knowledge 
 is further proved by the interrogation of one of Meno’s slaves, 
 who, in the skilful hands of Socrates, is made to acknowledge 
 some elementary relations of geometrical figures. The theorem 
 that the square of the diagonal is double the square of the side — 
 that famous discovery of primitive mathematics, in honor of 
 which the legendary Pythagoras is said to have sacrificed a heca¬ 
 tomb — is elicited from him. The first step in the process of 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 5 
 
 teaching has made him conscious of his own ignorance. He has 
 had the “ torpedo’s shock ” given him, and is the better for the 
 operation. But whence had the uneducated man this knowledge? 
 He had never learned geometry in this world; nor was it born 
 with him; he must therefore have had it in a previous existence. 
 
 After Socrates has given this specimen of the true nature of 
 teaching, the original question of the teachableness of virtue is 
 renewed. Again he professes a desire to know “ what virtue is ” 
 first. But he is willing to argue the question, as mathematicians 
 say, under an hypothesis. He will assume that if virtue is knowl¬ 
 edge, then virtue can be taught. 
 
 Socrates has no difficulty in showing that virtue is a good, and 
 that goods, whether of body or mind, must be under the direc¬ 
 tion of knowledge. Upon the assumption just made, then, virtue 
 is teachable. But where are the teachers? There are none 
 found. This is extremely discouraging. Virtue is no sooner dis¬ 
 covered to be teachable, than the discovery follows that it is 
 not taught. Virtue, therefore, is and is not teachable. 
 
 In this dilemma an appeal is made to Anytus, who is a respec¬ 
 table and w r ell-to-do citizen of the old school, and happens to be 
 present. He is asked “ whether Meno shall go to the Sophists 
 and be taught.” The very suggestion of this throws him into a 
 rage. “To whom, then, shall Meno go?” asks Socrates. To 
 any Athenian gentleman — to the great Athenian statesmen of 
 past times. Socrates replies here, thah/Themistocles, Pericles, 
 and other great men, never taught, UpR* sons anything worth 
 learning; and they would surely, if they could, have imparted 
 to them their own political wisdom. Anytus is angry at the 
 imputation which is supposed to be cast on his favorite states¬ 
 men, and breaks off with a significant threat. 
 
 Socrates returns to the consideration of the question “ whether 
 virtue is teachable,” which was denied on the ground that there 
 are no teachers of it: (for the Sophists are bad teachers, and 
 the rest of the world do not profess to teach.) But there is 
 another point which we failed to observe, and in which Gorgias 
 has never instructed Meno, nor Prodicus Socrates. This is the 
 nature of right opinion. For virtue may be under the guidance 
 of right opinion as well as knowledge; and right opinion is for 
 practical purposes as good as knowledge, but is incapable of 
 being taught, and is also liable to “ walk off,” because not bound 
 by the tie of the cause. This is the sort of instinct which is 
 possessed by statesmen who are not wise or knowing persons, but 
 only inspired or divine. The higher virtue, which is identical 
 
6 
 
 MENO 
 
 with knowledge, is an ideal only. If the statesman had this 
 knowledge, and could teach what he knew, he would be like 
 Tiresias in the world below, — “he alone would have wisdom, 
 while the rest flit as shadows.” 
 
 This Dialogue is an attempt to answer the question. Can vir¬ 
 tue be taught? No one would either ask or answer such a ques¬ 
 tion in modern times. But in the age of Socrates it was only 
 by an effort that the mind could rise to a general notion of virtue 
 as distinct from the particular virtues of courage, liberality, and 
 the like. And when a hazy conception of this was attained, it 
 was only by a further effort that the question of the teachable¬ 
 ness of virtue could be resolved. 
 
 The answer which is given by Plato is paradoxical enough, 
 and seems rather intended to stimulate than to satisfy inquiry. 
 Virtue is knowledge, and therefore virtue can be taught. But 
 virtue is not taught, and therefore in this higher and ideal sense 
 there is no virtue and no knowledge. The teaching of the Soph¬ 
 ists is confessedly inadequate, and Meno, who is their pupil, is 
 ignorant of the very nature of general terms. He can only 
 y produce out of their armory the sophism, “ that you can neither 
 inquire into what you know nor into what you do not know; ” 
 to which Socrates replies by his theory of reminiscence. 
 
 To the doctrine that virtue is knowledge, Plato has been con¬ 
 stantly tending in the previous Dialogues. But here the new 
 truth is no sooner found than it seems to vanish away. “If there 
 is knowledge, there must be teachers; and where are the teach¬ 
 ers ? ” There is no knowledge in the higher sense of systematic, 
 connected, reasoned knowledge, such as may one day be attained, 
 and such as Plato himself seems to see in some far off vision of 
 a single science. And there are no teachers in the higher sense 
 of the word; that is to say, no real teachers who will arouse 
 the spirit of inquiry in their pupils, and not merely instruct them 
 in rhetoric or impart to them ready-made information for a fee 
 of “ one ” or of “ fifty drachms.” Plato is desirous of deepen¬ 
 ing the notion of education, and therefore he asserts the seeming 
 paradox that there are no educators. 
 
 But there is still a possibility which must not be overlooked. 
 Even if there is no knowledge, as has been proved by “ the 
 wretched state of education,” there may be right opinion. This 
 is a sort of guessing or divination which rests on no knowledge 
 ' of causes, and is incommunicable to others. This is what our 
 statesmen have, as is proved by the circumstance that they are 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 7 
 
 unable to impart their knowledge to others. Those who are 
 possessed of this gift can not be said to be men of science or 
 philosophers, but they are inspired and divine. 
 
 There is no trace of irony in this curious passage, which forms 
 the concluding portion of the dialogue. Nor again does Plato 
 mean to intimate that the supernatural or divine is the true basis 
 of human life. To him knowledge, if only attainable in this 
 world, is of all things the most divine. But, like other philoso¬ 
 phers, he is willing to admit that “ probability is the guide of 
 lifeand at the same time is desirous to contrast “ the wisdom 
 which governs the world ” with true wisdom. There are many 
 instincts, judgments, and anticipations of the human mind which 
 can not be reduced to rule, and of which the grounds can not 
 always be given in words. A person may have some skill or 
 latent experience which he is able to use himself and is yet unable 
 to teach others, because he has no principles, and is not able to 
 collect or arrange his ideas. He has practice, but not theory; 
 art, but not science. This is a true fact of psychology, which 
 is recognized by Plato in this passage. 
 
 Also here, as in the Phaedrus, Plato appears to acknowledge 
 an unreasoning element in the higher nature of man. The phi¬ 
 losopher only has knowledge, and yet the statesman and the 
 poet are inspired. There may be a sort of irony in regarding 
 in this way the gifts of genius. But there is no reason to sup¬ 
 pose that he is deriding them any more than he is deriding the 
 phenomena of love or of enthusiasm in the Symposium, or of 
 oracles in the Apology, or of divine intimations when he is speak¬ 
 ing of the daemonium of Socrates. He recognizes the lower 
 form of right opinion, as well as the higher one of science, in 
 the spirit of one who desires to include in his philosophy every 
 aspect of human life; just as he recognizes the existence of 
 popular opinion as a fact, and the Sophists as the expression 
 of it. 
 
 This Dialogue contains the first intimation of the doctrine of 
 reminiscence and of the immortality of the soul. It may be 
 observed that the fanciful notion of preexistence is combined 
 with a t,r,U£-¥k-W of the unity of knowledge, and of the associa¬ 
 tion of ideas. The germs of two valuable principles of educa¬ 
 tion may also be gathered from the “ doctrine of priests and 
 priestesses: (1) that true knowledge is a knowledge of causes; 
 
 and (2) that the process of learning consists not in what is 
 brought to the learner, but in what is drawn out of him. The 
 philosophy of ideas is here presented in a less developed form. 
 
8 
 
 MENO 
 
 than in the Phaedo and Phaedrus. Nothing is said of the pre- 
 existence of ideas of justice, temperance, and the like. Nor is 
 Socrates positive of anything but the duty of inquiry. The doc¬ 
 trine of reminiscence too is explained in a manner more in ac¬ 
 cordance with fact and experience out of the affinities of nature. 
 Modern philosophy says that all things in nature are dependent 
 on one another; the ancient philosopher has the same truth 
 latent in his mind when he says that out of one thing all the rest 
 may be recovered. 
 
 Some lesser traits of the dialogue may be noted also, such as 
 the acute observation that Meno prefers the familiar definition, 
 which is embellished with poetical language, to the better and 
 truer one; or (2) the shrewd reflection, which may admit of an 
 application to modern as well as to ancient teachers, that the 
 Sophists having made large fortunes, this must surely be a cri¬ 
 terion of their powers of teaching, for that no man could get a 
 living by shoemaking who was not a good shoemaker; or (3) 
 the remark conveyed, almost in a word, that the verbal sceptic 
 is saved the labor of thought and inquiry. Characteristic also 
 of the temper of the Socratic inquiry is, (4) the proposal to 
 discuss the teachableness of virtue under an hypothesis, after the 
 manner of the mathematicians, and (5) the repetition of the 
 favorite doctrine which occurs so frequently in the earlier and 
 more Socratic Dialogues, and gives a color to all of them — that 
 mankind only desire evil through ignorance. 
 
 The character of Meno, like that of Critias, has no relation 
 to the actual circumstances of his life. Plato is silent about his 
 treachery to the ten thousand Greeks, which Xenophon has re¬ 
 corded, as he is also silent about the crimes of Critias. He is 
 a Thessalian Alcibiades, rich and luxurious — a spoiled child of 
 fortune, and is described as the hereditary friend of the great 
 king. Like Alcibiades, he is inspired with an ardent desire of 
 knowledge, and is equally willing to learn of Socrates and the 
 Sophists. He may be regarded as standing in the same relation 
 to Gorgias as Hippocrates in the Protagoras to the other great 
 Sophist. He is the sophisticated youth on whom Socrates tries 
 his cross-examining powers, with a view of exhibiting him and 
 his teachers in their true light, just as in the Charmides, the 
 Lysis, and the Euthydemus, he makes ingenuous boyhood the 
 subject of a similar experiment. Socrates treats Meno in a 
 half playful manner, and tries to exhibit him to himself and to 
 the reader as ignorant of the very elements of dialectics, in 
 which the Sophists have failed to instruct their disciple. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 9 
 
 Anytus is the type of the narrow-minded man of the world, 
 who is indignant at innovation, and equally detests the popular 
 teacher and the true philosopher. He seems, like Aristophanes, 
 to regard the new opinions, whether of Socrates or the Sophists, 
 as fatal to Athenian greatness. He is of the same class as Calli- 
 cles in the Gorgias, but of a different variety; the immoral and 
 sophistical doctrines of Callicles are not attributed to him. The 
 moderation with which he is described is remarkable, if he be 
 the accuser of Socrates; and this seems to be indicated by his 
 parting words. Perhaps Plato may have been desirous of show¬ 
 ing that the accusation of Socrates was not to be attributed to 
 badness or malevolence, but rather to a tendency in men’s minds. 
 Or he may have been regardless of the historical truth of the 
 characters of his dialogue, as in the case of Meno and Critias. 
 Like Chaerephon the real Anytus was a democrat, and had 
 joined Thrasybulus in the conflict with the thirty. 
 
MENO 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 
 Meno. A Slave of Meno. 
 
 Socrates. Anytus. 
 
 Meno. Can you tell me, Socrates, whether virtue 
 is acquired by teaching or by practice; or if neither 
 by teaching nor by practice, then whether it comes to 
 man by nature, or in what other way? 
 
 Socrates. O Meno, there was a time when the Thes¬ 
 salians were famous among the other Hellenes only 
 for their riches and their riding; but now, if I am not 
 mistaken, they are equally famous for their wisdom, 
 especially at Larisa, which is the native city of your 
 friend Aristippus. And this is Gorgias’ doing; for 
 when he came there, the flower of the Aleuadae, of 
 whom your lover Aristippus is one, and the other 
 chiefs of the Thessalians, fell in love with his wisdom. 
 And he has taught you the habit of answering ques¬ 
 tions in a grand and bold style, which becomes those 
 who know, and is the style in which he himself answers 
 all comers; and any Hellene who likes may ask him 
 anything. How different is our lot! my dear Meno. 
 Here at Athens there is a dearth of the commodity, 
 and all wisdom seems to have emigrated from us to 
 you. I am certain that if you were to ask any Athe¬ 
 nian whether virtue was natural or acquired, he would 
 laugh in your face, and say: Stranger, you have far 
 too good an opinion of me; if I were inspired I might 
 answer your question. But now I literally do not 
 know what virtue is, and much less whether it is ac- 
 
 u 
 
12 
 
 MENO 
 
 quired by teaching or not. And I myself, Meno, liv¬ 
 ing as I do in this region of poverty, am as poor as 
 the rest of the citizens; and I confess with shame 
 that I know literally nothing about virtue; and when 
 I do not know the “ quid ” of anything how can I 
 know the “ quale? ” How, if I knew nothing at all 
 of Meno, could I tell if he was fair, or the opposite of 
 fair; rich and noble, or the reverse of rich and noble ? 
 Ho you think that I could ? 
 
 Men. No, indeed. But are you in earnest, Socrates, 
 in saying that you do not know what virtue is? And 
 am I to carry back this report of you to Thessaly ? 
 
 Soc. Not only that, my dear boy, but you may say 
 further that I have never known of any one else who 
 did, in my judgment. 
 
 Men. Then you have never met Gorgias when he 
 was at Athens? 
 
 Soc. Yes, I have. 
 
 Men . And did you not think that he knew? 
 
 Soc. I have not a good memory, Meno, and there¬ 
 fore I can not now tell what I thought of him at the 
 time. And I dare say that he did know, and that you 
 know what he said: please, therefore, to remind me 
 of what he said; or, if you would rather, tell me your 
 own view, for I dare say that you and he think much 
 
 alike. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Then as he is not here, never mind him, and do 
 you tell me. By the gods, Meno, be generous, and 
 tell me what you say that virtue is; for I shall be truly 
 delighted to find that I have been mistaken, and that 
 you and Gorgias do really know what I have been 
 saying that I have never found anybody who knew. 
 
 Men. There will be no difficulty, Socrates, in an¬ 
 swering that. Take first the virtue of a man: his 
 virtue is to know how to administer the state, in the 
 
MENO 
 
 13 
 
 administration of which he will benefit his friends and 
 damage his enemies, and will take care not to suffer 
 damage himself. A woman’s virtue may also be 
 easily described: her virtue is to order her house, and 
 keep what is indoors, and obey her husband. Every 
 age, every condition of life, young or old, male or 
 female, bond or free, has a different virtue! there are 
 virtues numberless, and no lack of definitions of them; 
 for virtue is relative to the actions and ages of each 
 of us in all that we do. And the same may be said 
 of vice, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. How fortunate lam, Meno! When I ask you 
 for one virtue, you present me with a swarm of them, 
 which are in your keeping. Suppose that I carry on 
 the figure of the swarm, and ask of you, What is the 
 nature of the bee ? and you answer that there are many 
 kinds of bees, and X reply: But do bees differ as bees, 
 because there are many and different kinds of them; 
 or are they not rather to be distinguished by some 
 other quality, as for example beauty, size, or shane? 
 How would you answer that? 
 
 Men. I should answer that bees do not differ from 
 one another, as bees. 
 
 Soc. And suppose that I went on to say: That is 
 what I want to know, Meno; tell me what is that 
 quality in which they do not differ, but are all alike; — 
 you would be able to answer that? 
 
 Men. I should. 
 
 Soc. And so of the virtues, however many and dif- 
 ferent they may be,, they have all a common nature 
 which makes them virtues; and on this he who would 
 answer the question, “What is virtue?” would do 
 well to have his eye fixed. Do you understand? 
 
 Men. I am beginning to understand; hut I do not 
 as yet take hold of the question as I could wish. 
 
 Soc. When you say, Meno, that there is one virtue 
 
14 
 
 MENO 
 
 of a man, another of a woman, another of a child, and 
 so on; does this apply only to virtue, or would you say 
 the same of health, and size, and strength? Or is the 
 nature of health always the same, whether in man or 
 woman? 
 
 Men. I should say that health, regarded as health, 
 is the same, whether of man or woman. 
 
 Soc. And is not this true of size and strength? If 
 a woman is strong, she will be strong by reason of the 
 same form and of the same strength subsisting in her 
 which there is in the man. I mean to say that strength, 
 as strength, whether of man or woman, is the same. 
 Is there any difference? 
 
 Men. I think not. 
 
 Soc. And will not virtue, as virtue, he the same, 
 whether in a child or in a grown-up person, in a 
 woman or in a man? 
 
 Men. I can not help feeling, Socrates, that this 
 
 case is not like the others. 
 
 Soc. Why? Were you not saying that the virtue 
 of a man was to order a state, and the virtue of a 
 woman was to order a house? 
 
 Men. I did say that. 
 
 Soc. And can either house or state or anything be 
 well ordered without temperance and without justice? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Then they who order a state or a house tem¬ 
 perately or justly order them with temperance and 
 justice? 
 
 Men. Certainlv. 
 
 Soc. Then both men and women, if they are to be 
 good men and women, must have the same virtues of 
 temperance and justice? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And can either a young man or an old one be 
 good, if they are intemperate and unjust? 
 
 
MENO 
 
 15 
 
 Men. They can not. 
 
 Soc. They must be temperate and just? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then all men are good in the same way, and 
 by participation in the same virtues? 
 
 Men. That is the inference. 
 
 Soc. And they surely would not have been good 
 in the same way, unless their virtue had been the 
 same? 
 
 Men. They would not. 
 
 Soc. Then now that the sameness of all virtue has 
 been proven, try and remember what you and Gorgias 
 say that virtue is. 
 
 Men. Will you have one definition of them all? 
 
 Soc. That is what I am seeking. 
 
 Men. What can I say but that virtue is the power 
 of governing mankind? 
 
 Soc. And does this definition of virtue include all 
 virtue? Is virtue the same in a child and in a slave, 
 Meno? Ought the child to govern his father, or the 
 slave his master; and would he who governed be any 
 longer a slave? 
 
 Men . I think not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. No, indeed; there would be small reason in 
 that. Yet once more, fair friend; according to you, 
 virtue is “ the power of governing; ” but do you not 
 add “ justly ” and not unjustly? 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates; I agree to that, for justice is 
 virtue. 
 
 Soc. Would you say “virtue,” Meno, or “a vir¬ 
 tue?” 
 
 Men. What do you mean? 
 
 Soc. I mean as I might say about anything; that a 
 round, for example, is “ a figure ” and not simply 
 
 figure,” and I should say this because there are other 
 figures. 
 
16 
 
 MENO 
 
 
 Men. Quite right; and that is just what I am say¬ 
 ing about virtue — that there are other virtues as well 
 as justice. 
 
 Soc. What are they? tell me the names of them, as 
 I would tell you the names of the other figures if you 
 asked me. 
 
 Men . Courage and temperance and wisdom and 
 magnificence are virtues; and there are many 
 others. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Meno; and again we are in the same case: 
 in searching after one virtue we have found many, 
 though not in the same way as before; but we have 
 been unable to find the common element which runs 
 through them all. 
 
 Men. Why, Socrates, even now I am not able to 
 follow you in the attempt to get at one common notion 
 of virtue as of other things. 
 
 Soc. No wonder; but I will try to arrive a little 
 nearer if I can, for you know that all things have a 
 common notion. Suppose now that some one asked 
 you the question which I asked before: Meno, he 
 would say, wdiat is figure? And if you answered 
 “ roundness,” he would reply to you, in my way of 
 speaking, by asking whether you would say that 
 roundness is “ figure ” or “ a figure; ” and you would 
 answer “ a figure.” 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And for this reason — that there are other 
 figures ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if he proceeded to ask, what other figures 
 are there? you would have told him. 
 
 Men. I should. 
 
 Soc. And if he similarly asked what color is, and 
 you answered whiteness, and the questioner rejoined, 
 Would you say that whiteness is color or a color? you 
 
MENO 
 
 17 
 
 would reply, A color, because there are other colors as 
 well. 
 
 Men. I should. 
 
 Soc. And if he had said, Tell me what they are, 
 you would have told him of other colors which are 
 colors just as much as whiteness. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc . And suppose that he were to pursue the matter 
 in my way, he would say: Ever and anon we are 
 landed in particulars, but this is not what I want; tell 
 me then, since you call them by a common name, and 
 say that they are all figures, even when opposed to 
 one another, what is that common nature which you 
 designate as figure — which comprehends straight as 
 well as round, and is no more one than the other — 
 would you not say that? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And in saying that, you do not mean to say 
 that the round is round any more than straight, or the 
 straight any more straight than round? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. You only assert that the round figure is not 
 more a figure than the straight, or the straight than 
 the round? 
 
 Men. That is true. 
 
 Soc. What then is this which is called figure? Try 
 and answer. Suppose that when a person asked you 
 this question either about figure or color, you were to 
 reply, Man, I do not understand what you want, or 
 know what you are saying; he would look rather 
 astonished and say: Do you not understand that I am 
 looking for the “ simile in multis? ” And then he 
 might put the question in another form: Meno, he 
 might say, what is that “ simile in multis ” which you 
 call figure, and which includes not only round and 
 straight figures, but all? Could you not answer that 
 
18 
 
 MENO 
 
 question, Meno? I wish that you would try; the at¬ 
 tempt will be good practice with a view to the answer 
 about virtue. 
 
 Men . I would rather that you should answer, Soc¬ 
 rates. 
 
 Soc. Shall I indulge you? 
 
 Men. By all means. 
 
 Soc . And then you will tell me about virtue? 
 
 Men. I w T ill. 
 
 Soc . Then I must do my best, for there is a prize to 
 be won. 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well, I will try and explain to you what fig¬ 
 ure is. What do you say to this answer? — Figure is 
 the only thing that always follows color. I hope that 
 you are satisfied with that, as I am sure I should be 
 content if you would let me have a similar definition 
 of virtue. 
 
 Men. But that, Socrates, is a simple answer. 
 
 Soc. Why simple? 
 
 Men. Because you say that figure is that which 
 always follows color; but if a person says that he does 
 not know what color is, any more than what figure 
 is — what sort of answer would you have given him ? 
 
 Soc. I should have told him the truth. And if he 
 were a philosopher of the eristic and antagonistic sort, 
 I should say to him: You have my answer, and if I am 
 wrong, your business is to take up the argument and 
 refute me. But if I were talking as you and I now 
 are, as between friends, I should reply in a milder 
 strain and more in the dialectician’s way; that is to say, 
 I should not only speak the truth, but I should make 
 use of premisses which the person interrogated would 
 be willing to admit. And this is the way in which I 
 shall approach you. You will acknowledge, will you 
 not, that there is such a thing as an end, or termina- 
 
MENO 
 
 19 
 
 tion, or extremity? — all of which words I use in the 
 same sense, although I am aware that Prodicus might 
 quarrel with us about this: but still you, I am sure, 
 would speak of a thing as ended or terminated — that 
 is all which I am saying — not anything very difficult. 
 
 Men. Yes, I should; and I believe that I under¬ 
 stand your meaning. 
 
 Soc. And you will speak of a surface and also of a 
 solid, as for example in geometry. 
 
 Men . Yes. 
 
 Soc. Well then, you are now in a condition to un¬ 
 derstand my definition of figure. I define figure to be 
 that in which the solid ends; or, more concisely, as the 
 limit of solid. 
 
 Men. And now, Socrates, what is color? 
 
 Soc. You are outrageous, Meno, in thus plaguing 
 a poor old man to give you an answer, when you won’t 
 take the trouble of remembering what is Gorgias’ 
 definition of virtue. 
 
 Men. When you have told me what I ask, I will 
 tell you, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. A man who was blindfolded has only to hear 
 you talking, and he would know that you are a fair 
 creature and have still many lovers. 
 
 Men. Why do you say that? 
 
 Soc. Why, because you always speak in im¬ 
 peratives: like all beauties when they are in their 
 prime, you are tyrannical; and also, as I suspect, you 
 have found out that I have a weakness for the fair, 
 and therefore I must humor you and answer. 
 
 Men. Please do. 
 
 Soc. Would you like me to answer you after the 
 manner of Gorgias, which is familiar to you? 
 
 Men. I should very much like that. 
 
 Soc. Do not he and Empedocles say that there are 
 certain effluences of existence? 
 
20 
 
 MENO 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And passages into which and through which 
 the effluences pass? 
 
 Men. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. And some of the effluences fit into the pas¬ 
 sages, and some of them are too small or too large? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And there is such a thing as sight? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And now, as Pindar says, “ read my mean¬ 
 ing: ” — color is an effluence of form, commensurate 
 with sight, and sensible. 
 
 Men. That, Socrates, appears to me to be an ad¬ 
 mirable answer. 
 
 Soc. Why, yes, because it is just such an one as 
 you have been in the habit of hearing: and your wit 
 will have discovered that you may explain in the same 
 way the nature of sound and smell, and of many other 
 similar phenomena. 
 
 Men. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. The answer, Meno, was in the orthodox 
 solemn vein, and therefore was more acceptable to you 
 than the other answer about figure. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And yet, O son of Alexidemus, I can not help 
 thinking that the other was the better; and I am sure 
 that you would be of the same opinion, if you would 
 only stay and be initiated, and were not compelled, 
 as you said yesterday, to go away before the mys¬ 
 teries. 
 
 Men. But I will gladly stay, Socrates, if you will 
 give me many such answers. 
 
 Soc. Well then, for my own sake as well as for 
 yours, I will do my very best; but I am afraid that I 
 shall not be able to give you very many as good: and 
 now, in your turn, you are to fulfil your promise, and 
 
ME NO 
 
 21 
 
 tell me what virtue is in the universal; and do not 
 make a singular into a plural, as the facetious say of 
 those who break a thing, but deliver virtue to me 
 whole and sound and not broken into a number of 
 pieces. I have given you the pattern. 
 
 Men . Well then, Socrates, virtue, as I take it, is the 
 love and attainment of the honorable; that is what the 
 poet says, and I say too — 
 
 “ Virtue is the desire and power of attaining the honorable.” 
 
 Soc . And does he who desires the honorable also 
 desire the good? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then are there some who desire the evil and 
 others who desire the good! Do not all men, my dear 
 sir, desire good? 
 
 Men. No, I do not think that. 
 
 Soc. There are some who desire evil? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Do you mean that they think the evils which 
 they desire to be good; or do they know that they are 
 evil and yet desire them? 
 
 Men. Both, as I think. 
 
 Soc. And do you really imagine, Meno, that a man 
 knows evils to be evils and desires them notwithstand- 
 ing? 
 
 Men. Certainly I do. 
 
 Soc. And desire is of possession? 
 
 Men. Yes, of possession. 
 
 Soc. And does he think that the evils will do good 
 to him who possesses them, or does he know that they 
 will do him harm? 
 
 Men. There are some who think that the evils will 
 do them good, and others who know that they will do 
 them harm. 
 
 Soc. And, in your opinion, do those who think 
 
22 
 
 MENO 
 
 that they will do them good know that they are 
 evils ? 
 
 Men. No, I certainly do not think that. 
 
 Soc. Can anything be clearer than that those who 
 are ignorant of the evils do not desire them, but they 
 desire what they suppose to be good when they are 
 really evils, and they who do not know them to be 
 evils, and suppose them to be good, desire good? 
 
 Men. Yes, in that case. 
 
 Soc. Well, and do those who, as you say, desire 
 evils, and think that evils are hurtful to the possessor 
 of them, know that they will be hurt by them? 
 
 Men. They must know that. 
 
 Soc. And do they not suppose that they are miser¬ 
 able in the degree that they are hurt? 
 
 Men. That again they must believe. 
 
 Soc. And are not the miserable ill-fated? 
 
 Men. Yes, indeed. 
 
 Soc. And does any one desire to be miserable and 
 ill-fated? 
 
 Men. I should say not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if there is no one who desires to be miser¬ 
 able, there is no one, Meno, who desires evil; for what 
 is misery but the desire and possession of evil? 
 
 Men. That appears to be the truth, Socrates, and I 
 admit that nobody desires evil. 
 
 Soc. And yet, were you not saying just now that 
 virtue is the desire and power of attaining good? 
 
 Men. Yes, I did say that. 
 
 Soc. But granting that, then the desire of good is 
 common to all, and one man is no better than another 
 in that? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And if one man is not better than another in 
 desiring good, he must be better in the power of at¬ 
 taining good? 
 
MENQ 
 
 23 
 
 Men. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. Then, according to your definition, virtue 
 would appear to be the power of attaining good? 
 
 Men. I entirely approve, Socrates, of the manner 
 in which you view this matter. 
 
 Soc. Then now let us see whether this is true from 
 another point of view; for I dare say that you are 
 right. What you say is, that virtue is the power of 
 attaining good? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And you would say that goods are such as 
 health and wealth and the possession of gold and sil¬ 
 ver, and having office and honor in the state — these 
 are what you would call goods? 
 
 Men. Yes, all these. 
 
 Soc. Then, according to Meno, who is the heredi¬ 
 tary friend of the great king, virtue is the power of 
 getting silver and gold; and would you add piously, 
 justly, or do you deem this of no consequence? And 
 is any mode of acquisition, even if unjust or dishonest, 
 equally to be regarded as virtue? 
 
 Men. Not virtue, Socrates, but vice. 
 
 Soc. Then justice or temperance or holiness, or 
 some other part of virtue, as would appear, must ac¬ 
 company the acquisition, and without them the mere 
 acquisition of good will not be virtue. 
 
 Men. Why, how can there be virtue without these? 
 
 Soc. And the non-acquisition of gold and silver in a 
 dishonest manner may be equally virtue? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Then the acquisition of such goods is no more 
 virtue than the non-acquisition of them, but whatever 
 is accompanied by justice or honesty is virtue, and 
 whatever is devoid of justice is vice? 
 
 Men. There can be no doubt about that, in my 
 judgment. 
 
24 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. And were we not saying just now that justice, 
 temperance, and the like, were each of them a part of 
 virtue ? 
 
 Men . Yes. 
 
 Soc. And so, Meno, this is the way in which you 
 mock me. 
 
 Men. Why do you say that, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. Why, because I asked you to deliver virtue 
 into my hands whole and unbroken, and I gave you 
 a pattern according to which you were to frame your 
 answer; and you have already forgotten this, and tell 
 me that virtue is the power of attaining good justly, 
 or with justice — thus acknowledging justice to be a 
 part of virtue. 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then it follows from your own admissions, 
 that virtue is doing what you do with a part of virtue; 
 for justice and the like are each of them parts of 
 virtue. 
 
 Men. What of that? 
 
 Soc. What of that! Why, did not I ask you to tell 
 me the nature of virtue as a whole ? And you are very 
 far from telling me this; but declare every action to 
 be virtue which is done with a part of virtue; as though 
 you had already told me the whole of virtue, and as if 
 I should know what the whole was when frittered 
 away into little pieces. And, therefore, my dear 
 Meno, I fear that I must begin again and repeat the 
 same question: What is virtue? for otherwise, I can 
 only say, that every action done with a part of virtue 
 is virtue; what else is the meaning of saying that 
 every action done with justice is virtue? Don’t you 
 think that the question requires to be repeated; for 
 can any one who does not know virtue know a part of 
 virtue ? 
 
 Men. No; I do not say that he can. 
 
 
 
MENO 
 
 25 
 
 Soc. Do you remember how, in the example of 
 figure, we rejected any answer given in terms which 
 were as yet unexplained or unadmitted? 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates; and we were right in that. 
 
 Soc. Well, my friend, do as we did then: and do not 
 suppose that we can explain to any one the nature of 
 virtue as a whole through some unexplained portion of 
 virtue, or anything at all in that fashion; for that only 
 leads to a repetition of the old question. What is 
 virtue? Now, am I not right? 
 
 Men. I believe that you are. 
 
 Soc. Then begin again, and answer me, What, ac¬ 
 cording to you and your friend, is the definition of 
 virtue ? 
 
 Men. O Socrates; I used to be told, before I knew 
 you, that you are always puzzling yourself and others; 
 and now you are casting your spells over me, and I 
 am simply getting bewitched and enchanted, and am 
 at my wits’ end. And if I may venture to make a jest 
 upon you, you seem to me both in your appearance 
 and in your power over others to be very like the flat 
 torpedo fish, who torpifies those who come near him 
 with the touch, as you have now torpified me, I think. 
 For my soul and my tongue are really torpid, and I 
 do not know how to answer you; and though I have 
 been delivered of an infinite variety of speeches about 
 virtue before now, and to many persons — and very 
 good ones they were, as I thought — now I can not 
 even say what virtue is. And I think that you are 
 very wise in not voyaging and going away from home, 
 for if you did in other places as you do in Athens, you 
 would be cast into prison as a magician. 
 
 Soc. You are a rogue, Meno, and had all but caught 
 me. 
 
 Men. What do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. I can tell why you made a simile about me. 
 
26 
 
 MENO 
 
 Men. Why. do you think? 
 
 Soc. In order that I might make another simile 
 about you. For I know that all pretty young gentle¬ 
 men like to have pretty similes made about them; and 
 well they may: but I shall not return the compliment. 
 As to my being a torpedo, if the torpedo is torpid as 
 well as the cause of torpidity in others, then indeed I 
 am a torpedo, but not otherwise; for I perplex others, 
 not because I am clear, but because I am utterly per¬ 
 plexed myself. And now I know not what virtue is, 
 and you seem to be in the same case, although you 
 did once know before you touched me. However, I 
 have no objection to join with you in the inquiry. 
 
 Men. And how will you inquire, Socrates, into that 
 which you know not? What will you put forth as the 
 subject of inquiry? And if you find what you want, 
 how will you ever know that this is what you did not 
 know ? 
 
 Soc. I know, Meno, what you mean; but just see 
 what a tiresome dispute you are introducing. You 
 argue that a man can not inquire either about that 
 which he knows, or about that which he does not know; 
 for he knows, and therefore has no need to inquire 
 about that — nor about that which he does not know; 
 for he does not know that about which he is to inquire. 
 
 Men. Well, Socrates, and is not the argument 
 sound? 
 
 Soc. I think not. 
 
 Men. Why not? 
 
 Soc. I will tell you why. I have heard from certain 
 wise men and women who spoke of things divine 
 that — 
 
 Men. What did they say? 
 
 Soc. They spoke of a glorious truth, as I conceive. 
 
 Men. What was that? and who were they? 
 
 Soc. Some of them were priests and priestesses, 
 
MENO 
 
 27 
 
 who have; studied how they might be able to give a 
 reason of their profession: there have been poets also, 
 such as the poet Pindar and other inspired men. And 
 what they say is — mark, now, and see whether their 
 words are true — they say that the soul of man is im¬ 
 mortal, and at one time has an end, which is termed 
 dying, and at another time is born again, but is never 
 destroyed. And the moral is, that a man ought to 
 live always in perfect holiness. For in the ninth year 
 Persephone sends the souls of those from whom she has 
 received the penalty of ancient crime back again into 
 the light of this world, and these are they who become 
 noble kings and mighty men and great in wisdom and 
 are called saintly heroes in after ages. The soul, then, 
 as being immortal, and having been bom again many 
 times, and having seen all things that there are, 
 whether in this world or in the world below, has knowl¬ 
 edge of them all; and it is no wonder that she should 
 be able to call to remembrance all that she ever knew 
 about virtue, and about everything; for as all nature 
 is akin, and the soul has learned all things, there is no 
 difficulty in her eliciting, or as men say learning, all 
 out of a single recollection, if a man is strenuous and 
 does not faint; for all inquiry and all learning is but 
 recollection. And therefore we ought not to listen to 
 this sophistical argument about the impossibility of 
 inquiry: that is a saying which will make us idle, and 
 is sweet only to the sluggard; but the other saying 
 will make us active and enterprising. In that con¬ 
 fiding, I will gladly inquire with you into the nature 
 of virtue. 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates; but what do you mean by say¬ 
 ing that we do not learn, and that what we call learn¬ 
 ing is only a process of recollection? Can you teach 
 me that? 
 
 Soc . I told you, Meno, that you were a rogue, and 
 
28 
 
 MENO 
 
 now you ask whether I can teach you, when I am 
 saying that there is no teaching, but only recollection; 
 and thus you imagine that you will involve me in a 
 contradiction. 
 
 Men. Indeed, Socrates, I protest that I had no such 
 intention. I only asked the question from habit; but 
 if you can prove to me that what you say is true, I 
 wish that you would. 
 
 Soc . That is no easy matter, but I will try to please 
 you to the utmost of my power. Suppose that you 
 call one of your numerous attendants, that I may 
 demonstrate on him. 
 
 Men. Certainly. Come hither, boy. 
 
 Soc. He is Greek, and speaks Greek, does he not? 
 
 Men. Yes; he was born in the house. 
 
 Soc. Attend now to the questions which I ask him, 
 and observe whether he learns of me or only remem¬ 
 bers. 
 
 Men. I will. 
 
 Soc. Tell me, boy, do you know that a figure like 
 this is a square? 
 
 Boy. I do. 
 
 Soc. And you know that a square figure has these 
 four lines equal? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And these lines which I have drawn through 
 the middle of the square are also equal? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. A square may be of any size? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And if one side of the figure be of two feet, 
 and the other side be of two feet, how much will the 
 whole be? Let me explain: if in one direction the 
 space was of two feet, and in the other direction of 
 one foot, the whole would be of two feet taken once? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 
 
MENO 
 
 29 
 
 Soc. But since this side is also of two feet, there are 
 twice two feet? 
 
 Boy. There are. 
 
 Soc. Then the square is of twice two feet? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how many are twice two feet? count and 
 tell me. 
 
 Boy. Four, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And might there not be another square twice 
 as large as this, and having like this the lines equal? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And of how many feet will that be? 
 
 Boy. Of eight feet. 
 
 Soc. And now try and tell me the length of the line 
 which forms the side of that double square: this is two 
 feet — what will that be? 
 
 Boy. Clearly, Socrates, that will be double. 
 
 Soc. Do you observe, Meno, that I am not teaching 
 the boy anything, but only asking him questions; and 
 now he fancies that he knows how long a line is neces¬ 
 sary in order to produce a figure of eight square feet; 
 does he not? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And does he really know? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. He only guesses that [because the square is 
 double], the line is double. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Observe him while he recalls the steps in reg¬ 
 ular order. (To the Boy.) Tell me, boy, do you 
 assert that a double space comes from a double line? 
 Remember that I am not speaking of an oblong, but 
 of a square, and of a square twice the size of this one — 
 that is to say of eight feet; and I want to know 
 whether you still say that a double square comes from 
 a double line? 
 
30 
 
 MENO 
 
 Boy . Yes. 
 
 Soc. But does not this line become doubled if we 
 add another such line here? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And four such lines will make a space contain¬ 
 ing eight feet? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Let us describe such a figure: is not that what 
 you would say is the figure of eight feet? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And are there not these four divisions in the 
 figure, each of which is equal to the figure of four 
 feet? 
 
 Boy. True. 
 
 Soc. And is not that four times 
 four? 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And four times is not 
 double. 
 
 Boy. No, indeed. 
 
 Soc. But how much? 
 
 Boy. Four times as much. 
 
 Soc. Therefore the double line, boy, has formed a 
 space, not twice, but four times as much. 
 
 Boy. True. 
 
 Soc. And four times four are sixteen — are they 
 not? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. What line would give you a space of eight 
 feet, as this gives one of sixteen feet; — do you see? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the space of four feet is made from this 
 half line? 
 
 Boy . Yes. 
 
 Soc. Good; and is not a space of eight feet twice 
 the size of this, and half the size of the other? 
 
MENO 
 
 31 
 
 Boy. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Such a space, then, will be made out of a line 
 greater than this one, and less than that one? 
 
 Boy. Yes; that is what I think. 
 
 Soc. Very good; I like to hear you say what you 
 think. And now tell me, is not this a line of two feet 
 and that of four? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then the line which forms the side of eight 
 feet ought to be more than this line of two feet, and 
 less than the other of four feet? 
 
 Boy. It ought. 
 
 Soc. Try and see if you can tell me how much it 
 will be. 
 
 Boy. Three feet. 
 
 Soc. Then if we add a half to this line of two, 
 that will be the line of three. Here are two and there 
 is one; and on the other side, here are two also and 
 there is one: and that makes the figure of which you 
 speak? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But if there are three feet this way and three 
 feet that way, the whole space will be three times 
 three feet? 
 
 Boy. That is evident. 
 
 Soc. And how much are three times three feet? 
 
 Boy. Nine. 
 
 Soc. And how much is the double of four? 
 
 Boy. Eight. 
 
 Soc. Then the figure of eight is not made out of a 
 line of three? 
 
 Boy. No. 
 
 Soc. But from what line? — tell me exactly; and 
 if you would rather not reckon, try and show me the 
 line. 
 
 Boy. Indeed, Socrates, I do not know. 
 
32 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. Do you see, Meno, what advances he has made 
 in his power of recollection? He did not know at 
 first, and he does not know now, what is the side of a 
 figure of eight feet: but then he thought that he knew, 
 and answered confidently as if he knew, and had no 
 difficulty; but now he has a difficulty, and neither 
 knows nor fancies that he knows. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Is he not better off in knowing his ignorance? 
 
 Men. I think that he is. 
 
 Soc. If we have made him doubt, and given him the 
 “ torpedo’s shock,” have we done him any harm? 
 
 Men. I think not. 
 
 Soc. We have certainly done something that may 
 assist him in finding out the truth of the matter; and 
 now he will wish to remedy his ignorance, but then he 
 would have been ready to tell all the world that the 
 double space should have a double side. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. But do you suppose that he would ever have 
 inquired or learned what he fancied that he knew and 
 did not know, until he had fallen into perplexity under 
 the idea that he did not know, and had desired to 
 know? 
 
 Men. I think not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then he was the better for the torpedo’s touch? 
 
 Men. I think that he was. 
 
 Soc. Mark now the farther development. I shall 
 only ask him, and not teach him, and he shall share 
 the inquiry with me: and do you watch and see if you 
 find me telling or explaining anything to him, instead 
 of eliciting his opinion. Tell me, boy, is not this a 
 square of four feet which I have drawn? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And now I add another square equal to the 
 former one? 
 
MENO 
 
 33 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And a third, which is equal to either of 
 them? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc . Suppose that we fill up the vacant corner. 
 Boy. Very good. 
 
 Soc. Here, then, there are four equal spaces? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how many times is this space larger than 
 this? 
 
 Boy. Four times. 
 
 Soc. But it ought to have been twice only, as you 
 will remember. 
 
 Boy. True. 
 
 Soc. And does not this line, reaching from corner 
 to corner, bisect each of these spaces? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And are there not here four equal lines which 
 contain this space? 
 
 Boy. There are. 
 
 Soc. Look and see how much this space is. 
 
 Boy. I do not understand. 
 
 Soc. Has not each interior line cut off half of the 
 four spaces? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And how many such spaces are there in this 
 division? 
 
 Boy. Four. 
 
 Soc. And how many in this? 
 
 Boy. Two. 
 
 Soc. And four is how many times two? 
 
 Boy. Twice. 
 
 Soc. And this space is of how many feet? 
 
 Boy. Of eight feet. 
 
 Soc. And from what line do you get this figure? 
 Boy. From this. 
 
34 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. That is, from the line which extends from 
 corner to corner? 
 
 Boy. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And that is the line which the learned call the 
 diagonal. And if this is the proper name, then you, 
 Meno’s slave, are prepared to affirm that the double 
 space is the square of the diagonal? 
 
 Boy. Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. What do you say of him, Meno? Were not 
 all these answers given out of his own head? 
 
 Men. Yes, they were all his own. 
 
 Soc. And yet, as we were just now saying, he did 
 not know? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And yet he had those notions in him? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then he who does not know still has true 
 notions of that which he does not know ? 
 
 Men. He has. 
 
 Soc. And at present these notions are just waken¬ 
 ing up in him, as in a dream; but if he were frequently 
 asked the same questions, in different forms, he would 
 know as well as any one at last? 
 
 Men. I dare say. 
 
 Soc. Without any one teaching him he will recover 
 his knowledge for himself, if he is only asked ques¬ 
 tions? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And this spontaneous recovery in him is recol¬ 
 lection? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And this knowledge which he now has must 
 he not either have acquired or always possessed ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But if he always possessed this knowledge he 
 would always have known; or if he has acquired the 
 
 
MENO 
 
 35 
 
 knowledge, he could not have acquired it in this life, 
 unless he has been taught geometry; for he may be 
 made to do the same with all geometry and every 
 other branch of knowledge. Now, has any one ever 
 taught him? You must know that, if, as you say, he 
 was born and bred in your house. 
 
 Men, And I am certain that no one ever did teach 
 him. 
 
 Soc, And yet has he not the knowledge? 
 
 Men, That, Socrates, is most certain. 
 
 Soc, But if he did not acquire this knowledge in 
 this life, then clearly he must have had and learned 
 it at some other time? 
 
 Men, That is evident. 
 
 Soc, And that must have been the time when he 
 was not a man? 
 
 Men, Yes. 
 
 Soc, And if there have been always true thoughts 
 in him, both at the time when he was and was not a 
 man, which only need to be awakened into knowledge 
 by putting questions to him, his soul must have always 
 possessed this knowledge, for he always either was or 
 was not a man? 
 
 Men, That is clear. 
 
 Soc, And if the truth of all things always existed 
 in the soul, then the soul is immortal. Wherefore be 
 of good cheer, and try to recollect what you do not 
 know, or rather do not remember. 
 
 Men, I feel, somehow, that I like what you are 
 saying. 
 
 Soc, And I, Meno, like what I am saying. Some 
 things I have said of which I am not altogether con¬ 
 fident. But that we shall be better and braver and less 
 helpless if we think that we ought to inquire, than we 
 should have been if we indulged in the idle fancy 
 that there was no knowing and no use in searching 
 
36 
 
 MENO 
 
 after what we know not; — that is a theme upon which 
 I am ready to fight, in word and deed, to the utmost 
 of my power. 
 
 Men. That again, Socrates, appears to me to be 
 well said. 
 
 Soc. Then, as we are agreed that a man should 
 inquire about that which he does not know, shall you 
 and I make an effort to inquire together into the na¬ 
 ture of virtue? 
 
 Men. By all means, Socrates. And yet I would 
 rather return to my original question, Whether vir¬ 
 tue comes by instruction, or by nature, or is gained in 
 some other way? 
 
 Soc. Had I the command of you as well as of my¬ 
 self, Meno, I would not have inquired whether virtue 
 is given by instruction or not, until we had first ascer¬ 
 tained “ what virtue is.” But as you never think of 
 controlling yourself, but only of controlling him who 
 is your slave, and this is your notion of freedom, I 
 must yield to you, for I can not help. And therefore 
 I have now to inquire into the qualities of that of 
 which I do not at present know the nature. At any 
 rate, will you condescend a little, and allow the ques¬ 
 tion “ Whether virtue is given by instruction, or in 
 any other way,” to be argued upon hypothesis? As 
 the geometrician, when he is asked whether a certain 
 triangle is capable of being described in a certain 
 circle, will reply: “ I can not tell you as yet; but I will 
 offer a hypothesis which may assist us in forming a 
 conclusion: If the space be such that when you have 
 drawn along the line given by it another figure, the 
 original figure is reduced by a space equal to that 
 which is added , 1 then one consequence follows, and if 
 this is impossible then some other; and therefore I 
 wish to assume a hypothesis before I tell you whether 
 
 1 Or, in simpler phrase, “ If so much be taken from the triangle.” 
 
MENO 
 
 37 
 
 this triangle is capable of being included in the cir¬ 
 cle:”— that is a geometrical hypothesis. And we 
 too, as we know not the nature and qualities of virtue, 
 must ask, whether virtue is or is not taught, under a 
 hypothesis: as thus, if virtue is of such a class of 
 mental goods, will it be taught or not? Let the first 
 hypothesis be that virtue is or is not knowledge, — in 
 that case will it be taught or not? or, as we were just 
 now saying, “ remembered? ” For there is no use in 
 disputing about the name. But is virtue taught or 
 not ? or rather, does not every one see that knowledge 
 alone is taught? 
 
 Men . I agree. 
 
 Soc. Then if virtue is knowledge, virtue will be 
 taught? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then now we have made a quick end of this 
 question: if virtue is of such a nature, it will be 
 taught ; and if not, not? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And the next question is, whether virtue is 
 knowledge or of another species? 
 
 Men. Yes, that appears to be the question which 
 comes next in order. 
 
 Soc. Do we not say that virtue is a good? This is a 
 hypothesis which is not set aside. 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Now, if there be any sort of good which is 
 parted from knowledge, virtue may be that good; but 
 if knowledge embraces all good, then we shall be right 
 in thinking that knowledge is some sort of good? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And virtue makes us good? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if we are good, then we are profitable; 
 for all good things are profitable? 
 
38 
 
 MENO 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then virtue is profitable? 
 
 Men. That is the only inference. 
 
 Soc. Then now let us see what are the things that 
 severally profit us. Health and strength, and beauty 
 and wealth — these, as we say, are the sort of things 
 which profit us? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And yet these things may also sometimes do 
 us harm: would you not admit that? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And what is the guiding principle which 
 makes them profitable or the reverse? Are they not 
 profitable when they are rightly used, and hurtful 
 when they are not rightly used? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Next, let us consider the goods of the soul: 
 these are temperance, justice, courage, quickness of 
 apprehension, memory, magnificence, and the like? 
 
 Men. Surely. 
 
 Soc. And such of these as are not knowledge, but 
 of another sort, are sometimes profitable and some¬ 
 times hurtful; as, for example, courage, which has no 
 prudence, but is only a sort of confidence? When a 
 man has no sense he is harmed by courage, but when 
 he has sense he is profited? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And the same may be said of temperance and 
 quickness of apprehension; whatever things are 
 learned or done with sense are profitable, but when 
 done without sense they are hurtful? 
 
 Men. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And in general, all that the soul attempts or 
 endures, when under the guidance of wisdom, ends in 
 happiness; but when she is under the guidance of 
 folly, in the opposite? 
 
MENO 
 
 39 
 
 Men. That appears to be true. 
 
 Soc. If then virtue is a good of the soul, and is to 
 be profitable, it must be wisdom or prudence, since 
 some of the goods of the soul are either profitable or 
 hurtful by the addition of wisdom or of folly; and 
 therefore if virtue is profitable, virtue must be a sort 
 of wisdom or prudence ? 
 
 Men. That is my view. 
 
 Soc. And the other goods, such as wealth and the 
 like, of which we were just now saying that they are 
 sometimes good and sometimes evil, are they not also 
 made profitable or hurtful, accordingly as the soul 
 guides and uses them rightly or wrongly — as in the 
 soul generally, wisdom is the useful and folly the 
 hurtful guide? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. And the wise soul guides them rightly, and 
 the foolish soul wrongly? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is not this universally true of human 
 nature? All other things hang upon the soul, and 
 the things of the soul hang upon wisdom, if they are 
 to be good; and according to this view of the question 
 that which profits is wisdom — and virtue, as we say, 
 is profitable? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And thus we arrive at the conclusion that 
 virtue is either wholly or partly wisdom? 
 
 Men. I think that what you are saying, Socrates, 
 is very true. 
 
 Soc. But if this is true, then the good are not by 
 nature good? 
 
 Men. I think not. 
 
 Soc. If they had been, there would assuredly have 
 been discerners of characters among us who would 
 have known our future great men; and we should 
 
40 
 
 MENO 
 
 have taken them on their showing, and when we had 
 got them, we should have kept them in the citadel out 
 of the way of harm, and set a stamp upon them more 
 than upon gold, in order that no one might tamper 
 with them; and then when they grew up they would 
 have been useful to the state? 
 
 Men. Yes, Socrates, that would have been the way. 
 
 Soc. But if the good are not by nature good, are 
 they made good by instruction? 
 
 Men. There is no other alternative, Socrates. On 
 the supposition that virtue is knowledge, there can 
 be no doubt that virtue is taught. 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed; but what if the supposition is 
 erroneous ? 
 
 Men. I certainly thought just now that we were 
 right. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Meno; but a principle which has any 
 soundness should stand firm not only now and then, 
 but always and forever. 
 
 Men. Well; and why are you so slow of heart to 
 believe that knowledge is virtue? 
 
 Soc. I will try and tell you why, Meno. I do not 
 retract the assertion that if virtue is knowledge it may 
 be taught; but I fear that I have some reason in doubt¬ 
 ing whether virtue is knowledge: for consider now 
 and say whether virtue, or anything that is taught, 
 must not have teachers and disciples? 
 
 Men. Surely. 
 
 Soc. And again, may not that art of which there 
 are neither teachers nor disciples be assumed to be 
 incapable of being taught? 
 
 Men. True; but do you think that there are no 
 
 teachers of virtue? 
 
 Soc. I have certainly often inquired whether there 
 were any, and taken great pains to find them, and 
 have never succeeded; and many have assisted me in 
 
MENO 
 
 41 
 
 the search, and they were the persons whom I thought 
 the most likely to know. Here is Anytus, who is sit¬ 
 ting by us at the very moment when he is wanted; he 
 is the person whom we should ask. In the first place, 
 he is the son of a wealthy and wise father, Anthemion, 
 who acquired his wealth, not by accident or gift, like 
 Ismenias the Theban (who has recently made himself 
 as rich as a Polycrates), but by his own skill and in¬ 
 dustry, and he is a well-conditioned, modest man, not 
 insolent, or overbearing, or annoying; moreover, he 
 has given his son a good education, as the Athenian 
 people certainly appear to think, for they choose him 
 to fill the highest offices. And these are the sort of 
 men from whom you are likely to learn whether there 
 are any teachers of virtue, and who they are. Please, 
 Anytus, to help me and your friend Meno in answer¬ 
 ing our question, Who are the teachers? Consider 
 the matter thus: If we wanted Meno to be a good 
 physician, to whom should we send him? Should we 
 not send him to the physicians? 
 
 Any. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Or if we wanted him to be a good cobbler, 
 should we not send him to the cobblers? 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And so forth? 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Let me trouble you with one more question. 
 When we say that we should be right in sending him 
 to the physicians if we wanted him to be a physician, 
 do we mean that we should be right in sending him 
 to those who profess the art, rather than to those who 
 don’t, and to those who demand payment for teach¬ 
 ing the art, and profess to teach it to any one who will 
 come and learn? If we were right in sending him, 
 would that be the reason? 
 
 Any. Yes. 
 
42 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. And might not the same be said of flute-play¬ 
 ing, and of the other arts? No man who wanted to 
 make a man a flute-player would refuse to send him 
 to those who profess to teach the art for money, and 
 trouble other persons to give him instruction who do 
 not profess to teach, and never had a disciple in that 
 branch of knowledge which we want him to acquire — 
 that would be the height of folly. 
 
 Any . Yes, by Zeus, and of ignorance too. 
 
 Soc. Very good. And now you are in a position to 
 advise with me about my friend Meno. He has been 
 saying to me, Anytus, that he desires to attain that 
 wisdom and virtue, by which men order the state or 
 the house, and honor their parents, and know when 
 to receive and when to send away citizens and 
 strangers, as a good man should. Now, to whom 
 ought we to send him in order that he may learn this 
 virtue? Does not the previous argument imply 
 clearly that he ought to go to those who profess and 
 avouch that they are the common teachers of Hellas, 
 and are ready to impart instruction to any one who 
 likes, at a fixed price? 
 
 Any. Whom do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. You surely know, do you not, Anytus, that 
 these are the people whom mankind describe as 
 Sophists? I 
 
 Any. By Heracles, Socrates, forbear! I only hope 
 that no friend or kinsman or acquaintance of mine, 
 whether citizen or stranger, will ever be so mad as to 
 allow himself to be corrupted by them; for they are a 
 manifest pest and corrupting influence of those who 
 have to do with them. 
 
 Soc. What do you mean, Anytus? Of all the 
 people who profess that they know how to do men 
 good, are these the only ones who not only do them 
 no good, but positively corrupt those who are en- 
 
MENO 
 
 43 
 
 trusted to them? That is very singular. And more¬ 
 over, in return they publicly demand money. Indeed, 
 I can not believe this; for I know of a single man, 
 Protagoras, who made more out of his craft than the 
 illustrious Pheidias, or any ten other statuaries. How 
 could that be ? A mender of old shoes, or patcher up 
 of clothes, who made the shoes or clothes worse than 
 he received them, could not have remained thirty days 
 undetected, and would very soon have starved; 
 whereas, during more than forty years, Protagoras 
 was corrupting his disciples, and sending them from 
 him worse than he received them, and yet all Hellas 
 failed in detecting him. For, if I am not mistaken, 
 he was about seventy years old at his death, forty of 
 which were spent in the practice of his profession; 
 and during all that time he had a good reputation, 
 which to this day he retains: and not only Protagoras, 
 but many others have a good reputation; some who 
 lived before him, and others who are still living. Nov/, 
 when you say that they deceived and corrupted the 
 youth, are they to be supposed to have corrupted them 
 intentionally or unintentionally? Can those who were 
 deemed by many to be the wisest men of Hellas have 
 been out of their minds? 
 
 Any. Out of their minds! No, Socrates; the young 
 men who gave their money to them were out of their 
 minds, and their relations and guardians who en¬ 
 trusted them to their care were still more out of their 
 minds, and most of all the cities who allowed them to 
 come in and did not drive them out, citizen or stranger 
 alike. 
 
 Soc. Has any of the Sophists wronged you, Any- 
 tus? What makes you so angry with them? 
 
 Any. No, indeed, neither I nor any of my belong¬ 
 ings has ever had, nor would I suffer them to have, 
 anything to do with them. 
 
44 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. Then you are entirely unacquainted with 
 them? 
 
 Any. And I have no wish to be acquainted. 
 
 Soc. Then, my dear friend, how can you know 
 whether a thing is good or bad of which you are wholly 
 ignorant? 
 
 Any. Quite well; I am quite sure that I know 
 what manner of men these are, whether I know them 
 or not. 
 
 Soc. You must be a diviner, Anytus, for 1 really 
 can not make out, judging from your own words, how, 
 if you are not acquainted with them, you know about 
 them. But I am not inquiring of you who are the 
 teachers who will corrupt Meno (let them be, if you 
 please, the Sophists) ; I only ask you to tell him who 
 there is in this great city who will teach him how to 
 become eminent in the virtues which I was just now 
 describing. He is the friend of your family, and you 
 
 will oblige him. 
 
 Any. Why don’t you tell him? 
 
 Soc. I have told him whom I supposed to be the 
 teachers of these things; but I learn from you that I 
 am utterly at fault, and I dare say that you are right. 
 And now I wish that you, on your part, would tell 
 me to whom among the Athenians he should go. 
 
 Whom would you name? 
 
 Any. Why single out individuals? Any Athenian 
 
 gentleman, taken at random, if he will mind him, will 
 do him far more good than the Sophists. 
 
 Soc. And did those gentlemen grow of themselves; 
 and without having been taught by any one, were 
 they nevertheless able to teach others that which they 
 
 never learned themselves? 
 
 Any. I imagine that they learned of the previous 
 generation of gentlemen. Have there not been many 
 good men in this city? 
 
MENO 
 
 45 
 
 Soc. Yes, certainly, Anytus; and many good 
 statesmen also there always have been, and there are 
 still, in the city of Athens. But the question is 
 whether they were also good teachers of their own 
 virtue; not whether there are, or have been, good 
 men, but whether virtue can be taught, is the question 
 which we have been discussing. Now, do we mean to 
 say that the good men of our own and of other times 
 knew how to impart.to others that virtue which they 
 had themselves ; or is this virtue incapable of being 
 communicated or imparted by one man to another? 
 That is the question which I and Meno have been 
 arguing. Look at the matter in your own way. 
 
 Would you not admit that Themistocles was a good 
 man? 
 
 Any. Certainly; no man better. 
 
 Soc. And must not he then have been a good 
 
 teacher, if any man ever was a good teacher, of his 
 own virtue? 
 
 Any. Yes, certainly, — if he wanted to be that. 
 
 Soc. But would he not have wanted? He would, 
 at any rate, have desired to make his own son a good 
 man and a gentleman; he could not have been jealous 
 of him, or have intentionally abstained from impart¬ 
 ing to him his own virtue. Did you never hear that 
 he made Cleophantus, who was his son, a famous 
 horseman? —he would stand upright on horseback 
 and hurl a javelin; and many other marvellous things 
 he could do which his father had him taught; and in 
 anything which the skill of a master could teach him 
 he was well trained. Have you not heard from our 
 elders of this? 
 
 Any. I have. 
 
 Soc. Then no one could say that his son showed 
 any want of capacity? 
 
 Any. Possibly not. 
 
46 
 
 MENO 
 
 Soc. But did any one, old or young, ever say in 
 your hearing that Cleophantus, the son of Themis- 
 tocles, was a wise or good man, as his father was? 
 
 Any. I have certainly never heard that. 
 
 Soc. And if virtue could have been taught, would 
 he have sought to train him in these sort of accom¬ 
 plishments, and allowed him who, as you must re¬ 
 member, was his own son, to be no better than his 
 neighbors in those qualities in which he himself ex¬ 
 celled ? 
 
 Any. Indeed, indeed, I think not. 
 
 Soc. Here then is a teacher of virtue whom you 
 admit to be among the best men of the past. Let us 
 take another, — Aristides, the son of Lysimachus: 
 would you not acknowledge that he was a good 
 man? 
 
 Any. To be sure, I should. 
 
 Soc. And did not he train his son Lysimachus bet¬ 
 ter than any other Athenian in all that could be done 
 for him by the help of masters? But what has been 
 the result? Is he a bit better than any other mortal? 
 He is an acquaintance of yours, and you see what he 
 is like. There is Pericles, again, magnificent in his 
 wisdom; and he, as you know, had two sons, Paralus 
 and Xanthippus. 
 
 Any. I know. 
 
 Soc. And you know, also, that he taught them to 
 be unrivalled horsemen, and had them trained in music 
 and gymnastics and all sorts of arts — in these re¬ 
 spects they were on a level with the best — and had he 
 no wish to make good men of them? Nay, he must 
 have wished that. But I suspect that virtue could not 
 be taught. And that you may not suppose that the 
 incompetent teachers are the meaner sort of Athenians 
 and few in number, remember again that Thucydides 
 had two sons, Melesias and Stephanus, whom he 
 
MENO 
 
 47 
 
 trained chiefly in wrestling; and they too had an 
 excellent education, and were the best wrestlers in 
 Athens: one of them he committed to the care of 
 Xanthias, and the other of Eudorus, who had the 
 reputation of being the most celebrated wrestlers of 
 that day. Do you remember them? 
 
 Any. I have heard of them. 
 
 Soc. Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, 
 who had his children taught wrestling, at a consider¬ 
 able expense, would have taught them to be good men, 
 which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could 
 have been taught? Will you reply that he was a mean 
 man, and had not many friends among the Athenians 
 and allies? Nay, but he was of a great family, and 
 a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if 
 virtue could have been taught, he would have found 
 out some one either in or out of Hellas who would 
 have made good men of his sons, if he could not him¬ 
 self spare the time from cares of state. Again I sus¬ 
 pect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which 
 can be taught? 
 
 Any. Socrates, I think that you are too ready to 
 speak evil of men: and, if you will take my advice, I 
 would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there 
 is no city in which it is not easier to do men harm than 
 to do them good, and this is certainly the case at 
 Athens, as I believe that you know. 
 
 Soc. O Meno, I think that Anytus is in a rage. 
 And he may well be in a rage, for he thinks, in the 
 first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and 
 then, in the second place, he thinks that he is one of 
 them. But when he understands, which he does not 
 at present, what is the meaning of defamation, he will 
 forgive me. Meanwhile I will return to you, Meno; 
 
 for I suppose that there are gentlemen in your region 
 too? 
 
48 
 
 MENO 
 
 Men. Certainly there are. 
 
 Soc. And are they willing to teach the young? and 
 do they profess to be teachers? and do they agree that 
 virtue is taught? 
 
 Men. No indeed, Socrates, they are anything but 
 agreed; and you may hear them saying at one time 
 that virtue can be taught, and then again the reverse. 
 
 Soc. Can we call them teachers who do not acknowl¬ 
 edge the possibility of their own vocation? 
 
 Men. I think not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what do you think of these Sophists, who 
 are the only professors? Do they seem to you to be 
 teachers of virtue? 
 
 Men. I often wonder, Socrates, that you never hear 
 Gorgias promising to teach virtue: and when he hears 
 others promising this he only laughs at them; but he 
 thinks that you ought to teach men to speak. 
 
 Soc. Then do you not think that the Sophists are 
 teachers ? 
 
 Men. I can not tell you, Socrates; like the rest of 
 the world, I am in doubt, and sometimes I think that 
 they are teachers and sometimes not. 
 
 Soc. And are you aware that not you only and other 
 political men have doubts whether virtue can be taught 
 or not, but that Theognis the poet says the very same 
 thing — are you aware of that? 
 
 Men. Where does he imply that? 
 
 Soc. In the elegiac verses, in which he says: — 
 
 “ Eat and drink and sit with the mighty, and make yourself 
 agreeable to them; for from the good you will learn what is 
 good, but if you mix with the bad you will lose the intelligence 
 which you already have.” 
 
 Do you observe that here he seems to imply that vir¬ 
 tue can be taught? 
 
 Men. Clearly. 
 
MENO 
 
 49 
 
 Soc. But in some other verses he shifts about and 
 says: — 
 
 “ If understanding could be created and put into a man, then 
 they (who were able to accomplish this) would have obtained 
 great rewards.” 
 
 And again: — 
 
 “ Never did a bad son spring from a good sire because he 
 heard the voice of instruction; not by teaching will you ever 
 make a bad man into a good one.” 
 
 And this, as you may remark, is a contradiction of 
 the other. 
 
 Men . That is palpable. 
 
 Soc . And is there anything else of which the 
 teachers and professors are not only asserted not to 
 be teachers of others, but to be ignorant themselves of 
 that which they profess to teach and bad at the knowl¬ 
 edge of that which they preach; and about which the 
 acknowledged “ gentlemen ” are themselves saying 
 sometimes that “ this thing can be taught,” and some¬ 
 times not. Can you say that they are teachers of au¬ 
 thority whose ideas are in this state of confusion? 
 
 Men. I should say, certainly not. 
 
 Soc. But if neither the Sophists nor the gentle¬ 
 men are teachers, clearly there can be no other 
 teachers ? 
 
 Men. No. 
 
 Soc. And if there are no teachers, neither are there 
 disciples? 
 
 Men. Agreed. 
 
 Soc. And we have admitted that a thing can not be 
 taught of which there are neither teachers nor dis¬ 
 ciples? 
 
 Men. We have. 
 
 Soc. And there are no teachers of virtue to be found 
 anywhere ? 
 
50 
 
 MENO 
 
 Men. There are not. 
 
 Soc. And if there are no teachers neither are there 
 scholars? 
 
 Men. I think that is true. 
 
 Soc. Then virtue can not be taught? 
 
 Men. Not if we are right in our view. But I can 
 not believe, Socrates, that there are no good men in 
 the state. And if there are, how did they come into 
 existence ? 
 
 Soc. I am afraid, Meno, that you and I are not 
 good for much, and that Gorgias has been as poor an 
 educator of you as Prodicus has been of me. Certainly 
 we shall have to look to ourselves, and try to find some 
 one who will help to improve us. This I say, because 
 I observe that in the previous discussion none of us 
 remarked that right and good action is possible to man 
 under other guidance than that of knowledge; — and 
 indeed if this be denied, there is no seeing how there 
 can be any good men at all. 
 
 Men. How do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. I mean this — that good men must necessarily 
 be useful or profitable. Were we not right in admit¬ 
 ting that? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And in supposing that they will be useful only 
 if they are true guides of action — in that we were 
 also right? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. But we do not seem to have been right in say¬ 
 ing that knowledge only was the right and good guide 
 of action. 
 
 Men. What do you mean by the word “ right? ” 
 
 Soc. I will explain. If a man knew the way to 
 Larisa, or anywhere else, and went to the place and 
 led others thither, would he not be a right and good 
 guide ? 
 
MENO 
 
 51 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And a person who had a right opinion about 
 the way, but had never been and did not know, might 
 be a good guide also, might he not? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And while he has true opinion about that which 
 the other knows, he will be just as good a guide if he 
 thinks the truth, as if he knows the truth ? 
 
 Men. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. Then true opinion is as good a guide to 
 correct action as wisdom; and that was the point 
 which we omitted in our speculation about the na¬ 
 ture of virtue, when we said that wisdom only is the 
 
 guide of right action; whereas there is also right 
 opinion. 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. Then right opinion is not less useful than 
 knowledge ? 
 
 Men. The difference, Socrates, is only that he who 
 has knowledge will always be right; but he who has 
 right opinion will sometimes be right, and sometimes 
 not right. 
 
 Soc. What do you mean? Can he be wrong 
 
 who has right opinion, as long as he has right opin¬ 
 ion? 
 
 Men. I admit the cogency of that, and therefore, 
 Socrates, allowing this, I wonder that knowledge 
 should be preferred to right opinion — or why they 
 should ever differ. 
 
 Soc. And shall I explain this wonder to you? 
 
 Men. Do tell me. 
 
 Soc. \ ou would not wonder if you had ever ob¬ 
 served the images of Daedalus; but perhaps you have 
 not got them in your country? 
 
 Men. Why do you refer to them? 
 
 Soc. Because they require to be fastened in order 
 
52 
 
 MENO 
 
 to keep them, and if they are not fastened they will 
 run away. 
 
 Men. Well, what of that? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that it is not much use possess¬ 
 ing one of them if they are at liberty, for they will 
 walk off like runaway slaves; but when fastened, they 
 are of great value, for they are really beautiful works 
 of art. Now this is an illustration of the nature of 
 true opinions: while they abide w r ith us they are beauti¬ 
 ful and fruitful, but they run away out of the human 
 soul, and do not remain long, and therefore they are 
 not of much value until they are fastened by the tie of 
 the cause; and this fastening of them, friend Meno, 
 is recollection, as has been already agreed by us. But 
 when they are bound, in the first place, they have the 
 nature of knowledge; and, in the second place, they 
 are abiding. And this is why knowledge is more 
 honorable and excellent than true opinion, because 
 fastened by a chain. 
 
 Men. Yes indeed, Socrates, that I should conjec¬ 
 ture to be the truth. 
 
 Soc. I too speak not as one who knows; and yet 
 that knowledge differs from true opinion is not a 
 matter of conjecture with me. There are not many 
 things which I should affirm that I knew, but that is 
 most certainly one of them. 
 
 Men. You are right, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And am I not right also in saying that true 
 opinion is as good a guide in the performance of an 
 action as knowledge? 
 
 Men. That also appears to me to be true. 
 
 Soc. Then right opinion is not a whit inferior to 
 knowledge, or less useful in action; nor is the man 
 who has right opinion inferior to him who has knowl- 
 
 edge? I 
 
 Men. That is true. 
 
MENO 
 
 53 
 
 Soc. And surely the good man has been acknowl¬ 
 edged by us to be useful? 
 
 Men . Yes. 
 
 Soc. Seeing then that men become good and useful 
 to states, not only because they have knowledge, but 
 because they have right opinion, and neither knowl¬ 
 edge nor right opinion is given to man by nature or 
 acquired by him— (do you think that either of them 
 is given by nature ? 
 
 Men. Not I.) 
 
 Soc. Then if they are not given by nature, neither 
 are the good by nature good ? 
 
 Men. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Amd nature being excluded, the next question 
 was whether virtue is acquired by teaching ? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. If virtue was wisdom, then, as we thought, it 
 was taught? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And if it was taught it was wisdom? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And if there were teachers, it might be taught; 
 and if there were no teachers, not? 
 
 Men. True. 
 
 Soc. But surely we acknowledged that there were 
 no teachers of virtue? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then we acknowledged that it was not taught, 
 and was not wisdom? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And yet we admitted that it was a good? 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the right guide is useful and good? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And the only right guides are knowledge and 
 true opinion — these are the guides of man; for things 
 
54 
 
 MENO 
 
 which happen by chance are not under the guidance 
 of man: but the guidance of man are true opinion and 
 knowledge. 
 
 Men. I think so too. 
 
 Soc. But if virtue is not taught, neither is virtue 
 knowledge. 
 
 Men. Clearly not. 
 
 Soc. Then of two good and useful things, one, 
 which is knowledge, has been set aside, and can not 
 be supposed to be our guide in political life. 
 
 Men. I think not. 
 
 Soc. And therefore not by any wisdom, and not 
 because they were wise, did Themistocles and those 
 others of whom Anytus spoke govern states. And 
 this was the reason why they were unable to make 
 others like themselves — because their virtue was not 
 grounded on knowledge. 
 
 Men. That is probably true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. But if not by knowledge, the only alternative 
 which remains is that statesmen must have guided 
 states by right opinion, which is in politics what divi¬ 
 nation is in religion; for diviners and also prophets 
 say many things truly, but they know not what they 
 say. 
 
 Men. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And may we not, Meno, truly call those men 
 divine who, having no understanding, yet succeed in 
 many a grand deed and word? 
 
 Men. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Then we shall also be right in calling those 
 divine whom we were just now speaking of as diviners 
 and prophets, as well as all poets. Yes, and states¬ 
 men above all may be said to be divine and illumined, 
 being inspired and possessed of God, in w 7 hich con¬ 
 dition they say many grand things, not knowing what 
 they say. 
 
MENO 
 
 55 
 
 Men. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the women too, Meno, call good men 
 divine; and the Spartans, when they praise a good 
 man, say “ that he is a divine man.” 
 
 Men. And I think, Socrates, that they are right; 
 although very likely our friend Anytus may take 
 offence at the name. 
 
 Soc. I do not care; as for Anytus, there will be 
 another opportunity of talking with him. To sum up 
 our inquiry — the result seems to be, if we are at all 
 right in our view, that virtue is neither natural nor 
 acquired, but an instinct given by God to the virtuous. 
 Nor is the instinct accompanied by reason, unless 
 there may be supposed to be among statesmen any 
 one who is also the educator of statesmen. And if 
 there be such an one, he may be said to be among the 
 living what Tiresias was among the dead, who 
 “ alone,” according to Homer, “ of those in the world 
 below, has understanding; but the rest flit as 
 shadows.” 
 
 Men. That is excellent, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then, Meno, the conclusion is that virtue 
 comes to the virtuous by the gift of God. But we 
 shall never know the certain truth until, before asking 
 how virtue is given, we inquire into the actual nature 
 of virtue. I fear that I must go away, but do you, 
 now that you are persuaded yourself, persuade our 
 friend Anytus. And don’t let him be so exasperated; 
 for if you can persuade him you will have done some 
 service to the Athenian people. 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
c 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 In the Meno Anytus had parted from Socrates with the 
 threatening words: “ That in any city, and particularly in the 
 city of Athens, it is easier to do men harm than to do them 
 good; ” and Socrates was anticipating another opportunity of 
 talking with him. In the Euthyphro Socrates is already await¬ 
 ing his trial for impiety in the porch of the King Archon. 
 But before the trial proceeds, Plato would like to put the world 
 on their trial, and convince them of ignorance in that very matter 
 touching which Socrates is accused. An incident which may 
 perhaps really have occurred in the family of Euthyphro, a 
 learned Athenian diviner and soothsayer, furnishes the occasion 
 of the discussion. 
 
 This Euthyphro and Socrates are represented as meeting in 
 t e porch of the Archon. Both have legal business in hand. 
 Socrates is defendant in a suit for impiety which Meletus has 
 brought against him (it is remarked by the way that he is not 
 a likely man himself to have brought a suit against another) * 
 and Euthyphro too is plaintiff in an action for murder, which 
 he has brought against his own father. The latter has orig¬ 
 inated in the following manner: —A poor dependant of the 
 amily of Euthyphro had slain one of their domestic slaves in 
 Naxos. The guilty person was bound and thrown into a ditch 
 by the command of Euthyphro’s father, who sent to the inter¬ 
 preters of religion at Athens to ask what should be done with 
 him. Before the messenger came back the criminal had died 
 from hunger and exposure. 
 
 This is the origin of the charge of murder which Euthyphro 
 brings against his father. Socrates is confident that before he 
 could have taken upon himself the responsibility of such a pros¬ 
 ecution, he must have been perfectly informed'of the nature of 
 piety and impiety; and as he is going to be tried for impiety, 
 he thinks that he can not do better than learn of Euthyphro 
 (who will be admitted by all men, including the judges/to be 
 an unimpeachable authority) what piety is, and what is impiety. 
 What then is piety? 
 
 Euthyphro, who, in the abundance of his knowledge, is very 
 
 59 
 
60 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 willing to undertake all the responsibility, replies: That piety 
 is doing as I do, prosecuting your father (if he is guilty) on 
 a charge of murder; doing as the gods do — as Zeus did to 
 Cronos, and Cronos to Uranus. 
 
 Socrates has a dislike to these tales of mythology, and he 
 fancies that this dislike of his may be the reason why he is 
 charged with impiety. “Are they really true?” “Yes, they 
 are; ” and Euthyphro will gladly tell Socrates some more of 
 them. But Socrates would like first of all to have a more satis¬ 
 factory answer to the question, “What is piety?” “Doing as 
 I do, charging a father with murder ” may be a single instance 
 of piety, but can hardly be regarded as a general definition. 
 
 Euthyphro replies, that “ Piety is what is dear to the gods, 
 and impiety is what is not dear to them.” But may there not 
 be differences of opinion, as among men, so also among the gods? 
 Especially about good and evil, which have no fixed rule, and 
 are precisely the sort of differences which give rise to quarrels. 
 And therefore what may be dear to one god may not be dear 
 to another, and the same action may be both pious and impious; 
 e. g. your chastisement of your father, Euthyphro, may be dear 
 or pleasing to Zeus, but not pleasing to Cronos or Uranus. 
 
 Euthyphro answers that there is no difference of opinion, 
 either among gods or men, as to the propriety of punishing a 
 murderer. Yes, rejoins Socrates, when they know him to be a 
 murderer; but that assumes the point at issue. If all the circum¬ 
 stances of the case are considered, are you able to show that 
 your father was guilty of murder, or that all the gods are agreed 
 in approving of your prosecution of him? And must you not 
 allow that what is hated by one god may be liked by another? 
 W r aiving this last, however, Socrates proposes to amend the 
 definition, and say that “ what all the gods love is pious, and 
 what they all hate is impious.” To this Euthyphro agrees. 
 
 Socrates proceeds to analyze the new form of the definition. 
 He shows that in other cases the act precedes the state; e. g. the 
 act of being carried, loved, etc., precedes the state of being car¬ 
 ried, loved, etc., and therefore that which is dear to the gods 
 is dear to the gods because it is first loved of them, not loved 
 of them because it is dear to them. But the pious or holy is 
 loved by the gods because it is pious or holy, which is equivalent 
 to saying, that it is loved by them because it is dear to them. 
 Here then appears to be a contradiction, — Euthyphro has been 
 giving an attribute or accident of piety only, and not the es¬ 
 sence. Euthyphro acknowledges himself that his explanations 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 61 
 
 seem to walk away or go round in a circle, like the moving figures 
 of Daedalus, the ancestor of Socrates, who has communicated 
 his art to his descendants. 
 
 Socrate3, who is desirous of stimulating the indolent intelli¬ 
 gence of Euthyphro, raises the question in another manner: “ Is 
 all the pious just? ” “ Yes.” “ Is all the just pious? ” “ No.” 
 
 “ Then what part of justice is piety? ” Euthyphro replies that 
 piety is that part of justice which “ attends ” to the gods, as 
 there is another part of justice which “attends” to men. But 
 what is the meaning of “attending” to the gods? The word 
 “ attending,” when applied to dogs, horses, and men, implies 
 that in some way they are made better. But how do pious or 
 holy acts make the gods any better? Euthyphro explains that 
 he means by pious acts, acts of ministration. Yes; but the 
 ministrations of the husbandman, the physician, and the builder 
 have an end. To what end do we minister to the gods, and what 
 do we help them to accomplish? Euthyphro replies, that there 
 is not time for all these difficult questions to be resolved; and 
 he would rather say simply that piety is knowing how to please 
 the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. In other 
 words, says Socrates, piety is “ a science of asking and giving ” 
 — asking what we want and giving what they want; in short, 
 a mode of doing business between gods and men. But although 
 they are the givers of all good, how can we give them any good 
 in return? “ Nay, but we give them honor.” Then we give them 
 not what is beneficial, but what is pleasing or dear to them; 
 and this is what has been already disproved. 
 
 Socrates, although weary of the subterfuges and evasions of 
 Euthyphro, remains unshaken in his conviction that he must 
 know the nature of piety, or he would never have prosecuted his 
 old father. He is still hoping that he will condescend to instruct 
 him. But Euthyphro is in a hurry and can not stay. And Soc¬ 
 rates’ last hope of knowing the nature of piety before he is prose¬ 
 cuted for impiety has disappeared. 
 
 The Euthyphro is manifestly designed to contrast the real 
 nature of piety and impiety with the popular conceptions of 
 them. But although the popular conceptions are overthrown, 
 Plato does not offer any definition of his own: as in the Laches 
 and Lysis, he exhibits the subject of the Dialogue in several 
 different lights, but fails to answer explicitly his main question. 
 
 Euthyphro is a religionist, and is elsewhere spoken of as the 
 author of a philosophy of names, by whose “ prancing steeds ” 
 
62 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 Socrates in the Cratylus is carried away. He has the conceit 
 and self-confidence of a Sophist; no doubt that he is right in 
 prosecuting his father has ever entered into his mind. Like a 
 Sophist too, and perhaps like most educated men of his age, he 
 is incapable either of framing a general definition or of follow¬ 
 ing the course of an argument. But he is not a bad man, and 
 he is friendly to Socrates, whose familiar sign he recognizes with 
 interest. Moreover he is the enemy of Meletus, who, as he thinks, 
 is availing himself of the popular dislike to innovations in relig¬ 
 ion in order to injure Socrates; at the same time he is amusingly 
 confident that he has weapons in his own armory which would 
 be more than a match for him. He is quite sincere in his prose¬ 
 cution of his father, who has accidentally been guilty of homi¬ 
 cide, and is not wholly free from blame. To purge away the 
 crime appears to him in the light of a duty, whoever may be the 
 criminal. 
 
 Thus begins the contrast between the religion of the letter, or 
 of the narrow and unenlightened conscience, and the higher no¬ 
 tion of religion which Socrates vainly endeavors to elicit from 
 him, -./ - Piety is doing as I do v> is the first idea of religion which 
 is suggested to his mind, and may be regarded as the definition 
 of popular religion in all ages. Greek mythology hardly ad¬ 
 mitted of the distinction between accidental homicide and mur¬ 
 der: that the pollution of blood was the same in both cases is 
 also the feeling of the Athenian diviner. He is ready to defend 
 his conduct by the examples of the gods. These are the very 
 tales which Socrates can not abide; and his dislike of which, as 
 he suspects, has branded him with the reputation of impiety. 
 Here is one answer to the question, “ Why Socrates was put to 
 death,” suggested by the way. Another is conveyed in the words, 
 “ The Athenians do not care about any man being thought wise 
 until he begins to make other men wise; and then for some rea¬ 
 son or other they are angry: ” which may be said to be the rule 
 of popular toleration in most other countries, and not at Athens 
 only. 
 
 The next definition, “ Piety is that which is loved of the gods,” 
 is shipwrecked on a refined distinction between the state and the 
 act, corresponding respectively to the adjective (c^iXoi/) and the 
 participle (<£iAov/xevov), or rather perhaps to the participle and 
 the verb (<£tAou^uevov and ^uXeirai). The words loved of the 
 gods ” express an attribute only, and not the essence of piety. 
 Then follows the third and last definition “ Piety is a part of 
 justice.” Thus far Socrates has proceeded in placing religion 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 63 
 
 on a moral foundation. To which the soothsayer adds, “ attend¬ 
 ing upon the gods.” When further interrogated by Socrates as 
 to the nature of this “ attention to the gods,” he replies, that 
 piety is an affair of business, a science of giving and asking, and 
 the like. Socrates points out the latent anthropomorphism of 
 these notions. But when we expect him to go on and show that 
 the true service of the gods is the service of the spirit, and the 
 cooperation w T ith them in all things true and good, he stops 
 short; this was a lesson which the soothsayer could not have 
 been made to understand, and which every one must learn for 
 himself. 
 
 There seem to be altogether three aims or interests in this 
 little Dialogue: (1) the dialectical development of the idea of 
 piety; (2) the antithesis of true and false religion, which is 
 carried to a certain extent only; (3) the defence of Socrates. 
 
 The subtle connection of this Dialogue with the Apology and 
 the Crito, the holding back of the conclusion; the insight into 
 the religious world; the dramatic power and play of the two 
 characters; the inimitable irony, are reasons for believing that 
 it is a genuine Platonic writing. The spirit in which the popular 
 representations of mythology are denounced recalls the Repub¬ 
 lic. The virtue of piety has been already mentioned as one of 
 five in the Protagoras, but is not reckoned among the four car¬ 
 dinal virtues of the Republic. 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 Socrates. Euthyphro. 
 
 Scene: — The Porch of the King Archon 
 
 Euthyphro. Why have you left the Lyceum, 
 Socrates ? and what are you doing in the porch of the 
 King Archon? Surely you can not be engaged in an 
 action before the king, as I am. 
 
 Socrates. Not in an action, Euthyphro; impeach¬ 
 ment is the word which the Athenians use. 
 
 Euth . What! I suppose that some one has been 
 prosecuting you, for I can not believe that you are 
 the prosecutor of another. 
 
 Soc. Certainly not. 
 
 Euth. Then some one else has been prosecuting 
 you? 
 
 Soc . Yes. 
 
 Euth . And who is he? 
 
 Soc. A young man who is little known, Euthyphro; 
 and I hardly know him: his name is Meletus, and he 
 is of the deme of Pitthis. Perhaps you may remember 
 his appearance; he has a beak, and long straight hair, 
 and a beard which is ill grown. 
 
 Euth. No, I do not remember him, Socrates. And 
 what is the charge which he brings against you? 
 
 Soc. What is the charge? Well, a very serious 
 charge, which shows a good deal of character in the 
 young man, and for which he is certainly not to be 
 despised. He says he knows how the youth are cor¬ 
 rupted and who are their corruptors. I fancy that 
 
 65 
 
66 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 he must be a wise man, and seeing that I am any¬ 
 thing but a wise man, he has found me out, and is 
 going to accuse me of corrupting his young friends. 
 And of this our mother the state is to be the judge. 
 Of all our political men he is the only one who seems 
 to me to begin in the right way, with the cultivation 
 of virtue in youth; he is a good husbandman, and takes 
 care of the shoots first, and clears away us who are 
 the destroyers of them. That is the first step; he will 
 afterwards attend to the elder branches; and if he goes 
 on as he has begun, he will be a very great public 
 benefactor. 
 
 Euth. I hope that he may; but I rather fear, 
 Socrates, that the reverse will turn out to be the truth. 
 My opinion is that in attacking you he is simply aim¬ 
 ing a blow at the state in a sacred place. But in what 
 way does he say that you corrupt the young? 
 
 Soc. He brings a wonderful accusation against me, 
 which at first hearing excites surprise: he says that I 
 am a poet or maker of gods, and that I make new gods 
 and deny the existence of old ones; this is the ground 
 of his indictment. 
 
 Euth . I understand, Socrates; he means to attack 
 you about the familiar sign which occasionally, as you 
 say, comes to you. He thinks that you are a neologian, 
 and he is going to have you up before the court for 
 this. He know T s that such a charge is readily received, 
 for the w r orld is always jealous of novelties in religion. 
 And I know that when I myself speak in the assembly 
 about divine things, and foretell the future to them, 
 they laugh at me as a madman; and yet every word 
 that I say is true. But they are jealous of all of us. 
 I suppose that we must be brave and not mind them. 
 
 Soc . Their laughter, friend Euthyphro, is not a 
 matter of much consequence. For a man may be 
 thought wise; but the Athenians, I suspect, do not 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 67 
 
 care much about this, until he begins to make other 
 men wise; and then for some reason or other, perhaps, 
 as you say, from jealousy, they are angry. 
 
 Euth. I have no desire to try conclusions with 
 them about this. 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you don’t make yourself com¬ 
 mon, and are not apt to impart your wisdom. But I 
 have a benevolent habit of pouring out myself to every¬ 
 body, and would even pay for a listener, and I am 
 afraid that the Athenians know this; and therefore, as 
 I was saying, if the Athenians would only laugh at 
 me as you say that they laugh at you, the time might 
 pass gaily enough in the court; but perhaps they may 
 be in earnest, and then what the end will be you sooth¬ 
 sayers only can predict. 
 
 Euth. I dare say that the affair will end in noth¬ 
 ing, Socrates, and that you will win your cause; and 
 I think that I shall win mine. 
 
 Soc. And what is your suit? and are you the pur¬ 
 suer or defendant, Euthyphro? 
 
 Euth. I am pursuer. 
 
 Soc. Of whom? 
 
 Euth. You will think me mad when I tell you 
 whom I am pursuing. 
 
 Soc. Why, has the fugitive wings? 
 
 Euth. Nay, he is not very volatile at his time of 
 life. 
 
 Soc. Who is he? 
 
 Euth. My father. 
 
 Soc. Your father! good heavens, you don’t mean 
 that? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And of what is he accused? 
 
 Euth. Murder, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. By the powers, Euthyphro! how little does 
 the common herd know of the nature of right and 
 
68 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 truth. A man must be an extraordinary man and 
 have made great strides in wisdom, before he could 
 have seen his way to this. 
 
 Euth. Indeed, Socrates, he must have made great 
 strides. 
 
 Soc. I suppose that the man whom your father 
 murdered was one of your relatives; if he had been a 
 stranger you would never have thought of prosecuting 
 him. 
 
 Euth. I am amused, Socrates, at your making a 
 distinction between one who is a relation and one 
 who is not a relation; for surely the pollution is 
 the same in either case, if you knowingly associate 
 with the murderer when you ought to clear your¬ 
 self by proceeding against him. The real question 
 is whether the murdered man has been justly slain. 
 If justly, then your duty is to let the matter 
 alone; but if unjustly, then even if the murderer 
 is under the same roof with you and eats at the 
 same table, proceed against him. Now the man 
 who is dead was a poor dependant of mine who 
 worked for us as a field laborer at Naxos, and one 
 day in a fit of drunken passion he got into a quarrel 
 with one of our domestic servants and slew him. My 
 father bound him hand and foot and threw him into 
 a ditch, and then sent to Athens to ask of a diviner 
 what he should do with him. Meantime he had no 
 care or thought of him, being under the impression 
 that he was a murderer; and that even if he did die 
 there would be no great harm. And this was just 
 what happened. For such was the effect of cold and 
 hunger and chains upon him, that before the mes¬ 
 senger returned from the diviner, he was dead. And 
 my father and family are angry with me for taking 
 the part of the murderer and prosecuting my father. 
 They say that he did not kill him, and if he did, the 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 69 
 
 dead man was but a murderer, and I ought not to take 
 any notice, for that a son is impious who prosecutes 
 a father. That shows, Socrates, how little they know 
 of the opinions of the gods about piety and impiety. 
 
 Soc. Good heavens, Euthyphro! and have you such 
 a precise knowledge of piety and impiety, and of 
 divine things in general, that, supposing the circum¬ 
 stances to be as you state, you are not afraid that you 
 too may be doing an impious thing in bringing an 
 action against your father? 
 
 Euth. The best of Euthyphro, and that which dis¬ 
 tinguishes him, Socrates, from other men, is his exact 
 knowledge of all these matters. What should I be 
 good for without that? v 
 
 Soc. Rare friend! I think that I can not do better 
 than be your disciple, before the trial with Meletus 
 comes on. Then I shall challenge him, and say that I 
 have always had a great interest in religious questions, 
 and now, as he charges me with rash imaginations and 
 innovations in religion, I have become your disciple. 
 Now you, Meletus, as I shall say to him, acknowledge 
 Euthyphro to be a great theologian, and sound in his 
 opinions; and if you think that of him you ought to 
 think the same of me, and not have me into court; you 
 should begin by indicting him who is my teacher, and 
 who is the real corruptor, not of the young, but of the 
 old; that is to say, of myself whom he instructs, and of 
 his old father whom he admonishes and chastises. And 
 if Meletus refuses to listen to me, but will go on, and 
 will not shift the indictment from me to you, I can not 4 
 do better than say in the court that I challenged him 
 in this way. 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates; and if he attempts to indict 
 me I am mistaken if I don’t find a flaw in him; the 
 court shall have a great deal more to say to him than 
 to me. 
 
70 
 
 EUTHYPHEO 
 
 Soc. I know that, dear friend; and that is the 
 reason why I desire to be your disciple. For I observe 
 that no one, not even Meletus, appears to notice you; 
 but his sharp eyes have found me out at once, and he 
 has indicted me for impiety. And therefore, I adjure 
 you to tell me the nature of piety and impiety, which 
 you said that you knew so well, and of murder, and 
 the rest of them. What are they? Is not piety in 
 every action always the same? and impiety, again, is 
 not that always the opposite of piety, and also the 
 same with itself, having, as impiety, one notion which 
 includes whatever is impious ? 
 
 Euth. To be sure, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what is piety, and what is impiety? 
 
 Euth. Piety is doing as I am doing; that is to say, 
 prosecuting any one who is guilty of murder, sacri¬ 
 lege, or of any other similar crime — whether he be 
 your father or mother, or some other person, that 
 makes no difference — and not prosecuting them is 
 impiety. And please to consider, Socrates, what a 
 notable proof I will give you of the truth of what I 
 am saying, which I have already given to others: — 
 of the truth, I mean, of the principle that the impious, 
 whoever he may be, ought not to go unpunished. For 
 do not men regard Zeus as the best and most right¬ 
 eous of the gods ? — and even they admit that he bound 
 his father (Cronos) because he wickedly devoured his 
 sons, and that he too had punished his own father 
 (Uranus) for a similar reason, in a nameless manner. 
 And yet when I proceed against my father, they are 
 angry with me. This is their inconsistent way of talk¬ 
 ing when the gods are concerned, and when jt am con¬ 
 cerned. 
 
 Soc. May not this be the reason, Euthyphro, why 
 I am charged with impiety — that I can not away 
 with these stories about the gods? and therefore I 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 71 
 
 suppose that people think me wrong. Rut, as you 
 who are well informed about them approve of them, I 
 can not do better than assent to your superior wisdom. 
 For what else can I say, confessing as I do, that I 
 know nothing of them. I wish you would tell me 
 whether you really believe that they are true? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates; and things more wonderful 
 still, of which the world is in ignorance. 
 
 Soc. And do you really believe that the gods 
 fought with one another, and had dire quarrels, bat¬ 
 tles, and the like, as the poets say, and as you may see 
 represented in the works of great artists? The tem¬ 
 ples are full of them; and notably the robe of Athene, 
 which is carried up to the Acropolis at the great 
 Panathenaea, is embroidered with them. Are all these 
 tales of the gods true, Euthyphro? 
 
 Euth . Yes, Socrates; and, as I was saying, I can 
 tell you, if you would like to hear them, many other 
 things about the gods which would quite amaze you. 
 
 Soc. I dare say; and you shall tell me them at some 
 other time when I have leisure. But just at present 
 I would rather hear from you a more precise answer, 
 which you have not as yet given, my friend, to the 
 question, What is “ piety? ” In reply, you only say 
 that piety is, Doing as you do, charging your father 
 with murder? 
 
 Euth. And that is true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. I dare say, Euthyphro, but there are many 
 other pious acts. 
 
 Euth. There are. 
 
 Soc. Remember that I did not ask you to give me 
 two or three examples of piety, but to explain the 
 general idea which makes all pious things to be pious. 
 Do you not recollect that there was one idea which 
 made the impious impious, and the pious pious? 
 
 Euth. I remember. 
 
72 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 Soc . Tell me what this is, and then I shall have a 
 standard to which I may look, and by which I may 
 measure the nature of actions, whether yours or any 
 one’s else, and say that this action is pious, and that 
 impious ? 
 
 Euth. I will tell you, if you like. 
 
 Soc. I should very much like. 
 
 Euth. Piety , then, is that whi ch is dear to the gods, 
 and impiety is that which is noF d ear to tEemr 
 
 S oc^ Wer ^goodTT^OT have~now given 
 
 me just the sort of answer which I wanted. But 
 whether it is true or not I can not as yet tell, although 
 I make no doubt that you will prove the truth of your 
 words. 
 
 Euth. Of course. 
 
 Soc. Come, then, and let us examine what we are 
 saying. That thing or person which is dear to the 
 gods is pious, and that thing or person which is hateful 
 to the gods is impious. Was not that said ? 
 
 Euth. Yes, that was said. 
 
 Soc. And that seems to have been very well said 
 too? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, I think that; it was certainly 
 said. 
 
 Soc. And further, Euthyphro, the gods were ad¬ 
 mitted to have enmities and hatreds and differences — 
 that was also said? 
 
 Euth. Yes, that was said. 
 
 Soc. And what sort of difference creates enmity 
 and anger? Suppose for example that you and I, my 
 good friend, differ about a number; do differences of 
 this sort make us enemies and set us at variance with 
 one another? Do we not go at once to calculation, 
 and end them by a sum? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. Or suppose that we differ about magnitudes, 
 
EUTHYPHRO 73 
 
 do we not quickly put an end to that difference by 
 measuring ? 
 
 Euth. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And we end a controversy about heavy and 
 light by resorting to a weighing-machine ? 
 
 Euth. To be sure. 
 
 Soc. But what differences are those which, because 
 they can not be thus decided, make us angry and set 
 us at enmity with one another? I dare say the answer 
 does not occur to you at the moment, and therefore I 
 w T ill suggest that this happens when the matters of 
 difference are the just and unjust, good and evil, 
 honorable and dishonorable. Are not these the points 
 about which, when differing, and unable satisfactorily 
 to decide our differences, we quarrel, when we do 
 quarrel, as you and I and all men experience? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, that is the nature of the dif¬ 
 ferences about which we quarrel. 
 
 Soc. And the quarrels of the gods, noble Euthy- 
 phro, when they occur, are of a like nature? 
 
 Euth. They are. 
 
 Soc. They have differences of opinion, as you say, 
 about good and evil, just and unjust, honorable and 
 dishonorable: there would have been no quarrels 
 among them, if there had been no such differences —• 
 would there now? 
 
 Euth. You are quite right. 
 
 Soc. Does not every man love that which he deems 
 noble and just and good, and hate the opposite of 
 them? 
 
 Euth. Very true. 
 
 Soc. But then, as you say, people regard the same 
 things, some as just and others as unjust; and they 
 dispute about this, and there arise wars and fightings 
 among them. 
 
 Euth. Yes, that is true. 
 
74 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 Soc. Then the same things, as appears, are hated 
 by the gods and loved by the gods, and are both hate¬ 
 ful and dear to them? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc . Then upon this view the same things, 
 Euthyphro, will be pious and also impious? 
 
 Euth. That, I suppose, is true. 
 
 Soc. Then, my friend, I remark with surprise that 
 you have not answered what I asked. For I certainly 
 did not ask what was that which is at once pious and 
 impious: and that which is loved by the gods appears 
 also to be hated by them. And therefore, Euthyphro, 
 in thus chastising your father you may very likely be 
 doing what is agreeable to Zeus but disagreeable to 
 Cronos or Uranus, and what is acceptable to 
 Hephaestus but unacceptable to Here, and there may 
 be other gods who have similar differences of opinion. 
 
 Euth. But I believe, Socrates, that all the gods 
 would be agreed as to the propriety of punishing a 
 murderer: there would be no difference of opinion 
 about that. 
 
 Soc. Well, but speaking of men, Euthyphro, did 
 you ever hear any one arguing that a murderer or any 
 sort of evil-doer ought to be let off? 
 
 Euth. I should rather say that they are always 
 arguing this, especially in courts of law: they commit 
 all sorts of crimes, and there is nothing that they will 
 not do or say in order to escape punishment. 
 
 Soc. But do they admit their guilt, Euthyphro, 
 and yet say that they ought not to be punished? 
 
 Euth. No; they do not. 
 
 Soc. Then there are some things which they do 
 not venture to say and do: for they do not venture to 
 argue that the guilty are to be unpunished, but they 
 deny their guilt, do they not? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 75 
 
 Soc. Then they do not argue that the evil-doer 
 should not be punished, but they argue about the 
 fact of who the evil-doer is, and what he did and 
 when? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. And the gods are in the same case, if as you 
 imply they quarrel about just and unjust, and some 
 of them say that they w r rong one another, and others 
 of them deny this. For surely neither God nor man 
 will ever venture to say that the doer of evil is not to 
 be punished: — you don’t mean to tell me that? 
 
 Euth. That is true, Socrates, in the main. 
 
 Soc. But they join issue about particulars; and 
 this applies not only to men but to the gods; if they 
 dispute at all they dispute about some act which is 
 called in question, and which some affirm to be just, 
 others to be unjust. Is not that true? 
 
 Euth. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. Well then, my dear friend Euthyphro, do tell 
 me, for my better instruction and information, what 
 proof have you that in the opinion of all the gods a 
 servant who is guilty of murder, and is put in chains 
 by the master of the dead man, and dies because he is 
 put in chains before his corrector can learn from the 
 interpreters what he ought to do with him, dies un¬ 
 justly; and that on behalf of such an one a son ought 
 to proceed against his father and accuse him of mur¬ 
 der. How w^ould you show that all the gods absolutely 
 agree in approving of his act? Prove to me that, and 
 I will applaud your wisdom as long as you live. 
 
 Euth. That would not be an easy task, although 
 I could make the matter very clear indeed to you. 
 
 Soc. I understand; you mean to say that I am not 
 so quick of apprehension as the judges: for to them 
 you will be sure to prove that the act is unjust, and 
 hateful to the gods. 
 
76 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 Euth. Yes indeed, Socrates; at least if they will 
 listen to me. 
 
 Soc. But they will be sure to listen if they find that 
 you are a good speaker. There was a notion that came 
 into my mind while you were speaking; I said to my¬ 
 self: “ Well, and what if Euthyphro does prove to me 
 that all the gods regarded the death of the serf as un¬ 
 just, how do I know anything more of the nature of 
 piety and impiety? for granting that this action may 
 be hateful to the gods, still these distinctions have no 
 bearing on the definition of piety and impiety, for 
 that which is hateful to the gods has been shown to be 
 also pleasing and dear to them.” And therefore, 
 Euthyphro, I don’t ask you to prove this; I will sup¬ 
 pose/if you like, that all the gods condemn and 
 abominate such an action. But I will amend the 
 definition so far as to say that what all the gods hate 
 is impious, and what they love pious or holy; and 
 what some of them love and others hate is both or 
 neither. Shall this be our definition of piety and 
 impiety? 
 
 Euth. Why not, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. Why not! certainly, as far as I am concerned, 
 Euthyphro. But whether this admission will greatly 
 assist you in the task of instructing me as you prom¬ 
 ised, is a matter for you to consider. 
 
 Euth. Yes, I should say that what all the gods 
 love is pious and holy, and the opposite which they 
 all hate, impious. 
 
 Soc. Ought we to inquire into the truth of this, 
 Euthyphro, or simply to accept the mere statement 
 on our own authority and that of others? 
 
 Euth. We should inquire; and I believe that the 
 statement will stand the test of inquiry. 
 
 Soc. That, my good friend, we shall know better 
 in a little while. The point which I should first wish 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 77 
 
 to understand is whether the pious or holy is beloved 
 by the gods because it is holy, or holy because it is 
 beloved of the gods. 
 
 Euth. I don’t understand your meaning, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. I will endeavor to explain: we speak of car¬ 
 rying and we speak of being carried, of leading and 
 being led, seeing and being seen. And here is a dif¬ 
 ference, the nature of which you understand. 
 
 Euth. I think that I understand. 
 
 Soc . And is not that which is beloved distinct from 
 that which loves? 
 
 Euth . Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Well; and now tell me, is that which is car¬ 
 ried in this state of carrying because it is carried, or 
 for some other reason? 
 
 Euth. No; that is the reason. 
 
 Soc. And the same is true of that which is led and 
 of that which is seen? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. And a thing is not seen because it is visible, 
 but conversely, visible because it is seen; nor is a thing 
 in the state of being led because it is led, or in the 
 state of being carried because it is carried, but the 
 converse of this. And now I think, Euthyphro, that 
 my meaning will be intelligible; and my meaning is, 
 that any state of action or passion implies previous 
 action or passion. It does not become because it is 
 becoming, but it is becoming because it comes; neither 
 does it suffer because it is in a state of suffering, but 
 it is in a state of suffering because it suffers. Do you 
 admit that? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Is not that which is loved in some state either 
 af becoming or suffering? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the same holds as in the previous in- 
 
78 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 stances; the state of being loved follows the act of 
 being loved, and not the act the state. 
 
 Euth. That is certain. 
 
 Soc. And what do you say of piety, Euthyphro: 
 is not piety, according to your definition, loved by all 
 
 the gods? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Because it is pious or holy, or for some other 
 reason? 
 
 Euth. No, that is the reason. 
 
 Soc. It is loved because it is holy, not holy because 
 it is loved? 
 
 Soc. And that which is in a state to be loved of 
 the gods, and is dear to them, is in a state to be loved 
 of them because it is loved of them? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. ^ 1 _ 
 
 Soc. Then that which is loved of God, Euthyphro, 
 is not holy, nor is that which is holy loved of God, 
 as you affirm; but they are two different things. 
 
 Euth. How do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that the holy has been acknowl¬ 
 edged by us to be loved of God because it is holy, not 
 to be holy because it is loved. 
 
 Soc. But that which is dear to the gods is dear to 
 them because it is loved by them, not loved by them 
 because it is dear to them. 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. But, friend Euthyphro, if that which is holy 
 is the same as that which is dear to God, and that 
 which is holy is loved as being holy, then that which 
 is dear to God would have been loved as being dear 
 to God; but if that which is dear to God is dear to 
 him because loved by him, then that which is holy 
 would have been holy because loved by him. But now 
 

 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 79 
 
 you see that the reverse is the case, and that they are 
 quite different from one another. For one (OeofaXe 9 ) 
 is of a kind to be loved because it is loved, and the 
 other ( oo-lov ) is loved because it is of a kind to be 
 loved. Thus you appear to me, Euthyphro, when I 
 ask you what is the essence of holiness, to offer an 
 attribute only, and not the essence — the attribute 
 of being loved by all the gods. But you still refuse 
 to explain to me the nature of piety. And therefore, 
 if you please, I will ask you not to hide your treas¬ 
 ure, but to tell me once more what piety or holiness 
 really is, whether dear to the gods or not (for that 
 is a matter about which we will not quarrel). And 
 what is impiety? 
 
 Euth. I really do not know, Socrates, how to say 
 what I mean. For somehow or other our arguments, 
 on whatever ground we rest them, seem to turn round 
 and walk away. 
 
 Soc. Your words, Euthyphro, are like the handi¬ 
 work of my ancestor Daedalus; and if I were the 
 sayer or propounder of them, you might say that this 
 comes of my being his relation; and that this is the 
 reason why my arguments walk away and won’t 
 remain fixed where they are placed. But now, as 
 the notions are your own, you must find some other 
 gibe, for they certainly, as you yourself allow, show 
 an inclination to be on the move. 
 
 Euth. Nay, Socrates, I shall still say that you are 
 the Daedalus who sets arguments in motion; not I, 
 certainly, make them move or go round, for they 
 would never have stirred, as far as I am concerned. 
 
 Soc. Then I must be a greater than Daedalus; 
 for whereas he only made his own inventions to move, 
 I move those of other people as well. And the beauty 
 of it is, that I would rather not. For I would give 
 the wisdom of Daedalus, and the wealth of Tantalus, 
 
80 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 to be able to detain them and keep them fixed. But 
 enough of this. As I perceive that you are indolent, 
 
 I will myself endeavor to show you how you might 
 instruct me in the nature of piety; and I hope that 
 you will not grudge your labor. Tell me, then, — Is 
 not that which is pious necessarily just? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is, then, all which is just pious? or, is 
 that which is pious all just, but that which is just only 
 
 in part and not all pious? 
 
 Euth. I don’t understand you, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And yet I know that you are as much wiser 
 than I am, as you are younger. But, as I was saying, 
 revered friend, the abundance of your wisdom makes 
 you indolent. Please to exert yourself, for there is 
 no real difficulty in understanding me. What I mean 
 I may explain by an illustration of what I do not 
 mean. The poet (Stasinus) sings — 
 
 “ Of Zeus, the author and creator of all these things, 
 
 You will not tell: for where there is fear there is also reverence.” 
 
 And I disagree with this poet. Shall I tell you in 
 
 what I disagree? 
 
 Euth. By all means. 
 
 Soc. I should not say that where there is fear there 
 is also reverence; for I am sure that many persons 
 fear poverty and disease, and the like evils, but I do 
 not perceive that they reverence the objects of their 
 
 fear. 
 
 Euth, Very true. 
 
 Soc. But where reverence is, there is fear; for lie 
 who has a feeling of reverence and shame about the 
 commission of any action, fears and is afraid of an ill 
 
 reputation. 
 
 Euth. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. Then we are wrong in saying that where there 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 81 
 
 is fear there is also reverence; and we should say, 
 where there is reverence there is also fear. But there 
 is not always reverence where there is fear; for fear 
 is a more extended notion, and reverence is a part of 
 fear, just as the odd is a part of number, and number 
 is a more extended notion than the odd. I suppose 
 that you follow me now? 
 
 Euth. Quite well. 
 
 Soc. That was the sort of question which I meant 
 to raise when asking whether the just is the pious, 
 or the pious the just; and whether there may not be 
 justice where there is not always piety; for justice 
 is the more extended notion of which piety is only 
 apart. Do you agree in that? 
 
 Euth. Yes; that, I think, is correct. 
 
 Soc . Then, now, if piety is a part of justice, I 
 suppose that we inquire what part? If you had pur¬ 
 sued the injury in the previous cases; for instance, 
 if you had asked me what is an even number, and 
 what part of number the even is, I should have had 
 no difficulty in replying, a number which represents 
 a figure having two equal sides. Do you agree? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. In like manner, I want you to tell me what 
 part of justice is piety or holiness; that I may be 
 able to tell Meletus not to do me injustice, or indict 
 me for impiety; as I am now adequately instructed 
 by you in the nature of piety or holiness, and their 
 opposites. 
 
 Euth. Piety or holiness, Socrates, appears to me 
 to be that part of justice which attends to the gods, 
 as there is the other part of justice which attends to 
 men. 
 
 Soc. That is good, Euthyphro; yet still there is a 
 little point about which I should like to have further 
 information, What is the meaning of “ attention? ” 
 
82 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 For attention can hardly be used in the same sense 
 when applied to the gods as when applied to other 
 things. For instance, horses are said to require at¬ 
 tention, and not every person is able to attend to 
 them, but only a person skilled in horsemanship. Is 
 not that true? 
 
 Enth. Quite true. 
 
 Soc. I should suppose that the art of horsemanship 
 is the art of attending to horses? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Nor is every one qualified to attend to dogs, 
 but only the huntsman. 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. And I should also conceive that the art of the 
 huntsman is the art of attending to dogs? 
 
 Eutli. Yes. < 
 
 Soc. As the art of the oxherd is the art of attending 
 to oxen ? 
 
 Euth. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And as holiness or piety is the art of attend¬ 
 ing to the gods ? — that would be your meaning, 
 Euthyphro ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And is not attention always designed for the 
 good or benefit of that to which the attention is given ? 
 As in the case of horses, you may observe that when 
 attended to by the horseman’s art they are benefited 
 and improved, are they not? 
 
 Euth. True. j 
 
 Soc. As the dogs are benefited by the huntsman’s 
 art, and the oxen by the art of the oxherd, and all 
 other things are tended or attended for their good 
 and not for their hurt? 
 
 Euth. Certainly, not for their hurt. 
 
 Soc. But for their good? 
 
 Euth . Of course. 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 83 
 
 
 Soc. And does piety or holiness, which has been 
 defined as the art of attending to the gods, benefit or 
 improve them? Would you say that when you do a 
 holy act you make any of the gods better ? 
 
 Euth. No, no; that is certainly not my meaning. 
 
 Soc. Indeed, Euthyphro, I did not suppose that 
 this was your meaning; far otherwise. And that w r as 
 the reason why I asked you the nature of this atten¬ 
 tion, because I thought that this was not your 
 meaning. 
 
 Euth. You do me justice, Socrates; for that is not 
 : my meaning. 
 
 Soc. Good: but I must still ask what is this atten¬ 
 tion to the gods w T hich is called piety? 
 
 Euth. It is such, Socrates, as servants show to their 
 masters. 
 
 Soc. I understand — a sort of ministration to the 
 gods. 
 
 Euth. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. Medicine is also a sort of ministration or serv¬ 
 ice, tending to the attainment of some object — would 
 you not say health? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Again, there is an art which ministers to the 
 ship-builder with a view to the attainment of some 
 result? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates, with a view to the building 
 of a ship. 
 
 Soc. As there is an art which ministers to the house¬ 
 builder with a view to the building of a house ? 
 
 Euth. Yes. 
 
 1 Soc. And now tell me, my good friend, about this 
 art which ministers to the gods: what work does that 
 help to accomplish? For you must surely know if, 
 as you say, you are of all men living the one who is 
 best instructed in religion. 
 
84 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 Euth. And that is true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Tell me then, oh tell me — what is that fair 
 work which the gods do by the help of us as their 
 ministers? 
 
 Euth. Many and fair, Socrates, are the works 
 which they do. 
 
 Soc. Why, my friend, and so are those of a general. 
 But the chief of them is easily told. Would you not 
 say that victory in war is the chief of them? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Many and fair, too, are the works of the hus¬ 
 bandman, if I am not mistaken; but his chief work 
 is the production of food from the earth? 
 
 Euth. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. And of the many and fair things which the 
 gods do, which is the chief and principal one? 
 
 Euth. I have told you already, Socrates, that to 
 learn all these things accurately will be very tiresome. 
 Let me simply say that piety is learning how to please 
 the gods in word and deed, by prayers and sacrifices. 
 That is piety, which is the salvation of families and 
 states, just as the impious, which is unpleasing to the 
 gods, is their ruin and destruction. 
 
 Soc. I think that you could have answered in much 
 fewer words the chief question which I asked, Euthy- 
 phro, if you had chosen. But I see plainly that you 
 are not disposed to instruct me: else why, when we 
 had reached the point, did you turn aside? Had you 
 only answered me I should have learned of you by 
 this time the nature of piety. Now, as the asker of 
 a question is necessarily dependent on the answerer, 
 whither he leads X must follow; and can only ask 
 again, what is the pious, and what is piety ? Do you 
 mean that they are a sort of science of praying and 
 
 sacrificing? 
 
 Euth. Yes, I do. 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 85 
 
 Soc. And sacrificing is giving to the gods, and 
 prayer is asking of the gods? 
 
 Euth. Yes, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Upon this view, then, piety is a science of 
 asking and giving? 
 
 Euth. You understand me capitally, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Yes, my friend; the reason is that I am a 
 votary of your science, and give my mind to it, and 
 therefore nothing which you say will be thrown away 
 upon me. Please then to tell me, what is the nature 
 of this service to the gods? Do you mean that we 
 prefer requests and give gifts to them? 
 
 Euth. Yes, I do. 
 
 Soc. Is not the right way of asking to ask of them 
 what we want? 
 
 Euth. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And the right way of giving is to give to them 
 in return what they want of us. There would be no 
 meaning in an art which gives to any one that which 
 he does not want. 
 
 Euth. Very true, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then piety, Euthyphro, is an art which 
 gods and men have of doing business with one an¬ 
 other? 
 
 Euth. That is an expression which you may use, 
 if you like. 
 
 Soc. But I have no particular liking for anything 
 but the truth. I wish, however, that you would tell 
 me what benefit accrues to the gods from our gifts. 
 That they are the givers of every good to us is clear; 
 but how we can give any good thing to them in return 
 is far from being equally clear. If they give every¬ 
 thing and we give nothing, that must be an affair 
 of business in which we have very greatly the advan¬ 
 tage of them. 
 
 Euth. And do you imagine, Socrates, that any 
 
86 
 
 EUTHYPHRO 
 
 benefit accrues to the gods from what they receive 
 of us? 
 
 Soc. But if not, Euthyphro, what sort of gifts do 
 we confer upon the gods? 
 
 Euth. What should we confer upon them, but trib¬ 
 utes of honor; and, as I was just now saying, what 
 is pleasing to them? 
 
 Soc. Piety, then, is pleasing to the gods, but not 
 beneficial or dear to them ? 
 
 Euth. I should say that nothing could be dearer. 
 
 Soc. Then once more the assertion is repeated that 
 piety is dear to the gods? 
 
 Euth. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. And when you say this, can you wonder at 
 your words not standing firm, but walking away? 
 Will you accuse me of being the Daedalus who makes 
 them walk away, not perceiving that there is another 
 and far greater artist than Daedalus who makes them 
 go round in a circle; and that is yourself: for the 
 argument, as you will perceive, comes round to the 
 same point. I think that you must remember our 
 saying that the holy or pious was not the same as that 
 which is loved of the gods. Do you remember that? 
 
 Euth. I do. 
 
 Soc. And do you not see that what is loved of the 
 gods is holy, and that this is the same as what is dear 
 to them? 
 
 Euth. True. 
 
 Soc. Then either we were wrong in that admission; 
 or, if we were right then, we are wrong now. 
 
 Euth. I suppose that is the case. 
 
 Soc. Then we must begin again and ask, What is 
 piety? That is an inquiry which I shall never he 
 weary of pursuing as far as in me lies; and I entreat 
 you not to scorn me, but to apply your mind to the 
 utmost, and tell me the truth. For, if any man 
 
EUTHYPHRO 
 
 87 
 
 knows, you are he; and therefore I shall detain you, 
 like Proteus, until you tell. For if you had not cer¬ 
 tainly known the nature of piety and impiety, I am 
 confident that you would never, on behalf of a serf, 
 have charged your aged father with murder. You 
 would not have run such a risk of doing wrong in the 
 sight of the gods, and you would have had too much 
 respect for the opinions of men. I am sure, therefore, 
 that you know the nature of piety and impiety. 
 Speak out then, my dear Euthyphro, and do not hide 
 your knowledge. 
 
 Euth. Another time, Socrates; for I am in a hurry, 
 and must go now. 
 
 Soc. Alas! my companion, and will you leave me 
 in despair? I was hoping that you would instruct me 
 in the nature of piety and impiety, so that I might 
 have cleared myself of Meletus and his indictment. 
 Then I might have proved to him that I had been 
 converted by Euthyphro, and had done with rash 
 innovations and speculations, in which I had indulged 
 through ignorance, and was about to lead a better 
 life. 
 

 
 
APOLOGY 
 

INTRODUCTION 
 
 In what relation the Apology of Plato stands to the real de¬ 
 fence of Socrates, there are no means of determining. It cer¬ 
 tainly agrees in tone and character with the description of Xeno¬ 
 phon, who says in the Memorabilia that Socrates might have 
 been acquitted “if in any moderate degree he would have con¬ 
 ciliated the favor of the dicasts; ” and who informs us in another 
 passage, on the testimony of Hermogenes, the friend of Soc¬ 
 rates, that he had no wish to live; and that the divine sign re¬ 
 fused to allow him to prepare a defence, and also that Socrates 
 himself declared this to be unnecessary, on the ground that all 
 his life long he had been preparing against that hour. For the 
 speech breathes throughout a spirit of defiance, “ ut non supplex 
 aut reus sed magister aut dominus videretur esse judicum ” (Cic. 
 de Orat. i. 54) ; and the loose and desultory style is an imitation 
 of the “ accustomed manner ” in which Socrates spoke in “ the 
 agora and among the tables of the money-changers.” The allu¬ 
 sion in the Crito may, perhaps, be adduced as a further evi¬ 
 dence of the literal accuracy of some parts. But in the main 
 it must be regarded as the ideal of Socrates, according to Plato’s 
 conception of him, appearing in the greatest and most public 
 scene of his life, and in the height of his triumph, when he is 
 weakest, and yet his mastery over mankind is greatest, and the 
 habitual irony of his life acquires a new meaning and a sort of 
 tragic pathos in the face of death. The facts of his life are 
 summed up, and the features of his character are brought out 
 as if by accident in the course of the defence. The looseness of 
 the style, the seeming want of arrangement of the topics, is 
 found to result in a perfect work of art, which is the portrait 
 of Socrates. 
 
 Yet some of the topics may have been actually used by Soc¬ 
 rates; and the recollection of his very words may have rung 
 in the ears of his disciple. The Apology of Plato may be com¬ 
 pared generally with those speeches of Thucydides in which he 
 has embodied his conception of the lofty character and policy 
 of the great Pericles, and which at the same time furnish a com- 
 
 91 
 
92 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 mentary on the situation of affairs from the point of view of 
 the historian. So in the Apology there is an ideal rather than 
 a literal truth; much is said that ought to have been said but 
 was not said, and is only Plato s view of the situation. And we 
 may perhaps even indulge in the fancy that the actual defence 
 of Socrates was as much greater than the Platonic defence as 
 the master was greater than the disciple. But in any case, some 
 of the words actually used have probably been preserved. It is 
 significant that Plato is said to have been present at the defence, 
 as he is also said to have been absent at the last scene in the 
 Phaedo. Is it fanciful to suppose that he meant to give the 
 stamp of authenticity to the one and not to the other ? espe¬ 
 cially when we remember that these two passages are the only 
 ones in which Plato makes mention of himself. Moreover, the 
 Apology appears to combine the common characteristics both of 
 the Xenophontean and Platonic Socrates, while the Phaedo 
 passes into a region of thought which is very characteristic of 
 Plato, but not of his master. 
 
 There is not much in the other Dialogues which can be com¬ 
 pared with the Apology. The same recollection of his master 
 may have been present to the mind of Plato when depicting the 
 sufferings of the Just in the Republic. The Crito may also be 
 regarded as a sort of appendage to the Apology, in which Soc¬ 
 rates, who has defied the judges, is nevertheless represented as 
 scrupulously obedient to the laws. The idealization of the suf¬ 
 ferer is carried still further in the Gorgias, in which the thesis 
 is maintained, that “to suffer is better than to do evil;” and 
 the art of rhetoric is described as only useful for the purpose of 
 self-accusation. The parallelisms which occur in the so-called 
 Apology of Xenophon are not worth noticing, because the wri¬ 
 ting in which they are contained is manifestly spurious. The 
 statements of the Memorabilia respecting the trial and death 
 of Socrates agree generally with Plato; but they have lost the 
 flavor of Socratic irony in the narrative of Xenophon. , 
 
 The Apology or Platonic defence of Socrates is divided into 
 three parts: 1st. The defence properly so called; 2nd. The 
 shorter address in mitigation of the penalty; 3rd. The last 
 words of prophetic rebuke and exhortation. . , 
 
 The first part commences with an apology for his colloquial 
 style; he is, as he.has always been, the enemy of rhetoric, and 
 knows of no rhetoric but truth; he will not falsify his charac¬ 
 ter by making a speech. Then he proceeds to divide his accusers 
 into two classes; first, there is the nameless accuser — public 
 
I • 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 o pinio n. All the world from their earliest years ha( 
 he was a corruptor of youth, and had seen him caricf!1 
 the Clouds of Aristophanes. Secondly, there are the proll 
 accusers, who are but the mouth-piece of the others. The accd! 
 tions of both might be summed up in a formula. The first say7 
 “ Socrates is an evil-doer and a curious person, searching into 
 things under the earth and above the heaven; and making the 
 worse appear the better cause, and teaching all this to others.” 
 The second, “ Socrates is an evil-doer and corruptor of the youth, 
 who does not receive the gods whom the state receives, but intro¬ 
 duces other new divinities.” These last appear to have been the 
 words of the actual indictment, of which the previous formula is 
 a parody. 
 
 The answer begins by clearing up a confusion. In the repre¬ 
 sentations of the comic poets, and in the opinion of the multi¬ 
 tude, he had been confounded with the teachers of physical sci¬ 
 ence and with the Sophists. But this was an error. For both 
 of them he professes a respect in the open court, which contrasts 
 with his manner of speaking about them in other places. But 
 at the same time he shows that he is not one of them. Of nat¬ 
 ural philosophy he knows nothing; not that he despises such 
 pursuits, but the fact is that he is ignorant of them, and never 
 says a word about them. Nor does he receive money for teach¬ 
 ing; that is another mistaken notion, for he has nothing to teach. 
 But he commends Evenus for teaching virtue at such a moderate 
 rate. Something of the “ accustomed irony,” which may perhaps 
 be expected to sleep in the ear of the multitude, is lurking here. 
 
 He then goes on to explain the reason why he is in such an 
 evil name. That had arisen out of a peculiar mission which he 
 had taken upon himself. The enthusiastic Chaerephon (prob¬ 
 ably in anticipation of the answer which he received) had gone 
 to Delphi and asked the oracle if there was any man wiser than 
 Socrates; and the answer was, that there was no man wiser. 
 What could be the meaning of this — that he who knew nothing, 
 and knew that he knew nothing, should be declared by the oracle 
 to be the wisest of men? Reflecting upon this, he determined 
 to refute the oracle by finding “ a wiser; ” and first he went to 
 the politicians, and then to the poets, and then to the craftsmen, 
 but always with the same result — he found that they knew 
 nothing, or hardly anything more than himself; and that the 
 little advantage which in some cases they possessed was more 
 than counterbalanced by their conceit of knowledge. Fie knew 
 nothing, and knew that he knew nothing: they knew little or 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 imagined that they knew all things. Thus he had 
 Ks life as a sort of missionary in detecting the pretended 
 
 B?m of mankind; and this occupation had quite absorbed 
 Imi and taken him away both from public and private affairs. 
 Young men of the richer sort had made a pastime of the same 
 pursuit^ “ which was not unamusing.” And hence bitter enmi¬ 
 ties had arisen; the professors of knowledge had revenged 
 themselves by calling him a villainous corruptor of the youth, 
 and by repeating the commonplaces about atheism and material¬ 
 ism and sophistry, which are the stock-accusations against all 
 philosophers when there is nothing else to be said of them. 
 
 The second accusation he meets by interrogating Meletus, who 
 is present and can be interrogated. “ If he is the corruptor, who 
 is the improver of the citizens?” “All mankind.” But how 
 absurd, how contrary to analogy is this! How inconceivable 
 too, that he should make the citizens worse when he has to live 
 with them. This surely can not be intentional; and if uninten¬ 
 tional, he ought to have been instructed by Meletus, and not 
 accused in the court. 
 
 But there is another part of the indictment which says that 
 he teaches men not to receive the gods whom the city receives, 
 and has other new gods. “Is that the way in which he is sup¬ 
 posed to corrupt the youth? ” “ Yes, that is the way.” “ Has 
 
 he only new gods, or none at all? ” “ None at all.” “What, 
 
 not even the sun and moon? ” “ No; why, he says that the sun 
 
 is a stone, and the moon earth.” That, replies Socrates, is the 
 old confusion about Anaxagoras; the Athenian people are not 
 so ignorant as to attribute to the influence of Socrates notions 
 which have found their way into the drama, and may be learned 
 at the theatre. Socrates undertakes to show that Meletus (rather 
 unjustifiably) has been compounding a riddle in this part of the 
 indictment: “There are no gods, but Socrates believes in the 
 existence of the sons of gods, which is absurd.” 
 
 Leaving Meletus, who has had enough words spent upon him, 
 he returns to his original accusers. The question may be asked, 
 Why will he persist in following a profession which leads him 
 to death ? Why — because he must remain at his post where the 
 god has placed him, as he remained at Potidaea, and Amphip- 
 olis, and Delium, where the generals placed him. Besides, he 
 is not so overwise as to imagine that he knows whether death 
 is a good or an evil; and he is certain that desertion of his duty 
 is an evil/ Anvtus is quite right in saying that they should never 
 have indicted him if they meant to let him go. For he will cer- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 95 
 
 tainly obey God rather than man; and will continue to preach 
 to all men of all ages the necessity of virtue and improvement; 
 and if they refuse to listen to him he will persevere and reprove 
 them. This is his way of corrupting the youth, which he will 
 not cease to follow in obedience to the god, even if a thousand 
 deaths await him. 
 
 He is desirous that they should not put him to death — not 
 for his own sake, but for theirs; because he is their heaven-sent 
 friend (and they will never have such another), or, as he may 
 be ludicrously described, the gadfly who stirs the generous steed 
 into motion. Why then has he never taken part in public affairs? 
 Because the familiar divine voice has hindered him; if he had 
 been a public man, and fought for the right, as he would cer¬ 
 tainly have fought against the many, he would not have lived, 
 and could therefore have done no good. Twice in public matters 
 he has risked his life for the sake of justice — once at the trial 
 of the generals; and again in resistance to the tyrannical com¬ 
 mands of the Thirty. 
 
 But, though not a public man, he has passed his days in in¬ 
 structing the citizens without fee or reward; this was his mis¬ 
 sion. Whether his disciples have turned out well or ill, he can 
 not justly be charged with the result, for he never promised to 
 teach them anything. They might come if they liked, and 
 they might stay away if they liked: and they did come, because 
 they found an amusement in hearing the pretenders to wisdom 
 detected. If they had been corrupted, their elder relatives (if 
 not themselves) might surely appear in court and witness against 
 him, and there is an opportunity still for them to do this. But 
 their fathers and brothers all appear in court (including “ this ” 
 Plato), to witness on his behalf; and if their relatives are cor¬ 
 rupted, at least they are uncorrupted; “ and they are my wit¬ 
 nesses. For they know that I am speaking the truth, and that 
 Meletus is lying.” 
 
 This is about all thaJLhe has to say. He will not entreat the 
 judges to spare his life; neither will he present a spectacle of 
 weeping children, although he, too, is not made of “ rock or 
 oak.” Some of the judges themselves may have complied with 
 this practice on similar occasions, and he trusts that they will not 
 be angry with him for_jriot following their example. But he 
 feels that such conduct brings discredit on the name of Athens: 
 he feels, too, that the j udge has sworn not to give away justice; 
 and he can not be^ guilty of the impiety of asking the judge 
 to forswear himself, when he is himself being tried for impiety. 
 
96 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 As he expected, and probably intended, he is convicted. And 
 now the tone of the speech, instead of being more conciliatory, 
 becomes more lofty and commanding. Anytus proposes death 
 as the penalty: and what counter-proposition shall he make? 
 He, the benefactor of the Athenian people, whose whole life 
 has been spent in doing them good, should at least have the 
 Olympic victor’s reward of maintenance in the prytaneum. Or 
 why should he propose any counter-penalty when he does not 
 know whether death, which Anytus proposes, is a good or an 
 evil? and he is certain that imprisonment is an evil, exile is an 
 evil. Loss of money might be no evil, but then he has none to 
 give; perhaps he can make up a mina. Let that then be the 
 penalty, or, if his friends wish, thirty minae; for this they will 
 be excellent securities. 
 
 (He is condemned to death.) 
 
 He is an old man already, and the Athenians will gain nothing 
 but disgrace by depriving him of a few years of life. Perhaps 
 he could have escaped, if he had chosen to throw down his arms 
 and entreat for his life. But he does not at all repent of the 
 manner of his defence; he would rather die in his own fashion 
 than live in theirs. For the penalty of unrighteousness is swifter 
 than death, and that has already overtaken his accusers as death 
 will soon overtake him. 
 
 And now, as one who is about to die, he will prophesy to them. 
 They have put him to death in order to escape the necessity of 
 giving an account of their lives. But his death “ will be the 
 seed ” of many disciples who will convict them of their evil ways, 
 and will come forth to reprove them in harsher terms, because 
 they are younger and more inconsiderate. 
 
 He would like to say a few words, while there is time, to those 
 who would have acquitted him. He wishes them to know that 
 the divine sign never interrupted him in the course of his defence; 
 the reason of which, as he conjectures, is that the death to 
 which he is going is a good and not an evil. For either death 
 is a long sleep, the best of sleeps, or a journey to another world 
 in which the souls of the dead are gathered together, and in 
 which there may be a hope of seeing the heroes of old — in 
 which, too, there are just judges; and as all are immortal, there 
 can be no fear of any one being put to death for his opinions. 
 
 Nothing evil can happen to the good man either in life or 
 death, and his own death has been permitted by the gods, be- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 97 
 
 cause it was better for him to depart; and therefore he forgives 
 his judges because they have done him no harm, although they 
 never meant to do him any good. 
 
 He has a last request to make to them — that they will trouble 
 his sons as he has troubled them, if they appear to prefer riches 
 to virtue, or to think themselves something when they are noth¬ 
 ing. 
 
 “ Few persons will be found to wish that Socrates should 
 have defended himself otherwise,” — if, as we must add, his 
 defence was that with which Plato has provided him. But leav¬ 
 ing this question, which does not admit of a precise solution, we 
 may go on to ask what was the impression which Plato in the 
 Apology intended to leave of the character and conduct of his 
 master in the last great scene? Did he intend to represent him 
 (1) as e mplo ying sophistries; (2) as designedly irritating the 
 judgekUOr are these sophistries to “Be regarded as belonging 
 fo“the age in which he lived and to his personal character, and 
 this apparent haughtiness as flowing from the natural elevation 
 of his position? 
 
 For example, when he says that it is absurd to suppose that 
 one man is the corruptor and all the rest of the world the im¬ 
 provers of the youth; or, when he argues that he never could 
 have corrupted the men with whom he had to live; or, when he 
 proves his belief in the gods because he believes in the sons of 
 gods, i s he serious or je sting? It may be observed that these 
 sophisms”all occur in his cross-examination of Meletus, who is 
 easily foiled and mastered in the hands of the great dialectician. 
 Perhaps he regarded these answers as all of them good enough 
 for his accuser (he makes very light of him throughout).. Also 
 it m ay be noted that there is a touch of irony in all of them, 
 which takes them out of the category of sophistry. 
 
 That the manner in which he defends himself about the lives 
 of his disciples is not satisfactory, can hardly be denied. Fresh 
 in the memory of the Athenians, and detestable as they de¬ 
 served to be to the newly restored democracy, were the names of 
 Alcibiades, Critias, Charmides. It is obviously not a sufficient 
 answer that Socrates had never professed to teach them any¬ 
 thing, and is therefore not justly chargeable with their crimes. 
 Yet the defence, when taken out of this ironical form, is doubt¬ 
 less sound: that his teaching had nothing to do with their evil 
 lives. Here, then, the sophistry is rather in form than in sub- 
 
98 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 stance, though we might desire that to such a serious charge 
 Socrates had given a more serious answer. 
 
 Truly characteristic of Socrates is another point in his answer, 
 which may also be regarded as sophistical. He says that “ if 
 he has corrupted the youth, he must have corrupted them in¬ 
 voluntarily.” In these words the Socratic doctrine of the in¬ 
 voluntariness of evil is clearly intended to be conveyed. But if, 
 as Socrates argues, all evil is involuntary, then all criminals 
 ought to be admonished and not punished. Here again, as in 
 the former instance, the defence of Socrates, which is untrue 
 practically, may yet be true in some ideal or transcendental sense. 
 The commonplace reply, that if he had been guilty of corrupting 
 the youth their relations would surely have witnessed against 
 him, with which he concludes this part of his defence, is more 
 satisfactory. 
 
 Again, when Socrates argues that he must believe in the gods 
 because he believes in the sons of gods, we must remember that 
 this is a refutation not of the original indictment, which is con¬ 
 sistent enough — “ Socrates does not receive the gods whom the 
 city receives, and has other new divinities ” — but of the inter¬ 
 pretation put upon the words by Meletus, who has affirmed that 
 he is a downright atheist. To this Socrates fairly answers, in 
 accordance with the ideas of the time, that a downright atheist 
 can not believe in the sons of gods or in divine things. The 
 notion that demons or lesser divinities are the sons of gods is not 
 to be regarded as ironical or sceptical. But the love of argument 
 may certainly have led Plato to relapse into the mythological 
 point of view, and prevented him from observing that the reason¬ 
 ing is only formally corect. 
 
 The second question, whether Plato meant to represent 
 Socrates as needlessly braving or. irritating his judges, must also 
 be answered in the negative. His irony, his superiority, his 
 audacity, “ regarding not the person of man,” necessarily flow 
 out of the loftiness of his situation. He is not acting a part 
 upon a great occasion, but he is what he has been all his life 
 long, “ a king of men.” He would rather not appear insolent, 
 if he could avoid this (ofy u)s av#aSi£o/xevos tovto Xeyto). He is not 
 desirous of hastening his own end, for life and death are simply 
 indifferent to him. But neither will he say or do anything which 
 might avert the penalty; he can not have his tongue bound, even 
 in the “ throat of death: ” his natural character must appear. 
 He is quite willing to make his defence to posterity and to the 
 world, for that is a true defence. But such a defence as would 
 be acceptable to his judges and might procure an acquittal, it is 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 99 
 
 not in his nature to make. With his actual accusers he will only- 
 fence and play. The singularity of the mission which he ascribes 
 to himself is a great reason for believing that he is serious in 
 his account of the motives which actuated him. The dedication 
 of his life to the improvement of his fellow-citizens is not so 
 remarkable as the ironical spirit in which he goes about doing 
 good to all men only in vindication of the credit of the oracle, 
 and in the vain hope of finding a wiser man than himself. Yet 
 this singular and almost accidental character of his mission 
 agrees with the divine sign which, according to our notions, is 
 equally accidental and irrational, and is nevertheless accepted 
 by him as the guiding principle in his life. Nor must we forget 
 that Socrates is nowhere represented to us as a freethinker or 
 sceptic. There is no reason whatever to doubt his sincerity when 
 he implies his belief in the divinity of the sun and moon, or when 
 he speculates on the possibility of seeing and knowing the heroes 
 of the Trojan war in another world. On the other hand, his 
 hope of immortality is uncertain; — he also conceives of death 
 as a long sleep (in this respect differing from the Phaedo), and 
 at last falls back on resignation to the divine will, and the cer¬ 
 tainty that no evil can happen to the good man either in life or 
 death. His absolute truthfulness seems to hinder him from 
 asserting positively more than this. The irony of Socrates is 
 not a mask which he puts on at will, but flows necessarily out 
 of his character and out of his relation to mankind. This, which 
 is true of him generally, is especially true of the last memorable 
 act in which his life is summed up. Such irony is not impaired 
 but greatly heightened by a sort of natural simplicity. 
 
 It has been remarked that the prophecy at the end of a new 
 generation of teachers who would rebuke and exhort the Athenian 
 people in harsher and more violent terms, as far as we know, was 
 never fulfilled. No inference can be drawn from this circum¬ 
 stance as to the probability of their having been actually uttered. 
 They express the aspiration of the first martyr of philosophy, 
 that he would leave behind him many followers, accompanied 
 by the not unnatural feeling that they would be fiercer and more 
 inconsiderate in their words when emancipated from his control. 
 
 The above remarks must be understood as applying with any 
 degree of certainty to the Platonic Socrates only. For, however 
 probable it may be that these or similar words may have been 
 spoken by Socrates himself, we can not exclude the possibility, 
 that like so much else, e. g. the wisdom of Critias, the poem of 
 Solon, the virtues of Charmides, they may have been due only 
 to the imaginat ; on of Plato. 
 

 
 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 How you have felt, O men of Athens, at hearing 
 the speeches of my accusers, I cannot tell; but I 
 know that their persuasive words almost made me 
 forget who I was: — such was the effect of them; 
 and yet they have hardly spoken a word of truth. 
 But many as their falsehoods were, there was one of 
 them which quite amazed me; — I mean when thej^ 
 told you to be upon your guard, and not to let your¬ 
 selves be deceived by the force of my eloquence. 
 They ought to have been ashamed of saying this, 
 because they were sure to be detected as soon as I 
 opened my lips and displayed my deficiency: they 
 certainly did appear to be most shameless in saying 
 this, unless by the force of eloquence they mean the 
 force of truth; for then I do indeed admit that I am 
 eloquent. But in how different a way from theirs! 
 Well, as I was saying, they have hardly uttered a 
 word, or not more than a word, of truth; but you 
 shall hear from me the whole truth: not, however, 
 delivered after their manner, in a set oration duly 
 ornamented with words and phrases. No, indeed! but 
 I shall use the words and arguments which occur to 
 me at the moment; for I am certain that this is right, 
 and that at my time of life I ought not to be appear¬ 
 ing before you, O men of Athens, in the character of 
 a juvenile orator — let no one expect this of me. 
 And I must beg of you to grant me one favor, which 
 is this — If you hear me using the same words in my 
 
 101 
 
102 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 defence which I have been in the habit of using, and 
 which most of you may have heard in the agora, and 
 at the tables of the money-changers, or anywhere else, 
 I would ask you not to be surprised at this, and not 
 to interrupt me. For I am more than seventy years 
 of age, and this is the first time that I have ever ap¬ 
 peared in a court of law, and I am quite a stranger 
 to the ways of the place; and therefore I would have 
 you regard me as if I were really a stranger, whom 
 you would excuse if he spoke in his native tongue, 
 and after the fashion of his country; — that I think 
 is not an unfair request. Never mind the manner, 
 wdiich may or may not be good; but think only of 
 the justice of my cause, and give heed to that: let 
 the judge decide justly and the speaker speak truly. 
 
 And first, I have to reply to the older charges and 
 to my first accusers, and then I will go on to the 
 later ones. For I have had many accusers, who ac¬ 
 cused me of old, and their false charges have con¬ 
 tinued during many years; and I am more afraid of 
 them than of Anytus and his associates, who are dan¬ 
 gerous, too, in their own way. But far more danger¬ 
 ous are these, who began when you were children, 
 and took possession of your minds with their false¬ 
 hoods, telling of one Socrates, a wise man, who spec¬ 
 ulated about the heaven above, and searched into the 
 earth beneath, and made the worse appear the better 
 cause. These are the accusers whom I dread; for 
 they are the circulators of this rumor, and their hear¬ 
 ers are too apt to fancy that speculators of this sort 
 do not believe in the gods. And they are many, and 
 their charges against me are of ancient date, and they 
 made them in days when you were impressible — in 
 childhood, or perhaps in youth — and the cause when 
 heard went by default, for there was none to answer. 
 And hardest of all, their names I do not know and 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 103 
 
 can not tell; unless in the chance case of a comic poet. 
 But the main body of these slanderers who from envy 
 and malice have wrought upon you — and there are 
 some of them who are convinced themselves, and im¬ 
 part their convictions to others — all these, I say, 
 are most difficult to deal with; for I can not have 
 them up here, and examine them, and therefore I 
 must simply fight with shadows in my own defence, 
 and examine when there is no one who answers. I 
 will ask you then to assume with me, as I was saying, 
 that my opponents are of two kinds; one recent, the 
 other ancient: and I hope that you will see the pro¬ 
 priety of my answering the latter first, for these accu¬ 
 sations you heard long before the others, and much 
 oftener. 
 
 Well, then, I will make my defence, and I will 
 endeavor in the short time which is allowed to do 
 away with this evil opinion of me which you have held 
 for such a long time; and I hope that I may succeed, 
 if this be well for you and me, and that my words may 
 find favor with you. But I know that to accomplish 
 this is not easy — I quite see the nature of the task. 
 Let the event be as God wills: in obedience to the 
 law I make my defence. 
 
 I will begin at the beginning, and ask what the 
 accusation is which has given rise to this slander of 
 me, and which has encouraged Meletus to proceed 
 against me. What do the slanderers say? They shall 
 be my prosecutors, and I will sum up their words in 
 an affidavit. “ Socrates is an evil-doer, and a curious 
 person, who searches into things under the earth and 
 in heaven, and he makes the worse appear the better 
 cause; and he teaches the aforesaid doctrines to 
 others.” That is the nature of the accusation, and that 
 is what you have seen yourselves in the comedy of 
 Aristophanes, who has introduced a man whom he 
 
 
104 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 calls Socrates, going about and saying that he can 
 walk in the air, and talking a deal of nonsense con¬ 
 cerning matters of which I do not pretend to know 
 either much or little — not that I mean to say any¬ 
 thing disparaging of any one who is a student of 
 natural philosophy. I should be very sorry if Mele- 
 tus could lay that to my charge. But the simple 
 truth is, O Athenians, that I have nothing to do with 
 these studies. Very many of those here present are 
 witnesses to the truth of this, and to them I appeal. 
 Speak then, you who have heard me, and tell your 
 neighbors whether any of you have ever known me 
 hold forth in few words or in many upon matters of 
 this sort. ... You hear their answer. And from 
 what they say of this you will be able to judge of the 
 truth of the rest. 
 
 As little foundation is there for the report that I 
 am a teacher, and take money; that is no more true 
 than the other. Although, if a man is able to teach, 
 I honor him for being paid. There is Gorgias of 
 Leontium, and Prodicus of Ceos, and Hippias of 
 Elis, who go the round of the cities, and are able to 
 persuade the young men to leave their own citizens, 
 by whom they might be taught for nothing, and come 
 to them, whom they not only pay, but are thankful 
 if they may be allowed to pay them. There is actually 
 a Parian philosopher residing in Athens, of whom I 
 have heard; and I came to hear of him in this way: — 
 I met a man who has spent a world of money on the 
 sophists, Callias, the son of Hipponicus, and knowing 
 that he had sons, I asked him: “ Callias,” I said, “ if 
 your two sons were foals or calves, there would be 
 no difficulty in finding some one to put over them; 
 we should hire a trainer of horses, or a farmer prob¬ 
 ably, who would improve and perfect them in their 
 own proper virtue and excellence; but as they are 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 105 
 
 human beings, whom are you thinking of placing 
 over them; Is there any one who understands human 
 and political virtue? You must have thought about 
 this as you have sons; is there any one? ” “ There 
 
 is,” he said. “ Who is he? ” said I; “ and of what 
 country? and what does he charge? ” “ Evenus the 
 
 Parian,” he replied; “he is the man, and his charge 
 is five minae.” Happy is Evenus, I said to myself, if 
 he really has this wisdom, and teaches at such a mod¬ 
 est charge. Had I the same, I should have been very 
 proud and conceited; but the truth is that I have no 
 knowledge of the kind, O Athenians. 
 
 I dare say that some one will ask the question, 
 “ Why is this, Socrates, and what is the origin of these 
 accusations of you: for there must have been some¬ 
 thing strange which you have been doing? All this 
 great fame and talk about you would never have 
 arisen if you had been like other men: tell us, then, 
 why this is, as we should be sorry to judge hastily 
 of you.” Now I regard this as a fair challenge, and 
 I will endeavor to explain to you the origin of this 
 name of “ wise,” and of this evil fame. Please to 
 attend then. And although some of you may think 
 that I am joking, I declare that I will tell you the 
 entire truth. Men of Athens, this reputation of mine 
 has come of a certain sort of wisdom which I possess. 
 If you ask me what kind of wisdom, I reply, such 
 wisdom as is attainable by man, for to that extent I 
 am inclined to believe that I am wise; whereas the 
 persons of whom I was speaking have a superhuman 
 wisdom, which I may fail to describe, because I have 
 it not myself; and he who says that I have, speaks 
 falsely, and is taking away my character. And here, 
 O men of Athens, I must beg you not to interrupt 
 me, even if I seem to say something extravagant. 
 For the word which I will speak is not mine. I will 
 
106 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 refer you to a wisdom who is worthy of credit, and 
 will tell you about my wisdom — whether 1 have any, 
 and of what sort — and that witness shall be the God 
 of Delphi. You must have known Chaerephon; he 
 was early a friend of mine, and also a friend of youis, 
 for he shared in the exile of the people, and returned 
 with you. Well, Chaerephon, as you know, was very 
 impetuous in all his doings, and he went to Delphi 
 and boldly asked the oracle to tell him whether — as 
 I was saying, I must beg you not to interrupt he 
 asked the oracle to tell him whether there was any one 
 wiser than I was, and the Pythian prophetess an¬ 
 swered, that there was no man wiser. Chaerephon 
 is dead himself; but his brother, who is in court, will 
 
 confirm the truth of this story. 
 
 Why do I mention this? Because I am going to 
 explain to you why I have such an evil name. When 
 I heard the answer, I said to myself, What can the 
 god mean? and what is the interpretation of this 
 riddle? for I know that I have no wisdom, small or 
 great. What then can he mean when he says that I 
 am the wisest of men? And yet he is a god, and can 
 not lie; that would be against his nature. After long 
 consideration, I at last thought of a method of trying 
 the question. I reflected that if I could only find a 
 man wiser than myself, then I might go to the god 
 with a refutation in my hand. I should say to him, 
 “ Here is a man who is wiser than I am; but you said 
 that I was the wisest.” Accordingly I went to one 
 who had the reputation of wisdom, and observed him 
 — his name I need not mention; he was a politician 
 whom I selected for examination — and the result 
 was as follows: When I began to talk with him, 1 
 could not help thinking that he was not really wise, 
 although he was thought wise by many, and wiser 
 still by himself; and I went and tried to explain to 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 107 
 
 ( 
 
 him that he thought himself wise, but was not really 
 wise; and the consequence was that he hated me, and 
 his enmity was shared by several who were present 
 and heard me. So I left him, saying to myself, as 
 I went away: Well, although I do not suppose that 
 either of us knows anything really beautiful and good, 
 I am better off than he is, — for he knows nothing, 
 and thinks that he knows. I neither know nor think 
 that I know. In this latter particular, then, I seem 
 to have slightly the advantage of him. Then I went 
 to another who had still higher philosophical preten¬ 
 sions, and my conclusion was exactly the same. I 
 made another enemy of him, and of many others 
 besides him. 
 
 After this I went to one man after another, being 
 not unconscious of the enmity which I provoked, and 
 I lamented and feared this: but necessity was laid 
 upon me, — the word of God, I thought, ought to be 
 considered first. And I said to myself, Go I must 
 to all who appear to know, and find out the meaning 
 of the oracle. And I swear to you, Athenians, by 
 the dog I swear! — for I must tell you the truth — 
 the result of my mission was just this: I found that 
 the men most in repute were all but the most foolish; 
 and that some inferior men were really wiser and 
 better. I will tell you the tale of my wanderings and 
 of the “ Herculean ” labors, as I may call them, which 
 I endured only to find at last the oracle irrefutable. 
 When I left the politicians, I went to the poets; 
 tragic, dithyrambic, and all sorts. And there, I said 
 to myself, you will be detected; now you will find 
 out that you are more ignorant than they are. Ac¬ 
 cordingly, I took them some of the most elaborate 
 passages in their own writings, and asked what was 
 the meaning of them — thinking that they would 
 teach me something. Will you believe me? I am 
 
108 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 almost ashamed to speak of this, but still I must say 
 / that there is hardly a person present who would not 
 have talked better about their poetry than they did 
 themselves. That showed me in an instant that not 
 by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of 
 genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or 
 soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not 
 understand the meaning of them. And the p oets 
 appeared to me to be much in the same case; andT 
 further observed that upon the strength of their 
 poetry they believed themselves to be the wisest of 
 men in other things in which they were not wise. So 
 I departed, conceiving myself to be superior to them 
 for the same reason that I was superior to the poli¬ 
 ticians. 
 
 At last I went to the artisan s, for I was conscious 
 that I knew nothing at all, as I may say, and I was 
 sure that they knew many fine things; and in this I 
 was not mistaken, for they did know many things 
 of which I was ignorant, and in this they certainly 
 were wiser than I was. But I observed that even the 
 good artisans fell into the same error as the poets; — 
 because they were good workmen they thought tnat 
 they also knew all sorts of high matters, and this 
 defect in them overshadowed their wisdom — there¬ 
 fore I asked myself on behalf of the oracle, whether 
 I would like to be as I was, neither having their 
 knowledge nor their ignorance, or like them in both, 
 and I made answer to myself and the oracle that I 
 was better off as I was. 
 
 This investigation has led to my having many ene¬ 
 mies of the worst and most dangerous kind, and has 
 given occasion also to many calumnies. And X am 
 called wise, for my hearers always imagine that I 
 myself possess the wisdom which I find w anting in 
 others: but the truth is, O men of Athens, that God 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 109 
 
 only is wise; and in this oracle he means to say that 
 the wisdom of men is little or nothing; he is not 
 speaking of Socrates, he is only using my name as 
 an illustration, as if he said, He, O men, is the wisest 
 who, like Socrates, knows that his wisdom is in truth 
 worth nothing. And so I go my way, obedient to 
 the god, and make inquisition into the wisdom of any 
 one, whether citizen or stranger, who appears to be 
 wise; and if he is not wise, then in vindication of the 
 oracle I show him that he is not wise; and this occu¬ 
 pation quite absorbs me, and I have no time to give 
 either to any public matter of interest or to any con¬ 
 cern of my own, but I am in utter poverty by reason 
 of my devotion to the god. 
 
 There is another thing: — young men of the richer 
 classes, who have not much to do, come about me of 
 their own accord; they like to hear the pretenders 
 examined, and they often imitate me, and examine 
 others themselves; there are plenty of persons, as 
 they soon enough discover, who think that they know 
 something, but really know little or nothing; and 
 then those who are examined by them instead of being 
 angry with themselves are angry w r ith me: This con¬ 
 founded Socrates, they say; this villainous misleader 
 of youth! — and then if somebody asks them, Why, | 
 what evil does he practise or teach ? they do not know, 
 and can not tell; but in order that they may not 
 appear to be at a loss, they repeat the ready-made 
 charges which are used against all philosophers about 
 teaching things up in the clouds and under the earth, 
 and having no gods, and making the worse appear 
 the better cause; for they do not like to confess that 
 their pretence of knowledge has been detected — 
 wLich is the truth; and as they are numerous and 
 ambitious and energetic, and are all in battle array 
 and have persuasive tongues, they have filled your 
 
110 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 ears with their loud and inveterate calumnies. And 
 this is the reason why my three accusers, Msletus and 
 Anytus and Lycon, have set upon me; Meletus, who 
 has a quarrel \vith me on behalf of the poets, An\t,is, 
 on behalf of the craftsmen; Lycon, on behalf of the 
 rhetoricians: and as I said at the beginning, I can 
 not expect to get rid of this mass of calumny all in 
 a moment. And this, O men of Athens, is the truth 
 and the whole truth; I have concealed nothing, I 
 have dissembled nothing. And yet, I know that this 
 plainness of speech makes them hate me, and what 
 is their hatred but a proof that I am speaking the 
 truth? — this is the occasion and reason of their slan¬ 
 der of me, as you will find out either in this or in any 
 
 future inquiry. . 
 
 I have said enough in my defence against the lirst 
 
 class of my accusers; I turn to the second class who 
 are headed by Meletus, that good and patriotic man, 
 as he calls himself. And now I will try to defend 
 mvself against them: these new accusers must also 
 have their affidavit read. What do they say? Some- 
 thino- of this sort: — That Socrates is a doer of evil, 
 and corruptor of the youth, and he does not beliei e 
 S in the gods of the state, and has other new divinities 
 of his own. That is the sort of charge; and now lei 
 us examine the particular counts. He says that I am 
 a doer of evil, who corrupt the youth; but I say, O 
 men of Athens, that Meletus is a doer of evil, and the 
 evil is that he makes a joke of a serious matter, and 
 is too ready at bringing other men to trial from a 
 pretended zeal and interest about matters m v hic i 
 he really never had the smallest interest. Ana the 
 truth of this I will endeavor to prove. 
 
 Come hither. Meletus, and let me ask a question 
 of you. You think a great deal about the improve¬ 
 ment of youth ? 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 111 
 
 Yes I do. 
 
 Tell the judges, then, who is their improver; for 
 you must know, as you have taken the pains to dis¬ 
 cover their corruptor, and are citing and accusing me 
 before them. Speak, then, and tell the judges who 
 their improver is. Observe, Meletus, that you are 
 silent, and have nothing to say. But is not this rather 
 disgraceful, and a very considerable proof of what I 
 was saying, that you have no interest in the matter? 
 Speak up, friend, and tell us who their improver is. 
 
 The laws. 
 
 But that, my good sir, is not my meaning. I want 
 to know who the person is, who, in the first place, 
 knows the laws. 
 
 The judges, Socrates, who are present in court. 
 
 What, do you mean to say, Meletus, that they are 
 able to instruct and improve youth? 
 
 Certainly they are. 
 
 What, all of them, or some only and not others? 
 
 All of them. 
 
 By the goddess Here, that is good news! There 
 are plenty of improvers, then. And what do you say 
 of the audience, — do they improve them? 
 
 Yes, they do. 
 
 And the senators? 
 
 Yes, the senators improve them. 
 
 But perhaps the ecclesiasts corrupt them? — or do 
 they too improve them? 
 
 They improve them. 
 
 Then every Athenian improves and elevates them; 
 all with the exception of myself; and I alone am their 
 corruptor? Is that what you affirm? 
 
 That is what I stoutly affirm. 
 
 I am very unfortunate if that is true. But suppose 
 I ask you a question: Would you say that this also 
 holds true in the case of horses? Does one man do 
 
112 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 them harm and all the world good? Is not the exact 
 opposite of this true? One man is able to do them 
 good, or at least not many; — the trainer of horses, 
 that is to say, does them good, and others who have 
 to do with them rather injure them? Is not that true, 
 Meletus, of horses, or any other animals? Yes, cer¬ 
 tainly. Whether you and Anytus say yes or no, that 
 is no matter. Happy indeed would be the condition 
 of youth if they had one corruptor only, and all the 
 rest of the world were their improvers. And you, 
 Meletus, have sufficiently shown that you never had 
 a thought about the young: your carelessness is seen 
 in your not caring about the matters spoken of in 
 this very indictment. 
 
 And now, Meletus, I must ask you another ques¬ 
 tion : Which is better, to live among bad citizens, or 
 among good ones? Answer, friend, I say; for that 
 is a question which may be easily answered. Do not 
 the good do their neighbors good, and the bad do them 
 
 evil? 
 
 Certainly. . . 
 
 And is there any one who would rather be injured 
 
 than benefited by those who live with him ? Ansv er, 
 my good friend, the law requires you to answer — 
 does any one like to be injured? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 And when you accuse me of corrupting and deteri¬ 
 orating the youth, do you allege that I corrupt them 
 intentionally or unintentionally ? 
 
 Intentionally, I say. 
 
 But you have just admitted that the good do their 
 neighbors good, and the evil do them evil. ov, is 
 that a truth which your superior wisdom has recog¬ 
 nized thus early in life, and am I, at my age, in such 
 darkness and ignorance as not to know that if a man 
 with whom I have to live is corrupted by me, I am 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 113 
 
 very likely to be harmed by him, and yet I corrupt 
 him, and intentionally, too; — that is what you are 
 saying and of that you will never persuade me or any 
 other human being. But either I do not corrupt 
 them, or I corrupt them unintentionally, so that on 
 either view of the case you lie. If my offence is 
 unintentional, the law has no cognizance of uninten¬ 
 tional offences: you ought to have taken me privately, 
 and warned and admonished me; for if I had been 
 better advised, I should have left off doing what 
 I only did unintentionally — no doubt I should; 
 whereas you hated to converse with me or teach me, 
 but you indicted me in this court, which is a place not 
 of instruction, but of punishment. 
 
 I have shown, Athenians, as I was saying, that 
 Meletus has no care at all, great or small, about the 
 matter. But still I should like to know, Meletus, in 
 what I am affirmed to corrupt the young. I suppose 
 you mean, as I infer from your indictment, that I 
 teach them not to acknowledge the gods which the 
 state acknowledges, but some other new divinities or 
 spiritual agencies in their stead. These are the les¬ 
 sons which corrupt the youth, as you say. 
 
 Yes, that I say emphatically. 
 
 Then, by the gods, Meletus, of whom we are speak¬ 
 ing, tell me and the court, in somewhat plainer terms, 
 what you mean! for I do not as yet understand 
 whether you affirm that I teach others to acknowledge 
 some gods, and therefore do believe in gods, and am 
 not an entire atheist — this you do not lay to my 
 charge; — but only that they are not the same gods 
 which the city recognizes — the charge is that they 
 are different gods. Or, do you mean to say that I 
 am an atheist simply, and a teacher of atheism? 
 
 I mean the latter — that you are a complete atheist. 
 
 That is an extraordinary statement, Meletus. Why 
 
114 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 do you say that? Do you mean that I do not believe in 
 the godhead of the sun or moon, which is the common 
 creed of all men? 
 
 I assure you, judges, that he does not believe in 
 them; for he says that the sun is stone, and the moon 
 earth. 
 
 Friend Meletus, you think that you are accusing 
 Anaxagoras: and you have but a bad opinion of the 
 judges, if you fancy them ignorant to such a degree 
 as not to know that these doctrines are found in the 
 books of Anaxagoras the Clazomenian, who is full of 
 them. And these are the doctrines which the youth 
 are said to learn of Socrates, when there are not un- 
 frequently exhibitions of them at the theatre 1 (price 
 of admission one drachma at the most) ; and they 
 might cheaply purchase them, and laugh at Socrates 
 if he pretends to father such eccentricities. And so, 
 Meletus, you really think that I do not believe in any 
 god ? 
 
 I swear by Zeus that you believe absolutely in none 
 at all. 
 
 You are a liar, Meletus, not believed even by your¬ 
 self. For I can not help thinking, O men of Athens, 
 that Meletus is reckless and impudent, and that he 
 has written this indictment in a spirit of mere wanton¬ 
 ness and youthful bravado. Has he not compounded 
 a riddle, thinking to try me? He said to himself: — I 
 shall see whether this wise Socrates will discover my 
 ingenious contradiction, or whether I shall be able to 
 deceive him and the rest of them. For he certainly 
 does appear to me to contradict himself in the indict¬ 
 ment as much as if he said that Socrates is guilty of 
 not believing in the gods, and yet of believing in them 
 — but this surely is a piece of fun. 
 
 1 Probably in allusion to Aristophanes who caricatured, and to Euripides 
 who borrowed the notions of Anaxagoras, as well as to other dramatic 
 poets. 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 115 
 
 I should like you, O men of Athens, to join me in 
 examining in what I conceive to be his inconsistency; 
 and do you, Meletus, answer. And I must remind 
 you that you are not to interrupt me if I speak in my 
 accustomed manner. 
 
 Did ever man, Meletus, believe in the existence of 
 human things, and not human beings? ... I wish, 
 men of Athens, that he would answer, and not be 
 always trying to get up an interruption. Did ever 
 any man believe in horsemanship, and not in horses? 
 or in flute-playing, and not in flute-players? No, my 
 friend; I will answer to you and to the court, as you 
 refuse to answer for yourself. There is no man who 
 ever did. But now please to answer the next ques¬ 
 tion : Can a man believe in spiritual and divine agen¬ 
 cies, and not in spirits or demigods? 
 
 He can not. 
 
 I am glad that I have extracted that answer, by the 
 assistance of the court; nevertheless you swear in the 
 indictment that I teach and believe in divine or spir¬ 
 itual agencies (new or old, no matter for that) ; at 
 any rate, I believe in spiritual agencies, as you say 
 and swear in the affidavit; but if I believe in divine 
 beings, I must believe in spirits or demigods; — is not 
 that true? Yes, that is true, for I may assume that 
 your silence gives assent to that. Now what are 
 spirits or demigods? are they not either gods or the 
 sons of gods? Is that true? 
 
 Yes, that is true. 
 
 But this is just the ingenious riddle of which I was 
 speaking: the demigods or spirits are gods, and you 
 say first that I don’t believe in gods, and then again 
 that I do believe in gods; that is, if I believe in demi¬ 
 gods. For if the demigods are the illegitimate sons 
 of gods, whether by the nymphs or by any other moth¬ 
 ers, as is thought, that, as all men will allow, neces- 
 
116 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 sarily implies the existence of their parents. You 
 might as well affirm the existence of mules, and deny 
 that of horses and asses. Such nonsense, Meletus, 
 could only have been intended by you as a trial of 
 me. You have put this into the indictment because 
 you had nothing real of which to accuse me. But no 
 one who has a particle of understanding will ever be 
 convinced by you that the same men can believe in 
 divine and superhuman things, and yet not believe 
 that there are gods and demigods and heroes. 
 
 I have said enough in answer to the charge of 
 Meletus: any elaborate defence is unnecessary; but 
 as I was saying before, I certainly have many ene¬ 
 mies, and this is what will be my destruction if I am 
 destroyed; of that I am certain; — not Meletus, nor 
 yet Anytus, but the envy and detraction of the world, 
 which has been the death of many good men, and will 
 probably be the death of many more; there is no 
 danger of my being the last of them. 
 
 Some one will say: And are you not ashamed, 
 Socrates, of a course of life which is likely to bring 
 you to an untimely end? To him X may faiily an¬ 
 swer: There you are mistaken: a man who is good 
 for anything ought not to calculate the chance of 
 living or dying; he ought only to consider whether 
 in doing anything he is doing right or wrong — act¬ 
 ing the part of a good man or of a bad. Whereas, 
 according to your view, the heroes who fell at Troy 
 were not good for much, and the son of Thetis above 
 all, who altogether despised danger in comparison 
 with disgrace; and when his goddess mother said to 
 him, in his eagerness to slay Hector, that if he 
 avenged his companion Patroclus, and slew Hector, 
 he would die himself — 44 Fate, as she said, waits 
 upon you next after Hector;” he, hearing this, ut¬ 
 terly despised danger and death, and instead of fear- 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 117 
 
 ing them, feared rather to live in dishonor, and not 
 to avenge his friend. “ Let me die next,” he replies, 
 “ and be avenged of my enemy, rather than abide here 
 by the beaked ships, a scorn and a burden of the 
 earth.” Had Achilles any thought of death and 
 danger? For wherever a man’s place is, whether the 
 place which he has chosen or that in which he has 
 been placed by a commander, there he ought to re¬ 
 main in the hour of danger; he should not think of 
 death or of anything, but of disgrace. And this, O 
 men of Athens, is a true saying. 
 
 ^Strange, indeed, would be my conduct, O men of 
 Athens, if I who, when I was ordered by the generals 
 whom you chose to command me at Potidaea and 
 Amphipolis and Delium, remained where they placed 
 me, like any other man, facing death; if, I say, now, 
 when, as I conceive and imagine, God orders me to 
 fulfil the philosopher’s mission of searching into my¬ 
 self and other men, I were to desert my post through 
 fear of death, or any other fear; that would indeed 
 be strange, and I might justly be arraigned in court 
 for denying the existence of the gods, if I disobeyed 
 the oracle because I was afraid of death: then I 
 should be fancying that I was wise when I was not 
 wise. For this fear of death is indeed the pretence 
 of wisdom, and not real wisdom, being the appear¬ 
 ance of knowing the unknown; since no one knows 
 whether death, which they in their fear apprehend to 
 be the greatest evil, may not be the greatest good. 
 Is there not here conceit of knowledge, which is a 
 disgraceful sort of ignorance? And this is the point 
 in which, as I think, I am superior to men in general, 
 and in which I might perhaps fancy myself wiser than 
 other men, — that whereas I know but little of the 
 world below, I do not suppose that I know: but I 
 do know that injustice and disobedience to a better, 
 
 / 
 
118 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 whether God or man, is evil and dishonorable, and 
 I will never fear or avoid a possible good rather than 
 a certain evil. And therefore if you let me go now, 
 and reject the counsels of Anytus, who said that if 
 I were not put to death I ought not to have been pros¬ 
 ecuted, and that if I escape now, your sons will all 
 be utterly ruined by listening to my words — if you 
 say to me, Socrates, this time we will not mind Any¬ 
 tus, and will let you off, but upon one condition, that 
 you are not to inquire and speculate in this way any 
 more, and that if you are caught doing this again 
 you shall die; — if this was the condition on which you 
 let me go, I should reply: Men of Athens, I honor 
 and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, 
 and while I have life and strength I shall never cease 
 from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhort¬ 
 ing any one whom I meet after my manner, and con¬ 
 vincing him, saying: O my friend, why do you, who 
 are a citizen of the great and mighty and wise city of 
 Athens, care so much about laying up the greatest 
 amount of money and honor and reputation, and so 
 little about wisdom and truth and the greatest im¬ 
 provement of the soul, which you never regard or 
 heed at all? Are you not ashamed of this? And if 
 the person with whom I am arguing, says: Yes, but 
 I do care; I do not depart or let him go at once; I 
 interrogate and examine and cross-examine him, and 
 if I think that he has no virtue, but only says that 
 he has, I reproach him with undervaluing the greater, 
 and overvaluing the less. And this I should say to 
 every one whom I meet, young and old, citizen and 
 alien, but especially to the citizens, inasmuch as they 
 are my brethren. For this is the command to God, 
 as I would have you know; and I believe that to this 
 day no greater good has ever happened in the state 
 than my service to the God. For I do nothing but 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 119 
 
 ' 
 
 go about persuading you all, old and young alike, 
 not to take thought for your persons or your prop¬ 
 erties, but first and chiefly to care about the greatest 
 improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is 
 not given by money, but that from virtue come money 
 and every other good of man, public as well as pri¬ 
 vate. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine 
 which corrupts the youth, my influence is ruinous 
 indeed. But if any one says that this is not my teach¬ 
 ing, he is speaking an untruth. Wherefore, O men 
 of Athens, I say to you, do as Anytus bids or not as 
 Anytus bids, and either acquit me or not; but what¬ 
 ever you do, know that I shall never alter my ways, 
 not even if I have to die many times. 
 
 Men of Athens, do not interrupt, but hear me; 
 there was an agreement between us that you should 
 hear me out. And I think that what I am going to 
 say will do you good: for I have something more to 
 say, at which you may be inclined to cry out; but 
 I beg that you will not do this. I would have you 
 know, that if you kill such an one as I am, you will 
 injure yourselves more than you will injure me. Me- 
 letus and Anytus will not injure me: they can not; 
 for it is not in the nature of things that a bad man 
 should injure a better than himself. I do not deny 
 that he may, perhaps, kill him, or drive him into exile, 
 or deprive him of civil rights; and he may imagine, 
 and others may imagine, that he is doing him a great 
 injury: but in that I do not agree with him; for the 
 evil of doing as Anytus is doing — of unjustly taking 
 away another man’s life — is greater far. And now, 
 Athenians, I am not going to argue for my own sake, 
 as you may think, but for yours, that you may not 
 sin against the God, or lightly reject his boon by con¬ 
 demning me. For if you kill me you will not easily 
 find another like me, who, if I may use such a ludi- 
 
120 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 crous figure of speech, am a sort of gadfly, given to 
 the state by the God; and the state is like a great 
 and noble steed who is tardy in his motions owing to 
 his very size, and requires to be stirred into life. I 
 am that gadfly which God has given the state, and 
 all day long and in all places am always fastening 
 upon you, arousing and persuading and reproaching 
 you. And as you will not easily find another like me, 
 I would advise you to spare me. I dare say that you 
 may feel irritated at being suddenly awakened when 
 you are caught napping; and you may think that if 
 you were to strike me dead as Anytus advises, which 
 - : you easily might, then you would sleep on for the 
 \ remainder of your lives, unless God in his care of you 
 gives you another gadfly. And that I am given to 
 you by God is proved by this: — that if I had been 
 like other men, I should not have neglected all my 
 own concerns or patiently seen the neglect of them 
 during all these years, and have been doing yours, 
 coming to you individually like a father or elder 
 brother, exhorting you to regard virtue; this, I say, 
 would not be like human nature. And had I gained 
 anything, or if my exhortations had been paid, there 
 would have been some sense in that; but now, as you 
 will perceive, not even the impudence of my accusers 
 dares to say that I have ever exacted or sought pay 
 of any one; they have no witness of that. And I 
 have a witness of the truth of what I say; my pov¬ 
 erty is a sufficient witness. 
 
 Some one may wonder why I go about in private 
 giving advice and busying myself with the concerns 
 of others, but do not venture to come forward in pub¬ 
 lic and advise the state. I will tell you the reason 
 of this. You have often heard me speak of an oracle 
 or sign which comes to me, and is the divinity which 
 Meletus ridicules in the indictment. This sign I have 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 121 
 
 had ever since I was a child. The sign is a voice 
 which comes to me and always forbids me to do some- * 
 thing which I am going to do, but never commands 
 me to do anything, and this is what stands in the way 
 of my being a politician. And rightly, as I think. 
 For I am certain, O men of Athens, that if I had 
 engaged in politics, I should have perished long ago, 
 and done no good either to you or to myself. And 
 don’t be offended at my telling you the truth: for the 
 truth is, that no man who goes to war with you or 
 any other multitude, honestly struggling against the 
 commission of unrighteousness and wrong in the state, 
 will save his life; he who will really fight for the 
 right, if he would live even for a little while, must have 
 a private station and not a public one. 
 
 ^ I can give you as proofs of this, not words only, 
 but deeds, which you value more than words. Let 
 me tell you a passage of my own life which will prove 
 to you that I should never have yielded to injustice 
 from any fear of death, and that if I had not yielded 
 I should have died at once. I will tell you a story — 
 tasteless perhaps and commonplace, but nevertheless 
 true. The only office of state which I ever held, O 
 men of Athens, was that of senator: the tribe Anti- 
 ochis, which is my tribe, had the presidency at the 
 trial of the generals who had not taken up the bodies 
 of the slain after the battle of Arginusae; and you 
 proposed to try them all together, which was illegal, 
 as you all thought afterwards; but at the time I was 
 the only one of the Prytanes who was opposed to the 
 illegality, and I gave my vote against you; and when 
 the orators threatened to impeach and arrest me, and 
 have me taken away, and you called and shouted, I 
 made up my mind that I would run the risk, having 
 law and justice with me, rather than take part in your 
 injustice because I feared imprisonment and death. 
 
 / 
 
122 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 This happened in the days of the democracy. But 
 when the oligarchy of the Thirty was in power, they 
 sent for me and four others into the rotunda, and 
 bade us bring Leon the Salaminian from Salamis, 
 as they wanted to execute him. This was a specimen 
 of the sort of commands which they were always giv¬ 
 ing with the view of implicating as many as possible 
 in their crimes; and then I showed, not in word only 
 but in deed, that, if I may be allowed to use such an 
 expression, I cared not a straw for death, and that my 
 only fear was the fear of doing an unrighteous or 
 unholy thing. For the strong arm of that oppressive 
 power did not frighten me into doing wrong; and 
 when we came out of the rotunda the other four went 
 to Salamis and fetched Leon, but I went quietly 
 home. For which I might have lost my life, had not 
 the power of the Thirty shortly afterwards come to 
 an end. And to this many will witness. 
 
 Now do you really imagine that I could have sur¬ 
 vived all these years, if I had led a public life, sup¬ 
 posing that like a good man I had always supported 
 the right and had made justice, as I ought, the first 
 thing? No indeed, men of Athens, neither I nor any 
 other. But I have been always the same in all my 
 actions, public as well as private, and never have I 
 yielded any base compliance to those who are slan¬ 
 derously termed my disciples, or to any other. For 
 the truth is that I have no regular disciples: but if 
 any one likes to come and hear me while I am pur¬ 
 suing my mission, whether he be young or old, he may 
 freely come. Nor do I converse with those who pay 
 only, and not with those who do not pay; but any 
 one, whether he be rich or poor, may ask and answer 
 me and listen to my words; and whether he turns out 
 to be a bad man or a good one, that can not be justly 
 laid to my charge, as I never taught him anything. 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 123 
 
 And if any one says that he has ever learned or heard 
 anything from me in private which all the world has 
 not heard, I should like you to know that he is speak¬ 
 ing an untruth. 
 
 But I shall be asked, Why do people delight in 
 continually conversing with you? I have told you 
 already, Athenians, the whole truth about this: they 
 like to hear the cross-examination of the pretenders 
 to wisdom; there is amusement in this. And this is 
 a duty which the God has imposed upon me, as I am 
 assured by oracles, visions, and in every sort of way 
 in which the will of divine power was ever signified 
 to any one. This is true, O Athenians; or, if not true, 
 would be soon refuted. For if I am really corrupting 
 the youth, and have corrupted some of them already, 
 those of them who have grown up and have become 
 sensible that I gave them bad advice in the days of 
 their youth should come forward as accusers and take 
 their revenge; and if they do not like to come them¬ 
 selves, some of their relatives, fathers, brothers, or 
 other kinsmen, should say what evil their families suf¬ 
 fered at my hands. Now is their time. Many of 
 them I see in the court. There is Crito, who is of the 
 same age and of the same deme with myself, and there 
 is Critobulus his son, whom I also see. Then again 
 there is Lysanias of Sphettus, who is the father of 
 Aeschines — he is present; and also there is Anti¬ 
 phon of Cephisus, who is the father of Epigenes; and 
 there are the brothers of several who have associated 
 with me. There is Nicostratus the son of Theosdo- 
 tides, and the brother of Theodotus (now Theodotus 
 himself is dead, and therefore he, at any rate, will 
 not seek to stop him) ; and there is Paralus the son 
 of Demodocus, who had a brother Theages; and 
 Adeimantus the son of Ariston, whose brother Plato 
 is present; and Aeantodorus, who is the brother of 
 
124 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 Apollodorus, whom I also see. I might mention a 
 great many others, any of whom Meletus should have 
 produced as witnesses in the course of his speech; and 
 let him still produce them, if he has forgotten — I 
 will make way for him. And let him say, if he has 
 any testimony of the sort which he can produce. Nay, 
 Athenians, the very opposite is the truth. For all 
 these are ready to witness on behalf of the corruptor, 
 of the destroyer of their kindred, as Meletus and 
 Anytus call me; not the corrupted youth only — 
 there might have been a motive for that — but their 
 uncorrupted elder relatives. Why should they too 
 support me with their testimony? Why, indeed, ex¬ 
 cept for the sake of truth and justice, and because 
 they know that I am speaking the truth, and that 
 Meletus is lying. 
 
 Well, Athenians, this and the like of this is nearly 
 all the defence which I have to offer. Yet a word 
 more. Perhaps there may be some one who is offended 
 at me, when he calls to mind how he himself on a 
 similar, or even a less serious occasion, had recourse 
 to prayers and supplications with many tears, and 
 how he produced his children in court, which was a 
 moving spectacle, together with a posse of his rela¬ 
 tions and friends; whereas I, who am probably in 
 danger of my life, will do none of these things. Per¬ 
 haps this may come into his mind, and he may be set 
 against me, and vote in anger because he is displeased 
 at this. Now if there be such a person among von, 
 which I am far from affirming, I may fairly reply 
 to him: My friend, I am a man, and like other men, 
 a creature of flesh and blood, and not of wood or 
 stone, as Homer says; and I have a family, yes, and 
 sons, O Athenians, three in number, one of whom is 
 growing up, and the two others are still young; and 
 yet I will not bring any of them hither in order to 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 125 
 
 petition you for an acquittal. And why not? Not 
 from any self-will or disregard of you. Whether I 
 am or am not afraid of death is another question, of 
 which I will not now speak. But my reason simply 
 is, that I feel such conduct to be discreditable to my¬ 
 self, and you, and the whole state. One who has 
 reached my years, and who has a name for wisdom, 
 whether deserved or not, ought not to demean him¬ 
 self. At any rate, the world has decided that Soc¬ 
 rates is in some way superior to other men. And if 
 those among you who are said to be superior in wisdom 
 and courage, and any other virtue, demean themselves 
 in this way, how shameful is their conduct! I have 
 seen men of reputation, when they have been con¬ 
 demned, behaving in the strangest manner: they 
 seemed to fancy that they were going to suffer some¬ 
 thing dreadful if they died, and that they could be 
 immortal if you only allowed them to live; and I 
 think that they were a dishonor to the state, and that 
 any stranger coming in would say of them that the 
 most eminent men of Athens, to whom the Athenians 
 themselves give honor and command, are no better 
 than women. And I say that these things ought not 
 to be done by those of us who are of reputation; and 
 if they are done, you ought not to permit them; you 
 ought rather to show that you are more inclined to 
 condemn, not the man who is quiet, but the man who 
 gets up a doleful scene, and makes the city ridiculous. 
 
 But, setting aside the question of dishonor, there 
 seems to be something wrong in petitioning a judge, 
 and thus procuring an acquittal instead of informing 
 and convincing him. For his duty is, not to make a 
 present of justice, but to give judgment; and he has 
 sworn that he will judge according to the laws and 
 not according to his own good pleasure; and neither 
 he nor we should get into the habit of perjuring our- 
 
126 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 selves — there can be no piety in that. Do not then 
 require me to do what I consider dishonorable and 
 impious and wrong, especially now, when I am being 
 tried for impiety on the indictment of Meletus. For 
 if, O men of Athens, by force of persuasion and en¬ 
 treaty, I could overpower your oaths, then I should 
 be teaching you to believe that there are no gods, and 
 convict myself, in my own defence, of not believing 
 in them. But that is not the case; for I do believe 
 that there are gods, and in a far higher sense than that 
 in which any of my accusers believe in them. And 
 to you and to God I commit my cause, to be deter¬ 
 mined by you as is best for you and me. 
 
 There are many reasons why I am not grieved, 
 O men of Athens, at the vote of condemnation. I 
 expected this, and am only surprised that the votes 
 are so nearly equal; for I had thought that the ma¬ 
 jority against me would have been far larger; but 
 now, had thirty votes gone over to the other side, I 
 should have been acquitted. And I may say that I 
 have escaped Meletus. And I may say more; for 
 without the assistance of Anytus and Lycon, he would 
 not have had a fifth part of the votes, as the law re¬ 
 quires, in which case he would have incurred a fine 
 of a thousand drachmae, as is evident. 
 
 And so he proposes death as the penalty. And 
 what shall I propose on my part, O men of Athens? 
 Clearly that which is my due. And what is that which 
 I ought to pay or to receive? What shall be done 
 to the man who has never had the wit to be idle during 
 his whole life; but has been careless of what the many 
 care about — wealth, and family interests, and mili¬ 
 tary offices, and speaking in the assembly, and mag¬ 
 istracies, and plots, and parties. Reflecting that J 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 127 
 
 was really too honest a man to follow in this way 
 and live, I did not go where I could do no good to you 
 or to myself; but where I could do the greatest good 
 privately to every one of you, thither I went, and 
 sought to persuade every man among you, that he 
 must look to himself, and seek virtue and wisdom 
 before he looks to his private interests, and look to 
 the state before he looks to the interests of the state; 
 and that this should be the order which he observes in 
 all his actions. What shall be done to such an one? 
 Doubtless some good thing, O men of Athens, if he 
 has his reward; and the good should be of a kind 
 suitable to him. What would be a reward suitable 
 to a poor man who is your benefactor, who desires 
 leisure that he may instruct you? There can be no 
 more fitting reward than maintenance in the Pry- 
 taneum, O men of Athens, a reward which he deserves 
 far more than the citizen who has won the prize at 
 Olympia in the horse or chariot race, whether the 
 chariots were drawn by two horses or by many. For 
 I am in want, and he has enough; and he only gives 
 you the appearance of happiness, and I give you the 
 reality. And if I am to estimate the penalty justly, 
 I say that maintenance in the Prytaneum is the just 
 return. 
 
 Perhaps you may think that I am braving you in 
 saying this, as in what I said before about the tears 
 and prayers. But that is not the case. I speak rather 
 because I am convinced that I never intentionally 
 wronged any one, although I can not convince you of 
 that — for we have had a short conversation only; 
 but if there were a law at Athens, such as there is in 
 other cities, that a capital cause should not be decided 
 in one day, then I believe that I should have con¬ 
 vinced you; but now tbe time is too short. I can not 
 in a moment refute great slanders; and, as I am con- 
 
128 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 vinced that I never wronged another, I will assuredly 
 not wrong myself. I will not say of myself that I 
 deserve any evil, or propose any penalty. Why 
 should I? Because I am afraid of the penalty of 
 death which Meletus proposes? When I do not know 
 whether death is a good or an evil, why should I pro¬ 
 pose a penalty which would certainly be an evil? 
 Shall I say imprisonment? And why should I live 
 in prison, and be the slave of the magistrates of the 
 y ear — of the eleven? Or shall the penalty be a fine, 
 and imprisonment until the fine is paid? . There is 
 the same objection. I should have to lie in prison, 
 for money I have none, and can not pay. And if I 
 say exile (and this may possibly be the penalty which 
 you will affix), I must indeed be blinded by the love 
 of life, if I do not consider that when you, who are 
 my own citizens, can not endure my discourses and 
 words, and have found them so grievous and odious 
 that you would fain have done with them, others are 
 likely to endure me. No indeed, men of Athens, that 
 is not very likely. And what a life should I lead, at 
 my age, wandering from city to city, living in ever- 
 changing exile, and always being driven out! For 
 I am quite sure that into whatever place I go, as 
 here so also there, the young men will come to me; 
 and if I drive them away, their elders will drive me 
 out at their desire; and if I let them come, their 
 fathers and friends will drive me out for their sakes. 
 
 Some one will say: Yes, Socrates, but can not you 
 hold your tongue, and then you may go into a foreign 
 city, and no one will interfere with you? Now I have 
 great difficulty in making you understand my answer 
 to this. For if I tell you that this would be a dis¬ 
 obedience to a divine command, and therefore that I 
 can not hold my tongue, you will not believe that I 
 am serious; and if I say again that the greatest good 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 129 
 
 of man is daily to converse about virtue, and all that 
 concerning which you hear me examining myself and 
 others, and that the life which is unexamined is not 
 worth living — that you are still less likely to believe. 
 And yet what I say is true, although a thing of which 
 it is hard for me to persuade you. Moreover, I am 
 not accustomed to think that I deserve any punish¬ 
 ment. Had I money I might have proposed to give 
 you what I had, and have been none the worse. But 
 you see that I have none, and can only ask you to 
 proportion the fine to my means. However, I think 
 that I could afford a mina, and therefore I propose 
 that penalty: Plato, Crito, Critobulus, and Apollo- 
 dorus, my friends here, bid me say thirty minae, and 
 they will be the sureties. Well, then, say thirty 
 minae, let that be the penalty; for that they will be 
 ample security to you. 
 
 Not much time will be gained, O Athenians, in 
 return for the evil name which you will get from the 
 detractors of the city, who will say that you killed 
 Socrates, a wise man; for they will call me wise even 
 although I am not wise when they want to reproach 
 you. If you had waited a little while, your desire 
 would have been fulfilled in the course of nature. 
 For I am far advanced in years, as you may perceive, 
 and not far from death. I am speaking now only 
 to those of you who have condemned me to death. 
 And I have another thing to say to them: You think 
 that I was convicted through deficiency of words — 
 I mean, that if I had thought fit to leave nothing 
 undone, nothing unsaid, I might have gained an 
 acquittal. Not so; the deficiency which led to my 
 conviction was not of words — certainly not. But I 
 had not the boldness or impudence or inclination to 
 
130 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 address you as you would have liked me to address 
 you, weeping and wailing and lamenting, and saying 
 and doing many things which you have been accus¬ 
 tomed to hear from others, and which, as I say, are 
 unworthy of me. But I thought that I ought not to 
 do anything common or mean in the hour of danger: 
 nor do I now repent of the manner of my defence, 
 and I would rather die having spoken after my man¬ 
 ner, than speak in your manner and live. For neither 
 in war nor yet at law ought any man to use every 
 way of escaping death. For often in battle there is 
 no doubt that if a man will throw away his arms, and 
 fall on his knees before his pursuers, he may escape 
 death; and in other dangers there are other ways of 
 escaping death, if a man is willing to say and do 
 anything. The difficulty, my friends, is not in avoid¬ 
 ing death, but in avoiding unrighteousness; for that 
 runs faster than death. I am old and move slowly, 
 and the slower runner has overtaken me, and my 
 accusers are keen and quick, and the faster runner, 
 who is unrighteousness, has overtaken them. And 
 now I depart hence condemned by you to suffer the 
 penalty of death, and they too go their ways con¬ 
 demned by the truth to suffer the penalty of villainy 
 and wrong; and I must abide by my award —let 
 them abide by theirs. I suppose that these things 
 may be regarded as fated, — and I think that they 
 are well. 
 
 And now, O men who have condemned me, I would 
 fain prophesy to you; for I am about to die, and 
 that is the hour in which men are gifted with pro¬ 
 phetic power. And I prophesy to you who are my 
 murderers, that immediately after my death punish¬ 
 ment far heavier than you have inflicted on me will 
 surely await you. Me you have killed because you 
 wanted to escape the accuser, and not to give an ac- 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 131 
 
 count of your lives. But that will not be as you sup¬ 
 pose: far otherwise. For I say that there will be 
 more accusers of you than there are now; accusers 
 whom hitherto I have restrained: and as they are 
 younger they will be more severe with you, and you 
 will be more offended at them. For if you think that 
 by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring 
 your lives, you are mistaken; that is not a way of 
 escape which is either possible or honorable; the easi¬ 
 est and the noblest way is not to be crushing others, 
 but to be improving yourselves. This is the prophecy 
 which I utter before my departure to the judges who 
 have condemned me. 
 
 Friends, who would have acquitted me, I would 
 like also to talk with you about this thing which has 
 happened, while the magistrates are busy, and before 
 I go to the place at which I must die. Stay then 
 awhile, for we may as well talk with one another while 
 there is time. You are my friends, and I should like 
 to show you the meaning of this event which has hap¬ 
 pened to me. O my judges — for you I may truly 
 call judges — I should like to tell you of a wonderful 
 circumstance. Hitherto the familiar oracle within me 
 has constantly been in the habit of opposing me even 
 about trifles, if I was going to make a slip or error 
 about anything; and now as you see there has come 
 upon me that which may be thought, and is generally 
 believed to be, the last and worst evil. But the oracle 
 made no sign of opposition, either as I was leaving 
 my house and going out in the morning, or when I 
 was going up into this court, or while I was speaking, 
 at anything which I was going to say; and yet I 
 have often been stopped in the middle of a speech, 
 but now in nothing I either said or did touching this 
 matter has the oracle opposed me. What do I take 
 to be the explanation of this? I will tell you. I re- 
 
132 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 gard this as a proof that what has happened to me 
 is a good, and that those of us who think that death 
 is an evil are in error. This is a great proof to me 
 of what I am saying, for the customary sign would 
 surely have opposed me had I been going to evil and 
 not to good. 
 
 Let us reflect in another way, and we shall see that 
 there is great reason to hope that death is a good, 
 for one of two things: — either death is a state of 
 nothingness and utter unconsciousness, or, as men say, 
 there is a change and migration of the soul from this 
 world to another. Now if you suppose that there is 
 no consciousness, but a sleep like the sleep of him who 
 is undisturbed even by the sight of dreams, death will 
 be an unspeakable gain. For if a person were to 
 select the night in which his sleep was undisturbed 
 even by dreams, and were to compare with this the 
 other days and nights of his life, and then were to 
 tell us how many days and nights he had passed in 
 the course of his life better and more pleasantly than 
 this one, I think that any man, I will not say a private 
 man, but even the great king will not find many such 
 days or nights, when compared with the others. Now 
 if death is like this, I say that to die is gain; for 
 eternity is then only a single night. But if death is 
 ’ the journey to another place, and there, as men say, 
 all the dead are, what good, O my friends and judges, 
 can he greater than this? If indeed when the pilgrim 
 arrives in the world below, he is delivered from the 
 professors of justice in this world, and finds the true 
 judges who are said to give judgment there, Minos 
 and Bhadamanthus and Aeacus and Triptolemus, 
 and other sons of God who were righteous in their 
 own life, that pilgrimage will be worth making. 
 What would not a man give if he might converse 
 with Orpheus and Musaeus and Hesiod and Homer? 
 
APOLOGY 
 
 133 
 
 Nay, if this be true, let me die again and again. I, 
 too, shall have a wonderful interest in a place where 
 I can converse with Palamedes, and Ajax the son of 
 Telamon, and other heroes of old, who have suffered 
 death through an unjust judgment; and there will 
 be no small pleasure, as I think, in comparing my 
 own sufferings with theirs. Above all, I shall be able 
 to continue my search into true and false knowledge; 
 as in this world, so also in that; I shall find out who 
 is wise, and who pretends to be wise, and is not. 
 What would not a man give, O judges, to be able 
 to examine the leader of the great Trojan expedition; 
 or Odysseus or Sisyphus, or numberless others, men 
 and women too! What infinite delight would there 
 be in conversing with them and asking them ques¬ 
 tions! For in that world they do not put a man to 
 death for this; certainly not. For besides being hap¬ 
 pier in that world than in this, they will be immortal, 
 if what is said is true. 
 
 Wherefore, O judges, be of good cheer about 
 death, and know this of a truth — that no evil can 
 happen to a good man, either in life or after death. 
 He and his are not neglected by the gods; nor has 
 my own approaching end happened by mere chance. 
 But I see clearly that to die and be released was better 
 for me; and therefore the oracle gave no sign. For 
 which reason, also, I am not angry with my accusers 
 or my condemners; they have done me no harm, 
 although neither of them meant to do me any good; 
 and for this I may gently blame them. 
 
 Still I have a favor to ask of them. When my sons 
 are grown up, I would ask you, O my friends, to 
 punish them; and I would have you trouble them, 
 as I have troubled you, if they seem to care about 
 riches, or anything, more than about virtue; or if 
 they pretend to be something when they are really 
 
134 
 
 APOLOGY 
 
 nothing, — then reprove them, as I have reproved 
 you, for not caring about that for which they ought 
 to care, and thinking that they are something when 
 they are really nothing. And if you do this, X and 
 my sons will have received justice at your hands. 
 
 The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our 
 ways _ I to die, and you to live. Which is better 
 
 God only knows. 
 
 
CRITO 
 
mmmmm 
 

 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Crito seems intended to exhibit the character of Socrates 
 in one light only, not as the philosopher, fulfilling a divine mis¬ 
 sion and trusting in the will of heaven, but simply as the good 
 citizen, who having been unjustly condemned is willing to give up 
 his life in obedience to the laws of the state. 
 
 The days of Socrates are drawing to a close; the fatal ship 
 has been seen off Sunium, as he is informed by his aged friend 
 and contemporary Crito, who visits him before the dawn has 
 broken; he himself has been warned in a dream that on the third 
 day he must depart. Time is precious, and Crito has come early 
 in order to gain his consent to a plan of escape. This can be 
 easily accomplished by his friends, who will incur no danger in 
 making the attempt to save him, but will be disgraced forever 
 if they allow him to perish. He should think of his duty to his 
 children, and not play into the hands of his enemies. Money 
 is already provided by Crito as well as by Simmias and others, 
 and he will have no difficulty in finding friends in Thessaly and 
 other places. 
 
 Socrates is afraid that Crito is but pressing upon him the 
 opinions of the many: whereas, all his life long he has followed 
 the dictates of reason only and the opinion of the one wise or 
 skilled man. There was a time when Crito himself had allowed 
 the propriety of this. And although some one will say “ the 
 many can kill us,” that makes no difference; but a good life, 
 that is to say a just and honorable life, is alone to be valued. 
 All considerations of loss of reputation or injury to his children 
 should be dismissed: the only question is whether he would be 
 right in attempting to escape. Crito, who is a disinterested 
 person not having the fear of death before his eyes, shall answer 
 this for him. Before he was condemned they had often held 
 discussions, in which they agreed that no man should either do 
 evil, or return evil for evil, or betray the right. Are these prin¬ 
 ciples to be altered because the circumstances of Socrates are 
 altered? Crito admits that they remain the same. Then is his 
 
 137 
 
138 
 
 CRITO 
 
 [/ 
 
 escape consistent with the maintenance of them? To this Crito 
 
 is unable or unwilling to reply. 
 
 Socrates proceeds: — Suppose the laws of Athens to come 
 and remonstrate with him: they will ask Why does he seek 
 to overturn them? ” and if he replies, “ they have injured him/’ 
 will not the laws answer, “Yes, but was that the agreement? 
 Has he any objection to make to them which would justify him 
 in overturning them? Was he not brought into the world and 
 educated by their help, and are they not his parents ? He might 
 have left Athens and gone where he pleased, but he has lived 
 there for seventy years more constantly than any other citizen. 
 Thus he has clearly shown that he acknowledged the agreement 
 which he can not now break without dishonor to himself and 
 danger to his friends. Even in the course of the trial he might 
 have proposed exile as the penalty, but then he declared that he 
 preferred death to exile. And whither will he direct his foot¬ 
 steps ? In any well-ordered state the laws will consider him 
 as an enemy. Possibly in a land of misrule like Thessaly he 
 may be welcomed at first, and the unseemly narrative of his 
 escape regarded by the inhabitants as an amusing tale. But if 
 he offends them he will have to learn another sort of lesson. 
 Will he continue to give lectures in virtue? That would hardly 
 be decent. And how will his children be the gainers if he takes 
 them into Thessaly, and deprives them of Athenian citizenship? 
 Or if he leaves them behind, does he expect that they will be 
 better taken care of by his friends because he is in Thessaly? 
 Will not true friends care for them equally whether he is alive 
 
 or dead? _ . 
 
 Finally, they exhort him to think of justice first, and of life 
 
 and children afterwards. He may now depart in peace and in¬ 
 nocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil. But if he breaks 
 agreements, and returns evil for evil, they will be angry wit 
 him while he lives; and their brethren the laws of the world 
 below will receive him as an enemy. Such is the mystic voice 
 which is always murmuring in his ears. 
 
 That Socrates was not a good citizen was a charge made 
 against him during his lifetime, which has been often repeated m 
 later ages. The crimes of Alcibiades, Critias, and Charmides, 
 who had been his pupils, were still recent in the memory of the 
 now restored democracy. The fact that he had been neutral in 
 the death-struggle of Athens was not likely to conciliate popular 
 good-will. Plato, writing probably in the next generation, un- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 139 
 
 dertakes the defence of his friend and master in this particular, 
 not to the Athenians of his day, but to posterity and the world 
 at large. 
 
 Whether such an incident ever really occurred as the visit of 
 Crito and the proposal of escape is uncertain: Plato could easily 
 have invented far more than that; and in the selection of Crito, 
 the aged friend, as the fittest person to make the proposal to 
 Socrates, we seem to recognize the hand of the artist. Whether 
 any one who has been subjected by the laws of his country to 
 an unjust judgment is right in attempting to escape, is a thesis 
 about which casuists might disagree. Shelley is of opinion that 
 Socrates “ did well to die/’ but not for the “ sophistical ” reasons 
 which Plato has put into his mouth. And there would be no 
 difficulty in arguing that Socrates should have lived and pre¬ 
 ferred to a glorious death the good which he might still be able 
 to perform. “ A skilful rhetorician would have had much to say 
 about that.” It may be remarked however that Plato never 
 intended to answer the question of casuistry, but only to exhibit 
 the ideal of patient virtue which refuses to do the least evil in 
 order to avoid the greatest, and to show Socrates, his master, 
 maintaining in death the opinions which he had professed in 
 his life. Not “ the world/’ but the “ one wise man,” is still the 
 philosopher’s paradox in his last hours. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
CRITO 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 
 Socrates. Crito. 
 
 Scene : — The Prison of Socrates. 
 
 Socrates. Why have you come at this hour, Crito? 
 it must be quite early? 
 
 Crito. Yes, certainly. 
 
 Soc. What is the exact time? 
 
 Cr. The dawn is breaking. 
 
 Soc. I wonder that the keeper of the prison would 
 let you in. 
 
 Cr. He knows me, because I often come, Socrates; 
 moreover, I have done him a kindness. 
 
 Soc. And are you only just come? 
 
 Cr. Yo, I came some time ago. 
 
 Soc. Then why did you sit and say nothing, instead 
 of awakening me at once? 
 
 Cr. Why, indeed, Socrates, I myself would rather 
 not have all this sleeplessness and sorrow. But I 
 have been wondering at your peaceful slumbers, and 
 that was the reason why I did not awaken you, be¬ 
 cause I wanted you to be out of pain. I have always 
 thought you happy in the calmness of your tempera¬ 
 ment ; but never did I see the like of the easy, cheer¬ 
 ful way in which you bear this calamity. 
 
 Soc. Why, Crito, when a man has reached my age 
 he ought not to be repining at the prospect of death. 
 
 Cr. And yet other old men find themselves in sim- 
 
 141 
 
 
142 
 
 CRITO 
 
 ilar misfortunes, and age does not prevent them from 
 • • 
 
 ^That may be. But you have not told me why 
 
 vou come at this early hour. • j 
 
 * Cr. I come to bring you a message which is s ad 
 and painful; not, as I believe.toyoui^lfbutto al 
 of us 1 who are your friends, and saddest of all to m . 
 Soc. What! I suppose that the ship has come from 
 
 Delos on the arrival of which I am to die. 
 
 Cr No, the ship has not actually arrived, but s e 
 will probably be here to-day, as persons who have 
 come from Sunium tell me that t ey e ^ 
 
 and therefore to-morrow, Socrates, will be the 1 
 
 dl ?SYjc Wery 1 well, Crito; if such is the will of God, 
 I am willing; but my belief is that there will be a 
 
 delay of a day. 
 
 Soc.Twill 0 te y U yom Yam to die on the day after 
 the arrival of the ship? 
 
 Cr Yes; that is what the authorities say. 
 
 Soc. But I do not think that the ship will be here 
 until to-morrow; this I gather from a vision which 
 iSad last night, or rather only just now, when you 
 
 fortunately allowed me to sleep. . 
 
 Cr And what was the nature of the vision. 
 
 Voc There came to me the likeness of a woman 
 fair and comely, clothed in white raiment, who called 
 
 to me and said*. O Socrates, 
 
 “ The third day hence to Phthia shalt thou go. 
 
 Cr What a singular dream, Socrates! . 
 
 Soc. There can be no doubt about the meaning, 
 
 Cl fv’ Yes; the meaning is only too clear. But, Oh1 
 my beloved Socrates, let me entreat you once more 
 
CRITO 
 
 143 
 
 « i. 
 
 to take my advice and escape. For if you die I shall 
 not only lose a friend who can never be replaced, but 
 there is another evil: people who do not know you 
 and me will believe that I might have saved you if 
 I had been willing to give money, but that I did not 
 care. Now, can there be a worse disgrace than this — 
 that I should be thought to value money more than 
 the life of a friend? For the many will not be per¬ 
 suaded that I wanted you to escape, and that you 
 refused. 
 
 Soc. But why, my dear Crito, should we care about 
 the opinion of the many? Good men, and they are 
 the only persons who are worth considering, will think 
 of these things truly as they happened. 
 
 Cr. But do you see, Socrates, that the opinion of 
 the many must be regarded, as is evident in your own 
 case, because they can do the very greatest evil to 
 any one w T ho has lost their good opinion. 
 
 Soc . I only wish, Crito, that they could; for then 
 they could also do the greatest good, and that would 
 be well. But the truth is, that they can do neither 
 good nor evil: they can not make a man wise or make 
 him foolish; and whatever they do is the result of 
 chance. 
 
 Cr. Well, I will not dispute about that; but please 
 to tell me, Socrates, whether you are not acting out 
 of regard to me and your other friends: are you not 
 afraid that if you escape hence we may get into 
 trouble with the informers for having stolen you 
 away, and lose either the whole or a great part of our 
 property; or that even a worse evil may happen to 
 us? Now, if this is your fear, be at ease; for in order 
 to save you, we ought surely to run this, or even a 
 greater risk; be persuaded, then, and do as I say. 
 
 Soc. Yes, Crito, that is one fear which you men¬ 
 tion, but by no means the only one. 
 
144 
 
 CRITO 
 
 Cr. Fear not. There are persons who at no great 
 cost are willing to save you and bring you out of 
 prison; and as for the informers, you may observe 
 that they are far from being exorbitant in their de¬ 
 mands; a little money will satisfy them. My means, 
 which, as I am sure, are ample, are at your service, 
 and if you have a scruple about spending all mine, 
 here are strangers who will give you the use of theirs; 
 and one of them, Simmias the Theban, has brought 
 a sum of money for this very purpose; and Cebes and 
 many others are willing to spend their money too. 
 say therefore, do not on that account hesitate about 
 making your escape, and do not say, as you did in 
 the court, that you will have a difficulty in knowing 
 what to do with yourself if you escape. For men will 
 love you in other places to which you may go, and not 
 in Athens only; there are friends of mine in Thes¬ 
 saly if you like to go to them, who will value and 
 protect you, and no Thessalian will give you any 
 trouble. Nor can I think that you are justified, Soc¬ 
 rates, in betraying your own life when you might be 
 saved; this is "playing into the hands of your enemies 
 and destroyers; and moreover I should say that you 
 were betraying your children; for you might bring 
 them up and educate them; instead of which you go 
 away and leave them, and they will have to take their 
 chance; and if they do not meet with the usual fate 
 of orphans, there will be small thanks to you. N o 
 man should bring children into the world who is un¬ 
 willing to persevere to the end in their nurture and 
 education. But you are choosing the easier part, as 
 I think, not the better and manlier, which would 
 rather have become one who professes virtue in all Ins 
 actions, like yourself. And indeed, I am ashamed not 
 only of you, but of us who are your friends, when 
 I reflect that this entire business of yours will be- 
 
CRITO 
 
 145 
 
 attributed to our want of courage. The trial need 
 never have come on, or might have been brought to 
 another issue; and the end of all, which is the crown¬ 
 ing absurdity, will seem to have been permitted by 
 us, through cowardice and baseness, who might have 
 saved you, as you might have saved yourself, if we 
 had been good for anything (for there was no diffi¬ 
 culty in escaping) ; and we did not see how disgrace¬ 
 ful, Socrates, and also miserable all this will be to 
 us as well as to you. Make your mind up then, or 
 rather have your mind already made up, for the time 
 of deliberation is over, and there is only one thing to 
 be done, which must be done, if at all, this very night, 
 and which any delay will render all but impossible; 
 I beseech you therefore, Socrates, to be persuaded 
 by me, and to do as I say. 
 
 Soc. Dear Crito, your zeal is invaluable, if a right 
 one; but if wrong, the greater the zeal the greater 
 the evil; and therefore we ought to consider whether 
 these things shall be done or not. For I am and 
 always have been one of those natures who must be 
 guided by reason, whatever the reason may be which 
 upon reflection appears to me to be the best; and now 
 that this fortune has come upon me, I can not put 
 away the reasons which I have before given: the 
 principles which I have hitherto honored and revered 
 I still honor, and unless we can find other and better 
 principles on the instant, I am certain not to agree 
 with you; no, not even if the power of the multitude 
 could inflict many more imprisonments, confiscations, 
 deaths, frightening us like children with hobgoblin 
 terrors. But what will be the fairest way of consid¬ 
 ering the question? Shall I return to your old argu¬ 
 ment about the opinions of men? some of which are 
 to be regarded, and others, as we were saying, are 
 not to be regarded. Now were we right in maintain- 
 
146 
 
 CRITO 
 
 ing this before I was condemned? And has the argu¬ 
 ment which was once good now proved to be talk for 
 the sake of talking; — in fact an amusement only, 
 and altogether vanity? That is what I want to con¬ 
 sider with your help, Crito: — whether, under my 
 present circumstances, the argument appears to be 
 in any way different or not; and is to be allowed by 
 me or disallowed. That argument, which, as I be¬ 
 lieve, is maintained by many who assume to be author¬ 
 ities, was to the effect, as I was saying, that the opin¬ 
 ions of some men are to be regarded, and of other men 
 not to be regarded. Now you, Crito, are a disinter¬ 
 ested person who are not going to die to-morrow at 
 least, there is no human probability of this, and you 
 are therefore not liable to be deceived by the circum¬ 
 stances in which you are placed. Tell me then, 
 whether I am right in saying that some opinions, and 
 the opinions of some men only, are to be valued, and 
 other opinions, and the opinions of other men, are 
 not to be valued. I ask you whether I was right in 
 maintaining this? 
 
 Cr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc . The good are to be regarded, and not the bad ? 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And the opinions of the wise are good, and 
 the opinions of the unwise are evil? 
 
 Cr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And what was said about another matter? 
 Was the disciple in gymnastics supposed to attend 
 to the praise and blame and opinion of every man, 
 or of one man only — his physician or trainer, who¬ 
 ever that was? 
 
 Cr. Of one man only. 
 
 Soc. And he ought* to fear the censure and wel¬ 
 come the praise of that one only, and not of the man} ? 
 
 Cr. That is clear. 
 
CRITO 
 
 147 
 
 Soc. And he ought to live and train, and eat and 
 drink in the way which seems good to his single mas¬ 
 ter who has understanding, rather than according to 
 the opinion of all other men put together? 
 
 Cr. True. 
 
 Soc. And if he disobeys and disregards the opinion 
 and approval of the one, and regards the opinion of 
 the many who have no understanding, will he not 
 suffer evil ? 
 
 Cr. Certainly he will. 
 
 Soc. And what will the evil be, whither tending 
 and what affecting, in the disobedient person? 
 
 Cr. Clearly, affecting the body; that is what is 
 destroyed by the evil. 
 
 Soc. Very good; and is not this true, Crito, of 
 other things which we need not separately enumerate ? 
 In the matter of just and unjust, fair and foul, good 
 and evil, which are the subjects of our present con¬ 
 sultation, ought we to follow the opinion of the many 
 and to fear them; or the opinion of the one man who, 
 has understanding, and whom we ought to fear and 
 reverence more than all the rest of the world: and 
 whom deserting we shall destroy and injure that prin¬ 
 ciple in us which may be assumed to be improved by 
 justice and deteriorated by injustice; — is there not 
 such a principle? 
 
 Cr. Certainly there is, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Take a parallel instance: — if, acting under 
 the advice of men who have no understanding, we 
 destroy that which is improvable by health and deteri¬ 
 orated by disease — when that has been destroyed, I 
 say, would life be worth having ? And that is — the 
 body? 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Could we live, having an evil and corrupted 
 body? 
 
148 
 
 CRITO 
 
 Cr . Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. And will life be worth having, if that higher 
 part of man be depraved, which is improved by jus¬ 
 tice and deteriorated by injustice?. Do we suppose 
 that principle, whatever it may be in man, which has 
 to do with justice and injustice, to be inferior to the 
 
 body? 
 
 Cr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. More honored, then? 
 
 Cr. Far more honored. 
 
 Soc. Then, my friend, we must not regard what 
 the many say of us: but what he, the one man who has 
 understanding of just and unjust, w T ill say, and what 
 the truth will say. And therefore you begin in error 
 when you suggest that we should regard the opinion 
 of the many about just and unjust, good and evil, 
 honorable and dishonorable. — Well, some one will 
 
 say, “ but the many can kill us.” 
 
 Cr. Yes, Socrates; that will clearly be the answer. 
 
 Soc. That is true: but still I find with surprise that 
 the old argument is, as I conceive, unshaken as ever. 
 And I should like to know whether I may say the 
 same of another proposition — that not life, but a 
 good life, is to be chiefly valued? 
 
 Cr. Yes, that also remains. 
 
 Soc. And a good life is equivalent to a just and 
 honorable one — that holds also ? 
 
 Cr. Yes, that holds. 
 
 Soc. From these premisses I proceed to argue the 
 question whether I ought or ought not to try and 
 escape without the consent of the Athenians: and if 
 I am clearly right in escaping, then I will make the 
 attempt; but if not, I will abstain. The other con¬ 
 siderations which you mention, of money and loss of 
 character and the duty of educating children, are, as 
 I fear, only the doctrines of the multitude, who would 
 
CRITO 
 
 149 
 
 be as ready to call people to life, if they were able, 
 as they are to put them to death — and with as little 
 reason. But now, since the argument has thus far 
 prevailed, the only question which remains to be con¬ 
 sidered is, whether we shall do rightly either in escap¬ 
 ing or in suffering others to aid in our escape and 
 paying them in money and thanks, or whether we 
 shall not do rightly; and if the latter, then death or 
 any other calamity which may ensue on my remaining 
 here must not be allowed to enter into the calculation. 
 
 Cr. I think that you are right, Socrates; how then 
 shall we proceed? 
 
 Soc. Let us consider the matter together, and do 
 you either refute me if you can, and I will be con¬ 
 vinced ; or else cease, my dear friend, from repeating 
 to me that I ought to escape against the wishes of 
 the Athenians: for I am extremely desirous to be 
 persuaded by you, but not against my own better 
 judgment. And now please to consider my first posi¬ 
 tion, and do your best to answer me. 
 
 Cr. I will do my best. 
 
 Soc. Are we to say that we are never intentionally 
 to do wrong, or that in one way we ought and in 
 another way we ought not to do wrong, or is doing 
 wrong always evil and dishonorable, as I was just 
 now saying, and as has been already acknowledged 
 by us? Are all our former admissions which were 
 made within a few days to be thrown away? And 
 have we, at our age, been earnestly discoursing with 
 one another all our life long only to discover that we 
 are no better than children? Or are we to rest assured, 
 in spite of the opinion of the many, and in spite of 
 consequences whether better or worse, of the truth 
 of what was then said, that injustice is always an 
 evil and dishonor to him who acts unjustly? Shall 
 we affirm that? 
 
150 
 
 CRITO 
 
 Cr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then we must do no wrong? 
 
 Cr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Nor when injured injure in return, as the 
 many imagine; for w r e must injure no one at all? 
 
 Cr. Clearly not. 
 
 Soc. Again, Crito, may we do evil? 
 
 Cr. Surely not, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. And what of doing evil in return for evil, 
 which is the morality of the many — is that just or 
 not? 
 
 Cr. Not just. 
 
 Soc. For doing evil to another is the same as injur¬ 
 ing him? 
 
 Cr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Then we ought not to retaliate or render evil 
 for evil to any one, whatever evil we may have suf¬ 
 fered from him. But I would have you consider, 
 Crito, whether you really mean what you are saying. 
 For this opinion has never been held, and never will 
 be held, by any considerable number of persons; and 
 those who are agreed and those who are not agreed 
 upon this point have no common ground, and can 
 only despise one another when they see how widely 
 they differ. Tell me, then, whether you agree with 
 and assent to my first principle, that neither injury 
 nor retaliation nor warding off evil by evil is ever 
 right. And shall that be the premiss of our argu¬ 
 ment? Or do you decline and dissent from this? For 
 this has been of old and is still my opinion; but, if 
 you are of another opinion, let me hear what you have 
 to say. If, however, you remain of the same mind 
 as formerly, I will proceed to the next step. 
 
 Cr. You may proceed, for I have not changed my 
 mind. 
 
 Soc. Then I will proceed to the next step, which 
 
CRITO 
 
 151 
 
 may be put in the form of a question: — Ought a 
 man to do what he admits to be right, or ought he 
 to betray the right? 
 
 Cr. He ought to do what he thinks right. 
 
 Soc. But if this is true, what is the application? 
 In leaving the prison against the will of the Atheni¬ 
 ans, do I wrong any? or rather do I not wrong those 
 whom I ought least to wrong? Do I not desert the 
 principles which were acknowledged by us to be just? 
 What do you say? 
 
 Cr. I can not tell, Socrates; for I do not know. 
 
 Soc. Then consider the matter in this way: — Im¬ 
 agine that I am about to play truant (you may call 
 the proceeding by any name which you like), and the 
 laws and the government come and interrogate me: 
 “ Tell us, Socrates,” they say; “ what are you about? 
 are you going by an act of yours to overturn us — 
 the laws and the whole state, as far as in you lies? 
 Do you imagine that a state can subsist and not be 
 overthrown, in which the decisions of law have no 
 power, but are set aside and overthrown by individ¬ 
 uals? ” What will be our answer, Crito, to these and 
 the like words ? Any one, and especially a clever rhet¬ 
 orician, will have a good deal to urge about the evil 
 of setting aside the law which requires a sentence to 
 be carried out; and we might reply, “ Yes; but the 
 state has injured us and given an unjust sentence.” 
 Suppose I say that? 
 
 Cr. Very good, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. “ And was that our agreement with you? ” 
 the law would say; “or were you to abide by the 
 sentence of the state? ” And if I were to express 
 astonishment at their saying this, the law would prob¬ 
 ably add: “ Answer, Socrates, instead of opening your 
 eyes: you are in the habit of asking and answering 
 questions. Tell us what complaint you have to make 
 
152 
 
 CRITO 
 
 against us which justifies you in attempting to destroy 
 us and the state? In the first place did we not bring 
 you into existence ? Your father married your mother 
 by our aid and begat you. Say whether you have 
 any objection to urge against those of us who regu¬ 
 late marriage ? ” None, I should reply. “ Or against 
 those of us who regulate the system of nurture and 
 education of children in which you were trained? 
 Were not the laws, who have the charge of this, right 
 in commanding your father to train you in music and 
 gymnastic? ” Right, I should reply. Well then, 
 since you were brought into the world and nurtured 
 and educated by us, can you deny in the first place 
 that you are our child and slave, as your fathers were 
 before you? And if this is true you are not on equal 
 terms with us; nor can you think that you have a 
 right to do to us what we are doing to you. Would 
 you have any right to strike or revile or do any other 
 evil to a father or to your master, if you had one, when 
 you have been struck or reviled by him, or received 
 some other evil at his hands? — you would not say 
 this? And because we think right to destroy you, 
 do you think that you have any right to destroy us in 
 return, and your country as far as in you lies? And 
 will you, O professor of true virtue, say that you are 
 justified in this? Has a philosopher like you failed 
 to discover that our country is more to be valued and 
 higher and holier far than mother or father or any 
 ancestor, and more to be regarded in the eyes of the 
 gods and of men of understanding? also to be soothed, 
 and gently and reverently entreated when angry, even 
 more than a father, and if not persuaded, obeyed? 
 And when we are punished by her, whether with im¬ 
 prisonment or stripes, the punishment is to be endured 
 m silence; and if she lead us to wounds or death in 
 battle, thither we follow as is right; neither may any 
 
CRITO 
 
 153 
 
 one yield or retreat or leave his rank, but whether in 
 battle or in a court of law, or in any other place, he 
 must do what his city and his country order him; or 
 he must change their view of what is just: and if he 
 may do no violence to his father or mother, much 
 less may he do violence to his country.” What 
 answer shall we make to this, Crito? Do the laws 
 speak truly, or do they not? 
 
 Cr. I think that they do. 
 
 Soc. Then the laws will say: “ Consider, Socrates, 
 if this is true, that in your present attempt you are 
 going to do us wrong. For, after having brought 
 you into the world, and nurtured and educated you, 
 and given you and every other citizen a share in every 
 good that we had to give, we further proclaim and 
 give the right to every Athenian, that if he does not 
 like us when he has come of age and has seen the ways 
 of the city, and made our acquaintance, he may go 
 where he pleases and take his goods with him; and 
 none of us laws will forbid him or interfere with him. 
 Any of you who does not like us and the city, and 
 who wants to go to a colony or to any other city, may 
 go where he likes, and take his goods with him. But 
 he who has experience of the manner in which we 
 order justice and administer the state, and still re¬ 
 mains, has entered into an implied contract that he 
 will do as we command him. And he who disobeys us 
 is, as we maintain, thrice wrong; first, because in dis¬ 
 obeying us he is disobeying his parents; secondly, be¬ 
 cause we are the authors of his education; thirdly, 
 because he has made an agreement with us that he will 
 duly obey our commands; and he neither obeys them 
 nor convinces us that our commands are wrong; and 
 we do not rudely impose them, but give them the 
 alternative of obeying or convincing us;—that is what 
 we offer, and he does neither. These are the sort of 
 
154 
 
 CRITO 
 
 accusations to which, as we were saying, you, Socrates, 
 will be exposed if you accomplish your intentions; 
 you, above all other Athenians. Suppose I ask, 
 why is this? they will justly retort upon me 
 that I above all other men have acknowledged the 
 agreement. “ There is clear proof,” they will say, 
 
 “ Socrates, that we and the city were not displeasing 
 to you. Of all Athenians you have been the most con¬ 
 stant resident in the city, which, as you never leave, 
 you may be supposed to love. For you never went 
 out of the city either to see the games, except once 
 when you went to the Isthmus, or to any other place 
 unless when you were on military service; nor did you 
 travel as other men do. Nor had you any curiosity to 
 know other states or their laws: your affections did 
 not go beyond us and our state ; we were your special 
 favorites, and you acquiesced in our government of 
 vou; and this is the state in which you begat your chil¬ 
 dren, which is a proof of your satisfaction. Moreover, 
 you might, if you had liked, have fixed the penalty at 
 banishment in the course of the trial — the state which 
 refuses to let you go now would have let you go then. 
 But you pretended that you preferred death to exile, 
 and that you were not grieved at death. And now 
 vou have forgotten these fine sentiments, and pay no 
 respect to us the laws, of whom you are the destroyer; 
 and are doing what only a miserable slave would do, 
 running away and turning your back upon the com¬ 
 pacts and agreements which you made as a citizen. 
 And first of all answer this very question: Are we 
 right in saying that you agreed to be governed accord¬ 
 ing to us in deed, and not in word only? Is that true 
 or not? ” How shall we answer that, Cnto. Must 
 
 we not agree? 
 
 Cr. There is no help, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then will they not say: “ You, Socrates, are 
 
CRITO 
 
 155 
 
 breaking the covenants and agreements which you 
 made with us at your leisure, not in any haste or under 
 any compulsion or deception, but having had seventy 
 years to think of them, during which time you were 
 at liberty to leave the city, if we were not to your 
 mind, or if our covenants appeared to you to be un¬ 
 fair. You had your choice, and might have gone 
 either to Lacedaemon or Crete, which you often praise 
 for their good government, or to some other Hellenic 
 or foreign state. Whereas you, above all other 
 Athenians, seemed to be so fond of the state, or, in 
 other words, of us her laws (for who would like a state 
 that has no laws), that you never stirred out of her; 
 the halt, the blind, the maimed were not more station¬ 
 ary in her than you were. And now you run away 
 and forsake your agreements. Not so, Socrates, if 
 you will take our advice; do not make yourself 
 ridiculous by escaping out of the city. 
 
 “ For just consider, if you transgress and err in 
 this sort of way, what good will you do either to your¬ 
 self or to your friends? That your friends will be 
 driven into exile and deprived of citizenship, or will 
 lose their property, is tolerably certain; and you your¬ 
 self, if you fly to one of the neighboring cities, as, for 
 example, Thebes or Megara, both of which are well- 
 governed cities, will come to them as an enemy, 
 Socrates, and their government will be against you, 
 and all patriotic citizens will cast an evil eye upon you 
 as a subverter of the laws, and you will confirm in the 
 minds of the judges the justice of their own con¬ 
 demnation of you. For he who is a corruptor of the 
 laws is more than likely to be corruptor of the young 
 and foolish portion of mankind. Will you then flee 
 from well-ordered cities and virtuous men? and is 
 existence worth having on these terms? Or will you 
 go to them without shame, and talk to them, Socrates ? 
 
156 
 
 CRITO 
 
 And what will you say to them? What you say here 
 about virtue and justice and institutions and laws 
 being the best things among men. Vi ould that be 
 decent of you ? Surely not. But if you go away from 
 well-governed states to Crito’s friends in Thessaly, 
 where there is a great disorder and license, they will be 
 charmed to have the tale of your escape from prison, 
 set off with ludicrous particulars of the manner in 
 which vou were wrapped in a goatskin or some other 
 disguise, and metamorphosed as the fashion of run¬ 
 aways is — that is very likely; but will there be no one 
 to remind you that in your old age you violated the 
 most sacred laws from a miserable desire of a little 
 more life. Perhaps not, if you keep them in a good 
 temper; but if they are out of temper you will hear 
 many degrading things; you will live, but how — as 
 the flatterer of all men, and the servant of all men; 
 and doing what? — eating and drinking in Thessaly, 
 having gone abroad in order that you may get a din¬ 
 ner. And where will be your fine sentiments about 
 justice and virtue then? Say that you wish to live 
 for the sake of your children, that you may bring 
 them up and educate them — will you take them into 
 Thessaly and deprive them of Athenian citizenship. 
 Is that the benefit which you would confer upon them. 
 Or are you under the impression that they will be 
 better cared for and educated here if you are still 
 alive, although absent from them; for that your 
 friends will take care of them? Do you fancy that if 
 you are an inhabitant of Thessaly they will take care 
 of them, and if you are an inhabitant of the o ler 
 world they will not take care of them? Nay; but if 
 they who call themselves friends are truly friends, 
 
 they surely will. , , . 
 
 “ Listen, then, Socrates, to us who have brought 
 
 you up. Think not of life and children first, and of 
 
CRITO 
 
 157 
 
 justice afterwards, but of justice first, that you may 
 be justified before the princes of the world below. 
 For neither will you nor any that belong to you be 
 , happier or holier or juster in this life, or happier in 
 I another, if you do as Crito bids. Now you depart in 
 innocence, a sufferer and not a doer of evil; a victim, 
 not of the laws, but of men. But if you go forth, 
 returning evil for evil, and injury for injury, breaking 
 the covenants and agreements which you have made 
 with us, and wronging those whom you ought least 
 to wrong, that is to say, yourself, your friends, your 
 country, and us, we shall be angry with you while you 
 live, and our brethren, the laws in the world below, 
 will receive you as an enemy; for they will know that 
 you have done your best to destroy us. Listen, then, 
 to us and not to Crito.” 
 
 This is the voice which I seem to hear murmuring in 
 my ears, like the sound of the flute in the ears of the 
 mystic; that voice, I say, is humming in my ears, and 
 prevents me from hearing any other. And I know 
 that anything more which you may say will be vain. 
 Yet speak, if you have anything to say. 
 
 Cr. I have nothing to say, Socrates. 
 
 Soc. Then let me follow the intimations of the will 
 of God. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 After an interval of some months or years, and at Phlius a 
 town of Sicyon, the tale of the last hours of Socrates is narrated 
 to Echecrates and other Phliasians by Phaedo the “ beloved dis¬ 
 ciple.” The Dialogue necessarily takes the form of a narrative, 
 because Socrates has to be described acting as well as speaking. 
 The minutest particulars of the event are interesting to distant 
 friends, and the narrator has an equal interest in them. 
 
 During the voyage of the sacred ship to and from Delos, 
 which has occupied thirty days, the execution of Socrates has 
 been~deferred C^P* Xen. Mem. iv. 8. 2.) The time has been 
 passed by him in conversation with a select company of disciples. 
 But now the holy season is over, and the disciples meet earlier 
 than usual in order that they may converse with Socrates for the 
 last time. Those who were present, and those who might have 
 been expected to be present, are specially mentioned. There are 
 Simmias and Cebes, two disciples of Philolaus whom Socrates 
 “ by his enchantments has attracted from Thebes ” (Mem. iii. 11. 
 17), Crito the aged friend, the attendant of the prison, who is 
 as good as a friend — these take part in the conversation. There 
 are present also, Hermogenes, from whom Xenophon derived his 
 information about the trial of Socrates (Mem. iv. 8. 4), the 
 “ madman ” Apollodorus, Euclid and Terpsion from Megara, 
 Ctesippus, Antisthenes, Menexenus, and some other less-known 
 members of the Socratic circle, all of whom are silent auditors. 
 Aristippus and Plato are noted as absent. Soon the wife and 
 children of Socrates are sent away, under the direction of Crito; 
 he himself has just been released from chains, and is led by this 
 circumstance to make the natural remark that “ pleasure follows 
 pain.” (Observe that Plato is preparing the way for his doctrine 
 of the alternation of opposites.) “ Aesop would have represented 
 them in a fable as a two-headed creature of the gods.” The 
 mention of Aesop reminds Cebes of a question which had been 
 asked by Evenus the poet: “ Why Socrates, who was not a poet, 
 while in prison had been putting Aesop into verse? ” — “ Because 
 several times in his life he had been warned in dreams that he 
 should make music; and as he was about to die and was not 
 
 161 
 
162 
 
 i 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 certain what was the meaning of this, he wished to fulfil the 
 admonition in the letter as well as in the spirit, by writing verses 
 as well as by cultivating philosophy. Tell Evenus this and bid 
 him follow me in death.” “ He is not the sort of man to do that, 
 Socrates.” “ Why, is he not a philosopher? Yes. Then 
 he will be willing to die, although he will not take his own life, 
 
 for that is held not to be right.” 
 
 Cebes asks why men say that suicide is not right, if death is 
 to be accounted a good? Well, (1) according to one explanation, 
 because man is a prisoner, and is not allowed to open the door 
 of his prison and run away — this is the truth in a mystery. 
 
 Or rather, perhaps, (2) because man is not his own property, 
 but a possession of the gods, and he has no right to make away 
 with that which does not belong to him. But why, asks Cebes, 
 if he is a possession of the gods, will he wish to die and leave 
 them? for he is under their protection; and surely he can not 
 take better care of himself than they take of him. Simmias 
 explains that Cebes is really referring to Socrates, whom they 
 think too unmoved at the prospect of leaving the gods and his 
 friends. Socrates answers that he is going to other gods who 
 are wise and good, and perhaps to better friends; and he pro 
 fesses that he is ready Jto defend himself against the charge of 
 Cebes. They shall be his judges, and he hopes that he will be 
 more successful in convincing them than he had been in convin¬ 
 cing the court. ... 
 
 The philosopher desires death — which the wicked world will 
 
 insinuate that he also deserves: and perhaps he does, but not in 
 any sense which they are capable of understanding. Enough of 
 them: the real question is, What is the nature of that death which 
 he desires? Death is the separation of soul and body and 
 the philosopher desires such a separation.. He would like to be 
 freed from the dominion of bodily pleasures and of the senses, 
 which are always perturbing his mental vision. He wants to get 
 rid of eyes and ears, and with the light of the mind only to 
 behold the light of truth. All the evils and impurities and neces¬ 
 sities of men come from the body. And death separates him 
 from these evils, which in this life he can not wholly cast aside 
 Why then should he repine when the hour of separation arrives. 
 Why, if he is dead while he lives, should he fear that other 
 death, through which alone he can behold wisdom in her purity. 
 
 Besides, the philosopher has notions of good and evil unlike 
 those of other men. For they are courageous because they are 
 afraid of greater dangers, and temperate because they desire 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 163 
 
 greater pleasures. But he disdains this balancing of pleasures 
 and pains; he knows no virtue but that which is the companion 
 of wisdom. All the virtues, including wisdom, are regarded by 
 him only as purifications of the soul. And this was the meaning 
 of the founders of the m v .»ceries when they said, “Many are 
 the wand-bearers but few are the mystics.” (Cp. Matt. xxii. 14: 
 
 “ Many are called, but" few are chosen/’) And in the hope that 
 he is one of these mystics, Socrates is now departing. This is 
 his answer to th^'e who charge him with indifference at the 
 prospect Ox leaving the gods and his friends. 
 
 Still, a fear is expressed that the soul upon leaving the body, 
 paay vanish away like smoke or air. Socrates in answer appeals 
 first of all to the old Orphic tradition that the souls of the dead 
 are in the world below, and that the living come from them. / 
 This he attempts to found on a philosophical assumption that 
 all opposites — e. g. less, greater; weaker, stronger; sleeping, 
 waking; life, death — are generated out of each others Nor 
 can this process of generation be only a passage from living to 
 dying, for then all would end in death. The perpetual sleeper 
 (Endymion) would be no longer distinguished, for all the world 
 would sink in rest. The circle of nature is not complete unless 
 the living come from the dead as well as pass to them. 
 
 The favorite Platonic doctrine of reminiscence is then adduced 
 as a confirmation of the preexistence of the soul. Some proofs 
 of this doctrine are demanded. One proof given is the same as 
 that of the Meno, and is derived from the latent knowledge of 
 mathematics, which may be elicited from an unlearned person 
 when a diagram is presented to him. Again, there is a power of 
 association, which from seeing Simmias may remember Cebes, or 
 from seeing a picture of Simmias may remember Simmias. The 
 lyre may recall the player of the lyre, and equal pieces of wood 
 or stone may be associated with the higher notion of absolute 
 equality. But here observe that material equalities fall short 
 of the conception of absolute equality with which they are com¬ 
 pared, and which is the measure of them. And the measure or 
 standard must be prior to that which is measured, the idea of 
 equality prior to the visible equals. And if prior to them, then 
 prior also to the perceptions of the senses which recall them, 
 and therefore either given before birth or at birth. But all men 
 have not this knowledge, nor have any without a process of 
 reminiscence; and this is a proof that it is not innate or given 
 at birth (unless indeed it was given and taken away at the same 
 instant, which is absurd). But if not given to men in birth, it 
 
164 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 
 must have been given before birth — this is the only alternative 
 which remains. And if we had ideas in a former state, then our 
 souls must have existed and must have had intelligence in a 
 former state. The preexistence cf the soul stands or falls with 
 the doctrine of ideas. 
 
 It is objected by Simmias and Cebes that these arguments 
 only prove a former and not a future existence. Socrates 
 answers this objection by recalling the previous argument, in 
 which he had shown that the living had come from the dead. But 
 the fear that the soul at departing may vanish into air (espe¬ 
 cially if there is a wind blowing at the time) has not yet been 
 charmed away. He proceeds! When we fear that the soul will 
 vanish away, let us ask ourselves what is that which we suppose 
 to be liable to dissolution? Is it the simple or the compound, 
 the unchanging or the changing, the invisible idea or the visible 
 object of sense? Clearly the latter and not the former; and 
 therefore not the soul, which in her own pure thought is un¬ 
 changeable, and only when using the senses descends into the 
 region of change. Again, the soul commands, the body ser\ es. 
 in this respect too the soul is akin to the divine, and the body to 
 the mortal. And in every point of view the soul is the image of 
 divinity and immortality, and the body of the human and mortal. 
 And whereas the body is liable to speedy dissolution, the soul 
 is almost if not quite indissoluble. Yet even the body may be 
 preserved for ages by the embalmer s artj^how much more the 
 soul returning into herself on her way to the good and wise 
 God! \ She has been practising death all her life long, and is 
 now finally released from the errors and follies and passions of 
 men, and forever dwells in the company of the gods. 
 
 But the soul which is polluted and engrossed by the corporeal, 
 and has no eye except that of the senses, and is weighed down 
 by the bodily appetites, can not attain to this abstraction. In 
 her fear of the world below she lingers about her sepulchre, a 
 ghostly apparition, saturated with sense, and therefore visible. 
 At length she enters into the body of some animal of a nature 
 congenial to her former life of sensuality or violence, and be¬ 
 comes an ass or a wolf or a kite. And of these earthly souls 
 the happiest are those who have practised virtue without 
 philosophy; they are allowed to pass into gentle and civil 
 natures, such as bees and ants. But only the philosopher who 
 departs pure is permitted to enter the company of the gods. 
 This is the reason why he abstains from fleshly lusts, and not 
 from the fear of loss or disgrace, which are the motives of other 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 165 
 
 men. He too has been a captive, and the willing agent of his 
 own captivity. But philosophy has spoken to him, and he has 
 heard her voice; she has gently entreated him, and brought his 
 soul out of the “ miry clay/’ and purged away the mists of 
 passion and the illusions of sense which envelope her, and taught 
 her to resist the influence of pleasures and pains, which are like 
 nails fastening her to the body. To that prison-house she will 
 not return; and therefore she abstains from bodily pleasures — 
 not from a desire of having more or greater ones, which is the 
 exchange of commerce and not of virtue, but because she knows 
 that only in the calm of pleasures and passions she will behold 
 the light of truth. 
 
 Simmias and Cebes remain in doubt; but they are unwilling 
 to raise objections at such a time. Socrates wonders at this. 
 Let them regard him rather as the swan, who, having sung the 
 praises of Apollo all his life long, sings at his death more 
 lustily than ever. Simmias acknowledges that there is cow¬ 
 ardice in not probing truth to the bottom. “ And if truth 
 divine and inspired is not to be had, then let a man take the best 
 of human notions, and upon this frail bark let him sail through 
 life.” He proceeds to state his difficulty: It has been argued 
 that the sou l is invisible and incorpo real, and therefore immortal, 
 and prior t o theH ioclyl But is not the soul acknowledged to be 
 a harmony, and has she not the same relation to the body, as 
 the harmony — which like her is invisible — has to the lyre ? 
 And yet the harmony does not survive the lyre. Cebes has also 
 an objection, which like Simmias he expresses in a figure. He 
 is willing to admit that the soul is more lasting than the body. 
 But the more lasting nature .of the soul does not prove her im¬ 
 mortality; for after having worn out many bodies in a single 
 life, and many more in successive births and deaths, she may at 
 last perish, or, as Socrates afterwards restates the objection, the 
 very act of birth may be the beginning of her death, and the last 
 body may survive the last soul, just as the coat of an old weaver 
 is left behind him after he is dead, although a man is more last¬ 
 ing than his coat. And he who would prove the immortality of 
 the soul, must prove not only that the soul outlives one or many 
 bodies, but that she outlives them all. ««« 
 
 The audience, like the chorus in a play, for a moment inter¬ 
 pret the feelings of the actors; there is a temporary depression, 
 and then the inquiry is resumed. It is a melancholy reflection 
 that arguments, like men, are apt to be deceivers; and those who 
 have been often deceived become distrustful both of arguments 
 
 I 
 
166 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 and of friends. But this unfortunate experience should not 
 make us either haters of men or haters of arguments. The 
 hatred of arguments is equally mistaken, whether we are going 
 to live or die. At the approach of death Socrates desires to be 
 impartial, and yet he can not help feeling that he has too great 
 an interest in the truth of his own argument. And therefore he 
 wishes his friends to examine and refute him, if they think 
 that he is not speaking the truth. 
 
 Socrates requests Simmias and Cebes to state their objections 
 again. They do not go to the length of denying the preexist¬ 
 ence of ideas. Simmias is of opinion that the soul is a harmony 
 of the body. But the admission of the preexistence of ideas, 
 and therefore of the soul, is at variance with this. For a 
 harmony is an effect, whereas the soul is not an effect, but a 
 cause; a harmony follows, but the soul leads; a harmony admits 
 of degrees, and the soul has no degrees. Again, upon the sup¬ 
 position that the soul is a harmony, why is one soul better than 
 another? Are they more or less harmonized, or is there one 
 harmony within another? But the soul does not admit of 
 degrees, and can not therefore be more or less harmonized. 
 Further, the soul is often engaged in resisting the affections of 
 the body, as Homer describes Odysseus “ rebuking his heart.” 
 Could he have written this under the idea that the soul is a 
 harmony of the body? Nay rather, are we not contradicting 
 Homer and ourselves in affirming anything of the sort? 
 
 The goddess Harmonia, as Socrates playfully terms the argu¬ 
 ment of Simmias, has been happily disposed of; and now an 
 answer has to be given to the Theban Cadmus. Socrates re¬ 
 capitulates the argument of Cebes, which, as he remarks, 
 involves the whole question of natural growth or causation, 
 about this he proposes to narrate his own mental experience. 
 When he was young he had puzzled himself with physics: he 
 had inquired into the growth and decay of animals, and the 
 origin of thought, until at last he began to doubt the self- 
 evident fact that growth is the result of eating and drinking, 
 and thus he arrived at the conclusion that he was not meant for 
 such inquiries. Nor was he less perplexed with notions of com¬ 
 parison and number. At first he had imagined himself to under¬ 
 stand differences of greater and less, and to know that ten is 
 two more than eight, and the like. But now those very notions 
 appeared to him to contain a contradiction. For how can one 
 be divided into two ? or two be compounded into one ? These are 
 difficulties which Socrates can not answer. „ Of generation and 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 167 
 
 destruction he knows nothing. But he has a confused notion of 
 
 another method in which matters of this sort are to be investi¬ 
 gated. 
 
 Then he heard some one reading out of a book of Anaxagoras, 
 that mind is the cause of all things. And he said to himself: If 
 mil ' is the cause of all things, mind must dispose them all for 
 the best. The new teacher will show me this “ order of the 
 best ” in man and nature. How great had been his hopes and 
 how great his disappointment! For he found that his new 
 friend was anything but consistent in his use of mind as a cause, 
 and that he soon introduced winds, waters, and other eccentric 
 notions. It was as if a person had said that Socrates is sitting 
 here because he is made up of bones and muscles, instead of 
 telling the true reason that he is here because the Athenians 
 have thought good to sentence him to death, and he has thought 
 good to await his sentence. Had his bones and muscles been 
 left by him to their own ideas of right, they would long ago 
 have taken themselves off. But surely there is a great confusion 
 of the cause and condition in all this. And this confusion also 
 leads people into all sorts of erroneous theories about the position 
 and motions of the earth. None of know how much stronger 
 than any Atlas is the power of the best. But this “ best ” is still 
 undiscovered; and in inquiring after the cause, we can only hope 
 to attain the second best. 
 
 Now there is a danger in the contemplation of the nature of 
 things, as there is a danger in looking at the sun during 
 an eclipse, unless the precaution is taken of looking only at the 
 image reflected in the water, or in a glass. And I was afraid, 
 says Socrates, that I might injure the eye of the soul. I thought 
 that I had better return to the old and safe method of ideas. 
 Though I do not mean to say that he who contemplates existence 
 through the medium of ideas sees only through a glass darkly, 
 any more than he who contemplates actual effects. 
 
 ILthe existence of ideas is granted to him, Socrates is of opin¬ 
 ion that he will then have no difficulty in proving the immortality 
 of the soul. He will only ask for a further admission: — that 
 beauty is the cause of the beautiful, greatness the cause of the 
 great, smallness of the small, and so on of other things. Thus 
 he avoids the contradictions of greater and less (greater by rea¬ 
 son of that which is smaller!), of addition and subtraction, and 
 the other difficulties of relation. These subtleties he is for 
 leaving to wise* heads than his own; he prefers to test ideas by 
 their consequer ces, and, if asked to give an account of them, goes 
 
168 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 back to some Higher idea or hypothesis which appears to him to 
 be the best, until at last he arrives at a resting-place. 
 
 The doctrine of ideas, which has long ago received the assent 
 of the Socratic circle, is now affirmed by the Phliasian auditor to 
 command the assent of any men of sense. The narrative is con¬ 
 tinued; Socrates is desirous of explaining how opposite ideas 
 may appear to coexist but do not really coexist in the same thing 
 or person. For example, Simmias may be said to have greatness 
 and also smallness, because he is greater than Socrates and less 
 than Phaedo. And yet Simmias is not really great and also 
 small but only when compared to Phaedo and Socrates. I use 
 the illustration, says Socrates, because I want to show you not 
 only that ideal opposites exclude one another, but also the op¬ 
 posites in us. I, for example, having the attribute of smallness 
 remain small, and can not become great: the smallness in me 
 
 drives out greatness. . . . . 
 
 One of the company here remarked that this was inconsistent 
 
 with the old assertion that .dpposites generated opposites. But 
 that, replies Socrates, was affixed, not of opposite ideas either 
 in us or in nature, but of opposite things — not of Me and death, 
 but of individuals living aWMdying. When this objection has 
 been removed, Socrates proSfds: This doctrine of the mutual 
 exclusion of opposites is not only true of the opposites them¬ 
 selves, but of things whiA.are inseparable from them, tor ex¬ 
 ample, cold and heat are opposed; and fire, which is inseparable 
 from heat, can not coiaust with cold, or snow, which is insepa¬ 
 rable from cold, with Vat. Again, the number three excludes 
 the number four, because three is an odd number and four is an 
 even number, and the odd is opposed to the even. Thus we are 
 able to proceed a step beyond “the safe and simple answer 
 We may say, not only that the odd excludes the even but that 
 the number three, which participates m oddness, excludes th ® 
 even. And in like manner, not only does life exclude death but 
 the soul, of which life is the inseparable attribute, also excludes 
 death. And that of which life is the inseparable attribute is by 
 the force of the terms imperishable. If the odd principle nere 
 imperishable, then the number three would not perish, but re¬ 
 move on the approach of the even principle But the immortal 
 is imperishable; and therefore the soul on the approach of death 
 
 does not perish but removes. . , 
 
 Thus all objections appear to be finally silenced. n now 
 the application has to be made: If the soul is im mortal, what 
 manner of persons ought we to be? ” having rega. i not only to 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 169 
 
 time but to eternity. For death is not the end of all, and the 
 wicked is not released from his evil by death; but every one 
 carries with him into the world below that which he is and that 
 which he becomes, and that only. 
 
 For after death the soul is carried away to judgment, and 
 when she has received her punishment returns to earth in the 
 course of ages. The wise soul is conscious of her situation, and 
 follows the attendant angel who guides her through the windings 
 of the world below; but the impure soul wanders hither and 
 thither without a guide, and is carried at last to her own place, 
 as the pure soul is also carried away to hers. “ In order that you 
 may understand this, I must first describe to you the nature and 
 conformation of the earth.” 
 
 Now the whole earth is a globe placed in the centre of the 
 heavens, and is maintained there by the perfection of balance. 
 That which we call the earth is only a small hollow, of which 
 there are many; but the true earth is above, and is a finer "and 
 subtler element, and is full of pU$bious stones and bright colors, 
 of which the stones and colors in our earth are but fragments 
 and reflections, and the earth itself is corroded and crusted over 
 just as the shore is by the sea. And if, like birds, we could fly to 
 the surface of the air, in the same manner that fishes come to the 
 top of the sea, then we should behold the true earth and the true 
 heaven and the true stars. This heavenly earth is of divers 
 colors, sparkling with jewels brighter than gold and whiter than 
 any snow, having flowers and fruits innumerable. And the in¬ 
 habitants dwell some on the shore of the sea of air, others in 
 “ islets of the blest,” and they hold converse with the gods, and 
 behold the sun, moon and stars as they truly are, and their other 
 blessedness is of a piece with this. 
 
 But the interior of the earth has other and deeper hollows, and 
 one huge chasm or opening called Tartarus, into which vast 
 streams of water and fire are ever flowing to and fro, of which 
 small portions find their way to the surface and form seas and 
 rivers and volcanoes. There is perpetual inhalation and exha¬ 
 lation of the air rising and falling as the waters pass into the 
 depths of the earth and return again, in their course forming 
 lakes and rivers, but never descending below the centre of the 
 earth, the opposite side of which is a precipice to the rivers on 
 both sides. The rivers are many and mighty, and there are four 
 principal ones, Oceanus, Acheron, Pyriphlegethon, and Cocytus. 
 Oceanus is the river which encircles the earth; Acheron takes an 
 opposite direction, and after flowing under the earth and in 
 
170 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 desert places at last reaches the Acherus.an lake, and this s he 
 river at which the dead await their return to earth Pynphle 
 gethon is a stream of fire, which coils around the earth and flows 
 into the depths of Tartarus. The fourth river (Cocytus) is that 
 which is called by the poets the Stygian river, and falls into and 
 forms the lake Styx, receiving strange powers in the waters. 1 
 
 river too, f3.11s into T 3 .rt 9 .rus. . , , ,1 
 
 The dead are first of all judged according to their deeds, and 
 
 those who are incurable are thrust into Tartarus, from which 
 
 they never come out. Those who have only committed venial sins 
 
 are first purified of them, and then rewarded for the good which 
 
 they have P done. Those who have committed crimes, great indeed 
 
 but not unpardonable, are thrust into Tartarus, but are cast 
 
 forth at the end of the year on the shores of the rivers, w er 
 
 they stand crying to their victims to let them come out, and t 
 
 tey prevail, thef they arelet out and their sufferings cease; if 
 tney pic J j whirl alone- the rivers of 
 
 not, they are borne in 
 Tartarus. The pure s<j 
 their abode in the uppe 
 “ mansions.” 
 
 Socrates is not prep 
 this description, but he 
 true. He who has sou 
 
 seless whirl along the rivers of 
 receive their reward, and have 
 and a select few in still fairer 
 
 , insist on the literal accuracy of 
 [dent that something of the kind is 
 true He who has song—er the pleasures of knowledge and 
 rejected the pleasures of the body, has reason to be of good hope 
 aAhe approach of death, whfielyoice is already heard calling 
 
 him and will be heard calilraj 7 all men. . . 
 
 The hour has come at whlife must drink the poison and not 
 much remains to be done. How shall they bury him? That is a 
 Question which he refuses to entertain, for they are not jurying 
 him, but his dead body. His friends had once been Reties‘hat 
 heWbuld remain, and they shall now be sureties that he has run 
 awav Yet he would not die without the customary ceremonies 
 of washing and burial. Shall he make a libation of the poison^ 
 In the spirit he will, but not in the letter. ne ^equ 
 in the very act of. death, which has been a puzzle to after ages. 
 The puzzle has been occasioned by the simplicity o 1S wor ’ 
 for there is no reason to suppose that they have any hiddenmean- 
 ing With a sort of irony he remembers that a tnfl » ? 
 
 duty is still unfulfilled, just as above he is representedl “ Jesu^iL 
 before he departs to make a few verses m order to satisfy a 
 
 scruple about the meaning of a dream. 
 
 1 The doctrine of the immortality of the .soul has sue a gre 
 interest for all mankind that they are apt to rebel agaijist any 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 171 
 
 examination of the nature of their belief. They do not like to 
 acknowledge that this, as well as the other “ eternal ideas ” of 
 man, has a history in time, which may be traced in Greek poetry 
 or philosophy, and also in the Hebrew Scriptures. They convert 
 feeling into reasoning, and throw a network of dialectics over 
 that which is really a deeply-rooted instinct. In the same tem¬ 
 per which Socrates reproves in himself they are disposed to 
 think that even bad arguments will do no harm, for they will die 
 with them, and while they live they will gain by the delusion. 
 But there is a better and higher spirit to be gathered from 
 the Phaedo, as well as from the other writings of Plato, which 
 says that first principles should be most constantly reviewed, 
 and that the highest subjects demand of us the greatest accur¬ 
 acy. 
 
 2. Modern philosophy is perplexed at this whole question, 
 which is sometimes fairly given up and handed over to the realm 
 of faith. The perplexity should not be forgotten by us when we 
 attempt to submit the Phaedo of Plato to the requirements of 
 logic. For what idea can we form of the soul when separated 
 from the body? Or how can the soul be united with the body 
 and still be independent? 'Is the soul related to the body as the 
 ideal to the real, or as the whole to the parts, or as the subject 
 to the object, or as the cause to the effect, or as the end to the 
 means? Shall we say with Aristotle, that the soul is the ente- 
 lechy or form of an organized living body? or with Plato, that 
 she has a life of her own? Is the Pythagorean image of the 
 harmony, or of the monad, the truer expression? Is the soul 
 related to the body as sight to the eye, or as the boatman to his 
 boat? - And in another state of being is the soul to be conceived 
 of as vanishing into infinity, hardly possessing an existence which 
 she can call her own, as in the pantheistic system of Spinoza 
 and others? or as an individual spirit informed with another 
 body and retaining the impress of her former character? Or is 
 the opposition of soul and body a mere illusion, and the true self 
 neither soul nor body, but the union of the two in the “ I ” which 
 is above them? And is death the assertion of this individuality 
 in the higher nature, and the falling away into nothingness of 
 the lower? Or are we vainly attempting to pass the boundaries 
 of human thought? The body and the soul seem to be insep¬ 
 arable, not only in fact, but in our conceptions of them; and 
 any philosophy which too closely unites them, or too widely sep¬ 
 arates them, either in this life or in another, disturbs the balance 
 of human nature. Neither Plato nor any other philosopher has 
 
172 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 perfectly adjusted them, or been perfectly consistent with him 
 self in describing their relation to one another. 
 
 3. Again, believing in the immortality of the soul, we must 
 still ask the question of Socrates, “ what is that which we sup¬ 
 pose to be immortal? ” Is it the personal and individual element 
 in us, or the spiritual and universal? Is it the principle of 
 knowledge or of goodness, or the union of the two? Is it the 
 mere force of life which is determined to be, or the consciousness 
 of self which can not be got rid of, or the fire of genius which 
 refuses to be extinguished? Or is there a hidden being which 
 is allied to the Author of all existence, who is because he is per¬ 
 fect, and to whom our ideas of perfection give us a title to be¬ 
 long? Whatever answer is given by us to these questions, there 
 still remains the necessity of allowing the permanence of evil 
 if not forever, at any rate for a time, in order that the wicked 
 “ may not have too good a bargain.” For the annihilation of 
 evil at death, or the eternal duration of it, seem to involve equal 
 difficulties in the moral order of the universe. Sometimes we are 
 led by our feelings, rather than by our reason, to think of the 
 good and wise only as existing in another life. Why should the 
 mean, the weak, the idiot, the infant, the herd of men who have 
 never in any proper sense the use of reason, reappear with blink 
 ing eyes in'the light of another world? But our second thougnt 
 is that the hope of humanity is a common one, and that all or 
 none have a right to immortality. Reason does not allow us to 
 suppose that we have any greater claims than others, and ex¬ 
 perience sometimes reveals to us unexpected flashes of the higher 
 nature in those whom we had despised. Such are some of the 
 distracting thoughts which press upon us when we attempt to 
 assign any form to our conceptions of a future state. 
 
 4. Again, ideas must be given through something; and we are 
 always prone to argue about the soul from analogies of outward 
 things which may serve to embody our thoughts, but are also 
 partlv delusive. For we can not reason from the natural to the 
 spiritual, or from the outward to the inward. The progress of 
 physiological science, without bringing us nearer to the great 
 secret, has perhaps tended to remove some erroneous notions 
 respecting the relations of body and mind, and in this we have 
 the advantage of the ancients. But no one imagines that any 
 seed of immortality is to be discerned in our mortal frames. 
 The result seems to be that those who have thought most deeply 
 on the immortality of the soul, have been content to rest then- 
 belief on the agreement of the more enlightened part of mankind, 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 173 
 
 and on the inseparable connection of such a doctrine with the 
 existence of a God, and our ideas of divine justice — also in a 
 less degree on the impossibility of thinking otherwise of those 
 whom we reverence in this world. And after all has been said, 
 the figure, the analogy, the argument, are felt to be only approx¬ 
 imations in different forms to the expression of the common 
 sentipaent of the human heart. 
 
 P^ The Phaedo of Plato may also be regarded as a dialectical 
 approximation to the truth of immortality. Beginning in mys- 
 tery, Socrates, in the intermediate part of the Dialogue, at¬ 
 tempts to bring the doctrine of a future life into connection with 
 his theory of knowledge. ✓Tn proportion as he succeeds in this, 
 the individual seems^to^disappear in a more general notion of 
 the soul; the contemplation of ideas “under the form of eter¬ 
 nity takes the place of past and future states of existence. 
 His language may be compared to that of some modern philoso¬ 
 phers, who speak of eternity, not in the sense of perpetual dura¬ 
 tion of time, but as an ever-present quality of the soul. Yet at 
 the conclusion of the Dialogue, having “ arrived at the end of 
 the intellectual world,” he replaces the veil of mythology, and 
 describes the soul and her attendant genius in the language of 
 the mysteries or of a disciple of Zoroaster. Nor can we fairly 
 demand of Plato a consistency which is wanting among ourselves, 
 who acknowledge that another world is beyond the range of 
 human thought, and yet are always seeking to represent the man¬ 
 sions of heaven or hell in the colors of the painter, or in the 
 descriptions of the poet or rhetorician. 
 
 6. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul was not new 
 to the Greeks in the age of Socrates, but, like the unity of God, 
 had a foundation in the popular belief. The old Homeric notion 
 of a gibbering ghost flitting away to Hades; or of a few illus¬ 
 trious heroes enjoying the isles of the blest; or of an existence 
 di\ided between the two; or the Hesiodic, of righteous spirits, 
 who become guardian angels, — had given place in the mys¬ 
 teries and the Orphic poets to representations, partly fanciful, 
 of a future state of rewards and punishments. The reticence of 
 the Greeks on public occasions and in some part of their litera¬ 
 ture respecting this “ underground ” religion, is not to be taken 
 as a measure of the diffusion of such beliefs. If Pericles in the 
 funeral oration is silent on the consolations of immortality, the 
 poet Pindar and the tragedians on the other hand constantly 
 assume the continued existence of the dead in an upper or under 
 world. Darius and Laius are still alive; Antigone will be dear 
 
174 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 to her brethren after death; the way to the palace of Cronos 
 is found by those who “ have thrice departed from evil. The 
 tragedy of the Greeks is not “rounded by this life, but is 
 deeply set in decrees of fate and mysterious workings of powers 
 beneath the earth. In the caricature of Aristophanes there is 
 also a witness to the common sentiment. The Ionian and Pyt - 
 agorean philosophies arose, and some new elements were added 
 to the popular belief. The individual must find an expression 
 as well as the world. Either the soul was supposed to exist in 
 the form of a magnet or of a particle of fire, or light, or air, or 
 water; or of a number or of a harmony of number; or to be or 
 have, like the stars, a principle of motion. At length Anaxago¬ 
 ras, hardly distinguishing between life and mind, or between 
 mind human and divine, attained the pure abstraction; and this, 
 like the other abstractions of Greek philosophy, sank deep in o 
 the human intelligence. The opposition of the intelligible and 
 the sensible, and of God to the world, supplied an analogy which 
 assisted in the separation of soul and body. If ideas were sep¬ 
 arable from phenomena, mind was also separable from matter, 
 if the ideas were eternal, the mind that conceived them was eter¬ 
 nal too. As the unity of God was more distinctly acknowledged 
 the conception of the human soul became more developed. e 
 succession, or alternation of life and death, had occurred to 
 Heraeleitus. The Eleatic Parmenides had stumbled upon Jm e 
 modern thesis, that “ thought and being are the same. The 
 eastern belief in transmigration defined the sense of individual 
 ity • and some, like Empedocles, fancied that the blood whic 
 they had shed in another state of being was crying against them, 
 and that for thirty thousand years they were to be fugitives 
 and vagabonds upon the earth.” The desire of recognizing a 
 lost love or friend in the world below is a natural feeling which, 
 in that age as well as in every other, has given distinctness to 
 the hope of immortality. Nor were ethical considerations want¬ 
 ing, partly derived from the necessity of punishing the greater 
 sort of criminals, whom no avenging power of this world could 
 reach. The voice of conscience, too, was heard reminding t e 
 good man that he was not altogether innocent. To these indis¬ 
 tinct longings and fears an expression was given in the myster¬ 
 ies and Orphic poets: a "heap of books, passing under the 
 names of Musaeus and Orpheus in Plato s time were filled with 
 
 notions of an under world. - , i 
 
 7. Yet probably the belief in the individuality of the soul afte 
 
 death had but a feeble hold on the Greek mind. Like the per- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 175 
 
 sonality of God, the personality of man in a future state was not 
 inseparably bound up with the reality of his existence. For the 
 distinction between the personal and impersonal, and also be¬ 
 tween the divine and human, was far less marked to the Greek 
 than to ourselves. And as Plato readily passes from the notion 
 of the good to that of God, he also passes almost imperceptibly 
 to himself and his reader from the future life of the individual 
 soul to the eternal being of the absolute soul. There has been 
 a clearer statement and a clearer denial of the belief in modern 
 times than is found in early Greek philosophy, and hence the 
 comparative silence on the whole subject which is often remarked 
 in ancient writers, and particularly in Aristotle. For Plato and 
 Aristotle are not further removed in their teaching about the 
 immortality of the soul than they are in their theory of knowl¬ 
 edge. 
 
 8. That in an age when logic was beginning to mould human 
 thought, Plato should have cast his belief in immortality into 
 a jogical_form, is not surprising. And when we consider how 
 much the doctrine of ideas was also one of words, we can not 
 wonder that he should have fallen into verbal fallacies: early 
 logic is always mistaking the truth of the form for the truth of 
 the matter. It is easy to see that the alternation of opposites is 
 not the same as the generation of them out of each other; and 
 that the generation of them out of each other, which is the first 
 argument in the Phaedo, is at variance with their mutual exclu¬ 
 sion of each other, whether in themselves or in us, which is the 
 last. For even if we admit the distinction which he draws 
 between the opposites and the things which have the oppo¬ 
 sites, still individuals fall under the latter class; and we have 
 to pass out of the region of human hopes and fears to a con¬ 
 ception of an abstract soul which is the impersonation of the 
 ideas. Such a conception, which in Plato himself is but half 
 expressed, is unmeaning to Us, and relative only to a particular 
 stage in the history of thought. The doctrine of rem iniscence 
 is also a fragment of a former world, which has no place in the 
 philosophy of modern times. But Plato had the wonders of 
 psychology just opening to him, and he had not the explanation 
 of them which is supplied by the analysis of language and the 
 history of the human mind. The question, “ Whence come our 
 abstract ideas ? he could only answer by an imaginary hypothe¬ 
 sis. Nor is it difficult to see that his crowning argument is purely 
 verbal, and is but the expression of an instinctive confidence put 
 into a logical form:.— “The soul is immortal because it con- 
 
176 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 > 
 
 tains a principle o f imperishablenegsv^ Nor does he himself 
 seem at all to be aware that nothing is added to human knowl¬ 
 edge by his “ safe and simple answer/’ that beauty is the cause 
 of & the beautiful; and that he is merely reasserting the Eleatic 
 being “ divided by the Pythagorean numbers/’ against the Hera- 
 cleitean doctrine of perpetual generation. The answer to the 
 “ very serious question ” of generation and destruction is really 
 the denial of them. For this he would substitute, as in the Re¬ 
 public, a system of ideas, tested not by experience, but by their 
 consequences, and not explained by. actual causes, but by a 
 higher, that is, more general notion: consistency with them¬ 
 selves is all that is required of them. 
 
 9. To deal fairly with such arguments they should not only 
 not be separated from the age to which they belong, but they 
 should be translated as far as possible into their modern equiv¬ 
 alents.. f If the ideas of men are eternalyjtheir souls are eternal, 
 and if not' the ideas, then not the souls/’ Such an argument 
 stands nearly in the same relation to Plato and his age, as the 
 argument from the existence of God to i mmorta lity among our¬ 
 selves. “If God exists, then the soul exists after death; and 
 if there is no God, there is no existence of the soul after death.” 
 For the ideas are to his mind the reality, the truth, the principle 
 of permanence, as well as of mind and order in the world. When 
 Simmias and Cebes say that they are more strongly persuaded 
 of the existence of ideas than they are of the immortality of 
 the soul, they represent fairly enough the order of thought in 
 Greek philosophy. And we might say in the same way that 
 we are more certain of the existence of God than we are of the 
 immortality of the soul, and are led by the belief in the one to 
 a belief in the other. The parallel, as Socrates would say, is 
 not perfect, but agrees in as far as the mind in either case is 
 regarded, as dependent on something above and beyond herself. 
 Nor need we shrink from pressing the analogy one step further: 
 
 “ We are more certain of our ideas of truth and right than we 
 are of the existence of God, and are led on in the order of thought 
 from one to the other.” 
 
 10. The main argument of the Phaedo is derived from the 
 existence of eternal ideas of which the soul is a partaker; th^s 
 other argument of the alternation of opposites is replaced by tliis.^ 
 And there have not been wanting philosophers of the idealist 
 school who have imagined that the doctrine of the immortality 
 of the soul is a theory of knowledge only, and that in all that 
 precedes Plato is preparing for this. Such a view is far from 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 177 
 
 lying on the surface of the Phaedo, and seems to be inconsistent 
 with the Gorgias and the Republic. Those who maintain it are 
 immediately compelled to renounce the shadow which they have 
 grasped, as a play of words only. But the truth is, that Plato 
 in his argument for the immortality of the soul has collected 
 many elements of proof or persuasion, ethical and m yth ological 
 as well as dialectical, w hich are not easily to be reconciled with 
 one another^ and he is as much in earnest about his doctrine 
 of retribution , which is repeated in all his more ethical writings, 
 as about his theory of knowdedge. And while we may fairly 
 translate the dialectical into the language of Hegel, and the 
 religious and mythological into the language of Dante or Bun- 
 yan, the ethical speaks to us still in the same voice, reaching 
 across the ages. 
 
 11. Two arguments of this sort occur in the Phaedo. The 
 first may be described as the aspiration of the soul after another 
 sort of being:- Like the Oriental or Christian ascetic. theTphilos¬ 
 opher is seeking to withdraw from impurities of sense, to leave 
 the world and the things of the world, and to find his higher 
 self. Plato recognizes in these aspirations the foretaste of im¬ 
 mortality; as Butler and Addison in modern times have argued, 
 the one from the moral tendencies of mankind, the other from 
 the progress of the soul towards perfection. In using this argu¬ 
 ment Plato has certainly confused the soul which has left the 
 body, with the soul of the good and wise. Such a confusion was 
 natural, and arose partly out of the antithesis of soul and body. 
 The soul in her own essence, and the soul “ clothed upon ” with 
 virtues and graces, were easily interchanged with one another, 
 because on a subject which passes expression the distinctions of 
 language can hardly be maintained. 
 
 12. -[The other ethical proof of the immortality of the soul is 
 deriveoTrom the necessity of retribution. The wicked would 
 be too well off if their evil deeds came to an end. It is not to 
 be supposed that an Ardiaeus, an Archelaus, an Ismenias could 
 ever have suffered the penalty of their crimes in this world. 
 The manner in which this retribution is accomplished Plato rep¬ 
 resents under the figure of mythology. Doubtless he felt that 
 it was easier to improve than to invent, and that in religion 
 especially the traditional form was required in order to give 
 verisimilitude to the myth. The myth too is far more probable 
 to that age than to ours, and may fairly be regarded as “ one 
 guess among many ” about the nature of the earth, which he 
 cleverly supports by the indications of geology. Not that he 
 
178 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 insists on the absolute truth of his own particular notions: “ no 
 man of sense will be confident of that; but he will be confident 
 that something of the kind is true.” As in other passages, he 
 wins belief for his fictions by the moderation of his statements; 
 he does not, like Dante or Swedenborg, allow himself to be 
 deceived by his own creations. 
 
 The Dialogue must be read in the light of the situation. And 
 first of all we are struck by the calmness of the scene. Like the 
 spectators at the time, we can not pity Socrates; his mien and 
 his language are so noble and fearless. He is the same as he 
 ever was, but milder and gentler, and he has in no degree lost 
 his interest in dialectics; the argument is the greatest gam to 
 him, and he will not forego the delight of it in compliance with 
 the jailer’s intimation that he should not heat himself with talk¬ 
 ing. Some other traits of his character may be noted; for ex¬ 
 ample, the courteous manner in which he inclines his head to 
 the last objector, o r the i ronic al touch, “hie already, as the 
 tragic poet would say, the voIce^dfTate. calls; or the deprecia¬ 
 tion of the arguments with which ‘ he comforted himself and 
 them; ” or the allusion to the possibility of finding another 
 teacher among barbarous races; or the mysterious reference to 
 another science (mathematics?) of generation and destruction 
 for which he is vainly feeling. There is no change in him; only 
 now he is invested with a sort of s acred ch aracter, as the prophet 
 or priest of Apollo the God of thT?iktivaT,lH whose honor he 
 first of all composes a hymn, and then like the swan pours forth 
 his dying lay. Perhaps the extreme elevation of Socrates above 
 his own situation, and the ordinary interests of life (compare 
 his jeu d’esprit about his burial) create in the mind of the reader 
 an impression stronger than could be derived from arguments 
 that such an one, in his own language, has in him a principle 
 
 which does not admit of death. . 
 
 The other persons of the Dialogue may be considered under 
 
 two heads: ''(l) private friends; (2) the respondents in the 
 
 First there i s Crito, who has been already introduced to us; 
 he is the equal in years of Socrates, and stands in quite a dif¬ 
 ferent relation to him from his younger disciples. He is a man 
 of the world who is rich and prosperous, the best friend ol Soc¬ 
 rates, who wants to know his HiTcommands, in whose presence 
 he talks to his family, and who performs the last duty of closing 
 his eves. It is observable' too that Crito shows no aptitude lor 
 philosophical discussions.. Nor among the friends of Socrates 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 179 
 
 must the jailer be forgotten, who seems to have been introduced 
 by Plato in order to show the impression made by the extraor¬ 
 dinary man on the common. The gentle nature of the man is 
 indicated by his weeping at the announcement of his errand and 
 then turning away, and also by the words of Socrates to his 
 disciples: “How charming the man is! since I have been in 
 prison he was always coming to me, and has been as good as 
 could be to me.” We are reminded too that he has retained this 
 gentle nature amid scenes of death and violence by the contrasts 
 which he draws between the behavior of Socrates and of others 
 when about to die. 
 
 Another person who takes no part- in the philosophical dis¬ 
 cussion is the excitable Apollodorus, the same who, in the Sym¬ 
 posium, of which he is tlm narrator, is called “ the madman,” 
 and who testifies his grief by the most violent emotions. Phaedo 
 is also present, the “ beloved dis ciple ” as he may be termed, who 
 is described, if not “ leaning orTTns bosom,” as seated next to 
 Socrates, who is playing with his hair. At a particular point 
 the argument is described as falling before the attack of Sim- 
 mias. A sort of despair is introduced in the minds of the com¬ 
 pany. The effect of this is heightened by the description of 
 JPhaedo, wh o has been t he eve-witness of the scene, and by the 
 sympathy of"his Phliasian auditors who are beginning to think 
 “ that they too can never trust an argument again.” Like Apo l- 
 lodorus, Phaed o himself takes no part in the argument. But 
 the calmness of his behavior, “ veiling his face ” when he can 
 no longer contain his tears, contrasts with the passionate cries 
 of the other. 
 
 The two principal interlocutors are Simmias and Cebes, the 
 disciples of P hilolaus th e Pythagorean philosopher j)UTLebes. 
 Simmias is described in the Phaedrus as fonder of an argument 
 than any man livingj and Cebes, although finally persuaded by 
 Socrates, is said to be the most inc red ulous of human beings. 
 
 It is Cebes who at the commencement of the Dialogue raises the ' 
 question why “ suicide is unlawful,” and who first supplies the 
 doctrine of reco llection as a confirmation of the argument of the 
 preexisten ce of t he souL It is Cebes w ho urges that the_pre- 
 exisfe n ce does not necessarily involve the future existence of the 
 soul, and who brings~forward the argument of the weaver and Ins 
 coat. To Simmias, on the other hand, is attributed the notion 
 that the s oul is a harmon y, w hich is natu rally put into the mouth 
 
 ^-Pythagorean discipIeT It is Simmias, too, who first remarks 
 on the uncertainty of human knowledge, and only at last con- 
 
180 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 cedes to the argument such a qualified approval as is consistent 
 
 with the feebleness of the human faculties. 
 
 There is no proof that the conversation was ever actually held, 
 
 , and the place of the Dialogue in the series is doubtful i he 
 doctrine of ideas is certainly carried beyond the Socratic point 
 of view; in no other of the writings of Plato is the theory o 
 them so completely developed. Whether the belief •“immor¬ 
 tality can be attributed to Socrates or not is uncertain, the 
 silence of the Memorabilia, and of the earlier Dialogues of 
 Plato, is an argument to the contrary. Yet in the Cyropaedia 
 Xenophon has put language into the mouth of the dying yru 
 which recalls the Phaedo, and may perhaps have been derived 
 
 from the teaching of Socrates. . f , 
 
 The Phaedo, as has been already intimated, is not one ot the 
 
 Socratic Dialogues of Plato; nor, on the other hand, can it be 
 assigned to that later period of the Platonic writings at which 
 the ideas appear to be forgotten. Without Pretending to deter- 
 mine the real time of composition, the Meno, Euthyphro, Apol 
 OD-y, Phaedo, Symposium may be conveniently read by us m 
 this order as illustrative of the life of Socrates. Another chain 
 may be formed of the Meno, Phaedo, Phaedrus in which the 
 immortality of the soul is connected with the doctrine of ideas. 
 In the Meno the theory of ideas is based on the ancient belie 
 in transmigration, which reappears again m the Phaedrus as 
 well as in the Republic and Timaeus, and in all of them is con¬ 
 nected with a doctrine of retribution. In the Phaedrus the 1 m 
 mortality of the soul is supposed to rest on the conception o 
 the soul as a principle of motion, whereas in the Republic the 
 argument turns on the natural continuance of the soul, which 
 if not destroyed by her own proper evil, can hardly be destroye 
 by any other. The soul of man in the Timaeus is derived from 
 the Supreme Creator, and either returns after death to her kin¬ 
 dred star, or descends into the lower life of an animal. The 
 Apology expresses the same view as the Phaedo, but with less 
 confidence; the probability of death being a long sleep is no 
 excluded The Theaetetus also describes, in a digression, the 
 desire of the soul to fly away and be with God— and to fly 
 to him is to be like him.” Lastly, the Symposium may be ob¬ 
 served to resemble as well as to differ from the Phaedo. W 
 the first notion of immortality is only in the way of natural pro¬ 
 creation or of posthumous fame and glory, the hig er vision o 
 beauty, like the good in the Republic, is the vision of the eternal 
 idea. 7 So deeply rooted in Plato’s mind is the belief in immor-_ 
 
INTRODUCTION 181 
 
 tality; so various are the forms of expression which he em¬ 
 ploys. 
 
 Some elements of the drama may be noted in all the Dialogues 
 of Plato. The Phaedo is the tragedy of which Socrates is the 
 protagonist and Simmias and Cebes the secondary performers. 
 No Dialogue has a greater unity of subject and feeling. Plato 
 has certainly fulfilled the condition of Greek, or rather of all 
 art, which requires that scenes of death and suffering should 
 be clothed in beauty. The gathering of the friends at the com¬ 
 mencement of the Dialogue, the dejection of the audience at the 
 temporary overthrow of the argument, the picture of Socrates 
 playing with the hair of Phaedo, the final scene in which Socrates 
 alone retains his composure — are masterpieces of art. The 
 chorus at the end might have interpreted the feeling of the play: 
 “ There can no evil happen to a good man in life or death.” 
 
_ 
 
PHAEDO 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 
 Phaedo, who is the narrator of 
 the Dialogue to 
 Echecrates of Phlius. 
 Socrates. 
 
 Attendant of the Prison. 
 
 Apollodorus. 
 
 SlMMIAS. 
 
 Cebes. 
 
 Crito. 
 
 Scene :— The Prison of Socrates. 
 Place of the Narration :— Phlius. 
 
 Echecrates. Were you yourself, Phaedo, in the 
 prison with Socrates on the day when he drank the 
 poison? 
 
 Phaedo. Yes, Echecrates, I was. 
 
 Ech. I wish that you would tell me about his death. 
 What did he say in his last hours? W^e were informed 
 that he died by taking poison, but no one knew any¬ 
 thing more; for no Phliasian ever goes to Athens now, 
 and a long time has elapsed since any Athenian found 
 his way to Phlius, and therefore we had no clear ac¬ 
 count. 
 
 Phaed. Did you not hear of the proceedings at the 
 trial? 
 
 Ech. Yes; some one told us about the trial, and we 
 could not understand why, having been condemned, 
 he was put to death, as appeared, not at the time, but 
 long afterwards. What was the reason of this? 
 
 Phaed. An accident, Echecrates. The reason was 
 that the stern of the ship which the Athenians send to 
 Delos happened to have been crowned on the day 
 before he was tried. 
 
 Ech. What is this ship? 
 
 185 
 
186 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 
 Phaed. This is the ship in which, as the Athenians 
 say, Theseus went to Crete when he took with him 
 the fourteen youths, and was the savior of them and 
 of himself. And they were said to have vowed to 
 Apollo at the time, that if they were saved they would 
 make an annual pilgrimage to Delos. Now this 
 custom still continues, and the whole period of the 
 voyage to and from Delos, beginning when the priest 
 of Apollo crowns the stern of the ship, is a holy season, 
 during which the city is not allowed to be polluted by 
 public executions; and often, when the vessel is de¬ 
 tained by adverse winds, there may be a very consider¬ 
 able delay. As I was saying, the ship was crowned on 
 the day before the trial, and this was the reason why 
 Socrates lay in prison and was not put to death until 
 
 long after he was condemned. 
 
 Ech. What was the manner of his death, Phaedo? 
 What was said or done? And which of his friends 
 had he with him? Or were they not allowed by the 
 authorities to be present? And did he die alone? 
 
 Phaed . No; there were several of his friends with 
 
 him. 
 
 Ech . If you have nothing to do, I wish that you 
 would tell me what passed, as exactly as you can. 
 
 Phaed. I have nothing to do, and will try to gratify 
 your wish. Tor to me too there is no greater pleasure 
 than to have Socrates brought to my recollection; 
 whether I speak myself or hear another speak of him. 
 
 Ech. You will have listeners who are of the same 
 mind with you, and I hope that you will be as exact as 
 
 you can. 
 
 Phaed. I remember the strange feeling which came 
 over me at being with him. For I could hardly believe 
 that I was present at the death of a friend, and there¬ 
 fore I did not pity him, Echecrates; his mien and his 
 language were so noble and fearless in the houi of 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 187 
 
 death that to me he appeared blessed. I thought that 
 in going to the other world he could not be without a 
 divine call, and that he would be happy, if any man 
 ever was, when he arrived there; and therefore I did 
 not pity him as might seem natural at such a time. 
 But neither could I feel the pleasure which I usually 
 felt in philosophical discourse (for philosophy was the 
 theme of which we spoke). I was pleased and I was 
 also pained, because I knew that he was soon to die, 
 and this strange mixture of feeling was shared by us 
 all; we were langhing and weeping by turns, espe¬ 
 cially the excitable Apollodorus — you know the sort 
 of man? 
 
 Ech. Yes. 
 
 Phaed. He was quite overcome; and I myself, and 
 all of us were greatly moved. 
 
 Ech. Who were present? 
 
 Phaed. Of native Athenians there were, besides 
 Apollodorus, Critobulus and his father Crito, Her- 
 mogenes, Epigenes, Aeschines, and Antisthenes; like¬ 
 wise Ctesippus of the deme of Paeania, Menexenus, 
 and some others; but Plato, if I am not mistaken, was 
 ill. 
 
 Ech. Were there any strangers? 
 
 Phaed. Yes, there were; Simmias the Theban, and 
 Cebes, and Phaedondes; Euclid and Terpsion, who 
 came from Megara. 
 
 Ech. And was Aristippus there, and Cleombrotus? 
 
 Phaed. No, they were said to be in Aegina. 
 
 Ech. Any one else? 
 
 Phaed. I think that these were about all. 
 
 Ech. And what was the discourse of which you 
 spoke? 
 
 Phaed. I will begin at the beginning, and endeavor 
 to repeat the entire conversation. You must under¬ 
 stand that we had been previously in the habit of 
 
188 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 assembling early in the morning at the court in which 
 Se trial was held, and which is not far from the prison 
 There we remained talking with one another until the 
 opening of the prison doors (for they were not open 
 very early), and then went in and generally passed 
 the day with Socrates. On the last morning the meet¬ 
 ing Was earlier than usual; this was owing to our 
 having heard on the previous evening that the sacred 
 ship had arrived from Delos, and therefore we agree 
 to meet very early at the accustomed place. On oui 
 going to the prison, the jailer who answered the door 
 instead of admitting us, came out and hade us v ait 
 and he would call us. “ For the eleven, he said, are 
 now with Socrates; they are taking off his chains,^ 
 
 giving orders that he is to die o ay. enter- 
 
 returned and said that we might come in. On enter 
 ing we found Socrates just released from chains, and 
 Xanthippe, whom you know, sitting by him, and hold 
 Sis child in her arms. When she saw us she uttered 
 a cry and said, as women will: “ O Socrates, this is the 
 last' time that either you will converse with youi 
 Suds or they with you.” Socrates turned to Cnto 
 and said: “ Crito, let some one take her home. 
 Some of Crito’s people accordingly led her away, cry- 
 ing out and heating herself. And when she was gone 
 Socrates sitting up on the couch, began to bend and 
 *„b h?W S ayfng P .s he tubbed: How smgu«ts: the 
 riling called pleasure, and how curiously 
 paint which might be thought to bs: the opposite old, 
 for they never come to a man together, an y 
 pursues either of them is generally compelled to take 
 the other. They are two, and yet they grow togethe 
 nnt of one head or stem; and I can not help think g 
 that if Aesop had noticed them, he would have made a 
 fable about God trying to reconcile their strife 
 when he could not, he fastened their heads togethe , 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 189 
 
 and this is the reason why when one comes the other 
 follows, as I find in my own case pleasure comes fol¬ 
 lowing after the pain in my leg which was caused by 
 the chain. 
 
 Upon this Cebes said: I am very glad indeed, 
 Socrates, that you mentioned the name of Aesop. 
 For that reminds me of a question which has been 
 asked by others, and was asked of me only the day 
 before yesterday by Evenus the poet, and as he will 
 be sure to ask again, you may as well tell me what I 
 should say to him, if you would like him to have an 
 answer. He wanted to know why you who never be¬ 
 fore wrote a line of poetry, now that you are in prison 
 are putting Aesop into verse, and also composing that 
 hymn in honor of Apollo. 
 
 Tell him, Cebes, he replied, that I had no idea of 
 rivalling him or his poems; which is the truth, for I 
 knew that I could not do that. But I wanted to see 
 whether I could purge away a scruple which I felt 
 about certain dreams. In the course of my life I have 
 often had intimations in dreams “ that I should make 
 music.” The same dream came to me sometimes in 
 one form, and sometimes in another, but always saying 
 the same or nearly the same words: Make and culti¬ 
 vate music, said the dream. And hitherto I had im¬ 
 agined that this was only intended to exhort and en¬ 
 courage me in the study of philosophy, which has 
 always been the pursuit of my life, and is the noblest 
 and best of music. The dream was bidding me do 
 what I was already doing, in the same way that the 
 competitor in a race is bidden by the spectators to run 
 when he is already running. But I was not certain of 
 this, as the dream might have meant music in the 
 popular sense of the word, and being under sentence 
 of death, and the festival giving me a respite, I 
 thought that I should be safer if I satisfied the scruple, 
 
190 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 and, in obedience to the dream, composed a few verses 
 before I departed. And first X made a hvmn in 
 honor of the god of the festival, and then considering 
 that a poet, if he is really to be a poet or maker, should 
 not only put words together but make stories, and as 
 I have no invention, I took some fables of Aesop, 
 which I had ready at hand and knew, and turned them 
 into verse. Tell Evenus this, and bid him be of good 
 cheer; say that I would have him come after me if he 
 be a wise man, and not tarry; and that to-day I am 
 likely to be going, for the Athenians say that I must. 
 
 Simmias said: What a message for such a man! 
 having been a frequent companion of his I should say 
 that, as far as I know him, he will never take } our 
 
 advice unless he is obliged. 
 
 Why, said Socrates. Is not Evenus a philosopher? 
 
 I think that he is, said Simmias. 
 
 Then he, or any man who has the spirit of 
 philosophy, will be willing to die, though he will not 
 take his own life, for that is held not to be right. 
 
 Here he changed his position, and put his legs oft 
 the couch on to the ground, and during the rest of the 
 
 conversation he remained sitting. 
 
 Why do you say, inquired Cebes, that a man ought 
 not to take his own life, but that the philosopher will 
 
 be ready to follow the dying? 
 
 Socrates replied: And have you, Cebes and Sim¬ 
 mias, who are acquainted with Philolaus, never heard 
 
 him speak of this? 
 
 I never understood him, Socrates. 
 
 My words, too, are only an echo; but I am \ ery 
 willing to say what I have heard: and indeed, as I am 
 going to another place, I ought to be thinking and i 
 talking of the nature of the pilgrimage which I am 
 about to make. Wliat can I do better in the intei\al 
 between this and the setting of the sun? 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 191 
 
 Then tell me, Socrates, why is suicide held not to 
 be right? as I have certainly heard Philolaus affirm 
 when he was staying with us at Thebes; and there are 
 others who say the same, although none of them has 
 ever made me understand him. 
 
 But do your best, replied Socrates, and the day may 
 come when you will understand. I suppose that you 
 wonder why, as most things which are evil may be 
 accidentally good, this is to be the only exception (for 
 may not death, too, be better than life in some cases?), 
 and why, when a man is better dead, he is not per¬ 
 mitted to be his own benefactor, but must wait for the 
 hand of another. 
 
 By Jupiter! yes, indeed, said Cebes laughing, and 
 speaking in his native Doric. 
 
 I admit the appearance of inconsistency, replied 
 Socrates; but there may not be any real inconsistency 
 after all in this. There is a doctrine uttered in secret 
 that man is a prisoner who has no right to open the 
 door of his prison and run away; this is a great 
 mystery which I do not quite understand. Yet I too 
 believe that the gods are our guardians, and that we 
 are a possession of theirs. Do you not agree? 
 
 Yes, I agree to that, said Cebes. 
 
 And if one of your own possessions, an ox or an ass, 
 for example, took the liberty of putting himself out 
 of the way when you had given no intimation of your 
 wish that he should die, would you not be angry with 
 him, and would you not punish him if you could? ' 
 
 Certainly, replied Cebes. 
 
 Then there may be reason in saying that a man 
 should wait, and not take his own life until God sum¬ 
 mons him, as he is now summoning me. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, said Cebes, there is surely reason in 
 that. And yet how can you reconcile this seemingly 
 true belief that God is our guardian and we his posses- 
 
192 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 sions, with that willingness to die which we were at¬ 
 tributing to the philosopher? That the wisest of men 
 should be willing to leave this service in which they 
 are ruled by the gods who are the best of rulers, is not 
 reasonable, for surely no wise man thinks that when 
 set at liberty he can take better care of himself than 
 the gods take of him. A fool may perhaps think this 
 — he may argue that he had better run away from his 
 master, not considering that his duty is to remain to 
 the end, and not to run away from the good, and that 
 there is no sense in his running away. But the wise 
 man will want to be ever with him who is better than 
 himself. Now this, Socrates, is the reverse of what 
 was just now said; for upon this view the wise man 
 should sorrow and the fool rejoice at passing out of 
 
 The earnestness of Cebes seemed to please Socrates. 
 Here, said he, turning to us, is a man who is always 
 inquiring, and is not to be convinced all in a moment, 
 
 nor by every argument. _ . , . , 
 
 And in this case, added Simmias, his objection does 
 appear to me to have some force. For what can be 
 the meaning of a truly wise man wanting to fly away 
 and lightly leave a master who is better than himself. 
 And I rather imagine that Cebes is referring to you; : 
 
 he thinks that you are too ready to leave us, and too 
 ready to leave the gods who, as you acknowledge, are 
 
 our good rulers. 
 
 Yer replied Socrates; there is reason in that. And 
 this indictment you think that I ought to answer as 1 
 I were in court ? 
 
 That is what we should like, said Simmias. 
 
 Then I must try to make a better impression upon 
 you than I did when defending myself before the 
 judges. For I am quite ready to acknowledge, Sim¬ 
 mias and Cebes, that I ought to be grieved at death, 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 193 
 
 if I were not persuaded that I am going to other gods 
 who are wise and good (of this I am as certain as I 
 can be of anything of the sort), and to men departed 
 (though I am not so certain of this) who are better 
 than those whom I leave behind; and therefore I do 
 not grieve as I might have done, for I have good hope 
 that there is yet something remaining for the dead, 
 and as has been said of old, some far better thing for 
 the good than for the evil. 
 
 But do you mean to take away your thoughts with 
 you, Socrates, said Simmias? Will you not commu¬ 
 nicate them to us?—the benefit is one in which we 
 too may hope to share. Moreover, if you succeed in 
 convincing us, that will be an answer to the 
 charge against yourself. 
 
 I will do my best, replied Socrates. But you must 
 first let me hear what Crito wants; he was going to say 
 something to me. 
 
 Only this, Socrates, replied Crito: — the attendant 
 who is to give you the poison has been telling me that 
 you are not to talk much, and he wants me to let you 
 know this; for that by talking, heat is increased, and 
 this interferes with the action of the poison; those who 
 excite themselves are sometimes obliged to drink the 
 poison two or three times. 
 
 Then, said Socrates, let him mind his business and 
 be prepared to give the poison two or three times, if 
 necessary; that is all. 
 
 I was almost certain that you would say that, re¬ 
 plied Crito; but I was obliged to satisfy him. 
 
 Never mind him, he said. 
 
 And now I will make answer to you, O my judges, 
 and show that he who has lived as a true philosopher 
 has reason to be of good cheer when he is about to die, 
 and that after death he may hope to receive the 
 greatest good in the other world. And how this may 
 
194 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 be, Simmias and Cebes, I will endeavor to explain. 
 For I deem that the true disciple of philosophy is 
 likely to be misunderstood by other men; they do not 
 perceive that he is ever pursuing death and dying; and 
 if this is true, why, having had the desire of death all 
 his life long, should he repine at the arrival of that 
 which he has been always pursuing and desiring? 
 
 Simmias laughed and said; Though not in a laugh¬ 
 ing humor, I swear that I can not help laughing, when 
 I think what the wicked world wifi say when they 
 hear this. They will say that this is very true, and 
 our people at home will agree with them in saying 
 that the life which philosophers desire is truly death, 
 and that they have found them out to be deserving of 
 
 the death which they desire. 
 
 And they are right, Simmias, in saying this, with 
 the exception of the words “they have found them 
 out;” for they have not found out what is the nature 
 of this death which the true philosopher desires, or 
 how he deserves or desires /death. But let us leave 
 them and have a word with ourselves: Do we believe 
 that there is such a thing as death ? 
 
 To be sure, replied Simmias. 
 
 And is this anything but the separation of soul and 
 body? And being dead is the attainment of this 
 separation when the soul exists in herself, and is 
 parted from the body and the body is parted from the 
 soul — that is death ? 
 
 Exactly: that and nothing else, he replied. 
 
 And what do you say of another question, my 
 friend, about which I should like to have your opinion, 
 and the answer to which will probably throw light 
 on our present inquiry: Do you think that the 
 philosopher ought to care about the pleasures —if 
 they are to be called pleasures of eating and drink¬ 
 ing? 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 195 
 
 Certainly not, answered Simmias. 
 
 And what do you say of the pleasures of love — 
 should he care about them? 
 
 By no means. 
 
 And will he think much of the other ways of in¬ 
 dulging the body, for example, the acquisition of 
 costly raiment, or sandals or other adornments of the 
 body? Instead of caring about them, does he not 
 rather despise anything more than nature needs? 
 What do you say? 
 
 I should say that the true philosopher would despise 
 them. 
 
 Would you not say that he is entirely concerned 
 with the soul and not with the body? He would like, 
 as far as he can, to be quit of the body and turn to the 
 soul. 
 
 That is true. 
 
 In matters of this sort philosophers, above all other 
 men, may be observed in every sort of way to dissever 
 the soul from the body. 
 
 That is true. 
 
 Whereas, Simmias, the rest of the world are of 
 opinion that a life which has no bodily pleasures and 
 no part in them is not worth having; but that he who 
 thinks nothing of bodily pleasures is almost as though 
 he w r ere dead. 
 
 That is quite true. 
 
 What again shall we say of the actual acquirement 
 of knowledge ? — is the body, if invited to share in the 
 inquiry, a hinderer or a helper? I mean to say, have 
 sight and hearing any truth in them? Are they not, 
 as the poets are always telling us, inaccurate 
 witnesses? and yet, if even they are inaccurate and 
 indistinct, what is to be said of the other senses? — for 
 you will allow that they are the best of them? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
196 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 Then when does the soul attain truth? — for in at¬ 
 tempting to consider anything in company with the 
 body she is obviously deceived. 
 
 Yes, that is true. 
 
 Then must not existence he revealed to her in 
 thought, if at all? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And thought is best when the mind is gathered into 
 herself and none of these things trouble her — neither 
 sounds nor sights nor pain nor any pleasure, when 
 she has as little as possible to do with the body, and 
 has no bodily sense or feeling, but is aspiring after 
 
 being? 
 
 Th a i; is true. 
 
 And in this the philosopher dishonors the body; his 
 soul runs away from the body and desires to be alone 
 
 and by herself? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 Well, but there is another thing, Simmias: Is there 
 or is there not an absolute justice? 
 
 Assuredly there is. 
 
 And an absolute beauty and absolute good? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 But did you ever behold any of them with your 
 eyes? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or did you ever reach them with any other bodily 
 sense? (and I speak not of these alone, but of absolute 
 greatness, and health, and strength, and of the essence 
 or true nature of everything). Has the reality ot 
 them ever been perceived by you through the bodily 
 organs? or rather, is not the nearest approach to the 
 knowledge of their several natures made by him who 
 so orders his intellectual vision as to have the most 
 exact conception of the essence of that which he con- 
 
 siders? 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 197 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And he attains to the knowledge of them in their 
 highest purity who goes to each of them with the mind 
 alone, not allowing when in the act of thought the 
 intrusion or introduction of sight or any other sense 
 in the company of reason, but with the very light of 
 the mind in her clearness penetrates into the very light 
 of truth in each; he has got rid, as far as he can, of 
 eyes and ears and of the whole body, which he con¬ 
 ceives of only as a disturbing element, hindering the 
 soul from the acquisition of knowledge when in com¬ 
 pany with her — is not this the sort of man who, if 
 ever man did, is likely to attain the knowledge of 
 existence? 
 
 There is admirable truth in that, Socrates, replied 
 Simmias. 
 
 And when they consider all this, must not true 
 philosophers make a reflection, of which they will 
 speak to one another in such words as these: We have 
 found, they will say, a path of speculation which seems 
 to bring us and the argument to the conclusion, that 
 while we are in the body, and while the soul is mingled 
 with this mass of evil, our desire will not be satisfied, 
 and our desire is of the truth. For the body is a source 
 of endless trouble to us by reason of the mere require¬ 
 ment of food; and also is liable to diseases which over¬ 
 take and impede us in the search after truth: and by 
 filling us as full of loves, and lusts, and fears, and 
 fancies, and idols, and every sort of folly, prevents our 
 ever having, as people say, so much as a thought. 
 For whence come wars, and fightings, and factions? 
 whence but from the body and the lusts of the body? 
 For wars are occasioned by the love of money, and 
 money has to be acquired for the sake and in the 
 service of the body; and in consequence of all these 
 things the time which ought to be given to philosophy 
 
198 
 
 •-» * 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 is lost. Moreover, if there is time and an inclination 
 towards philosophy, yet the body introduces a turmoil 
 and confusion and fear into the course of speculation, 
 and hinders us from seeing the truth; and all ex¬ 
 perience shows that if we would have pure knowledge 
 of anything we must be quit of the body, and the soul 
 in herself must behold all things in themselves: then, I 
 suppose, that we shall attain that which we desire, and 
 of which we say that we are lovers, and that is wisdom; 
 not while we live, but after death, as the argument 
 shows; for if while in company with the body, the soul 
 can not have pure knowledge, one of two things seems 
 to follow — either knowledge is not to be attained at 
 all, or, if at all, after death. For then, and not till 
 then, the soul will be in herself alone and without the 
 body. In this present life, I reckon that we make the 
 nearest approach to knowledge when we have the 
 least possible concern or interest in the body, and are 
 not saturated with the bodily nature, but remain pure 
 until the hour when God himself is pleased to release 
 us. And then the foolishness of the body will be 
 cleared away and we shall be pure and hold converse 
 with other pure souls, and know of ourselves the clear 
 light everywhere; and this is surely the light of truth. 
 For no impure thing is allowed to approach the pure. 
 These are the sort of words, Simmias, which the true 
 lovers of wisdom can not help saying to one another, 
 and thinking. You will agree with me in that? 
 
 Certainly, Socrates. 
 
 But if this is true, O my friend, then there is great 
 hope that, going whither I go, I shall there be satisfied 
 with that which has been the chief concern of you and 
 me in our past lives. And now that the hour of de¬ 
 parture is appointed to me, this is the hope with which 
 I depart, and not I only, but every man who believes 
 that he has his mind purified. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 199 
 
 Certainly, replied Simmias. 
 
 And what is purification but the separation of the 
 soul from the body, as I was saying before; the habit 
 of the soul gathering and collecting herself into her¬ 
 self, out of all the courses of the body; the dwelling in 
 her own place alone, as in another life, so also in this, 
 as far as she can; — the release of the soul from the 
 chains of the body? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 And what is that which is termed death, but this 
 very separation and release of the soul from the body? 
 
 To be sure, he said. 
 
 And the true philosophers, and they only, study 
 and are eager to release the soul. Is not the separation 
 and release of the soul from the body their especial 
 study? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And, as I was saying at first, there would be a 
 ridiculous contradiction in men studying to live as 
 nearly as they can in a state of death, and yet repining 
 when death comes. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Then Simmias, as the true philosophers are ever 
 studying death, to them, of all men, death is the least 
 terrible. Look at the matter in this way: — how in¬ 
 consistent of them to have been always enemies of the 
 body, and wanting to have the soul alone, and when 
 this is granted to them, to be trembling and repining; 
 instead of rejoicing at their departing to that place 
 where, when they arrive, they hope to gain that which 
 in life they loved (and this was wisdom), and at the 
 same time to be rid of the company of their enemy. 
 Many a man has been willing to go to the world below 
 in the hope of seeing there an earthly love, or wife, or 
 son, and conversing with them. And will he who is a 
 true lover of wisdom, and is persuaded in like manner 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 200 
 
 it only in the world below he can worthily enjoy 
 still repine at death? Will he not depart with 
 joy? Surely, he will, my friend, if he be a true 
 philosopher. For he will have a firm conviction that 
 there only, and nowhere else, he can find wdsdom in 
 her purity. And if this be true, he would be very 
 absurd, as I was saying, if he were to fear death. 
 
 He would indeed, replied Simmias. 
 
 And when you see a man who is repining at the ap¬ 
 proach of death, is not his reluctance a sufficient proof 
 that he is not a lover of wisdom, but a lover of the 
 body, and probably at the same time a lover of either 
 money or power, or both? 
 
 That is very true, he replied. 
 
 There is a virtue, Simmias, which is named courage. 
 Is not that a special attribute of the philosopher? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Again, there is temperance. Is not the calm, and 
 control, and disdain of the passions wdrich even the 
 many call temperance, a quality belonging only to 
 those who despise the body, and five in philosophy ? 
 
 That is not to be denied. 
 
 For the courage and temperance of other men, if 
 you will consider them, are really a contradiction. 
 
 How is that, Socrates? 
 
 Well, he said, you are aware that death is regarded 
 by men in general as a great evil. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 And do not courageous men endure death because 
 they are afraid of yet greater evils? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 Then all but the philosophers are courageous only 
 from fear, and because they are afraid; and yet that a 
 man should be courageous from fear, and because he 
 is a coward, is surely a strange thing. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 i 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 201 
 
 And are not the temperate exactly in the same case ? 
 They are temperate because they are intemperate — 
 which may seem to be a contradiction, but is never¬ 
 theless the sort of thing which happens with this foolish 
 temperance. For there are pleasures which they must 
 have, and are afraid of losing; and therefore they 
 abstain from one class of pleasures because they arc 
 overcome by another: and whereas intemperance is 
 defined as “ being under the dominion of pleasure,” 
 they overcome only because they are overcome by 
 pleasure. And that is what I mean by saying that 
 they are temperate through intemperance. 
 
 That appears to be true. 
 
 Yet the exchange of one fear or pleasure or pain 
 for another fear or pleasure or pain, which are 
 measured like coins, the greater with the less, is not 
 the exchange of virtue. O my dear Simmias, is there 
 not one true coin for which all things ought to ex¬ 
 change ? — and that is wisdom; and only in exchange 
 for this, and in company with this, is anything truly 
 bought or sold, whether courage or temperance or 
 justice. And is not all true virtue the companion of 
 wdsdom, no matter what fears or pleasures or other 
 similar goods or evils may or may not attend her? 
 But the virtue which is made up of these goods, when 
 they are severed from wdsdom and exchanged with one 
 another, is a shadow of virtue only, nor is there any 
 freedom or health or truth in her; but in the true ex¬ 
 change there is a purging away of all these things, 
 and temperance, and justice, and courage, and wisdom 
 herself, are a purgation of them. And I conceive that 
 the founders of the mysteries had a real meaning and 
 were not mere triflers when they intimated in a figure 
 long ago that he who passed unsanctified and un¬ 
 initiated into the w r orld below will live in a slough, but 
 that he who arrives there after initiation and purifica- 
 
202 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 
 tion will dwell with the gods. For “ many,” as they 
 say in the mysteries, “ are the thyrsus-bearers, but few 
 are the mystics,” — meaning, as I interpret the words, 
 the true philosophers. In the number of whom I have 
 been seeking, according to my ability, to find a place 
 during my whole life; — whether I have sought in a 
 right way or not, and whether I have succeeded or not, 
 I shall truly know in a little while, if God will, when I 
 myself arrive in the other world: that is my belief. 
 And now Simmias and Cebes, I have answered those 
 who charge me with not grieving or repining at part¬ 
 ing from you and my masters in this world; and I am 
 right in not repining, for I believe that I shall find 
 other masters and friends who are as good in the world 
 below. But all men can not receive this, and I shall be 
 glad if my words have any more success with you than 
 with the judges of Athenians. 
 
 Cebes answered: I agree, Socrates, in the greater 
 part of what you say. But in what relates to the soul, 
 men are apt to be incredulous; they fear that when she 
 leaves the body her place may be nowhere, and that 
 on the very day of death she may be destroyed and 
 perish — immediately on her release from the body, 
 issuing forth like smoke or air and vanishing away 
 into nothingness. For if she could only hold together 
 and be herself after she was released from the evils of 
 the body, there would be good reason to hope, 
 Socrates, that what you say is true. But much per¬ 
 suasion and many arguments are required in order to 
 prove that when the man is dead the soul yet exists, 
 and has any force or intelligence. 
 
 True, Cebes, said Socrates; and shall I suggest 
 that we talk a little of the probabilities of these 
 things ? 
 
 I am sure, said Cebes, that I should greatly like to 
 . know your opinion about them. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 203 
 
 I reckon, said Socrates, that no one who heard me 
 now, not even if he were one of my old enemies, the 
 comic poets, could accuse me of idle talking about 
 matters in which I have no concern. Let us then, if 
 you please, proceed with the inquiry. 
 
 Whether the souls of men after death are or are not 
 in the world below, is a question which may be argued 
 in this manner: — The ancient doctrine of which I 
 have been speaking affirms that they go from hence 
 into the other world, and return hither, and are born 
 from the dead. Now if this be true, and the living 
 come from the dead, then our souls must be in the 
 other world, for if not, how could they be born again? 
 And this would be conclusive, if there were any real 
 evidence that the living are only born from the dead; 
 but if there is no evidence of this, then other argu¬ 
 ments will have to be adduced. 
 
 That is very true, replied Cebes. 
 
 Then let us consider this question, not in relation 
 to man only, but in relation to animals generally, and 
 to plants, and to everything of which there is gener¬ 
 ation, and the proof will be easier. Are not all things 
 which have opposites generated out of their opposites? 
 I mean such things as good and evil, just and unjust 
 — and there are innumerable other opposites which 
 are generated out of opposites. And I want to show 
 that this holds universally of all opposites; I mean to 
 say, for example, that anything which becomes greater 
 must become greater after being less. 
 
 True.. 
 
 And that which becomes less must have been once 
 greater and then become less. 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And the weaker is generated from the stronger, and 
 the swifter from the slower. 
 
 Very true. / 
 
204 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 And the worst is from the better, and the more just 
 is from the more unjust? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 And is this true of all opposites? and are we con¬ 
 vinced that all of them are generated out of opposites? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And in this universal opposition of all things, are 
 there not also two intermediate processes which are 
 ever going on, from one to the other, and hack again, 
 where there is a greater and a less there is also an 
 intermediate process of increase and diminution, and 
 that which grows is said to wax, and that which decays 
 
 to wane? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And there are many other processes, such as 
 division and composition, cooling and heating, which 
 equally involve a passage into and out of one another. 
 And this holds of all opposites, even though not 
 always expressed in words — they are generated out 
 of one another, and there is a passing or process from 
 
 one to the other of them? 
 
 Very true, he replied. 
 
 Well, and is there not an opposite of life, as sleep 
 is the opposite of waking? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 And what is that? 
 
 Death, he answered. 
 
 And these then are generated, if they are opposites, 
 the one from the other, and have there their two inter¬ 
 mediate processes also? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 Now, said Socrates, I will analyze one of the two 
 pairs of opposites which I have mentioned to you, and 
 also its intermediate processes, and you shall analyze 
 the other to me. The state of sleep is opposed to the 
 state of waking, and out of sleeping waking is gener- 
 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 205 
 
 ated, and out of waking, sleeping; and the process of 
 generation is in the one case falling asleep, and in the 
 other waking up. Are you agreed about that? 
 
 Quite agreed. 
 
 Then, suppose that you analyze life and death to 
 me in the same manner. Is not death opposed to 
 life? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And they are generated one from the other? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 What is generated from life? 
 
 Death. 
 
 And what from death? 
 
 I can only say in answer — life. 
 
 Then the living, whether things or persons, Cebes, 
 are generated from the dead? 
 
 That is clear, he replied. 
 
 Then the inference is that our souls are in the world 
 below? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And one of the true processes or generations is 
 visible — for surely the act of dying is visible? 
 
 Surely, he said. 
 
 And may not the other be inferred as the comple¬ 
 ment of nature, who is not to be supposed to go on 
 one leg only ? And if not, a corresponding process of 
 generation in death must also be assigned to her? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And what is that process? 
 
 Revival. 
 
 And revival, if there be such a thing, is the birth of 
 the dead into the world of the living? 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 Then here is a new way in which we arrive at the 
 inference that the living come from the dead, just as 
 the dead come from the living; and if this is true, then 
 
 
206 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 the souls of the dead must be in some place out of which 
 they come again. And this, as I think, has been satis¬ 
 factorily proved. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, he said; all this seems to flow neces¬ 
 sarily out of our previous admissions. > 
 
 And that these admissions were not unfair, Cebes, 
 he said, may be shown, as I think, in this way: It 
 generation were in a straight line only, and theie weie 
 no compensation or circle in nature, no turn or return 
 into one another, then you know that all things would 
 at last have the same form and pass into the same 
 state, and there would be no more generation of them. 
 What do you mean? he said. 
 
 A simple thing enough, which I will illustrate by 
 the case of sleep, he replied. You know that if there 
 were no compensation of sleeping and waking, the 
 story of the sleeping Endymion would in the end 
 have no meaning, because all other things would be 
 asleep too, and he would not be thought of. Or it 
 there were composition only, and no division ot sub¬ 
 stances, then the chaos of Anaxagoras would come 
 again. And in like manner, my dear Cebes, it all 
 things which partook of life were to die, and after 
 they were dead remained in the form df death, and did 
 not come to life again, all would at last die, and noth¬ 
 in o- would be alive —how could this be otherwise. 
 For if the living spring from any others who are not 
 the dead, and they die, must not all things at last be 
 
 swallowed up in death? , 
 
 There is no escape from that, Socrates, said Cebes; 
 
 and I think that what you say is entirely true. 
 
 Yes, he said, Cebes, I entirely think so too; and 
 we are not walking in a vain imagination: but I am 
 confident in the belief that there truly is such a thing 
 as living again, and that the living spring from the 
 dead and that the souls of the dead are in existence. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 and that the good souls have a better port!! 
 evil. 
 
 Cebes added: Your favorite doctrine, Socrates^ 
 knowledge is simply recollection, if true, also ne<S 
 sarily implies a previous time in which we learned that 
 which we now recollect. But this would be impossible 
 unless our soul was in some place before existing in 
 the human form; here then is another argument of the 
 soul’s immortality. 
 
 But tell me, Cebes, said Simmias, interposing, what 
 proofs are given of this doctrine of recollection? I 
 am not very sure at this moment that I remember 
 them. 
 
 One excellent proof, said Cebes, is afforded by 
 questions. If you put a question to a person in a right 
 way, he will give a true answer of himself, but how 
 could he do this unless there were knowledge and 
 right reason already in him? And this is most clearly 
 shown when he is taken to a diagram or to anything 
 of that sort. 
 
 But if, said Socrates, you are still incredulous, Sim¬ 
 mias, I would ask you whether you may not agree 
 with me when you look at the matter in another way; 
 — I mean, if you are still incredulous as to whether 
 knowledge is recollection? 
 
 Incredulous, I am not, said Simmias; but,I want 
 to have this doctrine of recollection brought to my 
 own recollection, and, from what Cebes has said, I am 
 beginning to recollect and be convinced: but I should 
 still like to hear what more you have to say. 
 
 This is what I should say, he replied: — We should 
 agree, if I am not mistaken, that what a man recol¬ 
 lects he must have known at some previous time. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And what is the nature of this recollection? And, 
 in asking this, I mean to ask, whether when a person 
 
 J 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 seen or heard or in any way perceived 
 lg, and he knows not only that, but something 
 U1 which he has not the same but another knowl¬ 
 edge, we may not fairly say that he recollects that 
 which comes into his mind. Are we agreed about 
 
 that? 
 
 What do you mean? , . .. . 
 
 S I mean what I may illustrate by the following in¬ 
 stance:— The knowledge of'a lyre is not the same 
 as the knowledge of a man? 
 
 And yet what is the feeling of lovers when they 
 recognize a lyre, or a garment, or anything else which 
 the beloved has been in the habit of using? Do not 
 they, from knowing the lyre, form in the mind s eye 
 an‘image of the youth to whom the lyre belongs? 
 And this is recollection: and in the same way any one 
 who sees Simmias may remember Cebes; and there 
 are endless other things of the same nature. 
 
 Yes, indeed, there are, — endless, replied Simmias. 
 
 And this sort of thing, he said, is recollection, and 
 is most commonly a process of recovering that which 
 has been forgotten through time and inattention. 
 
 Very true, he said. . 
 
 Well; and may you not also from seeing the pic¬ 
 ture of a horse or a lyre remember a man? and irom 
 the picture of Simmias, you may he led to remember 
 
 Cebes? 
 
 True • 
 
 Or you may also be led to the recollection of Sim¬ 
 mias himself? 
 
 ^ m e he said. 
 
 And in all these cases, the recollection may be de 
 rived from things either like or unlike? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And when the recollection is derived from like 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 209 
 
 things, then there is sure to be another question, which 
 is — whether the likeness of that which is recollected 
 is in any way defective or not? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 And shall we proceed a step further, and affirm that 
 there is such a thing as equality, not of wood with 
 wood, or of stone with stone, but that, over and above 
 this, there is equality in the abstract ? Shall we affirm 
 this? 
 
 Affirm, yes, and swear to it, replied Simmias, with 
 all the confidence in life. 
 
 And do we know the nature of this abstract essence ? 
 
 To be sure, he said. 
 
 And whence did we obtain this knowledge? Did 
 we not see equalities of material things, such as pieces 
 of wood and stones, and gather from them the idea 
 of an equality which is different from them? — you 
 will admit that? Or look at the matter again in this 
 way: — Do not the same pieces of wood or stone ap¬ 
 pear at one time equal, and at another time un¬ 
 equal? 
 
 That is certain. 
 
 But are real equals ever unequal? or is the idea of 
 equality ever inequality ? 
 
 That surely was never yet known, Socrates. 
 
 Then these (so-called) equals are not the same with 
 the idea of equality? 
 
 I should say, clearly not, Socrates. 
 
 And yet from these equals, although differing from 
 the idea of equality, you conceived and attained that 
 idea? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Which might be like, or might be unlike them? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 But that makes no difference: whenever from see¬ 
 ing one thing you conceived another, whether like or 
 
210 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 unlike, there must surely have been an act of recol¬ 
 lection? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But what would you say of equal portions of wood 
 and stone, or other material equals? and what is toe 
 impression produced by them? Are they equals m the 
 same sense as absolute equality ? or do they fall short 
 of this in a measure? 
 
 Yes, he said, in a very great measure too. 
 
 And must we not allow, that when I or any one 
 look at any object, and perceive that the object aims 
 at being some other thing, hut falls short of, and can 
 not attain to it, — he who makes this observation 
 must have had a previous knowledge of that to which, 
 as he says, the other, although similar, was interior. 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And has not this been our own case in the matter 
 of equals and of absolute equality? 
 
 Precisely. 
 
 Then we must have known absolute equality pre¬ 
 viously to the time when we first saw the material 
 equals, and reflected that all these apparent equals 
 aim at this absolute equality, but fall short of it. 
 
 That is true. , _ ^ r . 
 
 And we recognize also that this absolute equality 
 
 has only been known, and can only be known, through 
 the medium of sight or touch, or of some other sense. 
 And this I would affirm of all such conceptions. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, as far as the argument is concerned, 
 
 one of them is the same as the other. 
 
 And from the sense then is derived the know ledge 
 that all sensible things aim at an idea of equality o 
 which they fall short — is not that true? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then before we began to see or hear or perceive in 
 any way, we must have had a knowledge of absolute 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 211 
 
 equality, or we could not have referred to that 
 the equals which are derived from the senses? — 
 for to that they all aspire, and of that they fall 
 short? 
 
 That, Socrates, is certainly to be inferred from the 
 previous statements. 
 
 And did we not see and hear and acquire our other 
 senses as soon as we were bom? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 Then we must have acquired the knowledge of the 
 ideal equal at some time previous to this ? * 
 
 Yes. 
 
 That is to say, before we were born, I suppose? 
 
 True. 
 
 And if we acquired this knowledge before we were 
 born, and were born having it, then we also knew 
 before we were born and at the instant of birth not 
 only the equal or the greater or the less, but all other 
 ideas; for we are not speaking only of equality abso¬ 
 lute, but of beauty, good, justice, holiness, and all 
 which we stamp with the name of essence in the dia¬ 
 lectical process, when we ask and answer questions. 
 Of all this we may certainly affirm that we acquired 
 the knowledge before birth? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 But if, after having acquired, we have not forgot¬ 
 ten that which we acquired, then we must always have 
 been born with knowledge, and shall always continue 
 to know as long as life lasts — for knowing is the 
 acquiring and retaining knowledge and not forget¬ 
 ting. Is not forgetting, Simmias, just the losing of 
 knowledge? 
 
 Quite true, Socrates. 
 
 But if the knowledge which we acquired before 
 birth was lost by us at birth, and if afterwards by the 
 use of the senses we recovered that which we previously 
 
212 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 knew, will not that which we call learning be a process 
 of recovering our knowledge, and may not this be 
 rightly termed recollection by us ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 For this is clear — that when we perceived some¬ 
 thing, either by the help of sight, or hearing, or some 
 other sense, there was no difficulty in receiving from 
 this a conception of some other thing like or unlike 
 which had been forgotten and which was associated 
 with this; and therefore, as I was saying, one of two 
 alternatives follows: — either we had this knowledge 
 at birth, and continued to know through life; or, after 
 birth, those who are said to learn only remember, and 
 learning is recollection only. 
 
 Yes, that is quite true, Socrates. 
 
 And which alternative, Simmias, do you prefer? 
 Had we the knowledge at our birth, or did we remem¬ 
 ber afterwards the things which we knew previously 
 to our birth? 
 
 I can not decide at the moment. 
 
 At any rate you can decide whether he who has 
 knowledge ought or ought not to be able to give a 
 reason for what he knows. 
 
 Certainly, he ought. 
 
 But do you think that every man is able to give a 
 reason about these very matters of which we are speak¬ 
 ing? 
 
 I wish that they could, Socrates, but I greatly fear 
 that to-morrow at this time there will be no one able 
 
 to give a reason worth having. 
 
 Then you are not of opinion, Simmias, that all men 
 
 know these things ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Then they are in process of recollecting that which 
 they learned before? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 213 
 
 But when did our souls acquire this knowledge? — 
 not since we were born as men ? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 And therefore, previously? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then, Simmias, our souls must have existed before 
 they were in the form of man — without bodies, and 
 must have had intelligence. 
 
 Unless indeed you suppose, Socrates, that these 
 notions were given us at the moment of birth; for this 
 is the only time that remains. 
 
 Yes, my friend, but when did we lose them? for 
 they are not in us when we are born — that is ad¬ 
 mitted. Did we lose them at the moment of receiving 
 them, or at some other time? 
 
 No, Socrates, I perceive that I was unconsciously 
 talking nonsense. 
 
 Then may we not say, Simmias, that if, as we are 
 always repeating, there is an absolute beauty, and 
 goodness, and essence in general, and to this, which is 
 now discovered to be a previous condition of our being, 
 we refer all our sensations, and with this compare 
 them — assuming this to have a prior existence, then 
 our souls must have had a prior existence, but if not, 
 there would be no force in the argument. There can 
 be no doubt that if these absolute ideas existed before 
 we were born, then our souls must have existed before 
 we were born, and if not the ideas, then not the 
 souls. 
 
 Yes, Socrates; I am convinced that there is pre¬ 
 cisely the same necessity for the existence of the soul 
 before birth, and of the essence of which you are 
 speaking: and the argument arrives at a result which 
 happily agrees with my own notion. For there is 
 nothing which to my mind is so evident as that beauty, 
 good, and other notions of which you were just now 
 
214 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 speaking, have a most real and absolute existence; and 
 
 I am satisfied with the proof. 
 
 Well, but is Cebes equally satisfied? for I must 
 
 convince him too. 
 
 I think, said Simmias, that Cebes is satisfied: al¬ 
 though he is the most incredulous of mortals, yet I 
 believe that he is convinced of the existence of the soul 
 before birth. But that after death the soul will con¬ 
 tinue to exist is not yet proven even to my own satis¬ 
 faction. I can not get rid of the feelings of the many 
 to which Cebes was referring — the feeling that when 
 the man dies the soul may be scattered, and that this 
 may be the end of her. For admitting that she may 
 be generated and created in some other place, and may 
 have existed before entering the human body, why 
 after having entered in and gone out again may she 
 not herself be destroyed and come to an end ? 
 
 Very true, Simmias, said Cebes; that our soul ex¬ 
 isted before we were born was the first half of the 
 argument, and this appears to have been proven; that 
 the soul will exist after death as well as before birth 
 is the other half of which the proof is still wanting, 
 and has to be supplied. 
 
 But that proof, Simmias and Cebes, has been al¬ 
 ready given, said Socrates, if you put the two argu¬ 
 ments together — I mean this and the former one, 
 in which we admitted that everything living is born 
 of the dead. For if the soul existed before birth, and 
 in coming to life and being born can be born only from 
 death and dying, must she not after death continue to 
 exist, since she has to be born again? surely the proof 
 which you desire has been already furnished. Still I 
 suspect that you and Simmias would be glad to probe 
 the argument further: like children, you are haunted 
 with a fear that when the soul leaves the body, the 
 wind may really blow her away and scatter her; espe- 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 215 
 
 dally if a man should happen to die in stormy weather 
 and not when the sky is calm. 
 
 Cebes answered with a smile: Then, Socrates, you 
 must argue us out of our fears — and yet, strictly 
 speaking, they are not our fears, but there is a child 
 within us to whom death is a sort of hobgoblin; him 
 too we must persuade not to be afraid when he is alone 
 with him in the dark. 
 
 Socrates said: Let the voice of the charmer be ap¬ 
 plied daily until you have charmed him away. 
 
 And where shall we find a good charmer of our 
 fears, Socrates, when you are gone? 
 
 Hellas, he replied, is a large place, Cebes, and has 
 many good men, and there are barbarous races not a 
 few: seek for him among them all, far and wide, 
 sparing neither pains nor money; for there is no bet¬ 
 ter way of using your money. And you must not 
 forget to seek for him among yourselves too; for he 
 is nowhere more likely to be found. 
 
 The search, replied Cebes, shall certainly be made. 
 And now, if you please, let us return to the point of 
 the argument at which we digressed. 
 
 By all means, replied Socrates; what else should 
 I please? 
 
 Very good, he said. 
 
 Must we not, said Socrates, ask ourselves some ques¬ 
 tion of this sort? — What is that which, as we imag¬ 
 ine, is liable to be scattered away, and about which we 
 fear? and what again is that about which we have no 
 fear? And then we may proceed to inquire whether 
 that which suffers dispersion is or is not of the nature 
 of soul — our hopes and fears as to our own souls 
 will turn upon that. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 Now the compound or composite may be supposed 
 to be naturally capable of being dissolved in like man- 
 
216 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 ner as of being compounded; but that which is un¬ 
 compounded, and that only, must be, if anything is, 
 indissoluble. 
 
 Yes; that is what I should imagine, said Cebes. 
 
 And the uncompounded may be assumed to be the 
 same and unchanging, whereas the compound is al¬ 
 ways changing and never the same? 
 
 That I also think, he said. 
 
 Then now let us return to the previous discussion. 
 Is that idea or essence, which in the dialectical process 
 we define as essence or true existence — whether es¬ 
 sence of equality, beauty, or anything else — are these 
 essences, I say, liable at times to some degree of 
 change? or are they each of them always what they 
 are, having the same simple self-existent and un¬ 
 changing forms, and not admitting of variation at all, 
 or in any way, or at any time ? 
 
 They must be always the same, Socrates, replied 
 
 Cebes. 
 
 And what would you say of the many beautiful — 
 whether men or horses or garments or any other things 
 which may be called equal or beautiful, — are they all 
 unchanging and the same always, or quite the reverse? 
 May they not rather be described as almost always 
 changing and hardly ever the same, either with them¬ 
 selves or with one another? 
 
 The latter, replied Cebes; they are always in a 
 
 state of change. 
 
 And these you can touch and see and perceive with 
 the senses, but the unchanging things you can only 
 perceive with the mind — they are invisible and are 
 not seen? 
 
 That is very true, he said. 
 
 Well then, he added, let us suppose that there are 
 two sorts of existences — one seen, the other unseen. 
 
 Let us suppose them. 
 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 217 
 
 The seen is the changing, and the unseen is the 
 unchanging ? 
 
 That may be also supposed. 
 
 And, further, is not one part of us body, and the 
 rest of us soul? 
 
 To be sure. 
 
 And to which class may we say that the body is 
 more alike and akin? 
 
 Clearly to the seen: no one can doubt that. 
 
 And is the soul seen or not seen? 
 
 Not by man, Socrates. 
 
 And by “ seen ” and “ not seen ” is meant by us 
 that which is or is not visible to the eye of man ? 
 
 Yes, to the eye of man. 
 
 And what do we say of the soul? — is that seen or 
 not seen? 
 
 Not seen. 
 
 Unseen then? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then the soul is more like to the unseen, and the 
 body to the seen? 
 
 That is most certain, Socrates. 
 
 And were we not saying long ago that the soul 
 when using the body as an instrument of perception, 
 that is to say, when using the sense of sight or hear¬ 
 ing or some other sense (for the meaning of perceiv¬ 
 ing through the body is perceiving through the 
 senses) — were we not saying that the soul too is then 
 dragged by the body into the region of the changeable, 
 and wanders and is confused; the world spins round 
 her, and she is like a drunkard when under their in¬ 
 fluence ? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But when returning into herself she reflects; then 
 she passes into the realm of purity, and eternity, and 
 immortality, and unchangeableness, which are her kin- 
 
218 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 dred, and with them she ever lives, when she is by 
 herself and is not let or hindered; then she ceases 
 from her erring ways, and being in communion with 
 the unchanging is unchanging. And this state of the 
 soul is called wisdom? 
 
 That is well and truly said, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 And to which class is the soul more nearly alike and 
 akin, as far as may be inferred from this argument, 
 as well as from the preceding one? 
 
 I think, Socrates, that, in the opinion of every one 
 who follows the argument, the soul will be infinitely 
 more like the unchangeable — even the most stupid 
 person will not deny that. 
 
 And the body is more like the changing ? 
 
 Yes. • , 
 
 Yet once more consider the matter in this light: 
 
 When the soul and the body are united, then nature 
 orders the soul to rule and govern, and the body to 
 obey and serve. Now which of these two functions 
 is akin to the divine? and which to the mortal? Does 
 not the divine appear to you to be that which naturally 
 orders and rules, and the mortal that which is subject 
 and servant ? • 
 
 True. 
 
 And which does the soul resemble? 
 
 The soul resembles the divine, and the body the 
 mortal — there can be no doubt of that, Socrates. 
 
 Then reflect, Cebes: is not the conclusion of the 
 whole matter this — that the soul is in the very like¬ 
 ness of the divine, and immortal, and intelligible, and 
 uniform, and indissoluble, and unchangeable; and the 
 body is in the very likeness of the human, and mortal, 
 and unintelligible, and multiform, and dissoluble, and 
 changeable. Can this, my dear Cebes, be denied? 
 
 No indeed. 
 
 But if this is true, then is not the body liable to 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 219 
 
 speedy dissolution? and is not the soul almost or alto¬ 
 gether indissoluble? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 And do you further observe, that after a man is 
 dead, the body, which is the visible part of man, and 
 has a visible framework, which is called a corpse, and 
 which would naturally be dissolved and decomposed 
 and dissipated, is not dissolved or decomposed at once, 
 but may remain for a good while,, if the constitution 
 be sound at the time of death, and the season of the 
 year favorable? For the body when shrunk and em¬ 
 balmed, as is the custom in Egypt, may remain almost 
 entire through infinite ages; and even in decay, still 
 there are some portions, such as the bones and liga¬ 
 ments, which are practically indestructible. You 
 allow that? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And are we to suppose that the soul, which is in¬ 
 visible, in passing to the true Hades, which like her 
 is invisible, and pure, and noble, and on her way to 
 the good and wise God, whither, if God will, my soul 
 is also soon to go, — that the soul, I repeat, if this be 
 her nature and origin, is blown away and perishes 
 immediately on quitting the body, as the many sav? 
 That can never be, my dear Simmias and Cebes. The 
 truth rather is, that the soul which is pure at departing 
 draws after her no bodily taint, having never volun¬ 
 tarily had connection with the body, which she is ever 
 avoiding, herself gathered into herself; for such 
 abstraction has been the study of her life. And what 
 does this mean but that she has been a true disciple 
 of philosophy, and has practised how to die easily? 
 And is not philosophy the practice of death ? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 That soul, I say, herself invisible, departs to the 
 invisible world — to the divine and immortal and 
 
220 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 rational: thither arriving, she lives in bliss and is 
 released from the error and folly of men, their fears 
 and wild passions and all other human ills, and for¬ 
 ever dwells, as they say of the initiated, in company 
 with the gods? Is not this true, Cebes? 
 
 Yes, said Cebes, beyond a doubt. 
 
 But the soul which has been polluted, and is im¬ 
 pure at the time of her departure, and is the compan¬ 
 ion and servant of the body always, and is in love 
 with and fascinated by the body and by the desires 
 and pleasures of the body, until she is led to believe 
 that the truth only exists in a bodily form, which a 
 man may touch and see and taste and use for the pur¬ 
 poses of his lusts, — the soul, I mean, accustomed to 
 hate and fear and avoid the intellectual principle, 
 which to the bodily eye is dark and invisible, and can 
 be attained only by philosophy, — do you suppose 
 that such a soul as this will depart pure and unalloyed? 
 
 That is impossible, he replied. 
 
 She is engrossed by the corporeal, which the con¬ 
 tinual association and constant care of the body have 
 made natural to her. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And this, my friend, may be conceived to be that 
 heavy, weighty, earthy element of sight by which such 
 a soul is depressed and dragged down again into the 
 visible world, because she is afraid of the invisible 
 and of the world below — prowling about tombs and 
 sepulchres, in the neighborhood of which, as they tell 
 us, are seen certain ghostly apparitions of souls which 
 have not departed pure, but are cloyed with sight and 
 therefore visible . 1 
 
 1 Compare Milton, Comus, 463 foil.: — 
 
 “ But when lust, 
 
 By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk. 
 
 But most by lewd and lavish act of sin, 
 
 Lets in defilement to the inward parts, 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 221 
 
 That is very likely, Socrates. 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, Cebes; and these must be 
 the souls, not of the good, but of the evil, who are 
 compelled to wander about such places in payment 
 of the penalty of their former evil way of life; and 
 they continue to wander until the desire which haunts 
 them is satisfied and they are imprisoned in another 
 body. And they may be supposed to be fixed in the 
 same natures which they had in their former life. 
 
 What natures do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 I mean to sa y that men who have followed after 
 gluttony, and wantonness, and drunkenness, and have 
 had no thought of avoiding them, would pass into 
 asses and animals of that sort. What do you think ? 
 
 I think that exceedingly probable. 
 
 And those who have chosen the portion of injustice, 
 and tyranny, and violence, will pass into wolves, or 
 hawks and kites; — whither else can we suppose them 
 to go? 
 
 Yes, said Cebes; that is doubtless the place of na¬ 
 tures such as theirs. 
 
 And there is no difficulty, he said, in assigning to 
 all of them places answering to their several natures 
 and propensities? 
 
 There is not, he said. 
 
 Even among them some are happier than others; 
 and the happiest both in themselves and their place of 
 abode are those who have practised the civil and social 
 virtues which are called temperance and justice, and 
 
 The soul grows clotted by contagion, 
 
 Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lose 
 The divine property of her first being. 
 
 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp 
 Oft seen in charnel vaults and sepulchres, 
 Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave, 
 
 As loath to leave the body that it lov’d, 
 
 And linked itself by carnal sensuality 
 To a degenerate and degraded state.” 
 
222 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 are acquired by habit and attention without philoso¬ 
 phy and mind. 
 
 Why are they the happiest ? 
 
 Because they may be expected to pass into some 
 gentle social nature which is like their own, such as 
 that of bees or ants, or even back again into the form 
 of man, and just and moderate men spring from them. 
 
 That is not impossible. 
 
 But he who is a philosopher or lover of learning, 
 and is entirely pure at departing, is alone permitted 
 to reach the gods. And this is the reason, Simmias 
 and Cebes, why the true votaries of philosophy abstain 
 from all fleshly lusts, and endure and refuse to give 
 themselves up to them, — not because they fear pov¬ 
 erty or the ruin of their families, like the lovers of 
 money, and the world in general; nor like the lovers 
 of power and honor, because they dread the dishonor 
 or disgrace of evil deeds. 
 
 No, Socrates, that would not become them, said 
 Cebes. 
 
 No indeed, he replied; and therefore they who have 
 a care of their souls, and do not merely live in the 
 fashions of the body, say farewell to all this; they will 
 not walk in the ways of the blind: and when philoso¬ 
 phy offers them purification and release from evil, 
 they feel that they ought not to resist her influence, 
 and to her they incline, and whither she leads they 
 follow her. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates? 
 
 I will teli you, he said. The lovers of knowledge 
 are conscious that their souls when philosophy receives 
 them, are simply fastened and glued to their bodies: 
 the soul is only able to view existence through the bars 
 of a prison, and not in her own nature; she is wallow¬ 
 ing in the mire of all ignorance; and philosophy, see¬ 
 ing the terrible nature of her confinement, and that 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 223 
 
 the captive through desire is led to conspire in her 
 own captivity (for the lovers of knowledge are aware 
 that this was the original state of the soul, and that 
 when she was in this state philosophy received and 
 gently counselled her, and wanted to release her, 
 pointing out to her that the eye is full of deceit, and 
 also the ear and the other senses, and persuading her 
 to retire from them in all but the necessary use of 
 them, and to be gathered up and collected into herself, 
 and to trust only to herself and her own intuitions of 
 absolute existence, and mistrust that which comes to 
 her through others and is subject to vicissitude) — 
 philosophy shows her that this is visible and tangible, 
 but that what she sees in her own nature is intellec¬ 
 tual and invisible. And the soul of the true philoso¬ 
 pher thinks that she ought not to resist this deliver¬ 
 ance, and therefore abstains from pleasures and de¬ 
 sires and pains and fears, as far as she is able; reflect¬ 
 ing that when a man has great joys or sorrows or 
 fears or desires, he suffers from them, not the sort of 
 evil which might be anticipated — as for example, the 
 loss of his health or property which he has sacrificed 
 to his lusts — but he has suffered an evil greater far, 
 which is the greatest and worst of all evils, and one 
 of which he never thinks. 
 
 And what is that, Socrates? said Cebes. 
 
 Why this: When the feeling of pleasure or pain 
 in the soul is most intense, all of us naturally suppose 
 that the object of this intense feeling is then plainest 
 and truest: but this is not the case. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And this is the state in which the soul is most en¬ 
 thralled by the body. 
 
 How is that? 
 
 Why, because each pleasure and pain is a sort of 
 nail which nails and rivets the soul to the body, and 
 
224 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 engrosses her and makes her believe that to be true 
 which the body affirms to be true; and from agreeing 
 with the body and having the same delights she is 
 obliged to have the same habits and ways, and is not 
 likely ever to be pure at her departure to the world 
 below, hut is always saturated with the body; so that 
 she soon sinks into another body and there germinates 
 and grows, and has therefore no part in the com¬ 
 munion of the divine and pure and simple. 
 
 That is most true, Socrates, answered Cebes. 
 
 And this, Cebes, is the reason why the true lovers 
 of knowledge are temperate and brave, and not f01 
 the reason which the world gives. 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Certainly not! For not in that way does the soul 
 of a philosopher reason; she will not ask philosophy 
 to release her in order that when released she may 
 deliver herself up again to the thraldom of pleasures 
 and pains, doing a work only to be undone again, 
 weaving instead of unweaving her Penelope s web. 
 But she will make herself a calm of passion, and fol¬ 
 low reason, and dwell in her, beholding the true and 
 divine (which is not matter of opinion), and thence 
 derive nourishment. Thus she seeks to live while s e 
 lives, and after death she hopes to go to her own kin¬ 
 dred and to he freed from human ills. Never fear, 
 Simmias and Cebes, that a soul which has been thus 
 nurtured and has had these pursuits, will at her depar¬ 
 ture from the body he scattered and blown away by 
 the winds and be nowhere and nothing. 
 
 When Socrates had done speaking, for a consider¬ 
 able time there was silence; he himself and most o 
 us appeared to be meditating on what had been said; 
 only Cebes and Simmias spoke a few words to one 
 another. And Socrates observing this asked them 
 what they thought of the argument, and whether there 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 225 
 
 was anything wanting? For, said he, much is still 
 open to suspicion and attack, if any one were dis¬ 
 posed to sift the matter thoroughly. If you are talk¬ 
 ing of something else I would rather not interrupt 
 you, but if you are still doubtful about the argument 
 do not hesitate to say exactly what you think, and let 
 us have anything better which you can suggest ; and 
 if I am likely to be of any use, allow me to help you. 
 
 Simmias said: I must confess, Socrates, that doubts jfc 
 did arise in our minds, and each of us was urging and ! v 
 inciting the other to put the question which we wanted 
 to have answered and which neither of us liked to ask, 
 fearing that our importunity might be troublesome 
 under present circumstances. .. _ _ 
 
 Socrates smiled, and said: O Simmias, how strange 
 that is; I am not very likely to persuade other men 
 that I do not regard my present situation as a mis¬ 
 fortune, if I am unable to persuade you, and you will 
 keep fancying that I am at all more troubled now 
 than at any other time. Will you not allow that I 
 have as much of the spirit of prophecy in me as the 
 swans? For they, when they perceive "that they must 
 die, having sung all their life long, do then sing more 
 than ever, rejoicing in the thought that they are about 
 to go away to the god whose ministers they are. But 
 men, because they are themselves afraid of death, slan¬ 
 derously affirm of the swans that they sing a lament 
 at the last, not considering that no bird sings when 
 cold, or hungry, or in pain, not even the nightingale, 
 nor the swallow, nor yet the hoopoe; which are said 
 indeed to tune a lay of sorrow, although I do not 
 believe this to be true of them any more than of the 
 swans. But because they are sacred to Apollo, and 
 have the gift of prophecy, and anticipate the good 
 things of another world, therefore they sing and re¬ 
 joice in that day more than ever they did before. And 
 
226 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 I too, believing myself to be the consecrated servant 
 of the same God, and the fellow-servant of the swans, 
 and thinking that I have received from my master 
 gifts of prophecy which are not inferior to theirs, 
 would not go out of life less merrily than the swans. 
 Cease to mind then about this, but speak and ask any¬ 
 thing which you like, while the eleven magistrates of 
 
 Athens allow. . 
 
 Well, Socrates, said STmmias, then I will tell you 
 my difficulty, and Cebes will tell you his. For I dare 
 say that you, Socrates, feel as I do, how very hard or 
 almost impossible is the attainment of any certainty 
 about questions such as these in the present life. And 
 yet I should deem him a coward who did not prove 
 what is said about them to the uttermost, or whose 
 heart failed him before he had examined them on 
 every side. For he should persevere until he has at¬ 
 tained one of two things: either he should discover or 
 learn the truth about them; or, if this is impossible, I 
 would have him take the best and most irrefragable of 
 human notions, and let this be the raft upon which he 
 sails through life — not without risk, as X admit, if he 
 can not find some word of God which will more surely 
 and safely carry him. And now, as you bid me, I will 
 venture to question you, as X should not like to re¬ 
 proach myself hereafter with not having said at the 
 time what I think. For when I consider the matter, 
 either alone or with Cebes, the argument does certainly 
 appear to me, Socrates, to be not sufficient. 
 
 Socrates answered: I dare say, my friend, that you 
 may be right, but I should like to know in what re¬ 
 spect the argument is not sufficient. 
 
 In this respect, replied Simmias: might not a 
 
 person use the same argument about harmony and the 
 { lyre — might he not say that harmony is a thing in¬ 
 visible, incorporeal, fair, divine, abiding in the lyre 
 
 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 227 
 
 which is harmonized, but that the lyre and the strings 
 are matter and material, composite, earthy, and akin 
 to mortality? And when some one breaks the lyre, or 
 cuts and rends the strings, then he who takes this view 
 would argue as you do, and on the same analogy, that 
 the harmony survives and has not perished; for you 
 can not imagine, as he would say, that the lyre without 
 the strings, and the broken strings themselves remain, 
 and yet that the harmony, which is of heavenly and 
 immortal nature and kindred, has perished — and 
 perished too before the mortal. That harmony, he 
 would say, certainly exists somewhere, and the wood 
 and strings will decay before that decays. For I sus¬ 
 pect, Socrates, that the notion of the soul w r hich we 
 are all of us inclined to entertain, would also be yours, 
 and that you too would conceive the body to be strung 
 up, and held together, by the elements of hot and cold, 
 wet and dry, and the like, and that the soul is the har¬ 
 mony or due proportionate admixture of them. And, 
 if this is true, the inference clearly is, that when the 
 strings of the body are unduly loosened or overstrained 
 through disorder or other injury, then the soul, though 
 most divine, like other harmonies of music or of works 
 of art, of course perishes at once; although the material 
 remains of the body may last for a considerable time, 
 until they are either decayed or burned. Now if any 
 one maintained that the soul, being the harmony of the 
 elements of the body, first perishes in that which is 
 called death, how shall we answer him? 
 
 Socrates looked round at us as his manner was, and 
 said with a smile: Simmias has reason on his side; and 
 why does not some one of you who is abler than myself 
 answer him? for there is force in his attack upon me. 
 But perhaps, before we answer him, we had better 
 also hear what Cebes has to say against the argument 
 — this will give us time for reflection, and when both 
 
228 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 of them have spoken, we may either assent to them, 
 if their words appear to be in consonance with the 
 truth, or if not, we may take up the other side, and 
 argue with them. Please to tell me then, Cebes, he 
 said, what was the difficulty which troubled you? 
 
 Cebes said: I will tell you. My feeling is that the 
 argument is still in the same position, and open to the 
 same objections which were urged before; for I am 
 ready to admit that the existence of the soul before 
 entering into the bodily form has been very ingeni¬ 
 ously, and, as I may be allowed to say, quite suf¬ 
 ficiently proven; but the existence of the soul after 
 death is still, in my judgment, unproven. Now my 
 objection is not the same as that of Simmias; for I am 
 not disposed to deny that the soul is stronger and more 
 lasting than the body, being of opinion that in all such 
 respects the soul very far excels the body. Well then, 
 says the argument to me, why do you remain uncon¬ 
 vinced?— When you see that the weaker is still in 
 existence after the man is dead, will you not admit that 
 the more lasting must also survive during the same 
 period of time? Now I, like Simmias, must employ a 
 figure; and I shall ask you to consider whether the 
 figure is to the point. The parallel which I will sup¬ 
 pose is that of an old weaver, who dies, and after his 
 death somebody says: — He is not dead, he must be 
 alive; and he appeals to the coat which he himself wove 
 and wore, and which is still whole and undecayed. And 
 then he proceeds to ask of some one who is incredulous, 
 whether a man lasts longer, or the coat which is in use 
 and wear; and when he is answered that a man lasts 
 far longer, thinks that he has thus certainly demon¬ 
 strated the survival of the man, who is the more last¬ 
 ing, because the less lasting remains. But that, 
 Simmias, as I would beg you to observe, is not the 
 truth; every one sees that he who talks thus is talking 
 
PI1AEDO 
 
 229 
 
 nonsense. For the truth is, that this weaver, having 
 worn and woven many such coats, though he outlived 
 several of them, was himself outlived by the last; but 
 this is surely very far from proving that a man is 
 slighter and weaker than a coat. Now the relation 
 of the body to the soul may be expressed in a similar 
 figure; for you may say with reason that the soul is 
 lasting, and the body weak and shortlived in com¬ 
 parison. And every soul may be said to wear out ; 
 many bodies, especially in the course of a long life. ) 
 For if while the man is alive the body deliquesces and 
 decays, and yet the soul always weaves her garment 
 anew and repairs the waste, then of course, when the 
 soul perishes, she must have on her last garment, and 
 this only will survive her; but then again, when the 
 soul is dead, the body will at last show its native weak¬ 
 ness, and soon pass into decay. And therefore this is 
 an argument on which I would rather not rely as 
 proving that the soul exists after death. For suppose 
 that we grant even more than you affirm as within the 
 range of possibility, and besides acknowledging that 
 the soul existed before birth, admit also that after 
 death the souls of some are existing still, and will exist, 
 and will be born and die again and again, and that 
 there is a natural strength in the soul which will hold 
 out and be born many times — for all this, we may be 
 still inclined to think that she will weary in the labors / 
 of successive births, and may at last succumb in one of 
 her deaths and utterly perish; and this death and dis¬ 
 solution of the body which brings destruction to the 
 soul may be unknown to any of us, for no one of us 
 can have had any experience of it: and if this be true, 
 then I say that he who is confident in death has but a 
 foolish confidence, unless he is able to prove that the 
 soul is altogether immortal and imperishable. But if 
 he is 'not able to prove this, he who is about to die will 
 
230 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 always have reason to fear that when the body is dis¬ 
 united, the soul also may utterly perish. 
 
 All of us, as we afterwards remarked to one another, 
 had an unpleasant feeling at hearing them say this. 
 When we had been so firmly convinced before, now to 
 have our faith shaken seemed to introduce a confusion 
 and uncertainty, not only into the previous argument, 
 but into any future one; either we were not good 
 judges, or there were no real grounds of belief. 
 
 Ech. There I feel with you — indeed I do, Phaedo, 
 and when you were speaking, I was beginning to ask 
 myself the same question: What argument can I ever 
 trust again ? For what could be more convincing than 
 the argument of Socrates, which has now fallen into 
 discredit? That the soul is a harmony is a doctrine 
 which has always had a wonderful attraction for me, 
 and, when mentioned, came back to me at once, as my 
 own original conviction. And now I must begin again 
 and find another argument which will assure me that 
 when the man is dead the soul dies not with him. Tell 
 me, I beg, how did Socrates proceed? Did he appear 
 to share the unpleasant feeling which you mention? or 
 did he receive the interruption calmly and give a suf¬ 
 ficient answer? Tell us, as exactly as you can, what 
 passed. 
 
 Phaed. Often, Echecrates, as I have admired 
 Socrates, I never admired him more than at that 
 moment. That he should be able to answer was noth¬ 
 ing, but what astonished me was, first, the gentle and 
 pleasant and approving manner in which he regarded 
 the words of the young men, and then his quick sense 
 of the wound which had been inflicted by the argu¬ 
 ment, and his ready application of the healing art. 
 He might be compared to a general rallying his de¬ 
 feated and broken army, urging them to follow him 
 and return to the field of argument. 
 
 Y 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 231 
 
 Ech . How was that? 
 
 Phaed . You shall hear, for I was close to him on 
 his right hand, seated on a sort of stool, and he on a 
 couch which was a good deal higher. Now he had a 
 way of playing with my hair, and then he smoothed 
 my head, and pressed the hair upon my neck, and 
 said: — To-morrow, Phaedo, I suppose that these fair 
 locks of yours will be severed. 
 
 Yes, Socrates, I suppose that they will, I replied. 
 
 Not so, if you will take my advice. 
 
 What shall I do with them? I said. 
 
 To-day, he replied, and not to-morrow, if this argu¬ 
 ment dies and can not be brought to life again by us, 
 you and I will both shave our locks: and if I were you, 
 and could not maintain my ground against Simmias 
 and Cebes, I would myself take an oath, like the 
 Argives, not to wear hair any more until I had renewed 
 the conflict and defeated them. 
 
 Yes, I said; but Heracles himself is said not to be a 
 match for two. 
 
 Summon me then, he said, and I will be your lolaus 
 until the sun goes down. 
 
 I summon you rather, I said, not as Heracles sum¬ 
 moning lolaus, but as lolaus might summon Heracles. 
 
 That will be all the same, he said. But first let us 
 take care that we avoid a danger. 
 
 And what is that? I said. 
 
 The danger of becoming misologists, he replied, 
 which is one of the very worst things that can happen 
 to us. For as there are misanthropists or haters of 
 men, there are also misologists or haters of ideas, and 
 both spring from the same cause, which is ignorance of 
 the world. Misanthropy arises from the too great con¬ 
 fidence of inexperience; — you trust a man and think 
 him altogether true and good and faithful, and then 
 in a little while he turns out to be false and knavish; 
 
232 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 and then another and another, and when this has hap¬ 
 pened several times to a man, especially within the 
 circle of his own most trusted friends, as he deems 
 them, and he has often quarrelled with them, he at last 
 hates all men, and believes that no one has any good 
 in him at all. I dare say that you must have observed 
 this. 
 
 Yes, I said. 
 
 And is not this discreditable? The reason is, that a 
 man, having to deal with other men, has no knowledge 
 of them; for if he had knowledge, he would have 
 known the true state of the case, that few are the good 
 and few the evil, and that the great majority are in 
 the interval between them. 
 
 How do you mean ? I said. 
 
 I mean, he replied, as you might say of the very 
 large and very small — that nothing is more uncom¬ 
 mon than a very large or very small man; and this 
 applies generally to all extremes, wdiether of great and 
 small, or swift and slow, or fair and foul, or black and 
 white: and whether the instances you select be men or 
 dogs or anything else, few are the extremes, but many 
 are in the mean between them. Did you never observe 
 this? 
 
 Yes, I said, I have. 
 
 And do you not imagine, he said, that if there were 
 a competition of evil, the first in evil would be found 
 to be very few? 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, I said. 
 
 Yes, that is very likely, he replied; not that in this 
 respect arguments are like men — there I was led on 
 by you to say more than I had intended; but the point 
 of comparison was, that when a simple man who has 
 no skill in dialectics believes an argument to be true 
 which he afterwards imagines to be false, whether 
 really false or not, and then another and another, he 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 233 
 
 has no longer any faith left, and great disputers, as 
 you know, come to think at last that they have grown 
 to be the wisest of mankind; for they alone perceive 
 the utter unsoundness and instability of all arguments, 
 or indeed, of all things, which, like the currents in 
 the Euripus, are going up and down in never-ceasing 
 ebb and flow. 
 
 That is quite true, I said. 
 
 Yes, Phaedo, he replied, and very melancholy too, 
 if there be such a thing as truth or certainty or power 
 of knowing at all, that a man should have lighted upon 
 some argument or other which at first seemed true and 
 then turned out to be false, and instead of blaming 
 himself and his own want of wit, because he is an¬ 
 noyed, should at last be too glad to transfer the blame 
 from himself to arguments in general; and for ever 
 afterwards should hate and revile them, and lose the 
 truth and knowledge of existence. 
 
 Yes, indeed, I said; that is very melancholy. 
 
 Let us then, in the first place, he said, be careful of 
 admitting into our souls the notion that there is no 
 truth or health or soundness in any arguments at all; 
 but let us rather say that there is as yet no health in us, 
 and that we must quit ourselves like men and do our 
 best to gain health — you and all other men with a 
 view to the whole of your future life, and I myself 
 with a view to death. For at this moment I am sen¬ 
 sible that I have not the temper of a philosopher; like 
 the vulgar, I am only a partisan. For the partisan, 
 when he is engaged in a dispute, cares nothing about 
 the rights of the question, but is anxious only to con¬ 
 vince his hearers of his own assertions. And the dif¬ 
 ference between him and me at the present moment is 
 only this — that whereas he seeks to convince his 
 hearers that what he say is true, I am rather seeking 
 to convince myself; to convince my hearers is a second- 
 
. 234 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 ary matter with me. And do but see how much I gain 
 by this. For if what I say is true, then I do well to be 
 persuaded of the truth; but if there be nothing after 
 death, still, during the short time that remains, I shall 
 save my friends from lamentations, and my ignorance 
 will not last, and therefore no harm will be done. This 
 is the state of mind, Simmias and Cebes, in which I 
 approach the argument. And I would ask you to be 
 thinking of the truth and not of Socrates: agree with 
 me, if I seem to you to be speaking the truth; or if not, 
 withstand me might and main, that I may not deceive 
 you as well as myself in my enthusiasm, and like the 
 bee, leave my sting in you before I die. 
 
 And now let us proceed, he said. And first of all 
 let me be sure that I have in my mind w T hat you were 
 saying. Simmias, if I remember rightly, has fears 
 and misgivings whether the soul, being in the form of 
 harmony, although a fairer and diviner thing than the 
 body, may not perish first. On the other hand, Cebes 
 appeared to grant that the soul was more lasting than 
 the body, but he said that no one could know whether 
 the soul, after having worn out many bodies, might not 
 perish herself and leave her last body behind her; and 
 that this is death, which is the destruction not of the 
 body but of the soul, for in the body the work of 
 destruction is ever going on. Are not these, Simmias 
 and Cebes, the points which we have to consider? 
 
 They both agreed to this statement of them. 
 
 He proceeded: And did you deny the force of 
 the whole preceding argument, or of a part only? 
 
 Of a part only, they replied. 
 
 And what did you think, he said, of that part of the 
 argument in which we said that knowledge was recol¬ 
 lection only, and inferred from this that the soul must 
 have previously existed somewhere else before she was 
 enclosed in the body? Cebes said that he had been 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 235 
 
 wonderfully impressed by that part of the argument, 
 and that his conviction remained unshaken. Simmias 
 agreed, and added that he himself could hardly im¬ 
 agine the possibility of his ever thinking differently 
 about that. 
 
 But, rejoined Socrates, you will have to think dif¬ 
 ferently, my Theban friend, if you still maintain that 
 harmony is a compound, and that the soul is a harmony 
 which is made out of strings set in the frame of the 
 body; for you will surely never allow yourself to say 
 that a harmony is prior to the elements which compose 
 the harmony. 
 
 No, Socrates, that is impossible. 
 
 But do you not see that you are saying this when 
 you say that the soul existed before she took the form 
 and body of man, and was made up of elements which 
 as yet had no existence? For harmony is not a sort of 
 thing like the soul, as you suppose; but first the lyre, 
 and the strings, and the sounds exist in a state of dis¬ 
 cord, and then harmony is made last of all, and 
 perishes first. And how can such a notion of the soul 
 as this agree with the other? 
 
 Not at all, replied Simmias. 
 
 And yet, he said, there surely ought to be harmony 
 when harmony is the theme of discourse. 
 
 There ought, replied Simmias. 
 
 But there is no harmon}^, he said, in the two proposi¬ 
 tions . that knowledge is recollection, and that the 
 soul is a harmony. Which of them then will you 
 retain ? 
 
 I think, he replied, that I have a much stronger 
 faith, Socrates, in the first of the two, which has been 
 fully demonstrated to me, than in the latter, which 
 has not been demonstrated at all, but rests only on 
 probable and plausible grounds; and I know too well * 
 that these arguments from probabilities are impostors, 
 
236 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 and unless great caution is observed in the use of them, 
 they are apt to be deceptive — in geometry, and in 
 other things too. But the doctrine of knowledge and 
 recollection has been proven to me on trustworthy 
 grounds; and the proof was that the soul must 
 have existed before she came into the body, because 
 to her belongs the essence of which the very name im¬ 
 plies existence. Having, as I am convinced, rightly 
 accepted this conclusion, and on sufficient grounds, I 
 must, as I suppose, cease to argue or allow others to 
 argue that the soul is a harmony. 
 
 Let me put the matter, Simmias, he said, in another 
 point of view: Do you imagine that a harmony or any 
 other composition can be in a state other than that of 
 the elements, out of which it is compounded? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Or do or suffer anything other than they do or 
 suffer? 
 
 He agreed. 
 
 Then a harmony does not lead the parts or elements 
 which make up the harmony, but only follows 
 them. 
 
 He assented. 
 
 For harmony can not possibly have any motion, or 
 sound, or other quality which is opposed to the parts. 
 
 That would be impossible, he replied. 
 
 And does not every harmony depend upon the man¬ 
 ner in which the elements are harmonized? 
 
 I do not understand you, he said. 
 
 I mean to say that a harmony admits of degrees, and 
 is more of a harmony, and more completely a harmony, 
 when more completely harmonized, if that be possible; 
 and less of a harmony, and less completely a harmony, 
 when less harmonized. 
 
 True. 
 
 But does the soul admit of degrees? or is one soul 
 
 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 237 
 
 in the very least degree more or less, or more or less 
 completely, a soul than another? 
 
 Not in the least. 
 
 Yet surely one soul is said to have intelligence and 
 virtue, and to be good, and another soul is said to have 
 
 folly and vice, and to be an evil soul: and this is said 
 truly? 
 
 Yes, truly. 
 
 But what will those who maintain the soul to be a 
 harmony say of this presence of virtue and vice in the 
 soul? — will they say that here is another harmony, 
 and another discord, and that the virtuous soul is 
 harmonized, and herself being harmony has another 
 harmony within her, and that the vicious soul is inhar- 
 monical and has no harmony within her? 
 
 I can not say, replied Simmias; but I suppose that 
 something of that kind would be asserted by those who 
 take this view. 
 
 And the admission is already made that no soul is 
 more a soul than another; and this is equivalent to 
 admitting that harmony is not more or less harmony, 
 or more or less completely a harmony? 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 And that which is not more or less a harmony is not 
 more or less harmonized ? 
 
 True. 
 
 And that which is not more or less harmonized can 
 not have more or less of harmony, but only an equal 
 harmony? 
 
 Yes, an equal harmony. 
 
 Then one soul not being more or less absolutely a 
 soul than another, is not more or less harmonized? 
 
 Exactly. 
 
 And therefore has neither more nor less of harmon}^ 
 or of discord ? 
 
 She has not. 
 
238 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 And having neither more nor less of harmony or of 
 discord, one soul has no more vice or virtue than 
 another, if vice be discord and virtue harmony? 
 
 Not at all more. 
 
 Or speaking more correctly, Simmias, the soul, if 
 she is a harmony, will never have any vice; because a 
 harmony, being absolutely a harmony, has no part in 
 the inharmonical. 
 
 No. 
 
 And therefore a soul which is absolutely a soul has 
 no vice? 
 
 How can she have, consistently with the preceding 
 argument ? 
 
 Then, according to this, if the souls of all animals 
 are equally and absolutely souls, they will be equally 
 good? 
 
 O - , , 
 
 I agree with you, Socrates, he said. 
 
 And can all this be true, think you? he said; and 
 are all these consequences admissible — which never¬ 
 theless seem to follow from the assumption that the 
 soul is a harmony? 
 
 Certainly not, he said. 
 
 Once more, he said, what ruling principle is there 
 of human things other than the soul, and especially 
 the wise soul? Do you know of any ? 
 
 Indeed, I do not. 
 
 And is the soul in agreement with the affections of 
 the body? or is she at variance with them? For ex¬ 
 ample, when the body is hot and thirsty, does not the 
 soul incline us against drinking? and when the body j 
 is hungry, against eating? And this is only one in¬ 
 stance out of ten thousand of the opposition of the 
 soul to the things of the body. I 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But w r e have already acknowledged that the soul, 
 being a harmony, can never utter a note at variance 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 239 
 
 with the tensions and relaxations and vibrations and 
 other affections of the strings out of which she is com¬ 
 posed; she can only follow, she can not lead them? 
 
 Yes, he said, we acknowledged that, certainly. 
 
 And yet do we not now discover the soul to be doing 
 the exact opposite — leading the elements of which 
 she is believed to be composed; almost always op¬ 
 posing and coercing them in all sorts of ways through¬ 
 out life, sometimes more violently with the pains of 
 medicine and gymnastic; then again more gently; — 
 threatening and also reprimanding the desires, pas¬ 
 sions, fears, as if talking to a thing which is not herself, 
 as Homer in the Odyssee represents Odysseus doing 
 in the words: — 
 
 “ He beat his breast, and thus reproached his heart: 
 
 Endure, my heart; far worse hast thou endured! ” 
 
 Do vou think that Homer could have written this 
 %/ 
 
 under the idea that the soul is a harmony capable of 
 being led by the affections of the body, and not rather 
 of a nature which leads and masters them; and herself 
 a far diviner thing than any harmony? 
 
 Yes, Socrates, I quite agree to that. 
 
 Then, my friend, we can never be right in saying 
 that the soul is a harmony, for that would clearly con¬ 
 tradict the divine Homer as well as ourselves. 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Thus much, said Socrates, of Harmonia, your 
 Theban goddess, Cebes, who has not been ungracious 
 to us, I think; but what shall I say to the Theban 
 Cadmus, and how shall I propitiate him? 
 
 I think that you will discover a way of propitiating 
 him, said Cebes; I am sure that you have answered 
 the argument about harmony in a manner that I could 
 never have expected. For when Simmias mentioned 
 his objection, I quite imagined that no answer could be 
 
240 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 given to him, and therefore I was surprised at finding 
 that this argument could not sustain the first onset of 
 yours, and not impossibly the other, whom you call 
 Cadmus, may share a similar fate. 
 
 Nay, my good friend, said Socrates, let us not boast, 
 lest some evil eye should put to flight the word which 
 I am about to speak. That, however, may be left in 
 the hands of those above; while I draw near in 
 Homeric fashion, and try the mettle of your words. 
 Briefly, the sum of your objection is as follows: — 
 You want to have proven to you that the soul is im¬ 
 perishable and immortal, and you think that the 
 philosopher who is confident in death has but a vain 
 and foolish confidence, if he thinks that he will fare 
 better than one who has led another sort of life, in the 
 world below, unless he can prove this: and you say that 
 the demonstration of the strength and divinity of the 
 soul, and of her existence prior to our becoming men, 
 does not necessarily imply her immortality. Granting 
 that the soul is longlived, and has known and done 
 much in a former state, still she is not on that account 
 immortal; and her entrance into the human form may 
 be a sort of disease which is the beginning of dis¬ 
 solution, and may at last, after the toils of life are 
 over, end in that which is called death. And whether 
 the soul enters into the body once only or many times, 
 that, as you would say, makes no difference in the 
 fears of individuals. For any man, who is not devoid 
 of natural feeling, has reason to fear, if he has no 
 knowledge or proof of the soul’s immortality. That 
 is what I suppose you to say, Cebes, which I design¬ 
 edly repeat, in order that nothing may escape us, and 
 that you may, if you wish, add or subtract anything. 
 
 But, said Cebes, as far as I see at present, I have 
 nothing to add or subtract; you have expressed my 
 meaning. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 241 
 
 Socrates paused awhile, and seemed to be absorbed 
 in reflection. At length he said: This is a very serious 
 inquiry which you are raising, Cebes, involving the 
 whole question of generation and corruption, about 
 which I will, if you like, give you my own experience; 
 and you can apply this, if you think that anything 
 which I say will avail towards the solution of your 
 difficulty. 
 
 I should very much like, said Cebes, to hear what 
 you have to say. 
 
 Then I will tell you, said Socrates. When I was 
 young, Cebes, I had a prodigious desire to know that 
 department of philosophy which is called Natural 
 Science; this appeared to me to have lofty aims, as 
 being the science which has to do with the causes of 
 things, and which teaches why a thing is, and is created 
 and destroyed; and I was always agitating myself 
 with the consideration of such questions as these: — Is 
 the growth of animals the result of some decay which 
 the hot and cold principle contract, as some have said ? 
 Is the blood the element with which we think, or the 
 air, or the fire ? or perhaps nothing of this sort — but 
 the brain may be the originating power of the per¬ 
 ceptions of hearing and sight and smell, and memory 
 and opinion may come from them, and science may be 
 based on memory and opinion when no longer in 
 motion, but at rest. And then I went on to examine 
 the decay of them, and then to the things of heaven 
 and earth, and at last I concluded that I was wholly 
 incapable of these inquiries, as I will satisfactorily 
 prove to you. For I was fascinated by them to such a 
 degree that my eyes grew blind to things that I had 
 seemed to myself, and also to others, to know quite 
 well; and I forgot what I had before thought to be 
 self-evident, that the growth of man is the result of 
 eating and' drinking; for when by the digestion of 
 
242 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 food flesh is added to flesh and bone to bone, and when¬ 
 ever there is an aggregation of congenial elements, 
 the lesser bulk becomes larger and the small man 
 greater. Was not that a reasonable notion? 
 
 Yes, said Cebes, I think so. 
 
 Well; but let me tell you something more. There 
 was a time when I thought that I understood the 
 meaning of greater and less pretty well; and when I 
 saw a great man standing by a little one, I fancied 
 that one was taller than the other by a head; or one 
 horse would appear to be greater than another horse: 
 and still more clearly did I seem to perceive that ten 
 is two more than eight, and that two cubits are more 
 than one, because two is twice one. 
 
 And what is now your notion of such matters? said 
 
 Cebes. 
 
 I should be far enough from imagining, he replied, 
 that I knew the cause of any of them, indeed I should, 
 for I can not satisfy myself that when one is added to 
 one, the one to which the addition is made becomes two, 
 or that the two units added together make two by 
 reason of the addition. For I cannot understand how, 
 when separated from the other, each of them was one 
 and not two, and now, when they are brought to¬ 
 gether, the mere juxtaposition of them can be the 
 cause of their becoming two: nor can I understand 
 how the division of one is the way to make two; 
 for then a different cause would produce the same 
 effect, — as in the former instance the addition and 
 juxtaposition of one to one was the cause of two, in 
 this the separation and subtraction of one from the 
 other would be the cause. 1STor am I any longer 
 satisfied that I understand the reason why one or any¬ 
 thing else either is generated or destroyed or is at all, 
 but I have in my mind some confused notion of an¬ 
 other method, and can never admit this. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 243 
 
 Then I heard some one who had a book of 
 Anaxagoras, as he said, out of which he read that 
 mind was the disposer and cause of all, and I was 
 quite delighted at the notion of this, which appeared 
 admirable, and I said to myself: If mind is the dis¬ 
 poser, mind will dispose all for the best, and put each 
 particular in the best place; and I argued that if any 
 one desired to find out the cause of the generation or 
 destruction or existence of anything, he must find out 
 what state of being or suffering or doing was best for 
 that thing, and therefore a man had only to consider 
 the best for himself and others, and then he would also 
 know the worse, for that the same science comprised 
 both. And I rejoiced to think that I had found in 
 Anaxagoras a teacher of the causes of existence such 
 as I desired, and I imagined that he would tell me first 
 whether the earth is flat or round; and then he would 
 further explain the cause and the necessity of this, and 
 would teach me the nature of the best and show that 
 this was best; and if he said that the earth was in the 
 centre, he would explain that this position was the 
 best, and I should be satisfied if this were shown to me, 
 and not want any other sort of cause. And I thought 
 that I would then go on and ask him about the sun and 
 moon and stars, and that he would explain to me their 
 comparative swiftness, and their returnings and 
 various states, and how their several affections, active 
 and passive, were all for the best. For I could not 
 imagine that when he spoke of mind as the disposer of 
 them, he would give any other account of their being 
 as they are, except that this was best; and I thought 
 that when he had explained to me in detail the cause 
 of each and the cause of all, he would go on to explain 
 to me what was best for each and what was best for 
 all. I had hopes which I would not have sold for 
 much, and I seized the books and read them as fast as 
 
244 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 I could in my eagerness to know the better and the 
 worse. 
 
 What hopes I had formed, and how grievously 
 was I disappointed! As I proceeded, I found my 
 philosopher altogether forsaking mind or any other 
 principle of order, but having recourse to air, and 
 ether, and water, and other eccentricities. I might 
 compare him to a person who began by maintaining 
 generally that mind is the cause of the actions of 
 Socrates, but who, when he endeavored to explain the 
 causes of my several actions in detail, went on to show 
 that I sit here because my body is made up of bones 
 and muscles; and the bones, as he would say, are hard 
 and have ligaments which divide them, and the 
 muscles are elastic, and they cover the bones, which 
 have also a covering or environment of flesh and skin 
 which contains them; and as the bones are lifted at 
 their joints by the contraction or relaxation of the 
 muscles, I am able to bend my limbs, and this is why 
 I am sitting here in a curved posture; — that is what 
 he would say, and he would have a similar explanation 
 of my talking to you, which he would attribute to 
 sound, and air, and hearing, and he would assign ten 
 thousand other causes of the same sort, forgetting to 
 mention the true cause, which is, that the Athenians 
 have thought fit to condemn me, and accordingly I 
 have thought it better and more right to remain here 
 and undergo my sentence; for I am inclined to think 
 that these muscles and bones of mine would have gone 
 off to Megara or Boeotia — by the dog of Egypt they | 
 would, if the}^ had been guided only by their own idea 
 of what was best, and if I had not chosen as the better 
 and nobler part, instead of playing truant and run¬ 
 ning away, to undergo any punishment which the 
 state inflicts. There is surely a strange confusion of 
 causes and conditions in all this. It may be said, 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 245 
 
 indeed, that without bones and muscles and the other 
 parts of the body I can not execute my purposes. 
 But to say that I do as I do because of them, and that 
 this is the way in which mind acts, and not from the 
 choice of the best, is a very careless and idle mode of 
 speaking. I wonder that they can not distinguish the 
 cause from the condition, which the many, feeling 
 about in the dark, are always mistaking and mis¬ 
 naming. And thus one man makes a vortex all round 
 and steadies the earth by the heaven; another gives the 
 air as a support to the earth, which is a sort of broad 
 trough. Any power which in disposing them as they 
 are disposes them for the best never enters into their 
 minds, nor do they imagine that there is any super¬ 
 human strength in that; they rather expect to find 
 another Atlas of the world who is stronger and more 
 everlasting and more containing than the good is, and 
 are clearly of opinion that the obligatory and contain¬ 
 ing power of the good is as nothing; and yet this is the 
 principle which I would fain learn if any one would 
 teach me. But as I have failed either to discover my¬ 
 self, or to learn of any one else, the nature of the best, 
 I will exhibit to you, if you like, what I have found to 
 be the second best mode of inquiring into the cause. 
 
 I should very much like to hear that, he replied. 
 
 Socrates proceeded: — I thought that as I had 
 failed in the contemplation of true existence, I ought 
 to be careful that I did not lose the eye of my soul; as 
 people may injure their bodily eye by observing and 
 gazing on the sun during an eclipse, unless they take 
 the precaution of only looking at the image reflected 
 in the water, or in some similar medium. That oc¬ 
 curred to me, and I was afraid that my soul might be 
 blinded altogether if I looked at things with my eyes 
 or tried by the help of the senses to apprehend them. 
 And I thought that I had better have recourse to 
 
246 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 ideas, and seek in them the truth of existence. I dare 
 say that the simile is not perfect — for I am very far 
 from admitting that he who contemplates existences 
 through the medium of ideas, sees them only “ through 
 a glass darkly,” any more than he who sees them in 
 their working and effects. However, this was the 
 method which I adopted: I first assumed some prin¬ 
 ciple which I judged to be the strongest, and then I 
 affirmed as true whatever seemed to agree with this, 
 whether relating to the cause or to anything else; and 
 that which disagreed I regarded as untrue. But I 
 should like to explain my meaning clearly, as I do not 
 think that you understand me. 
 
 No indeed, replied Cebes, not very well. 
 
 There is nothing new, he said, in what I am about 
 to tell you; but only what I have been always and 
 everywhere repeating in the previous discussion and 
 on other occasions: I want to show you the nature of 
 that cause which has occupied my thoughts, and I 
 shall have to go back to those familiar words which 
 are in the mouth of every one, and first of all assume 
 that there is an absolute beauty and goodness, and 
 greatness, and the like; grant me this, and I hope to be 
 able to show you the nature of the cause, and to prove 
 the immortality of the soul. 
 
 Cebes said: You may proceed at once with the proof, 
 as I readily grant you this. 
 
 Well, he said, then I should like to know whether 
 you agree with me in the next step; for I can not help 
 thinking that if there.be anything beautiful other than 
 absolute beauty, that can only be beautiful in as far as 
 it partakes of absolute beauty — and this I should say 
 of everything. Ho you agree in this notion of the 
 cause? 
 
 Yes, he said, I agree. 
 
 He proceeded: I know nothing and can understand 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 247 
 
 nothing of any other of those wise causes which are 
 alleged; and if a person says to me that the bloom of 
 color, or form, or anything else of that sort is a source 
 of beauty, I leave all that, which is only confusing to 
 me, and simply and singly, and perhaps foolishly, 
 hold and am assured in my own mind that nothing 
 makes a thing beautiful but the presence and partici¬ 
 pation of beauty in whatever way or manner obtained; 
 for as to the manner I am uncertain, but I stoutly con¬ 
 tend that by beauty all beautiful things become beauti¬ 
 ful. That appears to me to be the only safe answer 
 that I can give, either to myself or to any other, and 
 to that I cling, in the persuasion that I shall never be 
 overthrown, and that I may safely answer to myself 
 or any other, that by beauty beautiful things become 
 beautiful. Do you not agree to that? 
 
 Yes, I agree. 
 
 And that by greatness only great things become 
 great and greater greater, and by smallness the less 
 become less. 
 
 True. 
 
 Then if a person remarks that A is taller by a head 
 than B, and B less by a head than A, you would refuse 
 to admit this, and would stoutly contend that what 
 you mean is only that the greater is greater by, and by 
 reason of, greatness, and the less is less only by, or by 
 reason of, smallness; and thus you would avoid the 
 danger of saying that the greater is greater and the 
 less less by the measure of the head, which is the same 
 in both, and would also avoid the monstrous absurdity 
 of supposing that the greater man is greater by 
 reason of the head, which is small. Would you not 
 be afraid of that? 
 
 Indeed, I should, said Cebes, laughing. 
 
 In like manner you would be afraid to say that ten 
 exceeded eight by, and by reason of, two; but 
 
248 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 would say by, and by reason of, number; or that two 
 cubits exceed one cubit by a half, but by magnitude? 
 — that is what you would say, for there is the same 
 danger in both cases. 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Again, would you not be cautious of affirming that 
 the addition of one to one, or the division of one, is the 
 cause of two? And you would loudly asseverate that 
 you know of no way in which anything comes into 
 existence except by participation in its own proper 
 essence, and consequently, as far as you know, the 
 only cause of two is the participation in duality; 
 that is, the way to make two, and the participation in 
 one is the way to make one. You would say: I will let 
 alone puzzles of division and addition — wiser heads 
 than mine may answer them; inexperienced as I am, 
 and ready to start, as the proverb says, at my own 
 shadow, I can not afford to give up the sure ground 
 of a principle. And if any one assails you there, you 
 would not mind him, or answer him, until you had 
 seen whether the consequences which follow agree 
 with one another or not, and when you are further 
 required to give an explanation of this principle, you 
 would go on to assume a higher principle, and the best 
 of the higher ones until you found a resting-place; but 
 you would not confuse the principle and the con¬ 
 sequences in your reasoning, like the Eristics — at 
 least if you wanted to discover real existence. Not 
 that this confusion signifies to them who never care or 
 think about the matter at all, for they have the wit 
 to be well pleased with themselves however great may 
 be the turmoil of their ideas. But you, if you are a 
 philosopher, will, I believe, do as I say. 
 
 What you say is most true, said Simmias and Cebes, 
 both speaking at once. 
 
 Ech. Yes, Phaedo; and I don’t wonder at their 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 249 
 
 assenting. Any one who has the least sense will 
 acknowledge the wonderful clearness of Socrates’ 
 reasoning. 
 
 Phaed. Certainly, Echecrates; and that was the 
 feeling of the whole company at the time. 
 
 Ech. Yes, and equally of ourselves, who were not 
 of the company, and are now listening to your recital. 
 But what followed? 
 
 Phaed. After all this was admitted, and they had 
 agreed about the existence of ideas and the participa¬ 
 tion in them of the other things which derive their 
 names from them, Socrates, if I remember rightly, 
 said: — 
 
 This is your way of speaking; and yet when you say 
 that Simmias is greater than Socrates and less than 
 Phaedo, do you not predicate of Simmias both great¬ 
 ness and smallness? 
 
 Yes, I do. 
 
 But still you allow that Simmias does not really 
 exceed Socrates, as the words may seem to imply, 
 because he is Simmias, but by reason of the size which 
 he has; just as Simmias does not exceed Socrates be¬ 
 cause he is Simmias, any more than because Socrates 
 is Socrates, but because he has smallness when 
 compared with the greatness of Simmias? 
 
 True. 
 
 And if Phaedo exceeds him in size, this is not be¬ 
 cause Phaedo is Phaedo, but because Phaedo has 
 greatness relatively to Simmias, who is comparatively 
 smaller? 
 
 That is true. 
 
 And therefore Simmias is said to be great, and is 
 also said to be small, because he is in a mean between 
 them, exceeding the smallness of the one by his great¬ 
 ness, and allowing the greatness of the other to exceed 
 his smallness. He added, laughing, I am speaking 
 
250 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 like a book, but I believe that what I am saying is 
 true. 
 
 Simmias assented to this. 
 
 The reason why I say this, is that I want you to 
 agree with me in thinking, not only that absolute 
 greatness will never be great and also small, but that 
 greatness in us or in the concrete will never admit the 
 small or admit of being exceeded: instead of this one 
 of two things will happen, either the greater will fly 
 or retire before the opposite, which is the less, or at 
 the advance of the less will cease to exist; but will 
 not, if allowing or admitting smallness, be changed 
 by that; even as I, having received and admitted 
 smallness when compared with Simmias, remain just 
 as I was, and am the same small person. And as the 
 idea of greatness can not condescend ever to be or 
 become small, in like manner the smallness in us can 
 not be or become great; nor can any other opposite 
 which remains the same ever be or become its own 
 opposite, but either passes away or perishes in the 
 change. 
 
 That, replied Cebes, is quite my notion. 
 
 One of the company, though I do not exactly re¬ 
 member which of them, on hearing this, said: By 
 heaven, is not this the direct contrary of what was 
 admitted before — that out of the greater came the 
 less and out of the less the greater, and that opposites 
 were simply generated from opposites; whereas now 
 this seems to be utterly denied. 
 
 Socrates inclined his head to the speaker and lis¬ 
 tened. I like your courage, he said, in reminding us 
 of this. But you do not observe that there is a dif¬ 
 ference in the two cases. For then we were speaking 
 of opposites in the concrete, and now of the essential 
 opposite which, as is affirmed, neither in us nor in 
 nature can ever be at variance with itself: then, my 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 251 
 
 friend, we were speaking of things in which oppo¬ 
 sites are inherent and which are called after them, 
 but now about the opposites which are inherent in 
 them and which give their name to them; these essen¬ 
 tial opposites will never, as we maintain, admit of 
 * generation into or out of one another. At the same 
 time, turning to Cebes, he said: Were you at all dis¬ 
 concerted, Cebes, at our friend’s objection? 
 
 That was not my feeling, said Cebes; and yet I can 
 not deny that I am apt to be disconcerted. 
 
 Then we are agreed after all, said Socrates, that 
 the opposite will never in any case be opposed to 
 itself? 
 
 To that we are quite agreed, he replied. 
 
 Yet once more let me ask you to consider the ques¬ 
 tion from another point of view, and see whether you 
 agree with me: — There is a thing which you term 
 heat, and another thing which you term cold? 
 
 Certainly. 
 
 But are they the same as fire and snow? 
 
 Most assuredly not. 
 
 Heat is not the same as fire, nor is cold the same 
 as snow? 
 
 No. 
 
 
 
 And yet you will surely admit, that when snow, 
 as was before said, is under the influence of heat, they 
 will not remain snow and heat; but at the advance 
 of the heat, the snow will either retire or perish? 
 
 Very true, he replied. 
 
 And the fire too at the advance of the cold will 
 either retire or perish; and when the fire is under the 
 influence of the cold, they will not remain as before, 
 fire and cold. 
 
 That is true, he said. 
 
 And in some cases the name of the idea is not con¬ 
 fined to the idea; but anything else which, not being 
 
252 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 the idea, exists only in the form of the idea, may also 
 lay claim to it. I will try to make this clearer by an 
 example: — The odd number is always called by the 
 name of odd? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But is this the only thing which is called odd? Are 
 there not other things which have their own name, and 
 yet are called odd, because, although not the same as 
 oddness, they are never without oddness? — that is 
 what I mean to ask — whether numbers such as the 
 number three are not of the class of odd. And there 
 are many other examples: would you not say, for 
 example, that three may be called by its proper name, 
 and also be called odd, which is not the same with 
 three ? and this may be said not only of three but also 
 of five, and every alternate number — each of them 
 without being oddness is odd, and in the same way 
 two and four, and the whole series of alternate num¬ 
 bers, has every number even, without being evenness. 
 Do you admit that? 
 
 Yes, he said, how can I deny that? 
 
 Then now mark the point at which I am aiming: — 
 not only do essential opposites exclude one another, 
 but also concrete things, which, although not in them¬ 
 selves opposed, contain opposites; these, I say, also 
 reject the idea which is opposed to that which is con¬ 
 tained in them, and at the advance of that they either 
 perish or withdraw. There is the number three for 
 example; — will not that endure annihilation or any¬ 
 thing sooner than be converted into an even number, 
 
 remaining three? 
 
 Very true, said Cebes. 
 
 And yet, he said, the number two is certainly not 
 opposed to the number three? 
 
 It is not. 
 
 Then not only do opposite ideas repel the advance 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 253 
 
 of one another, but also there are other things which 
 repel the approach of opposites. 
 
 That is quite true, he said. 
 
 Suppose, he said, that we endeavor, if possible, to 
 determine what these are. 
 
 By all means. 
 
 Are they not, Cebes, such as compel the things of 
 which they have possession, not only to take their own 
 form, but also the form of some opposite? 
 
 What do you mean ? 
 
 I mean, as I was just now saying, and have no need 
 to repeat to you, that those things which are possessed 
 by the number three must not only be three in num¬ 
 ber, but must also be odd. 
 
 Quite true. 
 
 And on this oddness, of which the number three has 
 the impress, the opposite idea will never intrude? 
 
 No. 
 
 And this impress was given by the odd principle? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 And to the odd is opposed the even? 
 
 True. 
 
 Then the idea of the even number will never arrive 
 at three ? 
 
 No. 
 
 Then three has no part in the even? 
 
 None. 
 
 Then the triad or number three is uneven? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 To return then to my distinction of natures which 
 are not opposites, and yet do not admit opposites: 
 as in this instance, three, although not opposed to the 
 even, does not any the more admit of the even, but 
 always brings the opposite into play on the other side; 
 or as two does not receive the odd, or fire the cold — 
 from these examples (and there are many more of 
 
254 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 them) perhaps you may be able to arrive at the gen¬ 
 eral conclusion, that not only opposites will not re¬ 
 ceive opposites, but also that nothing which brings 
 the opposite will admit the opposite of that which it 
 brings in that to which it is brought. And here let 
 me recapitulate — for there is no harm in repetition. 
 The number five will not admit the nature of the even, 
 any more than ten, which is the double of five, will 
 admit the nature of the odd — the double, though not 
 strictly opposed to the odd, rejects the odd altogether. 
 Nor again will parts in the ratio of 3:2, nor any 
 fraction in which there is a half, nor again in which 
 there is a third, admit the notion of the whole, al¬ 
 though they are not opposed to the whole. You will 
 agree to that? 
 
 Yes, he said, I entirely agree and go along with 
 you in that. 
 
 And now, he said, I think that I may begin again; 
 and to the question which I am about to ask I will 
 beg you to give not the old safe answer, but another, 
 of which I will offer you an example; and I hope 
 that you will find in what has been just said another 
 foundation which is as safe. I mean that if any one 
 asks you “ what that is, the inherence of which makes 
 the body hot,” you will reply not heat (this is what 
 I call the safe and stupid answer), but fire, a far bet¬ 
 ter answer, which we are now in a condition to give. 
 Or if any one asks you “ why a body is diseased,” you 
 will not say from disease, but from fever; and instead 
 of saying that oddness is the cause of odd numbers, 
 you will say that monad is the cause of them: and 
 so of things in general, as I dare say that you will 
 understand sufficiently without my adducing any fur* 
 ther examples. 
 
 Yes, he said, I quite understand you. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 255 
 
 Tell me, then, what is that the inherence of which 
 will render the body alive? 
 
 The soul, he replied. 
 
 And is this always the case? 
 
 Yes, he said, of course. 
 
 Then whatever the soul possesses, to that she comes 
 bearing life? 
 
 Yes, certainly. 
 
 And is there any opposite to life? 
 
 There is, he said. 
 
 And what is that? 
 
 Death. 
 
 Then the soul, as has been acknowledged, will never 
 receive the opposite of what she brings. And now, 
 he said, what did we call that principle which repels 
 the even? 
 
 The odd. 
 
 And that principle which repels the musical, or the 
 just? 
 
 The unmusical, he said, and the unjust. 
 
 And what do we call that principle which does not 
 admit of death? 
 
 The immortal, he said. 
 
 And does the soul admit of death? 
 
 No. 
 
 Then the soul is immortal? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And may we say that this is proven ? 
 
 Yes, abundantly proven, Socrates, he replied. 
 
 And supposing that the odd were imperishable, 
 must not three be imperishable? 
 
 Of course. 
 
 And if that which is cold were imperishable, when 
 the warm principle came attacking the snow, must 
 not the snow have retired whole and unmelted — for 
 
256 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 it could never have perished, nor could it have re¬ 
 mained and admitted the heat? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Again, if the uncooling or warm principle were 
 imperishable, the fire when assailed by cold would not 
 have perished or have been extinguished, but would 
 have gone away unaffected ? 
 
 Certainly, he said. 
 
 And the same may be said of the immortal: if the 
 immortal is also imperishable, the soul when attacked 
 by death can not perish; for the preceding argument 
 shows that the soul will not admit of death, or ever be 
 dead, any more than three or the odd number will 
 admit of the even, or fire, or the heat in the fire, of 
 the cold. Yet a person may say: “ But although the 
 odd will not become even at the approach of the even, 
 why may not the odd perish and the even take the 
 place of the odd? ” Now to him who makes this ob¬ 
 jection, we can not answer that the odd principle is 
 imperishable; for this has not been acknowledged, but 
 if this had been acknowledged, there would have been 
 no difficulty in contending that at the approach of 
 the even the odd principle and the number three took 
 up their departure; and the same argument would 
 have held good of fire and heat and any other thing. 
 
 Very true. 
 
 And the same may be said of the immortal: if the 
 immortal is also imperishable, then the soul will be im¬ 
 perishable as well as immortal; but if not, some other 
 proof of her imperishableness will have to be given. 
 
 No other proof is needed, he said; for if the im¬ 
 mortal, being eternal, is liable to perish, then nothing 
 is imperishable. 
 
 Yes, replied Socrates, all men will agree that God, 
 and the essential form of life, and the immortal in 
 general, will never perish. 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 257 
 
 Yes, all men, he said — that is true; and what is 
 more, gods, if I am not mistaken, as well as men. 
 
 Seeing then that the immortal is indestructible, 
 must not the soul, if she is immortal, be also imperish¬ 
 able? 
 
 Most certainly. 
 
 Then when death attacks a man, the mortal portion 
 of him may be supposed to die, but the immortal goes 
 out of the way of death and is preserved safe and 
 sound ? 
 
 True. 
 
 Then, Cebes, beyond question, the soul is immortal 
 and imperishable, and our souls will truly exist in 
 another world! 
 
 I am convinced, Socrates, said Cebes, and have 
 nothing more to object; but if my friend Simmias, or 
 any one else, has any further objection, he had better 
 speak out, and not keep silence, since I do not know 
 how there can ever be a more fitting time to which he 
 can defer the discussion, if there is anything which he 
 wants to say or have said. 
 
 But I have nothing more to say, replied Simmias; 
 nor did I see any room for uncertainty, except that 
 which arises necessarily out of the greatness of the 
 subject and the feebleness of man, and which I can 
 not help feeling. 
 
 Yes, Simmias, replied Socrates, that is well said: 
 and more than that, first principles, even if they ap¬ 
 pear certain, should be carefully considered; and when 
 they are satisfactorily ascertained, then, with a sort 
 of hesitating confidence in human reason, you may, 
 I think, follow the course of the argument; and if this 
 is clear, there will be no need for any further inquiry. 
 
 That, he said, is true. 
 
 But then, O my friends, he said, if the soul is really 
 immortal, what care should be taken of her, not only 
 
258 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 in respect of the portion of time which is called life, 
 but of eternity! And the danger of neglecting her 
 from this point of view does indeed appear to be 
 awful. If death had only b^en the end of all, the 
 wicked would have had a good bargain in dying, for 
 they would have been happily quit not only of their 
 body, but of their own evil together with their souls. 
 But now, as the soul plainly appears to be immortal, 
 there is no release or salvation from evil except the 
 attainment of the highest virtue and wisdom. For 
 the soul when on her progress to the world below 
 takes nothing with her but nurture and education; 
 which are indeed said greatly to benefit or greatly to 
 injure the departed, at the very beginning of his 
 pilgrimage in the other world. 
 
 For after death, as they say, the genius of each in¬ 
 dividual, to whom he belonged in life, leads him to a 
 certain place in which the dead are gathered together 
 for judgment, whence they go into the world below, 
 following the guide, who is appointed to conduct them 
 from this world to the other: and when they have there 
 received their due and remained their time, another 
 guide brings them back again after many revolutions 
 of ages. Now this journey to the other world is nqt, 
 as Aeschylus says in the Telephus, a single and 
 straight path — no guide would be wanted for that, 
 and no one could miss a single path; but there are 
 many partings of the road, and windings, as I must 
 infer from the rites and sacrifices which are offered 
 to the gods below in places where three ways meet on 
 earth. The wise and orderly soul is conscious of her 
 situation, and follows in the path; but the soul which 
 desires the body, and which, as I was relating before, 
 has long been fluttering about the lifeless frame and 
 the world of sight, is after many struggles and many 
 sufferings hardly and with violence carried away by 
 

 PHAEDO 
 
 259 
 
 her attendant genius, and when she arrives at the place 
 where the other souls are gathered, if she be impure 
 and have done impure deeds, or been concerned in 
 foul murders or other crimes which are the brothers of 
 these, and the works of brothers in crime — from that 
 soul every one flees and turns away; no one will be her 
 companion, no one her guide, but alone she wanders 
 in extremity of evil until certain times are fulfilled, 
 and when they are fulfilled, she is borne irresistibly 
 to her own fitting habitation; as every pure and just 
 soul which has passed through life in the company and 
 under the guidance of the gods has also her own 
 proper home. 
 
 Now the earth has divers wonderful regions, and is 
 indeed in nature and extent very unlike the notions of 
 geographers, as I believe on the authority of one who 
 shall be nameless. 
 
 What do you mean, Socrates? said Simmias. I 
 have myself heard many descriptions of the earth, but 
 I do not know in what you are putting your faith, and 
 I should like to know. 
 
 Well, Simmias, replied Socrates, the recital of a 
 tale does not, I think, require the art of Glaucus; and 
 I know not that the art of Glaucus could prove the 
 truth of my tale, which I myself should never be able 
 to prove, and even if I could, I fear, Simmias, that 
 my life would come to an end before the argument 
 was completed. I may describe to you, however, the 
 form and regions of the earth according to my con¬ 
 ception of them. 
 
 That, said Simmias, will be enough. 
 
 Well then, he said, my conviction is, that the earth 
 is a round body in the centre of the heavens, and there¬ 
 fore has no need of air or any similar force as a sup¬ 
 port, but is kept there and hindered from falling or 
 inclining any way by equability of the surrounding 
 
260 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 heaven and by her own equipoise. For that which, 
 being in equipoise, is in the centre of that which is 
 equably diffused, will not incline any way in any 
 degree, but will always remain in the same state and 
 not deviate. And this is my first notion. 
 
 Which is surely a correct one, said Simmias. 
 
 Also I believe that the earth is very vast, and that 
 we who dwell in the region extending from the river 
 Phasis to the Pillars of Heracles along the borders of 
 the sea, are just like ants or frogs about a marsh, and 
 inhabit a small portion only, and that many others 
 dwell in many like places. For I should say that in 
 all parts of the earth there are hollows of various 
 forms and sizes, into which the water and the mist 
 and the air collect; and that the true earth is pure 
 and in the pure heaven, in which also are the stars — 
 that is the heaven which is commonly spoken of as the 
 ether, of which this is but the sediment collecting in 
 the hollows of the earth. But we who live in these 
 hollows are deceived into the notion that we are dwell¬ 
 ing above on the surface of the earth; which is just 
 as if a creature who was at the bottom of the sea were 
 to fancy that he was on the surface of the water, and 
 that the sea was the heaven through which he saw the 
 sun and the other stars, — he having never come to 
 the surface by reason of his feebleness and sluggish¬ 
 ness, and having never lifted up his head and seen, nor 
 ever heard from one who had seen, this other region 
 which is so much purer and fairer than his own. Now 
 this is exactly our case: for we are dwelling in a hollow 
 of the earth, and fancy that we are on the surface; - 
 and the air we call the heaven, and in this we imagine 
 that the stars move. But this is also owing to our 
 feebleness and sluggishness, which prevent our reach¬ 
 ing the surface of the air: for if any man could arrive 
 at the exterior limit, or take the wings of a bird and 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 261 
 
 fly upward, like a fish who puts his head out and sees 
 this world, he would see a w T orld beyond; and, if the 
 nature of man could sustain the sight, he would 
 acknowledge that this was the place of the true heaven 
 and the true light and the true stars. For this earth, 
 and the stones, and the entire region which surrounds 
 us, are spoiled and corroded, like the things in the sea 
 which are corroded by the brine; for in the sea too there 
 is hardly any noble or perfect growth, but clefts only, 
 and sand, and an endless slough of mud; and even the 
 shore is not to be compared to the fairer sights of 
 this world. And greater far is the superiority of the 
 other. Now of that upper earth which is under the 
 heaven, I can tell you a charming tale, Simmias, which 
 is well worth hearing. 
 
 And we, Socrates, replied Simmias, shall be 
 charmed to listen. 
 
 The tale, my friend, he said, is as follows: — In the 
 first place, the earth, when looked at from above, is 
 like one of those balls which have leather coverings in 
 twelve pieces, and is of divers colors, of which the 
 colors which painters use on earth are only a sample. 
 But there the whole earth is made up of them, and 
 they are brighter far and clearer than ours; there is a 
 purple of wonderful lustre, also the radiance of gold, 
 and the white which is in the earth is wdiiter than any 
 chalk or snow. Of these and other colors the earth is 
 made up, and they are more in number and fairer 
 than the eye of man has ever seen; and the very hol¬ 
 lows (of which I w^as speaking) filled with air and 
 w r ater are seen like light flashing amid the other colors, 
 and have a color of their own, which gives a sort of 
 unity to the variety of earth. And in this fair 
 region everything that grows — trees, and flowers, 
 and fruits — are in a like degree fairer than any here; 
 and there are hills, and stones in them in a like degree 
 
262 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 smoother, and more transparent, and fairer in color 
 than our highly-valued emeralds and sardonyxes and 
 jaspers, and other gems, which are but minute frag¬ 
 ments of them: for there all the stones are like our 
 precious stones, and fairer still. The reason of this is, 
 that they are pure, and not, like our precious stones, 
 infected or corroded by the corrupt briny elements 
 which coagulate among us, and which breed foulness 
 and disease both in earth and stones, as well as in 
 animals and plants. They are the jewels of the upper 
 earth, which also shines with gold and silver and the 
 like, and they are visible to sight and large and abun¬ 
 dant and found in every region of the earth, and 
 blessed is he who sees them. And upon the earth are 
 animals and men, some in a middle region, others 
 dwelling about the air as we dwell about the sea; 
 others in islands which the air flows round, near the 
 continent : and in a word, the air is used by them as 
 the water and the sea are by us, and the ether is to 
 them what the air is to us. Moreover, the tempera¬ 
 ment of their season is such that they have no disease, 
 and live much longer than we do, and have sight and 
 hearing and smell, and all the other senses, in far 
 greater perfection, in the same degree that air is purer 
 than water or the ether than air. Also they have 
 temples and sacred places in which the gods really 
 dwell, and they hear their voices and receive their 
 answers, and are conscious of them and hold converse 
 with them, and they see the sun, moon, and stars as 
 they really are, and their other blessedness is of a piece 
 with this. 
 
 Such is the nature of the whole earth, and of the 
 things which are around the earth; and there are 
 divers regions in the hollows on the face of the globe 
 everywhere, some of them deeper and also wider than 
 that which we inhabit, others deeper and with a nar- 
 
PIIAEDO 
 
 263 
 
 rower opening than ours, and some are shallowei and 
 wider; all have numerous perforations, and passages 
 broad and narrow in the interior of the earth, connect¬ 
 ing them with one another; and there flows into and 
 out of them, as into basins, a vast tide of water, and 
 huge subterranean streams of perennial livers, and 
 springs hot and cold, and a great fire, and great rivers 
 of fire, and streams of liquid mud, thin or thick (like 
 the rivers of mud in Sicily, and the lava streams which 
 follow them), and the regions about which they hap¬ 
 pen to flow are filled up with them. And there is a 
 sort of swing in the interior of the earth which moves 
 all this up and down. Now the swing is on this wise: 
 — There is a chasm which is the vastest of them all, 
 and pierces right through the whole earth; this is that 
 which Homer describes in the wurds: 
 
 “ par off, where is the inmost depth beneath the eaith; 
 
 and which he in other places, and many other poets, 
 have called Tartarus. And the swing is caused by the 
 streams flowing into and out of this chasm, and they 
 each have the nature of the soil through which they 
 flow. And the reason why the streams are always 
 flowing in and out, is that the watery element has no 
 bed or bottom, and is surging and swinging up and 
 down, and the surrounding wind and air do the same; 
 they follow the water up and down, hither and thither, 
 over the earth — just as in respiring the air is always 
 in process of inhalation and exhalation; and the 
 | wind swinging with the water in and out produces 
 fearful and irresistible blasts: when the waters retire 
 with a rush into the lower parts of the eaith, as they 
 are called, they flow through the earth into those 
 regions, and fill them up as with the alter nate motion 
 of a pump, and then when they leave those regions 
 and rush back hither, they again fill the hollows heie, 
 
264 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 and when these are filled, flow through subterranean 
 channels and find their way to their several places, 
 forming seas, and lakes, and rivers, and springs. 
 Thence they again enter the earth, some of them 
 making a long circuit into many lands, others going to 
 few places and those not distant; and again fall into 
 Tartarus, some at a point a good deal lower than that 
 at which they rose, and others not much lower, but all 
 in some degree lower than the point of issue. And 
 some burst forth again on the opposite side, and some 
 on the same side, and some wind round the earth with 
 one or many folds like the coils of a serpent, and 
 descend as far as they can, but always return and fall 
 into the lake. The rivers on either side can descend 
 only to the centre and no further, for to the rivers on 
 both sides the opposite side is a precipice. 
 
 Now these rivers are many, and mighty, and 
 diverse, and there are four principle ones, of which the 
 greatest and outermost is that called Oceanus, which 
 flows round the earth in a circle; and in the opposite 
 direction flows Acheron, which passes under the earth 
 through desert places, into the Acherusian lake: this 
 is the lake to the shores of which the souls of the many 
 go w r hen they are dead, and after waiting an appointed 
 time, w r hich is to some a longer and to some a shorter 
 time, they are sent back again to be born as animals. 
 The third river rises between the two, and near the 
 place of rising pours into a vast region of fire, and 
 forms a lake larger than the Mediterranean Sea, boil¬ 
 ing with water and mud; and proceeding muddy and 
 turbid, and winding about the earth, comes, among 
 other places, to the extremities of the Acherusian lake, 
 hut mingles not with the waters of the lake, and after 
 making many coils about the earth plunges into 
 Tartarus at a deeper level. This is that Pyriphle- 
 gethon, as the stream is called, which throws up jets of 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 265 
 
 fire in all sorts of places. The fourth river goes out 
 on the opposite side, and falls first of all into a wild 
 and savage region, which is all of a dark blue color, 
 like lapis lazuli; and this is that river whSTis'called 
 the Stygian river, and falls into and forms the Lake 
 Styx, and after falling into the lake and receiving 
 strange powers in the waters, passes under the earth, 
 winding round in the opposite direction to Pyriphle- 
 gethon and meeting in the Acherusian lake from the 
 opposite side. And the water of this river too mingles 
 with no other, but flows round in a circle and falls into 
 Tartarus over against Pyriphlegethon; and the name 
 of this river, as the poets say, is Cocytus. 
 
 Such is the nature of the other world; and when the 
 dead arrive at the place to which the genius of each 
 severally conveys them, first of all, they have sentence 
 passed upon them, as they have lived well and piously 
 or not. And those who appear to have lived neither 
 well nor ill, go to the river Acheron, and mount such 
 conveyances as they can get, and are carried in them 
 to the lake, and there they dwell and are purified of 
 their evil deeds, and suffer the penalty of the wrongs 
 which they have done to others, and are absolved, and 
 receive the rewards of their good deeds according to 
 their deserts. But those who appear to'be incurable 
 by reason of the greatness of their crimes — who have 
 committed many and terrible deeds of sacrilege, mur¬ 
 ders foul and violent, or the like — such are hurled 
 into Tartarus which is their suitable destiny, and they 
 never come out. Those again who have committed 
 crimes, which, although great, are not unpardonable 
 — who in a moment of anger, for example, have done 
 violence to a father or a mother, and have repented 
 for the remainder of their lives, or, who have taken 
 the life of another under the like extenuating circum¬ 
 stances— these are plunged into Tartarus, the pains 
 
266 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 of which they are compelled to undergo for a year, 
 but at the end of the year the wave casts them forth — 
 mere homicides by way of Cocytus, parricides and 
 matricides by Pyriphlegethon — and they are borne 
 to the Acherusian lake, and there they lift up their 
 voices and call upon the victims whom they have slain 
 or wronged, to have pity on them, and to receive them, 
 and to let them come out of the river into the lake. 
 And if they prevail, then they come forth and cease 
 from their troubles; but if not, they are carried back 
 again into Tartarus and from thence into the rivers 
 unceasingly, until they obtain mercy from those whom 
 they have wronged: for that is the sentence inflicted 
 upon them by their judges. Those also who are re¬ 
 markable for having led holy lives are released frdm 
 this earthly prison, and go to their pure home which 
 is above, and dwell in the purer earth; and those who 
 have duly purified themselves with philosophy, live 
 henceforth altogether without the body, in mansions 
 fairer far than these, which may not be described, and 
 of which the time would fail me to tell. 
 
 Wherefore, Simmias, seeing all these things, what 
 ought not we to do in order to obtain virtue and 
 wisdom in this life? Fair is the prize, and the hope 
 great! 
 
 I do not mean to affirm that the description which 
 I have given of the soul and her mansions is exactly 
 true — a man of sense ought hardly to say that. But 
 I do say that, inasmuch as the soul is shown to be 
 immortal, he may venture to think, not improperly 
 or unworthily, that something of the kind is true. 
 The venture is a glorious one, and he ought to comfort 
 himself with words like these, which is the reason 
 why I lengthen out the tale. Wherefore, I say, let a 
 man be of good cheer about his soul, who has cast 
 away the pleasures and ornaments of the body as alien 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 267 
 
 to him, and rather hurtful in their effects, and has 
 followed after the pleasures of knowledge in this life; 
 who has adorned the soul in her own proper jewels, 
 which are temperance, and justice, and courage, and 
 nobility, and truth — in these arrayed she is ready to 
 go on her journey to the world below, when her time 
 comes. You, Simmias and Cebes, and all other men, 
 will depart at some time or other. Me already, as the 
 tragic poet would say, the voice of fate calls. Soon I 
 must drink the poison; and I think that I had better 
 repair to the bath first, in order that the women may 
 not have the trouble of washing my body after I am 
 dead. 
 
 .When he had done speaking, Crito said: And have 
 you any commands for us, Socrates — anything to 
 say about your children, or any other matter in which 
 we can serve you? 
 
 Nothing particular, he said: only, as I have always 
 told you, I would have you look to yourselves; that is 
 a service which you may always be doing to me and 
 mine as well as to yourselves. And you need not make 
 professions; for if you take no thought for yourselves, 
 and w T alk not according to the precepts which I have 
 given you, not now for the first time, the warmth of 
 your professions will be of no avail. 
 
 We will do our best, said Crito. But in what way 
 would you have us bury you? 
 
 In any way that you like; only you must get hold 
 of me, and take care that I do not walk away from 
 you. Then he turned to us, and added with a smile: — 
 I can not make Crito believe that I am the same 
 Socrates who has been talking and conducting the 
 argument; he fancies that I am the other Socrates 
 whom he will soon see, a dead body — and he asks, 
 ITow shall he bury me? And though I have spoken 
 many words in the endeavor to show that when I have 
 
268 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 drunk the poison I shall leave you and go to the joys 
 of the blessed, — these words of mine, with which I 
 comforted you and myself, have had, as I perceive, 
 no effect upon Crito. And therefore I want you to 
 be surety for me now, as he was surety for me at the 
 trial: but let the promise be of another sort; for he was 
 my surety to the judges that I would remain, but you 
 must be my surety to him that I shall not remain, but 
 go away and depart; and then he will suffer less at my 
 death, and not be grieved when he sees my body being 
 burned or buried. I would not have him sorrow at my 
 hard lot, or say at the burial, Thus we lay out Socrates, 
 or, Thus we follow him to the grave or bury him; for 
 false words are not only evil in themselves, but they 
 infect the soul with evil. Be of good cheer, then, my 
 dear Crito, and say that you are burying my body 
 only, and do with that as is usual, and as you think 
 best. 
 
 When he had spoken these words, he arose and 
 went into the bath-chamber with Crito, who bid us 
 wait; and we waited, talking and thinking of the sub- 
 ject of discourse, and also of the greatness of our sor¬ 
 row; he was like a father of whom we were being 
 bereaved, and we were about to pass the rest of our 
 lives as orphans. When he had taken the bath his 
 children were brought to him— (he had two young 
 sons and an elder one) ; and the women of his family 
 also came, and he talked to them and gave them a few 
 directions in the presence of Crito; and he then dis¬ 
 missed them and returned to us. 
 
 Now the hour of sunset was near, for a good deal 
 of time had passed while he was within. When he 
 came out, he sat down with us again after his bath, 
 but not much was said. Soon the jailer, who was the 
 servant of the eleven, entered and stood by him, say¬ 
 ing:— To you, Socrates, whom I know to be the 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 269 
 
 noblest and gentlest and best of all who ever came to 
 this place, I will not impute the angry feelings of 
 other men, who rage and swear at me, when, in obedi¬ 
 ence to the authorities, I bid them drink the 
 poison — indeed, I am sure that you will not be angry 
 with me; for others, as you are aware, and not I, are 
 the guilty cause. And so fare you well, and try to 
 bear lightly what must needs be; you know my errand. 
 Then bursting into tears he turned away and went 
 out. 
 
 Socrates looked at him and said: I return your good 
 wishes, and will do as you bid. Then turning to us, 
 he said, How charming the man is: since I have been 
 in prison he has always been coming to see me, and at 
 times he would talk to me, and was as good as could 
 be to me, and now see how generously he sorrows for 
 me. But we must do as he says, Crito; let the cup be 
 brought, if the poison is prepared: if not, let the at¬ 
 tendant prepare some. 
 
 Yet, said Crito, the sun is still upon the hill-tops, 
 and many a one has taken the draught late, and 
 after the announcement has been made to him, he has 
 eaten and drunk, and indulged in sensual delights; do 
 not hasten then, there is still time. 
 
 Socrates said: Yes, Crito, and they of whom you 
 speak are right in doing thus, for they think that they 
 will gain by the delay; but I am right in not doing 
 thus, for I do not think that I should gain anything 
 by drinking the poison a little later; I should be 
 sparing and saving a life which is already gone; I 
 could only laugh at myself for this. Please then to do 
 as I say, and not to refuse me. 
 
 Crito, when he heard this, made a sign to the serv¬ 
 ant; and the servant went in, and remained for some 
 time, and then returned with the jailer carrying the 
 cup of poison. Socrates said: You, my good friend, 
 
270 
 
 PHAEDO 
 
 
 who are experienced in these matters, shall give me 
 directions how I am to proceed. The man answered: 
 You have only to walk about until your legs are heavy, , ! 
 
 and then to lie down, and the poison will act. At the 
 same time he handed the cup to Socrates, who in the 
 easiest and gentlest manner, without the least fear or 
 change of color or feature, looking at the man with all 
 his eyes, Echecrates, as his manner was, took the cup 
 and said: What do you say about making a libation - 
 out of this cup to any god? May I, or not? . The 
 man answered: \Ye only prepare, Socrates, just so 
 much as we deem enough. X understand, he said, jei 
 I may and must pray to the gods to prosper my 
 journey from this to that other world —may this 
 then, which is my prayer, he granted to me. Then , 
 holding the cup to his lips, quite readily and cheer¬ 
 fully he drank off the poison. And hitherto most of ; 
 us had been able to control our sorrow; but now when 
 we saw him drinking, and saw too that he had finished jf 
 the draught, we could no longer forbear, and in spite 
 of myself my own tears were flowing fast; so that I 
 covered my face and wept over myself, for ceitainlj X i 
 was not weeping over him, but at the thought of mv 
 own calamity in having lost such a companion. Nor 
 was I the first, for Crito, when he found himself un¬ 
 able to restrain his tears, had got up and moved away, 
 and I followed; and at that moment, Apollodoius, 
 who had been weeping all the time, broke out into a 
 loud cry which made cowards of us all. Socrates 
 alone retained his calmness: What is this strange 
 outcry? he said. I sent away the women mainly m 
 order that they might not offend in this way, tor i 
 have heard that a man should die in peace. Be quie 
 then, and have patience. When we heard that, we 
 were ashamed, and refrained our teais, and e w® e 
 about until, as he said, his legs began to fail, and then 
 
PHAEDO 
 
 271 
 
 he lay on his back, according to the directions, and 
 the man who gave him the poison now and then looked 
 at his feet and legs; and after a while he pressed his 
 foot hard, and asked him if he could feel; and he said, 
 No; and then his leg, and so upwards and upwards, 
 and showed us that he was cold and stiff. And he felt 
 then himself and said: When the poison reaches the 
 heart, that will be the end. He was beginning to grow 
 cold about the groin, when he uncovered his face, for 
 he had covered himself up, and said (they were his 
 last words) —he said: Crito, I owe a cock to 
 Asclepius; will you remember to pay the debt? The 
 debt shall be paid, said Crito; is there anything else? 
 There was no answer to this question; but in a minute 
 or two a movement was heard, and the attendants un¬ 
 covered him; his eyes were set, and Crito closed his 
 eyes and mouth. 
 
 Such was the end, Echecrates, of our friend, whom 
 I may truly call the wisest, and justest, and best of 
 all men whom I have ever known. 
 
 

THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
V. 
 
 
 I 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of all the works of Plato the Symposium is the most perfect 
 in form, and may be truly thought to contain more than any 
 commentator has ever dreamed of; or, as Goethe said of one 
 of his own writings, more than the author himself knew, bor 
 in philosophy as in prophecy glimpses of the future may often 
 be conveyed in words which could hardly have been understood 
 or interpreted at the time when they were uttered. More than 
 any other Platonic work the Symposium is Greek both in style 
 and subject, having a beauty “as of a statue," while the com¬ 
 panion Dialogue of the Phaedrus is marked by a sort of Gothic 
 irregularity. More too than in any other part of his writings, 
 Plato is emancipated from former philosophies. The genius of 
 Greek art seems to triumph over the traditions of Pythagorean, 
 Eleatic, or Megarian systems, and “ the old quarrel of poetry 
 and philosophy ” has at least a superficial reconcilement. 
 
 An unknown person who had heard of the discourses in praise 
 of love spoken by Socrates and others at the banquet of Agathon, 
 is desirous of having an authentic account of them, which he 
 thinks that he can obtain from Apollodorus, the same excitable, 
 or rather “ mad ” friend of Socrates, who has already appeared 
 in the Phaedo. He had imagined that the discourses were re¬ 
 cent. There he is mistaken: but they are still fresh in the mem¬ 
 ory of his informant, who had just been repeating them to Glau- 
 con, and is quite prepared to have another rehearsal of them 
 in a walk from the Piraeus to Athens. He had not indeed been 
 present himself, but he had heard them from the best authority. 
 Aristodemus, who is described as having been in past times a 
 sort of humble but inseparable attendant of Socrates, had re¬ 
 ported them to him. 
 
 The narrative which he had heard was as follows: 
 
 Aristodemus meeting Socrates in holiday attire, is invited by 
 him to a banquet at the house of Agathon, who had been sac¬ 
 rificing in thanksgiving for his tragic victory on the day pre¬ 
 vious. But no sooner has he entered the house than he finds 
 that Socrates is missing — he has stayed behind in a fit of ab¬ 
 straction, and does not appear until the banquet is half over. 
 
 275 
 
276 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 Some raillery passes between him and y ne host, and then the 
 question is asked. What shall they do about drinking? as they 
 had been all well drunk on the day before, and drinking on two 
 successive days is a bad thing.” This is confirmed by the author¬ 
 ity of Eryximachus the physician, who further proposes that 
 instead of listening to the flute-girl and her “ noise ” they shall 
 hold discourses in honor of love, one after another, going from 
 left to right as they are sitting at the table. All of them agree 
 to this, and Phaedrus, who is the “ father ” of the idea which 
 he has previously communicated to Eryximachus, begins as 
 follows: — 
 
 He descants first of all upon the antiquity of love, which is 
 proved by the authority of the poets, and then upon the benefits 
 which he gives to man. The greatest of these is the sense of 
 honor and dishonor. The lover is ashamed to be seen bv the 
 beloved doing or suffering any cowardly or mean act. And a 
 state or army which was made up only of lovers and their loves 
 would be invincible. For love will convert the veriest coward 
 into an inspired hero. 
 
 And there have been true loves not only of men but of women 
 also. Such was the love of Alcestis, who dared to die for her 
 husband, and as a reward was allowed to come again from the 
 dead. But Orpheus, the cowardly harper, who went down to 
 Hades alive, that he might bring back his wife, was mocked with 
 an apparition only, and the gods afterwards contrived his death 
 as a punishment of his impudence. The hero Achilles affords an 
 instance of similar devotion; for he was willing to avenge his 
 lover Patroclus, although he knew that his own death would 
 immediately follow: and the gods, who honor the love of the 
 beloved above that of the lover, rewarded him, and sent him to 
 the islands of the blest. 
 
 Pausanias, who was sitting next, then takes up the tale. He 
 says that Phaedrus should have distinguished the heavenly love 
 from the earthly, before he praised either. For there are two 
 loves, as there are two Aphrodites — one the heavenly, who has 
 no mother and is the elder and wiser goddess, and the other, the 
 daughter of Zeus and Dione, who is popular and common. The 
 first of the two loves has a noble purpose, and delights only in 
 the intelligent nature of man, and is faithful to the end, and has 
 no shadow of wantonness or lust. The second is the coarser kind 
 of love, which is a love of the body rather than of the soul, and 
 is apt to be a love of women and boys as well as of men. Now 
 actions vary according to the manner of their performance; and 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 277 
 
 this applies to love as wdl as to every other sort of action. 
 Moreover there is a difference of opinion about the propriety 
 of male loves. Some, like the Boeotians, approve of them; oth¬ 
 ers, like the Ionians, and most of the barbarians, disapprove of 
 them; partly because they are aware of the political dangers 
 which ensue from them, as may be seen in the instance of Har- 
 modius and Aristogeiton. At Athens and Sparta there is an 
 apparent contradiction about them. For at times they are en¬ 
 couraged, and then the lover is allowed to play all sorts of fan- 
 tastic tricks; he may swear and forswear himself (and at 
 lovers’ perjuries they say Jove laughs ) ; he may be a servant, 
 and lie on a mat at the door of his love, without any loss of 
 character; but there are also times when elders look grave and 
 guard their young relations, and personal remarks are made. 
 The truth is that some of these loves are disgraceful and others 
 honorable. The vulgar love of the body which takes wings and 
 flies away when the bloom of youth is over, is disgraceful, as is 
 also the interested love of power or wealth; but the love of the 
 noble mind is lasting. The lover should be tested, and the be¬ 
 loved should not be too ready to yield. The rule in our country 
 is that the beloved may do the same service to the lover in the 
 way of virtue which the lover may do to him. 
 
 This voluntary service rendered for the sake of virtue and 
 wisdom is permitted among us; and when these two customs 
 one the love of youth, the other the practice of virtue and philos¬ 
 ophy — meet in one, then the lovers may lawfully unite. Nor 
 is there any disgrace to a disinterested lover in being deceived, 
 but the interested lover is doubly disgraced, for if he loses his 
 love he loses his character; whereas the noble love of the other 
 remains the same, although the object of his love is unworthy: 
 for nothing can be nobler tlian love for the sake of virtue. This 
 is that love of the heavenly goddess which is of great price to 
 individuals and cities, making them work together for their 
 improvement. 
 
 The turn of Aristophanes comes next; but he has the hiccough, 
 and therefore proposes that Eryximachus the physician shall 
 cure him or speak in his turn. Eryximachus is ready to do both, 
 and speaks as follows: — 
 
 He agrees with Pausanias in maintaining that there are two 
 kinds of love; but his art has led him to the conclusion that 
 the empire of this double love extends over all things, and is to 
 be found in animals and plants as well as in man. In the human 
 body also there are two loves; and the art of medicine shows 
 
278 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 which is the good and which is the bid love, and persuades the 
 body to accept the good and reject the bad, and reconciles con¬ 
 flicting elements and makes them friends. Every art, gymnastic 
 and husbandry as well as medicine, is the reconciliation of oppo¬ 
 sites ; and this is what Heracleitus meant, when he spoke of a 
 harmony of opposites: but in strictness he should rather have 
 spoken of a harmony which succeeds opposites, for an agree¬ 
 ment of disagreements there can not be. Music too is concerned 
 with the principles of love in their application to harmony and 
 rhythm. In the abstract, all is simple, and we are not troubled 
 with the twofold love; but when they are applied in education 
 with their accompaniments of song and metre, then the discord 
 begins. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair Urania 
 and the coarse Polyhymnia, who must be indulged sparingly, 
 just as in my own art of medicine care must be taken that the 
 taste of the epicure be gratified without inflicting upon him the 
 attendant penalty of disease. 
 
 There is a similar harmony or disagreement in the course of 
 the seasons and in the relations of moist and dry, hot and cold, 
 hoar frost and blight; and diseases of all sorts spring from the 
 excesses or disorders of the element of love. The knowledge 
 of this in relation to the heavenly bodies is termed astronomy, 
 and in relation to the gods is called divination. For divination 
 is the peacemaker of gods and men, and works by a knowledge 
 of the tendencies of merely human loves to piety and impiety. 
 Such is the power of love; and that love which is just and tem¬ 
 perate has the greatest power, and is the source of all our hap¬ 
 piness and friendship with the gods and with one another. I 
 dare say that I have omitted to mention many things which you, 
 Aristophanes, may supply, as I perceive that you are cured of 
 the hiccough. 
 
 Aristophanes, who has been cured of the hiccough, now 
 speaks: — 
 
 He professes to open a new vein of discourse, in which he 
 begins by treating of the origin of human nature. The sexes 
 were originally three, men, women, and the union of the two; 
 and they were made round, having four hands, four feet, two 
 faces on a round neck, and the rest to correspond. Terrible was 
 their strength and swiftness; and they were essaying to scale 
 heaven and attack the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial coun¬ 
 cils; the gods were divided between the desire of quelling the 
 pride of man and the fear of losing the sacrifices. At last Zeus 
 hit upon an expedient. Let us cut them in two, he said; then 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 279 
 
 they will only have half their strength, and we shall have twice 
 as many sacrifices. He spake, and split them as you might split 
 an egg with an hair; and when this was done, he told Apollo 
 to give their faces a twist and rearrange their persons, taking 
 out the wrinkles and tying the skin in a knot about the navel. 
 The two halves went about looking for one another, and were 
 ready to die of hunger in one another’s arms. Then Zeus in¬ 
 vented an adjustment of the sexes, which enabled them to marry 
 and go their way to the business of life. Now the characters 
 of men differ accordingly as they are derived from the original 
 man or the original woman, or the original man-woman. Those 
 who come from the man-woman are lascivious and adulterous; 
 those who come from the woman form female attachments; those 
 who are a section of the male follow the male and embrace him, 
 and in him all their desires centre. They can not tell what they 
 want of one another, but they live in pure and manly affection 
 and can not be separated. If Hephaestus were to come to them 
 and propose that they should be melted into one and remain 
 one in this world and in the world below, they would acknowl¬ 
 edge that this was the very expression of their want. For love 
 is the desire of the whole, and the pursuit of the whole is called 
 love. There was a time when the two sexes were only one, but 
 now God has halved them, — much as the Lacedaemonians have 
 cut up the Arcadians, — and if they don’t behave themselves he 
 will quarter them, and they will hop about with half a nose and 
 face in basso relievo. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, 
 that we may obtain the goods of which love is the author, and 
 be reconciled to God, and find our own true loves, which rarely 
 happens in this world. And now I must beg you not to suppose 
 that I am alluding to Pausanias and Agathon, for my words 
 refer to all mankind everywhere. 
 
 Some raillery ensues first between Aristophanes and Eryxi- 
 machus and then between Agathon and Socrates, which threatens 
 to grow into an argument. This is speedily repressed by Phae- 
 drus, who reminds the disputants of their tribute to the god. 
 Agathon’s speech follows. 
 
 He will speak of the god first and then of his gifts. He is 
 the fairest and blessedest and best of the gods, and also the 
 youngest, having had no existence in the old days of Iapetus 
 and Cronos when the gods were at war. The things that were 
 done then were done of necessity and not of love. For love is 
 young and dwells in soft places, — not like Ate in Homer, walk¬ 
 ing on the skulls of men, but in their hearts and souls, which are 
 
280 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 soft enough. He is all flexibility and grace, and his habitation 
 is among the flowers, and he can not do or suffer wrong; for 
 all men serve and obey him of their own free will, and where 
 there is love there is obedience, and where obedience is, there 
 is justice; for none can be wronged of his own free will. And 
 he is temperate as well as just, for he is the ruler of the desires, 
 and if he rules them he must be temperate. Also he is coura¬ 
 geous, for he is the conqueror of the lord of war. And he is wise 
 too; for he is a poet, and the author of poesy in others. He 
 created the animals; he is the inventor of the arts; all the gods 
 are his subjects; he is the fairest and best in himself, and the 
 cause of what is fairest and best in others; he makes men to 
 be of one mind at a banquet, filling them with affection and 
 emptying them of disaffection; the pilot, helper, defender, savior 
 of men, in whose footsteps let every man follow, chanting a 
 strain of love. Such is the discourse, half playful, half serious, 
 which I dedicate to the god. 
 
 The turn of Socrates comes next. He begins by remarking 
 satirically that he has not understood the terms of the original 
 agreement, for he fancied that they meant to speak the true 
 praises of love, but now he finds that they only say what is good 
 of him, whether true or false. He begs to be absolved from 
 speaking falsely, but he is willing to speak the truth, and pro¬ 
 poses to begin by questioning Agathon. The result of his ques¬ 
 tions may be summed up as follows: — 
 
 Love is of something, and that which love desires is not that 
 which love is or has; for no man desires that which he is or has. 
 And love is of the beautiful, and therefore love has not the beau¬ 
 tiful. And the beautiful is the good, and therefore, in wanting 
 and desiring the beautiful, love also wants and desires the good. 
 Socrates professes to have put the same questions and have 
 obtained the same answers from Diotima, a wise woman of Man- 
 tinea, who, like Agathon, had spoken first of love and then of 
 his works. Socrates, like Agathon, had told her that love is a 
 mighty god and also fair, and she had shown him in return that 
 love was neither, but in a mean between fair and foul, good and 
 evil, and not a god at all, but only a great demon or intermediate 
 being, who conveys to the gods the prayers of men, and to men 
 the commands of the gods. 
 
 Socrates asks: Who are his father and mother? To this Dio¬ 
 tima replies that he is the son of Plenty and Poverty, and par¬ 
 takes of the nature of both, and is full and starved by turns. 
 Like his mother he is poor and squalid, lying on mats at doors; 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 281 
 
 like his father he is full of arts and resources, and is in a mean 
 between ignorance and knowledge. And in this he resembles the 
 philosopher who is also in a mean between the wise and the 
 ignorant. Such is the nature of love, who is not to be confused 
 with the belo ved.! 
 
 But love desires the beautiful; and then arises the question, 
 What does he desire of the beautiful? He desires, of course, 
 the possession of the beautiful; — but what is given by that? 
 For the beautiful let us substitute the good, and we have no 
 difficulty in seeing that the possession of the good is happiness, 
 and that love is the desire of this. But the meaning of the term 
 has been too often confined to one sort of love, whereas love is 
 really coextensive with the good. \ And love desires not only the 
 good, but the everlasting possession of the good. Why then is 
 there all this flutter and excitement about love? Because all 
 men and women at a certain age are desirous of bringing to 
 the birth. And love is not of beauty only, but of birth in 
 beauty; this is the principle of immortality in a mortal crea¬ 
 ture. And when beauty approaches, then the conceiving power 
 is benign and diffuse, but when foulness, she is averted and 
 morose. 
 
 But why again does this extend not only to men but also to 
 animals? Because they too have an instinct of immortality. 
 Even in the same individual there is a perpetual succession as 
 well of the parts of the material body as of the thoughts and 
 desires of the mind; nay, even knowledge comes and goes. There 
 is no sameness of existence, but the new mortality is always 
 taking the place of the old. This is why parents love their chil¬ 
 dren — for the sake of immortality; and this is why men love 
 the immortality of fame. For the creative soul creates not chil¬ 
 dren, but conceptions of wisdom and virtue, such as poets and 
 other creators have invented. And the noblest creations of all 
 are those of legislators, in honor of whom temples have been 
 raised. Who would not sooner have these children of the mind 
 than the ordinary human ones ? 
 
 I will now initiate you, she said, into the greater mysteries 
 for he who would proceed in due course should love first one ( 
 fair form, and then many, and learn the connection of them; 
 and from beautiful bodies he should proceed to beautiful minds, 
 and the beauty of laws and institutions, until he perceives that 
 all beauty is of one kindred; and from institutions he should 
 go on to the sciences, until at last the vision is revealed to him 
 of a single science of universal beauty, and then he will behold 
 
282 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 the everlasting nature which is the cause of all, and will be near 
 the end. In the contemplation of that supreme being of love 
 he will be purified of earthly leaven, and will behold beauty, not 
 with the bodily eye, but with the eye of the mind, and will bring 
 forth true creations of virtue and wisdom, and be the friend of 
 God and heir of immortality. 
 
 Such, Phaedrus, is the tale which I heard from the stranger 
 of Mantinea, and which you may call the encomium of love, or 
 what you please. 
 
 The company applaud the speech of Socrates, and Aristo¬ 
 phanes is about to say something, when suddenly a band of rev¬ 
 ellers breaks into the court, and the voice of Alcibiades is heard 
 asking for Agathon. He is led in drunk, and welcomed by 
 Agathon, whom he has come to crown with a garland. He is 
 placed on a couch at his side, but suddenly, on recognizing Soc¬ 
 rates, he starts up, and a sort of conflict is carried on between 
 them, which Agathon is requested to appease. Alcibiades insists 
 that they shall drink, and has a large wine-cooler filled, which 
 he first empties himself, and then fills again and passes on to 
 Socrates. He is informed of the nature of the entertainment; 
 he is willing to join, if only in the character of a drunken and 
 disappointed lover he may be allowed to sing the praises of 
 Socrates. 
 
 He begins by comparing Socrates first to the masks of Silenus, 
 which have images of the gods inside them; and, secondly, to 
 Marsyas the flute-player. For Socrates produces the same effect 
 with the voice which Marsyas did with the flute. He is the great 
 speaker and enchanter who ravishes the souls of men, the con- 
 vincer of hearts too, as he has convinced Alcibiades, and made 
 him ashamed of his mean and miserable life. He has suffered 
 agonies from him, and is at his wit’s end. He was in hopes that 
 Socrates would fall in love with him; this as he thought would 
 give him a wonderful opportunity of receiving lessons of wisdom. 
 He narrates the failure of his design. He then proceeds to men¬ 
 tion some other particulars of the life of Socrates; how they 
 were at Potidaea together, where Socrates showed his superior 
 powers of enduring cold and fatigue; how on one occasion he 
 had stood for an entire day and night absorbed in reflection amid 
 the wonder of the spectators; how on another occasion he had 
 saved Alcibiades’ life; how at the battle of Delium, after the 
 defeat, he might be seen stalking about like a pelican, rolling his 
 eyes. The sum of all is, that he is the most wonderful of human 
 beings, and absolutely unlike any one but a satyr. Like the satyr 
 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 283 
 
 in his language too; for he uses the commonest words as the 
 outward mask of the divinest truths. 
 
 When Alcibiades has done speaking, a dispute begins between 
 him and Agathon and Socrates. Socrates piques Alcibiades by 
 a pretended affection for Agathon. Presently another band of 
 revellers appears, who introduce disorder into the feast; the 
 sober part of the company, Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others, 
 withdraw; and Aristodemus, the follower of Socrates, sleeps 
 during the whole of a long winter’s night. When he wakes at 
 cockcrow the revellers are nearly all asleep. Only Socrates, 
 Aristophanes, and Agathon hold out; they are drinking out of 
 a large goblet, which they pass round, and Socrates is explaining 
 to the two others, who are half asleep, that the genius of tragedy 
 is the same as that of comedy, and that the writer of tragedy 
 ought to be a writer of comedy also. And first Aristophanes 
 drops, and then, as the day is dawning, Agathon. Socrates, hav¬ 
 ing laid them to rest, goes to his daily avocations until the eve¬ 
 ning. 
 
 If it be true that there are more things in the Symposium of 
 Plato than any commentator has dreamed of, it is also true that 
 many things have been imagined which are not really to be found 
 there. Some writings hardly admit of a more distinct interpreta¬ 
 tion than a musical composition; and every reader may form his 
 own accompaniment of thought or feeling to the strain which he 
 hears. The Symposium of Plato is a work of this character, and 
 hardly admits of being rendered in any other words but the wri¬ 
 ter’s own. There are so many half-lights and cross-lights, so 
 much of the color of mythology, and of the manner of sophistry, 
 adhering — rhetoric and poetry, the playful and the serious, are 
 so subtly intermingled in it, and vestiges of old philosophy so 
 curiously blend with germs of future knowledge, that agreement 
 among interpreters is not to be expected. The expression “ poema 
 magis putandum quam comicorum poetarum,” which has been 
 applied to all the writings of Plato, is especially applicable to the 
 Symposium. 
 
 The power of love is represented in the Symposium as running 
 through all nature and all being: at one end descending to ani¬ 
 mals and plants, and attaining to the highest vision of truth at 
 the other. In an age when man was seeking for an expression of 
 the world around him, the conception of love greatly affected 
 him. One of the first distinctions of language and of mythology 
 
284 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 was that of gender; and at a later period the ancient physicist, 
 anticipating modern science, saw, or thought that he saw, a sex 
 in plants; there were elective affinities among the elements, mar¬ 
 riages of earth and heaven. Love became a mythic personage, 
 whom philosophy, borrowing from poetry, converted into an effi¬ 
 cient cause of creation. As of number and figure, the traces of 
 the existence of love were everywhere discerned; and in the 
 Pythagorean list of opposites male and female were ranged side 
 by side with odd and even, finite and infinite. 
 
 But Plato seems also to be aware that there is a mystery of 
 love not only in nature, but in man, extending far beyond the 
 mere immediate relation of the sexes. He is conscious that the 
 highest and noblest things in the world are not easily severed 
 from the sensual desires, or may even be regarded as a spiritual¬ 
 ized form of them. We may observe that Socrates himself is not 
 represented as originally unimpassioned, but as one who has 
 overcome his passions; the secret of his power over others partly 
 lies in his passionate but self-controlled nature. Love is with 
 Plato not merely the feeling usually so called, but the mystical 
 contemplation of the beautiful and the good. The same passion 
 which may wallow in the mire is capable of rising to the highest 
 summit — of penetrating to the inmost secret of philosophy. 
 The unity of knowledge, the consistency of the warring elements 
 of the world, the enthusiasm of knowledge when first beaming 
 upon mankind, the relativity of ideas to the human mind, and of 
 the human mind to ideas, are all included, consciously or uncon¬ 
 sciously, in Plato’s doctrine of love. 
 
 The successive speeches in praise of love are all of them char¬ 
 acteristic of the speakers, and contribute in various degrees to 
 the final result; they are all designed to prepare the way for 
 Socrates, who gathers up the threads anew, and skims the high¬ 
 est points of each of them. But they are not to be regarded as 
 the stages of an idea, rising above one another to a climax. They 
 are fanciful, partly facetious performances, “ yet also having a 
 certain degree of seriousness,” which the successive speakers 
 dedicate to the god. All of them are rhetorical and poetical 
 rather than dialectical; they do not aim at truth, but only at 
 appearance. When the turn of Socrates comes round, he can not 
 be allowed to disturb the arrangement, and therefore he throws 
 his argument into the form of a speech. And on the occasion of 
 a banquet, good manners would not allow him to win a victory 
 either over his host or any of the guests. The advantage which 
 lie gains over Agathon is ingeniously represented as having been 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 285 
 
 already gained over himself by Diotima. At the same time he 
 maintains his own profession of ignorance. 
 
 The speeches are attested to us by the very best authority. 
 The madman Apollodorus, who for three years past has made a 
 daily study of the actions of Socrates — to whom the world is 
 summed up in the words “ Great is Socrates ” — he has heard 
 them from another “ madman ” who was the shadow of Socrates 
 in days of old, like him going about barefooted, and who had 
 been present at the time. Would you desire better witness? We 
 may observe, by the way, (1) how the very appearance of Aris- 
 todemus by himself is a sufficient indication to Agathon that 
 Socrates has been left behind; also, (2) how the courtesy of 
 Agathon anticipates the excuse which Socrates was to have made 
 on Aristodemus’ behalf for coming uninvited; (3) how the story 
 of the fit or trance of Socrates is confirmed by the mention which 
 Alcibiades makes of a similar fit of abstraction occurring when 
 he was serving with the army at Potidaea; like (4) the drinking 
 powers of Socrates and his love of the fair, which receive a 
 similar attestation in the concluding scene; or the attachment of 
 Aristodemus, who is not forgotten when Socrates takes his de¬ 
 parture. (5) We may notice the manner in which Socrates him¬ 
 self regards the first five speeches, not as true, but as fanciful 
 and exaggerated encomiums of the god Love; (6) the ruling 
 passion of Socrates for dialectics, who will argue with Agathon 
 instead of making a speech, and will only speak at all upon the 
 condition that he is allowed to speak the truth. We may note 
 also (7) the characteristic Platonic remark which occurs in the 
 speech of Eryximachus, that “ confusion first begins in the con¬ 
 crete; ” and the touch of Socratic irony, (8) which admits of a 
 wide application and reveals a deep insight into the world; that 
 in speaking of holy things and persons there is a general under¬ 
 standing that you should praise them, not that you should speak 
 the truth of them — this is the sort of praise which Socrates is 
 unable to give. Lastly we may remark that the banquet is a real 
 banquet after all, at which love is the theme of discourse, and 
 huge quantities of wine are drunk. 
 
 The discourse of Phaedrus is half-mythical, half-ethical; and 
 he himself, true to the character which is given him in the Dia¬ 
 logue which bears his name, is half-sophist, half-enthusiast. 
 He is the critic of poetry also, who compares Homer and Aeschy¬ 
 lus in the insipid and irrational manner of the schools of the 
 day, characteristically reasoning about the probability of matters 
 which do not admit of reasoning. The age of love, the great 
 
286 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 blessing of having a lover, the incentive which love is to daring 
 deeds, the examples of Alcestis and Achilles, are the chief themes 
 of his discourse. The love of women is regarded by him as 
 almost on an equality with that of men; and he takes occasion 
 to remark that the lover has a diviner being, and that therefore 
 the gods favor the return of love which is made to him more than 
 the original sentiment of the lover. 
 
 There is something of a sophistical ring in the speech of Phae- 
 drus, which recalls the first speech in imitation of Lysias, occur¬ 
 ring in the Dialogue called the Phaedrus. This is still more 
 marked in the speech of Pausanias which follows; and which 
 is at once hyperlogical in form and also extremely confused and 
 pedantic. Plato is attacking the logical feebleness of the soph¬ 
 ists and rhetoricians, through their pupils; of course, “ playing 
 both sides of the game,” as in the Phaedrus; but it is not neces¬ 
 sary in order to understand him that we should discuss the fair¬ 
 ness of his mode of proceeding. The love of Pausanias for 
 Agathon has already been touched upon in the Protagoras, and 
 is alluded to by Aristophanes. Hence he is naturally the up¬ 
 holder of male loves, which, like all the other affections or actions 
 of men, he regards as varying according to the manner of their 
 performance; thus the question of morals is converted into one 
 of manners. Like the sophists and like Plato himself, though 
 in a different sense, he begins his discussion by an appeal to 
 mythology, and distinguishes between the elder and younger 
 love. The value which he attributes to such loves as motives 
 to virtue and philosophy is greatly at variance with modern and 
 Christian notions, but is in accordance with Hellenic sentiment. 
 For it is impossible to deny that some of the best and greatest 
 of the Greeks indulged in attachments, which Plato in the Laws, 
 no less than the universal opinion of Christendom, has stigma¬ 
 tized as unnatural. Pausanias is very earnest in insisting on the 
 innocence of such loves, when pursued in a right spirit; and he i 
 speaks of them as generally approved of among the Hellenes and 
 disapproved bv the barbarians, the latter for the sophistical rea- i 
 son that they are inimical to tyrants. The speech as a whole 
 is “ more words than matter,” such as might certainly have been I 
 composed by a pupil of Lysias and Prodicus, although there is 
 no hint given that Plato is designing to parody them. 
 
 Plato transposes the two next speeches, as in the Republic he 
 would transpose the virtues and the mathematical sciences. This 
 is done partly to avoid monotony, partly for the sake of making 
 Aristophanes “ the cause of wit in others, and also in order 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 287 
 
 to bring the comic and tragic poet into juxtaposition, as if by 
 accident. A suitable “ expectation ” of Aristophanes is raised by 
 the ludicrous circumstance of his having the hiccough, which is 
 appropriately cured by his substitute, the physician Eryximachus. 
 To Eryximachus Love is the good physician; he sees everything 
 as an intelligent physicist, and, like many professors of his art 
 in modern times, attempts to reduce the moral to the physical; 
 or recognizes one law of love which pervades them both. There 
 are loves and strifes of the body as well as of the mind. Like 
 Hippocrates the Asclepiad, he is a disciple of Heracleitus, whose 
 conception of the harmony of opposites he explains in a new way 
 as the harmony after discord; to his common sense, as to that 
 of many moderns as well as ancients, the identity of contradic¬ 
 tories is an absurdity. His notion of love may be summed up 
 as the harmony of man with himself in soul as well as body, 
 and of all things in heaven and earth with one another. 
 
 Aristophanes is ready to laugh and make laugh before he 
 opens his mouth, just as Socrates, true to his character, is ready 
 to argue before he begins to speak. He expresses the very gen¬ 
 ius of the old comedy, its coarse and forcible imagery, and the 
 license of its language in speaking about the gods. He has no 
 sophistical notions about love, which is brought back by him to 
 its common-sense meaning of love between intelligent beings. 
 His account of the origin of the sexes has the greatest (comic) 
 probability and verisimilitude. Nothing in Aristophanes is more 
 truly Aristophanic than the description of the human monster 
 whirling round on four arms and four legs, eight in all, with 
 incredible rapidity. Yet there is a mixture of earnestness in this 
 jest; three serious principles seem to be insinuated: — first, that 
 man can not exist in isolation; he must be reunited if he is to 
 be perfected; secondly, that love is the mediator and reconciler 
 of poor, divided human nature: thirdly, that the loves of this 
 world are an indistinct anticipation of an ideal union which is 
 not yet realized. 
 
 The speech of Agathon is conceived in a higher strain, and 
 receives the real, if half-ironical, approval of Socrates. It is 
 the speech of the tragic poet and a sort of poem, like tragedy, 
 moving among the gods of Olympus, and not among the elder or 
 Orphic deities. In the idea of the antiquity of love he can not 
 agree; love is not of the old time, but present and youthful ever. 
 The speech may be compared with that speech of Socrates in 
 the Phaedrus, in which he describes himself as talking dithy¬ 
 rambs. It is at once a preparation for Socrates and a foil to 
 
288 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 him. The rhetoric of Agathon elevates the soul to “ sunlit 
 heights/’ but at the same time contrasts with the natural and 
 necessary eloquence of Socrates. Agathon contributes the dis¬ 
 tinction between love and the works of love, and also hints inci¬ 
 dentally that love is always of beauty, which Socrates afterwards 
 elevates into a principle. While the consciousness of discord is 
 stronger in the comic poet Aristophanes, Agathon, the tragic 
 poet, has a deeper sense of harmony and reconciliation, and * 
 speaks of Love as the creator and artist. 
 
 All the earlier speeches embody common opinions colored with 
 a tinge of philosophy. They furnish the material out of which 
 Socrates proceeds to form his discourse, starting, as in other 
 places, from mythology and the opinions of men. From Phae- 
 drus he takes the thought that love is stronger than death; from 
 Pausanias, that the true love is akin to intellect and political 
 activity; from Eryximachus, that love is a universal phenomenon 
 and the great power of nature; from Aristophanes, that love is 
 the child of want, and is not merely the love of the congenial 
 or of the whole, but (as he adds) of the good; from Agathon, 
 that love is of beauty — not however of beauty only, but of birth 
 of beauty. 
 
 The speech of the day begins with a short argument which 
 overthrows not only Agathon but all of them, by the help of a 
 distinction which has escaped them. Extravagant praises have 
 been ascribed to Love as the author of every good; no sort of 
 encomium was too high for him, whether deserved and true or 
 not. But Socrates has no talent for speaking anything but the 
 truth, and if he is to speak the truth of Love he must honestly 
 confess that he is not a good at all: for love is of the good, and 
 no man can desire that which he has. This piece of dialectics 
 is ascribed to Diotima, the wise woman of Mantineia, who has 
 already urged upon Socrates the argument which he urges 
 against Agathon. 
 
 But Diotima, the prophetess of Mantineia, whose sacred and 
 superhuman character raises her above the ordinary proprieties 
 of women, has taught Socrates far more than this about the art 
 and mystery of love. She has taught him that love is another 
 aspect of philosophy* The same want in the human soul which 
 is satisfied in the vulgar by the procreation of children, may 
 become the highest aspiration of intellectual desire. As the 
 Christian might speak of hungering and thirsting after right¬ 
 eousness; or of divine loves under the figure of human (“ This 
 is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 289 
 
 church ”) ; as the mediaeval saint might speak of the “ fruitio 
 Dei,” so the absorption and annihilation of all other loves and 
 desires in the love of knowledge is a feeling that was at least 
 intelligible to the Greek of the fifth century before Christ. To 
 most men reason and passion appear to be antagonistic both in 
 idea and fact. The union of the greatest comprehension of 
 knowledge and the burning intensity of love is a contradiction 
 in nature, which may have existed in a far-off primeval age in 
 the mind of some Hebrew prophet or other Eastern sage, but 
 has now become an imagination only. Yet this “ passion of the 
 reason ” is the theme of the Symposium of Plato. And as there 
 is no impossibility in supposing that “ one king, or son of a 
 king, may be a philosopher,” so also there is a probability that 
 there may be some few — perhaps one or two in a whole gen¬ 
 eration — in whom the light of truth may not lack the warmth 
 of desire. And if there be such natures, no one will be disposed 
 to deny that “ from them flow most of the benefits of individuals 
 and states.” 
 
 Yet there is a higher region in which love is not only felt, but 
 satisfied, in the perfect beauty of eternal knowledge, beginning 
 with the beauty of earthly things, and at last by regular steps 
 reaching a beauty in which all existence is seen harmonious and 
 one. The limited affection is enlarged, and enabled to behold 
 the ideal beauty of all things. This ideal beauty of the Sym¬ 
 posium is the ideal good of the Republic; regarded not with the 
 eye of knowledge, but of faith and desire. The one seems to 
 say to us “ the idea is love,” the other “ the idea is truth.” 
 In both the lover of wisdom is the “ spectator of all time and all 
 existence.” This is a sort of “ mystery ” in which Plato also 
 obscurely intimates the interpenetration of the moral and intel¬ 
 lectual faculties. 
 
 The divine image of beauty that resides within Socrates has 
 been revealed; the Silenus mask, or outward man, has now to 
 be exhibited. The description of Socrates is placed side by side 
 with the speech of Socrates; one is the complement of the other. 
 At the height of divine inspiration, when the force of nature 
 can no further go, as if by way of contrast to this extreme ideal¬ 
 ism or mysticism, Alcibiades, accompanied by a troop of revellers, 
 staggers in, and in his drunken state is able to tell of things 
 which he would have been ashamed to mention, if he had been 
 sober. The state of his affections towards Socrates, unintelli¬ 
 gible to us and perverted as they appear, is a perfect illustration 
 of the power ascribed to the loves of men in the speech of Pau- 
 
290 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 sanias. Indeed, he is confident that the whole company will 
 sympathize with him; several of them have been in love with 
 Socrates, and, like himself, have been deceived by him. The 
 singular part of this confession is the combination of the most 
 degrading passion with the desire of virtue and improvement. 
 The pangs of philosophy and of love work together on this aban¬ 
 doned soul. Such an union is not wholly untrue to human nature, 
 in which there is a mixture of good and evil, far surpassing in 
 subtlety any powers of human imagination to conceive. The 
 Platonic Socrates (for of the real Socrates this may be doubted: 
 cp. Xenophon’s Mem. I. 2 , 29 , 30) does not appear to regard 
 the greatest evil of Greek life as matter of abhorrence, but as 
 a subject for irony, and is far from resenting the imputation of 
 such attachments. Nor does Plato feel any repugnance, such 
 as would be felt in modern times, in bringing his great master 
 and hero into connection with nameless crimes. He is contented 
 with representing him as a sort of saint, who has won “ the 
 Olympian victory ” over the temptations of human nature. The 
 fault of taste, which to us appears glaring, and which was 
 recognized by the Greeks of a later age, was not perceived by 
 Plato himself. Still more surprising is the fact itself, that the 
 elevation of sentiment, which is regarded by Plato as the first 
 step in the upward progress of the philosopher, is aroused not 
 by female beauty, but by the beauty of youth, which alone seems 
 to have been capable of inspiring the modern feeling of romance 
 in the Greek mind. The passion which was unsatisfied by the 
 love of women, took the spurious form of an enthusiasm for the 
 ideal of beauty — a worship as of some godlike image of an 
 Apollo or Antinous. Thus wide is the gulf which separates a 
 portion of Hellenic sentiment in the age of Plato (for about the 
 opinion of Plato himself, as of Socrates, respecting these male 
 loves we are in the same perplexity which he attributes to his 
 countrymen,) not only from Christian, but from Homeric feeling. 
 
 The character here attributed to Alcibiades is hardly less 
 remarkable than that of Socrates. He is the impersonation of 
 lawlessness — “ the lion’s whelp, who ought not to be reared in 
 the city,’’ yet not without a certain generosity which gained the 
 hearts of men, — strangely fascinated by Socrates, and pos¬ 
 sessed of a genius which might have been either the destruction 
 or salvation of Athens. The dramatic interest of the character 
 is heightened by the recollection of his after history. He seems 
 to have been present to the mind of Plato in the description of 
 the democratic man of the Republic. 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 291 
 
 There is no criterion of the date of the Symposium, except 
 that which is furnished by the allusion to the division of Arcadia 
 after the destruction of Mantineia. This took place in the year 
 b. c. 384, which is the forty-fourth year of Plato’s life. The 
 Symposium can not therefore be regarded as a youthful work 
 As Mantineia was restored in the year 369, the composition of 
 the Dialogue will probably fall between 384 and 369- Whether 
 the recollection of the event is more likely to have been renewed 
 at the destruction or restoration of the city, rather than at some 
 intermediate period, is a consideration not worth raising. 
 
 The Symposium is closely connected with the Phaedrus both 
 in style and matter. They are the only Dialogues of Plato in 
 which the subject of love is considered at length. In both phi¬ 
 losophy is regarded as a sort of enthusiasm or madness. Philos^ 
 ophy in the Phaedo might also be described as “ dying for love.” 
 But while the Phaedo and Phaedrus look backwards and for¬ 
 wards to past and future states of existence, the Symposium is 
 bounded by this world. The intellectual and ethical are held 
 in solution with the physical. Philosophy is not death, or ab¬ 
 straction from life: in and through the sensible world we rise 
 to the ideal. Nor is the eternity of knowledge asserted; but 
 only the eternal succession of knowledge. The immortality is 
 not personal, but an immortality of the race. The Lysis may 
 be compared as containing the first suggestion of the questions 
 
 finally answered in the speech of Socrates. 
 
 The Symposium of Xenophon, in which Socrates describes 
 himself as a pander, and also discourses of the difference between 
 sensual and sentimental love, likewise offers several interesting 
 points of comparison. But the suspicion which hangs over other 
 writings of Xenephon, and the numerous minute references to the 
 Phaedrus and Symposium, throw a doubt on the genuineness 
 of the work. The Symposium of Xenophon, if written by him 
 at all, would certainly show that he wrote against Plato, and 
 was acquainted with his works. Of this there is no trace in the 
 Memorabilia. Such a rivalry is more characteristic of an imi¬ 
 tator than of an original writer. This (so-called) Symposium 
 of Xenophon may therefore have no more title to be regarded 
 as genuine than the confessedly spurious Apology. 
 
 There are no means of determining the relative order in time 
 of the Phaedo, Symposium, Phaedrus. The order which has been 
 adopted in this translation rests on no other principle than the 
 desire to bring together in a series the memorials of the life of 
 
 Socrates. 
 

 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 
 Apollodorus, who repeats to his 
 companion the dialogue which 
 he had heard from Aristodemus, 
 and had already once narrated 
 to Glaucon. 
 
 Phaedrus. 
 
 Pausanias. 
 
 Eryximachus. 
 
 Aristophanes. 
 
 Agathon. 
 
 Socrates. 
 
 Alcibiades. 
 
 A troop of Revellers. 
 
 Scene : — The House of Agathon. 
 
 I believe that I am prepared with an answer. For 
 the day before yesterday I was coming from my own 
 home at Phalerum to the city, and one of my acquaint¬ 
 ance, who had caught a sight of the back of me at a 
 distance, in merry mood commanded me to halt: 
 Apollodorus, he cried, O thou man of Phalerum, halt! 
 So I did as I was bid; and then he said, I was looking 
 for you, Apollodorus, only just now, that I might 
 hear about the discourses in praise of love, which 
 were delivered by Socrates, Alcibiades, and others, 
 at Agathon’s supper. Phoenix, the son of Philip, 
 told another person who told me of them, and he said 
 that you knew; but he was himself very indistinct, and 
 I wish that you would give me an account of 
 them. Who hut you should be the reporter of the 
 words of your friend? And first tell me, he said, were 
 
 you present at this meeting? 
 
 Your informant, Glaucon, I said, must have been 
 very indistinct indeed, if you imagine that the occasion 
 was recent, or that I could have been present. 
 
 293 
 
294 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 Why, yes, he replied, that was my impression. 
 
 But how is that possible? I said. For Agathon 
 has not been in Athens for many years, (are you 
 aware of that?) and my acquaintance with Socrates, 
 of whose every action and word I now make a daily 
 study, is not as yet of three years’ standing. I used 
 to be running about the world, thinking that I was 
 doing something, and would have done anything 
 rather than be a philosopher; I was almost as miser¬ 
 able as you are now. 
 
 Well, he said, cease from jesting, and tell me when 
 the meeting occurred. 
 
 In our boyhood, I replied, when Agathon won the 
 prize with his first tragedy, on the day after that on 
 which he and his chorus offered the sacrifice of vic¬ 
 tory. 
 
 That is a long while ago, he said; and who told 
 you — did Socrates? 
 
 No indeed, I replied, but the same person who told 
 Phoenix; — he was a little fellow, who never wore 
 any shoes, Aristodemus, of the deme of Cydathe- 
 naeum. He had been at this feast; and I think that 
 there was no one in those days who was a more de¬ 
 voted admirer of Socrates. Moreover, I asked Soc¬ 
 rates about the truth of some parts of his narrative, 
 and he confirmed them. Then, said Glaucon, let us 
 have the tale over again; is not the road to Athens 
 made for conversation? And so we walked, and 
 talked of the discourses on love; and therefore, as I 
 said at first, I am prepared with an answer, and will 
 have another rehearsal, if you like. For I love to 
 speak or to hear others speak of philosophy; there is 
 the greatest pleasure in that, to say nothing of the 
 profit. But when I hear any other discourses, espe¬ 
 cially those of you rich men and traders, they are irk¬ 
 some to me; and I pity you who are my companions, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 295 
 
 because you always think that you are hard at work 
 when really you are idling. And I dare say that you 
 pity me in return, whom you regard as an unfortunate 
 wight, which I perhaps am. But I certainly know of 
 you what you only think of me — there is the differ¬ 
 ence. 
 
 Companion. I see, Apollodorus, that you are just 
 the same — always speaking evil of yourself, and of 
 others; and I do believe that you pity all mankind, 
 beginning with yourself and including everybody 
 else with the exception of Socrates, true in this to 
 your old name, which, however deserved, I know not 
 how you acquired, of Apollodorus the madman; for 
 your humor is always to be out of humor with your¬ 
 self and with everybody except Socrates. 
 
 Apollodorus. Yes, friend, and I am proved to be 
 mad, and out of my wits, because I have these notions 
 of myself and you; no other evidence is required. 
 
 Com. I have no wish to dispute about that, Apollo¬ 
 dorus; but let me renew my request that you would 
 repeat the tale of love. 
 
 A poll. Well, the tale of love was on this wise: — 
 But perhaps I had better begin at the beginning, and 
 endeavor to repeat to you the words as Aristodemus 
 gave them. 
 
 He said that he met Socrates fresh from the bath 
 and sandalled; and as the sight of the sandals was 
 unusual, he asked him whither he was going that he 
 was so fine. 
 
 To a banquet at Agathon’s, he replied, whom I 
 refused yesterday, fearing the crowd that there would 
 be at his sacrifice, but promising that I would come 
 to-day instead; and I have put on my finery because 
 he is a fine creature. What say you to going with me 
 unbidden? 
 
 Yes, I replied, I will go with you, if you like. 
 
296 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 Follow then, he said, and let us demolish the proverb 
 that I 
 
 “To the feasts of lesser men the good unbidden go;” 
 
 instead of which our proverb will run that 
 
 “ To the feasts of the good unbidden go the good; ” 
 
 and this alteration may be supported by the authority 
 of Homer, who not only demolishes but literally out¬ 
 rages this proverb. For, after picturing Agamemnon 
 as the most valiant of men, he makes Menelaus, who 
 is but a soft-hearted warrior, come of his own accord 1 
 to the sacrificial feast of Agamemnon, the worse to 
 the better. 
 
 I am afraid, Socrates, said Aristodemus, that I 
 shall rather be the inferior person, who, like Menelaus 
 in Homer, 
 
 “To the feasts of the wise unbidden goes.” 
 
 But I shall say that I was bidden of you, and then 
 you will have to make the excuse. 
 
 “ Two going together,” 
 
 he replied, in Homeric fashion, may invent an excuse 
 by the way . 2 
 
 This was the style of their conversation as they 
 went along; and a comical thing happened — Soc¬ 
 rates stayed behind in a fit of abstraction, and desired 
 Aristodemus, who was waiting, to go on before him. 
 When he reached the house of Agathon he found the 
 doors wide open, and a servant coming out met him, 
 and led him at once into the banqueting-hall in which 
 the guests were reclining, for the banquet was about 
 to begin. Welcome, Aristodemus, said Agathon, you 
 are just in time to sup with us; if you come on any 
 other errand put that off, and make one of us, as I 
 
 » Iliad, xvii. 688. 2 Hi a d, x. 224. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 297 
 
 was looking for you yesterday and meant to have 
 asked you, if I could have found you. But what have 
 you done with Socrates? 
 
 I turned round and saw that Socrates was missing, 
 and I had to explain that he had been with me a mo¬ 
 ment before, and that I came by his invitation. 
 
 You were quite right in coming, said Agathon; 
 but where is he himself? 
 
 He was behind me just now, as I entered, he said, 
 and I can not think what has become of him. 
 
 Go and look for him, boy, said Agathon, and bring 
 him in; do you, Aristodemus, meanwhile take the 
 place by Eryximachus. 
 
 Then he said that the attendant assisted him to 
 wash, and that he lay down, and presently another 
 servant came in and said that our friend Socrates had 
 retired into the portico of the neighboring house. 
 “ There he is fixed, and when I call to him,” said the 
 servant, “ he will not stir.” 
 
 How strange, said Agathon; then you must call 
 him again, and keep calling him. 
 
 Let him alone, said my informant; he has just a 
 habit of stopping anywhere and losing himself with¬ 
 out any reason; don’t disturb him, as I believe he 
 will soon appear. 
 
 Well, if you say that, I will not interfere with him, 
 said Agathon. My domestics, who on these occasions 
 become my masters, shall entertain us as their guests. 
 “ Put on the table whatever you like,” he said to the 
 servants, “ as usual when there is no one to give you 
 orders, which I never do. Imagine that you are our 
 hosts, and that I and the company are your guests; 
 and treat us well, and then we shall commend you.” 
 After this they supped; and during the meal Aga¬ 
 thon several times expressed a wish to send for Soc¬ 
 rates, but Aristodemus would not allow him; and 
 
298 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 when the feast was half over — for the fit, as usual, 
 was not of long duration — Socrates entered. Aga- 
 thon, who was reclining alone at the end of the table, 
 begged that he would take the place next to him; that 
 I may touch the sage, he said, and get some of that 
 wisdom which came into your mind in the portico. 
 For I am certain that you would not have left until 
 you had found what you were seeking. 
 
 How I wish, said Socrates, taking his place as he 
 was desired, that wisdom could be infused through 
 the medium of touch, out of the full into the empty 
 man, like the water which the wool sucks out of the 
 full vessel into an empty one; in that case how much 
 I should prize sitting by you! For you would have 
 filled me full of gifts of wisdom, plenteous and fair, 
 in comparison of which my own is of a very mean and 
 questionable sort, no better than a dream; but yours 
 is bright and only beginning, and was manifested 
 forth in all the splendor of youth the day before yes¬ 
 terday in the presence of more than thirty thousand 
 Hellenes. 
 
 You are insolent, said Agathon; and you and I 
 will have to settle hereafter who bears off the palm 
 of wisdom, and of this Dionysus shall be the judge; 
 but at present you are better occupied with the ban¬ 
 quet. 
 
 Socrates took his place on the couch; and when the 
 meal was ended, and the libations offered, and after 
 a hymn had been sung to the god, and there had been 
 the usual ceremonies, — as they were about to com¬ 
 mence drinking, Pausanias reminded them that they 
 had had a bout yesterday, from which he and most of 
 them were still suffering, and they ought to be al¬ 
 lowed to recover, and not go on drinking to-day. He 
 would therefore ask, How the drinking could be made 
 easiest ? 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 299 
 
 I entirely agree, said Aristophanes, that we should, 
 by all means, get off the drinking, having been myself 
 one of those who were yesterday drowned in drink. 
 
 I think that you are right, said Eryximachus, the 
 son of Acumenus; but I should like to hear one other 
 person speak. What are the inclinations of our host? 
 
 I am not able to drink, said Agathon. 
 
 Then, said Eryximachus, the weak heads like my¬ 
 self, Aristodemus, Phaedrus, and others who never 
 can drink, are fortunate in finding that the stronger 
 ones are not in a drinking mood. (I do not include 
 Socrates, who is an exceptional being, and able either 
 to drink or to abstain.) Well, then, as the company 
 seem indisposed to drink much, I may be forgiven for 
 saying, as a physician, that drinking is a bad practice, 
 which I never, if I can help, follow, and certainly do 
 not recommend to another, least of all to any one who 
 still feels the effects of yesterday’s carouse. 
 
 I always follow what you advise, and especially 
 what you prescribe as a physician, rejoined Phaedrus 
 the Myrrhinusian, and the rest of the company, if 
 they are wise, will do the same. 
 
 All agreed that drinking was not to be the order of 
 the day. Then, said Eryximachus, as you are all 
 agreed that drinking is to be voluntary, and that there 
 is to be no compulsion, I move, in the next place, that 
 the flute-girl, who has just made her appearance, be 
 told to go away; she may play to herself, or, if she has 
 a mind, to the women who are within. But on this day 
 let us have conversation instead; and, if you will allow 
 me, I will tell you what sort of conversation. This 
 proposal having been accepted, Eryximachus pro¬ 
 ceeded as follows: — 
 
 I will begin, he said, after the manner of Melanippe 
 in Euripides, 
 
 “ Not mine the word ” 
 
300 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 which I am about to speak, but that of Phaedrus. 
 For he is in the habit of complaining that, whereas 
 other gods have poems and hymns made in their honor 
 by the poets, who are so many, the great and glorious 
 god, Love, has not a single panegyrist or encomiast. 
 Many sophists also, as for example the excellent 
 Prodicus, have descanted in prose on the virtues of 
 Heracles and other heroes; and, what is still more 
 extraordinary, I have met with a philosophical work 
 in which the utility of salt has been made the theme 
 of an eloquent discourse; and many other like things 
 have had a like honor bestowed upon them. And only 
 to think that there should have been an eager interest 
 created about them, and yet that to this day, as Phae¬ 
 drus well and truly says, no one has ever dared worth¬ 
 ily to hymn Love’s praises. This mighty deity has 
 been neglected wholly! Now I want to offer Phae¬ 
 drus a contribution to his feast; nor do I see how the 
 present company can, at this moment, do anything 
 better than honor the god Love. And if you agree to 
 this, there will be no lack of conversation; for I mean 
 to propose that each of us in turn shall make a dis¬ 
 course in honor of Love. Let us have the best which 
 he can make; and Phaedrus, who is sitting first on 
 the left hand, and is the father of the thought, shall 
 begin. 
 
 No one will oppose that, Eryximachus, said Soc¬ 
 rates; I certainly can not refuse to speak on the 
 only subject of which I profess to have any knowl¬ 
 edge, and Agathon and Pausanias will surely assent; 
 and there can be no doubt of Aristophanes, w r ho is 
 always in the company of Dionysus and Aphrodite; 
 nor will any one disagree of those whom I see around 
 me. The proposal, as I am aware, may seem hard 
 upon us whose place is last; but that does not matter 
 if we hear some good speeches first. Let Phaedrus 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 301 
 
 begin the praise of Love, and good luck to him. All 
 the company expressed their assent, and desired him 
 to do as Socrates bade him. 
 
 Aristodemus did not recollect all that was said, nor 
 do I recollect all that he related to me; but I will tell 
 you what I thought most worthy of remembrance, 
 and what the chief speakers said. 
 
 Phaedrus began by affirming that Love is a mighty 
 god, and wonderful among gods and men, but espe¬ 
 cially wonderful in his birth. For that he is the eldest 
 of the gods is an honor to him; and a proof of this is, 
 that of his parents there is no memorial; neither poet 
 nor prose-writer has ever affirmed that he had any. 
 As Hesiod says: — 
 
 “ First Chaos came, and then broad-bosomed Earth, 
 
 The everlasting seat of all that is, 
 
 And Love.” 
 
 In other words, after Chaos, the Earth and Love, 
 these two came into being. Also Parmenides sings 
 of the generation of the gods: — 
 
 “ First in the train of gods, he moulded Love.” 
 
 And Acusilaus agrees with Hesiod. Thus numerous 
 are the witnesses which acknowledge Love to be the 
 eldest of the gods. And not only is he the eldest, he 
 is also the source of the greatest benefits to us. For I 
 know not any greater blessing to a young man begin¬ 
 ning life than a virtuous lover, or to the lover than a 
 beloved youth. For the principle which ought to be 
 the guide of men who would nobly live — that prin¬ 
 ciple, I say, neither kindred, nor honor, nor wealth 
 nor any other motive is able to implant as surely as 
 love. Of what am I speaking? Of the sense of honor 
 and dishonor, without which neither states nor in¬ 
 dividuals ever do any good or great work. And I say 
 
302 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 that a lover who is detected in doing any dishonorable 
 act, or submitting through cowardice when any dis¬ 
 honor is done to him by another, will be more pained 
 at being detected by his beloved than a,t being seen by 
 his father, or his companions, or any one else. And 
 the beloved has the same feeling about his love, when 
 he again is seen on any disgraceful occasion. And if 
 there were only some way of contriving that a state 
 or an army should be made up of lovers and their 
 loves, they would be the very best governors of their 
 own city, abstaining from all dishonor, and emulating 
 one another in honor; and when fighting at one 
 another’s side, although a mere handful, they would 
 overcome all men. For what lover would not choose 
 rather to be seen by all mankind than by his beloved, 
 either when abandoning his post or throwing away 
 his arms? He w r ould be ready to die a thousand deaths 
 rather than endure this. Or who would desert his 
 beloved or fail him in the hour of danger? The 
 veriest coward would become an inspired hero, equal 
 to the bravest, at such a time; Love w r ould inspire him. 
 That courage which, as Homer says, the god breathes 
 into the soul of heroes, Love of himself infuses into 
 the lover. 
 
 Love will make men dare to die for their beloved; 
 and women as well as men. Of this, Alcestis, the 
 daughter of Pelias, is a monument to all Hellas; for 
 she was willing to lay down her life on behalf of her 
 husband, when no one else would, although he had a 
 father and mother; but the tenderness of her love so 
 far exceeded theirs, that they seemed to be as 
 strangers to their own son, having no concern with 
 him; and so noble did this action of hers appear, not 
 only to men but also to the gods, that among the many 
 who have done virtuously she was one of the very few 
 to whom the gods have* granted the privilege of re- 
 
> 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 303 
 
 turning to earth, in admiration of her virtue; such 
 exceeding honor is paid by them to the devotion and 
 virtue of love. But Orpheus, the son of Oeagrus, be¬ 
 cause he appeared to them to be a cowardly harper, 
 who did not dare to die for love, like Alcestis, but con- 
 drived to go down alive to Hades, was sent back by 
 itherh without effecting his purpose; to him they 
 mowed an apparition only of her whom he sought, 
 l Jut herself they would not give up; moreover, they 
 afterwards caused him to suffer death at the hands 
 of women, as the punishment of his intrusiveness. Far 
 other was the reward of the true love of Achilles to¬ 
 wards his lover Patroclus — his lover and not his love 
 (the notion that Patroclus was the beloved one is a 
 foolish error into which Aeschylus has fallen, for 
 Achilles was surely the fairer of the two, fairer also 
 than all the other heroes; and he was much younger, 
 as Homer informs us, and he had no beard). And 
 greatly as the gods honor the virtue of love, still the 
 return of love on the part of the beloved to the lover 
 is more admired and valued and rewarded by them, 
 for the lover has a nature more divine and more 
 worthy of worship. Now Achilles was quite aware, 
 for he had been told by his mother, that he might avoid 
 death and return home, and live to a good old age, if 
 he abstained from slaying Hector. Nevertheless he 
 gave his life to revenge his friend, and dared to die, 
 not only on his behalf, but after his death. Where¬ 
 fore the gods honored him even above Alcestis, and 
 sent him to the Islands of the Blest. These are my 
 reasons for affirming that Love is the eldest and 
 noblest and mightiest of the gods, and the chiefest 
 author and giver of happiness and virtue, in life and 
 after death. 
 
 This, or something like this, was the speech of 
 Phaedrus; and some other speeches followed which 
 
304 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 Aristodemus did not remember; the next which ihe 
 repeated was that of Pausanias, who observed that tlie 
 proposal of Phaedrus was too indiscriminate, and thax 
 Love ought not to be praised in this unqualified man-\ 
 ner. If there were only one Love, then what he said , 
 would be w^ell enough; but since there are more LcWesI 
 than one, he should have begun by determining w/hichl 
 of them was to be the theme of our praises. 1/ wil® 
 amend this defect, he said; and first of all I will telfl 
 you which Love is worthy of praise, and then try to 
 hymn the praiseworthy one in a manner worthy of the 
 god. For we all know that Love is inseparable from 
 Aphrodite, and if there were only one Aphrodite there 
 would be only one Love; but as there are two god¬ 
 desses there must be two Loves. For am I not right 
 in asserting that there are two goddesses? The elder 
 one, having no mother, who is called the heavenly 
 Aphrodite — she is the daughter of Uranus; the 
 younger, who is the daughter of Zeus and Dione, 
 whom we call common; and the other Love who is her 
 fellow-worker may and must also have the name of 
 common, as the other is called heavenly. All the gods 
 ought to have praise given to them, but still I must 
 discriminate the attributes of the two Loves. For 
 actions vary according to the manner of their per¬ 
 formance. Take for example, that which we are now 
 doing, drinking, singing and talking — these actions 
 are not in themselves either good or evil, but turn out 
 in this or that way according to the mode of perform¬ 
 ing them; and when well done they are good, and 
 when wrongly done they are evil; and in like manner 
 not every love, but only that which has a noble pur¬ 
 pose, is noble and worthy of praise. But the Love 
 who is the son of the common Aphrodite is essentially 
 common, and has no discrimination, being such as the 
 meaner sort of men feel, and is apt to be of women 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 305 
 
 as well as of youths, e nd is of the body rather than of 
 the soul — the most foolish beings are the objects of 
 this love which desires only to gain an end, but never 
 thinks of accomplishing the end nobly, and therefore 
 does good and evil quite indiscriminately. The god¬ 
 dess who is his mother is far younger, and she was 
 born of the union of the male and female, and par¬ 
 takes of both sexes. But the son of the heavenly 
 Aphrodite is sprung from a mother in whose birth 
 the female has no part, but she is from the male only; 
 this is that love which is of youths only, and the god¬ 
 dess being older has nothing of wantonness. Those 
 who are inspired by this love turn to the male, and 
 delight in him who is the more valiant and intelligent 
 nature; any one may recognize the pure enthusiasts 
 in the very character of their attachments. For they 
 love not boys, but intelligent beings whose reason is 
 beginning to be developed, much about the time at 
 which their beards begin to grow. And in choosing 
 them as their companions, they mean to be faithful to 
 them, and to pass their whole life with them, and be 
 with them, and not to take them in their inexperience, 
 and deceive them, and play the fool with them, or 
 run away from one to another of them. But the love 
 of young boys should be forbidden by law, because 
 their future is uncertain; they may turn out good or 
 bad, either in body or soul, and the affection which is 
 devoted to them may be thrown away; in this the good 
 are a law to themselves, and the coarser sort of lovers 
 ought to be restrained by force, as we restrain or at¬ 
 tempt to restrain them from fixing their affections on 
 women of free birth. For the abuse of a thing brings 
 discredit on the lawful use, and this has led some to 
 deny the lawfulness of love when they see the impro¬ 
 priety and evil of attachments of this sort; for surely 
 nothing that is decorously and lawfully done can 
 
306 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 justly be censured. Now in mjst cities the practice 
 about love is determined by a simple rule, and is easily 
 intelligible. But here and in Lacedaemon there is a 
 perplexity, — in Elis and Boeotia, having no gifts of 
 eloquence, they are very straightforward; the uni¬ 
 versal sentiment is simply in favor of these con¬ 
 nections, and no one, whether young or old, has any¬ 
 thing to say to their discredit. The reason is, as I 
 suppose, that they are men of few words in those 
 parts, and therefore the lovers do not like the trouble 
 of pleading their suit. But in Ionia and other places, 
 and generally in countries which are subject to the 
 barbarians, loves of youths share the evil repute of 
 philosophy and gymnastics, because they are inimical 
 to tyranny; for the interests of rulers require that 
 their subjects should be poor in spirit, and that there 
 should be no strong bond of friendship or society ; 
 among them, and love, above all other motives, is 
 likely to inspire this, as our Athenian tyrants learned 
 by experience; for the love of Aristogeiton and the 
 constancy of Harmodius had a strength which undid 
 their power. And, therefore, the ill-repute into which 
 these attachments have fallen is to be ascribed to the i 
 evil condition of those who make them to be ill-1 
 reputed; that is to say, to the rapacity of the governors 
 and the cowardice of the governed; on the other hand,i 
 the indiscriminate honor which is given to them in 
 some countries is attributable to the laziness of those 
 who hold this opinion of them. There is yet a more 
 excellent way of legislating about them, which is our 
 own way; but this, as I was saying, is rather perplex-: 
 ing. For, observe that open loves are held to be more 
 honorable than secret ones, and that the love of the 
 noblest and highest, even if their persons are less 
 beautiful than others, is especially honorable. Con¬ 
 sider, too, how great is the encouragement which all 
 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 307 
 
 the world gives to the lover; neither is he supposed to 
 be doing anything dishonorable; but if he succeeds he 
 is praised, and if he fail he is blamed. And in the 
 pursuit of his love the custom of mankind allows him 
 to do many strange things, which philosophy would 
 bitterly censure if they were done from any motive of 
 interest, or wish for office or power. He may pray, 
 and entreat, and supplicate, and swear, and be a serv¬ 
 ant of servants, and lie on a mat at the door; in any 
 other case friends and enemies would be equally ready 
 to prevent him, but now there is no friend who will be 
 ashamed of him and admonish him, and no enemy will 
 charge him with meanness or flattery; the actions of a 
 lover have a grace which ennobles them; and custom 
 has decided that they are highly commendable and 
 that there is no loss of character in them; and, what 
 is yet more strange, he only may swear and forswear 
 himself (this is what the world says), and the gods 
 will forgive his transgression, for there is no such 
 thing as a lover’s oath. Such is the entire liberty 
 which gods and men allow the lover, and which in our 
 part of the world the custom confirms. And this is 
 one side of the question, wdiich may make a man fairly 
 think that in this city to love and to be loved is held 
 to be a very honorable thing. But when there is a 
 new regime, and parents forbid their sons to talk 
 with their lovers, and place them under a tutor’s care, 
 and their companions and equals are personal in their 
 remarks when they see anything of this sort going on, 
 and their elders refuse to silence them and do not re¬ 
 prove their words; any one who reflects on this will, 
 on the contrary, think that we hold these practices to 
 be disgraceful. But the truth, as I imagine, and as I 
 said at first, is, that whether such practices are honor¬ 
 able or whether they are dishonorable is not a simple 
 question; they are honorable to him who follows them 
 
30S 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 honorably, dishonorable to him who follows them dis¬ 
 honorably. There is dishonor in yielding to the evil, 
 or in an evil manner; but there is honor in yielding to 
 the good, or in an honorable manner. Evil is the vul¬ 
 gar lover who loves the body rather than the soul, 
 and who is inconstant because he is a lover of the 
 inconstant, and therefore when the bloom of youth 
 which he was desiring is over, he takes wings and 
 flies away, in spite of all his words and promises; 
 whereas the love of the noble mind, which is in union 
 with the unchangeable, is everlasting. The custom of 
 our country would have them both proven well and 
 truly, and would have us yield to the one sort of love 
 and avoid the other; testing them in contests and 
 trials, which will show to which of the two classes 
 the lover and the beloved respectively belong. And 
 this is the reason why, in the first place, a hasty at¬ 
 tachment is held to be dishonorable, because time is 
 the true test of this as of most other things; and 
 then again there is a dishonor in being overcome by 
 the love of money, wealth, or of political power, 
 whether a man suffers and is frightened into sur¬ 
 render at the loss of them, or is unable to rise above 
 the advantages of them. For none of these things 
 are of a permanent or lasting nature; not to mention 
 that no generous friendship ever sprung from them. 
 There remains, then, only one way of honorable at¬ 
 tachment which custom allows in the beloved, and this 
 is the way of virtue; any service which the lover did 
 was not to be accounted flattery or dishonor, and the 
 beloved has also one way of voluntary service which 
 is not dishonorable, and this is virtuous service. 
 
 For we have a custom, and according to our custom 
 any one who does service to another under the idea 
 that he will be improved by him either in wisdom, or 
 in some other particular of virtue — such a voluntary 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 ‘309 
 
 service as this, I say, is not regarded as a dishonor, and 
 is not open to the charge of flattery. And these two 
 customs, one the love of youth, and the other the prac¬ 
 tice of philosophy and virtue in general, ought to 
 meet in one, and then the beloved may honorably in¬ 
 dulge the lover. For when the lover and beloved come 
 together, having each of them a law, and the lover on 
 his part is ready to confer any favor that he rightly 
 can on his gracious loving one, and the other is ready 
 to yield any compliance that he rightly can to him who 
 is to make him wise and good; the one capable of com¬ 
 municating wisdom and virtue, the other seeking after 
 knowledge, and making his object education and 
 wisdom; when the two laws of love are fulfilled and 
 meet in one — then, and then only, may the beloved 
 yield with honor to the lover. Nor when love is of 
 this disinterested sort is there any disgrace in being 
 deceived, but in every other case there is equal dis¬ 
 grace in being or not being deceived. For he who is 
 gracious to his lover under the impression that he is 
 rich, and is disappointed of his gains because he turns 
 out to be poor, is disgraced all the same: for he has 
 done his best to show that he would turn himself to 
 any one’s uses base for the sake of money, and this is 
 not honorable. But on the same principle he who 
 lives for the sake of virtue, and in the hope that he 
 will be improved by his lover’s company, shows him¬ 
 self to be virtuous, even though the object of his 
 affection be proved to be a villain, and to have no 
 virtue; and if he is deceived he has committed a noble 
 error. For he has proved that for his part he will do 
 anything for anybody for the sake of virtue and im¬ 
 provement, and nothing can be nobler than this. Thus 
 noble in every case is the acceptance of another for 
 the sake of virtue. This is that love which is the love 
 of the heavenly goddess, and is heavenly, and of great 
 
310 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 price to individuals and cities, making the lover and 
 the beloved alike eager in the work of their own im¬ 
 provement. But all other loves are the offspring of 
 the common or vulgar goddess. To you, Phaedrus, 
 I offer this my encomium of love, which is as good as I 
 could make on the sudden. 
 
 When Pausamas came to a pause (this is the bal¬ 
 anced way in which I have been taught by the wise to 
 speak), Aristodemus said that the turn of Aristo¬ 
 phanes was next, but that either he had eaten too 
 much, or from some other cause he had the hiccough, 
 and was obliged to change with Eryximachus the 
 physician, who was reclining on the couch below 
 him. Eryximachus, he said, you ought either to 
 stop my hiccough, or to speak in my turn until I am 
 better. 
 
 - I will do both, said Eryximachus: I will speak in 
 your turn, and do you speak in mine; and while I am 
 speaking let me recommend you to hold your breath, 
 and if this fails, then to gargle with a little water; 
 and if the hiccough still continues, tickle your nose 
 with something and sneeze; and if you sneeze once 
 or twice, even the most violent hiccough is sure to go. 
 In the meantime I will take your turn, and you shall 
 take mine. I will do as you prescribe, said Aristoph¬ 
 anes, and now get on. 
 
 Eryximachus spoke as follows: Seeing that Pau- 
 sanias made a fair beginning, and but a lame ending, 
 I will endeavor to supply his deficiency. I think that 
 he has rightly distinguished two kinds of love. But 
 my art instructs me that this double love is to be found 
 in all animals and plants, and I may say in all that is; 
 and is not merely an affection of the soul of man 
 towards the fair, or towards anything; that, I say, is 
 a view of the subject which I seem to have gathered 
 from my own art of medicine, which shows me how 
 
311 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 great and wonderful and universal is this deity, whose 
 empire is over all that is, divine as well as human. 
 And from medicine I will begin that I may do honor 
 to my art. For there are in the human body two loves, 
 which are confessedly different and unlike, and being 
 unlike, have loves and desires which are unlike; and 
 the desire of the healthy is one, and the desire of the 
 diseased is another; and, as Pausanias says, the good 
 are to be accepted, and the bad are not to be accepted; 
 and so too in the body the good and healthy elements 
 are to be indulged, and the bad elements and the 
 elements of desire are not to be indulged, but dis¬ 
 couraged. And this is what the physician has to 
 do, and in this the art of medicine consists: for medi¬ 
 cine may be regarded generally as the knowledge of 
 the loves and desires of the body, and how to fill or 
 empty them; and the good physician is he who is able 
 to separate fair love from foul, or to convert one into 
 the other; and if he is a skilful practitioner, he knows 
 how to eradicate and how to implant love, whichever 
 is required, and he can reconcile the most hostile 
 elements in the constitution, and make them friends. 
 Now the most hostile are the most opposite, such as 
 hot and cold, moist and dry, bitter and sweet, and the 
 like. And my ancestor, Asclepius, knowing how to 
 implant friendship and accord in these elements, was 
 the creator of our art, as our friends the poets here 
 tell us, and I believe them; and not only medicine in 
 every branch, but the arts of gymnastic and hus¬ 
 bandry are under his dominion. Any one who pays 
 the least attention will also perceive that in music 
 there is the same reconciliation of opposites; and I 
 suppose that this must have been the meaning of 
 Heracleitus, although his words are not accurate; for 
 he says that one is united by disunion, like the har¬ 
 mony of the bow and the lyre. Now there is an ab- 
 
312 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 surdity in saying that harmony is disagreement or is 
 composed of elements which are still in a state of dis¬ 
 agreement. But perhaps what he really meant to say 
 was that harmony is composed of differing notes of 
 higher or lower pitch which disagreed once, but are 
 now reconciled by the art of music; for if the higher 
 and lower notes still disagree, there could be no 
 harmony, as is indeed evident. For harmony is a 
 symphony, and symphony is an agreement; but an 
 agreement of disagreements while they disagree can 
 not exist; there is no harmony of discord and disagree¬ 
 ment. This may be illustrated by rhythm, which is 
 composed of elements short and long, once differing 
 and now in accord; which accordance, as in the former 
 instance, medicine, so in this, music implants, making 
 love.and unison to grow up among them: and thus 
 music, too, is concerned with the principles of love in 
 their application to harmony and rhythm. Again, 
 in the. abstract principles of harmony and rhythm 
 there is no difficulty in discerning them, for as yet 
 love has no double nature. But w r hen you w r ant to 
 use them in actual life, either in the composition of 
 music or in the correct performance of airs or metres 
 composed already, which latter is called education, 
 then the difficulty begins, and the good artist is 
 needed. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair 
 and heavenly love — the love of Urania the fair and 
 heavenly muse, and of the duty of accepting the tem¬ 
 perate, and the intemperate only that they may be¬ 
 come temperate, and of preserving their love; and 
 again,, of the vulgar Polyhymnia, who must be used 
 with circumspection that the pleasure may not gen¬ 
 erate licentiousness; just as in my own art great skill 
 is shown in gratifying the taste of the epicure without 
 inflicting upon him the attendant evil of disease. 
 The conclusion is that in music, in medicine, in all 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 313 
 
 other things human as well as divine, both loves 
 ought to be noted as far as may be, for they are both 
 present. 
 
 ' The course of the season is also full of both prin¬ 
 ciples; and when, as I was saying, the elements of hot 
 and cold, moist and dry, attain the harmonious love 
 of one another and blend in temperance and harmony, 
 they bring to men, animals and vegetables health and 
 wealth, and do them no harm; whereas the wantonness 
 and overbearingness of the other love affecting the 
 seasons is a great injurer and destroyer, and is the 
 source of pestilence, and brings many different sorts 
 of diseases on animals and plants; for hoar-frost and 
 hail and blight spring from the excesses and disorders 
 of these elements of love, the knowledge of which in 
 relation to the revolutions of the heavenly bodies and 
 the seasons of the year is termed astronomy. Further¬ 
 more all sacrifices and the whole art of divination, 
 which is the art of communion between gods and 
 men — these, I say, are concerned only with the 
 salvation and healing power of love. For all impiety 
 is likely to ensue if, instead of accepting and honoring 
 and reverencing the harmonious love in all his actions, 
 a man honors the other love, whether in his feelings 
 towards gods or parents, towards the living or the 
 dead. Wherefore the business of divination is to see 
 to these loves and to heal them, and divination is the 
 peacemaker of gods and men, working by a knowl¬ 
 edge of the religious or irreligious tendencies which 
 exist in merely human loves. Such is the great and 
 mighty, or rather universal, force of all love. And 
 that love, especially, which is concerned with the good, 
 and which is perfected in company with temperance 
 and justice, whether among gods or men, has the 
 greatest power, and is the source of all our happiness 
 and harmony and friendship with the gods which are 
 
314 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 above us, and with one another. I dare say that I 
 have omitted several things which might be said in 
 praise of Love, but this was not intentional, and you, 
 Aristophanes, may now supply the omission or take 
 some other line of commendation; as I perceive that 
 you are cured of the hiccough. 
 
 Yes, said Aristophanes, who followed, the hiccough 
 is gone; not, however, until I applied the sneezing; 
 and I wonder whether the principle of order in the 
 human frame requires these sort of noises and tick¬ 
 lings, for I no sooner applied the sneezing than I was 
 cured. 
 
 Eryximachus said: Take care, friend Aristophanes, 
 you are beginning with a joke, and I shall have to 
 watch if you talk nonsense; and the interruption will 
 be occasioned by your own fault. 
 
 You are very right, said Aristophanes, laughing, 
 and I w T ill retract what I said; and do you please not 
 to watch me, as I fear that in what I am going to say, 
 instead of making others laugh, which is to the man¬ 
 ner born of our muse and would be all the better, I 
 shall only be laughed at by them. 
 
 Do you expect to shoot your holt and escape, 
 Aristophanes? Well, if you are very careful and 
 have a due sense of responsibility, I may be induced 
 to let you off. 
 
 Aristophanes professed to open another vein of dis¬ 
 course ; he had a mind to praise Love in another way, 
 not like that either of Pausanias or Eryximachus. 
 Mankind, he said, judging by their neglect of him, 
 have never, as I think, at all understood the power 
 of Love. For if they had understood him they would 
 surely have built noble temples and altars, and offered 
 solemn sacrifices in his honor; but this is not done, and 
 certainly ought to he done: for of all the gods he is the 
 best friend of men, the helper and the healer of the 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 315 
 
 ills which are the great obstruction to the happiness 
 of the race. I shall rehearse to you his power, and 
 you may repeat what I say to the rest of the world. 
 And first let me treat of the nature and state of man; 
 for the original human nature was not like the 
 present, but different. In the first place, the sexes 
 were originally three in number, not two as they are 
 now; there was man, woman, and the union of the two, 
 having a name corresponding to this double nacme, 
 this once had a real existence, but is now lost, and the 
 name only is preserved as a term of reproach. In the 
 second place, the primeval man was round and had 
 four hands and four feet, back and sides forming a 
 circle, one head with two faces, looking opposite ways, 
 set on a round neck and precisely alike; also four ears, 
 two privy members, and the remainder to correspond. 
 When he had a mind he could walk as men now do, 
 and he could also roll over and over at a great rate, 
 leaning on his four hands and four feet, eight in 
 all, like tumblers going over and over with their legs 
 in the air; this was when he wanted to run fast. 
 Now there were these three sexes, because the sun, 
 moon, and earth are three; and the man was originally 
 the child of the sun, the woman of the earth, and the 
 man-woman of the moon, which is made up of sun 
 and earth, and they were all round and moved round 
 and round like their parents. Terrible was their 
 might and strength, and the thoughts of their hearts 
 were great, and they made an attack upon the gods, 
 and of them is told the tale of Otus and Ephialtes 
 who, as Homer says, dared to scale heaven, and would 
 have laid hands upon the gods. Doubt reigned in the 
 councils of Zeus and of the gods. Should they kill 
 them and annihilate the race with thunderbolts, as 
 they had done the giants, then there would be an end 
 of the sacrifice and worship which men offered to 
 
316 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 them; but, on the other hand, the gods could not suffer 
 their insolence to be unrestrained. At last, after a 
 good deal of reflection, Zeus discovered a way. He 
 said: “ I have a notion which will humble their pride 
 and mend their manners; they shall continue to exist, 
 but I will cut them in two and then they will be di¬ 
 minished in strength and increased in numbers; this 
 will have the advantage of making them more profit¬ 
 able to us. They shall walk upright on two legs, and if 
 they continue insolent and won’t be quiet, I will split 
 them again and they shall hop about on a single leg.” 
 He spoke and cut them in two, like a sorb-apple which 
 is halved for pickling, or as you might divide an egg 
 with a hair; and as he cut them one after another, he 
 bade Apollo give the face and the half of the neck a 
 turn in order that the man might contemplate the 
 section of himself: this would teach him a lesson of 
 humility. He was also to heal their wounds and com¬ 
 pose their forms. Apollo twisted the face and pulled 
 the skin all round over that which in our language is 
 called the belly, like the purses which draw in, and 
 he made one mouth at the centre, which he fastened 
 in a knot (this is called the navel) ; he also moulded 
 the breast and took out most of the wrinkles, much 
 as a shoemaker might smooth out leather upon a last; 
 he left a few, however, in the region of the belly and 
 navel, as a memorial of the primeval change. After 
 the division the tw r o parts of man, each desiring his 
 other half, came together, and threw their arms about 
 one another eager to grow into one, and would have 
 perished from hunger without ever making an effort, 
 because they did not like to do anything apart; and 
 when one of the halves died and the other survived, 
 the survivor sought another mate, whether the section 
 of an entire man or of an entire woman, wiiich had 
 usurped the name of man and woman, and clung to 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 317 
 
 that. And this was being the destruction of them, 
 when Zeus in pity invented a new plan: he turned 
 the parts of generation round in front, for this was 
 not always their position, and they sowed the seed no 
 longer as hitherto like grasshoppers in the ground, 
 but in one another; and after the transposition the 
 male generated in the female in order that by the 
 mutual embraces of man and woman they might 
 breed, and the race might continue; or if man came 
 to man they might be satisfied, and rest and go their 
 ways to the business of life: so ancient is the desire 
 of one another which is implanted in us, reuniting our 
 original nature, making one of two, and healing the 
 state of man. Each of us when separated is but the 
 indenture of a man, having one side only like a flat 
 fish, and he is always looking for his other half. Men 
 who are a section of that double nature which was 
 once called Androgynous are lascivious; adulterers 
 are generally of this breed, and also adulterous and 
 lascivious women: the women who are a section of 
 the woman don’t care for men, but have female at¬ 
 tachments; the female companions are of this sort. 
 But the men who are a section of the male follow the 
 male, and while they are young, being a piece of the 
 man, they hang about him and embrace him, and they 
 are themselves the best of boys and youths, because 
 they have the most manly nature. Some indeed assert 
 that they are shameless, but this is not true; for they 
 do not act thus from any want of shame, but because 
 they are valiant and manly, and have a manly counte¬ 
 nance, and they embrace that which is like them. And 
 these when they grow up are our statesmen, and these 
 only, which is a great proof of the truth of what I 
 am saying. And when they reach manhood they are 
 lovers of youth, and are not naturally inclined to 
 marry or beget children, which they do, if at all, only 
 
318 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 in obedience to the law, but they are satisfied if they 
 may be allowed to live unwedded; and such a nature 
 is prone to love and ready to return love, always em¬ 
 bracing that which is akin to him. And when one 
 of them finds his other half, whether he be a lover of 
 youth or a lover of another sort, the pair are lost in 
 an amazement of love and friendship and intimacy, 
 and one will not be out of the other’s sight, as I may 
 say, even for a moment: these are they who pass their 
 lives with one another; yet they could not explain 
 what they desire of one another.' For the intense 
 yearning which each of them has towards the other 
 does not appear to be the desire of intercourse, but 
 of something else which the soul desires and can not 
 tell, and of which she has only a dark and doubtful 
 presentiment. Suppose Hephaestus, with his instru¬ 
 ments, to come to the pair who are lying side by side 
 and say to them, “ What do you people want of one 
 another? ” they would be unable to explain. And 
 suppose further, that when he saw their perplexity 
 he said: “Do you desire to be wholly one; always 
 day and night to be in one another’s company? for 
 if this is what you desire, I am ready to melt you into 
 one and let you grow together, so that being two you 
 shall become one, and while you live live a common 
 life as if you were a single man, and after your death 
 in the world below still be one departed soul instead 
 of two — I ask whether this is what you lovingly de¬ 
 sire, and whether you are satisfied to attain this? ” — 
 there is not a man among them when he heard this 
 who would deny or who would not acknowledge that 
 this meeting and melting in one another’s arms, this 
 becoming one instead of two, was the very expression 
 of his ancient need. And the reason is that human 
 nature was originally one and we were a whole, and 
 the desire and pursuit of the whole is called love. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 319 
 
 Where was a time, I say, when the two were one, but 
 W)w because of this wickedness of men God has dis- 
 W^rsed us, as the Arcadians were dispersed into vil- 
 JJges by the Lacedaemonians. And if we are not 
 obedient to the gods there is a danger that we shall 
 be split up again and go about in basso-relievo, like 
 the figures having only half a nose which are sculp¬ 
 tured on columns, and that we shall be like tallies. 
 Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may 
 avoid the evil and obtain the good, of which Love is 
 the lord and leader; and let no one oppose him — 
 he is the enemy of the gods who opposes him. For 
 if we are friends of God and reconciled to him we 
 shall find our own true loves, which rarely happens 
 in this world\ I am serious, and therefore I must beg 
 Eryximachus not to make fun or to find any allusion 
 to Pausanias and Agathon, who, as I believe, are of 
 the manly sort such as I have been describing. But 
 my words have a wider application — they include 
 men and women everywhere; and I believe that if all 
 of us obtained our love, and each one had his partic¬ 
 ular beloved, thus returning to his original nature, 
 then our race would be happy. And if this would be 
 best of all, that which would be best under present 
 circumstances would be the nearest approach to such 
 an union; and that will be the attainment of a con¬ 
 genial love. Therefore we shall do well to praise the 
 god Love, who is the author of this gift, and who is 
 also our greatest benefactor, leading us in this life 
 back to our own nature, and giving us high hopes for 
 the future, that if we are pious, he will restore us to 
 our original state, and heal us and make us happy and 
 blessed. This, Ervximachus, is mv discourse of love, 
 which, although different from yours, I must beg you 
 to leave unassailed by the shafts of your ridicule, in 
 order that each may have his turn; each, or rather 
 
320 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 either, for Agathon and Socrates are the only o 
 left. j 
 
 Indeed, I am not going to attack you, said EryM- 
 machus, for I thought your speech charming, and cjlid 
 I not know that Agathon and Socrates are masters 
 in the art of love, I should be really afraid that they 
 would have nothing to say, after all the world of 
 things which have been said already. But, for all 
 that, I am not without hopes. 
 
 Socrates said: You did your part well, Eryxi- 
 machus; but if you were as I am now, or rather as 
 I shall be when Agathon has spoken, you would, in¬ 
 deed, be in a great strait. 
 
 You want to cast a spell over me, Socrates, said 
 Agathon, in the hope that I may be disconcerted, 
 thinking of the anticipation which the theatre has of 
 my fine speech. 
 
 I should be strangely forgetful, Agathon, replied 
 Socrates, of the courage and magnanimity which you 
 showed when your own compositions were about to 
 be exhibited, coming upon the stage with the actors 
 and facing the whole theatre altogether undismayed, 
 if I thought that your nerves could be fluttered at a 
 small party of friends. 
 
 Do you think, Socrates, said Agathon, that my 
 head is so full of the theatre as not to know how much 
 more formidable to a man of sense a few good judges 
 are than many fools? 
 
 Nay, replied Socrates, I should be very wrong in 
 attributing to you, Agathon, that or any other want 
 of refinement. And I am quite aware that if you hap¬ 
 pened to meet with any one whom you thought wise, 
 you would care for his opinion much more than for 
 that of the many. But then we, having been a part of 
 the foolish many in the theatre, can not be regarded 
 as the select wise; though I know that if you chanced 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 321 
 
 to light upon a really wise man, you would be ashamed 
 of disgracing yourself before him — would you not? 
 
 Yes, said Agathon. 
 
 But you would not be ashamed of disgracing your¬ 
 self before the many? 
 
 Here Phaedrus interrupted them, saying: Don’t 
 answer him, my dear Agathon; for if he can only get 
 a partner with whom he can talk, especially a good- 
 looking one, he will no longer care about the comple¬ 
 tion of our plan. Now I love to hear him talk; but 
 just at present I must not forget the encomium on 
 Love which I ought to receive from him and every 
 one. When you and he have paid the tribute to the 
 god, then you may talk. 
 
 Very good, Phaedrus, said Agathon; I see no rea¬ 
 son why I should not proceed with my speech, as I 
 shall have other opportunities of conversing with Soc¬ 
 rates. Let me say first how I ought to speak, and 
 then speak. 
 
 The previous speakers, instead of praising the god 
 Love, or unfolding his nature, appear to have con¬ 
 gratulated mankind on the benefits which he confers 
 upon them. But I would rather praise the god first, 
 and then speak of his gifts; this is always the right 
 way of praising everything. May I express un¬ 
 blamed then, that of all the blessed gods he is the 
 blessedest and the best? And also the fairest, which 
 I prove in this way: for, in the first place, Phaedrus, 
 he is the youngest, and of his youth he is himself the 
 witness, fleeing out of the way of age, which is swift 
 enough surely, swifter than most of us like: yet he 
 can not be overtaken by him; he is not a bird of that 
 feather; youth and love live and move together — 
 like to like, as the proverb says. There are many 
 things which Phaedrus said about Love in which I 
 agree with him; but I can not agree that he is older 
 
322 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 than Iapetus and Kronos — that is not the truth; as 
 I maintain, he is the youngest of the gods, and youth¬ 
 ful ever. The ancient things of which Hesiod and 
 Parmenides speak, if they were done at all, were done 
 of necessity and not of love; had love been in those 
 days, there w r ould have been no chaining or mutilation 
 of the gods, or other violence, but peace and sweet¬ 
 ness, as there is now in heaven, since the rule of Love 
 began. Love is young and also tender; he ought to 
 have a poet like Homer to describe his tenderness, as 
 Homer says of Ate, that she is a goddess and ten¬ 
 der: — 
 
 “ Her feet are tender, for she sets her steps, 
 
 Not on the ground but on the heads of men: ” 
 
 which is an excellent proof of her tenderness, because 
 she walks not upon the hard but upon the soft. Let 
 us adduce a similar proof of the tenderness of Love; 
 for he walks not upon the earth, nor yet upon the 
 skulls of men, which are hard enough, but in the hearts 
 and souls of men: in them he walks and dwells and 
 has his home. Not in every soul without exception, 
 for where there is hardness he departs, where there 
 is softness there he dwells; and clinging always with 
 his feet and in all manner of ways in the softest of 
 soft places, how can he be other than the softest of all 
 things? And he is the youngest as well as the ten- 
 derest, and also he is of flexile form; for without flex¬ 
 ure he could not enfold all things, or wind his way 
 into and out of every soul of man without being dis¬ 
 covered, if he were hard. And a proof of his flexi¬ 
 bility and symmetry of form is his grace, which is 
 universally admitted to be in an especial manner the 
 attribute of Love; ungrace and love are always at 
 war with one another. The fairness of his complexion 
 is revealed by his habitation among the flowers; for 
 
 ¥ 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 323 
 
 he dwells not amid unflowering or fading beauties, 
 whether of body or soul or aught else, but in the place 
 of flowers and scents, there he dwells and abides. 
 Enough of his beauty — of which, however, there is 
 more to tell. But I must now speak of his virtue: 
 his greatest glory is that he can neither do nor suffer 
 wrong from any god or any man; for he suffers not 
 by force if he suffers, for force comes not near him, 
 neither does he act by force. For all serve him of 
 their own free will, and where there is love as well 
 as obedience, there, as the laws which are the lords 
 of the city say, is justice. And not only is he just 
 but exceedingly temperate, for Temperance is the ac¬ 
 knowledged ruler of the pleasures and desires, and 
 no pleasure ever masters Love; he is their master and 
 they are his servants; and if he conquers them he 
 must be temperate indeed. As to courage, even the 
 God of War is no match for him; he is the captive 
 and Love is the lord, for love, the love of Aphrodite, 
 masters him, as the tale runs; and the master is 
 stronger than the servant. And if he conquers the 
 bravest of all he must be himself the bravest. Of his 
 courage and justice and temperance I have spoken, 
 but I have yet to speak of his wisdom, and I must 
 try to do my best, according to the measure of my 
 ability. For in the first place he is a poet (and here, 
 like Eryximachus, I magnify my art), and he is also 
 the source of poesy in others, which he could not be 
 if he were not himself a poet. And at the touch of 
 him every one becomes a poet, even though he had 
 no music in him before; this also is a proof that Love 
 I is a good poet and accomplished in all the musical 
 arts; for no one can give to another that which he 
 has not himself, or teach that of which he has no 
 knowledge. Who will deny that the creation of the 
 animals is his doing? Are‘they not all the works of 
 
324 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 his wisdom, born and begotten of him? And as to the 
 artists, do we not know that he only of them whom 
 love inspires has the light of fame? — he whom love 
 touches not walks in darkness. The arts of medicine 
 and archery and divination were discovered by Apollo, 
 under the guidance of love and desire, so that he 
 too is a disciple of love. Also the melody of the 
 Muses, the metallurgy of Hephaestus, the weaving 
 of Athene, the empire of Zeus over gods and men, 
 are all due to love, who was the inventor of them. 
 Love set in order the empire of the gods — the love 
 of beauty, as is evident, for of deformity there is no 
 love. And formerly, as I was saying, dreadful deeds 
 were done among the gods, because of the rule of 
 necessity; but now since the birth of love, and from 
 the love of the beautiful, has sprung every good in 
 heaven and earth. Therefore, Phaedrus, I say of love 
 that he is the fairest and best in himself, and the cause 
 of what is fairest and best in all other things. And 
 I have a mind to say of him in verse that he is the god 
 who 
 
 “ Gives peace on earth and calms the stormy deep, 
 
 Who stills the waves and bids the sufferer sleep.” 
 
 He makes men to be of one mind at a banquet such 
 as this, fulfilling them with affection and emptying 
 them of disaffection. In sacrifices, banquets, dances, 
 he is our lord — supplying kindness and banishing 
 unkindness, giving friendship and forgiving enmity, 
 the joy of the good, the wonder of the wise, the amaze¬ 
 ment of the gods; desired by those who have no part 
 in him, and precious to those who have the better part 
 in him; parent of delicacy, luxury, desire, fondness, 
 softness, grace; careful of the good, uncareful of the 
 evil. In every word, work, wish, fear — pilot, helper, 
 defender, savior; glory of gods and men, leader best 
 
THE SYM1 OSIXJM 325 
 
 and brightest: in whose footsteps let every man fol¬ 
 low, chanting a hymn and joining in that fair strain 
 with which love charms the souls of gods an< men. 
 Such is the discourse, Phaedrus, half playful, yet 1 av- 
 ing a certain measure of seriousness, which, accord; ’ g 
 to my ability, I dedicate to the god. 
 
 When Agathon had done speaking, .A ristodemus 
 said that there was a general cheer; the fair youth 
 was thought to have spoken in a manner worthy of 
 himself, and of the god. And Socrates, looking at 
 Eryximachus, said: Tell me, son of Acumenas, was 
 I not a prophet? Did I not anticipate that Agakion 
 would make a wonderful oration and, that I sho 
 be in a strait? 
 
 I think, said Eryximachus, that you were right i 
 the first anticipation, but not in the second. 
 
 Why, my dear friend, said Socrates, must not I 
 or any one be in a strait who has to speak after such 
 a rich and varied discourse as that? I am especially 
 struck with the beauty of the concluding words — 
 who could listen to them without amazement? When 
 I reflected on the immeasurable inferiority of my own 
 powers, I was ready to run away for shame, if there 
 had been any escape. For I was reminded of Gor- 
 gias, and at the end of his speech I fancied that Aga¬ 
 thon was shaking at me the Gorginian or Gorgonian 
 head of the great master of rhetoric, which was simply 
 to turn me and my speech into stone, as Homer says, 
 and strike me dumb. And then I perceived how fool¬ 
 ish I had been in consenting to take my turn with you 
 in praising love, and saying that I too was a master 
 of the art, when I really had no idea of the meaning 
 of the word “ praise,” which appears to be another 
 name for glorification, whether true or false; in which 
 sense of the term I am unable to praise anything. 
 For I in my simplicity imagined that the topics of 
 
 
326 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 praise should be true; this was to be the foundation, 
 and th out of them the speaker was to choose the 
 best and arrange them in the best order. And I felt 
 quit proud, and thought that I could speak as well 
 as another, as I knew the nature of true praise. 
 Y 1 u reas I see now that the intention was to attribute 
 o love . very species of greatness and glory, whether 
 really belonging to him or not, without regard to truth 
 or falsehood — that was no matter; for the original 
 proposal seems to have been not that you should 
 praise, but only that you should appear to praise him. 
 Ai d you attribute to love every imaginable form of 
 praise, and say that “he is all this,” “ the cause of all 
 this,” in order that you may exhibit him as the fairest 
 and best of all; and this of course imposes on the 
 unwary, but not on those who know him: and a noble 
 and solemn hymn of praise have you rehearsed. But 
 as I misunderstood the nature of the praise when I 
 said that I would take my turn, I must beg to be 
 absolved from the promise which (as Euripides would 
 say) was a promise of the lips and not of the mind. 
 Farewell then to such a strain: for that is not my 
 way of praising; no, indeed, I can not attain to that. 
 But if you like to hear the truth about love, I am 
 ready to speak in my own manner, though I will not 
 make myself ridiculous by entering into any rivalry 
 with you. Say then, Phaedrus, whether you would 
 like to have the truth about love, spoken in any words 
 and in any order which may happen to come into 
 my mind at the time. Will that be agreeable to 
 you? 
 
 Aristodemus said that Phaedrus and the company 
 bid him take his own course. Then, he said, let me 
 have your permission first to ask Agathon a few more 
 questions, in order that I may take his admissions as 
 the premisses of my discourse. 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 327 
 
 I grant the permission, said Phaedrus: put your 
 questions. Socrates then proceeded as follows: — 
 
 In the magnificent discourse which you have ut¬ 
 tered, I think that you were right, my dear Agathon, 
 in saying that you would begin with the nature of 
 love and then afterwards speak of his works that 
 is a way of beginning which I very much approve. 
 And as you have spoken thus eloquently of the nature 
 of love, will you answer me a further question? — Is 
 love the love of something or of nothing? And here 
 I must explain myself: I do not want you to say that 
 love is the love of a father or the love of a mother — 
 that would be ridiculous; but to answer as you would, 
 if I asked is a father a father of something? to which 
 you would find no difficulty in replying, of a son 01 
 daughter: and that would be right. 
 
 Very true, said Agathon. 
 
 And you would say the same of a mother ? 
 
 Pie assented. 
 
 Yet let me ask you one more question in order 
 further to illustrate my meaning. Is not a brother 
 to be regarded essentially as a brother of something? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 That is, of a brother or sister? 
 
 Yes, he said. 
 
 And now, said Socrates, I will ask about love: — 
 Is love of something or of nothing? 
 
 Of something, surely, he replied. 
 
 Keep in mind what this is, and tell me what I want 
 to know — whether love desires that of which love 
 
 is. 
 
 Yes, surely. 
 
 And does he possess, or does he not possess, that 
 which he loves and desires? 
 
 Probably not, I should say. 
 
 Nay, replied Socrates, I would have you consider 
 
328 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 whether necessarily is not rather the word. The in¬ 
 ference that he who desires something is in want of 
 something, and that he who desires nothing is in want 
 of nothing, is in my judgment, Agathon, absolutely 
 and necessarily true. What do you think? 
 
 I think with you, said Agathon, in that. 
 
 Very good. And would he who is great desire to 
 be great, or he who is strong desire to be strong? 
 
 That would be inconsistent with our previous ad¬ 
 missions. 
 
 True. For he who is anything can not want to be 
 that which he is? 
 
 Very true. 
 
 But if, added Socrates, a man being strong desired 
 to be strong, or being swift desired to be swift, or 
 being healthy desired to be healthy (for any one may 
 be imagined to desire any quality which he already 
 has), in these cases there might be an objection raised 
 — they might be said to desire that which they have 
 already. I give the example in order that we may 
 avoid misconception. For as you may see, Agathon, 
 these persons must be supposed to have their respect¬ 
 ive advantages at the time, whether they choose or 
 not; and surely no man can desire that which he has. 
 And therefore, when a person says, I am well and 
 wish to be well, or I am rich and wish to be rich, and 
 I desire simply what I have; we shall reply to him: 
 “ You, my friend, having wealth and health and 
 strength, want to have the continuance of them; for 
 at this moment, whether you choose or no, you have 
 them. And when you say, I desire that which I have 
 and nothing else, is not your meaning that you want 
 to have what you now have in the future? ” He must 
 allow this? 
 
 He must, said Agathon. 
 
 Then, said Socrates, this is equivalent to desiring 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 329 
 
 not what he has or possesses already, but that what 
 he has may be preserved to him in the future ? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Then he and every one who desires, desires that 
 which he has not already, and which is future and not 
 present, and which he has not, and is not, and of which 
 he is in want; — these are the sort of things which 
 love and desire seek? 
 
 Very true, he said. 
 
 Then now, said Socrates, let us recapitulate the ar¬ 
 gument. First, is not love of something, and of some¬ 
 thing too which is wanting to a man? 
 
 Yes, he replied. 
 
 Remember further what you said in your speech, 
 or if you do not remember I will remind you: 
 you said that the love of the beautiful disposes the 
 empire of the gods, for that of deformed things 
 there is no love — did you not say something like 
 that? 
 
 Yes, said Agathon. 
 
 Yes, my friend, and the remark is a just one. And 
 if this is true, love is the love of beauty and not of 
 deformity? 
 
 He assented. 
 
 And the admission has been already made that love 
 is of that which a man wants and has not? 
 
 True, he said. 
 
 Then love wants and has not beauty? 
 
 Certainly, he replied. 
 
 And would you call that beautiful which wants and 
 does not possess beauty? 
 
 Certainly not. 
 
 Then would you still say that love is beautiful? 
 
 Agathon replied: I fear that I did not understand 
 what I was saying. 
 
 Nay, Agathon, replied Socrates; but I should like 
 
330 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 to ask you one more question: — Is not the good also 
 the beautiful? 
 
 Yes. 
 
 Then in wanting the beautiful, love wants also the 
 good? 
 
 I can not refute you, Socrates, said Agathon. And 
 let us suppose that what you say is true. 
 
 Say rather, dear Agathon, that you can not refute 
 the truth; for Socrates is easily refuted. 
 
 And now I will take my leave of you, and rehearse 
 the tale of love which I heard once upon a time from 
 Diotima of Mantineia, who was a vise woman in this 
 and many other branches of knowledge. She was the 
 same who deferred the plague of Athens ten years 
 by a sacrifice, and was my instructress in the art of 
 love. In the attempt which I am about to make I 
 shall pursue Agathon’s method, and begin with his 
 admissions, which are nearly if not quite the same 
 which I made to the wise woman when she questioned 
 me: this will be the easiest way, and I shall take both 
 parts myself as well as I can. For, like Agathon, she 
 spoke first of the being and nature of love, and then 
 of his works. And I said to her in nearly the same 
 words which he used to me, that love was a mighty 
 god, and likewise fair; and she proved to me as I 
 proved to him that, in my way of speaking about him, 
 love was neither fair nor good. “ What do you mean, 
 Diotima,” I said, “is love then evil and foul?” 
 “ Hush,” she cried; “ is that to be deemed foul which 
 is not fair? ” “ Certainly,” I said. “ And is that 
 
 which is not wise, ignorant? do you not see that there 
 is a mean between wisdom and ignorance? ” “ And 
 
 what is this? ” I said. “ Right opinion,” she replied; 
 “ which, as you know, being incapable of giving a 
 reason, is not knowledge (for how could knowledge 
 be devoid of reason? nor again, ignorance, for neither 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 331 
 
 can ignorance attain the truth), but is clearly some¬ 
 thing which is a mean between ignorance and wis¬ 
 dom.^ “ Quite true,” I replied. “ Do not then in¬ 
 sist,” she said, “ that what is not fair is of necessity 
 foul, or what is not good evil; or infer that because 
 love is not fair and good he is therefore foul and evil; 
 for he is in a mean between them.” “ Well,” I said, 
 “ love is surely admitted by all to be a great god.” 
 “ By those who know or by those who don’t know? ” 
 “ By all.” “ And how, Socrates,” she said with a 
 smile, “ can love be acknowledged to be a great god 
 by those who say that he is not a god at all? ” “ And 
 who are they?” I said. “You and I are two of 
 them,” she replied. “How can that be?” I said. 
 “That is very intelligible,” she replied; “as you 
 yourself would acknowledge that the gods are happy 
 and fair — of course you would — would you dare 
 to say that any god was not? ” “ Certainly not,” I 
 
 replied. “ And you mean by the happy, those who 
 are the possessors of things good or fair? ” “ Yes.” 
 
 “ And you admitted that love, because he was in want, 
 desires those good and fair things of which he is in 
 want? ” “ Yes, I admitted that.” “ But how can he 
 be a god who has no share in the good or the fair? ” 
 “ That is not to be supposed.” “ Then you see that 
 you also deny the deity of love.” 
 
 “ What then is love? ” I asked; “ Is he mortal? ” 
 “ No.” “ What then? ” “ As in the former instance, 
 he is neither mortal nor immortal, but in a mean be¬ 
 tween them.” “ What is he then, Diotima? ” “ He 
 
 is a great spirit (), and like all that is spiritual 
 he is intermediate between the divine and the mortal. 
 
 “ And what is the nature of this spiritual power? ” 
 I said. “ This is the power,” she said, “ which inter¬ 
 prets and conveys to the gods the prayers and sacri¬ 
 fices of men, and to men the commands and rewards 
 
332 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 of the gods; and this power spans the chasm which 
 divides them, and in this all is bound together, and 
 through this the arts of the prophet and the priest, 
 their sacrifices and mysteries and charms, and all 
 prophecy and incantation, find their way. For God 
 mingles not with man; and through this power all 
 the intercourse and speech of God with man, whether 
 awake or asleep, is carried on. The wisdom which 
 understands this is spiritual; all other wisdom, such 
 as that of arts or handicrafts, is mean and vulgar. 
 Now these spirits or intermediate powers are many 
 and divine, and one of them is love.” “ And who,” 
 I said, “ was his father, and who his mother? ” “ The 
 tale,” she said, “will take time; nevertheless I will 
 tell you. On the birthday of Aphrodite there was a 
 feast of the gods, at which the god Poros or Plenty, 
 who is the son of Metis or Discretion, was one of the 
 guests. When the feast was over, Penia or Poverty, 
 as the manner was, came about the doors to beg. Now 
 Plenty, who was the worse for nectar (there was no 
 wine in those days), came into the garden of Zeus 
 and fell into a heavy sleep; and Poverty considering 
 her own straitened circumstances, plotted to have him 
 for a husband, and accordingly she lay down at his 
 side and conceived Love, who partly because he is 
 naturally a lover of the beautiful, and because Aph¬ 
 rodite is herself beautiful, and also because he was 
 bom on Aphrodite’s birthday is her follower and at¬ 
 tendant. And as his parentage is, so also are his for¬ 
 tunes. In the first place he is always poor, and any¬ 
 thing but tender and fair, as the many imagine him; 
 and he is hard-featured and squalid, and has no shoes, 
 nor a house to dwell in; on the bare earth exposed 
 he lies under the open heaven, in the streets, or at the 
 doors of houses, taking his rest; and like his mother 
 he is always in distress. Like his father too, whom he 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 333 
 
 also partly resembles, he is always plotting against 
 the fair and good; he is bold, enterprising, strong, 
 a hunter of men, always at some intrigue or other, 
 keen in the pursuit of wisdom, and never wanting 
 resources; a philosopher at all times, terrible as an 
 enchanter, sorcerer, sophist; for as he is neither mor¬ 
 tal nor immortal, he is alive and flourishing at one 
 moment when he is in plenty, and dead at another 
 moment, and again alive by reason of his father’s 
 nature. But that which is always flowing in is always 
 flowing out, and so he is never in want and never in 
 wealth, and he is also in a mean between ignorance^ 
 and knowledge. The truth of the matter is just thisj 
 No god is a philosopher or seeker after wisdom, f^ 
 he is wise already; or does any one else who is wm 
 seek after wisdom. Neither do the ignorant seek af« 
 wisdom. For herein is the evil of ignorance, that nI 
 who is neither good nor wise is nevertheless satisfied* 
 he feels no want, and has therefore no desire.” “ But 
 who then, Diotima,” I said, “ are the lovers of wis¬ 
 dom, if they are neither the wise nor the foolish? ” 
 “ A child may answer that question,” she replied; 
 “ they are those who, like love, are in a mean between 
 the two. For wisdom is a most beautiful thing, and 
 love is of the beautiful; and therefore love is also a 
 philosopher or lover of wisdom, and being a lover of 
 wisdom is in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. 
 And this again is a quality which Love inherits from 
 his parents; for his father is wealthy and wise, and 
 his mother poor and foolish. Such, my dear Socrates, 
 is the nature of the spirit Love. The error in your 
 conception of him was very natural, and as I imagine 
 from what you say, has arisen out of a confusion of 
 love and the beloved — this made you think that love 
 was all beautiful. For the beloved is the truly beau¬ 
 tiful, delicate, and perfect and blessed; but the prin- 
 
 
334 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 ciple of love is of another nature, and is such as I have 
 described.” 
 
 I said: “O thou stranger woman, thou sayest well, 
 and now, assuming love to be such as you say, what is 
 the use of him? ” “ That, Socrates,” she replied, “ I 
 will proceed to unfold: of his nature and birth I have 
 already spoken; and you acknowledge that love is of 
 the beautiful. But some one will say: Of the beauti¬ 
 ful in what, Socrates and Diotima — or rather let me 
 put the question more clearly, and ask: When a man 
 loves the beautiful, what does he love? ” I answered 
 her “ That the beautiful may be his.” “ Still,” she 
 [said, “ The answer suggests a further question, which 
 lathis: What is given by the possession of beauty? ” 
 PThat,” I replied, “ is a question to which I have no 
 Bbswer ready.” “ Then,” she said, “ let me put the 
 Word ‘ good ’ in the place of the beautiful, and repeat 
 Ihe question: What does he who loves the good 
 desire? ” “ The possession of the good,” I said. 
 
 “ And what does he gain who possesses the good? ” 
 “ Happiness,” I replied; “there is no difficulty in 
 answering that.” “ Yes,” she said, “ the happy are 
 made happy by the acquisition of good things. Nor 
 is there any need to ask why a man desires happiness; 
 the answer is already final.” “ That is true, I said. 
 “ And is this wish and this desire common to all? and 
 do all men alwavs desire their own good, or only some 
 men? — what think you?” “All men,” I replied; 
 “ the desire is common to all.” “ But all men, 
 Socrates,” she rejoined, “ are not said to love, but only 
 some of them; and you say that all men are always 
 loving the same things.” “ I myself wonder,” I said, 
 “ why that is.” “ There is nothing to wonder at,” she 
 replied; “ the reason is that one part of love is sepa¬ 
 rated off and receives the name of the whole, but the 
 other parts have other names.” “ Give an example, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 335 
 
 I said. She answered me as follows: “There is 
 poetry, which, as you know, is complex and manifold. 
 And all creation or passage of non-being into being 
 is poetry or making, and the processes of all art are 
 creative; and the masters of arts are all poets.” 
 “ Very true.” “ Still,” she said, “ you know that they 
 are not called poets, but have other names; the generic 
 term ‘ poetry ’ is confined to that specific art which 
 is separated off from the rest of poetry, and is con¬ 
 cerned with music and metre; and this is what is called 
 poetry, and they who possess this kind of poetry are 
 called poets.” “ Very true,” I said. “ And the same 
 holds of love. For you may say generally that all 
 desire of good and happiness is due to the great and 
 subtle power of love; but those who, having their 
 affections set upon him, are yet diverted into the paths 
 of money-making or gymnastic philosophy, are not 
 called lovers — the name of the genus is reserved for 
 those whose devotion takes one form only —«they 
 alone are said to love, or to be lovers.” “ In that,” I 
 said, “ I am of opinion that you are right.” “ Yes,” 
 she said, “ and you hear people say that lovers are 
 seeking for the half of themselves; but I say that they 
 are seeking neither for the half, nor for the whole, 
 unless the half or the whole be also a good. And they 
 will cut off their own hands and feet and cast them 
 away, if they are evil; for they love them not because 
 they are their own, but because they are good, and 
 dislike them not because they are another’s, but be¬ 
 cause they are evil. There is nothing which men love 
 but the good. Do you think that there is? ” “ In¬ 
 
 deed,” I answered, “ I should say not.” “ Then,” she 
 said, “ the conclusion of the whole matter is, that men 
 love the good.” “ Yes,” I said. “ To which may be 
 added that they love the possession of the good?” 
 “ Yes, that may be added.” “ And not only the pos- 
 
336 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 session, but the everlasting possession of the good? ” 
 “ That may be added too.” “ Then, love,” she said, 
 “ may be described generally as the love of the ever¬ 
 lasting possession of the good? ” “ That is most 
 
 true,” I said. 
 
 “ Then if this be the nature of love, can you tell me 
 further,” she said, “ what is the manner of the pur¬ 
 suit? what are they doing who show all this eagerness 
 and heat which is called love? Answer me that.” 
 “ ]S T ay, Diotima,” I said, “ if I had known I should 
 not have wondered at your wisdom, or have come to 
 you to learn.” “ Well,” she said, “ I will teach you; 
 — love is only birth in beauty, whether of body or 
 soul.” “ The oracle requires an explanation,” I said; 
 “ I don’t understand you.” “ I will make my mean¬ 
 ing clearer,” she replied. “ I mean to say, that all 
 men are bringing to the birth in their bodies and in 
 their souls. There is a certain age at which human 
 nature is desirous of procreation; and this procreation 
 must be in beauty and not in deformity: mid this is 
 the mystery of man and woman, which is a divine 
 thing, for conception and generation are a principle 
 of immortality in the mortal creature. And in the 
 inharmonical they can never be. But the deformed is 
 always inharmonical with the divine, and the beautiful 
 harmonious. Beauty, then, is the destiny or goddess 
 of parturition who presides at birth, and therefore 
 when approaching beauty the conceiving power is 
 propitious, and diffuse, and benign, and begets and 
 bears fruit: on the appearance of foulness she frowns 
 and contracts in pain, and is averted and morose, and 
 shrinks up, and not without a pang refrains from con¬ 
 ception. And this is the reason why, when the hour 
 of conception arrives, and the teeming nature is full, 
 there is such a flutter and ecstasy about beauty whose 
 approach is the alleviation of pain. For lo\ e, 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 337 
 
 Socrates, is not, as you imagine, the love of the beau¬ 
 tiful only.” “ What then? ” “ The love of generation 
 and birth in beauty.” “Yes,” I said. “ Yes, in¬ 
 deed,” she replied. “But why of birth?” I said. 
 F Because to the mortal, birth is a sort of eternity and 
 immortality,” she replied; “ and as has been already 
 admitted, all men will necessarily desire immortality 
 together with good, if love is of the everlasting posses¬ 
 sion of the good.” 
 
 And this she taught me at various times when she 
 spoke of love. And on another occasion she said to 
 me, “ What is the reason, Socrates, of this love, and 
 the attendant desire? See you not how all animals, 
 birds as well as beasts, in their desire of procreation, 
 are in agony when they take the infection of love; — 
 this begins with the desire of union, to which is added 
 the care of offspring, on behalf of whom the weakest 
 are ready to battle against the strongest even to the 
 uttermost, and to die for them, and will let themselves 
 be tormented with hunger or suffer anything in order 
 to maintain their offspring. Man may be supposed 
 to do this from reason; but why should animals have 
 these passionate feelings? Can you tell me why?” 
 Again I replied, that I did not know. She said to 
 me: “ And do you expect ever to become a master in 
 the art of love, if you do not know this?” “But 
 that,” I said, “ Diotima, is the reason why I come to 
 you, because, as I have told you already, I am aware 
 that I want a teacher; and I wish that you would ex¬ 
 plain to me this and the other mysteries of love.” 
 “ Marvel not at this,” she said, “ if you believe that 
 love is of the immortal, as we have already admitted; 
 for here again, and on the same principle too, the mor¬ 
 tal nature is seeking as far as is possible to be ever¬ 
 lasting and immortal: and this is only to be attained 
 by generation, because the new is always left in thq 
 
338 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 place of the old. For even in the same individual 
 there is succession and not absolute unity: a man is 
 called the same; but yet in the short interval which 
 elapses between youth and age, and in which every 
 animal is said to have life and identity, he is under¬ 
 going a perpetual process of loss and reparation — 
 hair, flesh, bones, blood, and the whole body are 
 always changing. And this is true not only of the 
 body, but also of the soul, whose habits, tempers, 
 opinions, desires, pleasures, pains, fears, never remain 
 the same in any one of us, but are always coming and 
 going. And what is yet more surprising is, that this 
 is also true of knowledge; and not only does knowl¬ 
 edge in general come and go, so that in this respect 
 we are never the same; but particular knowdedge also 
 experiences a like change. For what is implied in the 
 word “ recollection,” but the departure of knowledge, 
 which is ever being forgotten and is renewed and 
 preserved by recollection, appearing to be the same 
 although in reality new, according to that law of suc¬ 
 cession by which all mortal things are preserved, not 
 by absolute sameness of existence, but by substitution, 
 the old worn-out mortality leaving another new and 
 similar one behind — unlike the immortal in this, 
 which is always the same and not another? And in 
 this way, Socrates, the mortal body, or mortal any¬ 
 thing, partakes of immortalit}^; but the immortal in 
 another way. Marvel not then at the love which all 
 men have of their offspring; for that universal love 
 and interest is for the sake of immortality.” 
 
 When I heard this, I was astonished, and said: “ Is 
 this really true, O thou wise Uiotima?” And she 
 answered with all the authority of a sophist: “ Of 
 that, Socrates, you may be assured; — think only of 
 the ambition of men, and you will marvel at their 
 senselessness, unless you consider how they are stirred 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 339 
 
 by the love of an immortality of fame. They are 
 ready to run risks greater far than they would have 
 run for their children, and to spend money and un¬ 
 dergo any amount of toil, and even to die for the sake 
 of leaving behind them a name which shall be eternal. 
 Do you imagine that Alcestis would have died on 
 behalf of Admetus, or Achilles after Patroclus, or 
 your own Codrus in order to preserve the kingdom 
 for his sons, if they had not imagined that the memory 
 of their virtues, which is still retained among us, 
 
 , would be immortal? Nay,” she said, 44 for I am per¬ 
 suaded that all men do all things for the sake of the 
 glorious fame of immortal virtue, and the better they 
 are the more they desire this; for they are ravished 
 
 with the desire of the immortal. 
 
 “ Men whose bodies only are creative, betake them¬ 
 selves to women and beget children — this is the char¬ 
 acter of their love; their offspring, as they hope, will 
 preserve their memory and give them the blessedness 
 and immortality which they desire in the future. But 
 creative souls — for there are men who are more 
 creative in their souls than in their bodies — conceive 
 that which is proper for the soul to conceive or retain. 
 And what are these conceptions? — wisdom and vir¬ 
 tue in general. And such creators are all poets and 
 other artists who may be said to have invention. But 
 the greatest and fairest sort of wisdom by far is that 
 which is concerned with the ordering of states and 
 families, and which is called temperance and justice. 
 And he who in youth has the seed of these implanted 
 in him and is himself inspired, when he comes to 
 maturity desires to beget and generate. And he 
 wanders about seeking beauty that he may beget 
 offspring — for in deformity he will beget nothing — 
 and embraces the beautiful rather than the deformed; 
 and when he finds a fair and noble and well-nurtured 
 
340 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 soul, and there is union of the two in one person, he 
 gladly embraces him, and to such an one he is full of 
 fair speech about virtue and the nature and pursuits 
 of a good man; and he tries to educate him; and at the 
 touch and presence of the beautiful he brings forth 
 the beautiful which he conceived long before, and the 
 beautiful is ever present with him and in his memory 
 even when absent, and in company they tend that 
 which he brings forth, and they are bound together by 
 a far nearer tie and have a closer friendship than 
 those who beget mortal children, for the children who 
 are their common offspring are fairer and more im¬ 
 mortal. Who, when he thinks of Homer and Hesiod 
 and other great poets, would not rather have their 
 children than any ordinary human ones ? Who would 
 not emulate them in the creation of children such as 
 theirs, which have preserved their memory and given 
 them everlasting glory ? Or who would not have such 
 children as Lycurgus left behind to be the saviors, not 
 only of Lacedaemon, but of Hellas, as one may say? 
 There is Solon, too, who is the revered father of 
 Athenian laws; and many others there are in many 
 other places, both among Hellenes and barbarians. 
 All of them have done many noble works, and have 
 been the parents of virtue of every kind, and many 
 temples have been raised in honor of their children, 
 which were never raised in honor of the mortal chil¬ 
 dren of any one. 
 
 “ These are the lesser mysteries of love, into which 
 even you, Socrates, may enter; to the greater and 
 more hidden ones which are the crown of these, and 
 to which, if you pursue them in a right spirit, they 
 will lead, I know not whether you will be able to 
 attain. But I will do my utmost to inform you, and 
 do you follow if you can. For he who would proceed 
 rightly in this matter should begin in youth to turn 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 341 
 
 to beautiful forms; and first, if his instructor guide 
 him rightly, he should learn to love one such form 
 on ly — out of that he should create fair thoughts; 
 and soon he would himself perceive that the beauty of 
 one form is truly related to the beauty of another; 
 and then if beauty in general is his pursuit, how 
 foolish would he be not to recognize that the beauty 
 in every form is one and the same! And when he 
 perceives this he will abate his violent love of the one, 
 which he will despise and deem a small thing, and will 
 become a lover of all beautiful forms; this will lead 
 him on to consider that the beauty of the mind is more 
 honorable than the beauty of the outward form. So 
 that if a virtuous soul have but a little comeliness, he 
 will be content to love and tend him, and will search 
 out and bring to the birth thoughts which may im¬ 
 prove the young, until his beloved is compelled to 
 contemplate and see the beauty of institutions and . 
 laws, and understand that all is of one kindred, and 
 that personal beauty is only a trifle; and after laws 
 and institutions he will lead him on to the sciences, 
 that he may see their beauty, being not like a servant 
 in love with the beauty of one youth or man or in¬ 
 stitution, himself a slave mean and calculating, but 
 looking at the abundance of beauty and drawing to¬ 
 wards the sea of beauty, and creating and beholding 
 many fair and noble thoughts and notions in bound¬ 
 less love of wisdom; until at length he grows and 
 waxes strong, and at last the vision is revealed to him 
 of a single science, which is the science o f beaut y^ 
 everywhere. To this I will proceed; please to give 
 me your very best attention. 
 
 “ For he who has been instructed thus far in the 
 things of love, and who has learned to see the beautiful 
 in due order and succession, when he comes toward 
 the end will suddenly perceive a nature of wondrous 
 
342 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 beauty — and this, Socrates, is that final cause of all 
 our former toils, which in the first place is everlast- 
 ing — not growing and decaying, or waxing and 
 waning; in the next place not fair in one point of view 
 and foul in another, or at one time or in one relation or 
 at one place fair, at another time or in another re¬ 
 lation or at another place foul, as if fair to some and 
 foul to others, or in the likeness of a face or hands 
 or any other part of the bodily frame, or in any 
 form of speech or knowledge, nor existing in any 
 other being; as for example, an animal, whether in 
 earth or heaven, but beauty only, absolute, separate, 
 simple, and everlasting, which without diminution and 
 without increase, or any change, is imparted to the 
 ever-growing and perishing beauties of all other 
 things. He who under the influence of true love 
 rising upward from these begins to see that beauty, 
 is not far from the end. And the true order of going 
 or being led by another to the things of love, is to use 
 the beauties of earth as steps along which he mounts 
 upwards for the sake of that other beauty, going from 
 one to two, and from two to all fair forms, and from 
 fair forms to fair actions, and from fair actions to 
 fair notions, until from fair notions he arrives at the 
 notion of absolute beauty, and at last knows what the 
 essence of beauty is. This, my dear Socrates, 1 ” said 
 the stranger of Mantineia, “ is that life above all 
 others which man should live, in the contemplation of 
 beauty absolute; a beauty which if you once beheld, 
 you would see not to be after the measure of gold, and 
 garments, and fair boys and youths, which when you 
 now behold you are in fond amazement, and you and 
 many a one are content to live seeing only and con¬ 
 versing with them without meat or drink, if that w ere 
 possible — you only want to be with them and to look 
 at them. But what if man had eyes to see the true 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 343 
 
 beauty — the divine beauty, I mean, pure and clear 
 and unalloyed, not clogged with the pollutions of 
 mortality, and all the colors and vanities of human 
 life — thither looking, and holding converse with the 
 true beauty divine and simple, and bringing into being 
 and educating true creations of virtue and not idols 
 only? Do you not see that in that communion only, 
 beholding beauty with the eye of the mind, he will 
 be enabled to bring forth, not images of beauty, but 
 realities; for he has hold not of an image but of a 
 reality, and bringing forth and educating true virtue 
 to become the friend of God and be immortal, if 
 mortal man may. Would that be an ignoble life? ” 
 
 Such, Phaedrus — and I speak not only to you, but 
 to all men — were the words of Diotima; and I am 
 persuaded of their truth. And being persuaded of 
 them, I try to persuade others, that in the attainment 
 of this end human nature will not easily find a better 
 helper than love. And therefore, also, I say that 
 every man ought to honor him as I myself honor him, 
 and walk in his ways, and exhort others to do the same, 
 even as I praise the power and spirit of love according 
 to the measure of my ability now and ever. 
 
 The words which I have spoken, you, Phaedrus, 
 may call an encomium of love, or anything else which 
 you please. 
 
 When Socrates had done speaking, the company 
 applauded, and Aristophanes was beginning to say 
 something in answer to the allusion which Socrates 
 had made to his own speech, when suddenly there was 
 a great knocking at the door of the house, as of revel¬ 
 lers, and the sound of a flute-girl was heard. Agathon 
 told the attendants to go and see who were the in¬ 
 truders. “ If they are friends of ours,” he said, 
 “ invite them in, but if not say that the drinking is 
 over.” A little while afterwards they heard the voice 
 
344 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 of Alcibiades resounding in the court; he was in a 
 great state of intoxication, and kept roaring and 
 shouting “ Where is Agathon? Lead me to Aga¬ 
 thon,” and at length, supported by the flute-girl 
 and some of his companions, he found his way to 
 them. “ Hail friends,” he said, appearing at the door 
 crowned with a massive garland of ivy and wall¬ 
 flowers, and having his head flowing with ribands. 
 “ Will you have a very drunken man as a companion 
 of your revels? Or shall I crown Agathon, as was 
 my intention in coming, and go my way? For I was 
 unable to come yesterday, and therefore I come today, 
 carrying on my head these ribands, that taking them 
 from my own head, I may crown the head of this 
 fairest and wisest of men, as I may be allowed to call 
 him. Will you laugh at me because I am drunk? 
 Yet I know very well that I am speaking the truth, 
 although you may laugh. But first tell me whether 
 I shall come in on the understanding that I am drunk. 
 Will you drink with me or not? ” 
 
 The company were vociferous in begging that he 
 would take his place among them, and Agathon spe¬ 
 cially invited him. Thereupon he was led in by the 
 people w T ho were with him; and as he w r as being led 
 he took the crown and ribands from his head, intend¬ 
 ing to crown Agathon, and had them before his eyes; 
 this prevented him from seeing Socrates, who made 
 way for him, and Alcibiades took the vacant place 
 between Agathon and Socrates, and in taking the 
 place he embraced Agathon and crowned him. Take 
 off his sandals, said Agathon, and let him make a 
 third on the same couch. 
 
 By all means; but who makes the third partner in 
 our revels? said Alcibiades, turning round and start¬ 
 ing up as he caught sight of Socrates. By Heracles, 
 he said, what is this? here is Socrates always lying in 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 345 
 
 wait for me, and always, as his w r ay is, coming out at 
 all sorts of unsuspected places: and now, what have 
 you to say for yourself, and why are you lying here, 
 where I perceive that you have contrived to find a 
 place, not by a professor or lover of jokes, like 
 Aristophanes, but by the fairest of the company? 
 
 Socrates turned to Agathon and said: I must ask 
 you to protect me, Agathon; for this passion of his 
 has grown quite a serious matter. Since I became 
 his admirer I have never been allowed to speak to any 
 other fair one, or so much as to look at them. If I do 
 he goes wild with envy and jealousy, and not only 
 abuses me but can hardly keep his hands off me, and 
 at this moment he may do me some harm. Please to 
 see to this, and either reconcile me to him, or, if he 
 attempts violence, protect me, as I am in bodily fear 
 of his mad and passionate attempts. 
 
 There can never be reconciliation between you and 
 me, said Alcibiades; but for the present I will defer 
 your chastisement. And I must beg you, Agathon, to 
 give me back some of the ribands that I may crown 
 the marvellous head of this universal despot — I 
 would not have him complain of me for crowning you, 
 and neglecting him, who in conversation is the con¬ 
 queror of all mankind; and this not once only, as you 
 were the day before yesterday, but always. Then 
 taking some of the ribands, he crowned Socrates, and 
 again reclined. When he had lain down again, he 
 said: You seem, my friends, to be sober, which is a 
 thing not to be endured; you must drink — for that 
 was the agreement which I made with you — and I 
 elect myself master of the feast until you are well 
 drunk. Let us have a large goblet, Agathon, or 
 rather, he said, addressing the attendant, bring me 
 that wine-cooler. The wine-cooler was a vessel hold¬ 
 ing more than two quarts which caught his eye — 
 
346 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 this he filled and emptied, and bid the attendant 
 fill it again for Socrates. Observe, my friends, said 
 Alcibiades, that my ingenious device will have no 
 effect on Socrates, for he can drink any quantity of 
 wine and not be at all nearer being drunk. Socrates 
 drank the cup which the attendant filled for him. 
 
 Eryximachus said: What is this, Alcibiades? Are 
 we to have neither conversation nor singing over our 
 cups; but simply to drink as if we were thirsty? 
 
 Alcibiades replied: Hail, worthy son of a most wise 
 and worthy sire. 
 
 The same to you, said Eryximachus; but what shall 
 we do? 
 
 That I leave to you, said Alcibiades. 
 
 “ The wise physician skilled our wounds to heal ” 
 
 shall prescribe and we will obey. What do you want? 
 
 Well, Eryximachus said: Before you appeared a 
 resolution was agreed to by us that each one in turn 
 should speak a discourse in praise of love, and as good 
 a one as he could: this was passed round from left to 
 right; and as all of us have spoken, and you have 
 not spoken but have well drunken, you ought to speak, 
 and then impose upon Socrates any task which you 
 please, and he on his right hand neighbor, and so on. 
 
 That is good, Eryximachus, said Alcibiades; and 
 yet the comparison of a drunken man’s speech with 
 those of sober men is hardly fair; and I should like to 
 know, sweet friend, whether you really believe what 
 Socrates was just now saying; for I can assure you 
 that the very reverse is the fact, and that if I praise 
 any one but himself in his presence, whether God or 
 man, he will hardly keep his hands off me. 
 
 For shame, said Socrates. 
 
 By Poseidon, said Alcibiades, there is no use in 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 347 
 
 
 your denying this, for no creature will I praise in your 
 presence. 
 
 Well then take your own course, said Eryximachus, 
 and if you like praise Socrates. 
 
 What do you think, Eryximachus? said Alcibiades; 
 shall I attack him and inflict the punishment in your 
 presence? 
 
 What are you about? said Socrates; are you going 
 to raise a laugh at me? Is that the meaning of your 
 praise ? 
 
 I am going to speak the truth, if you will permit 
 me. 
 
 I not only permit you but exhort you to speak the 
 truth. 
 
 Then I will begin at once, said Alcibiades, and if I 
 say anything that is not true, you may interrupt me 
 if you will, and say that I speak falsely, though my 
 intention is to speak the truth. But you must not 
 wonder if I speak any how as things come into my 
 mind; for the fluent and orderly enumeration of all 
 your wonderful qualities is not a task the accomplish¬ 
 ment of which is easy to a man in my condition. 
 
 < I shall praise Socrates in a figure which shall ap¬ 
 pear to him to be a caricature, and yet I do not mean 
 to laugh at him, but only to speak the truth. I say 
 then, that he is exactly like the masks of Silenus, 
 which may be seen sitting in the statuaries’ shops, 
 having pipes and flutes in their mouths; and they are 
 made to open in the middle, and there are images of 
 gods inside them. I say also that he is like Marsyas 
 the satyr. You will not deny, Socrates, that your 
 face is like that of a satyr. Aye, and there is a re¬ 
 semblance in other points too. For example, you are 
 a bully, — that I am in a position to prove by the 
 
 evidences of witnesses, if vou will not confess. And 
 
 * • 
 
 are you not a flute-player? That you are, and a far 
 
348 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 more wonderful performer than Marsyas. For he 
 indeed with instruments charmed the souls of men 
 by the power of his breath, as the performers of his 
 music do still: for the melodies of Olympus are 
 derived from the teaching of Marsyas, and these, 
 whether they are played by a great master or by a 
 miserable flute-girl, have a power which no others 
 have; they alone possess the soul and reveal the wants 
 of those who have needs of gods and mysteries, be¬ 
 cause they are inspired. But you produce the same 
 effect with the voice only, and do not require the flute: 
 that is the difference between you and him. When 
 we hear any other speaker, even a very good one, his 
 words produce absolutely no effect upon us in com¬ 
 parison, whereas the very fragments of you and your 
 words, even at second-hand, and however imperfectly 
 repeated, amaze and possess the souls of every man, 
 woman, and child who comes within hearing of them. 
 And if I were not afraid that you would think me 
 drunk, I would have sworn as well as spoken to the 
 influence which they have always had and still have 
 over me. For my heart leaps within me more than 
 that of any Corybantian reveller, and my eyes rain 
 tears when I hear them. And I observe that many 
 others are affected in the same way. I have heard 
 Pericles and other great orators, but though I thought 
 that they spoke well, I never had any similar feeling; 
 my soul was not stirred by them, nor was I angry at 
 the thought of my own slavish state. But this Mar¬ 
 syas has often brought me to such a pass, that I have 
 felt as if I could hardly endure the life which I am 
 leading (this, Socrates, you admit) ; and I am con¬ 
 scious that if I did not shut my ears against him, and 
 fly from the voice of the siren, he would detain me until 
 I grew old sitting at his feet. For he makes me con¬ 
 fess that I ought not to live as I do, neglecting the 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 349 
 
 wants of my own soul, and busying myself with the 
 concerns of the Athenians; therefore I hold my ears 
 and tear myself away from him. And he is the only 
 person who ever made me ashamed, which you might 
 think not to be in my nature, and there is no one else 
 who does the same. For I know that I can not answer 
 him or say that I ought not to do as he bids, but 
 when I leave his presence the love of popularity gets 
 the better of me. And therefore I run away and fly 
 from him, and when I see him I am ashamed of what 
 I have confessed to him. And many a time I wish 
 that he were dead, and yet I know that I should be 
 much more sorry than glad, if he were to die: so that 
 I am at my wit’s end. 
 
 And this is what I and many others have suffered 
 from the flute-playing of this satyr. Yet hear me 
 once more while I show you how exact the image is, 
 and how marvellous his power. For I am sure that 
 none of you know him; but I know him and will de¬ 
 scribe him, as I have begun. See you how fond he is 
 of the fair? He is always with them and is always 
 being smitten by them, and then again he knows noth¬ 
 ing and is ignorant of all things — that is the appear¬ 
 ance which he puts on. Is he not like a Silenus in 
 this? Yes, surely: that is, his outer mask, which is 
 the carved head of the Silenus; but when he is opened, 
 w T hat temperance there is, as I may say to you, O my 
 companions in drink, residing within. Know you that 
 beauty and wealth and honor, at which the many won¬ 
 der, are of no account with him, and are utterly de¬ 
 spised by him: he regards not at all the persons who 
 are gifted with them; mankind are nothing to him; 
 all his life is spent in mocking and flouting at them. 
 But when I opened him, and looked within at his seri¬ 
 ous purpose, I saw in him divine and golden images 
 of such fascinating beauty that I was ready to do in 
 
350 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 a moment whatever Socrates commanded: (they may 
 have escaped the observation of others, but I saw 
 them). Now I thought that he was seriously enam¬ 
 ored of my beauty, and this appeared to be a grand 
 opportunity of hearing him tell what he knew, for I 
 had a wonderful opinion of the attractions of my 
 youth. In the prosecution of this design, when I next 
 went to him, I sent away the attendant who usually 
 accompanied me (I will confess the w T hole truth, and 
 beg you to listen; and if I speak falsely, do you, Soc¬ 
 rates, expose the falsehood). Well, he and I were 
 alone together, and I thought that when there was 
 nobody with us, I should hear him speak the language 
 of love as lovers do, and I was delighted. Not a word; 
 he conversed as usual, and spent the day with me and 
 then went away. Afterwards I challenged him to 
 the palaestra; and he wrestled and closed with me 
 several times alone; I fancied that I might succeed 
 in this way. Not a bit; there was no use in that. 
 Lastly, as I had failed hitherto, I thought that I must 
 use stronger measures and attack him boldly, as I had 
 begun, and not give him up until I saw how the mat¬ 
 ter stood. So I invited him to supper, just as if he 
 were a fair youth, and I a designing lover. He was 
 not easily persuaded to come; he did, however, after 
 a while accept the invitation, and when he came the 
 first time, he wanted to go away at once as soon as 
 supper was over, and I had not the face to detain him. 
 The second time, still in pursuance of my design, after 
 we had supped, I w r ent on conversing far into the 
 night, and when he wanted to go away, I pretended 
 that the hour was late and that he had better remain. 
 So he lay down on the next couch to me, the same 
 on which he had supped, and there was no one else 
 in the apartment. All this may be told without shame 
 to any one. But what follows I could hardly tell you 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 351 
 
 if I were sober. Yet as the proverb says, “ In vino 
 veritas,” whether there is in boys or not; and there¬ 
 fore I must speak. Nor, again, should I be justified 
 in concealing the lofty actions of Socrates as I come 
 to praise him. Moreover I have felt the pang; and 
 he who has suffered, as they say, is willing to tell his 
 fellow-sufferers only, as they alone will be likely to 
 understand him, and will not be extreme in judging 
 of the sayings or doings which have been wrung from 
 his agony. For I have been bitten by the viper too; 
 I have known in my soul, or in my heart, or in some 
 other part, that worst of pangs, more violent in in¬ 
 genuous youth than any serpent’s tooth, the pang of 
 philosophy, which will make a man say or do anything. 
 And you whom I see around me, your Phaedrus, your 
 Agathon, your Eryximachus, your Pausanias, your 
 Aristodemus, your Aristophanes, all of you, and I 
 need not say Socrates himself, have all had experience 
 of the same madness and passion of philosophy. 
 Therefore listen and excuse my doings then and my 
 sayings now. But let the attendants and other pro¬ 
 fane and unmannered persons close the doors of their 
 ears. 
 
 When the lamp was put out and the servants had 
 gone away, I thought that I must be plain with him 
 and have no more ambiguity. So I gave him a shake, 
 and I said: “ Socrates, are you asleep?” “ No,” he 
 said. “ Do you know what I am meditating? ” 
 “ What is that? ” he said. “ I think,” I replied, “ that 
 of all the lovers whom I have ever had you are the 
 only one who is worthy of me, and you appear to be 
 too modest to speak. Now I feel that I should be a 
 fool to refuse you this or any other favor, and there¬ 
 fore I come to lay at your feet all that I have and all 
 that my friends have, in the hope that you will assist 
 me in the way of virtue, which I desire above all things, 
 
352 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 and in which I believe that you can help me better 
 than any one else. And I am certainly of opinion 
 that I should have more reason to be ashamed of 
 what wise men would say if I were to refuse a favor 
 to such as you, than of what fools would say if I 
 granted it.” When he heard this, he said in his iron¬ 
 ical manner: “ Friend Alcibiades, you have indeed an 
 elevated aim if what you say is true, and if there 
 really is in me any power by which you may become 
 better; truly you must see in me some rare beauty 
 of a kind infinitely higher than that which I see in 
 you. And if, seeing this, you mean to share with me 
 and to exchange beauty for beauty, you will have 
 greatly the advantage of me; you will gain real 
 beauty in return for appearance — gold in exchange 
 for brass. But look again, sweet friend, and see 
 whether you are not deceived in me. The mind begins 
 to grow critical when the bodily eye fails, and you 
 have not come to that yet.” Hearing this, I said: 
 “ I have told you my purpose, which is quite serious, 
 and do you consider what you think best for you and 
 me.” “ That is good,” he said; “ at some other time 
 then we will consider and act as seems best about this 
 and about other matters.” When I heard this answer, 
 I fancied that he was smitten, and that my arrows had 
 wounded him, and so without waiting to hear more I 
 got up, and throwing my coat about him crept under 
 his threadbare cloak, as the time of year was winter, 
 and there I lay during the whole night having this 
 wonderful monster in my arms. You won’t deny 
 this, Socrates. And yet, notwithstanding all this, he 
 was so superior to my solicitations, so contemptuous 
 and derisive and disdainful of my beauty which 
 really, as I believe, had some attractions — hear, O 
 judges; for judges you shall be of the haughty virtue 
 of Socrates — that*in the morning when I awoke 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 353 
 
 (let all the gods and goddesses be my witnesses) I 
 arose as from the couch of a father or an elder brother. 
 
 What do you suppose must have been my feelings 
 after this rejection at the thought of my own dis¬ 
 honor? And yet I could not help wondering at his 
 natural temperance and self-restraint and courage. 
 
 I never could have thought that I should have met 
 with a man like him in wisdom and endurance. 
 Neither could I be angry with him or renounce his 
 company, any more than I could hope to win him. 
 For I well knew that if Ajax could not be wounded 
 by steel, much less he by moneyand I had failed in 
 my only chance of captivating him. So I wandered 
 about and was at my wit’s end; no one was ever more 
 hopelessly enslaved by another. All this, as I should 
 explain, happened before he and I went on the expe¬ 
 dition to Potidaea; there we messed together, and I 
 had the opportunity of observing his extraordinary 
 power of sustaining fatigue and going without food 
 when our supplies were intercepted at any place, as 
 will happen with an army. In the faculty of endur¬ 
 ance he was superior not only to me but to everybody; 
 there was no one to be compared to him. Yet at a 
 festival he was the only person who had any real pow¬ 
 ers of enjoyment, and though not willing to drink, 
 he could if compelled beat us all at that, and the most 
 wonderful thing of all was that no human being had 
 ever seen Socrates drunk; and that, if I am not mis¬ 
 taken, will soon be tested. His endurance of cold 
 was also surprising. There was a severe frost, for 
 the winter in that region is really ti emendous, and 
 everybody else either remained indoors, 01 if they 
 went out had on no end of clothing, and were well 
 shod, and had their feet swathed in felt and fleeces: 
 in the midst of this, Socrates, with his bare feet on the 
 ice, and in his ordinary dress, marched bettei than any 
 
354 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 of the other soldiers who had their shoes on, and they 
 looked daggers at him because he seemed to despise 
 them. 
 
 I have told you one tale, and now I must tell you 
 another, which is worth hearing, of the doings and 
 sufferings of this enduring man while he was on the 
 expedition. One morning he was thinking about some¬ 
 thing which he could not resolve; and he would not 
 give up, but continued thinking from early dawn until 
 noon — there he stood fixed in thought; and at noon 
 attention was drawn to him, and the rumor ran 
 through the wondering crowd that Socrates had been 
 standing and thinking about something ever since the 
 break of day. At last, in the evening after supper, 
 some Ionians out of curiosity (I should explain that 
 this was not in winter but in summer), brought out 
 their mats and slept in the open air that they might 
 watch him and see whether he would stand all night. 
 There he stood all night as well as all day and the 
 following morning; and with the return of light he 
 offered up a prayer to the sun, and went his way. I 
 will also tell, if you please — and indeed I am bound 
 to tell — of his courage in battle; for who but he 
 saved my life? Now this was the engagement in 
 which I received the prize of valor: for I was wounded 
 and he would not leave me, but he rescued me and my 
 arms; and he ought to have received the prize of 
 valor which the generals wanted to confer on me 
 partly on account of my rank, and I told them so 
 (this Socrates will not impeach or deny), but he was 
 more eager than the generals that I and not he should 
 have the prize. There was another occasion on which 
 he was very noticeable; this was in the flight of the 
 army after the battle of Delium, and I had a better 
 opportunity of seeing him than at Potidaea as I was 
 myself on horseback, and therefore comparatively out 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 355 
 
 of danger. He and Laches were retreating as the 
 troops were in flight, and I met them and told them 
 not to be discouraged, and promised to remain with 
 them; and there you might see him, Aristophanes, as 
 you describe, just as he is in the streets of Athens, 
 stalking like a pelican, and rolling his eyes, calmly 
 contemplating enemies as well as friends, and making 
 very intelligible to anybody, even from a distance, 
 that whoever attacks him will be likely to meet with 
 a stout resistance; and in this way he and his com¬ 
 panion escaped — for these are the sort of persons 
 who are never touched in war; they only pursue those 
 who are running away headlong. I particularly ob¬ 
 served how superior he was to Laches in presence of 
 mind. Many are the wonders of Socrates which I 
 might narrate in his praise; most of his ways might 
 perhaps be paralleled in others, but the most astonish¬ 
 ing thing of all is his absolute unlikeness to any human 
 being that is or ever has been. You may imagine 
 Brasidas and others to have been like Achilles; or you 
 may imagine Nestor and Antenor to have been like 
 Pericles; and the same may be said of other famous 
 men, but of this strange being you will never be able 
 to find any likeness however remote, either among 
 men who now are or who ever have been, except that 
 which I have already suggested of Silenus and the 
 satyrs; and this is an allegory not only of himself, 
 but also of his words. For, although I forgot to men¬ 
 tion this before, his words are ridiculous when you 
 first hear them; he clothes himself in language that 
 is as the skin of the wanton satyr — for his talk is of 
 pack-asses and smiths and cobblers and curriers, and 
 he is always repeating the same things in the same 
 words, so that an ignorant man who did not know him 
 might feel disposed to laugh at him; but he who 
 pierces the mask and sees what is within will find that 
 
356 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 they are the only words which have a meaning in them, 
 and also the most divine, abounding in fair examples 
 of virtue, and of the largest discourse, or rather ex¬ 
 tending to the whole duty of a good and honorable 
 
 man. 
 
 This, friends, is my praise of Socrates. I have 
 added my blame of him for his ill-treatment of me; 
 and he has ill-treated not only me, but Charmides the 
 son of Glaucon, and Euthydemus the son of Diodes, 
 and many others in the same way — beginning as 
 their lover he has ended by making them pay their 
 addresses to him. Wherefore I say to you, Agathon, 
 “ Be not deceived by him; learn from me and take 
 warning, and don’t be a fool and learn by experience, 
 as the proverb says. 
 
 When Alcibiades had done speaking, there was a 
 laugh at his plainness of speech, as he seemed to be 
 still in love with Socrates. You are sober, Alcibiades, 
 said Socrates, or you would never have gone about to 
 hide the purpose of your satyr’s praises, for all this 
 long story is only an ingenious circumlocution, the 
 point of which comes in by the way at the end; you 
 want to get up a quarrel between me and Agathon, 
 and your notion is that I ought to love you and no¬ 
 body else, and that you and you only ought to love 
 Agathon. But the plot of this Satyric or Silemc 
 drama has been detected, and you must not allow him, 
 Agathon, to set us at variance. 
 
 I believe you are right, said Agathon, and I am 
 disposed to think that his intention in placing himself 
 between you and me was only to divide us; but he 
 shall gain nothing by that move, as I will go and lie 
 in the couch next to you. 
 
 Yes, yes, replied Socrates, by all means come here 
 
 and lie on the couch below me. 
 
 Alas, said Alcibiades, how am I fooled by this man; 
 
THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 357 
 
 he is determined to get the better of me at every turn. 
 
 I do beseech you, allow Agathon to lie between us. 
 
 Impossible, said Socrates, as you praised me, and I 
 ought to praise my neighbor on the right, he will be 
 out of order in praising me again when he ought 
 rather to be praised by me, and I must entreat you to 
 consent to this, and not be jealous, for I have a great 
 desire to praise the youth. 
 
 Ha! ha! cried Agathon, I will rise instantly, that 
 
 I may be praised by Socrates. 
 
 The usual way, said Alcibiades, where Socrates is, 
 no one else has any chance with the fair, and now how 
 readily has he invented a specious reason for attract¬ 
 ing Agathon to himself. 
 
 Agathon arose in order that he might take his place 
 on the couch by Socrates, when suddenly a band of 
 revellers entered, and spoiled the order of the banquet. 
 Some one who was going out having left the door 
 open, they had found their way in, and made them¬ 
 selves at home; great confusion ensued, and every one 
 was compelled to drink large quantities of wine. Aris- 
 todemus said that Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others 
 went away — he himself fell asleep, and as the nights 
 were long took a good rest: he was awakened towards 
 daybreak by a crowing of cocks, and when he awoke, 
 the others were either asleep, or had gone away; there 
 remained awake only Socrates, Aristophanes, and 
 Agathon, who were drinking out of a large goblet 
 which they passed round, and Socrates was discours¬ 
 ing to them. Aristodemus did not hear the beginning 
 of the discourse, and he was only half awake, but the 
 chief thing which he remembered, was Socrates insist¬ 
 ing to the other two that the genius of comedy was the 
 same as that of tragedy, and that the writer of tragedy 
 ought to be a writer of comedy also. To this they were 
 compelled to assent, being sleepy, and not quite under- 
 
358 
 
 THE SYMPOSIUM 
 
 standing his meaning. And first of all Aristophanes 
 dropped, and then, when the day was already dawn¬ 
 ing, Agathon. Socrates, when he had put them to 
 sleep, rose to depart, Aristodemus, as his manner was, 
 following him. At the Lyceum he took a bath and 
 passed the day as usual; and when evening came he 
 retired to rest at his own home. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 

 / 
 
 _ 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Phaedrus is closely connected with the Symposium, and 
 may be regarded either as introducing or following it. The two 
 Dialogues together contain the whole philosophy of Plato on 
 the nature of love, which in the Republic and in tbe V»*er writings 
 of Plato is only introduced playfully or as a figure of speech. 
 But in the Phaedrus and Symposium love and philosophy join 
 hands, and one is an aspect of the other. The spiritual and emo¬ 
 tional part is elevated into the ideal, to which in the Symposium 
 mankind are described as looking forward, and which in the 
 Phaedrus, as well as in the Phaedo, they are seeking to recover 
 from a former state of existence. Whether the subject of the 
 Dialogue is love or rhetoric, or the union of the two, or the rela¬ 
 tion of philosophy to love and to art in general, will be hereafter 
 considered. 
 
 Phaedrus has been passing the day with Lysias, the celebrated 
 rhetorician, and is going to refresh himself by taking a walk 
 outside the wall, when he is met by Socrates, who professes that 
 he will not leave him until he has delivered up the speech with 
 which Lysias has regaled him, and which he is carrying about 
 in his mind, or more probably in a book hidden under his cloak, 
 and is intending to study as he walks. The imputation is not 
 denied, and the two agree to direct their steps out of the public 
 way along the stream of the Ilissus towards a plane-tree which 
 is seen in the distance. There, lying down amidst pleasant 
 sounds and scents, they will read the speech of Lysias. The 
 country is a novelty to Socrates, who never goes out of the town; 
 and hence he is full of admiration for the beauties of nature, 
 of which he seems for the first time to be conscious. 
 
 In the course of their walk Phaedrus asks the opinion of 
 Socrates respecting the local tradition of Boreas and Oreithyia. 
 Socrates, after a satirical allusion to the “ rationalizers ” of his 
 day, replies that he has no time for these “ nice ” interpretations 
 of mythology; “the proper study of mankind is man,” who is 
 a far more complex and wonderful being than the serpent Ty- 
 phon. When they have reached the plane-tree, Phaedrus pulls 
 out the speech and reads. 
 
 361 
 
362 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 The speech consists of a foolish paradox which is to the effect 
 that the non-lover ought to be accepted rather than the lover — 
 because he is more rational, more'agreeable, more enduring, less 
 suspicious, less hurtful, less bt istful, less engrossing, and be¬ 
 cause there are more of them, and for a great many other reasons 
 which are equally unmeaning. Phaedrus is captivated with the 
 beauty of the periods, and wants to make Socrates say that noth¬ 
 ing was or ever could be better written. Socrates does not think 
 much of the matter, but then he has only attended to the form, and 
 in the form he thinks that he has detected repetitions and other 
 marks of haste. He can not agree with Phaedrus in the ex¬ 
 treme value which he sets upon this performance, because he is 
 afraid of doing injustice to Anacreon and Sappho and other 
 great writers, and is almost inclined to think that he himself, 
 or rather some power residing within him, could make a speech 
 better than that of Lysias on the same theme, and also different 
 from his, if he may be allowed to have a few commonplaces 
 which all speakers must equally employ. 
 
 Phaedrus is delighted at the prospect of having another speech, 
 and promises that he will set up a golden statue of Socrates at 
 Delphi, if he keeps his word. Some raillery ensues, and at 
 length Socrates, conquered by the threat that he shall never hear 
 a speech of Lysias again unless he fulfils his promise, veils his 
 face and begins. 
 
 The first part of his speech is a somewhat prosaic discussion 
 of the opposition between desire and opinion guided by reason. 
 But he has not proceeded far when he fancies that he detects 
 in himself an unusual flow of eloquence — this he can only at¬ 
 tribute to the inspiration of the place, which appears to be dedi¬ 
 cated to the nymphs. Starting from the philosophical basis which 
 has been already laid down, he ^proceeds to show how many 
 advantages the non-lover has over the lover. The one leads to 
 softness and poverty and exclusiveness, and is full of all sorts 
 of unpleasantness; “crabbed age and youth” have to “live 
 together,” and the sight and the ways of the old are mighty 
 disagreeable to the young. Or if they part company, then the 
 spectacle may be seen of the lover running away from the be¬ 
 loved, who pursues him with vain reproaches, and demands his 
 reward which the other refuses to pay. The lover turns vir¬ 
 tuous when the hour of payment arrives, and the beloved learns 
 too late, after all his pains and disagreeables, that as wolves 
 love lambs so lovers love their loves. Here is the end; the 
 “ other ” or “ non-lover ” part of the speech had better be under- 
 
INTRODUCTION 363 
 
 / / 
 
 r 
 
 stood, for if in the censure of the lover Socrates has broken out 
 in verse, what will he do in his prakgp of -the : non-lover ? He has 
 said his say and is preparing to go 
 
 Phaedrus begs him to remain, at 'Tintil the heat of 
 
 noon has passed; he thinks that they *tiaay aS*ayell have a little 
 ;more conversation before they go. has risen to 
 
 go, recognizes the oracular sign which forbSd^«1jli^lte> p depart until 
 he has done penance. His conscience has^Jfeeni^^kened, and 
 like Stesichorus over Helen he will sing a palinode fjor having 
 blasphemed the majesty of love. His palinoqHMHHwie form 
 of a myth. iri hii*. 
 
 Socrates begins his tale with a glorification of ifiadsdes'S* which 
 he divides into four kinds: first, there is th e art of! 
 or prophecy — this, in a vein similar to that of the he 
 
 connectiTwith madness by an etymological explanation :(“ ’tis 
 all one reckoning, save the phrase is a little variations ”) ; isec- 
 ondly, ther e is the art of purificati on by mysteries; jthirdly, 
 poe frv or the inspiration of the Muses, without which no man 
 can enter their temple. 5U”this shows that madness is one of 
 heaven’s blessings, and may sometimes be a great deal better 
 than sense. There is also a fourth kind of mad ness which cannot 
 be expHiaed-without inquiiingjiiii^ of JthejsoiiL 
 
 The soul is immortal, for she is the source of all motion both 
 in herself and in others. Of her true and divine form it would 
 be long to tell, but she may be described in a figure as a com¬ 
 posite being made up of a charioteer and a pair of winged steeds. 
 The steeds of the gods are immortal, but ours are one mortal 
 -and the other immortal. The immortal soul soars upwards into 
 "the heavens, but the mortal drops her plumes and is draggled 
 upon the earth. 
 
 Now the nature of the wifigs is to rise and carry the down¬ 
 ward element into the upper world — there to behold beauty, 
 ^wisdom, goodness, and the other things of God by which the 
 ■soul is nourished. On a certain day Zeus the lord of heaven goes 
 ■forth in a winged chariot; and an array of gods and demi-gods 
 land of human souls in their train, follows him. There are glori¬ 
 ous and blessed sights in the interior of heaven, and he who will 
 ay freely behold them. The great vision of all is seen at the 
 :ast of the gods, when they ascend the heights of heaven — all 
 it Hestia, who is left at home to keep house. The horses of the 
 ads glide readily upwards and stand upon the outside, and are 
 irried round in the revolutions of the spheres, and gaze upon the 
 orld beyond. But of this world beyond the heavens, who can 
 
364 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 tell? There is an essence formless, colorless, intangible, per¬ 
 ceived by the mind onhgtorcling above in the place of true knowl¬ 
 edge. The divine n^nj^Dfcher revolution enjoys this fair pros¬ 
 pect, and beholds temperance, and knowledge in their 
 
 everlasting esseiyp^i^YSe'i ^fulfilled w T ith the sight of them she | 
 returns home, jane 1 5. the t charioteer puts up the horses in their 
 stable, and £d4Hj|&3gi .ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink. This 
 is the life j^the gods; and the human soul tries to reach the 
 same he^46i^h#ifejardly succeeds; and sometimes the head of 
 the chariblfed^jrpes above, and sometimes sinks below the fair ! 
 visionAjfigHH|Wast obliged, after much contention, to turn away 
 an^lMlM^HPplain of truth. Yet if she has followed in the train j 
 n& ajMvi qjWpnd once beheld truth she is preserved harmless, and 
 is carried round in the next revolution of the spheres; and if I 
 always ^following, and always seeing the truth, then forever 
 har-mlfess. But if she drops her wings and falls to the earth, 
 then she takes the form of man, and the soul which has seen 
 most of the truth passes into a philosopher or lover; that which 
 has seen truth in the second degree, into a king or warrior; the 
 third, into a householder or money-maker; the fourth, into a 
 gymnast; the fifth, into a prophet, or mystic; the sixth, into 
 a poet, or imitator; the seventh, into a husbandman or crafts- I 
 man; the eighth, into a sophist, or demagogue; the ninth, into I 
 a tyrant. In all these conditions he who lives righteously im- I 
 proves, and he who lives unrighteously deteriorates his lot. Ten I 
 thousand years elapse before the souls of men in general can I 
 regain their first estate, and have their wings restored to them. I 
 And the soul of a man may descend into a beast, and return I 
 again into the form of man. But the form of man can only bell 
 acquired at all by those who have once beheld truth, for the soul I 
 of man alone apprehends the universal; and this is the recollec- I 
 tion of that knowledge which she attained when in the company j 
 of the gods. At the end of every thousand years the soul ha^l 
 another choice, and may go upwards or downwards. Only thJj 
 soul of a philosopher or loVer who has three times in successioiB 
 chosen the better life may receive wings and go her way in threJI 
 thousand years. 
 
 For the soul in her own nature having the vision of true beixB 
 remembers in her condition here those glorious sights of justiB 
 and temperance and wisdom and truth which she once gazed up* 
 when in company with the heavenly choir. Then she celebratB 
 holy mysteries and beheld blessed apparitions shining in puB 
 light, herself pure and not as yet entombed in the oyster-sheB 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 365 
 
 of the body. And still she is eager to depart, and like a bird 
 is fluttering and looking upwards, and is therefore esteemed 
 mad. Such a light of other days is spread over her when she 
 remembers that beauty which alone of the ideas has any visible 
 representation on earth. For wisdom has no outward form, and 
 is “ too dazzling bright for mortal eye.” Now the corrupted 
 nature, when blindly excited by the vision of beauty, only rushes 
 on to enjoy, and wallows like a quadruped in sensual pleasures. 
 But the true mystic, who has seen the many sights of bliss, when 
 he beholds a godlike form or face is ravished with delight, and 
 if he were not afraid of being thought mad he would fall down 
 and worship. Then the stiffened wing begins to relax and grow 
 again. At the sight of earthly beauty the memory of the heav¬ 
 enly is recalled; desire which has been imprisoned, pours over 
 the soul of the lover; the germ of the wing unfolds, and stings 
 and pangs at birth, like the cutting of teeth, are everywhere felt. 
 Father and mother, and goods and laws, and proprieties are 
 nothing to him; his beloved is his physician, who can alone cure 
 his pain. An apocryphal sacred writer says that mortals call 
 him love, but the immortals call him dove, or the winged one, in 
 order to represent the force of his wings — at any rat^this is 
 his nature. Now the characters of lovers depend upon*ths god 
 whom they followed in the other world, and they choose their 
 loves in this world accordingly. The followers of Ares are fierce 
 and violent; those of Zeus seek out some philosophical and im¬ 
 perial nature; the attendants of Here find a royal love; and in 
 like manner the followers of every god seek a love who is in his 
 likeness, and they communicate to him the nature which they 
 have received from their god. The manner in which they take 
 their love is as follows: — 
 
 I told you about the charioteer and two steeds, the one a noble 
 animal who is guided by word and admonition only, the other an 
 ill-looking villain who will hardly yield to blow or spur. To¬ 
 gether all three, who are a figure of the soul, approach the 
 vision of love. And now a conflict begins. The ill-conditioned 
 steed rushes on to enjoy, but the charioteer, who beholds the 
 beloved with awe, falls back in adoration, and forces both the 
 steeds on their haunches; again the evil steed rushes forwards 
 and pulls shamelessly. Then a still more fearful conflict ensues; 
 the charioteer dropping at the very start jerks violently the bit 
 from the clenched teeth of the brute, and pulling harder than 
 ever at the reins, covers his tongue and jaws with blood, and 
 forces him to rest his hocks and haunches with pain upon the 
 
366 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 ground. When this has happened several times, the villain is 
 tamed and humbled, and from that time forward the soul of the 
 lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear. And now 
 their bliss is consummated; the same image of love dwells in the 
 breast of either; and if they have self-control, they pass their 
 lives in the greatest happiness which is attainable by man — 
 they live masters of themselves and conquer in one of the three 
 heavenly victories. But if they choose the lower life of ambition 
 they may still have a happy destiny, though inferior, because 
 they have not the approval of the whole soul. At last they leave 
 the body and proceed on their pilgrim’s progress, and those who 
 have once begun can never go back. When the time comes they 
 receive their wings and fly away, and the lovers have the same 
 wings. 
 
 Socrates concludes: — 
 
 These are the blessings of love, and thus I have made my recan¬ 
 tation in finer language than before, but this was only in order 
 to please Phaedrus. If I said what was wrong at first, please 
 to attribute my error to Lysias, who ought to study philosophy 
 instead of rhetoric, and then he will not mislead his disciple 
 Phaedrus. 
 
 Phaedrus is afraid that he will lose conceit of Lysias, and that 
 Lysias will be out of conceit with himself, and leave off making 
 speeches, as the politicians have been deriding him. Socrates is 
 of opinion that there is small danger of this, and that the politi¬ 
 cians are themselves the great rhetoricians of the age, who desire 
 to obtain immortality by the authorship of laws, and therefore 
 there can be no disgrace, nothing with which anybody could 
 reproach Lysias in being a writer, but there may be disgrace in 
 being a bad one. 
 
 And what is good or bad writing or speaking? There is time 
 to consider that question. For by the discussion of such ques¬ 
 tions man lives, and not by the indulgence of bodily pleasures. 
 And the grasshoppers who are chirruping around may carry our 
 words to the Muses, who are their patronesses; for the grasshop¬ 
 pers were human beings themselves in a world before the Muses, 
 and when the Muses came they died of hunger for the love of 
 song. And they carry to them in heaven the report of those 
 who honor them on earth. 
 
 The first rule of good speaking is to know and speak truth; 
 true art is truth, says a Spartan proverb, whereas rhetoric is 
 a mode of enchanting the soul, which makes things appear good 
 and evil, like and unlike, according to the fancy of the speaker. 
 
 i 
 
CTION 
 
 * * S Jf* ‘.*X 
 
 >*»- yj'y* 3 . f 
 
 • 4*5 
 
 
 JV-’W. US 
 
 ^:tT { ' v i ' 
 
 i- - 
 
 Stilly mankind are deceiflBIBraHftjll at'once, but by degrees, and 
 therefore he who would SWaj^ii&gose on others or escape im¬ 
 position must know the truSf *° 
 
 Socrates then proposes tfflKk <fch<$y J %hall use the two speeches 
 as illustrations of the art ofiwi^ptfc'hic; first distinguishing be¬ 
 tween the debatable and undis}Mt2|d- f C^?tes of subjects. In the 
 debatable class there ought to^fe*o# f definition of all disputed 
 matters. But there was no sucru dotjflition in the speech of 
 Lysias; nor is there any order or effnftAction in his words any 
 more than in a nursery rhyme. Wit& tfei$>lh«*compares the reg¬ 
 ular divisions of the other speech, whk$r NtfaS fiis own (and yet 
 not his own, for the local deities must fifc^e inspired him). This 
 “ fancy ” of his will be found to embody8it>^i|)jtdnciples; first, 
 that of synthesis or the comprehension in a whole; 
 
 secondly, analysis, or the resolution of th^o wfocPte into parts. 
 These are the processes of division and gena*riti£afctori which are 
 so dear to the dialectician, that king of men. Blit this 4s dialectic 
 and not rhetoric; of which the remains are but Scantyorder 
 and arrangement have been subtracted. ThereM©* ntffcifi&g; teft 
 but a heap of “ ologies ” and other technical teri^Pi^ rhiiPtid fey 
 Theodorus, Evenus, Tisias, Gorgias, and others- 
 for everything, and who teach how to be short or l0nf>>al; p^&s&re. 
 Prodicus showed his good sense in saying that there b 
 
 thing than either being short or long, which was'to'bS^pL'.'iuCviU- 
 venient length. ° ^hl 
 
 Still, notwithstanding the absurdities* of Bolus and fifners, 
 rhetoric has great power in public assemblies. This, however, 
 is not given by these technical rules, but is the gift of genius. 
 The real art is always being confused by rhetoricians with the 
 preliminaries of the art. The perfection of oratory is the per¬ 
 fection of all things; but for this the art of rhetoric can do little, 
 and the art which does this little is of another kind from that 
 which is taught by the rhetoricians. 
 
 Pericles, the most accomplished of all speakers, derived his 
 art not from rhetoric but from the philosophy of nature which 
 he learned from Anaxagoras. The true rhetoric is like medicine, 
 and the rhetorician has to consider the natures of men's souls as 
 the physician considers the natures of their bodies. Such and 
 such persons are to be affected in this way, such and such others 
 in that; he must know the times and the seasons for saying this 
 or that. This is not an easy task, and this, if there be such an 
 art, is the art of rhetoric. 
 
 I know that there are some professors of the art who maintain 
 
that probability is 
 probability is engendered 
 
 n 
 
 uitr»K But we maintain that 
 
 ___ __ JEMBgjKs of the truth which is 
 
 best attained by the knowledge c tf truth, and that the aim of 
 
 the good man should nofeUcjitD -$»ease or persuade his fellow- 
 servants, but to pleasa'i&&i<$oad masters who are the gods. 
 Rhetoric has a fair begtomgt#a this. x 
 
 Enough of the art let us now proceed to consider 
 
 the true use of wjjitJngobflhere is an old Egyptian tale of 
 Theuth, the invent©#-j?*fci(Writing, showing his invention to the 
 god Thamuz, wh^iJtebll Mm that. he would only spoil men’s 
 memories and take -aw^j-ftheir understandings. From this tale, 
 which young Jtejpmfcswiu probably scorn, may be gathered the 
 lesson that ^tifi^gJisfrnferior to speech. For writing is like a 
 picture whichdofttij <|iye no answer to a question, and has only a 
 deceitful Utetocfc living creature. It has no power of adap¬ 
 tation, bufc< 5 $ 3 f$ iib« same words for all. It is a sort of bastard 
 and notiison of knowledge, and when an attack is 
 ^nade illegitimate progeny neither the parent nor any 
 
 one tJslbiS: to defend it. The husbandman will not seriously 
 
 ^ his seed in such a hot-bed or garden of Adonis; 
 
 he sow in the natural soil of the human soul which 
 
 jdt-prthi-. flMtkirth : and he will anticipate this natural process 
 jB^rjti&g, it at *11, only as a remedy against old age. The 
 uefwth will bft far nobler, and bring forth fruit not only 
 irn bis town but in other minds. 
 
 C&I conclusion of the',whole matter is just this, — that until 
 a man knows the truth, and the manner of adapting the truth to 
 y the natures of other men, he can not be a good orator; also, that 
 the living is better than the written word, and that the principles 
 of justice and truth when delivered by word of mouth are the 
 legitimate offspring of a man’s own bosom, and their lawful 
 descendants take up their abode in others. Such an orator as he 
 is who has them, you and I would fain become. And to all com¬ 
 posers in the world who are poets, orators, legislators, we hereby 
 announce that if their compositions are based upon these prin¬ 
 ciples then they are not only poets, orators, statesmen, but phi¬ 
 losophers. All the rest are mere flatterers and putters together 
 of words. This is the message which Phaedrus undertakes to 
 carry to Lysias from the local deities, and Socrates will himself 
 carry a similar message to his favorite Isocrates, whose future 
 distinction as a great rhetorician he prophesies. The heat of the 
 day has passed and, after offering up a prayer to Pan and the 
 nymphs, Socrates and Phaedrus depart. 
 
INTRODUCTION 369 
 
 There are two principal controversies which have been raised 
 about the Phaedrus; the first relates to the subject, the second 
 to the date of the Dialogue. 
 
 There seems to be a notion that the work of a great artist like 
 Plato could not fail in unity, and that the unity of a dialogue 
 requires a single subject. But the conception of unity really 
 applies in very different degrees and ways to different kinds of 
 art; to a statue, for example, far more than to any kind of 
 literary composition, and to some species of literature far more 
 than to others. Nor does the dialogue appear to be a style of 
 composition in which the requirement of unity is most stringent; 
 nor should the idea of unity derived from one sort of art 
 be hastily transferred to another. The double titles of several 
 of the Platonic Dialogues seem to indicate that this severer unity 
 was not attempted by Plato. The Republic is divided between 
 the search after justice and the construction of the ideal state; 
 the Parmenides between the criticism of the Platojiic ideas and 
 of the Eleatic one or being; the Gorgias between $fre art of 
 speaking and the nature of the good; the Sophist between the 
 detection of the Sophist and the correlation of ideas. \ The 
 Theaetetus, the Politicus, and the Philebus, have also digressions 
 which are but remotely connected with the main subject. 
 
 Thus the comparison of Plato’s other writings, as *sq 11 as the 
 reason of the thing, lead us to the conclusion that we are not to 
 expect to find one idea pervading a whole work, but one, two, 
 or more, as the invention of the writer may suggest or his fancy 
 wander. If each dialogue were confined to the development of a 
 single idea, this would appear on the face of the dialogue, nor 
 could any controversy be raised as to whether the Phaedrus 
 treated of love or rhetoric. But the truth is that Plato subjects 
 himself to no rule of this sort. Like every great artist he gives 
 unity of form to the different and apparently distracting topics 
 which he brings together. He works freely and is not to be 
 supposed to have arranged every part of the dialogue before 
 he begins to write. He fastens or weaves together the frame of 
 
 I hig discourse loosely and imperfectly, and which is the warp 
 Htt^which is the woof is not always easy to determine. 
 
 TheLsubjects of the Phaedrus (exclusive of the short introduc¬ 
 tory passage about mythology which is suggested by the local 
 tradition) are first the false or conventional art of rhetoric; 
 k&oni31y$love or the inspiration of beauty and knowledge which 
 is describe^ as madness; thirdly, dialectic or the art of composi¬ 
 tion and division; fourthly, the true rhetoric, which is based upon 
 
 Hi 
 
370 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 4 
 
 dialectic; fifthly, the superiority of the spoken over the written 
 word. The continuous thread which appears and reappears 
 throughout is rhetoric; this is the ground into which the rest of 
 the Dialogue is inlaid, in parts embroidered with fine words “ in 
 order to please Phaedrus.” The speech of Lysias, and the first 
 speech of Socrates are examples of the false rhetoric, as the 
 second speech of Socrates is adduced as an instance of the true. 
 But the true rhetoric is based upon dialectic, and dialectic is a 
 sort of inspiration akin to love; they are two aspects of philos¬ 
 ophy in which the technicalities of rhetoric are absorbed. Thus 
 the example becomes also the deeper theme of discourse* The 
 true knowledge of things in'heaven and earth is based upon 
 enthusiasm or love of the ideas; and the true order of speech or 
 writing proceeds according to them. Love, again, has three 
 degrees: first, of interested love corresponding to the convention¬ 
 alities of rhetoric; secondly, of disinterested or mad love, fixed 
 on objects of»sense and answering, perhaps, to poetry; thirdly, 
 of disinterested love directed towards the unseen, answering to 
 dialectj(f or the science of the ideas. Lastly, the art of rhetoric 
 in the? lower sense is found to rest on a knowledge of the natures 
 an# characters of men, which Socrates at the commencement of 
 the Dialogue has described as his own peculiar study. 
 
 Thus amid the appearance of discord a very tolerable degree 
 of uniformity begins to arise; there are many threads of con¬ 
 nection which are not visible at first sight. At the same time 
 the Phaedrus, although one of the most beautiful of the Platonic 
 dialogues, may be admitted to have more of the character of a 
 “ tour de force,” and has certainly more of the “ quidlibet 
 audendi potestas ” than any other. 
 
 The first speech is composed “ in that balanced style in which 
 the wise love to talk.” The characteristics of rhetoric are in¬ 
 sipidity, mannerism, and monotonous parallelism of clauses. 
 There is more rhythm than reason; the creative power of im¬ 
 agination is wanting. 
 
 “ ’Tis Greece, but living Greece no more.” 
 
 Plato has seized by anticipation the spirit which hung over 
 Greek literature for a thousand years afterwards. Yet doubtless 
 there were some who, like Phaedrus, felt a delight in the har¬ 
 monious cadence and the pedantic reasoning of the rhetoricians 
 newly imported from Sicily, which had ceased to be r aw^Kenea 
 in them by really great works, such as the poems of Anacreon or 
 Sappho or the orations of Pericles. That the fir it speech wasj 
 
 I 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 371 
 
 really written by Lysias is improbable. Like the poem of Solon, 
 or the story of Thamuz and. Theuth, or the funeral oration of 
 Aspasia (if genuine), or the pretence of Socrates in the Cratylus 
 that his knowledge of philology is derived from Euthyphro, the 
 invention is really due to the imagination of Plato, and may be 
 compared to the parodies of the Sophists in the Protagoras. 
 Numerous fictions of this sort occur in the dialogues, and the 
 gravity of Plato has sometimes imposed upon his commentators. 
 The introduction of a considerable writing of another would seem 
 not to be in keeping with a great work of art, and has no par¬ 
 allel elsewhere. 
 
 In the second speech Socrates is exhibited as beating the rhet¬ 
 oricians at their own weapons; he “an unpractised man and 
 they masters of the art.” True to his character he must, how¬ 
 ever, profess that the speech which he makes is not his own, for 
 he knows nothing of himself. The superiority of this speech 
 over the first seems to consist chiefly in a better arrangement 
 of the topics; a lesser merit is the greater liveliness of Socrates, 
 which hurries him into verse and relieves the monotony of the 
 style; and he gives an apparent weight to his words by going 
 back to general maxims. 
 
 Both speeches are strongly condemned by Socrates as sinful 
 and blasphemous towards the god Love, and as worthy only of 
 some haunt of sailors to which good manners were unknown. 
 The meaning of this and other wild language to the same effect, 
 which is introduced by way of contrast to the formality of the 
 two speeches (Socrates has a sense of relief when he has escaped 
 from the trammels of rhetoric) seems to be that the two speeches 
 proceed upon the supposition that love is and ought to be 
 interested, and that no such thing as a real or disinterested 
 passion, which would be at the same time lasting, could be con¬ 
 ceived. 
 
 This is what Socrates proposes to recant in the famous myth, 
 which is a sort of parable, and like other parables ought not to 
 receive too minute an interpretation. In all such allegories there 
 is a great deal which is merely ornamental, and the interpreter 
 has to separate the important from the unimportant. Socrates 
 himself has given the right clue when, in using his own discourse 
 afterwards as the text for his examination of rhetoric, he char¬ 
 acterizes it as a “ partly true and tolerably credible mythus, 
 in which amid poetical figures, order and arrangement were not 
 forgotten. 
 
 The soul is described in magnificent language as the self- 
 
 
 
372 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 moved and the source of motion in all other things. This is the 
 philosophical theme or proem of the whole. But ideas must be 
 given through something, and under the pretext that to realize 
 the true nature of the soul would be not only tedious but impos¬ 
 sible, we at once pass on to describe the souls of gods as well 
 as men under the figure of two winged steeds and a charioteer. 
 No connection is traced between the soul as the great motive 
 power and the triple soul which is thus imaged. There is no 
 difficulty in seeing that the charioteer represents the reason, or 
 that the black horse is the symbol of the sensual or concupiscent 
 element of human nature. The white horse also represents ra¬ 
 tional impulse, but the description, “ a lover of honor and mod¬ 
 esty and temperance, and a follower of true glory,” though 
 kindred, does not at once recall the “ spirit ” of the Republic. 
 The two steeds really correspond in a figure more nearly to the 
 appetitive and moral or semi-rational soul of Aristotle. And 
 thus for the first time, perhaps, in the history of philosophy, we 
 have represented to us the threefold division of psychology. 
 The image of the charioteer and the steeds has been compared 
 with a similar image which occurs in the verses of Parmenides; 
 but it is important to remark that the horses of Parmenides have 
 no allegorical meaning, and that the poet is only describing his 
 own approach in a chariot to the regions of light and the house 
 of the goddess of truth. 
 
 The triple soul has had a previous existence, in which follow¬ 
 ing in the train of some god, from whom she derived her char¬ 
 acter, she beheld partially and imperfectly the vision of absolute 
 truth. All her after existence, passed in many forms of men 
 and animals, is spent in regaining this. In the various stages 
 of this long struggle she is sorely let and hindered by the animal 
 desires of the inferior or concupiscent steed. Again and again 
 she beholds the flashing beauty of the beloved. But before that 
 vision can be finally enjoyed the animal desires must be sub- 
 j ected. 
 
 The moral or spiritual element in man is represented by the 
 immortal steed which, like Ov/aos in the Republic, always sides 
 with the reason. Both are dragged out of their course by the 
 furious impulses of desire. In the end something is conceded to 
 the desires, after they have been finally humbled and overpow¬ 
 ered. And yet the way of philosophy, or perfect love of the 
 unseen is total abstinence from bodily delights. “ But all men 
 can not receive this saying: ” in the lower life of ambition they 
 may be taken off their guard and stoop to folly unawares, and 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 373 
 
 then, although they do not attain to the highest bliss, yet if they 
 have once conquered they may be happy enough. 
 
 The language of the Meno and the Phaedo as well as of the 
 Phaedrus, seems to show that at one time of his life Plato was 
 quite serious in maintaining a former state of existence. His 
 mission was to realize the abstract; in that all good and truth, 
 all the hopes of this and another life seemed to centre. It was 
 another kind of knowledge to him — a second world distinct 
 from that of sense, which seemed to exist within him far more 
 truly than the fleeting objects of sense which are without him. 
 When we are once able to imagine the intense power which 
 abstract ideas exercised over the mind of Plato, we see that there 
 was no more difficulty to him in realizing the eternal existence 
 of them and of the human minds which were associated with 
 them — in the past and future than in the present. The diffi¬ 
 culty was not how they could exist, but how they could fail to 
 exist. In the attempt to regain this “ saving ” knowledge of 
 the ideas, the sense was found to be as great an enemy as the 
 desires; and hence two things which to us seem quite distinct 
 are inextricably blended in the representation of Plato. 
 
 Thus far we may believe that Plato was serious in his concep¬ 
 tion of the soul as a motive power, in his reminiscence of a 
 former state of being, in his elevation of the reason over sense 
 and passion, and perhaps in his doctrine of transmigration. 
 Was he equally serious in the rest? For example, are we to 
 attribute his tripartite division of the soul to the gods ? Or is 
 this merely assigned to them by way of parallelism with men? 
 The latter is the more probable; for the horses of the gods are 
 both white, i. e. their every impulse is in harmony with reason; 
 their dualism, on the other hand, only carries out the figure of 
 the chariot. Is he serious, again, in regarding love as “ a mad¬ 
 ness? ” That seems to arise out of the antithesis to the former 
 conception of love. At the same time he appears to intimate 
 here, as in the Ion, Apology, Meno, and elsewhere, that there 
 is a faculty in man, whether to be termed in modern language 
 genius, or inspiration, or idealism, which can not be reduced to 
 rule and measure. Perhaps, too, he is ironically repeating the 
 common language of mankind about philosophy, and is turning 
 their jest into a sort of earnest. Or is he serious in holding that 
 each soul bears the character of a god? Perhaps he had no 
 other account to give of the differences of human characters to 
 which he afterwards refers. It seems to be characteristic of 
 the irony of Socrates to mix up sense and nonsense in such a 
 
374 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 way that no exact line can be drawn between them. And allegory 
 helps to increase this sort of confusion. 
 
 As is often the case in the parables and prophecies of Scrip¬ 
 ture, the meaning is allowed to break through the figure, and 
 the details are not always consistent. When the charioteers and 
 their steeds stand upon the dome of heaven they behold the 
 intangible, invisible essences which are not objects of sight. 
 This is because the force of language can no further go. Nor 
 can we dwell much on the circumstance, that at the completion 
 of ten thousand years all are to return to the place from whence 
 they came; because he also represents this as dependent on 
 their own good conduct in the successive stages of existence. 
 Nor again can we attribute anything to the accidental inference 
 which would also follow, that even a tyrant may live righteously 
 in the condition of life to which fate has called him (“ he aiblins 
 might, I dinna ken”). But this would be much at variance 
 with Plato himself and with Greek notions generally. He is 
 much more serious in distinguishing men from animals by their 
 recognition of the universal which they have known in a former 
 state, and in denying that this gift of reason can ever be oblit¬ 
 erated or lost. In the language of some modern theologians he 
 might be said to maintain the “ final perseverance ” of those 
 who have entered on their pilgrim’s progress. Other intima¬ 
 tions of a “ metaphysic ” or “ theology ” of the future may also 
 be discerned in him: (1) The moderate predestinarianism which 
 here, as in the Republic, acknowledges the element of chance 
 in human life, and yet asserts the freedom and responsibility of 
 man; (2) The recognition of a moral as well as an intellectual 
 principle in man under the image of an immortal steed; (3) The 
 notion that the divine nature exists by the contemplation of 
 ideas of virtue and justice — or, in other words, the assertion 
 of the essentially moral nature of God; (4) Again, there is the 
 hint that human life is a life of aspiration only, and that the 
 true ideal is not to be found in art; (5) There occurs the first 
 trace of the distinction between certain and contingent matter; 
 (6) The conception of the soul itself as the motive power and 
 reason of the universe. 
 
 The conception of the philosopher, or the philosopher and 
 lover in one, as a sort of madman, may be compared with the 
 Republic and Theaetetus, in both of which the philosopher is 
 regarded as a stranger and monster upon the earth. The whole 
 myth, like the other myths of Plato, describes in a figure things 
 which are beyond the range of human faculties, or inaccessible 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 375 
 
 to the knowledge of the age. That philosophy should be rep¬ 
 resented as the inspiration of love is a conception that has al¬ 
 ready become familiar to us in the Symposium, and is the ex¬ 
 pression partly of Plato’s enthusiasm for the idea, and is also 
 an indication of the real power exercised by the passion of 
 friendship over the mind of the Greek. The master in the art 
 of love knew that there was a mystery in these feelings and 
 their associations, and especially in the contrast of the sensible 
 and permanent which is afforded by them; and he sought to 
 explain this, as he explained universal ideas, by a reference to 
 a former state of existence. The capriciousness of love is also 
 derived by him from an attachment to some god in a former 
 world. The singular remark that the beloved is more affected 
 than the lover at the final consummation of their love, seems like¬ 
 wise to have a psychological truth. 
 
 We may now pass on to the second part of the Dialogue, which 
 is a criticism on the first. Rhetoric is assailed on various 
 grounds: first, as expecting to deceive, without a knowledge 
 of the truth; and secondly, as ignoring the distinction between 
 certain and probable matter. The three speeches are then passed 
 in review: the first of them has no definition of the nature of 
 love, and no order in the topics (being in these respects far 
 inferior to the second) ; while the third of them is found (though 
 a fancy of the hour) to be framed upon real dialectical prin¬ 
 ciples. But dialectic is not rhetoric; nothing on that subject 
 is to be found in the endless treatises of rhetoric, however pro¬ 
 lific in hard names. When Plato has sufficiently put them to the 
 test of ridicule he touches, as with the point of a needle, the real 
 error of this as well as of much modern literature and writing 
 upon the arts, which is the confusion of preliminary knowledge 
 with creative power. No attainments will provide the speaker 
 with genius; and the sort of attainments which can alone be of 
 any value are the higher philosophy and the power of psycho¬ 
 logical analysis, which is given by dialectic, not by the rules of 
 the rhetoricians. 
 
 Dialectic may be variously defined, either as the power of 
 dividing a whole into parts, and of uniting the parts in a whole, 
 or as the process of the mind talking with herself. The latter 
 view seems to have led Plato to the paradox that speech is 
 superior to writing, in which he may seem also to be doing an 
 injustice to himself. For the truth is, that speech and writing 
 can not be fairly compared in the manner which Plato suggests. 
 The contrast of the living and dead word, as well as the exam- 
 
376 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 pie of Socrates, which he has represented in the form of the 
 dialogue, seem to have misled him. For speech and writing have 
 really different functions; the one is more transitory, more dif¬ 
 fuse, more elastic and capable of adaptation to moods and times; 
 the other is more permanent, more concentrated, and is uttered 
 not to this or that person or audience, but to all the world. In 
 the Politicus the paradox is carried further; the mind or will 
 of the king is preferred to the written law. 
 
 The chief criteria for determining the date of the Dialogue 
 are (1) the ages of Lysias and Isocrates; (2) the character of 
 the work. 
 
 Lysias was born in the year 458; Isocrates in the year 436, 
 about seven years before the birth of Plato. The first of the 
 two great rhetoricians is described as in the zenith of his fame; 
 the second as still young and full of promise. Now it is argued 
 that this must have been written in the youth of Isocrates, when 
 the promise was still unfulfilled. And thus we should have to 
 assign the Dialogue to a year not later than 406, when Isocrates 
 was thirty and Plato twenty-three years of age, and while Soc¬ 
 rates himself was still alive. 
 
 Those who argue in this way seem not to reflect how easily 
 Plato can “ invent Egyptians or anything else,” and how care¬ 
 less he is of historical truth or probability. Who would suspect 
 that the wise Critias, the virtuous Charmides, had ended their 
 lives among the thirty tyrants? Who would imagine that Lys¬ 
 ias, who is here assailed by Socrates, is the son of his old friend 
 Cephalus? Or that Isocrates himself is the enemy of Plato and 
 his school? No arguments can be drawn from the appropriate¬ 
 ness or inappropriateness of the characters of Plato. (Else, 
 perhaps, it might be further argued, that judging from their 
 extant remains, insipid rhetoric is far more characteristic of 
 Isocrates than of Lysias.) But Plato makes use of names which 
 have often hardly any connection with the historical characters 
 to whom they belong. In this instance the comparative favor 
 shown to Isocrates may possibly be accounted for by the cir¬ 
 cumstance of his belonging to the aristocratical, as Lysias to 
 the democratical party. 
 
 Few persons will be inclined to suppose, in the superficial 
 manner of some ancient critics, that a dialogue which treats of 
 love must necessarily have been written in youth. As little 
 weight can be attached to the argument that he had probably 
 visited Egypt before he wrote the story of Theuth and Thamuz. 
 For there is no real proof that he ever was in Egypt; and even 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 377 
 
 if he was, he might have known or invented Egyptian traditions 
 before he went there. The late date of the Phaedrus is really 
 to be proved by other arguments than these: the maturity of 
 the thought, the perfection of the style, the insight, the relation 
 to the other Platonic Dialogues, seem to contradict the notion 
 that it could have been the work of a youth of twenty or twenty- 
 three years of age. The cosmological notion of the mind as the 
 primum mobile, and the admission of impulse into the immortal 
 nature, afford grounds for assigning a much later date. Add 
 to this that the picture of Socrates, though in some lesser par¬ 
 ticulars, e. g. his going without sandals, his habit of remaining 
 within the walls, his emphatic declaration that his study is human 
 nature, an exact resemblance, is in the main the Platonic and 
 not the real Socrates. Can we suppose “ the young man to have 
 told such lies ” about his master while he was still alive? More¬ 
 over, when two Dialogues are so closely connected as the Phae¬ 
 drus and Symposium, there is great improbability in supposing 
 that one of them was written at least twenty years after the 
 other. The conclusion seems to be, that the Dialogue was writ¬ 
 ten at some comparatively late but unknown period of Plato’s 
 life, after he had deserted the purely Socratic point of view, but 
 before he had entered on the more abstract speculations of the 
 Sophist or the Philebus. Comparing the divisions of the soul, 
 the doctrine of transmigration, the isolation of the philosophic 
 life, and the general character of the style, we shall not be far 
 wrong in placing the Phaedrus in the neighborhood of the Re¬ 
 public; remarking only that allowance must be made for the 
 poetical element in the Phaedrus, which, while falling short of 
 the Republic in definite philosophic results, seems to have 
 glimpses of a truth beyond. 
 
 Two short passages, which are unconnected with the main 
 subject of the Dialogue, may seem to merit a more particular 
 notice: (1) the locus classicus about mythology; (2) the tale 
 of the grasshoppers. 
 
 The first passage is remarkable as showing that Plato was 
 entirely free from what may be termed the Euhemerism of his 
 age. (For there were Euhemerists in Greece before Euheme- 
 rus.) Other philosophers, like Anaxagoras, had found in Homer 
 and mythology hidden meanings. Plato, with a truer instinct, 
 rejects these attractive interpretations; he regards the invention 
 of them as an “ unfortunate ” way of employing a man s mind 
 and time. They are endless, and they draw a man off from the 
 knowledge of himself. There is a latent criticism, and also a 
 
378 
 
 PHAEDTtUS 
 
 poetical sense in Plato, which at once enable him to discard 
 them, and yet in another way to make the fullest use of poetry 
 and mythology as a vehicle of thought and feeling. The “ so¬ 
 phistical ” interest of Phaedrus, the little touch about the two 
 versions of the story, the ironical manner in which these expla¬ 
 nations are set aside, “ the common opinion about them is enough 
 for me,” may be noted in passing; also the general agreement 
 between the tone of this speech and the remark of Socrates which 
 follows afterwards, “ I am a diviner, but a poor one.” 
 
 The tale of the grasshoppers is naturally suggested by the 
 surrounding scene. Yet we must not forget also, that they are 
 the representatives of the Athenians as children of the soil. 
 Under the image of the lively chirruping grasshoppers who in¬ 
 form the Muses in heaven who honors them on earth, Plato 
 intends to represent an Athenian audience. The story is intro¬ 
 duced, apparently, to mark a change of subject, and also, like 
 several other allusions which occur in the course of the Dialogue, 
 in order to preserve the scene in the recollection of the reader. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE 
 Socrates. Phaedrus. 
 
 Scene :— Under a plane-tree, by the banks of the Ilissus. 
 
 Socrates. My dear Phaedrus, whence come you, 
 
 and whither are you going? 
 
 Phaedrus. I am come from Lysias the son of Ceph- 
 alus, and I am going to take a walk outside the wall, 
 for I have been with him ever since the early dawn, 
 which is a long while, and our common friend Acu- 
 menus advises me to walk in the country; he says that 
 this is far more refreshing than walking in the courts. 
 
 Soc. There he is right. Lysias then, I suppose, was 
 in the city? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, he was with Epicrates, at the house 
 of Morychus; that house which is near the temple of 
 Olympian Zeus. 
 
 Soc. And how did he entertain you? Can I be 
 wrong in supposing that Lysias gave you a feast of 
 discourse? 
 
 Phaedr. You shall hear, if you have leisure to stay 
 and listen. 
 
 Soc. And would I not regard the conversation of 
 you and Lysias as “ a thing of higher import,” as I 
 may say in the words of Pindar, “ than any busi- 
 ness? 
 
 Phaedr. Will you go on? 
 
 Soc. And will you go on with the narration? 
 
 Phaedr. My tale, Socrates, is one of your sort, for 
 the theme which occupied us was love — after a fash- 
 
 379 
 
380 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 ion: Lysias imagined a fair youth who was being 
 tempted, but not by a lover; and this was the point: 
 he ingeniously proved that the non-lover should be 
 accepted rather than the lover. 
 
 Soc. O that is noble of him. And I wish that he 
 would say a poor man rather than a rich, and an old 
 man rather than a young one; he should meet the 
 case of me, and all of us, and then his words would 
 indeed be charming, and of public utility; and I am 
 so eager to hear them that if you walk all the way 
 to Megara, and when you have reached the wall come 
 back, as Herodicus recommends, without going in, I 
 will not leave you. 
 
 Phaedr. What do you mean, Socrates? How can 
 you imagine that I, who am quite unpractised, can 
 remember or do justice to an elaborate work, which 
 the greatest rhetorician of the day spent a long time 
 in composing. Indeed, I can not; I would give a 
 great deal if I could. 
 
 Soc. I believe that I know Phaedrus about as well 
 as I know myself, and I am very sure that he heard 
 the words of Lysias, not once only, but again and 
 again he made him say them, and Lysias was very 
 willing to gratify him; at last, when nothing else 
 would satisfy him, he got hold of the book, and saw 
 what he wanted — this was hi.s morning’s occupation 
 — and then when he was tired with sitting, he went 
 out to take a walk, not until, as I believe, he had sim¬ 
 ply learned by heart the entire discourse, which may 
 not have been very long; and as he was going to take 
 a walk outside the wall in order that he might prac¬ 
 tise, he saw a certain lover of discourse who had the 
 same complaint as himself; — he saw and rejoiced; 
 now thought he, “ I shall have a partner in my revels.” 
 And he invited him to come with him. But when the 
 lover of discourse asked to hear the tale, he gave him- 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 381 
 
 self airs and said, “ No I can’t,” as if he didn’t like; 
 although, if the hearer had refused, the end would 
 have been that he would have made him listen whether 
 he would or no. Therefore, Phaedrus, as he will soon 
 speak in any case, begs him to speak at once. 
 
 Phaedr. As you don’t seem very likely to let me 
 off until I speak in some way, the best thing that I 
 can do is to speak as I best may. 
 
 Soc. That is a very true observation of yours. 
 
 Phaedr. I will do my best, for believe me, Socrates, 
 I did not learn the very words; O no, but I have a 
 general notion of what he said, and will repeat con¬ 
 cisely, and in order, the several arguments by which 
 the case of the non-lover was proved to be superior 
 to that of the lover; let me begin at the beginning. 
 
 Soc. Yes, my friend; but you must first of all show 
 what you have got in your left hand under your cloak, 
 for that roll, as I suspect, is the actual discourse. 
 Now, much as I love you, I would not have you sup¬ 
 pose that I am going to have your memory exercised 
 upon me, if you have Lysias himself here. 
 
 Phaedr. Enough; I see that I have no hope of 
 practising upon you. But if I am to read, where 
 would you please to sit? 
 
 Soc. Turn this way; let us go to the Ilissus, and 
 sit down at some quiet spot. 
 
 Phaedr. I am fortunate in not having my sandals, 
 and as you never have any, I think that we may go 
 along the brook and cool our feet in the water; this 
 is the easiest way, and at mid-day and in the summer 
 is far from being unpleasant. 
 
 Soc. Lead on, and look out for a place in which 
 we can sit down. 
 
 Phaedr. Do you see that tallest plane-tree in the 
 distance? 
 
 Soc. Yes. 
 
382 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Phaedr. There are shade and gentle breezes, and 
 grass on which we may either sit or he down. 
 
 Soc. Move on. 
 
 Phaedr . I should like to know, Socrates, whether 
 the place is not somewhere here at which Boreas is 
 said to have carried off Orithyia from the banks of the 
 Ilissus. 
 
 Soc. That is the tradition. 
 
 Phaedr. And is this the exact spot? The little 
 stream is delightfully clear and bright; I can fancy 
 that there might be maidens playing near. 
 
 Soc. I believe that the spot is not exactly here, but 
 about a quarter of a mile lower down, where you cross 
 to the temple of Agra, and I think that there is some 
 sort of altar of Boreas at the place. 
 
 Phaedr. I don’t recollect; but I wish that you 
 would tell me whether you believe this tale. 
 
 Soc. The wise are doubtful, and if, like them, I 
 also doubted, there would be nothing very strange 
 in that. I might have a rational explanation that 
 Orithyia was playing with Pharmacia, when a north¬ 
 ern gust carried her over the neighboring rocks; and 
 this being the manner of her death, she was said to 
 have been carried away by Boreas. There is a dis¬ 
 crepancy, however, about the locality, as according 
 to another version of the story she was taken from 
 the Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite 
 acknowledge that these explanations are very nice, 
 but he is not to be envied who has to give them; much 
 labor and ingenuity will be required of him; and 
 when he has once begun, he must go on and rehabil¬ 
 itate centaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and 
 winged steeds flow in apace, and numberless other 
 inconceivable and impossible monstrosities and mar¬ 
 vels of nature. And if he is sceptical about them, and 
 would fain reduce them all to the rules of probability. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 383 
 
 
 his sort of crude philosophy will take up all his time. 
 Now I have certainly not time for this; shall I tell 
 ;mu why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian 
 inscription says; and I should be absurd indeed, if 
 while I am still in ignorance of myself I were to be 
 curious about that which is not my business. And 
 therefore I say farewell to all this; the common opin¬ 
 ion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want 
 to know not about this, but about myself. Am I 
 indeed a wonder more complicated and swollen with 
 passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of a 
 (rentier and simpler sort, to whom Nature has given 
 a diviner and lowlier destiny ? But here let me ask 
 you, friend: Is not this the plane-tree to which you 
 
 were conducting us ? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, this is the tree. 
 
 Soc. Yes, indeed, and a fair and shady resting- 
 place, full of summer sounds and scents. There is the 
 lofty and spreading plane-tree, and the agnus castus 
 high and clustering, in the fullest blossom and the 
 greatest fragrance; and the stream which flows be¬ 
 neath the plane-tree is deliciously cold to the feet. 
 Judging from the ornaments and images, this must 
 be a spot sacred to Achelous and the Nymphs; more¬ 
 over, there is a sweet breeze, and the grasshoppers 
 chirrup; and the greatest charm of all is the grass 
 like a pillow gently sloping to the head. My deal 
 Phaedrus, you have been an admirable guide. 
 
 Phaedr. I always wonder at you, Socrates; for 
 when you are in the country, you really are like a 
 stranger who is being led about by a guide. Do you 
 ever cross the border? I rather think that you never 
 
 venture even outside the gates. . 
 
 Soc. Very true, my good friend; and I hope that 
 you will excuse me when you hear the leason, which 
 is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and the men who 
 
384 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 dwell in the city are my teachers, and not the trees 
 or the country. Though I do, indeed, believe thai 
 you have found a spell with which to draw me out oJ 
 the city into the country, as hungry cows are led b) 
 shaking before them a bait of leaves or fruit. Foi 
 only hold up the bait of discourse, and you may leac 
 me all round Attica, and over the wide world. Anc 
 now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do yoi 
 choose any posture in which you can read best. Begin 
 Phaedr. Listen. “ You know my views of oui 
 common interest, and I do not think that I ought tc 
 fail in the object of my suit, because I am not you] 
 lover: for the kindnesses of lovers are afterwards 
 regretted by them when their passion ceases, but non¬ 
 lovers have no time of repentance, because they arc 
 free and not subject to necessity, and they confer theii 
 benefits as far as they are able, in the way which is 
 most conducive to their own interest. Then again 
 lovers remember how they have neglected their inter¬ 
 ests, for the sake of their loves; they consider the 
 benefits which they have conferred on them; and wher 
 to these they add the troubles which they have en¬ 
 dured, they think that they have long ago paid al 
 that is due to them. But the non-lover has no suet 
 tormenting recollections; he has never neglected his 
 affairs or quarrelled with his relations; he has nc 
 troubles to reckon up, or excuses to allege; for al 
 has gone smoothly with him. What remains, then 
 but that he should freely do what will gratify the 
 beloved? But you will say that the lover is more tc 
 be esteemed, because his love is thought to be greater 
 for he is willing to say and do what is hateful to othei 
 men, in order to please his beloved: well, that, if true 
 is only a proof that he will prefer any future love tc 
 his present, and will injure his old love at the pleasure 
 of the new. And how can a man reasonably sacrifice 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 385 
 
 himself to one who is possessed with a malady which 
 no experienced person would attempt to cure, for the 
 patient himself admits that he is not in his right mind, 
 and acknowledges that he is wrong in his mind, but 
 is unable, as he says, to control himself. How, if he 
 came to his right mind, could he imagine that the 
 desires were good which he conceived when in his 
 wrong mind? Then again, there are many more non¬ 
 lovers than lovers; and, therefore, you will have a 
 larger choice, and are far more likely to find among 
 them a compatible friend. And if you fear common 
 opinion, and would avoid publicity and reproach, the 
 lover, who is always thinking that other men are as 
 emulous of him as he is of them, will be sure to boast 
 of his successes, and make a show of them openly in the 
 pride of his heart; — he wants others to know that 
 his labor has not been lost; but the non-lover is more 
 his own master, and is desirous of solid good, and not 
 of the vainglory of men. Again, the lover may be 
 generally seen and known following the beloved (this 
 is his regular occupation), and when they are observed 
 to exchange two words they are supposed to meet 
 about some affair of love, either past or future; but 
 when non-lovers meet, no one asks the reason why, 
 because people know that talking is natural, wdiether 
 friendship or mere pleasure is the motive. And, again, 
 if you fear the fickleness of friendship, consider that 
 in any other case a quarrel might be a mutual calamity; 
 but now% when you have given up wdiat is most 
 precious to you, you will be the great loser, and 
 therefore, you will have reason in being more afraid 
 of the lover, for his vexations are many, and he is 
 always fancying that everything is against him. And 
 for this reason he debars his beloved from society; he 
 will not have vou intimate with the wealthy, lest they 
 should exceed him in wealth, or with men of education, 
 
386 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 lest they should be his superiors in knowledge; and he 
 is equally afraid of the power of any other good. He 
 would persuade you to have nothing to do with them, 
 in order that he may have you all to himself, and if, 
 out of regard to your own interest, you have more 
 sense than to comply with this desire, a quarrel will 
 ensue. But those who are non-lovers, and whose suc¬ 
 cess in love is the reward of their superiority, will not 
 be jealous of the companions of their beloved, but will 
 rather hate those who refuse to be his companions, 
 thinking that their refusal is a mark of contempt, and 
 that he would be benefited by having companions; 
 more love than hatred may be expected to come of 
 that. Many lovers also have loved the person of a 
 youth before they knew his character, or were ac¬ 
 quainted with his domestic relations; so that when 
 their passion has passed away, there is no knowing 
 whether they will continue to be his friends; whereas, 
 in the case of non-lovers who were always friends, the 
 friendship is not lessened by sensual delights; but the 
 recollection of these remains with them, and is an 
 earnest of good things to come. Further, I say that 
 you are likely to be improved by me, whereas the lover 
 will spoil you. For they praise your words and 
 actions in a bad way; partly, they are afraid of offend¬ 
 ing you, and partly, their judgment is weakened by 
 their passion: for lovers are singular beings when dis¬ 
 appointed in love — they deem that painful which is 
 not painful to others, and when successful they can 
 not help praising that which ought not to give them 
 pleasure; so that the beloved is a far more appropriate 
 object of pity than of envy. But if you listen to me, 
 in the first place, I, in my intercourse with you, shall 
 not regard present enjoyment, but future advantage, 
 being not conquered by love, but conquering myself; 
 nor for small causes taking violent offences, but even 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 387 
 
 when the cause is great, slowly laying up little wrath 
 — unintentional offences I shall forgive, and in¬ 
 tentional ones I shall try to prevent; and these are the 
 marks of a friendship which will last. But if you 
 think that only a lover can be a firm friend, you ought 
 to consider that, if this were true, we should set small 
 value on sons, or fathers, or mothers; nor should we 
 ever have loyal friends, for our love of them arises not 
 from passion, but from other associations. Further, if 
 we ought to confer favors on those who are the most 
 eager suitors, we ought to confer them not on the most 
 virtuous, but on the most needy; for they are the per¬ 
 sons who will be most relieved, and will therefore be 
 the most grateful; and, in general, when you make a 
 feast, invite not your friend, but the beggar and the 
 empty soul, for they will love you, and attend you, 
 and come about your doors, and will be the 
 best pleased, and the most grateful, and will invoke 
 blessings on your head. But, perhaps, you will say 
 I that you ought not to give to the most importunate, 
 but to those who are best able to reward you; nor to the 
 lover only, but to those who are worthy of love; nor to 
 those who will enjoy the charm of your youth, but to 
 those who will share their goods with you in age; nor 
 to those who, having succeeded, will glory in their 
 success to others, but to those who will be modest and 
 hold their peace; nor to those who care about you for 
 a moment only, but to those who will continue your 
 friends for life; nor to those who, when their passion 
 is over, will pick a quarrel with you, but rather to those 
 who, when the bloom of youth is over, will show their 
 own virtue. Remember what I have said; and con¬ 
 sider this also, that friends admonish the lover under 
 the idea that his way of life is bad, but no one of his 
 kindred ever yet censured the non-lover, or thought 
 that he was ill-advised about his own interests. 
 
388 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 “ Perhaps you will ask me whether I propose that 
 you should indulge every non-lover. To which I reply 
 that not even the lover would advise you to indulge 
 all lovers, for the favor is less in the just estimation 
 of the receiver and more difficult to hide from the 
 world. Now love ought to be for the advantage of 
 both parties and for the injury of neither. 
 
 “ I believe that I have said enough; but if there is 
 anything more which you desire or which needs to be 
 supplied, ask and I will answer.’’ 
 
 Now, Socrates, what do you think? Is not the dis¬ 
 course excellent, especially the language? 
 
 Soc. Yes indeed, admirable; the effect on me was 
 ravishing. And this I owe to you, Phaedrus, for I 
 observed you while reading to be in an ecstasy, and 
 thinking that you are more experienced in these mat¬ 
 ters than I am, I followed your example, and, like 
 you, became inspired with a divine frenzy. 
 
 Phaedr. Indeed, you are pleased to be merry. 
 
 Soc. Do you mean that I am not in earnest? 
 
 Phaedr . Now, don’t talk in that way, Socrates, but 
 let me have your real opinion; I adjure you, by the 
 god of friendship, to tell me whether you think that 
 any Hellene could have said more or spoken better on 
 the same subject. 
 
 Soc. Well, but are you and I expected to praise the 
 sentiments of the author, or only the clearness, and 
 roundness, and accuracy, and tournure of the lan¬ 
 guage ? As to the first I willingly submit to your bet¬ 
 ter judgment, for I am unworthy to form an opinion, 
 having only attended to the rhetorical manner; and I 
 was doubting whether Lysias himself would be able to 
 defend that; for I thought, though I speak under cor¬ 
 rection, that he repeated himself two or three times, 
 either from want of words or from want of pains; and 
 also, he appeared to me wantonly ambitious of show- 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 389 
 
 ng how well he could say the same thing in two or 
 hree ways. 
 
 Phaedr. Nonsense, Socrates; that was his exhaust- 
 ve treatment of the subject; for he omitted nothing; 
 - this is the special merit of the speech, and I do not 
 hink that any one could have made a fuller or better. 
 
 Soc. I can not go so far as that with you. Ancient 
 ages, men and women, who have spoken and written 
 ,f these things, would rise up in judgment against me, 
 f I lightly assented to you. 
 
 Phaedr. Who are they, and where did you hear 
 mything better than this? 
 
 Soc. I am sure that I must have heard; I don t re- 
 nember at this moment from whom; perhaps from 
 Sappho the fair, Anacreon the wise; or, possibly, from 
 i prose writer. What makes me say this? Why, be¬ 
 cause I perceive that my bosom is full, and that I 
 ;ould make another speech as good as that of Lysias, 
 md different. Now I am certain that this is not an 
 nvention of my own, for I am conscious that I know 
 lothing, and therefore I can only infer that I have 
 oeen filled through the ears, like a pitcher from the 
 waters of another, though I have actually forgotten 
 n my stupidity who was my informant. 
 
 Phaedr. That is grand. But never mind where you 
 beard the discourse or of whom; let that, if you will, 
 be a mystery not to he divulged even at my earnest 
 iesire. But do as you say; promise to make an¬ 
 other and better oration of equal length on the same 
 subject, with other arguments; and I, like the nine 
 Archons, will promise to set up a golden image at 
 Delphi, not only of myself, but of you, and as large 
 as life. 
 
 Soc. You are a dear golden simpleton if you sup¬ 
 pose me to mean that Lysias has altogether missed the 
 mark, and that I can make a speech from which all 
 
390 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 his arguments are to be excluded. The worst of 
 authors will say something that is to the point. Who, 
 for example, could speak on this thesis of yours with¬ 
 out praising the discretion of the non-lover and 
 blaming the folly of the lover? These are the com¬ 
 mon-places which must come in (for what else is there 
 to be said?) and must be allowed and excused; the 
 only merit is in the arrangement of them, for there can 
 be none in the invention; but when you leave the com-1 
 mon-places, then there may be some originality. 
 
 Phaedr. I admit that there is reason in that, and I 
 will be reasonable too, and will allow you to start with 
 the premiss that the lover is more disordered in his wits 
 than the non-lover; and if you go on after that and 
 make a longer and better speech than Lysias, and use 
 other arguments, then I say again that a statue you 
 shall have of beaten gold, and take your place by the 
 colossal offering of the Cypselids at Olympia. 
 
 Soc. Is not the lover serious, because only in fun I 
 lay a finger upon his love? And so, Phaedrus, you 
 really imagine that I am going to improve upon his 
 ingenuity? 
 
 Phaedr . There I have you as you had me, and you 
 must speak “ as you best can,” and no mistake. And 
 don’t let us have the vulgar exchange of “ tu quoque ” 
 as in a comedy, or compel me to say to you as you said 
 to me, “ I know Socrates as well as I know myself, 
 and he was wanting to speak, but he gave himself 
 airs.” Rather I would have you consider that from 
 this place we stir not until you have unbosomed your¬ 
 self of the speech; for here are we all alone, and I am 
 stronger, remember, and younger than you; therefore 
 perpend, and do not compel me to use violence. 
 
 Soc. But, my sweet Phaedrus, how can I ever com¬ 
 pete with Lysias in an extempore speech? He is a 
 master in his art and I am an untaught man. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 391 
 
 Phaedr. You see how matters stand; and therefore 
 let there be no more pretences; for, indeed, I know the 
 word that is irresistible. 
 
 Soc. Then don’t say it. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, but I will; and my word shall be an 
 oath. “ I say, or rather swear ” — but what god will 
 be the witness of my oath? — “ I swear by this plane- 
 tree, that unless you repeat the discourse here, in the 
 face of the plane-tree, I will never tell you another; 
 never let you have word of another! 
 
 Soc. Villain! I am conquered; the poor lover of 
 
 discourse has no more to say. 
 
 Phaedr. Then why are you still at your tricks ? 
 
 Soc. I am not going to play tricks now that you 
 have taken the oath, for I can not allow myself to be 
 starved. 
 
 Phaedr. Proceed. 
 
 Soc. Shall I tell you what I will do? 
 
 Phaedr. What? 
 
 Soc. I will veil my face and gallop through the dis¬ 
 course as fast as I can, for if I see you, I shall feel 
 
 ashamed and not know what to say. 
 
 Phaedr. Only go on and you may do as you please. 
 
 Soc . Come, O ye Muses, melodious (X*7« a 0, as 
 ye are called, whether you have. received this name 
 from the character of your strains, or because the 
 Melians are a musical race, help, O help me in the tale 
 which my good friend desires me to rehearse, foi the 
 good of his friend whom he always deemed wise and 
 
 will now deem wiser than ever. 
 
 Once upon a time there was a fair hoy, or, more 
 properly speaking, a youth; he was very fair and had 
 a great many lovers; and there was one special cun¬ 
 ning one, who had persuaded the youth that he did 
 not love him, but he really loved him all the same; and 
 one day as he was paying his addresses to him, he used 
 
392 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 this very argument — that he ought to accept the non¬ 
 lover rather than the lover; and his words were as fol¬ 
 low : — 
 
 “ All good counsel begins in the same way; a man 
 should know w r hat he is advising about, or his counsel 
 will come to nought. But people imagine that they 
 know about the nature of things, when they don’t 
 know about them, and, not agreeing at the beginning, 
 they end, as might be expected, in contradicting one 
 another and themselves. Now you and I must not be 
 guilty of the error which we condemn in others; but as 
 our question is whether the lover or non-lover is to be 
 preferred, let us first of all agree in defining the 
 nature and power of love, and then, keeping our eyes 
 upon this and to this appealing let us further inquire 
 whether love brings advantage or disadvantage. 
 
 “ Every one sees that love is a desire, and we know 
 also that non-lovers desire the beautiful and good. 
 Now in what way is the lover to be distinguished from 
 the non-lover? Let us note that in every one of us 
 there are two guiding and ruling principles which lead 
 us whither they will; one is the natural desire of 
 pleasure, the other is an acquired opinion which is in 
 search of the best; and these two are sometimes in har¬ 
 mony and then again at war, and sometimes the one, 
 sometimes the other conquers. When opinion con¬ 
 quers, and by the help of reason leads us to the best, 
 the conquering principle is called temperance; but 
 when desire, which is devoid of reason, rules in us and 
 drags us to pleasure, that power of misrule is called 
 excess. Now excess has many names, and many mem¬ 
 bers, and many forms, and any of these forms when 
 marked gives a name to the bearer of the name, neither 
 honorable nor desirable. The desire of eating, which 
 gets the better of the higher reason and the other 
 desires, is called gluttony, and he who is possessed by 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 393 
 
 this is called a glutton; the tyrannical desire of drink, 
 which inclines the possessor of the desire to drink, has 
 a name which is only too obvious; and the same may 
 be said of the whole family of desires and their names, 
 whichever of them happens to be dominant. And now 
 I think that you will perceive the drift of my dis¬ 
 course; but as every spoken word is in a manner 
 plainer than the unspoken, I had better say further 
 that the irrational desire which overcomes the tendency 
 of opinion towards right, and is led away to the enjoy¬ 
 ment of beauty, and especially of personal beauty, by 
 the desires which are her kindred — that desire, I say, 
 the conqueror and leader of the rest, and waxing 
 strong from having this very power, is called the 
 
 power of lo^e.” 
 
 And now, dear Phaedrus, I shall pause for an in¬ 
 stant to ask whether you do not think me, as I appear 
 to myself, inspired? 
 
 Pliaedr. Yes, Socrates, you seem to have a very 
 unusual flow of words. 
 
 Soc. Listen to me, then, in silence; for surely the 
 place is holy; so that you must not wonder, if, as I pro¬ 
 ceed, I appear to be in a divine fury, for already I am 
 getting into dithyrambics. 
 
 Phaedr. That is quite true. 
 
 Soc . And that I attribute to you. But hear what 
 follows, and perhaps the fit may be averted; all is in 
 their hands above. And now I will go on talking to 
 my youth. Listen: — 
 
 Thus, my friend, we have declared and determined 
 the nature of love. Keeping this in view, let us now 
 inquire what advantage or disadvantage is likely to 
 ensue from the lover or the non-lover to him who 
 accepts their advances. 
 
 He who is the victim of his passions and the slave of 
 pleasure will of course desire to make his beloved as 
 
394 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 agreeable to himself as possible. Now to him who is 
 not in his right senses that is agreeable which is not 
 opposed to him, but that which is equal or superior is 
 hateful to him, and therefore the lover will not brook 
 any superiority or equality on the part of his beloved; 
 he is always employed in reducing him to inferiority. 
 And the ignorant is the inferior of the wise, the cow¬ 
 ard of the brave, the slow of speech of the speaker, the 
 dull of the clever. These are the sort of natural and 
 inherent defects in the mind of the beloved which 
 enhance the delight of the lover, and there are acquired 
 defects which he must produce in him, or he will be 
 deprived of his fleeting joy. And therefore he can 
 not help being jealous, and will debar hkn from the 
 advantages of society which would make a man of 
 him, and especially from that society which would 
 have given him wisdom. That is to say, he will be 
 compelled to banish from him divine philosophy, in 
 his excessive fear lest he should come to be despised 
 in his eyes; and there is no greater injury which he 
 can inflict on him than this. Moreover, he will con¬ 
 trive that he shall be wholly ignorant, and in every¬ 
 thing dependent on himself; he is to be the delight 
 of his lover’s heart, and a curse to himself. Verily, 
 a lover is a profitable guardian and associate for him 
 in all that relates to his mind. 
 
 Let us next see how his master, whose law of life 
 is pleasure and not good, will keep and train the body 
 of his servant. Will he not choose a beloved who is 
 delicate rather than sturdy and strong? One brought 
 up in shady bowers and not in the bright sun, not 
 practised in manly exercises or dried by perspiration, 
 but knowing only a soft and luxurious diet, instead 
 of the hues of health having only the colors of paint 
 and ornament, and the rest of a piece? — such a life 
 as any one can imagine and which I need not detail at 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 395 
 
 length. .But I may sum up all that I have to say in 
 a wo.d, and pass on. Such a person in war, or in any 
 of the great exigencies in life, will be the anxiety of 
 his 'friends and also of his lover, and certainly not the 
 terror of his enemies; which nobody can deny. 
 
 And now let us tell what advantage or disadvan¬ 
 tage' the beloved will receive from the guardianship 
 and society of his lover in the matter of his possessions; 
 that is the next point to consider. All men will see, 
 and the lover above all men, that his own first wish 
 is to deprive his beloved of his dearest and best and 
 most sacred possessions, father, mother, kindred, 
 friends, ail whom he thinks may be hinderers or re¬ 
 provers of tlieir sweet converse; he will even cast a 
 jealous eye upon his gold and silver or other property, 
 because these make him a less easy and manageable 
 prey, and hence he .is of necessity displeased at the 
 possession of them and rejoices at their loss; and he 
 would like him t q be wifeless, childless, homeless, as 
 well; and the longer the better, for the longer he is 
 all this, the,longer he will enjoy him. 
 
 Therej are s^me sort of animals, such as flatterers, 
 which are dangerous and mischievous enough, and yet 
 nature hafc mingled a temporary pleasure and grace 
 in their composition. You may say that a courtesan 
 is hurtful, and disapprove of such creatures and their 
 practices, and yet for the time they are very pleasant. 
 But the lover is not only mischievous to his love, he 
 is also extremely unpleasant to live with. Equals, as 
 the proverb says, delight in equals; equality of years 
 inclines them to the : same pleasures, and similarity 
 begets friendship, and yet you may have more than 
 enough even of this, and compulsion is always said 
 to be grievous. Now the lover is not only unlike his 
 beloved, but he forces himself upon him. For he is 
 old and his love is young, and neither day nor night 
 
396 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 j. * y ' + , 1 ■ 
 
 will he leave him if he can help; and necessity and 
 the sting of desire drive him on, and allure him with 
 the pleasure which he receives from seeing, hearing, 
 touching, perceiving him. And therefore he is de¬ 
 lighted to fasten upon him and to minister to him. 
 But what pleasure or consolation can the beloved be 
 receiving all this time? Must he not feel the extrem¬ 
 ity of disgust when he looks at an old withered face 
 and the remainder to match, which even in a descrip¬ 
 tion is not agreeable, and quite detestable when you 
 are forced into daily contact with them; moreover he 
 is jealously watched and guarded against everything 
 and everybody, and has to hear misplaced*and exag¬ 
 gerated praises of himself, and censures'as inappro¬ 
 priate, which are quite intolerable wh^n the man is 
 sober, and, besides being intolerable, are published all 
 over the world in all their shamelessness and weari¬ 
 someness when he is drunk. 
 
 And not only while his love continues is he mis¬ 
 chievous and unpleasant, but when his love ceases he 
 becomes a perfidious enemy of him on whom he show¬ 
 ered his oaths and prayers and promises, and yet could 
 hardly prevail upon him to tolerate the tedium of his 
 company even from motives of interest. The time 
 of payment arrives, and now he is the servant of an¬ 
 other master; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom 
 and temperance are his bosom’s lords; the man has 
 changed, but the beloved is not aware of this; he asks 
 for a return and recalls to his recollection former acts 
 and words, for he fancies that he is talking to the same 
 person, and the other, being ashamed and not having 
 the courage to tell him that he has changed, and not 
 knowing how to make good his promises, has now 
 grown virtuous and temperate; he does not want to 
 do as he did or to be as he was before. Therefore he 
 runs away and can but end a defaulter; quick as the 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 397 
 
 spinning of a teetotum 1 he changes pursuit into flight, 
 and the other is compelled to follow him with passion 
 and imprecation, not knowing that he ought never 
 from the first to have accepted a demented lover in¬ 
 stead of a sensible non-lover; and that in making 
 such a choice he was yielding to a faithless, morose, 
 envious, disagreeable being, hurtful to his estate, hurt¬ 
 ful to his bodily constitution, and still more hurtful 
 to the cultivation of his mind, which is and ever will 
 be the most honorable possession both of gods and 
 men. Consider this, fair youth, and know that in the 
 friendship of the lover there is no real kindness; he 
 has an appetite and wants to feed upon you. 
 
 “ As wolves love lambs so lovers love their loves.” 
 
 But, as I said before, I am speaking in verse, and 
 therefore I had better make an end; that is enough. 
 
 Phaedr. I thought that you were only half-way and 
 were going to make a similar speech about all the 
 advantages of accepting the non-lover. Why don’t 
 you go on? 
 
 Soc. Does not your simplicity observe that I have 
 got out of dithyrambics into epics; and if my censure 
 was in verse, what will my praise be? Don’t you see 
 that I am already overtaken by the Nymphs to whom 
 you have mischievously exposed me? And therefore 
 I will only add that the non-lover has all the advan¬ 
 tages in which the lover is charged with being defi¬ 
 cient. And now I will say no more; there has been 
 enough said of both of them. Leaving the tale to its 
 fate, I will cross the river and make the best of my 
 way home, lest a worse thing be inflicted upon me by 
 you. 
 
 Phaedr. Not yet, Socrates; not until the heat of 
 the day has passed; don’t you see that the hour is 
 
 1 Lit. an oyster-shell. 
 
398 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 noon, and the sun is standing over our heads? Let us 
 rather stay and talk over what has been said, and then 
 return in the cool. 
 
 Soc. Your love of discourse, Phaedrus, is superhu¬ 
 man, simply marvellous, and I do not believe that 
 there is any one of your contemporaries who in one 
 way or another has either made or been the cause of 
 others making an equal number of speeches. I would 
 except Simmias the Theban, but all the rest are far 
 behind you. And now I do verily believe that you 
 have been the cause of another. 
 
 Phaedr . That is good news. But what do you 
 
 mean? 
 
 Soc . I mean to say that as I was about to cross the 
 stream the usual sign was given to me; that is the 
 sign which never bids but always forbids me to do 
 what I am going to do; and I thought that I heard 
 a voice saying in my ear that X had been guilty of 
 impiety, and that I must not go away until I had 
 made an atonement. Now I am a diviner, though not 
 a very good one, but I have enough religion for my 
 own needs, as you might say of a bad writer — his 
 writing is good enough for him. And, O my friend, 
 how singularly prophetic is the soul! For at the time 
 I had a sort of misgiving, and, like Xbycus, “ I was 
 troubled,” and I suspected that I might be receiving 
 honor from men at the expense of sinning against the 
 gods. Now I am aware of the error. 
 
 ° Phaedr. What error? 
 
 Soc. That was a dreadful speech which you brought 
 with you, and you made me utter one as bad. 
 
 Phaedr. How was that? . 
 
 Soc. Foolish, I say, and in a degree impious; and 
 
 what can be more dreadful than this? 
 
 Phaedr. Nothing, if the speech was really such as 
 
 you describe. 
 
PHAEDRUS 399 
 
 Soc. Well, and is not Eros, the son of Aphrodite, 
 a mighty god? 
 
 Phaedr. That is the language of mankind about 
 
 him. . , 
 
 Soc. But that was not the language of Lysias 
 
 speech any more than of that other speech uttered 
 through my lips when under the influence of your en¬ 
 chantments, and which I may call yours and not mine. 
 For love, if he be a god or divine, can not be evil. 
 Yet this was the error of both our speeches. There 
 was also a solemnity about them which was truly 
 charming; they had no truth or honesty in them, and 
 yet they pretended to be something, hoping to suc¬ 
 ceed in deceiving the manikins of earth and be famous 
 among them. And therefore I must have a purga¬ 
 tion. And now I bethink me of an ancient purgation 
 of mythological error which was devised, not by 
 Homer, for he never had the wit to discover why he 
 was blind, but by Stesichorus, who was a philosopher 
 and knew the reason why; and, therefore, when he 
 lost his eyes, for that was the penalty which was in¬ 
 flicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he 
 purged himself. And the purgation was a recanta¬ 
 tion, which began with the words: — 
 
 “ That was a lie of mine when I said that thou never embark- 
 edst on the swift ships, or wentest to the walls of Troy. 
 
 And when he had completed his poem, which is called 
 “ the recantation,” immediately his sight returned to 
 him. Now I will be wiser than either Stesichorus or 
 Homer, in that I am going to make a recantation 
 before I lose mine; and this I will attempt, not as 
 before, veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold 
 
 and bare. , . _ _ . ,, V1 , . 
 
 Phaedr. There is nothing which I should like bet¬ 
 ter to hear. 
 
400 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Soc. Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter 
 
 want of delicacy was shown in the two discourses; I 
 
 mean, in my own and in the one which you recited 
 
 out of the book. Would not any one who was himself 
 
 •/ 
 
 of a noble and gentle nature, and who loved or ever 
 had loved a nature like his own, when he heard us 
 speaking of the petty causes of lovers’ jealousies, and 
 of their exceeding animosities, and the injuries which 
 they do to their beloved, have imagined that our ideas 
 of love were taken from some haunt of sailors to which 
 good manners were unknown — he would certainly 
 never have admitted the justice of our censure? 
 Phaedr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Therefore, because I blush at the thought of 
 this person, and also because I am afraid of the god 
 Love, I desire to wash down that gall and vinegar 
 with a wholesome draught; and I would counsel 
 Lysias not to delay, but to write another discourse, 
 which shall prove “ ceteris paribus ” that the lover 
 ought to be accepted rather than the non-lover. 
 
 Phaedr. Be assured that he shall. You shall speak 
 the praises of the lover, and Lysias shall be made to 
 write them in another discourse. I will compel him 
 to do this. 
 
 Soc. You will be true to your nature in that, and 
 therefore I believe you. 
 
 Phaedr. Speak, and fear not. 
 
 Soc. But where is the fair youth whom I was ad¬ 
 dressing, and who ought to listen, in order that he 
 may not be misled by one side before he has heard the 
 other? 
 
 Phaedr. He is close at hand, and always at your 
 service. 
 
 Soc. Know then, fair youth, that the former dis¬ 
 course was that of a finely-scented gentleman, who 
 is all myrrh and fragrance, named Phaedrus, the son 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 401 
 
 of Vain Man. And this is the recantation of Stesi- 
 choms the pious, who comes from the town of Desire, 
 and is to the following effect: That was a lie in which 
 I said that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover 
 and reject the lover, because the one is sane, and the 
 other mad. For that might have been truly said if 
 madness were simply an evil; but there is also a mad¬ 
 ness which is the special gift of heaven, and the source 
 of the chiefest blessings among men. For prophecy 
 is k madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the 
 priestesses of Dodona, when out of their senses have 
 «conferred great benefits on Hellas, both in public and 
 private life, but when in their senses few or none. 
 And I might also tell you how the Sibyl and other 
 persons, who have had the gift of prophecy, have told 
 the future of many an one and guided them aright; 
 but that is obvious, and would be tedious. 
 
 There will be more reason in appealing to the an¬ 
 cient inventors of names, who, if they had thought 
 madness a disgrace or dishonor, would never have 
 called prophecy, which is the noblest of arts, by the 
 very same name (hclvtuct), fiavLtcrj) as madness, thus 
 inseparably connecting them; but they must have 
 thought that there was an inspired madness which was 
 no disgrace; for the two words, navri/crj and fiavL/crj, are 
 ideally the same, and the letter t is only a modern and 
 tasteless insertion. And this is confirmed by the name 
 wbxvh they gave to the rational investigation of fu¬ 
 turity, whether made by the help of birds or other 
 signs; this as supplying from the reasoning faculty 
 insight and information to human thought (vovs and 
 laropia ), they originally termed olovcuo-ri/cr), but the 
 word has been lately altered and made sonorous by 
 the modern introduction of the letter Omega ( olovoia - 
 tuct) and oLMVKTTucr )), and in proportion as [fiavTucr] 
 or) prophecy is higher and more perfect than divina- 
 
402 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 tion both in name and reality, in the same proportion 
 as the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane 
 mind ( aco^poavvr ]), for the one is only of human, but 
 the other of divine origin. Again, where plagues and 
 mightiest woes have bred in a race, owing to some 
 ancient wrath, there madness, lifting up her voice 
 and flying to prayers and rites, has come to the res¬ 
 cue of those who are in need; and he who has part 
 in this gift, and is truly possessed and duly out of his 
 mind, is by the use of purifications and mysteries m$de 
 whole and delivered from evil, future as well as- pres¬ 
 ent, and has a release from the calamity which afflicts 
 him. There is also a third kind of madness, which is 
 a possession of the Muses; this enters into a delicate 
 and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens 
 lyric and all other numbers; with these adorning the 
 myriad actions of ancient heroes for the instruction 
 of posterity. But he who, not being inspired and 
 having no touch of madness in his soul, comes to the 
 door and thinks that he will get into the temple by 
 the help of art — he, I say, and his poetry are not 
 admitted; the sane man is nowhere at all when he 
 enters into rivalry with the madman. 
 
 I might tell of many other noble deeds which have 
 sprung from inspired madness. And therefore, let 
 no one frighten or flutter us by saying that temperate 
 love is preferable to mad love, but let him further 
 show, if he would carry off the palm, that love is not 
 sent by the gods for any good to lover or beloved. 
 And we, on our part, will prove in answer to him that 
 the madness of love is the greatest of heaven’s bless¬ 
 ings, and the proof shall be one which the wise will 
 receive, and the witling disbelieve. And, first of all, 
 let us inquire what is the truth about the affections 
 and actions of the soul, divine as well as human. And 
 thus we begin our proof: 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 403 
 
 4 
 
 f !>ST&e soul is immortal, for that is immortal which is 
 motion ; but that which moves and is moved 
 ^^LOther, in ceasing to move ceases also to live. 
 Therefore, only that which is self-moving, never fail¬ 
 ing of self, never ceases to move, and is the fountain 
 ieginning of motion to all that moves besides, 
 the beginning is unbegotten, for that which is 
 ;en has a beginning; but the beginning has no 
 ing, for if a beginning were begotten of some- 
 that would have no beginning. But that, which 
 gotten must also be indestructible; for if be- 
 twere destroyed, there could be no beginning 
 anything, nor anything out of a beginning; 
 i -things must have a beginning. And therefore 
 /-moving is the beginning of motion; and this 
 ^^^sither he destroyed nor begotten, for in that case 
 MKhole heavens and all generation would collapse 
 «2B|and still, and never again have motion or birth. 
 ■IB the self-moving is immortal, he who affirms that 
 otion is the very idea and essence of the soul 
 )t be put to confusion. For the body which is 
 from without is soulless; but that which is 
 from within has a soul, and this is involved 
 nature of the soul. But if the soul be truly 
 to be the self-moving, then must she also be 
 .t beginning, and immortal. Enough of the 
 immortality. 
 
 |r .form is a theme of divine and large discourse; 
 language may, however, speak of this briefly, 
 a figure. Let our figure be of a composite 
 — a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. 
 Ndwthe winged horses and the charioteer of the gods 
 . all of them noble, and of noble breed, while ours 
 mixed; and we have a charioteer who drives them 
 pair, and one of them is noble and of noble origin, 
 the other is ignoble and of ignoble origin; and, 
 
404 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 as might be expected, there is a great deal of 
 in managing them. I will endeavor to explain toym 
 in what way the mortal differs from the immortal 
 creature. The soul or animate being has the care' of 
 the inanimate, and traverses the wdiole heavemSHH 
 vers forms appearing; — when perfect and f 
 
 winged she soars upward, and is the ruler of the 
 verse; while the imperfect soul loses her fealh^gj 
 and drooping in her flight at last settles on the Solid 
 ground — there, finding a home, she reqe^fe; 
 earthly frame which appears to be self-move< 
 really moved by her power; and this compgslll 
 soul and body is called a living and mortal crdf^vijte. \ 
 For no such union can be reasonably believed, ’Oif%t 
 all proved to be other than mortal; although fa 
 may imagine a god whom, not having seen nor 's*&*d 
 known, we invent — such an one, an immortal crea¬ 
 ture having a body, and having also a soul which 
 been united in all time. Let that, however, beJa.siG'ij] 
 wills, and be spoken of acceptably to him. Bu£-infc 
 reason why the soul loses her feathers should be ex 
 plained, and is as follows: 
 
 The wing is intended to soar aloft and caqn^^thw; 
 which gravitates downwards into the upper r e#.M 
 which is the dwelling of the gods; and this isntiiSn 
 element of the body which is most akin to thelf^^^f 
 \]\ T ow the divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, 
 like; and by these the wing of the soul is noui*J 
 and grows apace; but when fed upon evil and f 
 ness, and the like, wastes and falls away. Zeus, 
 mighty lord holding the reins of a winged char 
 leads the way in heaven, ordering all and caring 
 all; and there follows him the heavenly array of g 
 and demi-gods, divided into eleven bands; for o: 
 Hestia is left at home in the house of heaven; 
 the rest of the twelve greater deities march in t 
 
 4 
 
 r." 
 
 
 * 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 405 
 
 appointed order. And they see in the interior of 
 heaven many blessed sights; and there are ways to 
 and fro, along which the happy gods are passing, each 
 one fulfilling his own work; and any one may follow 
 who pleases, for jealousy has no place in the heavenly 
 choir. This is within the heaven. But when they go 
 to feast and festival, then they move right up the 
 steep ascent, and mount the top of the dome of heaven. 
 Now the chariots of the gods, self-balanced, upward 
 glide in obedience to the rein; but the others have a 
 difficulty, for the steed who has evil in him, if he has 
 not been properly trained by the charioteer, gravitates 
 and inclines and sinks towards the earth: — and this 
 is the hour of agony and extremest conflict of the soul. 
 For the immortal souls, when they are at the end of 
 their course, go out and stand upon the back of 
 heaven, and the revolution of the spheres carries them 
 round, and they behold the world beyond. Now of 
 the heaven which is above the heavens, no earthly poet 
 has sung or ever will sing in a worthy manner. But 
 I must tell, for I am bound to speak truly when speak¬ 
 ing of the truth. The colorless and formless and in-% 
 tangible essence is visible to the mind, which is the J 
 only lord of the soul. Circling around this in the 
 region above the heavens is the place of true knowl¬ 
 edge. And as the divine intelligence, and that of 
 every other soul which is rightly nourished, is fed upon 
 mind and pure knowledge, such an intelligent soul is 
 glad at once more beholding being; and feeding on 
 the sight of truth is replenished, until the revolution 
 of the worlds brings her round again to the same place. 
 During the revolution she beholds justice, temper¬ 
 ance, and knowledge absolute, not in the form of gen¬ 
 eration or of relation, which men call existence, but 
 knowledge absolute in existence absolute; and be¬ 
 holding other existences in like manner, and feeding 
 
406 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 upon them, she passes down into the interior of the 
 heavens and returns home, and there the charioteer 
 putting up his horses at the stall, gives them ambrosia 
 to eat and nectar to drink. 
 
 This is the life of the gods; but of other souls, that 
 which follows God best and is likest to him lifts the 
 head of the charioteer into the outer world, and is car¬ 
 ried round in the revolution, troubled indeed by the 
 steeds, and beholding true being, but hardly; another 
 rises and falls, and sees, and again fails to see by rea¬ 
 son of the unruliness of the steeds. The rest of the 
 souls are also longing after the upper world and they 
 all follow, but not being strong enough they sink intcK 
 the gulf, as they are carried round, plunging, tread¬ 
 ing on one another, striving to be first; and there is 
 confusion and the extremity of effort, and many of 
 them are lamed or have their wings broken through 
 the ill-driving of the charioteers; and all of them after 
 a fruitless toil go away without being initiated into 
 the mysteries of being, and are nursed with the food 
 of opinion. The reason of their great desire to behold 
 •the plain of truth is that the food which is suited to 
 the highest part of the soul comes out of that meadow; 
 and the wing on which the soul soars is nourished with 
 this. And there is a law of the goddess Retribution, 
 that the soul which attains any vision of truth in com¬ 
 pany with the god is preserved from harm until the 
 next period, and he who always attains is always un¬ 
 harmed. But when she is unable to follow, and fails 
 to behold the vision of truth, and through some ill-hap 
 sinks beneath the double load of forgetfulness and 
 vice, and her feathers fall from her and she drops to 
 earth, then the law ordains that this soul shall in the 
 first generation pass, not into that of any other ani- 
 Tnal, but only of man; and the soul which has seen 
 most of truth shall come to the birth as a philosopher, 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 407 
 
 or artist, or musician, or lover; that which has seen 
 truth in the second degree shall be a righteous king 
 or warrior or lord; the soul which is ol the third class 
 shall be a politician, or economist, or trader; the 
 fourth shall be a lover of gymnastic toils, or a physi¬ 
 cian ; the fifth a prophet or hierophant; to the sixth 
 a poet or imitator will be appropriate; to the seventh 
 the life of an artisan or husbandman; to the eighth 
 that of a sophist or demagogue; to the ninth that of 
 a tyrant; — ail these are states of probation, in which 
 he who lives righteously improves, and he who lives 
 unrighteously deteriorates his lot. 
 
 Ten thousand years must elapse before the soul can 
 return to the place from whence she came, for she can 
 not grow her wings in less; only the soul of a phi¬ 
 losopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who 
 is not without philosophy, may acquire wings in the 
 i third recurring period of a thousand years: and if 
 they choose this life three times in succession, then they 
 have their wings given them, and go away at the end 
 of three thousand years. But the others receive judg¬ 
 ment when they have completed their first life, and 
 after the judgment they go, some of them to the 
 houses of correction which are under the earth, and 
 are punished; others to some place in heaven whither 
 they are lightly borne by justice, and there they live 
 in a manner worthy of the life which they led heie 
 when in the form of men. And at the end of the first 
 thousand years the good souls and also the evil souls 
 both come to cast lots and choose their second life, and 
 they may take any that they like. And then the soul 
 of the man may pass into the life of a beast, or from 
 the beast again into the man. But the soul of him who 
 has never seen the truth will not pass into the human 
 form, for man ought to have intelligence, as they say, 
 “ secundum speciem,” proceeding from many partic- 
 
408 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 ulars of sense to one conception of reason; and this 
 is the recollection of those thing's which our soul once 
 saw when in company with God — when looking 
 down from above on that which we now call being 
 and upwards towards the true being. And therefore 
 the mind of the philosopher alone has wings; and this 
 is just, for he is-always, according to the measure of 
 his abilities, clinging in recollection to those things in 
 which God abides, and in beholding which He is what 
 he is. And he who employs aright these memories is 
 ever being initiated into perfect mysteries and alone 
 becomes truly perfect. But, as he forgets earthly 
 interests and is rapt in the divine, the vulgar deem 
 him mad, and rebuke him; they do not see that he is 
 inspired. 
 
 Thus far I have been speaking of the fourth and 
 last kind of madness, which is imputed to him who, 
 when he sees the beauty of earth, is transported with 
 the recollection of the true beauty; he would like to 
 fly away, but he can not; he is like a bird fluttering 
 and looking upward and careless of the world below; 
 and he is therefore esteemed mad. And I have shown 
 that this is of all inspirations the noblest and best, and 
 comes of the best, and that he who has part or lot in 
 this madness is called a lover of the beautiful. For 
 as has been already said, every soul of man has in the 
 v T ay of nature beheld true being; this was the con¬ 
 dition of her passing into the form of man. But all 
 men do not easily recall the things of the other world; 
 they may have seen them for a short time only, or they 
 may have been unfortunate when they fell*to earth, 
 and may have lost the memory of the holy things 
 which they saw there through some evil and corrupt¬ 
 ing association. Few there are who retain the remem¬ 
 brance of them sufficiently; and they, when they be¬ 
 hold any image of that other world, are rapt in amaze- 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 409 
 
 ment; but they are ignorant of what this means, 
 because they have no clear perceptions. For there is 
 no light in the earthly copies of justice or temper¬ 
 ance or any of the higher qualities which are precious 
 to souls: they are seen but through a glass dimly; and 
 there are few who, going to the images, behold in them 
 the realities, and they only with difficulty. They 
 might have seen beauty shining in brightness, when, 
 with the happy band following in the train of Zeus, 
 as we philosophers did, or with other gods as others 
 did, they saw a vision and were initiated into most 
 blessed mysteries, which we celebrated in our state of 
 innocence; and having mo feeling of evils as yet to 
 come; beholding apparitions innocent and simple and 
 calm and happy as in a mystery; shining in pure light, 
 pure ourselves and not yet enshrined in that living 
 tomb which we carry about, now that we are impris¬ 
 oned in the body, as in an oyster-shell. Let me linger 
 thus long over the memory of scenes which have 
 . passed away. 
 
 But of beauty, I repeat again that we saw her there 
 shining in company with the celestial forms; and 
 coming to earth we find her here too, shining in clear¬ 
 ness through the clearest aperture of sense. For 
 sight is the keenest of our bodily senses; though not 
 by that is wisdom seen, for her loveliness would have 
 been transporting if there had been a visible image 
 of her, and this is true of the loveliness of the other 
 ideas as well. But beauty only has this portion, that 
 she is at once the loveliest and also the most apparent. 
 Now he who has not been lately initiated or who has 
 become corrupted, is not easily carried out of this 
 world to the sight of absolute beauty in the other; he 
 looks only at that which has the name of beauty in 
 this world, and instead of being awed at the sight of 
 her, like a brutish beast he rushes on to enjoy and 
 
410 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 beget; he takes wantonness to his bosom, and is not 
 afraid or ashamed of pursuing pleasure in violation 
 of nature. But he whose initiation is recent, and who 
 has been the spectator of many glories in the other 
 world, is amazed when he sees any one having a god¬ 
 like face or form, which is the expression or imitation 
 of divine beauty; and at first a shudder runs through 
 him, and some “ misgiving ” of a former world steals 
 over him; then looking upon the face of his beloved 
 as of a god he reverences him, and if he were not 
 afraid of being thought a downright madman, he 
 would sacrifice to his beloved as to the image of a 
 god; then as he gazes on him there is a sort of reaction, 
 and the shudder naturally passes into an unusual 
 heat and perspiration; for, as he receives the effluence 
 of beauty through the eyes, the wing moistens and he 
 warms. And as he warms, the parts out of which the 
 wing grew, and which had been hitherto closed and 
 rigid, and had prevented the wing from shooting forth 
 are melted, and as nourishment streams upon him, 
 the lower end of the w r ing begins to swell and grow 
 from the root upwards, extending under the whole 
 soul — for once the whole was winged. Now during 
 this process the whole soul is in a state of effervescence 
 and irritation, like the state of irritation and pain in 
 the gums at the time of cutting teeth; in like manner 
 the soul when beginning to grow wings has inflamma¬ 
 tion and pains and ticklings, and when looking at the 
 beauty of youth she receives the sensible warm trac¬ 
 tion of particles which flow towards her, therefore 
 called attraction (I>epo?), and is refreshed and warmed 
 by them, and then she ceases from her pain with 
 joy. But when she is separated and her moisture 
 fails, then the orifices of the passages out of which the 
 wing shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ 
 of the wing; which, being shut up within in company 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 411 
 
 with desire, throbbing as with the pulsations of an 
 artery, pricks the aperture which is nearest, until at 
 length the entire soul is pierced and maddened and 
 pained, and at the recollection of beauty is again de¬ 
 lighted. And from both of them together the soul 
 is oppressed at the strangeness of her condition, and 
 is in a great strait and excitement, and in her madness 
 can neither sleep by night nor abide in her place by 
 day. And wherever she thinks that she will behold 
 the beautiful one, thither in her desire she runs. And 
 when she has seen him, and drunk rivers of desire, 
 her constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and 
 has no more pangs and pains; and this is the sweet¬ 
 est of all pleasures at the time, and is the reason why 
 the soul of the lover never forsakes his beautiful one, 
 whom he esteems above all; he has forgotten his 
 mother and brethren and companions, and he thinks 
 nothing of the neglect and loss of his property; and 
 as to the rules and proprieties of life, on which he 
 formerly prided himself, he now despises them, and 
 is ready to sleep and serve, wherever he is allowed, as 
 near as he can to his beautiful one who is not only the 
 object of his worship, but the only physician who can 
 heal him in his extreme agony. And this state, my 
 dear imaginary youth, is by men called love, and 
 among the gods has a name which you, in your siim 
 plicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines 
 in honor of love in the Homeric Apocrypha in which 
 the name occurs. One of them is rather outrageous, 
 and is not quite metrical; they are as follow: — 
 
 “ Mortals call him Eros (love), 
 
 But the immortals call him Pteros (fluttering dove), 
 Because fluttering of wings is a necessity to him.” 
 
 You may believe this or not as you like. At any rate 
 the loves of lovers and their causes are such as I have 
 described. 
 
412 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Now the lover who is the attendant of Zeus is bet¬ 
 ter able to bear the winged god, and can endure a 
 heavier burden; but the attendants and companions 
 of Ares, when under the influence of love, if they 
 fancy that they have been at all wronged, are ready 
 to kill and put an end to themselves and their beloved. 
 And in like manner he who follows in the train of 
 any other god honors him, and imitates him as far as 
 he is able while the impression lasts; and this is his 
 way of life and the manner of his behavior to his be¬ 
 loved and to every other in the first period of his 
 earthly existence. Every one chooses the object of 
 his affections according to his character, and this he 
 makes his god, and fashions and adorns as a sort of 
 image which he is to fall down and worship. The fol¬ 
 lowers of Zeus desire that their beloved should have 
 a soul like him; and, therefore, they seek some philo¬ 
 sophical and imperial nature, and wdien they have 
 found him and loved him, they do all they can to cre¬ 
 ate such a nature in him, and if they have no experi¬ 
 ence hitherto, they learn of any one who can teach 
 them, and themselves follow in the same way. And 
 they have the less difficulty in finding the nature of 
 their own god in themselves, because they have been 
 compelled to gaze intensely on him; their recollection 
 clings to him, and they become possessed by him, and 
 receive his character and ways, as far as man can par¬ 
 ticipate in God. These they attribute to the beloved, 
 and they love him all the more, and if they draw in¬ 
 spiration from Zeus, like the Bacchic Nymphs, they 
 pour this out upon him in order to make him as like 
 their god as possible. But those who are the followers 
 of Hera seek a royal love, and when they have found 
 him they do the same with him; and in like manner 
 the followers of Apollo, and of every other god walk¬ 
 ing in the ways of their god, seek a love who is to be 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 413 
 
 like their god, and when they have found him, they 
 themselves imitate their god, and persuade their love 
 to do the same, and bring him into harmony with the 
 form and ways of the god as far as they can; for they 
 have no feelings of envy or mean enmity towards their 
 beloved, but they do their utmost to create in him the 
 greatest likeness of themselves and the god whom they 
 honor. And the desire of the lover, if effected, and 
 the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries of 
 true love, is thus fair and blissful to the beloved when 
 he is chosen by the lover who is driven mad by love. 
 Now the beloved or chosen one is taken captive in the 
 following manner: — 
 
 As I said at the beginning of this tale, I divided 
 each soul into three parts, two of them having the 
 forms of horses and the third that of a charioteer; and 
 i one of the horses was good and the other bad, but I 
 ; have not yet explained the virtue and vice of either, 
 and to that I will now proceed. The well-conditioned 
 horse is erect and well-formed; he has a lofty neck 
 I and an aquiline nose, and his color is white, and he has 
 dark eyes and is a lover of honor and modesty and 
 temperance, and the follower of true glory; he needs 
 not the touch of the whip, but is guided by word and 
 admonition only. Whereas the other is a large mis¬ 
 shapen animal, put together anyhow; he has a strong 
 i short neck; he is flat-faced and of a dark color, grey- 
 eyed and bloodshot, the mate of insolence and pride, 
 shag-eared, deaf, hardly yielding to blow or spur. 
 Now when the charioteer beholds the vision of love, 
 and has his whole soul warmed with sense, and is full 
 of tickling and desire, the obedient steed then as always 
 under the government of shame, refrains himself from 
 leaping on the beloved; but the other, instead of heed¬ 
 ing the blows of the whip, prances away and gives all 
 manner of trouble to his companion and to the char- 
 
414 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 ioteer, and urges them on toward the beloved and 
 reminds them of the joys of love. They at first indig¬ 
 nantly oppose him and will not be urged on to do 
 terrible and unlawful deeds; but at last, when there is 
 no end of evil, they yield and suffer themselves to be 
 led on to do as he bids them. And now they are at 
 the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved. 
 But when the charioteer sees that, his memory is car¬ 
 ried to the true beauty, and he beholds her in company 
 with Modesty set in her holy place. And when he 
 sees her he is afraid and falls back in adoration, and 
 in falling is compelled to pull back the reins, which he 
 does with such force as to bring both the steeds on 
 their haunches, the one willing and unresisting, the 
 unruly one very unwilling; and when they have gone 
 back a little, the one is overflowing with shame and 
 wonder, and pours forth rivers of perspiration over 
 the entire soul; the other, when the pain is over which 
 the bridle and the fall had given him, having with dif¬ 
 ficulty taken breath, is full of wrath and reproaches, 
 which he heaps upon the charioteer and his fellow- 
 steed, as though from w r ant of courage and manhood 
 they had been false to their agreement and guilty of 
 desertion. And, when they again decline, he forces 
 them on, and will scarce yield to their request that 
 he would wait until another time. Returning at the 
 appointed hour, they make as if they had forgotten, 
 and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and drag¬ 
 ging them, until at length he on the same thoughts 
 intent, forces them to draw near. And when they are 
 near he stoops his head and puts up his tail, and takes 
 the bit in his mouth and pulls shamelessly. Then the 
 charioteer is worse off than ever; he drops at the very 
 start, and with still greater violence draws the bit out 
 of the teeth of the wild steed and covers his abusive 
 tongue and jaws with blood, and forces his legs and 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 415 
 
 haunches to the ground and punishes him sorely. And 
 when this has happened several times and the villain 
 has ceased from his wanton way, he is tamed and hum¬ 
 bled, and follows the will of the charioteer, and when 
 he sees the beautiful one he is ready to die of fear. 
 And from that time forward the soul of the lover fol¬ 
 lows the beloved in modesty and holy fear. 
 
 And so the beloved who, like a god, has received 
 every true and loyal service from his lover, not in 
 pretence but in reality, being also himself of a nature 
 friendly to his admirer, if in former days he has 
 blushed to own his passion and turned away his lover, 
 because his youthful companions or others slander¬ 
 ously told him that he would be disgraced, now as 
 years advance, at the appointed age and time is led 
 to receive him into communion. For fate which has 
 ordained that there shall be no friendship among the 
 evil has also ordained that there shall ever be friend¬ 
 ship among the good. And when he has received him 
 into communion and intimacv, then the beloved is 
 amazed at the good will of the lover; he recognizes 
 that the inspired friend is worth all other friendship 
 or kinships, which have nothing of friendship in them 
 in comparison. And as he continues to feel this and 
 approaches and embraces him, in gymnastic exercises 
 and at other times of meeting, then does the fountain 
 of that stream, which Zeus when he was in love with 
 Ganymede called desire, overflow upon the lover, and 
 some enters into his soul, and some when he is filled 
 flows out again, and as a breeze or an echo leaps from 
 the smooth rocks and rebounds to them again, so does 
 the stream of beauty, passing the eyes which are the 
 natural doors and windows of the soul, return again 
 to the beautiful one; there arriving and fluttering the 
 passages of the wings, and watering them and inclin¬ 
 ing them to grow, and filling the soul of the beloved 
 
416 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 also with love. And thus he loves, but he knows not 
 what; he does not understand and can not explain his 
 own state; he appears to have caught the infection 
 of another’s eye; the lover is his mirror in whom he 
 is beholding himself, but he is not aware of this. 
 When he is with the lover, both cease from their pain, 
 but when he is away then he longs as he is longed for, 
 and has love’s image, love for love (Anteros) lodging 
 in his breast, which he calls and deems not love but 
 friendship only, and his desire is as the desire of the 
 other, but weaker; he wants to see him, touch him, 
 kiss, embrace him, and not long afterwards his desire 
 is accomplished. Now, when they meet, the wanton 
 steed of the lover has a word to say to the charioteer; 
 he would like to have a little pleasure as a return for 
 many pains, but the wanton steed of the beloved says 
 not a word, for he is bursting with passion which he 
 understands not, but he throws his arms round the 
 lover and embraces him as his dearest friend; and, 
 when they are side by side, he is not in a state in which 
 he can refuse the lover anything, if he ask him, while 
 his fellow-steed and the charioteer oppose him with 
 shame and reason. After this their happiness depends 
 upon their self-control; if the better elements of the 
 mind which lead to order and philosophy prevail, then 
 they pass their life in this world in happiness and har¬ 
 mony — masters of themselves and orderly — ensla¬ 
 ving the vicious and emancipating the virtuous ele¬ 
 ments; and when the end comes, being light and 
 ready to fly away, they conquer in one of the three 
 heavenly or truly Olympian victories; nor can human 
 discipline or divine inspiration confer any greater 
 blessing on man than this. If, on the other hand, 
 they leave philosophy and lead the lower life of ambi¬ 
 tion, then, probably in the dark or in some other care¬ 
 less hour, the two wanton animals take the two souls 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 417 
 
 when off their guard and bring them together, and 
 they accomplish that desire of their hearts which to 
 the many is bliss; and this having once enjoyed they 
 continue to enjoy, yet rarely because they have not 
 the approval of the whole soul. They too are dear, 
 but not so dear to one another as the others, either at 
 the time of their love or afterwards. They consider 
 that they have given and taken from each other the 
 most sacred pledges, and they may not break them 
 and fall into enmity. At last they pass out of the 
 body, unwinged, but eager to soar, and thus obtain no 
 mean reward of love and madness. For those who 
 have once begun the heavenward pilgrimage may not 
 go down again to darkness and the journey beneath 
 the earth, but they live in light always; happy com¬ 
 panions in their pilgrimage, and when the time comes 
 at which they receive their wings they have the same 
 plumage because of their love. 
 
 Thus great are the heavenly blessings which the 
 friendship of a lover will confer on you, my youth. 
 Whereas the attachment of the non-lover which is 
 just a vulgar compound of temperance and niggardly 
 earthly ways and motives, will breed meanness — 
 praised by the vulgar as virtue in your inmost soul; 
 will send you bowling round the earth during a period 
 of nine thousand years, and leave you a fool in the 
 world below. 
 
 And thus, dear Eros, I have made and paid my 
 recantation, as well as I could and as fairly as I could; 
 the poetical figures I was compelled to use, because 
 Phaedrus would have them. And now forgive the 
 past and accept the present, and be gracious and mer¬ 
 ciful to me, and do not deprive me of sight or take 
 from me the art of love, but grant that I may be yet 
 more esteemed in the eyes of the fair. And if Phae¬ 
 drus or I myself said anything objectionable in oi je 
 
418 
 
 PHAEDKUS 
 
 first speeches, blame Lysias, who is the father of the 
 brat, and let us have no more of his progeny; bid him 
 study philosophy, like his brother Polemarchus; and 
 then his lover Phaedrus will no longer halt between 
 two, but dedicate himself wholly to love and philo¬ 
 sophical discourses. 
 
 Phaedr . I say with you, Socrates, may this come 
 true if this be for my good. * But why did you make 
 this discourse of yours so much finer than the other? 
 I wonder at that. And I begin to be afraid that I 
 shall lose conceit of Lysias, even if he be willing to 
 make another as long as yours, which I doubt. For 
 one of our politicians lately took to abusing him on 
 this very account; he would insist on calling him a 
 speech-writer. So that a feeling of pride may prob¬ 
 ably induce him to give up writing. 
 
 Soc . That is an amusing notion; but I think that 
 you are a little mistaken in your friend if you imagine 
 that he is frightened at every noise; and, possibly, 
 you think that his assailant was in earnest? 
 
 Phaedr . I thought, Socrates, that he was. And 
 you are aware that the most powerful and consider¬ 
 able men among our statesmen are ashamed of wri¬ 
 ting speeches and leaving them in a written form 
 because they are afraid of posterity, and do not like 
 to be called sophists. 
 
 Soc. I don’t know whether you are aware, Phae¬ 
 drus, that the “ sweet elbow ” 1 of which the proverb 
 speaks is really derived from the long and difficult 
 arm of the Nile. And you appear to be equally un¬ 
 aware of the fact that this sweet elbow of theirs is 
 also a long arm. For there is nothing of which great 
 politicians are so fond as of writing speeches, which 
 they bequeath to posterity. And when they write 
 
 1 A proverb, like “ the grapes are sour,” applied to pleasures^which can 
 not be had, meaning sweet things which are out of the reach of the mouth. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 419 
 
 them, out of gratitude to their admirers, they append 
 their names at the top. 
 
 Phaedr. What do you mean? I don’t understand. 
 
 Soc. Why, don’t you know that when a politician 
 writes, he begins with the names of his approvers? 
 
 Phaedr . How is that? 
 
 Soc. Why, he begins thus: “ Be it enacted by the 
 senate, the people, or both, as a certain person who 
 was the author proposed; ” and then he rehearses all 
 his titles, and proceeds to display his own wisdom to 
 his admirers with a great flourish in what is often a 
 long and tedious composition. Now what is that sort 
 of thing but a regular piece of authorship? 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. And if the law is passed, then, like the poet, 
 he leaves the theatre in high delight; but if the law 
 is rejected and he is done out of his speech-making, 
 and not thought good enough to write, then he and 
 his party are in mourning. 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. This shows how far they are from despising, 
 or rather how highly they value the practice of writing. 
 
 Phaedr. No doubt. 
 
 Soc. And when the king or orator has the power, 
 as Lycurgus or Solon or Darius had, of attaining 
 an immortality of authorship in a state, is he not 
 thought by posterity, when they see his writings, and 
 does he not think himself, while he is yet alive, to be 
 like a god? 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Then do you think that any one of this class 
 who may be ill-disposed to Lysias would ever make it 
 a reproach against him that he is an author? 
 
 Phaedr. Not upon your view; for according to you 
 he would be reproaching him with his own favorite 
 pursuit. 
 
420 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Soc. Any one may see that there is no disgrace 
 in the fact of writing? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. There may however be a disgrace in writing, 
 not well, but badly. 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. And what is well and what is badly — need 
 we ask L} r sias, or any other poet or orator, who ever 
 wrote or will write either a political or any other work, 
 in metre or out of metre, poet or prose writer, to teach 
 us this ? 
 
 Phaedr. Need we? What motive has a man to live 
 if not for the pleasure of discourse? Surely he would 
 not live for the sake of bodily pleasures, which almost 
 always have previous pain as a condition of them, and 
 therefore are rightly called slavish. 
 
 Soc. There is time yet. And I can fancy that the 
 grasshoppers who are still chirruping in the sun over 
 our heads are talking to one another and looking at 
 us. What would they say if they saw that we also, 
 like the many, are not talking but slumbering at mid¬ 
 day, lulled by their voices, too indolent to think ? They 
 would have a right to laugh at us, and might imagine 
 that we are slaves coming to our place of resort, who 
 like sheep lie asleep at noon about the fountain. But 
 if they see us discoursing, and like Odysseus sailing 
 by their siren voices, they may perhaps, out of respect, 
 give us of the gifts which they receive of the gods and 
 give to men. 
 
 Phaedr. What gifts do you mean? I never heard 
 of any. 
 
 Soc. A lover of music like yourself ought surely to 
 have heard the story of the grasshoppers, who are said 
 to have been human beings in an age before the Muses. 
 And when the Muses came and song appeared they 
 were ravished with delight; and singing always, never 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 421 
 
 thought of eating and drinking, until at last they for¬ 
 got and died. And now they live again in the grass¬ 
 hoppers ; and this is the return which the Muses make 
 to them — they hunger no more, neither thirst any 
 more, but are always singing from the moment that 
 they are born, and never eating or drinking; and when 
 they die they go and inform the Muses in heaven 
 who honors them on earth. They win the love of 
 Terpsichore for the dancers by their report of them; 
 of Erato for the lovers, and of the other Muses for 
 those who do them honor, according to the several 
 ways of honoring them; — of Calliope the eldest 
 Muse, and of her who is next to her for the votaries 
 of philosophy; for these are the Muses who are chiefly 
 concerned with heaven and the ideas, divine as well as 
 human, and they have the sweetest utterance. For 
 many reasons, then, we ought always to talk and not 
 to sleep at mid-day. 
 
 Phaedr. Let us talk. 
 
 Soc. Shall we discuss the rules of writing and 
 speech as we were proposing? 
 
 Phaedr. Very good. 
 
 Soc . Is not the first rule of good speaking that the 
 mind of the speaker should know the truth of what he 
 is going to say? 
 
 Phaedr. And yet, Socrates, I have heard that he 
 who would be an orator has nothing to do with true 
 justice, but only with that which is likely to be ap¬ 
 proved by the many who sit in judgment; nor with 
 the truly good or honorable, but only with public 
 opinion about them, and that from this source and not 
 from the truth come the elements of persuasion. 
 
 Soc. Any words of the wise ought to be regarded 
 and not trampled under foot, for there is probably 
 something in them, and perhaps there may be some¬ 
 thing in this which is worthy of attention. 
 
422 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. Let us put the matter thus: — Suppose that 
 I persuaded you to buy a horse and go to the wars. 
 Neither of us knew what a horse was like, but I knew 
 that you believed a horse to be the longest-eared of 
 domestic animals. 
 
 Phaedr. That would be ridiculous. 
 
 Soc. There is something more ridiculous coming. 
 Suppose, now, that I was in earnest and went and 
 composed a speech in honor of an ass, whom I entitled 
 a horse, beginning: “ A noble animal and a most use¬ 
 ful possession, especially in war, and you may get on 
 his back and fight, and he will carry baggage or any¬ 
 thing.” 
 
 Phaedr. That would be most ridiculous. 
 
 Soc. Ridiculous! .Yes; but is not even a ridiculous 
 friend better than a dangerous enemy? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. And when the orator instead of putting an ass 
 in the place of a horse, puts good for evil, being him¬ 
 self as ignorant of their true nature as the city on 
 which he imposes is ignorant; and having studied the 
 notions of the multitude, persuades them to do evil 
 instead of good, — what will be the harvest which 
 rhetoric will be likely to gather after the sowing of 
 that fruit? 
 
 Phaedr. Anything but good. 
 
 Soc. Perhaps, however, rhetoric has been getting 
 too roughly handled by us, and she might answer: 
 What amazing nonsense is this! As if I forced any 
 man to learn to speak in ignorance of the truth! 
 Whatever my advice may be worth, I should have told 
 him to arrive at the truth first, and then come to me. 
 At the same time I boldly assert that mere knowl¬ 
 edge of the truth will not give you the art of per¬ 
 suasion. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 423 
 
 Phaedr. There is reason in the lady’s defence of 
 herself. 
 
 Soc. Yes, I admit that, if the argument which she 
 has yet in store bear witness that she is an art at all. 
 But I seem to hear them arraying themselves on the 
 opposite side, declaring that she speaks not true, and 
 that rhetoric is not an art but only a dilettante amuse¬ 
 ment. Lo! a Spartan appears, and says that there 
 never is nor ever will be a real art of speaking which 
 is unconnected with the truth. 
 
 Phaedr. And what are these arguments, Socrates? 
 Bring them out that we may examine them. 
 
 Soc. Come out, children of my soul, and convince 
 Phaedrus, who is the father of similar beauties, that 
 he will never be able to speak about anything unless 
 he be trained in philosophy. Amd let Phaedrus an¬ 
 swer you. 
 
 Phaedr. Put the question. \ 
 
 Soc. Is not rhetoric, taken generally, a universal 
 art of enchanting the mind by arguments; which is 
 practised not only in courts and public assemblies, but 
 in private houses also, having to do with all matters, 
 great as well as small, good and bad alike, and is in all 
 equally right, and equally to be esteemed — that is 
 what you have heard ? 
 
 Phaedr. Nay, not exactly that; but I should rather 
 say that I have heard the art confined to speaking and 
 writing in law-suits, and to speaking in public assem¬ 
 blies — not extended farther. 
 
 Soc. Then I suppose that you have only heard of 
 the rhetoric of Nestor and Odysseus, which they com¬ 
 posed in their leisure hours when at Troy, and never 
 of Palamedes? 
 
 Phaedr. No more than of Nestor and Odysseus, 
 unless Gorgias is your Nestor, and Thrasymachus and 
 Theodorus your Odysseus. 
 
 
424 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Soc. Perhaps that is my meaning. But let us leave 
 them. And do you tell me, instead, what are plaintiff 
 and defendant doing in a law-court — are they not 
 contending? 
 
 Phaedr. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. About the just and unjust — that is the mat¬ 
 ter in dispute? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And he who is practised in the art will make 
 the same thing appear to the same persons to be at one 
 time just and at another time unjust, if he has a mind? 
 
 Phaedr . Exactly. 
 
 Soc. And when he speaks in the assembly, he will 
 make the same things seem good to the city at one 
 time, and at another time the reverse of good? 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. Have we not heard of the Eleatic Palamedes 
 (Zeno), who has an art of speaking which makes the 
 same things appear to his hearers like and unlike, one 
 and many, at rest and in motion too? 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. The art of disputation, then, is not confined 
 to the courts and the assembly, but is one and the same 
 in every use of language; this is that art, if such an 
 art there be, which finds a likeness of everything to 
 which a likeness can be found, and draws into the light 
 of day the likenesses and disguises which are used by 
 others? 
 
 Phaedr. How do you mean? 
 
 Soc. Let me put the matter thus: When will there 
 be more chance of deception — when the difference is 
 large or small? 
 
 Phaedr. When the difference is small. 
 
 Soc. And you w T ill be less likely to be discovered in 
 passing by degrees into the other extreme than when 
 you go all at once ? 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 425 
 
 Phaedr. Of course. 
 
 Soc. He, then, who would deceive others, and not 
 be deceived, must exactly know the real likenesses and 
 differences of things? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, he must. 
 
 Soc. And if he is ignorant of the true nature of 
 anything, how can he ever distinguish the greater or 
 less degree of likeness to other things of that which he 
 does not know? 
 
 Phaedr. He can not. 
 
 Soc. And when men are deceived, and their notions 
 are at variance with realities, it is clear that the error 
 slips in through some resemblances? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, that is the way. 
 
 Soc. Then he who would be a master of the art 
 must know the real nature of everything; or he will 
 never know either how to contrive or how to escape 
 the gradual departure from truth into the opposite 
 of truth which is effected by the help of resem¬ 
 blances? 
 
 Phaedr. He will not. 
 
 Soc. He then, who being ignorant of the truth 
 catches at appearances, will only attain an art of 
 rhetoric which is ridiculous and is not an art at all ? 
 
 Phaedr. That may be expected. 
 
 Soc. Shall I propose that we look for examples of 
 good and bad art, according to our notion of them, in 
 the speech of Lysias which you have in your hand, and 
 in my own speech? 
 
 Phaedr. Nothing could be better; and indeed I 
 think that our previous argument has been too barren 
 of illustrations. 
 
 Soc. Yes; and the two speeches afford a good illus¬ 
 tration of the way in which the speaker who knows the 
 truth may playfully draw away the hearts of his 
 hearers. This piece of good fortune I attribute to the 
 
426 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 local deities; and, perhaps, the prophets of the Muses 
 who are singing over our heads may have imparted 
 their inspiration to me. For I do not imagine that I 
 have any rhetorical art myself. 
 
 Phaedr. I will not dispute that; only please to go 
 forward. 
 
 Soc. Suppose that you read me the first w T ords of 
 Lysias’ speech? 
 
 Phaedr . “ You know my views of our common in¬ 
 terest, and I do not think that I ought to fail in the 
 object of my suit because I am not your lover. For 
 lovers repent when-” 
 
 Soc. Enough. Now, shall I point out the rhetorical 
 error of those words? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Every one is aware that about some things we 
 are agreed, whereas about other things we differ. 
 
 Phaedr. I think that I understand you; but will 
 you explain yourself ? 
 
 Soc. When any one speaks of iron and silver, is not 
 the same thing present in the minds of all? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. But when any one speaks of justice and good¬ 
 ness, there is every sort of disagreement, and we are 
 at odds with one another and with ourselves ? 
 
 Phaedr. Precisely. 
 
 Soc. Then in some things we agree, but not in 
 others ? 
 
 Phaedr. That is true. 
 
 Soc. In which are we more likely to be deceived, 
 and in which has rhetoric the greater power? 
 
 Phaedr. Clearly, in the class which admits of error. 
 
 Soc. Then the rhetorician ought to make a regular 
 division, and acquire a distinct notion of both classes, 
 as well of that in which the many err, as of that in 
 which they do not err? 
 
PHAEDRUS 427 
 
 Phaedr. He who made such a distinction would 
 have an excellent principle. 
 
 Soc. Yes; and in the next place he must have a 
 keen eye for the observation of particulars in speak¬ 
 ing, and not make a mistake about the class to which 
 they are to be referred. 
 
 Phaedr . Certainly. 
 
 Soc, Now to which class does love belong — to the 
 debatable or to the undisputed class? 
 
 Phaedr, To the debatable class surely; for if not, 
 do you think that any one would have allowed you to 
 say as you did, that love is an evil both to the lover 
 and the beloved, and also the greatest possible good? 
 
 Soc. Capital. But will you tell me whether I de¬ 
 fined love at the beginning of my speech? for, having 
 been in an ecstasy, I can not well remember. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, indeed; that you did, and no mistake. 
 
 Soc. Then I perceive that the Nymphs of Achelous 
 and Pan the son of Hermes, who inspired me, were 
 far better rhetoricians than Lysias the son of Cephalus. 
 Alas! how inferior to them he is! But.perhaps I am 
 mistaken; and Lysias at the commencement of his 
 lover’s speech did insist on our supposing love to be 
 something or other which he fancied him to be, and 
 that in relation to this something he fashioned and 
 framed the remainder of his discourse. Suppose we 
 read him over again. 
 
 Phaedr . If you please; but you will not find what 
 you want. 
 
 Soc. Read, that I may have his exact words. 
 
 Phaedr. “You know my views of our common in¬ 
 terest; and I do not think that I ought to fail in the 
 object of my suit because I am not your lover, for 
 lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown, 
 when their love is over.” 
 
 Soc. Here he appears to have done just the reverse 
 
 
428 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 of what he ought; for he has begun at the end, and is 
 swimming on his back through the flood of words to 
 the place of starting. His address to the fair youth 
 commences with reference to the conclusion of his love. 
 Am I not right, sweet Phaedrus? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, indeed, Socrates; he does begin at the 
 ^end. 
 
 Soc. Then as to the other topics — are they not a 
 mass of confusion? Is there any principle in them? 
 Why should the next topic or any other topic follow 
 in that order? I can not help fancying in my igno¬ 
 rance that he wrote freely off just what came into his 
 head, but I dare say that you would recognize a rhe¬ 
 torical necessity in the succession of the several parts 
 of the composition? 
 
 Phaedr . You have too good an opinion of me if you 
 think that I have any such insight into his principles 
 of composition. 
 
 Soc. At any rate, you will allow that every dis¬ 
 course ought to be a living creature, having its own 
 body and head and feet; there ought to be a middle, 
 beginning, and end, which are in a manner agreeable 
 to one another and to the whole? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. Can this be said of the discourse of Lysias? 
 See whether you can find any more connections in his 
 words than in the epitaph, which is said by some to 
 have been inscribed on the grave of Midas the 
 Phrygian. 
 
 Phaedr. What is there remarkable in the epitaph? 
 
 Soc . The epitaph is as follows: 
 
 “ I am a maiden of brass; 
 
 I lie on the tomb of Midas, 
 
 While waters flow and tall trees grow, 
 
 Here am I, 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 429 
 
 On Midas’ tearful tomb I lie; 
 
 I am to tell the passers by 
 
 That Midas sleeps in earth below.” 
 
 Now in this rhyme whether a line comes first or comes 
 last, that, as you will perceive, makes no difference. N 
 
 Phaedr. You are making fun of that oration of 
 ours. 
 
 Soc. Well, I will say no more about your friend 
 lest I should give offence to you; although I think that 
 he might furnish many other examples of what a man 
 ought to avoid. But I will proceed to the other speech, 
 which, as I think, is also suggestive to students of 
 rhetoric. 
 
 Phaedr . In what way? 
 
 Soc. The two speeches, as you may remember, were 
 of an opposite character, the one argued that the lover 
 and the other that the non-lover ought to be accepted. 
 
 Phaedr. And right manfully. 
 
 Soc. You should rather say “madly;” and that 
 was the argument of them, for, as I said, “ love is a 
 madness.” 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. And there were two kinds of madness; one 
 produced by human infirmity, the other by a divine 
 release from the ordinary ways of men. 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. The divine madness was subdivided into four 
 kinds, prophetic, initiatory, poetic, erotic, having four 
 gods presiding over them; the first was the inspiration 
 of Apollo, the second that of Dionysus, the third that 
 of the Muses, the fourth that of Aphrodite and Eros. 
 In the description of the last kind of madness, which 
 was also the best, being a sort of figure of love, we 
 mingled a tolerably credible and possibly true, though 
 partly erring myth, which was also a hymn in honor 
 
430 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 of Eros, who is your lord and also mine, Phaedrus, 
 and the guardian of fair children, and to him we sung 
 the hymn in measured and solemn form. 
 
 Phaedr. I know that I had great pleasure in listen¬ 
 ing to the tale. 
 
 Soc. Let us take this instance and examine how the 
 transition was made from blame to praise. 
 
 Phaedr . What do you mean. 
 
 Soc. I mean to say that the composition was mostly 
 playful. Yet in these chance fancies of the hour were 
 involved two principles which would be charming if 
 they could be fixed by art. 
 
 Phaedr . What are they? 
 
 Soc. First, the comprehension of scattered par¬ 
 ticulars in one idea; — the speaker defines his several 
 notions in order that he may make his meaning clear, 
 as in our definition of love, which whether true or false 
 certainly gave clearness and consistency to the dis¬ 
 course. 
 
 Phaedr. What is the other principle, Socrates? 
 
 Soc. Secondly, there is the faculty of division ac- 
 . cording to the natural ideas or members, not breaking 
 any part as a bad carver might. But, as the body may 
 be divided into a left side and into a right side, having 
 parts right and left, so in the two discourses there was 
 assumed, first of all, the general idea of unreason, and 
 then one of the two proceeded to divide the parts of 
 the left side and did not desist until he found in them 
 an evil or left-handed love which the speaker justly re¬ 
 viled ; and the other leading us to the right portion in 
 which madness lay, found another love, having the 
 same name, but yet divine, w T hich he held up before 
 us and applauded as the author of the greatest 
 benefits. 
 
 Phaedr . That is most true. 
 
 Soc. I am a great lover of these processes of division 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 431 
 
 and generalization; they help me to speak and think. 
 And if I find any man who is able to see unity and 
 plurality in nature, him I follow, and walk in his step 
 as if he were a god. And those who have this art, I 
 have hitherto been in the habit of calling dialecticians; 
 but God knows whether the name is right or not. 
 And I should like to know what name you would give 
 to your or Lysias’ disciples, and whether this may not 
 be "that famous art of rhetoric which Thrasymachus 
 and others practise? Skilful speakers they are, and 
 impart their skill to any one who will consent to wor¬ 
 ship them as kings and to bring them gifts. 
 
 Phaedr . Yes, they are royal men; but their art is 
 not the same with the art of those whom you call, and 
 rightly, in my opinion, dialecticians. Still we are in 
 the dark about rhetoric. 
 
 Soc. What do you mean? The remains of the art, 
 when all this has been taken away, must be of rare 
 value; and are not at all to be despised by you and me. 
 But what are the remains? — tell me that. 
 
 Phaedr. There is a great deal surely to be found in 
 books of rhetoric? 
 
 Soc. Yes; thank you for reminding me of that, 
 there is the prooemium, if I remember rightly — that 
 is what you mean — the niceties of the art? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. There follows the statement of facts, and upon 
 that witnesses; thirdly, proofs; fourthly, probabilities 
 are to come; the great Byzantian artist also speaks, if 
 I am not mistaken, of confirmation and superconfir¬ 
 mation. 
 
 Phaedr . You mean the excellent Theodorus. 
 
 Soc . Yes; and he tells how refutation or further 
 refutation is to be managed, whether in accusation or 
 defence. I need hardly mention the Parian Evenus, 
 who first invented indirect allusions and incidental 
 
432 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 praises, and also censures, of which this wise man made 
 a memoria technica in verse. But shall 
 
 “ I to dumb forgetfulness consign ” 
 
 Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant that prob¬ 
 ability is superior to truth, and who by force of argu¬ 
 ment make the little appear great and the great little, 
 and the new old and the old new, and have discovered 
 universal forms, either short or going on to infinity. 
 I remember Prodicus laughing when I told him of 
 this; he said that he had himself discovered the true 
 rule of art, which was to be neither long nor short, but 
 of a convenient length. 
 
 Phaedr . Well done, Prodicus. 
 
 Soc. Then there is Plippias of Elis, who probably 
 
 agrees with him. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc.- And there is also Polus, who has schools of 
 diplasiology, and gnomology, and eikonology, and 
 who teaches in them the words of which Licymnius 
 made him a present; they were to give a polish. 
 
 Phaedr. Plad not Protagoras something of the 
 same sort? 
 
 Soc. Yes, rules of correctness and many other fine 
 precepts; for the “ sorrows of a poor old man,” or any 
 other pathetic case, no one is better than the Chalce- 
 donian giant; he can put a whole company of people 
 into a passion and out of one again by his mighty 
 magic, and is first-rate at inventing or disposing of 
 any 3 sort of calumny on any grounds or none. All of 
 them agree in asserting that a speech should end in a 
 recapitulation, though they do not all agree in the use 
 of this word. 
 
 Phaedr. You mean that there should be a summing 
 up of the arguments in order to remind the hearers of 
 
 them. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 433 
 
 Soc. I have now said all that I have to say of the 
 art of rhetoric: have you anything to add ? 
 
 J p) haedr. Not much, nor very important. 
 
 oc. Leave the unimportant and let us bring the 
 ly important question into the light of day, which 
 is: What power this art of rhetoric has, and when ? 
 Phaedr. A very great power in public meetings. 
 Soc. Yes, that is true. But I should like to know 
 whether you have the same feeling as I have about the 
 rhetoricians? To me there seems to be a great many 
 holes in their web. 
 
 Phaedr. Give an example. 
 
 Soc. I will. Suppose a person to come to your 
 friend Eryximachus, or to his father Acumenus, and 
 say to him: “ I know how to apply drugs which shall 
 have either a heating or a cooling effect, and I can 
 give a vomit and also a purge, and all that sort of 
 thing; and knowing all this, as I do, I claim to be a 
 physician and a teacher of physic ” — what do you 
 suppose that they would say? 
 
 Phaedr. They would be sure to ask him whether he 
 knew “ to whom ” he would give them, and “ when,” 
 and “ how much.” 
 
 Soc. And suppose that he were to reply: “ No; I 
 know nothing of that; I expect those whom I have 
 taught all this to do that of themselves.” 
 
 Phaedr. They would reply that he is a madman or 
 a pedant who fancies that he is a physician, because 
 he has read something in a book, or has stumbled on 
 a few drugs, although he has no real understanding 
 of the art of medicine. 
 
 Soc. And suppose a person were to come to 
 Sophocles or Euripides and say that he knows how to 
 make a long speech about a small matter, and a short 
 speech about a great matter, and also a sorrowful 
 speech, or a terrible, or threatening speech, or any 
 
 
 
434 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 other kind of speech, and in teaching this fancies that 
 he is teaching the art of tragedy? 
 
 Phaedr. They too would surely laugh at him if he 
 fancies that tragedy is anything but the arranginBof 
 these elements in a manner suitable to one another Bid 
 to the whole. 
 
 Soc. But I do not suppose that they would be rude 
 to him or revile him. Would they not treat him as a 
 musician would treat a man who thinks that he is a har¬ 
 monist because he knows how to pitch the highest and 
 lowest note; happening to meet such an one he would 
 not say to him savagely, “ Fool, you are mad! ” Oh, 
 no; he would rather say to him in a gentle and musical 
 tone of voice: “ My good friend, he who would be a 
 harmonist must certainly know this, and yet he may 
 understand nothing of harmony if he has not got 
 beyond your stage of knowledge, for you only know 
 the preliminaries of harmony and not harmonies.” 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And would not Sophocles say to the display 
 of the would-be tragedian, that this was not tragedy 
 but the preliminaries of tragedy, and would not 
 Acumenus say to the would-be doctor that this was 
 not medicine but the preliminaries of medicine? 
 
 Phaedr. Very true. 
 
 Soc. And if Adrastus the mellifluous or Pericles 
 heard of these wonderful arts, brachylogies and 
 eikonologies and all the hard names which we have 
 been endeavoring to draw into the light of day, what 
 would they say? Instead of losing temper and apply¬ 
 ing uncomplimentary epithets, as you and I have been 
 doing to the authors of such an imaginary art, their 
 superior wisdom would rather censure us, as well as 
 them. Have a little patience, Phaedrus and Socrates, 
 they would say, and don’t be angry with those who 
 from some want of dialectical skill are unable to define 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 435 
 
 the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose that 
 they have found the art in the preliminary conditions 
 of the art, and when they have taught these to others, 
 fancy that they have been teaching the whole art of 
 rhetoric; but as to persuasion in detail and unity of 
 composition, that they regard as an easy thing with 
 which their disciples may supply themselves. 
 
 Phaedr. I quite admit, Socrates, that the art of 
 rhetoric which these men teach and of which they 
 write is such as you describe — in that I agree with 
 you. But I still want to know where and how the true 
 art of rhetoric and persuasion is to be acquired. 
 
 Soc . The perfection of oratory is, or rather must 
 be, like the perfection of all things, partly given by 
 nature; but this is assisted by art, and if you have the 
 natural power you will be famous as a rhetorician, if 
 you only add knowledge and practice, and in either 
 you may fall short. But the art, as far as there is 
 an art, of rhetoric does not lie in the direction of 
 Tisias or Thrasymachus. 
 
 Phaedr. But in what direction then? 
 
 Soc. I should conceive that Pericles was the most 
 accomplished of rhetoricians. 
 
 Phaedr. What of that? 
 
 Soc. All the higher arts require much discussion 
 and lofty contemplation of nature; this is the source 
 of sublimity and perfect comprehensive power. And 
 this, as I conceive, was the quality which, in addition 
 to his natural gifts, Pericles acquired from his hap¬ 
 pening to know Anaxagoras. He was imbued with 
 the higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of 
 mind and matter, which was the favorite theme of 
 Anaxagoras, and hence he drew what was applicable 
 to his art. \ 
 
 Phaedr. Explain. 
 
 Soc. Rhetoric is like medicine. 
 
436 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Phaedr. How is that? 
 
 Soc. Why, because medicine has to define the 
 nature of the body and rhetoric of the soul — if you 
 would proceed, not empirically but scientifically, in 
 the one case to impart health and strength by giving 
 medicine and food, in the other to implant the con¬ 
 viction which you require by the right use of words 
 and principles. 
 
 Phaedr. You are probably right in that. 
 
 Soc. And do you think that you can know the 
 nature of the soul intelligently without knowing the 
 nature of the whole? 
 
 Phaedr. Hippocrates the Asclepiad says that this 
 is the only method of procedure by which the nature 
 even of the body can be understood. 
 
 Soc. Yes, friend, and he says truly. Still, we ought 
 not to he content with the name of Hippocrates, but 
 to examine and see whether he has reason on his 
 side. 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. Then consider what this is which Hippocrates 
 says, and which right reason says about this or any 
 other nature. Ought we not to consider first whether 
 that which we wish either to learn or to teach is simple 
 or multiform, and if simple, then to inquire what 
 power this has of acting or being acted upon by other, 
 and if multiform, then to number the forms; and see 
 first in the case of one of them, and then in the case of 
 all of them, the several powers which they by nature 
 have of doing or suffering. 
 
 Phaedr. That will be the way. 
 
 Soc. The method which has not this analysis is like 
 the groping of a blind man. Yet, surely, he who is 
 an artist ought not to admit of a comparison with the 
 blind, or deaf; but he who imparts rules of speech in an 
 artist-like or scientific manner will particularly set 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 437 
 
 forth the nature of that to which he gives his rules, 
 which I suppose is the soul. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 «/ # 
 
 Soc. His whole effort is directed towards this, tor 
 in this he seeks to produce conviction. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Then clearly, Thrasymachus or any one else 
 who elaborates a system of rhetoric will give an exact 
 description of the nature of the soul; which he will 
 make to appear either as single and same, or, like 
 the body, multiform. That is what we should call 
 showing the nature of the soul. 
 
 Phaedr. Exactly. 
 
 Soc. He will next proceed to speak of the instru¬ 
 ments by which the soul acts or is affected in any 
 way. 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. Thirdly, having arranged men and speeches, 
 and their modes and affections in different classes, 
 and fitted them into one another, he will point out the 
 connection between them — he will show why one is 
 naturally persuaded by a particular form of argument, 
 and another not. 
 
 Phaedr. That will certainly be a very good way. 
 
 Soc. Yes, that is the true and only way in which 
 any subject can be set forth or treated by rules of art, 
 whether in speaking or writing. But the writers of 
 the present day, at whose feet you have sat, improp¬ 
 erly conceal all this about the soul which they know 
 quite well. Nor, until they adopt our method of read¬ 
 ing and writing, can we admit that they write by rules 
 of art. 
 
 Phaedr. What is our method? 
 
 Soc. I can not give you the exact details; but I 
 should like to tell you generally, as far as I can, how a 
 man ought to proceed according to rules of art. 
 
m 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Phaedr. Let me hear. 
 
 Soc. Oratory is the art of enchanting the soul, and 
 therefore he who would be an orator has to learn the 
 differences of human souls — they are so many and 
 of such a nature, and from them come the differences 
 between man and man — he will then proceed to 
 divide speeches into their different classes. 5uch~and 
 such persons, he will say, are affected by this or that 
 kind of speech in this or that way, and he will tell you 
 why; he must have a theoretical notion of them first, 
 ' and then he must see them in action, and be able to 
 follow them with all his senses about him, or he will 
 never get beyond the precepts of his masters. But 
 when he is able to say what persons are persuaded by 
 what arguments, and recognize the individual about 
 whom he used to theorize as actually present to him, 
 and say to himself, 44 This is he and this is the sort of 
 man who ought to have that argument applied to him 
 in order to convince him of this; ” — when he has at¬ 
 tained the knowledge of all this, and kn ows also w hpn 
 he should speak and when he s hould abstain from 
 speaking, and when he should make use of pithy say¬ 
 ings, pafhetic appeals, aggravated effects, and all the 
 other figures of speech; — when, I say, he knows the 
 times and seasons of all these things, then, and not till 
 then, he is perfect and a consummate master of his art; 
 but if he fail in any of these points, whether in speak¬ 
 ing or teaching or writing them, and says that he 
 speaks by rules of art, he who denies this has the better 
 of him. Well, the teacher will say, is this Phaedrus 
 and Socrates, your account of the art of rhetoric, or 
 am I to look for another? 
 
 Phaedr. He must take this, Socrates, for there is 
 no possibility of another, and yet the creation of such 
 an art is not easy. 
 
 Soc. That is true; and therefore let us turn the 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 439 
 
 matter up and down, and see whether there may not 
 be a shorter and easier road; there is no use in taking 
 the longer and more difficult way when there is a 
 shorter and easier one. And I wish that you would 
 try and remember whether there is anything which 
 you have heard from Lysias or any one else which 
 might be of service to us. 
 
 Phaedr. If trying would avail, then I might; but 
 I fear that I can not remember anything at the mo¬ 
 ment. 
 
 Soc. Suppose I tell you something which somebody 
 who knows told me. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. May not the wolf, as the proverb says, claim a 
 hearing ? 
 
 Phaedr. Do you say what can be said for him. 
 
 Soc. Well, they say that there is no use in putting 
 a solemn face on a matter, or in going round and 
 round, until you arrive at the beginning of all things; 
 for that when the question is of justice and good, as I 
 said at first* or a question in which men are concerned 
 \yho are just and good, either by nature or habit, he 
 who would be a skilful rhetorician has no need of truth 
 — for that in courts of law men literally care nothing 
 about truth, but only about conviction: and this is 
 based on probability, to which he who would be a 
 skilful orator should therefore give his whole attention. 
 And they say also that there are cases in which the 
 actual facts ought to be withheld, and only the prob¬ 
 abilities should be told either in accusation or defence, 
 and that always in speaking the orator should run 
 after probability, and say good-bye to the truth. And 
 the observance of this principle throughout a speech 
 furnishes the whole art. 
 
 Phaedr. That is what the professors of rhetoric do 
 actually say, Socrates, for I remember that although 
 
440 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 we have touched upon this matter but slightly, the 
 point is all-important with them. 
 
 Soc. I dare say that you are familiar with Tisias. 
 Does he not define probability to be that which the 
 many think ? ‘ 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly, he does. 
 
 Soc . I believe that he has a clever and ingenious 
 case of this sort: — He supposes a feeble and valiant 
 man to have assaulted a strong and cowardly one, and 
 to have robbed him of his coat or of something or 
 other; he is brought into court, and then Tisias says 
 that both parties should tell lies: the coward should 
 say that he was assaulted by more men than one; the 
 other should prove that they were alone, and should 
 use this argument: “ How could a man like me have 
 assaulted a man like him? ” The other will not like 
 to confess his own cowardice, and will therefore in¬ 
 vent some other lie which his adversary will thus gain 
 an opportunity of refuting. These and others like 
 them are the precepts of the doctors of the art. Am 
 I not right, Phaedrus? 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. I can not help feeling that this is a wonder¬ 
 fully mysterious art which Tisias has discovered, or 
 whoever the gentleman was, or whatever his name or 
 country may have been who was the discoverer. Shall 
 we say a word to him or not ? 
 
 Phaedr . What shall we say to him? 
 
 Soc. Let us tell him that, before he appeared, you 
 and I were saying that probability was engendere d 
 in the minds of the many by the likeness of the truth, 
 and were setting forth that he who knew the^ truth 
 would always know how best to discover t he res em 5 
 blances of the truth. If he has anything further to 
 say about the art of speaking we should like to hear 
 him; but if not, we are satisfied with our own view, 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 441 
 
 that unless a man estimates the various characters of 
 his hearers and is able to divide existences into classes 
 and to sum them up in single ideas, he will never be 
 a skilful rhetorician even within the limits of human 
 power. And this art he will not attain without a great 
 deal of trouble, which a good man ought to undergo, 
 not for the sake of speaking and acting before men, 
 but in order that he may be able to say what is accept¬ 
 able to God and in all things to act acceptably to Him 
 as far as in him lies; for there is a saying of wiser 
 men than ourselves, that a man of sense should not 
 try to please his fellow-servants (at least this should 
 not be his principal object) but his good and noble 
 masters, so that, if the way is long and circuitous, 
 marvel not at this; for, where the end is great, there 
 the way may be permitted to be long, but not for 
 lesser ends such as yours. Truly, the argument may 
 say, Tisias, that if you do not mind going so far, 
 rhetoric has a fair beginning in this. 
 
 Phaedr. I think, Socrates, that this is admirable, 
 if only practicable. 
 
 Soc. But even to fail in an honorable object is hon¬ 
 orable. 
 
 Phaedr. True. 
 
 Soc. I think that enough has been said of a true 
 and false art of speaking. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc. But there is something yet to be said of pro¬ 
 priety and impropriety of writing. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes. 
 
 Soc. Ho you know how you can speak or act about 
 rhetoric in a manner which will be acceptable to 
 God? 
 
 Phaedr. No, indeed. Do you? 
 
 Soc. I have heard a tradition of antiquity, whether 
 true or not antiquity only knows. If we had the truth 
 
442 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 ourselves, do you think that we should care much 
 about the opinions of men? 
 
 Phaedr . That is a question which needs no answer; 
 but I wish that you would tell me what you say that 
 you have heard. 
 
 Soc. At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was 
 a famous old god, whose name was Theuth; the bird 
 which is called the Ibis was sacred to him, and he was 
 the inventor of many arts, such as arithmetic and cal¬ 
 culation and geometry and astronomy and draughts 
 and dice, but his great discovery was the use of letters. 
 Now in those days Thamus was the king of the whole 
 of Upper Egypt, which is the district surrounding 
 that great city which is called by the Hellenes Egyp¬ 
 tian Thebes, and they call the god himself Ammon. 
 To him came Theuth and showed his inventions, de¬ 
 siring that the other Egyptians might be allowed to 
 have the benefit of them; he went through them, and 
 Thamus inquired about their several uses, and praised 
 some of them and censured others, as he approved or 
 disapproved of them. There would be no use in re¬ 
 peating all that Thamus said to Theuth in praise or 
 
 blame of the various arts. But when thev came to 
 
 •/ 
 
 letters, This, said Theuth, will make the Egyptians 
 wiser and give them better memories; for this is the 
 ciire of forgetfulness and of folly. Thamus replied: 
 O most ingenious Theuth, he who has the gift of in¬ 
 vention is not always the best judge of the utility or 
 inutility of his own inventions to the users of them. 
 And in this instance a paternal love of your own child 
 has led you to sav what is not the fact; for this inven- 
 tion of yours will create forgetfulness in the learners’ 
 souls, because they will not use their memories; they 
 will trust to the external written characters and not 
 remember of themselves. You have found a specific, 
 not for memory but for reminiscence, and yo u giv e 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 443 
 
 yo ur dis ciples only the pretence of wisdom; they will 
 be hearers of many things and will have learned noth¬ 
 ing ; they will appear to be omniscient and will gen¬ 
 erally know nothing; they will be tiresome, having 
 the reputation of knowledge without the reality. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, Socrates, you can easily invent tales 
 of Egypt, or of any other country that you like. 
 
 Soc. There was a tradition in the temple of Do- 
 dona that oaks first gave prophetic utterances. The 
 men of that day, unlike in their simplicity to young 
 philosophy, deemed that if they heard the truth even 
 from “oak or rock,” that was enough for them; 
 whereas, you seem to think not of the truth but of 
 the speaker, and of the country from which the truth 
 comes. 
 
 Phaedr. I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke; 
 and I think that the Theban is right in his view about 
 letters. 
 
 Soc . He would be a simple person, and quite with¬ 
 out understanding of the oracles Thamus and Am¬ 
 mon, who should leave in w r riting or receive in writing 
 any art under the idea that the written w^ord would 
 be intelligible or certain; or who deemed that writing 
 was at all b etter than knowledge and recollection of 
 .{heTsame matters. 
 
 Phaedr. That is most true. 
 
 Soc. I can not help feeling, Phaedrus, that waiting 
 is unfortunately like painting; for the creations of 
 the painter have the attitude of life, and yet if you 
 ask them a question thev preserve a solemn silence. 
 And the same may he said of speeches. You would 
 imagine that they had intelligence, but if you want 
 to know anything and put a question to one of them, 
 the speaker ahvays gives one unvarying answer. And 
 when they have been once written down they are 
 tossed about anywhere among those who do and 
 

 444 PHAEDRUS 
 
 among those who do not understand them. And they 
 have no reticences or proprieties towards different 
 classes of persons; and, if they are unjustly assailed 
 or abused, their parent is needed to protect his off¬ 
 spring, for they can not protect or defend themselves. 
 
 Phaedr . That again is most true. 
 
 Soc. May we not imagine another kind of writing 
 or speaking far better than this is, and having far 
 greater power — which is one of the same family, but 
 lawfully begotten? Let us see what his origin is. 
 
 Phaedr. Who is he, and what do you mean about 
 his origin? 
 
 Soc. I am speaking of an intelligent writing which 
 is graven in the soul of him who has learned, and can 
 defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to 
 
 be silent. 
 
 Phaedr. You mean the word of knowledge which 
 has a living soul, and of which the written word is 
 properly no more than an image ? 
 
 Soc. Yes, of course that is what I mean. And I 
 wish that you would let me ask you a question: Would 
 a husbandman, who is a man of sense, take the seeds, 
 which he values and which he wishes to be fruitful, 
 and in sober earnest plant them during the heat of 
 summer, in some garden of Adonis, that he may re¬ 
 joice when he sees them in eight days appearing in 
 beauty (at least he does that, if at all, only as the show 
 of a festival) ; but those about which he is in earnest 
 he sows in fitting soil, and practises husbandry, and 
 is satisfied if in eight months they arrive at; perfection? 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, Socrates, that will be his way when 
 he is in earnest; he will do the other, as you say, only 
 as an amusement. 
 
 Soc. And can we suppose that he who knows the 
 just and good and honorable has less understanding 
 in reference to his own seeds than the husbandman? \ 
 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 445 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly not. 
 
 Soc. Then he will not seriously incline to write them 
 in water with pen and ink or in dumb characters which 
 have not a word to say for themselves and can not 
 adequately express the truth? 
 
 Phaedr. No, that is not likely. 
 
 Soc. No, that is not likely — in the garden of let¬ 
 ters he will plant them only as an amusement, or he 
 will .write them down as memorials against the Tor - 
 getfulness of old age, to be treasured by him and his 
 equals when they, like him, have one foot in the grave; 
 and he will rejoice in beholding their tender growth; 
 and they will be his pastime w hile others are watering 
 the garden of their souls with banqueting and the like. 
 
 Phaedr. A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the other 
 is ignoble, wken a man is able to pass time merrily in 
 the representation of justice and the like. 
 
 Soc. True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious 
 pursuit of the dialectician, wdio finds a congenial soul, 
 and then with knowledge engrafts and sows w^ords 
 which are able to help themselves and him who planted 
 them, and are not unfruitful, but have in them seeds 
 w^hich may bear fruit in other natures, nurtured in 
 other ways — making the seed everlasting and the 
 possessors happy to the utmost extent of human hap¬ 
 piness. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, indeed, that is far nobler. 
 
 Soc. And now, Phaedrus, having agreed upon the 
 premisses we may decide about the conclusion. 
 
 Phaedr. About what conclusion? 
 
 Soc. About Lysias, whom we censured, and his art 
 of writing, and his discourses, and the rhetorical skill 
 or want of skill which w^as shown in them; for he 
 brought us to this point. And I think that we are 
 now pretty well informed about the nature of art and 
 ; ts opposite. 
 
446 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, I think with you; but I wish that 
 you would repeat what was said. 
 
 Soc. Until a man knows the truth of the several 
 particulars of which he is writing or speaking, and 
 is able to define them as they are, and having defined 
 them again to divide them until they can be no longer 
 divided, and until in like manner he is able to discern 
 the nature of the soul and discover the different modes 
 of discourse which are adapted to different natures, 
 and to arrange and dispose them in such a way that 
 the simple form of speech may be addressed to the 
 simpler nature, and the complex and composite to the 
 complex nature — until he has accomplished all this, 
 he will be unable to handle arguments according to 
 rules of art, as far as their nature allows them to be 
 subjected to art, either for the purpose of teaching 
 or persuading; — that is the view which is implied in 
 
 the Whole preceding argument. 
 
 Phaedr. Yes, that was our view, certainly. 
 
 Soc. Secondly, as to the justice of the censure 
 which was passed on speaking or writing discourses — 
 did not our previous argument show — ? 
 
 Phaedr. Show what? 
 
 Soc. That whether Lysias or any other writer that 
 ever was or will be, whether private man or statesman, 
 writes a political treatise in his capacity of legislator, 
 and fancies that there is a great certainty and clear¬ 
 ness in his performance, the fact of his writing as he 
 does is only a disgrace to him, whatever men may say. 
 Eor entire ignorance about the nature of justice an(^ 
 injustice, and good and evil, and the inability to dis¬ 
 tinguish the dream from the reality, can not in trutr^ 
 be otherwise than disgraceful to him, even though h| t 
 have the applause of the whole world. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. . f 
 
 Soc. But he who thinks that in the written worp 
 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 447 
 
 there is necessarily much which is not serious, and that 
 neither poetry nor prose, spoken or written, are of 
 any great value — if, like the compositions of the 
 rhapsodes, they are only recited in order to be believed, 
 and not with any view to criticism or instruction; and 
 who thinks that even the best of them are but a remi¬ 
 niscence of what we know, and that only in principles 
 of justice and goodness and nobility taught and com¬ 
 municated orally and written in the soul, which is the 
 true way of writing, is there clearness and perfection 
 and seriousness; and that such principles are like 
 legitimate offspring; — being, in the first place, that 
 which the man finds in his own bosom; secondly, the 
 brethren and descendants and relations of this which 
 has been duly implanted in the souls of others; and 
 who cares for them and no others — this is the right 
 sort of man; and you and I, Phaedrus, would pray 
 that we may become like him. 
 
 Phaedr. That is most assuredly my desire and 
 prayer. 
 
 Soc. And now the play is played out; and of rhet¬ 
 oric enough. Go and tell Lysias that to the fountain 
 and school of the Nymphs we went down, and were 
 bidden by them to convey a message to him and to 
 other composers of speeches — to Homer and other 
 writers of poems, whether set to music or not. And 
 to Solon and the writers of political documents, which 
 they term laws, we are to say that if their composi¬ 
 tions are based on knowledge of the truth, and they 
 can defend or prove them, when they are put to the 
 test, by spoken arguments, which leave their writings 
 poor in comparison of them, then they are not only 
 poets, orators, legislators, but worthy of a higher 
 name. 
 
 Phaedr. What name is that? 
 
 * Soc . Wise, I may not call them; for that is a great 
 
448 
 
 PHAEDRUS 
 
 name which belongs to God only, — lovers of wisdom 
 or philosophers is their modest and befitting title. 
 
 Phaedr. Very good. 
 
 Soc. And he who can not rise above his own com¬ 
 pilations and compositions, which he has been long 
 patching and piecing, adding some and taking away 
 some, may be justly called poet or speech-maker or 
 law-maker. 
 
 Phaedr. Certainly. 
 
 Soc . Now go and tell this to your companion. 
 
 Phaedr. But there is also a friend of yours who 
 ought not to be forgotten. 
 
 Soc. Who is that? 
 
 Phaedr. Isocrates the fair. 
 
 Soc. What of him? 
 
 Phaedr. What message shall we $end to him? 
 
 Soc. Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus; but I am 
 willing to risk a prophecy concerning him. 
 
 Phaedr. What would you prophesy? 
 
 Soc. I think that he has a genius which soars above 
 the orations of Lysias, and he has a character of a 
 finer mould. My impression of him is that he will 
 marvellously improve as he grows older, and that all 
 former rhetoricians will be as children in comparison 
 of him. And I believe that he will not be satisfied 
 with this, but that some divine impulse will lead him «, 
 to things higher still. For there is an element of phi¬ 
 losophy in his nature. This is the message which 
 comes from the gods dwelling in this place, and which 
 I will myself deliver to Isocrates, who is my delight; 
 and do you give the other to Lysias who is yours. 
 
 Phaedr. I will; and now as the heat is abated let 
 us depart. 
 
 Soc. Should we not offer up a prayer first of all to 
 the local deities? 
 
 Phaedr. By all means. 
 
PHAEDRUS 
 
 449 
 
 Soc. Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt 
 this place, give me beauty in the inward soul; and 
 may the outward and inward man be at one. May I 
 reckon the wise to be the wealthy, and may I have 
 such a quantity of gold as none but the temperate can 
 carry. Anything more? That prayer, I think, is 
 enough for me. 
 
 Phaedr. Ask the same for me, for friends should 
 have all things in common. 
 
 Soc . Let us go. 
 

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