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    Phaedrus

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    Chapter 2
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    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 come from Lysias the son of Cephalus, and I am going to take a
    walk outside the wall, for I have been sitting with him the whole morning;
    and our common friend Acumenus tells me that it is much more refreshing to
    walk in the open air than to be shut up in a cloister.

    SOCRATES: There he is right. Lysias then, I suppose, was in the town?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, he was staying with Epicrates, here at the house of
    Morychus; that house which is near the temple of Olympian Zeus.

    SOCRATES: And how did he entertain you? Can I be wrong in supposing that
    Lysias gave you a feast of discourse?

    PHAEDRUS: You shall hear, if you can spare time to accompany me.

    SOCRATES: And should I not deem the conversation of you and Lysias 'a
    thing of higher import,' as I may say in the words of Pindar, 'than any
    business'?

    PHAEDRUS: Will you go on?

    SOCRATES: And will you go on with the narration?

    PHAEDRUS: My tale, Socrates, is one of your sort, for love was the theme
    which occupied us--love after a fashion: Lysias has been writing about 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.

    SOCRATES: O that is noble of him! I wish that he would say the poor man
    rather than the rich, and the old man rather than the young one;--then he
    would meet the case of me and of many a man; his words would be quite
    refreshing, and he would be a public benefactor. For my part, I do so long
    to hear his speech, 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 keep you company.

    PHAEDRUS: What do you mean, my good Socrates? How can you imagine that my
    unpractised memory can do justice to an elaborate work, which the greatest
    rhetorician of the age spent a long time in composing. Indeed, I cannot; I
    would give a great deal if I could.

    SOCRATES: I believe that I know Phaedrus about as well as I know myself,
    and I am very sure that the speech of Lysias was repeated to him, not once
    only, but again and again;--he insisted on hearing it many times over and
    Lysias was very willing to gratify him; at last, when nothing else would
    do, he got hold of the book, and looked at what he most wanted to see,--
    this occupied him during the whole morning;--and then when he was tired
    with sitting, he went out to take a walk, not until, by the dog, as I
    believe, he had simply learned by heart the entire discourse, unless it was
    unusually long, and he went to a place outside the wall that he might
    practise his lesson. There he saw a certain lover of discourse who had a
    similar weakness;--he saw and rejoiced; now thought he, 'I shall have a
    partner in my revels.' And he invited him to come and walk with him. But
    when the lover of discourse begged that he would repeat the tale, he gave
    himself airs and said, 'No I cannot,' as if he were indisposed; although,
    if the hearer had refused, he would sooner or later have been compelled by
    him to listen whether he would or no. Therefore, Phaedrus, bid him do at
    once what he will soon do whether bidden or not.

    PHAEDRUS: I see that you will not let me off until I speak in some fashion
    or other; verily therefore my best plan is to speak as I best can.

    SOCRATES: A very true remark, that of yours.

    PHAEDRUS: I will do as I say; but believe me, Socrates, I did not learn
    the very words--O no; nevertheless I have a general notion of what he said,
    and will give you a summary of the points in which the lover differed from
    the non-lover. Let me begin at the beginning.

    SOCRATES: Yes, my sweet one; but you must first of all show what you have
    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 suppose
    that I am going to have your memory exercised at my expense, if you have
    Lysias himself here.

    PHAEDRUS: Enough; I see that I have no hope of practising my art upon you.
    But if I am to read, where would you please to sit?

    SOCRATES: Let us turn aside and go by the Ilissus; we will sit down at
    some quiet spot.

    PHAEDRUS: 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 will be the easiest way, and at midday and in the summer is far from
    being unpleasant.

    SOCRATES: Lead on, and look out for a place in which we can sit down.

    PHAEDRUS: Do you see the tallest plane-tree in the distance?

    SOCRATES: Yes.

    PHAEDRUS: There are shade and gentle breezes, and grass on which we may
    either sit or lie down.

    SOCRATES: Move forward.

    PHAEDRUS: 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?

    SOCRATES: Such is the tradition.

    PHAEDRUS: And is this the exact spot? The little stream is delightfully
    clear and bright; I can fancy that there might be maidens playing near.

    SOCRATES: 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 Artemis, and there
    is, I think, some sort of an altar of Boreas at the place.

    PHAEDRUS: I have never noticed it; but I beseech you to tell me, Socrates,
    do you believe this tale?

    SOCRATES: The wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like
    them, I too doubted. I might have a rational explanation that Orithyia was
    playing with Pharmacia, when a northern gust carried her over the
    neighbouring rocks; and this being the manner of her death, she was said to
    have been carried away by Boreas. There is a discrepancy, however, about
    the locality; according to another version of the story she was taken from
    Areopagus, and not from this place. Now I quite acknowledge that these
    allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has to invent
    them; much labour and ingenuity will be required of him; and when he has
    once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate Hippocentaurs and chimeras dire.
    Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace, and numberless other inconceivable
    and portentous natures. And if he is sceptical about them, and would fain
    reduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort of
    crude philosophy will take up a great deal of time. Now I have no leisure
    for such enquiries; shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the
    Delphian inscription says; to be curious about that which is not my
    concern, while I am still in ignorance of my own self, would be ridiculous.
    And therefore I bid farewell to all this; the common opinion is enough for
    me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about myself:
    am I a monster more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent
    Typho, or a creature of a gentler and simpler sort, to whom Nature has
    given a diviner and lowlier destiny? But let me ask you, friend: have we
    not reached the plane-tree to which you were conducting us?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, this is the tree.

    SOCRATES: By Here, a fair resting-place, full of summer sounds and scents.
    Here is this 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 beneath 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. How delightful is the breeze:--so very sweet; and
    there is a sound in the air shrill and summerlike which makes answer to the
    chorus of the cicadae. But the greatest charm of all is the grass, like a
    pillow gently sloping to the head. My dear Phaedrus, you have been an
    admirable guide.

    PHAEDRUS: What an incomprehensible being you are, Socrates: when you are
    in the country, as you say, you really are like some stranger who is led
    about by a guide. Do you ever cross the border? I rather think that you
    never venture even outside the gates.

    SOCRATES: Very true, my good friend; and I hope that you will excuse me
    when you hear the reason, which is, that I am a lover of knowledge, and the
    men who dwell in the city are my teachers, and not the trees or the
    country. Though I do indeed believe that you have found a spell with which
    to draw me out of the city into the country, like a hungry cow before whom
    a bough or a bunch of fruit is waved. For only hold up before me in like
    manner a book, and you may lead me all round Attica, and over the wide
    world. And now having arrived, I intend to lie down, and do you choose any
    posture in which you can read best. Begin.

    PHAEDRUS: Listen. You know how matters stand with me; and how, as I
    conceive, this affair may be arranged for the advantage of both of us. And
    I maintain that I ought not to fail in my suit, because I am not your
    lover: for lovers repent of the kindnesses which they have shown when
    their passion ceases, but to the non-lovers who are free and not under any
    compulsion, no time of repentance ever comes; for they confer their
    benefits according to the measure of their ability, in the way which is
    most conducive to their own interest. Then again, lovers consider how by
    reason of their love they have neglected their own concerns and rendered
    service to others: and when to these benefits conferred they add on the
    troubles which they have endured, they think that they have long ago made
    to the beloved a very ample return. But the non-lover has no such
    tormenting recollections; he has never neglected his affairs or quarrelled
    with his relations; he has no troubles to add up or excuses to invent; and
    being well rid of all these evils, why should he not freely do what will
    gratify the beloved? If you say that the lover is more to be esteemed,
    because his love is thought to be greater; for he is willing to say and do
    what is hateful to other men, in order to please his beloved;--that, if
    true, is only a proof that he will prefer any future love to his present,
    and will injure his old love at the pleasure of the new. And how, in a
    matter of such infinite importance, can a man be right in trusting himself
    to one who is afflicted 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 says that he is
    unable to control himself? And if he came to his right mind, would he ever
    imagine that the desires were good which he conceived when in his wrong
    mind? Once more, there are many more non-lovers than lovers; and if you
    choose the best of the lovers, you will not have many to choose from; but
    if from the non-lovers, the choice will be larger, and you will be far more
    likely to find among them a person who is worthy of your friendship. If
    public opinion be your dread, and you would avoid reproach, in all
    probability the lover, who is always thinking that other men are as emulous
    of him as he is of them, will boast to some one of his successes, and make
    a show of them openly in the pride of his heart;--he wants others to know
    that his labour has not been lost; but the non-lover is more his own
    master, and is desirous of solid good, and not of the opinion of mankind.
    Again, the lover may be generally noted or seen following the beloved (this
    is his regular occupation), and whenever they are observed to exchange two
    words they are supposed to meet about some affair of love either past or in
    contemplation; but when non-lovers meet, no one asks the reason why,
    because people know that talking to another is natural, whether friendship
    or mere pleasure be the motive. Once more, 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 what is most precious to you, you
    will be the greater loser, and therefore, you will have more reason in
    being afraid of the lover, for his vexations are many, and he is always
    fancying that every one is leagued against him. Wherefore also he debars
    his beloved from society; he will not have you intimate with the wealthy,
    lest they should exceed him in wealth, or with men of education, lest they
    should be his superiors in understanding; and he is equally afraid of
    anybody's influence who has any other advantage over himself. If he can
    persuade you to break with them, you are left without a friend in the
    world; or if, out of a regard to your own interest, you have more sense
    than to comply with his desire, you will have to quarrel with him. But
    those who are non-lovers, and whose success in love is the reward of their
    merit, will not be jealous of the companions of their beloved, and will
    rather hate those who refuse to be his associates, thinking that their
    favourite is slighted by the latter and benefited by the former; for more
    love than hatred may be expected to come to him out of his friendship with
    others. Many lovers too have loved the person of a youth before they knew
    his character or his belongings; 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 the favours granted; 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 wrong way;
    partly, because they are afraid of offending you, and also, their judgment
    is weakened by passion. Such are the feats which love exhibits; he makes
    things painful to the disappointed which give no pain to others; he compels
    the successful lover to praise what ought not to give him pleasure, and
    therefore the beloved is to be pitied rather than envied. But if you
    listen to me, in the first place, I, in my intercourse with you, shall not
    merely regard present enjoyment, but also future advantage, being not
    mastered by love, but my own master; nor for small causes taking violent
    dislikes, but even when the cause is great, slowly laying up little wrath--
    unintentional offences I shall forgive, and intentional ones I shall try to
    prevent; and these are the marks of a friendship which will last.

    Do you think that a lover only can be a firm friend? reflect:--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 shower favours on
    those who are the most eager suitors,--on that principle, we ought always
    to do good, not to the most virtuous, but to the most needy; for they are
    the persons who will be most relieved, and will therefore be the most
    grateful; and when you make a feast you should 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 many a blessing on your head. Yet surely you ought not to
    be granting favours to those who besiege you with prayer, 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 bloom of your youth, but to
    those who will share their possessions 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 tell no tales; nor to those who care about you for a
    moment only, but to those who will continue your friends through life; nor
    to those who, when their passion is over, will pick a quarrel with you, but
    rather to those who, when the charm of youth has left you, will show their
    own virtue. Remember what I have said; and consider yet this further
    point: 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.

    '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 indiscriminate favour is less esteemed by the
    rational recipient, and less easily hidden by him who would escape the
    censure of 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 in your opinion needs to be supplied, ask and I will
    answer.'

    Now, Socrates, what do you think? Is not the discourse excellent, more
    especially in the matter of the language?

    SOCRATES: Yes, quite 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 matters than I
    am, I followed your example, and, like you, my divine darling, I became
    inspired with a phrenzy.

    PHAEDRUS: Indeed, you are pleased to be merry.

    SOCRATES: Do you mean that I am not in earnest?

    PHAEDRUS: Now don't talk in that way, Socrates, but let me have your real
    opinion; I adjure you, by Zeus, the god of friendship, to tell me whether
    you think that any Hellene could have said more or spoken better on the
    same subject.

    SOCRATES: Well, but are you and I expected to praise the sentiments of the
    author, or only the clearness, and roundness, and finish, and tournure of
    the language? As to the first I willingly submit to your better judgment,
    for I am not worthy to form an opinion, having only attended to the
    rhetorical manner; and I was doubting whether this could have been defended
    even by Lysias himself; I thought, though I speak under correction, that he
    repeated himself two or three times, either from want of words or from want
    of pains; and also, he appeared to me ostentatiously to exult in showing
    how well he could say the same thing in two or three ways.

    PHAEDRUS: Nonsense, Socrates; what you call repetition was the especial
    merit of the speech; for he omitted no topic of which the subject rightly
    allowed, and I do not think that any one could have spoken better or more
    exhaustively.

    SOCRATES: There I cannot go along with you. Ancient sages, men and women,
    who have spoken and written of these things, would rise up in judgment
    against me, if out of complaisance I assented to you.

    PHAEDRUS: Who are they, and where did you hear anything better than this?

    SOCRATES: I am sure that I must have heard; but at this moment I do not
    remember from whom; perhaps from Sappho the fair, or Anacreon the wise; or,
    possibly, from a prose writer. Why do I say so? Why, because I perceive
    that my bosom is full, and that I could make another speech as good as that
    of Lysias, and different. Now I am certain that this is not an invention
    of my own, who am well aware that I know nothing, and therefore I can only
    infer that I have been filled through the ears, like a pitcher, from the
    waters of another, though I have actually forgotten in my stupidity who was
    my informant.

    PHAEDRUS: That is grand:--but never mind where you heard the discourse or
    from whom; let that be a mystery not to be divulged even at my earnest
    desire. Only, as you say, promise to make another and better oration,
    equal in length and entirely new, on the same subject; 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.

    SOCRATES: You are a dear golden ass if you suppose me to mean that Lysias
    has altogether missed the mark, and that I can make a speech from which all
    his arguments are to be excluded. The worst of authors will say something
    which is to the point. Who, for example, could speak on this thesis of
    yours without praising the discretion of the non-lover and blaming the
    indiscretion of the lover? These are the commonplaces of the subject 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 commonplaces, then there may
    be some originality.

    PHAEDRUS: I admit that there is reason in what you say, and I too will be
    reasonable, and will allow you to start with the premiss that the lover is
    more disordered in his wits than the non-lover; if in what remains you 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 offerings of the Cypselids at Olympia.

    SOCRATES: How profoundly in earnest is the lover, because to tease him I
    lay a finger upon his love! And so, Phaedrus, you really imagine that I am
    going to improve upon the ingenuity of Lysias?

    PHAEDRUS: There I have you as you had me, and you must just speak 'as you
    best can.' Do not let us exchange 'tu quoque' as in a farce, 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
    yourself of the speech; for here are we all alone, and I am stronger,
    remember, and younger than you:--Wherefore perpend, and do not compel me to
    use violence.

    SOCRATES: But, my sweet Phaedrus, how ridiculous it would be of me to
    compete with Lysias in an extempore speech! He is a master in his art and
    I am an untaught man.

    PHAEDRUS: You see how matters stand; and therefore let there be no more
    pretences; for, indeed, I know the word that is irresistible.

    SOCRATES: Then don't say it.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, but I will; and my word shall be an oath. 'I say, or
    rather swear'--but what god will be witness of my oath?--'By this plane-
    tree I swear, that unless you repeat the discourse here in the face of this
    very plane-tree, I will never tell you another; never let you have word of
    another!'

    SOCRATES: Villain! I am conquered; the poor lover of discourse has no
    more to say.

    PHAEDRUS: Then why are you still at your tricks?

    SOCRATES: I am not going to play tricks now that you have taken the oath,
    for I cannot allow myself to be starved.

    PHAEDRUS: Proceed.

    SOCRATES: Shall I tell you what I will do?

    PHAEDRUS: What?

    SOCRATES: I will veil my face and gallop through the discourse as fast as
    I can, for if I see you I shall feel ashamed and not know what to say.

    PHAEDRUS: Only go on and you may do anything else which you please.

    SOCRATES: Come, O ye Muses, melodious, 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 here desires me to rehearse, in order that his friend whom he always
    deemed wise may seem to him to be wiser than ever.

    Once upon a time there was a fair boy, or, more properly speaking, a youth;
    he was very fair and had a great many lovers; and there was one special
    cunning one, who had persuaded the youth that he did not love him, but he
    really loved him all the same; and one day when he was paying his addresses
    to him, he used this very argument--that he ought to accept the non-lover
    rather than the lover; his words were as follows:--

    'All good counsel begins in the same way; a man should know what he is
    advising about, or his counsel will all come to nought. But people imagine
    that they know about the nature of things, when they don't know about them,
    and, not having come to an understanding at first because they think that
    they know, they end, as might be expected, in contradicting one another and
    themselves. Now you and I must not be guilty of this fundamental 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 the definition
    and to this appealing, let us further enquire 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 aspires after the best; and these two are sometimes in
    harmony and then again at war, and sometimes the one, sometimes the other
    conquers. When opinion 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 members, and many
    forms, and any of these forms when very marked gives a name, neither
    honourable nor creditable, to the bearer of the name. The desire of
    eating, for example, which gets the better of the higher reason and the
    other desires, is called gluttony, and he who is possessed by it 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 there can be
    as little doubt by what name any other appetite of the same family would be
    called;--it will be the name of that which happens to be dominant. And now
    I think that you will perceive the drift of my discourse; 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 enjoyment of beauty, and especially
    of personal beauty, by the desires which are her own kindred--that supreme
    desire, I say, which by leading conquers and by the force of passion is
    reinforced, from this very force, receiving a name, is called love
    (erromenos eros).'

    And now, dear Phaedrus, I shall pause for an instant to ask whether you do
    not think me, as I appear to myself, inspired?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you seem to have a very unusual flow of words.

    SOCRATES: Listen to me, then, in silence; for surely the place is holy; so
    that you must not wonder, if, as I proceed, I appear to be in a divine
    fury, for already I am getting into dithyrambics.

    PHAEDRUS: Nothing can be truer.

    SOCRATES: The responsibility rests with you. But hear what follows, and
    perhaps the fit may be averted; all is in their hands above. I will go on
    talking to my youth. Listen:--

    Thus, my friend, we have declared and defined the nature of the subject.
    Keeping the definition in view, let us now enquire 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 agreeable to himself as possible. Now
    to him who has a mind diseased anything 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 coward of the brave, the slow
    of speech of the speaker, the dull of the clever. These, and not these
    only, are the mental defects of the beloved;--defects which, when implanted
    by nature, are necessarily a delight to the lover, and when not implanted,
    he must contrive to implant them in him, if he would not be deprived of his
    fleeting joy. And therefore he cannot help being jealous, and will debar
    his beloved from the advantages of society which would make a man of him,
    and especially from that society which would have given him wisdom, and
    thereby he cannot fail to do him great harm. That is to say, in his
    excessive fear lest he should come to be despised in his eyes he will be
    compelled to banish from him divine philosophy; and there is no greater
    injury which he can inflict upon him than this. He will contrive that his
    beloved shall be wholly ignorant, and in everything shall look to him; he
    is to be the delight of the 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, a stranger to manly exercises and the
    sweat of toil, accustomed only to a soft and luxurious diet, instead of the
    hues of health having the colours 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
    length. But I may sum up all that I have to say in a word, and pass on.
    Such a person in war, or in any of the great crises of 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 disadvantage the beloved will receive
    from the guardianship and society of his lover in the matter of his
    property; this is the next point to be considered. The lover will be the
    first to see what, indeed, will be sufficiently evident to all men, that he
    desires above all things to deprive his beloved of his dearest and best and
    holiest possessions, father, mother, kindred, friends, of all whom he
    thinks may be hinderers or reprovers of their most sweet converse; he will
    even cast a jealous eye upon his gold and silver or other property, because
    these make him a less easy prey, and when caught less manageable; hence he
    is of necessity displeased at his possession of them and rejoices at their
    loss; and he would like him to be wifeless, childless, homeless, as well;
    and the longer the better, for the longer he is all this, the longer he
    will enjoy him.

    There are some sort of animals, such as flatterers, who are dangerous and
    mischievous enough, and yet nature has 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 hurtful to his love; he is
    also an extremely disagreeable companion. The old proverb says that 'birds
    of a feather flock together'; I suppose that equality of years inclines
    them to the same pleasures, and similarity begets friendship; yet you may
    have more than enough even of this; and verily constraint 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 will he leave him if he can help; necessity and the sting of desire
    drive him on, and allure him with the pleasure which he receives from
    seeing, hearing, touching, perceiving him in every way. And therefore he
    is delighted 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 extremity of disgust when he looks at an old shrivelled face and
    the remainder to match, which even in a description is disagreeable, and
    quite detestable when he is forced into daily contact with his lover;
    moreover he is jealously watched and guarded against everything and
    everybody, and has to hear misplaced and exaggerated praises of himself,
    and censures equally inappropriate, which are intolerable when the man is
    sober, and, besides being intolerable, are published all over the world in
    all their indelicacy and wearisomeness when he is drunk.

    And not only while his love continues is he mischievous and unpleasant, but
    when his love ceases he becomes a perfidious enemy of him on whom he
    showered 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 hour of payment arrives, and now he is the servant of
    another master; instead of love and infatuation, wisdom and temperance are
    his bosom's lords; but the beloved has not discovered the change which has
    taken place in him, when he asks for a return and recalls to his
    recollection former sayings and doings; he believes himself to be speaking
    to the same person, and the other, not having the courage to confess the
    truth, and not knowing how to fulfil the oaths and promises which he made
    when under the dominion of folly, and having now grown wise and temperate,
    does not want to do as he did or to be as he was before. And so he runs
    away and is constrained to be a defaulter; the oyster-shell (In allusion to
    a game in which two parties fled or pursued according as an oyster-shell
    which was thrown into the air fell with the dark or light side uppermost.)
    has fallen with the other side uppermost--he changes pursuit into flight,
    while 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 instead of a sensible non-lover; and that in making such a choice he
    was giving himself up to a faithless, morose, envious, disagreeable being,
    hurtful to his estate, hurtful to his bodily health, and still more hurtful
    to the cultivation of his mind, than which there neither is nor ever will
    be anything more honoured in the eyes 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 I told you so, I am speaking in verse, and therefore I had better make
    an end; enough.

    PHAEDRUS: 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 do
    you not proceed?

    SOCRATES: Does not your simplicity observe that I have got out of
    dithyrambics into heroics, when only uttering a censure on the lover? And
    if I am to add the praises of the non-lover what will become of me? Do you
    not perceive 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 advantages in which the lover is accused of being deficient.
    And now I will say no more; there has been enough 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.

    PHAEDRUS: Not yet, Socrates; not until the heat of the day has passed; do
    you not see that the hour is almost noon? there is the midday sun standing
    still, as people say, in the meridian. Let us rather stay and talk over
    what has been said, and then return in the cool.

    SOCRATES: Your love of discourse, Phaedrus, is superhuman, simply
    marvellous, and I do not believe that there is any one of your
    contemporaries who has either made or in one way or another has compelled
    others to make 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.

    PHAEDRUS: That is good news. But what do you mean?

    SOCRATES: I mean to say that as I was about to cross the stream the usual
    sign was given to me,--that sign which always forbids, but never bids, me
    to do anything which I am going to do; and I thought that I heard a voice
    saying in my ear that I 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 use, as you might say of a
    bad writer--his writing is good enough for him; and I am beginning to see
    that I was in error. O my friend, how prophetic is the human soul! At the
    time I had a sort of misgiving, and, like Ibycus, 'I was troubled; I feared
    that I might be buying honour from men at the price of sinning against the
    gods.' Now I recognize my error.

    PHAEDRUS: What error?

    SOCRATES: That was a dreadful speech which you brought with you, and you
    made me utter one as bad.

    PHAEDRUS: How so?

    SOCRATES: It was foolish, I say,--to a certain extent, impious; can
    anything be more dreadful?

    PHAEDRUS: Nothing, if the speech was really such as you describe.

    SOCRATES: Well, and is not Eros the son of Aphrodite, and a god?

    PHAEDRUS: So men say.

    SOCRATES: But that was not acknowledged by Lysias in his speech, nor by
    you in that other speech which you by a charm drew from my lips. For if
    love be, as he surely is, a divinity, he cannot be evil. Yet this was the
    error of both the speeches. There was also a simplicity about them which
    was refreshing; having no truth or honesty in them, nevertheless they
    pretended to be something, hoping to succeed in deceiving the manikins of
    earth and gain celebrity among them. Wherefore I must have a purgation.
    And 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
    inflicted upon him for reviling the lovely Helen, he at once purged
    himself. And the purgation was a recantation, which began thus,--

    'False is that word of mine--the truth is that thou didst not embark in
    ships, nor ever go 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 my recantation for
    reviling love before I suffer; and this I will attempt, not as before,
    veiled and ashamed, but with forehead bold and bare.

    PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be more agreeable to me than to hear you say so.

    SOCRATES: Only think, my good Phaedrus, what an utter want of delicacy was
    shown in the two discourses; I mean, in my own and in that 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
    we tell of the petty causes of lovers' jealousies, and of their exceeding
    animosities, and of 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?

    PHAEDRUS: I dare say not, Socrates.

    SOCRATES: Therefore, because I blush at the thought of this person, and
    also because I am afraid of Love himself, I desire to wash the brine out of
    my ears with water from the spring; and I would counsel Lysias not to
    delay, but to write another discourse, which shall prove that 'ceteris
    paribus' the lover ought to be accepted rather than the non-lover.

    PHAEDRUS: Be assured that he shall. You shall speak the praises of the
    lover, and Lysias shall be compelled by me to write another discourse on
    the same theme.

    SOCRATES: You will be true to your nature in that, and therefore I believe
    you.

    PHAEDRUS: Speak, and fear not.

    SOCRATES: But where is the fair youth whom I was addressing before, and
    who ought to listen now; lest, if he hear me not, he should accept a non-
    lover before he knows what he is doing?

    PHAEDRUS: He is close at hand, and always at your service.

    SOCRATES: Know then, fair youth, that the former discourse was the word of
    Phaedrus, the son of Vain Man, who dwells in the city of Myrrhina
    (Myrrhinusius). And this which I am about to utter is the recantation of
    Stesichorus the son of Godly Man (Euphemus), who comes from the town of
    Desire (Himera), and is to the following effect: 'I told a lie when I
    said' that the beloved ought to accept the non-lover when he might have the
    lover, because the one is sane, and the other mad. It might be so if
    madness were simply an evil; but there is also a madness which is a divine
    gift, and the source of the chiefest blessings granted to men. For
    prophecy is a madness, and the prophetess at Delphi and the priestesses at
    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 inspired persons have given
    to many an one many an intimation of the future which has saved them from
    falling. But it would be tedious to speak of what every one knows.

    There will be more reason in appealing to the ancient inventors of names
    (compare Cratylus), who would never have connected prophecy (mantike) which
    foretells the future and is the noblest of arts, with madness (manike), or
    called them both by the same name, if they had deemed madness to be a
    disgrace or dishonour;--they must have thought that there was an inspired
    madness which was a noble thing; for the two words, mantike and manike, are
    really the same, and the letter tau is only a modern and tasteless
    insertion. And this is confirmed by the name which was given by them to
    the rational investigation of futurity, whether made by the help of birds
    or of other signs--this, for as much as it is an art which supplies from
    the reasoning faculty mind (nous) and information (istoria) to human
    thought (oiesis) they originally termed oionoistike, but the word has been
    lately altered and made sonorous by the modern introduction of the letter
    Omega (oionoistike and oionistike), and in proportion as prophecy (mantike)
    is more perfect and august than augury, both in name and fact, in the same
    proportion, as the ancients testify, is madness superior to a sane mind
    (sophrosune) for the one is only of human, but the other of divine origin.
    Again, where plagues and mightiest woes have bred in certain families,
    owing to some ancient blood-guiltiness, there madness has entered with holy
    prayers and rites, and by inspired utterances found a way of deliverance
    for 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 made whole and exempt from evil, future as well as present, and
    has a release from the calamity which was afflicting him. The third kind
    is the madness of those who are possessed by the Muses; which taking hold
    of a delicate and virgin soul, and there inspiring frenzy, awakens lyrical
    and all other numbers; with these adorning the myriad actions of ancient
    heroes for the instruction of posterity. But he who, having no touch of
    the Muses' 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 disappears and is nowhere 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
    the temperate friend is to be chosen rather than the inspired, but let him
    further show that love is not sent by the gods for any good to lover or
    beloved; if he can do so we will allow him to carry off the palm. And we,
    on our part, will prove in answer to him that the madness of love is the
    greatest of heaven's blessings, and the proof shall be one which the wise
    will receive, and the witling disbelieve. But first of all, let us view
    the affections and actions of the soul divine and human, and try to
    ascertain the truth about them. The beginning of our proof is as follows:-

    (Translated by Cic. Tus. Quaest.) The soul through all her being is
    immortal, for that which is ever in motion is immortal; but that which
    moves another and is moved by another, in ceasing to move ceases also to
    live. Only the self-moving, never leaving self, never ceases to move, and
    is the fountain and beginning of motion to all that moves besides. Now,
    the beginning is unbegotten, for that which is begotten has a beginning;
    but the beginning is begotten of nothing, for if it were begotten of
    something, then the begotten would not come from a beginning. But if
    unbegotten, it must also be indestructible; for if beginning were
    destroyed, there could be no beginning out of anything, nor anything out of
    a beginning; and all things must have a beginning. And therefore the self-
    moving is the beginning of motion; and this can neither be destroyed nor
    begotten, else the whole heavens and all creation would collapse and stand
    still, and never again have motion or birth. But if the self-moving is
    proved to be immortal, he who affirms that self-motion is the very idea and
    essence of the soul will not be put to confusion. For the body which is
    moved from without is soulless; but that which is moved from within has a
    soul, for such is the nature of the soul. But if this be true, must not
    the soul be the self-moving, and therefore of necessity unbegotten and
    immortal? Enough of the soul's immortality.

    Of the nature of the soul, though her true form be ever a theme of large
    and more than mortal discourse, let me speak briefly, and in a figure. And
    let the figure be composite--a pair of winged horses and a charioteer. Now
    the winged horses and the charioteers of the gods are all of them noble and
    of noble descent, but those of other races are mixed; the human charioteer
    drives his in a pair; and one of them is noble and of noble breed, and the
    other is ignoble and of ignoble breed; and the driving of them of necessity
    gives a great deal of trouble to him. I will endeavour to explain to you
    in what way the mortal differs from the immortal creature. The soul in her
    totality has the care of inanimate being everywhere, and traverses the
    whole heaven in divers forms appearing--when perfect and fully winged she
    soars upward, and orders the whole world; whereas the imperfect soul,
    losing her wings and drooping in her flight at last settles on the solid
    ground--there, finding a home, she receives an earthly frame which appears
    to be self-moved, but is really moved by her power; and this composition of
    soul and body is called a living and mortal creature. For immortal no such
    union can be reasonably believed to be; although fancy, not having seen nor
    surely known the nature of God, may imagine an immortal creature having
    both a body and also a soul which are united throughout all time. Let
    that, however, be as God wills, and be spoken of acceptably to him. And
    now let us ask the reason why the soul loses her wings!

    The wing is the corporeal element which is most akin to the divine, and
    which by nature tends to soar aloft and carry that which gravitates
    downwards into the upper region, which is the habitation of the gods. The
    divine is beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the like; and by these the wing of
    the soul is nourished, and grows apace; but when fed upon evil and foulness
    and the opposite of good, wastes and falls away. Zeus, the mighty lord,
    holding the reins of a winged chariot, leads the way in heaven, ordering
    all and taking care of all; and there follows him the array of gods and
    demi-gods, marshalled in eleven bands; Hestia alone abides at home in the
    house of heaven; of the rest they who are reckoned among the princely
    twelve march in their appointed order. They see many blessed sights in the
    inner heaven, and there are many ways to and fro, along which the blessed
    gods are passing, every one doing his own work; he may follow who will and
    can, for jealousy has no place in the celestial choir. But when they go to
    banquet and festival, then they move up the steep to the top of the vault
    of heaven. The chariots of the gods in even poise, obeying the rein, glide
    rapidly; but the others labour, for the vicious steed goes heavily,
    weighing down the charioteer to the earth when his steed has not been
    thoroughly trained:--and this is the hour of agony and extremest conflict
    for the soul. For the immortals, when they are at the end of their course,
    go forth and stand upon the outside of heaven, and the revolution of the
    spheres carries them round, and they behold the things beyond. But of the
    heaven which is above the heavens, what earthly poet ever did or ever will
    sing worthily? It is such as I will describe; for I must dare to speak the
    truth, when truth is my theme. There abides the very being with which true
    knowledge is concerned; the colourless, formless, intangible essence,
    visible only to mind, the pilot of the soul. The divine intelligence,
    being nurtured upon mind and pure knowledge, and the intelligence of every
    soul which is capable of receiving the food proper to it, rejoices at
    beholding reality, and once more gazing upon truth, is replenished and made
    glad, until the revolution of the worlds brings her round again to the same
    place. In the revolution she beholds justice, and temperance, and
    knowledge absolute, not in the form of generation or of relation, which men
    call existence, but knowledge absolute in existence absolute; and beholding
    the other true existences in like manner, and feasting 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.

    Such 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 carried round in the revolution, troubled indeed by the
    steeds, and with difficulty beholding true being; while another only rises
    and falls, and sees, and again fails to see by reason 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 are carried round
    below the surface, plunging, treading on one another, each striving to be
    first; and there is confusion and perspiration 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, not
    having attained to the mysteries of true being, go away, and feed upon
    opinion. The reason why the souls exhibit this exceeding eagerness to
    behold the plain of truth is that pasturage is found there, which is suited
    to the highest part of the soul; and the wing on which the soul soars is
    nourished with this. And there is a law of Destiny, that the soul which
    attains any vision of truth in company with a god is preserved from harm
    until the next period, and if attaining always is always unharmed. But
    when she is unable to follow, and fails to behold the truth, and through
    some ill-hap sinks beneath the double load of forgetfulness and vice, and
    her wings fall from her and she drops to the ground, then the law ordains
    that this soul shall at her first birth pass, not into any other animal,
    but only into man; and the soul which has seen most of truth shall come to
    the birth as a philosopher, or artist, or some musical and loving nature;
    that which has seen truth in the second degree shall be some righteous king
    or warrior chief; the soul which is of the third class shall be a
    politician, or economist, or trader; the fourth shall be a lover of
    gymnastic toils, or a physician; the fifth shall lead the life of a prophet
    or hierophant; to the sixth the character of poet or some other imitative
    artist will be assigned; 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--all these are states of probation, in which he who does
    righteously improves, and he who does unrighteously, deteriorates his lot.

    Ten thousand years must elapse before the soul of each one can return to
    the place from whence she came, for she cannot grow her wings in less; only
    the soul of a philosopher, guileless and true, or the soul of a lover, who
    is not devoid of philosophy, may acquire wings in the third of the
    recurring periods of a thousand years; he is distinguished from the
    ordinary good man who gains wings in three thousand years:--and they who
    choose this life three times in succession have wings given them, and go
    away at the end of three thousand years. But the others (The philosopher
    alone is not subject to judgment (krisis), for he has never lost the vision
    of truth.) receive judgment 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 here 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 draw lots and choose their second life, and they may take any which
    they please. The soul of a man may pass into the life of a beast, or from
    the beast return again into the man. But the soul which has never seen the
    truth will not pass into the human form. For a man must have intelligence
    of universals, and be able to proceed from the many particulars of sense to
    one conception of reason;--this is the recollection of those things which
    our soul once saw while following God--when regardless of that which we now
    call being she raised her head up 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
    cannot; he is like a bird fluttering and looking upward and careless of the
    world below; and he is therefore thought to be mad. And I have shown this
    of all inspirations to be the noblest and highest and the offspring of the
    highest to him who has or shares in it, and that he who loves the beautiful
    is called a lover because he partakes of it. For, as has been already
    said, every soul of man has in the way of nature beheld true being; this
    was the condition of her passing into the form of man. But all souls 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 in their earthly
    lot, and, having had their hearts turned to unrighteousness through some
    corrupting influence, they may have lost the memory of the holy things
    which once they saw. Few only retain an adequate remembrance of them; and
    they, when they behold here any image of that other world, are rapt in
    amazement; but they are ignorant of what this rapture means, because they
    do not clearly perceive. For there is no light of justice or temperance or
    any of the higher ideas which are precious to souls in the earthly copies
    of them: they are seen through a glass dimly; and there are few who, going
    to the images, behold in them the realities, and these only with
    difficulty. There was a time when with the rest of the happy band they saw
    beauty shining in brightness,--we philosophers following in the train of
    Zeus, others in company with other gods; and then we beheld the beatific
    vision and were initiated into a mystery which may be truly called most
    blessed, celebrated by us in our state of innocence, before we had any
    experience of evils to come, when we were admitted to the sight of
    apparitions innocent and simple and calm and happy, which we beheld shining
    in pure light, pure ourselves and not yet enshrined in that living tomb
    which we carry about, now that we are imprisoned in the body, like an
    oyster in his shell. Let me linger 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
    clearness through the clearest aperture of sense. For sight is the most
    piercing of our bodily senses; though not by that is wisdom seen; her
    loveliness would have been transporting if there had been a visible image
    of her, and the other ideas, if they had visible counterparts, would be
    equally lovely. But this is the privilege of beauty, that being the
    loveliest she is also the most palpable to sight. Now he who is not newly
    initiated or who has become corrupted, does not easily rise out of this
    world to the sight of true beauty in the other; he looks only at her
    earthly namesake, and instead of being awed at the sight of her, he is
    given over to pleasure, and like a brutish beast he rushes on to enjoy and
    beget; he consorts with wantonness, 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 godlike face or form, which is the
    expression of divine beauty; and at first a shudder runs through him, and
    again the old awe 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 while he gazes on him there is a sort of reaction, and
    the shudder 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 wing begins to swell and grow from the root upwards; and the
    growth extends under the whole soul--for once the whole was winged. During
    this process the whole soul is all in a state of ebullition and
    effervescence,--which may be compared to the irritation and uneasiness in
    the gums at the time of cutting teeth,--bubbles up, and has a feeling of
    uneasiness and tickling; but when in like manner the soul is beginning to
    grow wings, the beauty of the beloved meets her eye and she receives the
    sensible warm motion of particles which flow towards her, therefore called
    emotion (imeros), and is refreshed and warmed by them, and then she ceases
    from her pain with joy. But when she is parted from her beloved and her
    moisture fails, then the orifices of the passage out of which the wing
    shoots dry up and close, and intercept the germ of the wing; which, being
    shut up with the emotion, 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
    delighted. 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 bathed herself in the
    waters of beauty, her constraint is loosened, and she is refreshed, and has
    no more pangs and pains; and this is the sweetest of all pleasures at the
    time, and is the reason why the soul of the lover will never forsake his
    beautiful one, whom he esteems above all; he has forgotten mother and
    brethren and companions, and he thinks nothing of the neglect and loss of
    his property; the rules and proprieties of life, on which he formerly
    prided himself, he now despises, and is ready to sleep like a servant,
    wherever he is allowed, as near as he can to his desired one, who is the
    object of his worship, and the physician who can alone assuage the
    greatness of his pain. And this state, my dear imaginary youth to whom I
    am talking, is by men called love, and among the gods has a name at which
    you, in your simplicity, may be inclined to mock; there are two lines in
    the apocryphal writings of Homer in which the name occurs. One of them is
    rather outrageous, and not altogether metrical. They are as follows:

    'Mortals call him fluttering love,
    But the immortals call him winged one,
    Because the growing of wings (Or, reading pterothoiton, 'the movement of
    wings.') is a necessity to him.'

    You may believe this, but not unless you like. At any rate the loves of
    lovers and their causes are such as I have described.

    Now the lover who is taken to be the attendant of Zeus is better 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 he who follows in the train of any other
    god, while he is unspoiled and the impression lasts, honours and imitates
    him, as far as he is able; and after the manner of his God he behaves in
    his intercourse with his beloved and with the rest of the world during the
    first period of his earthly existence. Every one chooses his love from the
    ranks of beauty 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 followers of Zeus desire that their beloved should have a
    soul like him; and therefore they seek out some one of a philosophical and
    imperial nature, and when they have found him and loved him, they do all
    they can to confirm such a nature in him, and if they have no experience of
    such a disposition 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 of him, and receive from him their character and
    disposition, so far as man can participate in God. The qualities of their
    god they attribute to the beloved, wherefore they love him all the more,
    and if, like the Bacchic Nymphs, they draw inspiration from Zeus, they pour
    out their own fountain upon him, wanting to make him as like as possible to
    their own god. But those who are the followers of Here seek a royal love,
    and when they have found him they do just the same with him; and in like
    manner the followers of Apollo, and of every other god walking in the ways
    of their god, seek a love who is to be made like him whom they serve, and
    when they have found him, they themselves imitate their god, and persuade
    their love to do the same, and educate him into the manner and nature of
    the god as far as they each can; for no feelings of envy or jealousy are
    entertained by them towards their beloved, but they do their utmost to
    create in him the greatest likeness of themselves and of the god whom they
    honour. Thus fair and blissful to the beloved is the desire of the
    inspired lover, and the initiation of which I speak into the mysteries of
    true love, if he be captured by the lover and their purpose is effected.
    Now the beloved is taken captive in the following manner:--

    As I said at the beginning of this tale, I divided each soul into three--
    two horses and a charioteer; and one of the horses was good and the other
    bad: the division may remain, but I have not yet explained in what the
    goodness or badness of either consists, and to that I will now proceed.
    The right-hand horse is upright and cleanly made; he has a lofty neck and
    an aquiline nose; his colour is white, and his eyes dark; he is a lover of
    honour and modesty and temperance, and the follower of true glory; he needs
    no touch of the whip, but is guided by word and admonition only. The other
    is a crooked lumbering animal, put together anyhow; he has a short thick
    neck; he is flat-faced and of a dark colour, with grey eyes and blood-red
    complexion (Or with grey and blood-shot eyes.); the mate of insolence and
    pride, shag-eared and deaf, hardly yielding to whip and spur. Now when the
    charioteer beholds the vision of love, and has his whole soul warmed
    through sense, and is full of the prickings and ticklings of desire, the
    obedient steed, then as always under the government of shame, refrains from
    leaping on the beloved; but the other, heedless of the pricks and of the
    blows of the whip, plunges and runs away, giving all manner of trouble to
    his companion and the charioteer, whom he forces to approach the beloved
    and to remember the joys of love. They at first indignantly oppose him and
    will not be urged on to do terrible and unlawful deeds; but at last, when
    he persists in plaguing them, they yield and agree to do as he bids them.
    And now they are at the spot and behold the flashing beauty of the beloved;
    which when the charioteer sees, his memory is carried to the true beauty,
    whom he beholds in company with Modesty like an image placed upon a holy
    pedestal. He sees her, but he is afraid and falls backwards in adoration,
    and by his fall is compelled to pull back the reins with such violence 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 overcome with shame and wonder, and his whole soul is
    bathed in perspiration; the other, when the pain is over which the bridle
    and the fall had given him, having with difficulty taken breath, is full of
    wrath and reproaches, which he heaps upon the charioteer and his fellow-
    steed, for want of courage and manhood, declaring that they have been false
    to their agreement and guilty of desertion. Again they refuse, and again
    he urges them on, and will scarce yield to their prayer that he would wait
    until another time. When the appointed hour comes, they make as if they
    had forgotten, and he reminds them, fighting and neighing and dragging them
    on, until at length he on the same thoughts intent, forces them to draw
    near again. And when they are near he stoops his head and puts up his
    tail, and takes the bit in his teeth and pulls shamelessly. Then the
    charioteer is worse off than ever; he falls back like a racer at the
    barrier, and with a still more violent wrench drags the bit out of the
    teeth of the wild steed and covers his abusive tongue and jaws with blood,
    and forces his legs and 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 humbled, 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 follows 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 slanderously 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 friendship among
    the good. And the beloved when he has received him into communion and
    intimacy, is quite amazed at the good-will of the lover; he recognises that
    the inspired friend is worth all other friends or kinsmen; they have
    nothing of friendship in them worthy to be compared with his. And when
    this feeling continues and he is nearer to him and embraces him, in
    gymnastic exercises and at other times of meeting, then the fountain of
    that stream, which Zeus when he was in love with Ganymede named Desire,
    overflows 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 rebounds from the
    smooth rocks and returns whence it came, so does the stream of beauty,
    passing through the eyes which are the windows of the soul, come back to
    the beautiful one; there arriving and quickening the passages of the wings,
    watering them and inclining them to grow, and filling the soul of the
    beloved also with love. And thus he loves, but he knows not what; he does
    not understand and cannot explain his own state; he appears to have caught
    the infection of blindness from another; 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 believes to be 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 him, embrace him, and probably not long afterwards his
    desire is accomplished. 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 in
    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;--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; although his fellow-steed and the charioteer
    oppose him with the arguments of 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
    here in happiness and harmony--masters of themselves and orderly--enslaving
    the vicious and emancipating the virtuous elements of the soul; and when
    the end comes, they are light and winged for flight, having conquered 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 ambition, then probably, after wine or in some other careless hour, the
    two wanton animals take the two souls 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
    companions 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 upon you, my youth. Whereas the attachment of the non-lover, which
    is alloyed with a worldly prudence and has worldly and niggardly ways of
    doling out benefits, will breed in your soul those vulgar qualities which
    the populace applaud, 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 and as
    fairly as I could; more especially in the matter of the poetical figures
    which I was compelled to use, because Phaedrus would have them. And now
    forgive the past and accept the present, and be gracious and merciful to
    me, and do not in thine anger deprive me of sight, or take from me the art
    of love which thou hast given me, but grant that I may be yet more esteemed
    in the eyes of the fair. And if Phaedrus or I myself said anything rude in
    our 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
    opinions, but will dedicate himself wholly to love and to philosophical
    discourses.

    PHAEDRUS: I join in the prayer, Socrates, and say with you, if this be for
    my good, may your words come to pass. But why did you make your second
    oration so much finer than the first? I wonder why. And I begin to be
    afraid that I shall lose conceit of Lysias, and that he will appear tame in
    comparison, even if he be willing to put another as fine and as long as
    yours into the field, which I doubt. For quite lately one of your
    politicians was abusing him on this very account; and called him a 'speech
    writer' again and again. So that a feeling of pride may probably induce
    him to give up writing speeches.

    SOCRATES: What a very amusing notion! But I think, my young man, that you
    are much mistaken in your friend if you imagine that he is frightened at a
    little noise; and, possibly, you think that his assailant was in earnest?

    PHAEDRUS: I thought, Socrates, that he was. And you are aware that the
    greatest and most influential statesmen are ashamed of writing speeches and
    leaving them in a written form, lest they should be called Sophists by
    posterity.

    SOCRATES: You seem to be unconscious, Phaedrus, that the 'sweet elbow' (A
    proverb, like 'the grapes are sour,' applied to pleasures which cannot be
    had, meaning sweet things which, like the elbow, are out of the reach of
    the mouth. The promised pleasure turns out to be a long and tedious
    affair.) of the proverb is really the long arm of the Nile. And you appear
    to be equally unaware of the fact that this sweet elbow of theirs is also a
    long arm. For there is nothing of which our great politicians are so fond
    as of writing speeches and bequeathing them to posterity. And they add
    their admirers' names at the top of the writing, out of gratitude to them.

    PHAEDRUS: What do you mean? I do not understand.

    SOCRATES: Why, do you not know that when a politician writes, he begins
    with the names of his approvers?

    PHAEDRUS: How so?

    SOCRATES: Why, he begins in this manner: 'Be it enacted by the senate,
    the people, or both, on the motion of a certain person,' who is our author;
    and so putting on a serious face, he proceeds to display his own wisdom to
    his admirers in what is often a long and tedious composition. Now what is
    that sort of thing but a regular piece of authorship?

    PHAEDRUS: True.

    SOCRATES: And if the law is finally approved, then the author 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.

    PHAEDRUS: Very true.

    SOCRATES: So far are they from despising, or rather so highly do they
    value the practice of writing.

    PHAEDRUS: No doubt.

    SOCRATES: And when the king or orator has the power, as Lycurgus or Solon
    or Darius had, of attaining an immortality or authorship in a state, is he
    not thought by posterity, when they see his compositions, and does he not
    think himself, while he is yet alive, to be a god?

    PHAEDRUS: Very true.

    SOCRATES: Then do you think that any one of this class, however ill-
    disposed, would reproach Lysias with being an author?

    PHAEDRUS: Not upon your view; for according to you he would be casting a
    slur upon his own favourite pursuit.

    SOCRATES: Any one may see that there is no disgrace in the mere fact of
    writing.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.

    SOCRATES: The disgrace begins when a man writes not well, but badly.

    PHAEDRUS: Clearly.

    SOCRATES: And what is well and what is badly--need we ask Lysias, 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?

    PHAEDRUS: Need we? For what should a man live if not for the pleasures of
    discourse? Surely not for the sake of bodily pleasures, which almost
    always have previous pain as a condition of them, and therefore are rightly
    called slavish.

    SOCRATES: There is time enough. And I believe that the grasshoppers
    chirruping after their manner in the heat of the sun over our heads are
    talking to one another and looking down at us. What would they say if they
    saw that we, like the many, are not conversing, but slumbering at mid-day,
    lulled by their voices, too indolent to think? Would they not have a right
    to laugh at us? They might imagine that we were slaves, who, coming to
    rest at a place of resort of theirs, like sheep lie asleep at noon around
    the well. But if they see us discoursing, and like Odysseus sailing past
    them, deaf to their siren voices, they may perhaps, out of respect, give us
    of the gifts which they receive from the gods that they may impart them to
    men.

    PHAEDRUS: What gifts do you mean? I never heard of any.

    SOCRATES: 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 thought of eating and
    drinking, until at last in their forgetfulness they died. And now they
    live again in the grasshoppers; and this is the return which the Muses make
    to them--they neither hunger, nor thirst, but from the hour of their birth
    are always singing, and never eating or drinking; and when they die they go
    and inform the Muses in heaven who honours 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 honour, according
    to the several ways of honouring them;--of Calliope the eldest Muse and of
    Urania who is next to her, for the philosophers, of whose music the
    grasshoppers make report to them; for these are the Muses who are chiefly
    concerned with heaven and thought, 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.

    PHAEDRUS: Let us talk.

    SOCRATES: Shall we discuss the rules of writing and speech as we were
    proposing?

    PHAEDRUS: Very good.

    SOCRATES: In good speaking should not the mind of the speaker know the
    truth of the matter about which he is going to speak?

    PHAEDRUS: 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 approved by the many who sit in judgment; nor with the truly good or
    honourable, but only with opinion about them, and that from opinion comes
    persuasion, and not from the truth.

    SOCRATES: The words of the wise are not to be set aside; for there is
    probably something in them; and therefore the meaning of this saying is not
    hastily to be dismissed.

    PHAEDRUS: Very true.

    SOCRATES: 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 of tame animals the one which has
    the longest ears.

    PHAEDRUS: That would be ridiculous.

    SOCRATES: There is something more ridiculous coming:--Suppose, further,
    that in sober earnest I, having persuaded you of this, went and composed a
    speech in honour of an ass, whom I entitled a horse beginning: 'A noble
    animal and a most useful possession, especially in war, and you may get on
    his back and fight, and he will carry baggage or anything.'

    PHAEDRUS: How ridiculous!

    SOCRATES: Ridiculous! Yes; but is not even a ridiculous friend better
    than a cunning enemy?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: And when the orator instead of putting an ass in the place of a
    horse, puts good for evil, being himself as ignorant of their true nature
    as the city on which he imposes is ignorant; and having studied the notions
    of the multitude, falsely persuades them not about 'the shadow of an ass,'
    which he confounds with a horse, but about good which he confounds with
    evil,--what will be the harvest which rhetoric will be likely to gather
    after the sowing of that seed?

    PHAEDRUS: The reverse of good.

    SOCRATES: But perhaps rhetoric has been getting too roughly handled by us,
    and she might answer: What amazing nonsense you are talking! 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 knowledge
    of the truth will not give you the art of persuasion.

    PHAEDRUS: There is reason in the lady's defence of herself.

    SOCRATES: Quite true; if only the other arguments which remain to be
    brought up bear her witness that she is an art at all. But I seem to hear
    them arraying themselves on the opposite side, declaring that she speaks
    falsely, and that rhetoric is a mere routine and trick, not an art. Lo! a
    Spartan appears, and says that there never is nor ever will be a real art
    of speaking which is divorced from the truth.

    PHAEDRUS: And what are these arguments, Socrates? Bring them out that we
    may examine them.

    SOCRATES: Come out, fair children, and convince Phaedrus, who is the
    father of similar beauties, that he will never be able to speak about
    anything as he ought to speak unless he have a knowledge of philosophy.
    And let Phaedrus answer you.

    PHAEDRUS: Put the question.

    SOCRATES: 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?

    PHAEDRUS: Nay, not exactly that; I should say rather that I have heard the
    art confined to speaking and writing in lawsuits, and to speaking in public
    assemblies--not extended farther.

    SOCRATES: Then I suppose that you have only heard of the rhetoric of
    Nestor and Odysseus, which they composed in their leisure hours when at
    Troy, and never of the rhetoric of Palamedes?

    PHAEDRUS: No more than of Nestor and Odysseus, unless Gorgias is your
    Nestor, and Thrasymachus or Theodorus your Odysseus.

    SOCRATES: 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?

    PHAEDRUS: Exactly so.

    SOCRATES: About the just and unjust--that is the matter in dispute?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: And a professor of the art will make the same thing appear to
    the same persons to be at one time just, at another time, if he is so
    inclined, to be unjust?

    PHAEDRUS: Exactly.

    SOCRATES: 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?

    PHAEDRUS: That is true.

    SOCRATES: Have we not heard of the Eleatic Palamedes (Zeno), who has an
    art of speaking by which he makes the same things appear to his hearers
    like and unlike, one and many, at rest and in motion?

    PHAEDRUS: Very true.

    SOCRATES: 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 the
    art, if there be such an art, which is able to find 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?

    PHAEDRUS: How do you mean?

    SOCRATES: Let me put the matter thus: When will there be more chance of
    deception--when the difference is large or small?

    PHAEDRUS: When the difference is small.

    SOCRATES: And you will be less likely to be discovered in passing by
    degrees into the other extreme than when you go all at once?

    PHAEDRUS: Of course.

    SOCRATES: He, then, who would deceive others, and not be deceived, must
    exactly know the real likenesses and differences of things?

    PHAEDRUS: He must.

    SOCRATES: And if he is ignorant of the true nature of any subject, how can
    he detect the greater or less degree of likeness in other things to that of
    which by the hypothesis he is ignorant?

    PHAEDRUS: He cannot.

    SOCRATES: And when men are deceived and their notions are at variance with
    realities, it is clear that the error slips in through resemblances?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, that is the way.

    SOCRATES: Then he who would be a master of the art must understand the
    real nature of everything; or he will never know either how to make the
    gradual departure from truth into the opposite of truth which is effected
    by the help of resemblances, or how to avoid it?

    PHAEDRUS: He will not.

    SOCRATES: He then, who being ignorant of the truth aims at appearances,
    will only attain an art of rhetoric which is ridiculous and is not an art
    at all?

    PHAEDRUS: That may be expected.

    SOCRATES: Shall I propose that we look for examples of art and want of
    art, according to our notion of them, in the speech of Lysias which you
    have in your hand, and in my own speech?

    PHAEDRUS: Nothing could be better; and indeed I think that our previous
    argument has been too abstract and wanting in illustrations.

    SOCRATES: Yes; and the two speeches happen to afford a very good example
    of the way in which the speaker who knows the truth may, without any
    serious purpose, steal away the hearts of his hearers. This piece of good-
    fortune I attribute to the 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 of my own.

    PHAEDRUS: Granted; if you will only please to get on.

    SOCRATES: Suppose that you read me the first words of Lysias' speech.

    PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive,
    they might be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain that I ought
    not to fail in my suit, because I am not your lover. For lovers repent--'

    SOCRATES: Enough:--Now, shall I point out the rhetorical error of those
    words?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: Every one is aware that about some things we are agreed, whereas
    about other things we differ.

    PHAEDRUS: I think that I understand you; but will you explain yourself?

    SOCRATES: When any one speaks of iron and silver, is not the same thing
    present in the minds of all?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: But when any one speaks of justice and goodness we part company
    and are at odds with one another and with ourselves?

    PHAEDRUS: Precisely.

    SOCRATES: Then in some things we agree, but not in others?

    PHAEDRUS: That is true.

    SOCRATES: In which are we more likely to be deceived, and in which has
    rhetoric the greater power?

    PHAEDRUS: Clearly, in the uncertain class.

    SOCRATES: 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: He who made such a distinction would have an excellent
    principle.

    SOCRATES: Yes; and in the next place he must have a keen eye for the
    observation of particulars in speaking, and not make a mistake about the
    class to which they are to be referred.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: Now to which class does love belong--to the debatable or to the
    undisputed class?

    PHAEDRUS: To the debatable, clearly; for if not, do you think that love
    would have allowed you to say as you did, that he is an evil both to the
    lover and the beloved, and also the greatest possible good?

    SOCRATES: Capital. But will you tell me whether I defined love at the
    beginning of my speech? for, having been in an ecstasy, I cannot well
    remember.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed; that you did, and no mistake.

    SOCRATES: 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
    according to this model he fashioned and framed the remainder of his
    discourse. Suppose we read his beginning over again:

    PHAEDRUS: If you please; but you will not find what you want.

    SOCRATES: Read, that I may have his exact words.

    PHAEDRUS: 'You know how matters stand with me, and how, as I conceive,
    they might be arranged for our common interest; and I maintain I ought not
    to fail in my suit because I am not your lover, for lovers repent of the
    kindnesses which they have shown, when their love is over.'

    SOCRATES: Here he appears to have done just the reverse of what he ought;
    for he has begun at the end, and is swimming on his back through the flood
    to the place of starting. His address to the fair youth begins where the
    lover would have ended. Am I not right, sweet Phaedrus?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, indeed, Socrates; he does begin at the end.

    SOCRATES: Then as to the other topics--are they not thrown down anyhow?
    Is there any principle in them? Why should the next topic follow next in
    order, or any other topic? I cannot help fancying in my ignorance that he
    wrote off boldly just what came into his head, but I dare say that you
    would recognize a rhetorical necessity in the succession of the several
    parts of the composition?

    PHAEDRUS: You have too good an opinion of me if you think that I have any
    such insight into his principles of composition.

    SOCRATES: At any rate, you will allow that every discourse ought to be a
    living creature, having a body of its own and a head and feet; there should
    be a middle, beginning, and end, adapted to one another and to the whole?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: Can this be said of the discourse of Lysias? See whether you
    can find any more connexion in his words than in the epitaph which is said
    by some to have been inscribed on the grave of Midas the Phrygian.

    PHAEDRUS: What is there remarkable in the epitaph?

    SOCRATES: It is as follows:--

    'I am a maiden of bronze and lie on the tomb of Midas;
    So long as water flows and tall trees grow,
    So long here on this spot by his sad tomb abiding,
    I shall declare to passers-by that Midas sleeps below.'

    Now in this rhyme whether a line comes first or comes last, as you will
    perceive, makes no difference.

    PHAEDRUS: You are making fun of that oration of ours.

    SOCRATES: Well, I will say no more about your friend's speech lest I
    should give offence to you; although I think that it might furnish many
    other examples of what a man ought rather to avoid. But I will proceed to
    the other speech, which, as I think, is also suggestive to students of
    rhetoric.

    PHAEDRUS: In what way?

    SOCRATES: The two speeches, as you may remember, were unlike; the one
    argued that the lover and the other that the non-lover ought to be
    accepted.

    PHAEDRUS: And right manfully.

    SOCRATES: You should rather say 'madly;' and madness was the argument of
    them, for, as I said, 'love is a madness.'

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: And of madness there were two kinds; one produced by human
    infirmity, the other was a divine release of the soul from the yoke of
    custom and convention.

    PHAEDRUS: True.

    SOCRATES: 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 said to be the best, we spoke of
    the affection of love in a figure, into which we introduced a tolerably
    credible and possibly true though partly erring myth, which was also a hymn
    in honour of Love, 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 strain.

    PHAEDRUS: I know that I had great pleasure in listening to you.

    SOCRATES: Let us take this instance and note how the transition was made
    from blame to praise.

    PHAEDRUS: What do you mean?

    SOCRATES: I mean to say that the composition was mostly playful. Yet in
    these chance fancies of the hour were involved two principles of which we
    should be too glad to have a clearer description if art could give us one.

    PHAEDRUS: What are they?

    SOCRATES: First, the comprehension of scattered particulars in one idea;
    as in our definition of love, which whether true or false certainly gave
    clearness and consistency to the discourse, the speaker should define his
    several notions and so make his meaning clear.

    PHAEDRUS: What is the other principle, Socrates?

    SOCRATES: The second principle is that of division into species according
    to the natural formation, where the joint is, not breaking any part as a
    bad carver might. Just as our two discourses, alike assumed, first of all,
    a single form of unreason; and then, as the body which from being one
    becomes double and may be divided into a left side and right side, each
    having parts right and left of the same name--after this manner the speaker
    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 he justly reviled; and the
    other discourse leading us to the madness which lay on the right side,
    found another love, also having the same name, but divine, which the
    speaker held up before us and applauded and affirmed to be the author of
    the greatest benefits.

    PHAEDRUS: Most true.

    SOCRATES: I am myself a great lover of these processes of division and
    generalization; they help me to speak and to think. And if I find any man
    who is able to see 'a One and Many' in nature, him I follow, and 'walk in
    his footsteps 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 to Lysias' disciples, and whether this may not be that
    famous art of rhetoric which Thrasymachus and others teach and practise?
    Skilful speakers they are, and impart their skill to any who is willing to
    make kings of them and to bring gifts to them.

    PHAEDRUS: 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.

    SOCRATES: What do you mean? The remains of it, if there be anything
    remaining which can be brought under rules of art, must be a fine thing;
    and, at any rate, is not to be despised by you and me. But how much is
    left?

    PHAEDRUS: There is a great deal surely to be found in books of rhetoric?

    SOCRATES: Yes; thank you for reminding me:--There is the exordium, showing
    how the speech should begin, if I remember rightly; that is what you mean--
    the niceties of the art?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: Then follows the statement of facts, and upon that witnesses;
    thirdly, proofs; fourthly, probabilities are to come; the great Byzantian
    word-maker also speaks, if I am not mistaken, of confirmation and further
    confirmation.

    PHAEDRUS: You mean the excellent Theodorus.

    SOCRATES: Yes; and he tells how refutation or further refutation is to be
    managed, whether in accusation or defence. I ought also to mention the
    illustrious Parian, Evenus, who first invented insinuations and indirect
    praises; and also indirect censures, which according to some he put into
    verse to help the memory. But shall I 'to dumb forgetfulness consign'
    Tisias and Gorgias, who are not ignorant that probability is superior to
    truth, and who by force of argument make the little appear great and the
    great little, disguise the new in old fashions and the old in new fashions,
    and have discovered forms for everything, 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.

    PHAEDRUS: Well done, Prodicus!

    SOCRATES: Then there is Hippias the Elean stranger, who probably agrees
    with him.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: And there is also Polus, who has treasuries of diplasiology, and
    gnomology, and eikonology, and who teaches in them the names of which
    Licymnius made him a present; they were to give a polish.

    PHAEDRUS: Had not Protagoras something of the same sort?

    SOCRATES: Yes, rules of correct diction and many other fine precepts; for
    the 'sorrows of a poor old man,' or any other pathetic case, no one is
    better than the Chalcedonian 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 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 to use the same word.

    PHAEDRUS: You mean that there should be a summing up of the arguments in
    order to remind the hearers of them.

    SOCRATES: I have now said all that I have to say of the art of rhetoric:
    have you anything to add?

    PHAEDRUS: Not much; nothing very important.

    SOCRATES: Leave the unimportant and let us bring the really important
    question into the light of day, which is: What power has this art of
    rhetoric, and when?

    PHAEDRUS: A very great power in public meetings.

    SOCRATES: It has. But I should like to know whether you have the same
    feeling as I have about the rhetoricians? To me there seem to be a great
    many holes in their web.

    PHAEDRUS: Give an example.

    SOCRATES: I will. Suppose a person to come to your friend Eryximachus, or
    to his father Acumenus, and to 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 to make physicians by imparting this
    knowledge to others,'--what do you suppose that they would say?

    PHAEDRUS: They would be sure to ask him whether he knew 'to whom' he would
    give his medicines, and 'when,' and 'how much.'

    SOCRATES: And suppose that he were to reply: 'No; I know nothing of all
    that; I expect the patient who consults me to be able to do these things
    for himself'?

    PHAEDRUS: They would say in 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 prescription or two, although he has no real
    understanding of the art of medicine.

    SOCRATES: And suppose a person were to come to Sophocles or Euripides and
    say that he knows how to make a very 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 other kind of speech, and in
    teaching this fancies that he is teaching the art of tragedy--?

    PHAEDRUS: They too would surely laugh at him if he fancies that tragedy is
    anything but the arranging of these elements in a manner which will be
    suitable to one another and to the whole.

    SOCRATES: But I do not suppose that they would be rude or abusive to him:
    Would they not treat him as a musician a man who thinks that he is a
    harmonist 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!' But like a musician, in a gentle and harmonious tone of voice,
    he would answer: '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 harmony itself.'

    PHAEDRUS: Very true.

    SOCRATES: And will not Sophocles say to the display of the would-be
    tragedian, that this is not tragedy but the preliminaries of tragedy? and
    will not Acumenus say the same of medicine to the would-be physician?

    PHAEDRUS: Quite true.

    SOCRATES: And if Adrastus the mellifluous or Pericles heard of these
    wonderful arts, brachylogies and eikonologies and all the hard names which
    we have been endeavouring to draw into the light of day, what would they
    say? Instead of losing temper and applying 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; you should not be in such
    a passion with those who from some want of dialectical skill are unable to
    define the nature of rhetoric, and consequently suppose that they have
    found the art in the preliminary conditions of it, and when these have been
    taught by them to others, fancy that the whole art of rhetoric has been
    taught by them; but as to using the several instruments of the art
    effectively, or making the composition a whole,--an application of it such
    as this is they regard as an easy thing which their disciples may make for
    themselves.'

    PHAEDRUS: I quite admit, Socrates, that the art of rhetoric which these
    men teach and of which they write is such as you describe--there I agree
    with you. But I still want to know where and how the true art of rhetoric
    and persuasion is to be acquired.

    SOCRATES: The perfection which is required of the finished orator is, or
    rather must be, like the perfection of anything else; partly given by
    nature, but may also be assisted by art. If you have the natural power and
    add to it knowledge and practice, you will be a distinguished speaker; if
    you fall short in either of these, you will be to that extent defective.
    But the art, as far as there is an art, of rhetoric does not lie in the
    direction of Lysias or Thrasymachus.

    PHAEDRUS: In what direction then?

    SOCRATES: I conceive Pericles to have been the most accomplished of
    rhetoricians.

    PHAEDRUS: What of that?

    SOCRATES: All the great arts require discussion and high speculation about
    the truths of nature; hence come loftiness of thought and completeness of
    execution. And this, as I conceive, was the quality which, in addition to
    his natural gifts, Pericles acquired from his intercourse with Anaxagoras
    whom he happened to know. He was thus imbued with the higher philosophy,
    and attained the knowledge of Mind and the negative of Mind, which were
    favourite themes of Anaxagoras, and applied what suited his purpose to the
    art of speaking.

    PHAEDRUS: Explain.

    SOCRATES: Rhetoric is like medicine.

    PHAEDRUS: How so?

    SOCRATES: Why, because medicine has to define the nature of the body and
    rhetoric of the soul--if we 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 conviction or virtue which
    you desire, by the right application of words and training.

    PHAEDRUS: There, Socrates, I suspect that you are right.

    SOCRATES: And do you think that you can know the nature of the soul
    intelligently without knowing the nature of the whole?

    PHAEDRUS: Hippocrates the Asclepiad says that the nature even of the body
    can only be understood as a whole. (Compare Charmides.)

    SOCRATES: Yes, friend, and he was right:--still, we ought not to be
    content with the name of Hippocrates, but to examine and see whether his
    argument agrees with his conception of nature.

    PHAEDRUS: I agree.

    SOCRATES: Then consider what truth as well as Hippocrates says about this
    or about any other nature. Ought we not to consider first whether that
    which we wish to learn and to teach is a simple or multiform thing, and if
    simple, then to enquire what power it has of acting or being acted upon in
    relation to other things, 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,
    what is that power of acting or being acted upon which makes each and all
    of them to be what they are?

    PHAEDRUS: You may very likely be right, Socrates.

    SOCRATES: The method which proceeds without 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. The rhetorician, who teaches his pupil
    to speak scientifically, will particularly set forth the nature of that
    being to which he addresses his speeches; and this, I conceive, to be the
    soul.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: His whole effort is directed to the soul; for in that he seeks
    to produce conviction.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: Then clearly, Thrasymachus or any one else who teaches rhetoric
    in earnest will give an exact description of the nature of the soul; which
    will enable us to see whether she be single and same, or, like the body,
    multiform. That is what we should call showing the nature of the soul.

    PHAEDRUS: Exactly.

    SOCRATES: He will explain, secondly, the mode in which she acts or is
    acted upon.

    PHAEDRUS: True.

    SOCRATES: Thirdly, having classified men and speeches, and their kinds and
    affections, and adapted them to one another, he will tell the reasons of
    his arrangement, and show why one soul is persuaded by a particular form of
    argument, and another not.

    PHAEDRUS: You have hit upon a very good way.

    SOCRATES: 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, craftily
    conceal the nature of the soul which they know quite well. Nor, until they
    adopt our method of reading and writing, can we admit that they write by
    rules of art?

    PHAEDRUS: What is our method?

    SOCRATES: I cannot give you the exact details; but I should like to tell
    you generally, as far as is in my power, how a man ought to proceed
    according to rules of art.

    PHAEDRUS: Let me hear.

    SOCRATES: 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. Having proceeded thus far in his analysis, he will next divide
    speeches into their different classes:--'Such 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. The pupil must have a good theoretical notion of
    them first, and then he must have experience of them in actual life, 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 understands what persons
    are persuaded by what arguments, and sees the person about whom he was
    speaking in the abstract actually before him, and knows that it is he, and
    can say to himself, 'This is the man or this is the character who ought to
    have a certain argument applied to him in order to convince him of a
    certain opinion;'--he who knows all this, and knows also when he should
    speak and when he should refrain, and when he should use pithy sayings,
    pathetic appeals, sensational effects, and all the other modes of speech
    which he has learned;--when, I say, he knows the times and seasons of all
    these things, then, and not till then, he is a perfect master of his art;
    but if he fail in any of these points, whether in speaking or teaching or
    writing them, and yet declares that he speaks by rules of art, he who says
    'I don't believe you' has the better of him. Well, the teacher will say,
    is this, Phaedrus and Socrates, your account of the so-called art of
    rhetoric, or am I to look for another?

    PHAEDRUS: He must take this, Socrates, for there is no possibility of
    another, and yet the creation of such an art is not easy.

    SOCRATES: Very true; and therefore let us consider this matter in every
    light, and see whether we cannot find a shorter and easier road; there is
    no use in taking a long rough roundabout way if there be a shorter and
    easier one. And I wish that you would try and remember whether you have
    heard from Lysias or any one else anything which might be of service to us.

    PHAEDRUS: If trying would avail, then I might; but at the moment I can
    think of nothing.

    SOCRATES: Suppose I tell you something which somebody who knows told me.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: May not 'the wolf,' as the proverb says, 'claim a hearing'?

    PHAEDRUS: Do you say what can be said for him.

    SOCRATES: He will argue that there is no use in putting a solemn face on
    these matters, or in going round and round, until you arrive at first
    principles; for, as I said at first, when the question is of justice and
    good, or is a question in which men are concerned who 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, if they are improbable, ought to be withheld, and only the
    probabilities should be told either in accusation or defence, and that
    always in speaking, the orator should keep probability in view, and say
    good-bye to the truth. And the observance of this principle throughout a
    speech furnishes the whole art.

    PHAEDRUS: That is what the professors of rhetoric do actually say,
    Socrates. I have not forgotten that we have quite briefly touched upon
    this matter already; with them the point is all-important.

    SOCRATES: I dare say that you are familiar with Tisias. Does he not
    define probability to be that which the many think?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly, he does.

    SOCRATES: 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 argue thus:
    'How could a weak man like me have assaulted a strong man like him?' The
    complainant will not like to confess his own cowardice, and will therefore
    invent some other lie which his adversary will thus gain an opportunity of
    refuting. And there are other devices of the same kind which have a place
    in the system. Am I not right, Phaedrus?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: Bless me, what a wonderfully mysterious art is this which Tisias
    or some other gentleman, in whatever name or country he rejoices, has
    discovered. Shall we say a word to him or not?

    PHAEDRUS: What shall we say to him?

    SOCRATES: Let us tell him that, before he appeared, you and I were saying
    that the probability of which he speaks was engendered in the minds of the
    many by the likeness of the truth, and we had just been affirming that he
    who knew the truth would always know best how to discover the resemblances
    of the truth. If he has anything else to say about the art of speaking we
    should like to hear him; but if not, we are satisfied with our own view,
    that unless a man estimates the various characters of his hearers and is
    able to divide all things into classes and to comprehend them under single
    ideas, he will never be a skilful rhetorician even within the limits of
    human power. And this skill 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
    acceptable to God and always 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 first object) but his good and noble masters; and therefore if
    the way is long and circuitous, marvel not at this, for, where the end is
    great, there we may take the longer road, 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 here.

    PHAEDRUS: I think, Socrates, that this is admirable, if only practicable.

    SOCRATES: But even to fail in an honourable object is honourable.

    PHAEDRUS: True.

    SOCRATES: Enough appears to have been said by us of a true and false art
    of speaking.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: But there is something yet to be said of propriety and
    impropriety of writing.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes.

    SOCRATES: Do you know how you can speak or act about rhetoric in a manner
    which will be acceptable to God?

    PHAEDRUS: No, indeed. Do you?

    SOCRATES: I have heard a tradition of the ancients, whether true or not
    they only know; although if we had found the truth ourselves, do you think
    that we should care much about the opinions of men?

    PHAEDRUS: Your question needs no answer; but I wish that you would tell me
    what you say that you have heard.

    SOCRATES: At the Egyptian city of Naucratis, there was a famous old god,
    whose name was Theuth; the bird which is called the Ibis is sacred to him,
    and he was the inventor of many arts, such as arithmetic and calculation
    and geometry and astronomy and draughts and dice, but his great discovery
    was the use of letters. Now in those days the god Thamus was the king of
    the whole country of Egypt; and he dwelt in that great city of Upper Egypt
    which the Hellenes call Egyptian Thebes, and the god himself is called by
    them Ammon. To him came Theuth and showed his inventions, desiring that
    the other Egyptians might be allowed to have the benefit of them; he
    enumerated them, and Thamus enquired about their several uses, and praised
    some of them and censured others, as he approved or disapproved of them.
    It would take a long time to repeat all that Thamus said to Theuth in
    praise or blame of the various arts. But when they came to letters, This,
    said Theuth, will make the Egyptians wiser and give them better memories;
    it is a specific both for the memory and for the wit. Thamus replied: O
    most ingenious Theuth, the parent or inventor of an art is not always the
    best judge of the utility or inutility of his own inventions to the users
    of them. And in this instance, you who are the father of letters, from a
    paternal love of your own children have been led to attribute to them a
    quality which they cannot have; for this discovery 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. The specific which you have discovered is an aid
    not to memory, but to reminiscence, and you give your disciples not truth,
    but only the semblance of truth; they will be hearers of many things and
    will have learned nothing; they will appear to be omniscient and will
    generally know nothing; they will be tiresome company, having the show of
    wisdom without the reality.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, you can easily invent tales of Egypt, or of any
    other country.

    SOCRATES: There was a tradition in the temple of Dodona that oaks first
    gave prophetic utterances. The men of old, unlike in their simplicity to
    young philosophy, deemed that if they heard the truth even from 'oak or
    rock,' it was enough for them; whereas you seem to consider not whether a
    thing is or is not true, but who the speaker is and from what country the
    tale comes.

    PHAEDRUS: I acknowledge the justice of your rebuke; and I think that the
    Theban is right in his view about letters.

    SOCRATES: He would be a very simple person, and quite a stranger to the
    oracles of Thamus or Ammon, who should leave in writing or receive in
    writing any art under the idea that the written word would be intelligible
    or certain; or who deemed that writing was at all better than knowledge and
    recollection of the same matters?

    PHAEDRUS: That is most true.

    SOCRATES: I cannot help feeling, Phaedrus, that writing is unfortunately
    like painting; for the creations of the painter have the attitude of life,
    and yet if you ask them a question they preserve a solemn silence. And the
    same may be 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 always gives one unvarying answer. And when they have
    been once written down they are tumbled about anywhere among those who may
    or may not understand them, and know not to whom they should reply, to whom
    not: and, if they are maltreated or abused, they have no parent to protect
    them; and they cannot protect or defend themselves.

    PHAEDRUS: That again is most true.

    SOCRATES: Is there not another kind of word or speech far better than
    this, and having far greater power--a son of the same family, but lawfully
    begotten?

    PHAEDRUS: Whom do you mean, and what is his origin?

    SOCRATES: I mean an intelligent word graven in the soul of the learner,
    which can defend itself, and knows when to speak and when to be silent.

    PHAEDRUS: You mean the living word of knowledge which has a soul, and of
    which the written word is properly no more than an image?

    SOCRATES: Yes, of course that is what I mean. And now may I be allowed to
    ask you a question: Would a husbandman, who is a man of sense, take the
    seeds, which he values and which he wishes to bear fruit, and in sober
    seriousness plant them during the heat of summer, in some garden of Adonis,
    that he may rejoice when he sees them in eight days appearing in beauty? at
    least he would do so, if at all, only for the sake of amusement and
    pastime. But when he is in earnest he sows in fitting soil, and practises
    husbandry, and is satisfied if in eight months the seeds which he has sown
    arrive at perfection?

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, Socrates, that will be his way when he is in earnest; he
    will do the other, as you say, only in play.

    SOCRATES: And can we suppose that he who knows the just and good and
    honourable has less understanding, than the husbandman, about his own
    seeds?

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly not.

    SOCRATES: Then he will not seriously incline to 'write' his thoughts 'in
    water' with pen and ink, sowing words which can neither speak for
    themselves nor teach the truth adequately to others?

    PHAEDRUS: No, that is not likely.

    SOCRATES: No, that is not likely--in the garden of letters he will sow and
    plant, but only for the sake of recreation and amusement; he will write
    them down as memorials to be treasured against the forgetfulness of old
    age, by himself, or by any other old man who is treading the same path. He
    will rejoice in beholding their tender growth; and while others are
    refreshing their souls with banqueting and the like, this will be the
    pastime in which his days are spent.

    PHAEDRUS: A pastime, Socrates, as noble as the other is ignoble, the
    pastime of a man who can be amused by serious talk, and can discourse
    merrily about justice and the like.

    SOCRATES: True, Phaedrus. But nobler far is the serious pursuit of the
    dialectician, who, finding a congenial soul, by the help of science sows
    and plants therein words which are able to help themselves and him who
    planted them, and are not unfruitful, but have in them a seed which others
    brought up in different soils render immortal, making the possessors of it
    happy to the utmost extent of human happiness.

    PHAEDRUS: Far nobler, certainly.

    SOCRATES: And now, Phaedrus, having agreed upon the premises we may decide
    about the conclusion.

    PHAEDRUS: About what conclusion?

    SOCRATES: About Lysias, whom we censured, and his art of writing, and his
    discourses, and the rhetorical skill or want of skill which was shown in
    them--these are the questions which we sought to determine, and they
    brought us to this point. And I think that we are now pretty well informed
    about the nature of art and its opposite.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, I think with you; but I wish that you would repeat what was
    said.

    SOCRATES: 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 more 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;--such is the view which is implied in
    the whole preceding argument.

    PHAEDRUS: Yes, that was our view, certainly.

    SOCRATES: Secondly, as to the censure which was passed on the speaking or
    writing of discourses, and how they might be rightly or wrongly censured--
    did not our previous argument show--?

    PHAEDRUS: Show what?

    SOCRATES: That whether Lysias or any other writer that ever was or will
    be, whether private man or statesman, proposes laws and so becomes the
    author of a political treatise, fancying that there is any great certainty
    and clearness in his performance, the fact of his so writing is only a
    disgrace to him, whatever men may say. For not to know the nature of
    justice and injustice, and good and evil, and not to be able to distinguish
    the dream from the reality, cannot in truth be otherwise than disgraceful
    to him, even though he have the applause of the whole world.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: But he who thinks that in the written word there is necessarily
    much which is not serious, and that neither poetry nor prose, spoken or
    written, is 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 writings are
    but a reminiscence of what we know, and that only in principles of justice
    and goodness and nobility taught and communicated orally for the sake of
    instruction and graven in the soul, which is the true way of writing, is
    there clearness and perfection and seriousness, and that such principles
    are a man's own and his legitimate offspring;--being, in the first place,
    the word which he finds in his own bosom; secondly, the brethren and
    descendants and relations of his idea which have been duly implanted by him
    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.

    PHAEDRUS: That is most assuredly my desire and prayer.

    SOCRATES: And now the play is played out; and of rhetoric 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 others who have composed writings in the form of political
    discourses which they would term laws--to all of them we are to say that if
    their compositions 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 to be
    called, not only poets, orators, legislators, but are worthy of a higher
    name, befitting the serious pursuit of their life.

    PHAEDRUS: What name would you assign to them?

    SOCRATES: Wise, I may not call them; for that is a great name which
    belongs to God alone,--lovers of wisdom or philosophers is their modest and
    befitting title.

    PHAEDRUS: Very suitable.

    SOCRATES: And he who cannot rise above his own compilations 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.

    PHAEDRUS: Certainly.

    SOCRATES: Now go and tell this to your companion.

    PHAEDRUS: But there is also a friend of yours who ought not to be
    forgotten.

    SOCRATES: Who is he?

    PHAEDRUS: Isocrates the fair:--What message will you send to him, and how
    shall we describe him?

    SOCRATES: Isocrates is still young, Phaedrus; but I am willing to hazard a
    prophecy concerning him.

    PHAEDRUS: What would you prophesy?

    SOCRATES: I think that he has a genius which soars above the orations of
    Lysias, and that his character is cast in 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 rhetoric, but that there is in
    him a divine inspiration which will lead him to things higher still. For
    he has an element of philosophy in his nature. This is the message of 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.

    PHAEDRUS: I will; and now as the heat is abated let us depart.

    SOCRATES: Should we not offer up a prayer first of all to the local
    deities?

    PHAEDRUS: By all means.

    SOCRATES: 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 a temperate man and he only can bear and carry.--Anything more?
    The prayer, I think, is enough for me.

    PHAEDRUS: Ask the same for me, for friends should have all things in
    common.

    SOCRATES: Let us go.
    Chapter 2
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