Introduction

The Phaedrus is closely connected with the Symposium, and may be regarded either as introducing or following it. The two Dialogues together contain the whole philosophy of Plato on the nature of love, which in the Republic and in the later writings of Plato is only introduced playfully or as a figure of speech. But in the Phaedrus and Symposium love and philosophy join hands, and one is an aspect of the other. The spiritual and emotional part is elevated into the ideal, to which in the Symposium mankind are described as looking forward, and which in the Phaedrus, as well as in the Phaedo, they are seeking to recover from a former state of existence. Whether the subject of the Dialogue is love or rhetoric, or the union of the two, or the relation of philosophy to love and to art in general, and to the human soul, will be hereafter considered. And perhaps we may arrive at some conclusion such as the following—that the dialogue is not strictly confined to a single subject, but passes from one to another with the natural freedom of conversation.

The Phaedrus is closely connected with the Symposium and may be read as either an introduction or a follow-up. Together, the two dialogues contain Plato’s entire philosophy of the nature of love. In the Republic and Plato’s later writings, love appears only playfully or as a figure of speech. But in the Phaedrus and Symposium, love and philosophy go hand in hand. Each is an aspect of the other. The spiritual and emotional side is raised to the level of the ideal. In the Symposium, humanity is described as looking forward to this ideal. In the Phaedrus, as in the Phaedo, people seek to recover this ideal from a previous existence. Later, we will consider whether the dialogue’s subject is love, rhetoric, or the union of the two. Another possibility is philosophy’s relationship to love, to art in general, and to the human soul. And perhaps we may reach a conclusion like this: the dialogue is not strictly limited to a single subject. Instead, it moves from one subject to another with the natural freedom of conversation.

Phaedrus has been spending the morning with Lysias, the celebrated rhetorician, and is going to refresh himself by taking a walk outside the wall, when he is met by Socrates, who professes that he will not leave him until he has delivered up the speech with which Lysias has regaled him, and which he is carrying about in his mind, or more probably in a book hidden under his cloak, and is intending to study as he walks. The imputation is not denied, and the two agree to direct their steps out of the public way along the stream of the Ilissus towards a plane-tree which is seen in the distance. There, lying down amidst pleasant sounds and scents, they will read the speech of Lysias. The country is a novelty to Socrates, who never goes out of the town; and hence he is full of admiration for the beauties of nature, which he seems to be drinking in for the first time.

Phaedrus has spent the morning with Lysias, the celebrated teacher of rhetoric. He is heading outside the city wall for a refreshing walk when he meets Socrates. Socrates declares that he will not leave Phaedrus until Phaedrus shares the speech Lysias has entertained him with. Phaedrus is carrying the speech in his memory, or more likely in a book hidden under his cloak. He plans to study the speech as he walks. Phaedrus does not deny the accusation. The two agree to leave the main road and follow the stream of the Ilissus toward a distant plane tree. There, they will lie down among pleasant sounds and scents and read Lysias's speech. The countryside is unfamiliar to Socrates, who never leaves the city. So he is full of admiration for nature's beauty, which he seems to be taking in for the first time.

As they are on their way, Phaedrus asks the opinion of Socrates respecting the local tradition of Boreas and Oreithyia. Socrates, after a satirical allusion to the 'rationalizers' of his day, replies that he has no time for these 'nice' interpretations of mythology, and he pities anyone who has. When you once begin there is no end of them, and they spring from an uncritical philosophy after all. 'The proper study of mankind is man;' and he is a far more complex and wonderful being than the serpent Typho. Socrates as yet does not know himself; and why should he care to know about unearthly monsters? Engaged in such conversation, they arrive at the plane-tree; when they have found a convenient resting-place, Phaedrus pulls out the speech and reads:—

On their way, Phaedrus asks Socrates what he thinks of the local story of Boreas and Oreithyia. Socrates makes a satirical remark about the 'rationalizers' of his day. He then says he has no time for such 'clever' interpretations of mythology and pities anyone who does. Once you begin interpreting myths this way, there is no end to it. And these interpretations rest, after all, on a philosophy that fails to question its own assumptions. 'The proper study of humanity is humanity.' And a human being is far more complex and wonderful than the serpent Typho. Socrates does not yet know himself, so why should he care about understanding supernatural monsters? Talking like this, they reach the plane-tree. Once they have found a comfortable place to rest, Phaedrus takes out the speech and reads:

The speech consists of a foolish paradox which is to the effect that the non-lover ought to be accepted rather than the lover—because he is more rational, more agreeable, more enduring, less suspicious, less hurtful, less boastful, less engrossing, and because there are more of them, and for a great many other reasons which are equally unmeaning. Phaedrus is captivated with the beauty of the periods, and wants to make Socrates say that nothing was or ever could be written better. Socrates does not think much of the matter, but then he has only attended to the form, and in that he has detected several repetitions and other marks of haste. He cannot agree with Phaedrus in the extreme value which he sets upon this performance, because he is afraid of doing injustice to Anacreon and Sappho and other great writers, and is almost inclined to think that he himself, or rather some power residing within him, could make a speech better than that of Lysias on the same theme, and also different from his, if he may be allowed the use of a few commonplaces which all speakers must equally employ.

The speech presents a foolish paradox: someone who is not in love should be accepted rather than someone who is. The reasons given are that the non-lover is more rational, more agreeable, more constant, less suspicious, and less hurtful. He is also less boastful and less demanding of attention, and there are more non-lovers to choose from. Many other equally meaningless reasons are given. Phaedrus is captivated by the beauty of the sentences. He wants Socrates to say that nothing better has ever been written or ever could be. Socrates thinks little of the content, though he has paid attention only to the form. Even there, he has noticed several repetitions and other signs of haste. Socrates cannot share Phaedrus's extremely high opinion of the speech, because he fears being unfair to Anacreon, Sappho, and other great writers. He is almost inclined to think he could give a better speech than Lysias on the same subject. Or rather, some power within him could do so. His speech would also differ from Lysias's, provided he could use a few stock ideas that all speakers must use.

Phaedrus is delighted at the prospect of having another speech, and promises that he will set up a golden statue of Socrates at Delphi, if he keeps his word. Some raillery ensues, and at length Socrates, conquered by the threat that he shall never again hear a speech of Lysias unless he fulfils his promise, veils his face and begins.

Phaedrus is delighted at the prospect of another speech. He promises to put up a golden statue of Socrates at Delphi if Socrates keeps his word. Some teasing follows. Finally, Socrates gives in to the threat of never hearing another speech by Lysias unless he keeps his promise. He covers his face and begins.

First, invoking the Muses and assuming ironically the person of the non-lover (who is a lover all the same), he will enquire into the nature and power of love. For this is a necessary preliminary to the other question—How is the non-lover to be distinguished from the lover? In all of us there are two principles—a better and a worse—reason and desire, which are generally at war with one another; and the victory of the rational is called temperance, and the victory of the irrational intemperance or excess. The latter takes many forms and has many bad names—gluttony, drunkenness, and the like. But of all the irrational desires or excesses the greatest is that which is led away by desires of a kindred nature to the enjoyment of personal beauty. And this is the master power of love.

First, he will call on the Muses and ironically take the role of someone who is not in love. Yet he is a lover all the same. He will examine the nature and power of love. This inquiry must come before the next question: How can someone who is not in love be distinguished from a lover? All of us have two guiding forces, one better and one worse: reason and desire. These forces are usually at war with each other. When reason wins, we call it self-control. When irrational desire wins, we call it lack of self-control or excess. Excess takes many forms and goes by many bad names, including gluttony, drunkenness, and the like. But the greatest irrational desire or excess is drawn toward enjoying physical beauty by other, related desires. This desire is the ruling power of love.

Here Socrates fancies that he detects in himself an unusual flow of eloquence—this newly-found gift he can only attribute to the inspiration of the place, which appears to be dedicated to the nymphs. Starting again from the philosophical basis which has been laid down, he proceeds to show how many advantages the non-lover has over the lover. The one encourages softness and effeminacy and exclusiveness; he cannot endure any superiority in his beloved; he will train him in luxury, he will keep him out of society, he will deprive him of parents, friends, money, knowledge, and of every other good, that he may have him all to himself. Then again his ways are not ways of pleasantness; he is mighty disagreeable; 'crabbed age and youth cannot live together.' At every hour of the night and day he is intruding upon him; there is the same old withered face and the remainder to match—and he is always repeating, in season or out of season, the praises or dispraises of his beloved, which are bad enough when he is sober, and published all over the world when he is drunk. At length his love ceases; he is converted into an enemy, and the spectacle may be seen of the lover running away from the beloved, who pursues him with vain reproaches, and demands his reward which the other refuses to pay. Too late the beloved learns, after all his pains and disagreeables, that 'As wolves love lambs so lovers love their loves.' (Compare Char.) Here is the end; the 'other' or 'non-lover' part of the speech had better be understood, for if in the censure of the lover Socrates has broken out in verse, what will he not do in his praise of the non-lover? He has said his say and is preparing to go away.

Here Socrates imagines he notices an unusual flow of eloquence in himself. He can only attribute this newfound gift to inspiration from the place, which seems dedicated to the nymphs. Returning to the philosophical foundation already established, he explains the many advantages the non-lover has over the lover. The lover encourages softness, effeminacy, and isolation. He cannot bear his beloved to surpass him in anything. He will raise his beloved in luxury and keep him away from society. He will deprive him of parents, friends, money, knowledge, and every other good, to have him entirely to himself. Besides, the lover's behavior is far from pleasant. He is terribly disagreeable. 'Ill-tempered old age and youth cannot live together.' He intrudes on his beloved at every hour of the day and night. There is the same old, withered face, with the rest of him to match. And he constantly repeats his praise or criticism of his beloved, whether the moment is right or not. These remarks are bad enough when he is sober. When he is drunk, he broadcasts them to the whole world. Eventually his love ends, and he becomes an enemy. Then comes the spectacle of the lover fleeing his beloved. The beloved pursues him with useless accusations and demands the reward the lover refuses to pay. After all his troubles and unpleasant experiences, the beloved learns too late that 'Lovers love their beloveds as wolves love lambs.' (Compare Char.) Here the speech ends. The 'other' or 'non-lover' part of the speech had better be left for the listener to infer. For if Socrates has burst into verse while condemning the lover, what might he do when praising the non-lover? He has had his say and is preparing to leave.

Phaedrus begs him to remain, at any rate until the heat of noon has passed; he would like to have a little more conversation before they go. Socrates, who has risen, recognizes the oracular sign which forbids him to depart until he has done penance. His conscious has been awakened, and like Stesichorus when he had reviled the lovely Helen he will sing a palinode for having blasphemed the majesty of love. His palinode takes the form of a myth.

Phaedrus begs Socrates to stay, at least until the midday heat has passed. He wants to talk a little longer before they leave. Socrates has stood up, but he recognizes a divine sign forbidding him to leave until he has made amends. His conscience has awakened. Like Stesichorus after speaking against the beautiful Helen, Socrates will sing a palinode, a song taking back his earlier words. He will do so because he has spoken disrespectfully of love’s majesty. His palinode takes the form of a myth.

Socrates begins his tale with a glorification of madness, which he divides into four kinds: first, there is the art of divination or prophecy—this, in a vein similar to that pervading the Cratylus and Io, he connects with madness by an etymological explanation (mantike, manike—compare oionoistike, oionistike, ''tis all one reckoning, save the phrase is a little variations'); secondly, there is the art of purification by mysteries; thirdly, poetry or the inspiration of the Muses (compare Ion), without which no man can enter their temple. All this shows that madness is one of heaven's blessings, and may sometimes be a great deal better than sense. There is also a fourth kind of madness—that of love—which cannot be explained without enquiring into the nature of the soul.

Socrates begins his tale by praising madness, which he divides into four kinds. First comes the art of divination or prophecy. He links prophecy to madness through word origins, using an approach similar to that found throughout Cratylus and Io. He compares mantike with manike (compare oionoistike, oionistike, ''it all amounts to the same thing, except for slightly different wording'). Second comes the art of purification through the mysteries. Third comes poetry, or inspiration from the Muses (compare Ion). Without this inspiration, no one can enter the Muses' temple. All this shows that madness is one of heaven's blessings, and may sometimes be far better than good sense. There is also a fourth kind of madness: love. But the madness of love cannot be explained without examining the nature of the soul.

All soul is immortal, for she is the source of all motion both in herself and in others. Her form may be described in a figure as a composite nature made up of a charioteer and a pair of winged steeds. The steeds of the gods are immortal, but ours are one mortal and the other immortal. The immortal soul soars upwards into the heavens, but the mortal drops her plumes and settles upon the earth.

Every soul is immortal because the soul is the source of all movement, both in itself and in others. We may picture the soul as a charioteer and a pair of winged horses. The gods’ horses are immortal, but one of our horses is mortal and the other immortal. The immortal soul rises into the heavens, but the mortal soul loses its feathers and settles on earth.

Now the use of the wing is to rise and carry the downward element into the upper world—there to behold beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the other things of God by which the soul is nourished. On a certain day Zeus the lord of heaven goes forth in a winged chariot; and an array of gods and demi-gods and of human souls in their train, follows him. There are glorious and blessed sights in the interior of heaven, and he who will may freely behold them. The great vision of all is seen at the feast of the gods, when they ascend the heights of the empyrean—all but Hestia, who is left at home to keep house. The chariots of the gods glide readily upwards and stand upon the outside; the revolution of the spheres carries them round, and they have a vision of the world beyond. But the others labour in vain; for the mortal steed, if he has not been properly trained, keeps them down and sinks them towards the earth. Of the world which is beyond the heavens, who can tell? There is an essence formless, colourless, intangible, perceived by the mind only, dwelling in the region of true knowledge. The divine mind in her revolution enjoys this fair prospect, and beholds justice, temperance, and knowledge in their everlasting essence. When fulfilled with the sight of them she returns home, and the charioteer puts up the horses in their stable, and gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink. This is the life of the gods; the human soul tries to reach the same heights, but hardly succeeds; and sometimes the head of the charioteer rises above, and sometimes sinks below, the fair vision, and he is at last obliged, after much contention, to turn away and leave the plain of truth. But if the soul has followed in the train of her god and once beheld truth she is preserved from harm, and is carried round in the next revolution of the spheres; and if always following, and always seeing the truth, is then for ever unharmed. If, however, she drops her wings and falls to the earth, then she takes the form of man, and the soul which has seen most of the truth passes into a philosopher or lover; that which has seen truth in the second degree, into a king or warrior; the third, into a householder or money-maker; the fourth, into a gymnast; the fifth, into a prophet or mystic; the sixth, into a poet or imitator; the seventh, into a husbandman or craftsman; the eighth, into a sophist or demagogue; the ninth, into a tyrant. All these are states of probation, wherein he who lives righteously is improved, and he who lives unrighteously deteriorates. After death comes the judgment; the bad depart to houses of correction under the earth, the good to places of joy in heaven. When a thousand years have elapsed the souls meet together and choose the lives which they will lead for another period of existence. The soul which three times in succession has chosen the life of a philosopher or of a lover who is not without philosophy receives her wings at the close of the third millennium; the remainder have to complete a cycle of ten thousand years before their wings are restored to them. Each time there is full liberty of choice. The soul of a man may descend into a beast, and return again into the form of man. But the form of man will only be taken by the soul which has once seen truth and acquired some conception of the universal:—this is the recollection of the knowledge which she attained when in the company of the Gods. And men in general recall only with difficulty the things of another world, but the mind of the philosopher has a better remembrance of them. For when he beholds the visible beauty of earth his enraptured soul passes in thought to those glorious sights of justice and wisdom and temperance and truth which she once gazed upon in heaven. Then she celebrated holy mysteries and beheld blessed apparitions shining in pure light, herself pure, and not as yet entombed in the body. And still, like a bird eager to quit its cage, she flutters and looks upwards, and is therefore deemed mad. Such a recollection of past days she receives through sight, the keenest of our senses, because beauty, alone of the ideas, has any representation on earth: wisdom is invisible to mortal eyes. But the corrupted nature, blindly excited by this vision of beauty, rushes on to enjoy, and would fain wallow like a brute beast in sensual pleasures. Whereas the true mystic, who has seen the many sights of bliss, when he beholds a god-like form or face is amazed with delight, and if he were not afraid of being thought mad he would fall down and worship. Then the stiffened wing begins to relax and grow again; desire which has been imprisoned pours over the soul of the lover; the germ of the wing unfolds, and stings, and pangs of birth, like the cutting of teeth, are everywhere felt. (Compare Symp.) Father and mother, and goods and laws and proprieties are nothing to him; his beloved is his physician, who can alone cure his pain. An apocryphal sacred writer says that the power which thus works in him is by mortals called love, but the immortals call him dove, or the winged one, in order to represent the force of his wings—such at any rate is his nature. Now the characters of lovers depend upon the god whom they followed in the other world; and they choose their loves in this world accordingly. The followers of Ares are fierce and violent; those of Zeus seek out some philosophical and imperial nature; the attendants of Here find a royal love; and in like manner the followers of every god seek a love who is like their god; and to him they communicate the nature which they have received from their god. The manner in which they take their love is as follows:—

The purpose of wings is to rise and carry what tends downward into the upper world. There the soul sees beauty, wisdom, goodness, and the other things of God that nourish it. On a certain day, Zeus, the lord of heaven, sets out in a winged chariot. A procession of gods, demi-gods, and human souls follows him. Within heaven are glorious and blessed sights, and anyone who wishes may freely see them. The greatest vision comes at the feast of the gods, when they climb to the heights of the highest heaven. All go except Hestia, who stays home to keep house. The gods’ chariots glide easily upward and come to rest on the outer surface of heaven. The turning spheres carry the gods around, allowing them to see the world beyond. But the others struggle in vain. Their mortal horse, if not properly trained, holds them down and drags them toward the earth. Who can describe the world beyond the heavens? There is an essence without form, color, or physical substance. Only the mind can perceive it, in the realm of true knowledge. As the divine mind makes its circuit, it enjoys this beautiful view. It sees justice, self-control, and knowledge in their eternal essence. Once satisfied with the sight, the divine mind returns home. The charioteer stables the horses and gives them ambrosia to eat and nectar to drink. This is the life of the gods. The human soul tries to reach the same heights, but hardly succeeds. Sometimes the charioteer’s head rises high enough to see the beautiful vision, and sometimes it sinks below. After much struggle, the charioteer must finally turn away and leave the plain of truth. But a soul that has followed its god and once seen truth is kept safe from harm. It is carried around in the next revolution of the spheres. If the soul always follows and always sees the truth, it remains unharmed forever. But if the soul loses its wings and falls to earth, it takes human form. The soul that has seen the most truth becomes a philosopher or lover. The soul that has seen the next most becomes a king or warrior. The third becomes a householder or someone who makes money, and the fourth becomes an athlete. The fifth becomes a prophet or mystic, and the sixth becomes a poet or imitator. The seventh becomes a farmer or craftsman, and the eighth becomes a sophist or demagogue. The ninth becomes a tyrant. All these lives are periods of testing. Whoever lives rightly becomes better, and whoever lives wrongly becomes worse. After death comes judgment. The bad go to places of correction beneath the earth, and the good go to places of joy in heaven. After a thousand years, the souls gather and choose the lives they will lead in another period of existence. A soul may choose a philosopher’s life, or the life of a lover who also practices philosophy. If it makes such a choice three times in succession, it regains its wings after the third thousand years. The other souls must complete a cycle of ten thousand years before their wings are restored. Each time, the choice is entirely free. A human soul may enter an animal and later return to human form. But only a soul that has once seen truth and gained some understanding of the universal can take human form. This understanding is a recollection of the knowledge the soul gained in the company of the Gods. People generally find it difficult to remember the things of another world. But the philosopher’s mind remembers them better. When the philosopher sees earthly beauty, his soul is filled with delight. In thought, his soul returns to the glorious sights of justice, wisdom, self-control, and truth once seen in heaven. There the soul celebrated sacred mysteries and saw blessed visions shining in pure light. The soul itself was pure, not yet buried in the body. Even now, like a bird eager to leave its cage, the soul flutters and looks upward. Because of this, the philosopher is thought mad. Sight, the sharpest of our senses, brings the soul this memory of the past. For beauty alone among the ideas has a visible likeness on earth. Wisdom is invisible to mortal eyes. But a corrupted nature, blindly stirred by the sight of beauty, rushes to possess and enjoy it. Such a person would gladly wallow in sensual pleasures like a brute beast. By contrast, the true mystic has seen the many sights of bliss. When he sees a god-like body or face, he is overwhelmed with delight. If he were not afraid of being thought mad, he would fall down and worship. Then the stiffened wing begins to loosen and grow again. Desire, long imprisoned, pours over the lover’s soul. The budding wing unfolds, bringing stinging pains everywhere, like the pains of birth or of cutting teeth. (Compare Symp.) Father, mother, possessions, laws, and proper behavior mean nothing to him. His beloved is his physician, the only one who can cure his pain. A writer of sacred texts of doubtful authority describes the power working within the lover. Mortals call this power love, but the immortals call him dove, or the winged one. This name represents the force of his wings. Such, at any rate, is his nature. Lovers’ characters depend on the god they followed in the other world. They choose their beloveds in this world accordingly. The followers of Ares are fierce and violent. Those of Zeus seek someone with a philosophical and commanding nature. The attendants of Here seek a royal beloved. In the same way, each god’s followers seek a beloved who resembles their god. They pass on to that beloved the nature they received from their god. The way they approach their beloved is as follows:

I told you about the charioteer and his two steeds, the one a noble animal who is guided by word and admonition only, the other an ill-looking villain who will hardly yield to blow or spur. Together all three, who are a figure of the soul, approach the vision of love. And now a fierce conflict begins. The ill-conditioned steed rushes on to enjoy, but the charioteer, who beholds the beloved with awe, falls back in adoration, and forces both the steeds on their haunches; again the evil steed rushes forwards and pulls shamelessly. The conflict grows more and more severe; and at last the charioteer, throwing himself backwards, forces the bit out of the clenched teeth of the brute, and pulling harder than ever at the reins, covers his tongue and jaws with blood, and forces him to rest his legs and haunches with pain upon the ground. When this has happened several times, the villain is tamed and humbled, and from that time forward the soul of the lover follows the beloved in modesty and holy fear. And now their bliss is consummated; the same image of love dwells in the breast of either, and if they have self-control, they pass their lives in the greatest happiness which is attainable by man—they continue masters of themselves, and conquer in one of the three heavenly victories. But if they choose the lower life of ambition they may still have a happy destiny, though inferior, because they have not the approval of the whole soul. At last they leave the body and proceed on their pilgrim's progress, and those who have once begun can never go back. When the time comes they receive their wings and fly away, and the lovers have the same wings.

I told you about the charioteer and his two horses. One is a noble animal, guided by words and warnings alone. The other is an ugly brute who hardly responds to blows or the spur. Together, all three represent the soul as they approach the vision of love. Now a fierce struggle begins. The unruly horse rushes forward to seek pleasure. But the charioteer gazes at the beloved in awe and falls back in worship, forcing both horses onto their haunches. Again, the wicked horse rushes forward and pulls shamelessly. The struggle grows fiercer. At last, the charioteer throws himself backward and forces the bit from the brute's clenched teeth. He pulls harder than ever on the reins, covering the horse's tongue and jaws with blood. He painfully forces the horse's legs and haunches down onto the ground. After this happens several times, the brute is tamed and humbled. From then on, the lover's soul follows the beloved with modesty and sacred awe. Now their happiness is complete. The same image of love lives in both their hearts. If they have self-control, they spend their lives in the greatest happiness any human can attain. They remain masters of themselves and win one of the three heavenly victories. But if they choose the lower life of ambition, they may still have a happy, though lesser, fate. This is because their choice does not have the approval of the whole soul. At last, they leave their bodies and continue their pilgrimage. Those who have begun this journey can never turn back. When the time comes, they receive their wings and fly away, and the lovers have the same wings.

Socrates concludes:—

Socrates concludes:

These are the blessings of love, and thus have I made my recantation in finer language than before: I did so in order to please Phaedrus. If I said what was wrong at first, please to attribute my error to Lysias, who ought to study philosophy instead of rhetoric, and then he will not mislead his disciple Phaedrus.

These are the blessings of love. And so I have taken back my earlier words in finer language than before, to please Phaedrus. If I said anything wrong at first, please blame my error on Lysias. He should study philosophy instead of rhetoric. Then he will not mislead his student Phaedrus.

Phaedrus is afraid that he will lose conceit of Lysias, and that Lysias will be out of conceit with himself, and leave off making speeches, for the politicians have been deriding him. Socrates is of opinion that there is small danger of this; the politicians are themselves the great rhetoricians of the age, who desire to attain immortality by the authorship of laws. And therefore there is nothing with which they can reproach Lysias in being a writer; but there may be disgrace in being a bad one.

Phaedrus fears he will lose his high opinion of Lysias. He also fears Lysias will lose confidence in himself and stop writing speeches because politicians have mocked him. Socrates thinks there is little danger of Lysias giving up speeches. The politicians themselves are the leading public speakers of the age, seeking immortality by writing laws. So they have no grounds to criticize Lysias for being a writer. But there may be shame in being a bad writer.

And what is good or bad writing or speaking? While the sun is hot in the sky above us, let us ask that question: since by rational conversation man lives, and not by the indulgence of bodily pleasures. And the grasshoppers who are chirruping around may carry our words to the Muses, who are their patronesses; for the grasshoppers were human beings themselves in a world before the Muses, and when the Muses came they died of hunger for the love of song. And they carry to them in heaven the report of those who honour them on earth.

And what makes writing or speaking good or bad? While the sun shines hot above us, let us consider that question. For human beings live by reasoned conversation, not by indulging in bodily pleasures. And the grasshoppers chirping around us may carry our words to the Muses, who watch over them. For the grasshoppers were once human beings, in a world before the Muses. When the Muses came, these people died of hunger because of their love of song. And the grasshoppers report to the Muses in heaven about those who honor the Muses on earth.

The first rule of good speaking is to know and speak the truth; as a Spartan proverb says, 'true art is truth'; whereas rhetoric is an art of enchantment, which makes things appear good and evil, like and unlike, as the speaker pleases. Its use is not confined, as people commonly suppose, to arguments in the law courts and speeches in the assembly; it is rather a part of the art of disputation, under which are included both the rules of Gorgias and the eristic of Zeno. But it is not wholly devoid of truth. Superior knowledge enables us to deceive another by the help of resemblances, and to escape from such a deception when employed against ourselves. We see therefore that even in rhetoric an element of truth is required. For if we do not know the truth, we can neither make the gradual departures from truth by which men are most easily deceived, nor guard ourselves against deception.

The first rule of good speaking is to know and speak the truth. As a Spartan proverb says, 'true art is truth'. Rhetoric, by contrast, is an art of enchantment. It makes things seem good or evil, alike or different, as the speaker wishes. People commonly suppose rhetoric is limited to courtroom arguments and speeches in the assembly. But rhetoric is part of the broader art of debate, including both Gorgias's rules and Zeno's techniques of argument. Yet rhetoric is not entirely without truth. Greater knowledge allows us to deceive others through similarities and to avoid being deceived in the same way. So we see that even rhetoric requires some truth. For if we do not know the truth, we cannot gradually stray from it in ways that most easily deceive people. Nor can we protect ourselves against deception.

Socrates then proposes that they shall use the two speeches as illustrations of the art of rhetoric; first distinguishing between the debatable and undisputed class of subjects. In the debatable class there ought to be a definition of all disputed matters. But there was no such definition in the speech of Lysias; nor is there any order or connection in his words any more than in a nursery rhyme. With this he compares the regular divisions of the other speech, which was his own (and yet not his own, for the local deities must have inspired him). Although only a playful composition, it will be found to embody two principles: first, that of synthesis or the comprehension of parts in a whole; secondly, analysis, or the resolution of the whole into parts. These are the processes of division and generalization which are so dear to the dialectician, that king of men. They are effected by dialectic, and not by rhetoric, of which the remains are but scanty after order and arrangement have been subtracted. There is nothing left but a heap of 'ologies' and other technical terms invented by Polus, Theodorus, Evenus, Tisias, Gorgias, and others, who have rules for everything, and who teach how to be short or long at pleasure. Prodicus showed his good sense when he said that there was a better thing than either to be short or long, which was to be of convenient length.

Socrates then proposes using the two speeches to illustrate the art of rhetoric. He first distinguishes between subjects open to debate and those beyond dispute. For subjects open to debate, all disputed matters should be defined. But Lysias offered no such definitions in his speech. Nor do his words have any more order or connection than a nursery rhyme. Socrates contrasts this with the orderly divisions of the other speech, his own. Yet it was not really his own, since the local deities must have inspired him. Although the speech was only a playful composition, it contains two principles. The first is synthesis, or bringing parts together into a whole. The second is analysis, or breaking a whole down into parts. These processes of division and generalization are so dear to the dialectician, that king of men. These processes belong to dialectic, not rhetoric. Once order and arrangement are taken away, very little remains of rhetoric. Nothing is left but a heap of 'ologies' and other technical terms. These were invented by Polus, Theodorus, Evenus, Tisias, Gorgias, and others. They have rules for everything and teach people how to speak briefly or at length as they please. Prodicus showed good sense when he said something was better than speaking either briefly or at length: speaking at the right length.

Still, notwithstanding the absurdities of Polus and others, rhetoric has great power in public assemblies. This power, however, is not given by any technical rules, but is the gift of genius. The real art is always being confused by rhetoricians with the preliminaries of the art. The perfection of oratory is like the perfection of anything else; natural power must be aided by art. But the art is not that which is taught in the schools of rhetoric; it is nearer akin to philosophy. Pericles, for instance, who was the most accomplished of all speakers, derived his eloquence not from rhetoric but from the philosophy of nature which he learnt of Anaxagoras. True rhetoric is like medicine, and the rhetorician has to consider the natures of men's souls as the physician considers the natures of their bodies. Such and such persons are to be affected in this way, such and such others in that; and he must know the times and the seasons for saying this or that. This is not an easy task, and this, if there be such an art, is the art of rhetoric.

Still, despite the absurdities of Polus and others, rhetoric has great power in public assemblies. But this power does not come from technical rules. It is a gift of genius. Teachers of rhetoric constantly confuse the true art with its basic preparations. Excellence in public speaking is like excellence in anything else. Natural ability must be supported by art. But this art is not what schools of rhetoric teach. It is more closely related to philosophy. Pericles, for example, was the most accomplished of all speakers. His eloquence came not from rhetoric but from the philosophy of nature he learned from Anaxagoras. True rhetoric is like medicine. Speakers must study the nature of people's souls, just as doctors study the nature of their bodies. Speakers must know how to influence different kinds of people, each in a different way. They must also know the right time and occasion to say one thing or another. This is no easy task. And this, if such an art exists, is the art of rhetoric.

I know that there are some professors of the art who maintain probability to be stronger than truth. But we maintain that probability is engendered by likeness of the truth which can only be attained by the knowledge of it, and that the aim of the good man should not be to please or persuade his fellow-servants, but to please his good masters who are the gods. Rhetoric has a fair beginning in this.

I know some teachers of rhetoric claim that what seems likely is more powerful than what is true. But we maintain that things seem likely because they resemble the truth. Only knowledge of the truth allows us to achieve that resemblance. And a good man should not aim to please or persuade his fellow servants. Instead, he should aim to please his good masters, the gods. This is a worthy starting point for rhetoric.

Enough of the art of speaking; let us now proceed to consider the true use of writing. There is an old Egyptian tale of Theuth, the inventor of writing, showing his invention to the god Thamus, who told him that he would only spoil men's memories and take away their understandings. From this tale, of which young Athens will probably make fun, may be gathered the lesson that writing is inferior to speech. For it is like a picture, which can give no answer to a question, and has only a deceitful likeness of a living creature. It has no power of adaptation, but uses the same words for all. It is not a legitimate son of knowledge, but a bastard, and when an attack is made upon this bastard neither parent nor anyone else is there to defend it. The husbandman will not seriously incline to sow his seed in such a hot-bed or garden of Adonis; he will rather sow in the natural soil of the human soul which has depth of earth; and he will anticipate the inner growth of the mind, by writing only, if at all, as a remedy against old age. The natural process will be far nobler, and will bring forth fruit in the minds of others as well as in his own.

Enough about the art of speaking. Let us now consider the proper use of writing. An old Egyptian tale tells how Theuth, the inventor of writing, showed his invention to the god Thamus. Thamus told Theuth that writing would only damage people's memories and rob them of understanding. The young people of Athens will probably make fun of this tale. Yet the tale offers a lesson: writing is inferior to speech. For writing is like a picture, unable to answer a question and offering only a misleading likeness of something alive. Writing cannot adapt, but uses the same words for everyone. Writing is not a legitimate child of knowledge, but a bastard. And when this bastard is attacked, neither its parent nor anyone else is there to defend it. A farmer will not seriously consider sowing his seed in such a forcing bed or garden of Adonis. Instead, he will sow in the natural soil of the human soul, where the earth is deep. He will look ahead to the mind's inner growth, writing only, if at all, to guard against old age. The natural process will be far nobler. It will bear fruit in other people's minds as well as his own.

The conclusion of the whole matter is just this,—that until a man knows the truth, and the manner of adapting the truth to the natures of other men, he cannot be a good orator; also, that the living is better than the written word, and that the principles of justice and truth when delivered by word of mouth are the legitimate offspring of a man's own bosom, and their lawful descendants take up their abode in others. Such an orator as he is who is possessed of them, you and I would fain become. And to all composers in the world, poets, orators, legislators, we hereby announce that if their compositions are based upon these principles, then they are not only poets, orators, legislators, but philosophers. All others are mere flatterers and putters together of words. This is the message which Phaedrus undertakes to carry to Lysias from the local deities, and Socrates himself will carry a similar message to his favourite Isocrates, whose future distinction as a great rhetorician he prophesies. The heat of the day has passed, and after offering up a prayer to Pan and the nymphs, Socrates and Phaedrus depart.

The conclusion is simply this: a man cannot be a good speaker until he knows the truth. He must also know how to adapt the truth to the natures of other people. The spoken word is better than the written word. Principles of justice and truth, when spoken, are the legitimate children of a man's own heart. Their lawful descendants make their home in others. You and I would like to become speakers who possess these principles. We therefore announce this to all writers, poets, speakers, and lawmakers everywhere: if their works rest on these principles, they are also philosophers. All others are merely flatterers who string words together. Phaedrus agrees to carry this message from the local deities to Lysias. Socrates himself will carry a similar message to his favorite, Isocrates. Socrates predicts that Isocrates will become a distinguished rhetorician. The day's heat has passed. After offering a prayer to Pan and the nymphs, Socrates and Phaedrus leave.

There are two principal controversies which have been raised about the Phaedrus; the first relates to the subject, the second to the date of the Dialogue.

Two main controversies have arisen about the Phaedrus. The first concerns the dialogue’s subject, and the second concerns its date.

There seems to be a notion that the work of a great artist like Plato cannot fail in unity, and that the unity of a dialogue requires a single subject. But the conception of unity really applies in very different degrees and ways to different kinds of art; to a statue, for example, far more than to any kind of literary composition, and to some species of literature far more than to others. Nor does the dialogue appear to be a style of composition in which the requirement of unity is most stringent; nor should the idea of unity derived from one sort of art be hastily transferred to another. The double titles of several of the Platonic Dialogues are a further proof that the severer rule was not observed by Plato. The Republic is divided between the search after justice and the construction of the ideal state; the Parmenides between the criticism of the Platonic ideas and of the Eleatic one or being; the Gorgias between the art of speaking and the nature of the good; the Sophist between the detection of the Sophist and the correlation of ideas. The Theaetetus, the Politicus, and the Philebus have also digressions which are but remotely connected with the main subject.

There seems to be a belief that the work of a great artist like Plato must always have unity. This belief also assumes that a dialogue must have a single subject to achieve unity. But unity applies in very different ways and degrees to different kinds of art. Unity matters far more in a statue, for example, than in any literary work. Unity also matters far more in some kinds of literature than in others. Nor does dialogue seem to be a form of writing that demands the strictest unity. And we should not hastily apply one art form’s idea of unity to another. The double titles of several Platonic Dialogues provide further proof that Plato did not follow the stricter rule. The Republic divides its attention between the search for justice and the construction of the ideal state. The Parmenides examines both the Platonic ideas and the Eleatic one or being critically. The Gorgias addresses both the art of speaking and the nature of the good. The Sophist explores both how to identify the Sophist and how ideas relate to one another. The Theaetetus, the Politicus, and the Philebus also contain digressions only distantly connected to their main subjects.

Thus the comparison of Plato's other writings, as well as the reason of the thing, lead us to the conclusion that we must not expect to find one idea pervading a whole work, but one, two, or more, as the invention of the writer may suggest, or his fancy wander. If each dialogue were confined to the development of a single idea, this would appear on the face of the dialogue, nor could any controversy be raised as to whether the Phaedrus treated of love or rhetoric. But the truth is that Plato subjects himself to no rule of this sort. Like every great artist he gives unity of form to the different and apparently distracting topics which he brings together. He works freely and is not to be supposed to have arranged every part of the dialogue before he begins to write. He fastens or weaves together the frame of his discourse loosely and imperfectly, and which is the warp and which is the woof cannot always be determined.

Comparing Plato's other writings, and considering the matter itself, leads us to the same conclusion. We should not expect one idea to run through an entire work. There may be one, two, or more, as the writer's creativity suggests or his imagination wanders. If each dialogue developed only a single idea, that focus would be clear from the dialogue itself. Nor could there be any debate about whether the Phaedrus dealt with love or rhetoric. But the truth is that Plato follows no such rule. Like every great artist, he gives a unified form to the different, seemingly distracting topics he brings together. He works freely, and we should not assume he planned every part of a dialogue before beginning to write. He joins or weaves the framework of his discussion together loosely and imperfectly. We cannot always tell which threads form the warp and which form the weft.

The subjects of the Phaedrus (exclusive of the short introductory passage about mythology which is suggested by the local tradition) are first the false or conventional art of rhetoric; secondly, love or the inspiration of beauty and knowledge, which is described as madness; thirdly, dialectic or the art of composition and division; fourthly, the true rhetoric, which is based upon dialectic, and is neither the art of persuasion nor knowledge of the truth alone, but the art of persuasion founded on knowledge of truth and knowledge of character; fifthly, the superiority of the spoken over the written word. The continuous thread which appears and reappears throughout is rhetoric; this is the ground into which the rest of the Dialogue is worked, in parts embroidered with fine words which are not in Socrates' manner, as he says, 'in order to please Phaedrus.' The speech of Lysias which has thrown Phaedrus into an ecstacy is adduced as an example of the false rhetoric; the first speech of Socrates, though an improvement, partakes of the same character; his second speech, which is full of that higher element said to have been learned of Anaxagoras by Pericles, and which in the midst of poetry does not forget order, is an illustration of the higher or true rhetoric. This higher rhetoric is based upon dialectic, and dialectic is a sort of inspiration akin to love (compare Symp.); in these two aspects of philosophy the technicalities of rhetoric are absorbed. And so the example becomes also the deeper theme of discourse. The true knowledge of things in heaven and earth is based upon enthusiasm or love of the ideas going before us and ever present to us in this world and in another; and the true order of speech or writing proceeds accordingly. Love, again, has three degrees: first, of interested love corresponding to the conventionalities of rhetoric; secondly, of disinterested or mad love, fixed on objects of sense, and answering, perhaps, to poetry; thirdly, of disinterested love directed towards the unseen, answering to dialectic or the science of the ideas. Lastly, the art of rhetoric in the lower sense is found to rest on a knowledge of the natures and characters of men, which Socrates at the commencement of the Dialogue has described as his own peculiar study.

The Phaedrus has five main subjects, apart from a brief opening discussion of mythology prompted by local tradition. The first is the false or conventional art of rhetoric. The second is love, or the inspiration of beauty and knowledge, described as madness. The third is dialectic, or the art of bringing ideas together and dividing them. The fourth is true rhetoric, based on dialectic. True rhetoric is neither persuasion alone nor knowledge of truth alone. It is persuasion founded on knowledge of truth and human character. The fifth is the superiority of the spoken word over the written word. Rhetoric is the recurring thread throughout the Dialogue. It forms the underlying fabric into which the other subjects are woven. Some passages are embroidered with fine language unlike Socrates' usual style, as he says, 'in order to please Phaedrus.' Lysias' speech, which has filled Phaedrus with delight, serves as an example of false rhetoric. Socrates' first speech, though an improvement, shares the same character. His second speech illustrates higher or true rhetoric. It is full of the higher element that Pericles is said to have learned from Anaxagoras. Even amid its poetry, the speech maintains order. This higher rhetoric rests on dialectic, and dialectic is a kind of inspiration akin to love (compare Symp.). These two aspects of philosophy absorb the technical details of rhetoric. So the example also becomes the deeper subject of the discussion. True knowledge of things in heaven and earth rests on inspired devotion to, or love of, the ideas. These ideas go before us and remain ever present to us, in this world and another. The proper order of speech or writing follows from this foundation. Love, in turn, has three degrees. The first is self-interested love, corresponding to the conventions of rhetoric. The second is selfless or mad love, focused on objects perceived through the senses and corresponding, perhaps, to poetry. The third is selfless love directed toward the unseen, corresponding to dialectic or the science of ideas. Finally, rhetoric in its lower sense proves to rest on knowledge of human natures and characters. At the beginning of the Dialogue, Socrates describes this knowledge as his own special field of study.

Thus amid discord a harmony begins to appear; there are many links of connection which are not visible at first sight. At the same time the Phaedrus, although one of the most beautiful of the Platonic Dialogues, is also more irregular than any other. For insight into the world, for sustained irony, for depth of thought, there is no Dialogue superior, or perhaps equal to it. Nevertheless the form of the work has tended to obscure some of Plato's higher aims.

So harmony begins to emerge amid discord. Many connections are not obvious at first glance. At the same time, although the Phaedrus is one of Plato's most beautiful dialogues, its structure is the most uneven. No other dialogue surpasses it in insight into the world, sustained irony, or depth of thought. Perhaps none even equals it in these qualities. Nevertheless, the work's structure has tended to obscure some of Plato's higher aims.

The first speech is composed 'in that balanced style in which the wise love to talk' (Symp.). The characteristics of rhetoric are insipidity, mannerism, and monotonous parallelism of clauses. There is more rhythm than reason; the creative power of imagination is wanting.

The first speech is written 'in the balanced style that wise people love to use' (Symp.). Rhetoric is marked by dullness, affected style, and monotonously parallel clauses. There is more rhythm than reason. The creative power of imagination is missing.

''Tis Greece, but living Greece no more.'

'This is Greece, but Greece is no longer alive.'

Plato has seized by anticipation the spirit which hung over Greek literature for a thousand years afterwards. Yet doubtless there were some who, like Phaedrus, felt a delight in the harmonious cadence and the pedantic reasoning of the rhetoricians newly imported from Sicily, which had ceased to be awakened in them by really great works, such as the odes of Anacreon or Sappho or the orations of Pericles. That the first speech was really written by Lysias is improbable. Like the poem of Solon, or the story of Thamus and Theuth, or the funeral oration of Aspasia (if genuine), or the pretence of Socrates in the Cratylus that his knowledge of philology is derived from Euthyphro, the invention is really due to the imagination of Plato, and may be compared to the parodies of the Sophists in the Protagoras. Numerous fictions of this sort occur in the Dialogues, and the gravity of Plato has sometimes imposed upon his commentators. The introduction of a considerable writing of another would seem not to be in keeping with a great work of art, and has no parallel elsewhere.

Plato anticipated the spirit that would dominate Greek literature for the next thousand years. Yet some people, like Phaedrus, undoubtedly delighted in the rhythmic flow and pedantic arguments of rhetoricians newly arrived from Sicily. Truly great works no longer gave these people the same delight. Such works included the odes of Anacreon or Sappho and the orations of Pericles. It is unlikely that Lysias actually wrote the first speech. The speech is really a product of Plato’s imagination, like the poem of Solon or the story of Thamus and Theuth. Other examples include the funeral oration of Aspasia (if genuine). Another is Socrates’ claim in the Cratylus that his knowledge of language comes from Euthyphro. These inventions may be compared to the parodies of the Sophists in the Protagoras. Many such fictions appear in the Dialogues, and Plato’s serious manner has sometimes misled his commentators. Including a substantial piece of another writer’s work would seem out of keeping with a great work of art. There is no parallel for such an inclusion elsewhere.

In the second speech Socrates is exhibited as beating the rhetoricians at their own weapons; he 'an unpractised man and they masters of the art.' True to his character, he must, however, profess that the speech which he makes is not his own, for he knows nothing of himself. (Compare Symp.) Regarded as a rhetorical exercise, the superiority of his speech seems to consist chiefly in a better arrangement of the topics; he begins with a definition of love, and he gives weight to his words by going back to general maxims; a lesser merit is the greater liveliness of Socrates, which hurries him into verse and relieves the monotony of the style.

In the second speech, Socrates is shown beating the rhetoricians at their own game. He is 'an inexperienced man, while they are masters of the art.' True to his character, however, he must claim that his speech is not his own, because he knows nothing himself. (Compare Symp.) As an exercise in rhetoric, his speech seems superior chiefly because its topics are better organized. He begins with a definition of love and gives his words weight by grounding them in general principles. A lesser strength is Socrates' greater liveliness, which sweeps him into verse and breaks up the monotony of his style.

But Plato had doubtless a higher purpose than to exhibit Socrates as the rival or superior of the Athenian rhetoricians. Even in the speech of Lysias there is a germ of truth, and this is further developed in the parallel oration of Socrates. First, passionate love is overthrown by the sophistical or interested, and then both yield to that higher view of love which is afterwards revealed to us. The extreme of commonplace is contrasted with the most ideal and imaginative of speculations. Socrates, half in jest and to satisfy his own wild humour, takes the disguise of Lysias, but he is also in profound earnest and in a deeper vein of irony than usual. Having improvised his own speech, which is based upon the model of the preceding, he condemns them both. Yet the condemnation is not to be taken seriously, for he is evidently trying to express an aspect of the truth. To understand him, we must make abstraction of morality and of the Greek manner of regarding the relation of the sexes. In this, as in his other discussions about love, what Plato says of the loves of men must be transferred to the loves of women before we can attach any serious meaning to his words. Had he lived in our times he would have made the transposition himself. But seeing in his own age the impossibility of woman being the intellectual helpmate or friend of man (except in the rare instances of a Diotima or an Aspasia), seeing that, even as to personal beauty, her place was taken by young mankind instead of womankind, he tries to work out the problem of love without regard to the distinctions of nature. And full of the evils which he recognized as flowing from the spurious form of love, he proceeds with a deep meaning, though partly in joke, to show that the 'non-lover's' love is better than the 'lover's.'

But Plato undoubtedly had a higher purpose than showing Socrates as the rival or superior of the Athenian rhetoricians. Even Lysias’s speech contains a seed of truth, which Socrates develops further in his parallel speech. First, passionate love is defeated by love based on clever but misleading arguments or self-interest. Then both give way to the higher view of love revealed later. The height of ordinary thinking is contrasted with the most ideal and imaginative speculation. Half joking and indulging his own wild humor, Socrates takes on the role of Lysias. But he is also deeply serious, and his irony runs deeper than usual. After improvising a speech modeled on Lysias’s, he condemns both speeches. Yet we should not take his condemnation seriously, since he is clearly trying to express one aspect of the truth. To understand Socrates, we must set aside morality and the Greek view of relations between the sexes. Here, as in Plato’s other discussions of love, we must apply his words about loving men to loving women. Only then can we give his words any serious meaning. Had Plato lived in our times, he would have made this change himself. But in his own age, he saw no possibility of women becoming men’s intellectual partners or friends. The rare exceptions were women such as Diotima or Aspasia. He also saw that, even in physical beauty, young men had taken women’s place. So he tries to explore the problem of love without considering the distinctions of nature. He is deeply troubled by the evils he sees flowing from the false form of love. So, with a serious purpose, though partly joking, he argues that the 'non-lover's' love is better than the 'lover's.'

We may raise the same question in another form: Is marriage preferable with or without love? 'Among ourselves,' as we may say, a little parodying the words of Pausanias in the Symposium, 'there would be one answer to this question: the practice and feeling of some foreign countries appears to be more doubtful.' Suppose a modern Socrates, in defiance of the received notions of society and the sentimental literature of the day, alone against all the writers and readers of novels, to suggest this enquiry, would not the younger 'part of the world be ready to take off its coat and run at him might and main?' (Republic.) Yet, if like Peisthetaerus in Aristophanes, he could persuade the 'birds' to hear him, retiring a little behind a rampart, not of pots and dishes, but of unreadable books, he might have something to say for himself. Might he not argue, 'that a rational being should not follow the dictates of passion in the most important act of his or her life'? Who would willingly enter into a contract at first sight, almost without thought, against the advice and opinion of his friends, at a time when he acknowledges that he is not in his right mind? And yet they are praised by the authors of romances, who reject the warnings of their friends or parents, rather than those who listen to them in such matters. Two inexperienced persons, ignorant of the world and of one another, how can they be said to choose?—they draw lots, whence also the saying, 'marriage is a lottery.' Then he would describe their way of life after marriage; how they monopolize one another's affections to the exclusion of friends and relations: how they pass their days in unmeaning fondness or trivial conversation; how the inferior of the two drags the other down to his or her level; how the cares of a family 'breed meanness in their souls.' In the fulfilment of military or public duties, they are not helpers but hinderers of one another: they cannot undertake any noble enterprise, such as makes the names of men and women famous, from domestic considerations. Too late their eyes are opened; they were taken unawares and desire to part company. Better, he would say, a 'little love at the beginning,' for heaven might have increased it; but now their foolish fondness has changed into mutual dislike. In the days of their honeymoon they never understood that they must provide against offences, that they must have interests, that they must learn the art of living as well as loving. Our misogamist will not appeal to Anacreon or Sappho for a confirmation of his view, but to the universal experience of mankind. How much nobler, in conclusion, he will say, is friendship, which does not receive unmeaning praises from novelists and poets, is not exacting or exclusive, is not impaired by familiarity, is much less expensive, is not so likely to take offence, seldom changes, and may be dissolved from time to time without the assistance of the courts. Besides, he will remark that there is a much greater choice of friends than of wives—you may have more of them and they will be far more improving to your mind. They will not keep you dawdling at home, or dancing attendance upon them; or withdraw you from the great world and stirring scenes of life and action which would make a man of you.

We may ask the same question another way: Is marriage better with or without love? 'Among ourselves,' we might say, slightly parodying Pausanias in the Symposium, 'there would be only one answer. The customs and feelings of some foreign countries seem less settled.' Suppose a modern Socrates raised this question against society's accepted views and the sentimental literature of his day. He would stand alone against all the writers and readers of novels. Would not the younger 'part of the world be ready to take off its coat and charge at him with all its strength?' (Republic.) Yet he might have something to say for himself, if he could persuade the 'birds' to hear him. Like Peisthetaerus in Aristophanes, he might retreat a little behind a defensive wall. His wall would consist not of pots and dishes, but of unreadable books. Might he not argue 'that a rational person should not follow passion in the most important decision of their life'? Who would willingly enter a contract at first sight, almost without thinking, against their friends' advice and judgment? Who would do so while admitting they were not in their right mind? Yet romance writers praise those who reject their friends' or parents' warnings, rather than those who listen. How can two inexperienced people, ignorant of the world and each other, be said to choose? They draw lots, hence the saying, 'marriage is a lottery.' Then he would describe their life after marriage. They claim each other's affection entirely, shutting out friends and relatives. They spend their days in empty displays of affection or trivial conversation. The less capable partner drags the other down to their level. The burdens of family life 'make their souls petty.' In military or public duties, they hinder rather than help each other. Domestic concerns prevent them from undertaking any noble enterprise of the kind that makes men and women famous. Their eyes open too late. Caught unprepared, they want to separate. Better, he would say, to have had a 'little love at the beginning,' for heaven might have increased it. But now their foolish affection has turned into mutual dislike. During their honeymoon, they never understood that they needed to prepare for disagreements. They needed interests and had to learn the art of living as well as loving. Our opponent of marriage will not turn to Anacreon or Sappho to support his view. Instead, he will appeal to the universal experience of humanity. In conclusion, he will say how much nobler friendship is. Novelists and poets do not shower friendship with empty praise. Friendship is neither demanding nor exclusive, and familiarity does not weaken it. It costs much less, takes offence less readily, and seldom changes. Friendships can also be ended from time to time without help from the courts. Besides, he will note, there is a much wider choice of friends than of wives. You may have more friends, and they will do far more to improve your mind. They will not keep you idling at home or constantly waiting on them. Nor will they draw you away from the wider world and life's stirring scenes of action that would make a man of you.

In such a manner, turning the seamy side outwards, a modern Socrates might describe the evils of married and domestic life. They are evils which mankind in general have agreed to conceal, partly because they are compensated by greater goods. Socrates or Archilochus would soon have to sing a palinode for the injustice done to lovely Helen, or some misfortune worse than blindness might be fall them. Then they would take up their parable again and say:—that there were two loves, a higher and a lower, holy and unholy, a love of the mind and a love of the body.

By exposing the ugly side in this way, a modern Socrates might describe the evils of married and domestic life. People generally agree to hide these evils, partly because greater benefits outweigh them. Socrates or Archilochus would soon have to sing a song taking back the injustice done to lovely Helen. Otherwise, some misfortune worse than blindness might befall them. Then they would return to their story and say that there were two kinds of love. One was higher and holy, a love of the mind. The other was lower and unholy, a love of the body.

But this true love of the mind cannot exist between two souls, until they are purified from the grossness of earthly passion: they must pass through a time of trial and conflict first; in the language of religion they must be converted or born again. Then they would see the world transformed into a scene of heavenly beauty; a divine idea would accompany them in all their thoughts and actions. Something too of the recollections of childhood might float about them still; they might regain that old simplicity which had been theirs in other days at their first entrance on life. And although their love of one another was ever present to them, they would acknowledge also a higher love of duty and of God, which united them. And their happiness would depend upon their preserving in them this principle—not losing the ideals of justice and holiness and truth, but renewing them at the fountain of light. When they have attained to this exalted state, let them marry (something too may be conceded to the animal nature of man): or live together in holy and innocent friendship. The poet might describe in eloquent words the nature of such a union; how after many struggles the true love was found: how the two passed their lives together in the service of God and man; how their characters were reflected upon one another, and seemed to grow more like year by year; how they read in one another's eyes the thoughts, wishes, actions of the other; how they saw each other in God; how in a figure they grew wings like doves, and were 'ready to fly away together and be at rest.' And lastly, he might tell how, after a time at no long intervals, first one and then the other fell asleep, and 'appeared to the unwise' to die, but were reunited in another state of being, in which they saw justice and holiness and truth, not according to the imperfect copies of them which are found in this world, but justice absolute in existence absolute, and so of the rest. And they would hold converse not only with each other, but with blessed souls everywhere; and would be employed in the service of God, every soul fulfilling his own nature and character, and would see into the wonders of earth and heaven, and trace the works of creation to their author.

But this true love of the mind cannot exist between two souls until they are freed from crude earthly passion. They must first go through a time of struggle and testing. In religious terms, they must be converted or born again. Then they would see the world transformed into a place of heavenly beauty. A divine idea would guide all their thoughts and actions. Some memories of childhood might still drift around them. They might regain the simplicity they had when they first entered life. And although their love for each other was always present, they would also recognize a higher love. This love of duty and of God would unite them. Their happiness would depend on keeping this guiding principle alive within them. They must not lose their ideals of justice, holiness, and truth, but renew them at the source of light. Once they have reached this higher state, let them marry. Some allowance may also be made for human animal nature. Or let them live together in holy and innocent friendship. A poet might describe such a union in moving words. He might tell how, after many struggles, the two found true love. He might describe how they spent their lives together serving God and humanity. Their characters would reflect each other and seem to grow more alike each year. They would read each other's thoughts, wishes, and actions in each other's eyes. They would see each other in God. In a poetic image, they would grow wings like doves, and be 'ready to fly away together and be at rest.' Finally, the poet might tell how, after a time, first one and then the other fell asleep, not far apart. They 'appeared to the unwise' to die, but were reunited in another state of being. There they saw justice, holiness, and truth, not through the imperfect copies found in this world. Instead, they saw absolute justice in absolute existence, and likewise holiness and truth. They would speak not only with each other, but with blessed souls everywhere. They would serve God, each soul fulfilling its own nature and character. They would understand the wonders of earth and heaven, and trace the works of creation back to their creator.

So, partly in jest but also 'with a certain degree of seriousness,' we may appropriate to ourselves the words of Plato. The use of such a parody, though very imperfect, is to transfer his thoughts to our sphere of religion and feeling, to bring him nearer to us and us to him. Like the Scriptures, Plato admits of endless applications, if we allow for the difference of times and manners; and we lose the better half of him when we regard his Dialogues merely as literary compositions. Any ancient work which is worth reading has a practical and speculative as well as a literary interest. And in Plato, more than in any other Greek writer, the local and transitory is inextricably blended with what is spiritual and eternal. Socrates is necessarily ironical; for he has to withdraw from the received opinions and beliefs of mankind. We cannot separate the transitory from the permanent; nor can we translate the language of irony into that of plain reflection and common sense. But we can imagine the mind of Socrates in another age and country; and we can interpret him by analogy with reference to the errors and prejudices which prevail among ourselves. To return to the Phaedrus:—

So, partly in jest but also 'with a certain degree of seriousness,' we may make Plato’s words our own. Such a parody, though very imperfect, brings his thoughts into our own world of religion and feeling. Its purpose is to bring him closer to us and us to him. Like the Scriptures, Plato allows endless applications, if we account for differences in times and customs. And we lose the better half of Plato when we treat his Dialogues merely as literary works. Any ancient work worth reading has practical and philosophical interest as well as literary value. And in Plato, more than in any other Greek writer, the local and temporary are inseparable from the spiritual and eternal. Socrates must use irony because he has to distance himself from humanity’s accepted opinions and beliefs. We cannot separate the temporary from the permanent. Nor can we turn the language of irony into the language of straightforward reflection and common sense. But we can imagine the mind of Socrates in another age and country. And we can interpret him through parallels with the errors and prejudices common among us. To return to the Phaedrus:

Both speeches are strongly condemned by Socrates as sinful and blasphemous towards the god Love, and as worthy only of some haunt of sailors to which good manners were unknown. The meaning of this and other wild language to the same effect, which is introduced by way of contrast to the formality of the two speeches (Socrates has a sense of relief when he has escaped from the trammels of rhetoric), seems to be that the two speeches proceed upon the supposition that love is and ought to be interested, and that no such thing as a real or disinterested passion, which would be at the same time lasting, could be conceived. 'But did I call this "love"? O God, forgive my blasphemy. This is not love. Rather it is the love of the world. But there is another kingdom of love, a kingdom not of this world, divine, eternal. And this other love I will now show you in a mystery.'

Socrates strongly condemns both speeches as sinful and blasphemous toward the god Love. He says they belong only in some sailors’ hangout where good manners are unknown. This and other equally wild language contrasts with the formality of the two speeches. (Socrates feels relieved once he has escaped the constraints of rhetoric.) His language seems to mean that both speeches assume love is, and ought to be, self-serving. They also assume that genuine, selfless passion that lasts is unimaginable. 'But did I call this "love"? O God, forgive my blasphemy. This is not love. Rather, it is worldly love. But there is another kingdom of love, a kingdom not of this world, divine and eternal. And I will now reveal this other love to you as a sacred mystery.'

Then follows the famous myth, which is a sort of parable, and like other parables ought not to receive too minute an interpretation. In all such allegories there is a great deal which is merely ornamental, and the interpreter has to separate the important from the unimportant. Socrates himself has given the right clue when, in using his own discourse afterwards as the text for his examination of rhetoric, he characterizes it as a 'partly true and tolerably credible mythus,' in which amid poetical figures, order and arrangement were not forgotten.

Next comes the famous myth, a kind of parable that, like other parables, should not be interpreted in too much detail. In all such allegories, much is merely decorative, and the interpreter must separate the important from the unimportant. Socrates himself gives us the right clue when he later uses his own speech to examine rhetoric. He describes the speech as a 'partly true and reasonably believable myth.' Despite its poetic imagery, the speech still pays attention to order and structure.

The soul is described in magnificent language as the self-moved and the source of motion in all other things. This is the philosophical theme or proem of the whole. But ideas must be given through something, and under the pretext that to realize the true nature of the soul would be not only tedious but impossible, we at once pass on to describe the souls of gods as well as men under the figure of two winged steeds and a charioteer. No connection is traced between the soul as the great motive power and the triple soul which is thus imaged. There is no difficulty in seeing that the charioteer represents the reason, or that the black horse is the symbol of the sensual or concupiscent element of human nature. The white horse also represents rational impulse, but the description, 'a lover of honour and modesty and temperance, and a follower of true glory,' though similar, does not at once recall the 'spirit' (thumos) of the Republic. The two steeds really correspond in a figure more nearly to the appetitive and moral or semi-rational soul of Aristotle. And thus, for the first time perhaps in the history of philosophy, we have represented to us the threefold division of psychology. The image of the charioteer and the steeds has been compared with a similar image which occurs in the verses of Parmenides; but it is important to remark that the horses of Parmenides have no allegorical meaning, and that the poet is only describing his own approach in a chariot to the regions of light and the house of the goddess of truth.

The soul is described in magnificent language as moving itself and causing motion in all other things. This idea is the philosophical theme or introduction to the whole work. But ideas must be expressed through some image. We are told that explaining the soul’s true nature would be not only tedious but impossible. This claim provides an excuse to turn immediately to an image of the souls of gods and humans. Each soul is pictured as two winged horses and a charioteer. No connection is drawn between the soul as the great source of motion and the three-part soul pictured here. It is easy to see that the charioteer represents reason. The black horse symbolizes the sensual or desire-driven element of human nature. The white horse also represents rational impulse. It is described as 'a lover of honour and modesty and temperance, and a follower of true glory.' Although similar, this description does not immediately suggest the 'spirit' (thumos) of the Republic. The two horses actually correspond more closely to Aristotle’s division between the appetitive and the moral or partly rational soul. So here, perhaps for the first time in philosophy’s history, we see a three-part division of the mind. The image of the charioteer and horses has been compared with a similar image in the poetry of Parmenides. But it is important to note that Parmenides’ horses have no allegorical meaning. The poet is simply describing his own journey by chariot toward the regions of light and the goddess of truth’s house.

The triple soul has had a previous existence, in which following in the train of some god, from whom she derived her character, she beheld partially and imperfectly the vision of absolute truth. All her after existence, passed in many forms of men and animals, is spent in regaining this. The stages of the conflict are many and various; and she is sorely let and hindered by the animal desires of the inferior or concupiscent steed. Again and again she beholds the flashing beauty of the beloved. But before that vision can be finally enjoyed the animal desires must be subjected.

The three-part soul lived before, following in the procession of some god, from whom she gained her character. During that life, she saw absolute truth, but only partially and imperfectly. All her later existence, through many human and animal forms, is spent trying to regain that vision. The struggle has many different stages. The animal desires of the lower horse, driven by appetite, severely obstruct her progress. Again and again, she sees the radiant beauty of the beloved. But before she can fully enjoy that vision, her animal desires must be brought under control.

The moral or spiritual element in man is represented by the immortal steed which, like thumos in the Republic, always sides with the reason. Both are dragged out of their course by the furious impulses of desire. In the end something is conceded to the desires, after they have been finally humbled and overpowered. And yet the way of philosophy, or perfect love of the unseen, is total abstinence from bodily delights. 'But all men cannot receive this saying': in the lower life of ambition they may be taken off their guard and stoop to folly unawares, and then, although they do not attain to the highest bliss, yet if they have once conquered they may be happy enough.

The moral or spiritual side of human beings is represented by the immortal horse. Like thumos in the Republic, the horse always sides with reason. Both the horse and reason are pulled off course by the fierce impulses of desire. In the end, some ground is given to desires, after those desires have finally been humbled and overcome. Yet the path of philosophy, or perfect love of the unseen, requires complete abstinence from bodily pleasures. 'But not everyone can accept this teaching': in the lower life of ambition, people may be caught off guard. They may slip into foolish behavior without realizing it. Then, although they do not reach the highest happiness, they may still be happy enough if they have once overcome desire.

The language of the Meno and the Phaedo as well as of the Phaedrus seems to show that at one time of his life Plato was quite serious in maintaining a former state of existence. His mission was to realize the abstract; in that, all good and truth, all the hopes of this and another life seemed to centre. To him abstractions, as we call them, were another kind of knowledge—an inner and unseen world, which seemed to exist far more truly than the fleeting objects of sense which were without him. When we are once able to imagine the intense power which abstract ideas exercised over the mind of Plato, we see that there was no more difficulty to him in realizing the eternal existence of them and of the human minds which were associated with them, in the past and future than in the present. The difficulty was not how they could exist, but how they could fail to exist. In the attempt to regain this 'saving' knowledge of the ideas, the sense was found to be as great an enemy as the desires; and hence two things which to us seem quite distinct are inextricably blended in the representation of Plato.

The language of the Meno, the Phaedo, and the Phaedrus suggests that Plato once seriously believed in a previous existence. His mission was to make the abstract real. All goodness and truth, and all hopes for this life and another, seemed to center on that mission. What we call abstractions were, to him, another kind of knowledge. They formed an inner, unseen world that seemed far more real than the fleeting objects his senses perceived outside him. We must first imagine the intense power that abstract ideas had over Plato’s mind. Then we can see why he found their eternal existence no harder to grasp in the past or future than in the present. The same was true of the human minds associated with those ideas. The difficulty was not how these ideas and minds could exist, but how they could fail to exist. In trying to regain this 'saving' knowledge of the ideas, sensory perception proved as great an enemy as desire. So Plato’s account inseparably blends two things that seem quite distinct to us.

Thus far we may believe that Plato was serious in his conception of the soul as a motive power, in his reminiscence of a former state of being, in his elevation of the reason over sense and passion, and perhaps in his doctrine of transmigration. Was he equally serious in the rest? For example, are we to attribute his tripartite division of the soul to the gods? Or is this merely assigned to them by way of parallelism with men? The latter is the more probable; for the horses of the gods are both white, i.e. their every impulse is in harmony with reason; their dualism, on the other hand, only carries out the figure of the chariot. Is he serious, again, in regarding love as 'a madness'? That seems to arise out of the antithesis to the former conception of love. At the same time he appears to intimate here, as in the Ion, Apology, Meno, and elsewhere, that there is a faculty in man, whether to be termed in modern language genius, or inspiration, or imagination, or idealism, or communion with God, which cannot be reduced to rule and measure. Perhaps, too, he is ironically repeating the common language of mankind about philosophy, and is turning their jest into a sort of earnest. (Compare Phaedo, Symp.) Or is he serious in holding that each soul bears the character of a god? He may have had no other account to give of the differences of human characters to which he afterwards refers. Or, again, in his absurd derivation of mantike and oionistike and imeros (compare Cratylus)? It is characteristic of the irony of Socrates to mix up sense and nonsense in such a way that no exact line can be drawn between them. And allegory helps to increase this sort of confusion.

So far, we may believe that Plato was serious about the soul as a source of motion. He was also serious about its recollection of an earlier existence and his placing reason above sense and passion. Perhaps he was serious, too, about his doctrine of transmigration, the soul’s passage from one body to another. Was he equally serious about the rest? For example, are we to think that his division of the soul into three parts also applies to the gods? Or does he give the gods three-part souls simply to draw a parallel with humans? The latter is more likely, because both horses of the gods are white. In other words, every impulse of the gods agrees with reason. Having two horses, on the other hand, simply completes the image of the chariot. Again, is he serious in describing love as 'a madness'? That description seems to arise from the contrast with the earlier view of love. At the same time, he seems to suggest here that humans have a faculty beyond rules and measurement. He makes similar suggestions in the Ion, Apology, Meno, and elsewhere. In modern language, we might call this faculty genius, inspiration, imagination, idealism, or communion with God. Perhaps, too, he is ironically repeating what people commonly say about philosophy, turning their joke into something partly serious. (Compare Phaedo, Symp.) Or is he serious in claiming that each soul has the character of a god? He may have had no other explanation for the differences in human character that he later mentions. Or, again, is he serious in his absurd explanations of the origins of mantike and oionistike and imeros? (Compare Cratylus.) Socrates’ irony characteristically mixes sense and nonsense so closely that no clear line can be drawn between them. And allegory adds to this kind of confusion.

As is often the case in the parables and prophecies of Scripture, the meaning is allowed to break through the figure, and the details are not always consistent. When the charioteers and their steeds stand upon the dome of heaven they behold the intangible invisible essences which are not objects of sight. This is because the force of language can no further go. Nor can we dwell much on the circumstance, that at the completion of ten thousand years all are to return to the place from whence they came; because he represents their return as dependent on their own good conduct in the successive stages of existence. Nor again can we attribute anything to the accidental inference which would also follow, that even a tyrant may live righteously in the condition of life to which fate has called him ('he aiblins might, I dinna ken'). But to suppose this would be at variance with Plato himself and with Greek notions generally. He is much more serious in distinguishing men from animals by their recognition of the universal which they have known in a former state, and in denying that this gift of reason can ever be obliterated or lost. In the language of some modern theologians he might be said to maintain the 'final perseverance' of those who have entered on their pilgrim's progress. Other intimations of a 'metaphysic' or 'theology' of the future may also be discerned in him: (1) The moderate predestinarianism which here, as in the Republic, acknowledges the element of chance in human life, and yet asserts the freedom and responsibility of man; (2) The recognition of a moral as well as an intellectual principle in man under the image of an immortal steed; (3) The notion that the divine nature exists by the contemplation of ideas of virtue and justice—or, in other words, the assertion of the essentially moral nature of God; (4) Again, there is the hint that human life is a life of aspiration only, and that the true ideal is not to be found in art; (5) There occurs the first trace of the distinction between necessary and contingent matter; (6) The conception of the soul itself as the motive power and reason of the universe.

As often happens in the parables and prophecies of Scripture, the meaning breaks through the imagery. The details are not always consistent. When the charioteers and their horses stand on heaven’s dome, they see intangible, invisible essences that cannot be seen. This contradiction arises because language can go no further. Nor should we dwell on the claim that all will return to their original home after ten thousand years. For Plato makes their return depend on their good conduct through successive stages of existence. Nor should we attach significance to another unintended implication. Even a tyrant might live righteously in the way of life fate has assigned him ('perhaps he might, I don’t know'). But that possibility would conflict with Plato’s own views and with Greek ideas generally. Plato is much more serious when he distinguishes humans from animals by their recognition of universals known in a previous existence. He also denies that this gift of reason can ever be erased or lost. In the language of some modern theologians, he might be said to uphold the 'final perseverance' of those who have begun their pilgrim’s progress. Other hints of a future 'metaphysics' or 'theology' may also be found in his thought: (1) A moderate belief in predestination. Here, as in the Republic, this belief allows for chance in human life while affirming human freedom and responsibility. (2) The recognition of a moral principle, as well as an intellectual one, in humans, pictured as an immortal horse. (3) The idea that the divine nature exists through contemplating ideas of virtue and justice. In other words, God’s nature is essentially moral. (4) A further hint that human life is only a life of aspiration, and that the true ideal cannot be found in art. (5) The first trace of a distinction between necessary and contingent matter. (6) The idea of the soul itself as the moving power and reason of the universe.

The conception of the philosopher, or the philosopher and lover in one, as a sort of madman, may be compared with the Republic and Theaetetus, in both of which the philosopher is regarded as a stranger and monster upon the earth. The whole myth, like the other myths of Plato, describes in a figure things which are beyond the range of human faculties, or inaccessible to the knowledge of the age. That philosophy should be represented as the inspiration of love is a conception that has already become familiar to us in the Symposium, and is the expression partly of Plato's enthusiasm for the idea, and is also an indication of the real power exercised by the passion of friendship over the mind of the Greek. The master in the art of love knew that there was a mystery in these feelings and their associations, and especially in the contrast of the sensible and permanent which is afforded by them; and he sought to explain this, as he explained universal ideas, by a reference to a former state of existence. The capriciousness of love is also derived by him from an attachment to some god in a former world. The singular remark that the beloved is more affected than the lover at the final consummation of their love, seems likewise to hint at a psychological truth.

The philosopher, or the philosopher who is also a lover, is presented as a kind of madman. This view may be compared with the Republic and Theaetetus. Both works treat the philosopher as a stranger and a monster on earth. Like Plato's other myths, the whole myth uses imagery to describe things beyond human abilities or the knowledge of the age. The Symposium has already familiarized us with the idea that philosophy is inspired by love. This idea partly expresses Plato's enthusiasm for the ideal. It also points to the real power that passionate friendship held over the Greek mind. As a master in the art of love, Plato recognized a mystery in these feelings and their associations. He saw this mystery especially in the contrast they offer between what the senses perceive and what is permanent. He sought to explain this mystery, as he explained universal ideas, by referring to a previous existence. He also traces love's unpredictable nature to an attachment to some god in a former world. He makes the striking remark that the beloved is more deeply affected than the lover when their love is finally consummated. This remark likewise seems to hint at a psychological truth.

It is difficult to exhaust the meanings of a work like the Phaedrus, which indicates so much more than it expresses; and is full of inconsistencies and ambiguities which were not perceived by Plato himself. For example, when he is speaking of the soul does he mean the human or the divine soul? and are they both equally self-moving and constructed on the same threefold principle? We should certainly be disposed to reply that the self-motive is to be attributed to God only; and on the other hand that the appetitive and passionate elements have no place in His nature. So we should infer from the reason of the thing, but there is no indication in Plato's own writings that this was his meaning. Or, again, when he explains the different characters of men by referring them back to the nature of the God whom they served in a former state of existence, we are inclined to ask whether he is serious: Is he not rather using a mythological figure, here as elsewhere, to draw a veil over things which are beyond the limits of mortal knowledge? Once more, in speaking of beauty is he really thinking of some external form such as might have been expressed in the works of Phidias or Praxiteles; and not rather of an imaginary beauty, of a sort which extinguishes rather than stimulates vulgar love,—a heavenly beauty like that which flashed from time to time before the eyes of Dante or Bunyan? Surely the latter. But it would be idle to reconcile all the details of the passage: it is a picture, not a system, and a picture which is for the greater part an allegory, and an allegory which allows the meaning to come through. The image of the charioteer and his steeds is placed side by side with the absolute forms of justice, temperance, and the like, which are abstract ideas only, and which are seen with the eye of the soul in her heavenly journey. The first impression of such a passage, in which no attempt is made to separate the substance from the form, is far truer than an elaborate philosophical analysis.

It is difficult to uncover every meaning in a work like the Phaedrus. It suggests so much more than it says directly. It is also full of inconsistencies and ambiguities that Plato himself did not recognize. For example, when Plato speaks of the soul, does he mean the human soul or the divine soul? Are both equally capable of moving themselves, and do both have the same three-part structure? We would certainly be inclined to say that only God can move himself without an outside cause. On the other hand, we would say that appetite and passion have no place in his nature. We would reach these conclusions by reasoning about the subject. But nothing in Plato's own writings indicates that he meant this. Again, Plato explains people's different characters by referring to the God they served in a previous existence. We are inclined to ask whether he is serious. Is he not instead using a mythological image, here as elsewhere, to veil matters beyond human knowledge? Again, when he speaks of beauty, is he really thinking of some outward form? Such a form might have been represented in the works of Phidias or Praxiteles. Or is he thinking instead of an imagined beauty that extinguishes ordinary sexual desire rather than arousing it? Is this not a heavenly beauty, like the beauty that sometimes flashed before the eyes of Dante or Bunyan? Surely the latter. But trying to reconcile every detail of the passage would be pointless. It is a picture, not a system. For the most part, the picture is an allegory, and its meaning shows through. The image of the charioteer and his horses appears alongside the absolute forms of justice, temperance, and similar qualities. These forms are abstract ideas only, seen through the soul's eye on its heavenly journey. In such a passage, Plato makes no attempt to separate the substance from the form. Our first impression of the passage is far truer than an elaborate philosophical analysis.

It is too often forgotten that the whole of the second discourse of Socrates is only an allegory, or figure of speech. For this reason, it is unnecessary to enquire whether the love of which Plato speaks is the love of men or of women. It is really a general idea which includes both, and in which the sensual element, though not wholly eradicated, is reduced to order and measure. We must not attribute a meaning to every fanciful detail. Nor is there any need to call up revolting associations, which as a matter of good taste should be banished, and which were far enough away from the mind of Plato. These and similar passages should be interpreted by the Laws. Nor is there anything in the Symposium, or in the Charmides, in reality inconsistent with the sterner rule which Plato lays down in the Laws. At the same time it is not to be denied that love and philosophy are described by Socrates in figures of speech which would not be used in Christian times; or that nameless vices were prevalent at Athens and in other Greek cities; or that friendships between men were a more sacred tie, and had a more important social and educational influence than among ourselves. (See note on Symposium.)

People too often forget that Socrates’ entire second speech is only an allegory, or figure of speech. So there is no need to ask whether Plato means love for men or love for women. He is really describing a general idea that includes both. In this love, the sensual element is brought under control and kept within limits, though not entirely removed. We must not assign meaning to every fanciful detail. Nor should we bring to mind repulsive associations. Good taste requires us to put such associations aside, and they were far from Plato’s mind. These and similar passages should be understood in light of the Laws. Nor does anything in the Symposium or the Charmides actually conflict with Plato’s stricter rule in the Laws. At the same time, certain things cannot be denied. Socrates describes love and philosophy through figures of speech that would not be used in Christian times. Vices too shameful to name were widespread in Athens and other Greek cities. Friendships between men were also a more sacred bond than they are in our society. They played a greater role in society and education as well. (See note on Symposium.)

In the Phaedrus, as well as in the Symposium, there are two kinds of love, a lower and a higher, the one answering to the natural wants of the animal, the other rising above them and contemplating with religious awe the forms of justice, temperance, holiness, yet finding them also 'too dazzling bright for mortal eye,' and shrinking from them in amazement. The opposition between these two kinds of love may be compared to the opposition between the flesh and the spirit in the Epistles of St. Paul. It would be unmeaning to suppose that Plato, in describing the spiritual combat, in which the rational soul is finally victor and master of both the steeds, condescends to allow any indulgence of unnatural lusts.

In the Phaedrus, as in the Symposium, there are two kinds of love, a lower and a higher. The lower kind meets our natural animal needs. The higher kind rises above those needs and contemplates the forms of justice, temperance, and holiness with religious awe. Yet the higher love also finds these forms 'too dazzling bright for mortal eye,' and recoils from them in amazement. The contrast between these loves may be compared to the contrast between flesh and spirit in St. Paul's Epistles. Plato describes a spiritual struggle in which the rational soul finally wins and becomes master of both horses. It would make no sense to suppose that, in describing this struggle, Plato stoops to permitting any indulgence in unnatural lusts.

Two other thoughts about love are suggested by this passage. First of all, love is represented here, as in the Symposium, as one of the great powers of nature, which takes many forms and two principal ones, having a predominant influence over the lives of men. And these two, though opposed, are not absolutely separated the one from the other. Plato, with his great knowledge of human nature, was well aware how easily one is transformed into the other, or how soon the noble but fleeting aspiration may return into the nature of the animal, while the lower instinct which is latent always remains. The intermediate sentimentalism, which has exercised so great an influence on the literature of modern Europe, had no place in the classical times of Hellas; the higher love, of which Plato speaks, is the subject, not of poetry or fiction, but of philosophy.

This passage suggests two other thoughts about love. First, love appears here, as in the Symposium, as one of the great powers of nature. Love takes many forms, with two main ones, and has a dominant influence on human lives. Although these two forms oppose each other, they are not completely separate. Plato understood human nature deeply and knew how easily one form turns into the other. He knew how quickly a noble but brief aspiration may fall back into animal desire. Meanwhile, the lower instinct always remains beneath the surface. The sentimentalism between these two forms has had a great influence on modern European literature. But such sentimentalism had no place in classical Hellas. The higher love Plato describes belongs to philosophy, not poetry or fiction.

Secondly, there seems to be indicated a natural yearning of the human mind that the great ideas of justice, temperance, wisdom, should be expressed in some form of visible beauty, like the absolute purity and goodness which Christian art has sought to realize in the person of the Madonna. But although human nature has often attempted to represent outwardly what can be only 'spiritually discerned,' men feel that in pictures and images, whether painted or carved, or described in words only, we have not the substance but the shadow of the truth which is in heaven. There is no reason to suppose that in the fairest works of Greek art, Plato ever conceived himself to behold an image, however faint, of ideal truths. 'Not in that way was wisdom seen.'

Secondly, the passage seems to suggest a natural longing in the human mind. We want the great ideas of justice, temperance, and wisdom to take some visibly beautiful form. Similarly, Christian art has sought to express absolute purity and goodness in the person of the Madonna. But human beings have often tried to give outward form to what can only be 'spiritually discerned.' Even so, people feel that pictures and images give us only a shadow, not the substance, of heavenly truth. This is true whether the images are painted, carved, or described only in words. There is no reason to suppose that Plato ever saw even a faint image of ideal truths in Greek art. This holds even for its most beautiful works. 'Wisdom was not seen in that way.'

We may now pass on to the second part of the Dialogue, which is a criticism on the first. Rhetoric is assailed on various grounds: first, as desiring to persuade, without a knowledge of the truth; and secondly, as ignoring the distinction between certain and probable matter. The three speeches are then passed in review: the first of them has no definition of the nature of love, and no order in the topics (being in these respects far inferior to the second); while the third of them is found (though a fancy of the hour) to be framed upon real dialectical principles. But dialectic is not rhetoric; nothing on that subject is to be found in the endless treatises of rhetoric, however prolific in hard names. When Plato has sufficiently put them to the test of ridicule he touches, as with the point of a needle, the real error, which is the confusion of preliminary knowledge with creative power. No attainments will provide the speaker with genius; and the sort of attainments which can alone be of any value are the higher philosophy and the power of psychological analysis, which is given by dialectic, but not by the rules of the rhetoricians.

We can now turn to the second part of the Dialogue, which criticizes the first. Rhetoric is attacked on several grounds. First, it aims to persuade without knowing the truth. Second, it ignores the difference between what is certain and what is probable. The three speeches are then reviewed. The first neither defines the nature of love nor presents its topics in any order. In both respects, it is far inferior to the second. The third, though an invention of the moment, is found to follow genuine principles of dialectic. But dialectic is not rhetoric. Nothing about dialectic appears in the endless textbooks on rhetoric, however full they are of difficult technical terms. After thoroughly ridiculing these textbooks, Plato pinpoints the real error with the precision of a needle. The error is confusing preliminary knowledge with creative power. No amount of learning will give a speaker genius. The only learning that can have any value is higher philosophy and the ability to analyze the mind. Dialectic provides that ability, but the rules taught by rhetoricians do not.

In this latter portion of the Dialogue there are many texts which may help us to speak and to think. The names dialectic and rhetoric are passing out of use; we hardly examine seriously into their nature and limits, and probably the arts both of speaking and of conversation have been unduly neglected by us. But the mind of Socrates pierces through the differences of times and countries into the essential nature of man; and his words apply equally to the modern world and to the Athenians of old. Would he not have asked of us, or rather is he not asking of us, Whether we have ceased to prefer appearances to reality? Let us take a survey of the professions to which he refers and try them by his standard. Is not all literature passing into criticism, just as Athenian literature in the age of Plato was degenerating into sophistry and rhetoric? We can discourse and write about poems and paintings, but we seem to have lost the gift of creating them. Can we wonder that few of them 'come sweetly from nature,' while ten thousand reviewers (mala murioi) are engaged in dissecting them? Young men, like Phaedrus, are enamoured of their own literary clique and have but a feeble sympathy with the master-minds of former ages. They recognize 'a POETICAL necessity in the writings of their favourite author, even when he boldly wrote off just what came in his head.' They are beginning to think that Art is enough, just at the time when Art is about to disappear from the world. And would not a great painter, such as Michael Angelo, or a great poet, such as Shakespeare, returning to earth, 'courteously rebuke' us—would he not say that we are putting 'in the place of Art the preliminaries of Art,' confusing Art the expression of mind and truth with Art the composition of colours and forms; and perhaps he might more severely chastise some of us for trying to invent 'a new shudder' instead of bringing to the birth living and healthy creations? These he would regard as the signs of an age wanting in original power.

This later part of the Dialogue contains many passages that may help us speak and think. The terms dialectic and rhetoric are falling out of use. We hardly give serious thought to their nature and limits. We have probably paid too little attention to the arts of public speaking and conversation. But Socrates’ mind reaches beyond differences of time and place to grasp essential human nature. His words apply equally to the modern world and the ancient Athenians. Would he not have asked us whether we have stopped preferring appearances to reality? Or rather, is he not asking us now? Let us survey the professions he mentions and judge them by his standard. Is not all literature turning into criticism? This resembles the decline of Athenian literature into sophistry and rhetoric in Plato’s time. We can talk and write about poems and paintings, but we seem to have lost the gift of creating them. Can we wonder that few poems and paintings 'come sweetly from nature,' while ten thousand reviewers (mala murioi) dissect them? Young men, like Phaedrus, are in love with their own literary circle. They have little appreciation for the great minds of earlier ages. They see 'a POETICAL necessity in the writings of their favourite author, even when he boldly wrote off just what came in his head.' They are beginning to think Art is enough, just when Art is about to disappear from the world. And would not a great painter, such as Michael Angelo, or a great poet, such as Shakespeare, return to 'courteously rebuke' us? Would he not say we are putting 'in the place of Art the preliminaries of Art'? We confuse Art as the expression of mind and truth with Art as the arrangement of colours and forms. Perhaps he might rebuke some of us more severely for trying to invent 'a new shudder'. We pursue that instead of bringing living, healthy creations into being. He would see these as signs of an age lacking original creative power.

Turning from literature and the arts to law and politics, again we fall under the lash of Socrates. For do we not often make 'the worse appear the better cause;' and do not 'both parties sometimes agree to tell lies'? Is not pleading 'an art of speaking unconnected with the truth'? There is another text of Socrates which must not be forgotten in relation to this subject. In the endless maze of English law is there any 'dividing the whole into parts or reuniting the parts into a whole'—any semblance of an organized being 'having hands and feet and other members'? Instead of a system there is the Chaos of Anaxagoras (omou panta chremata) and no Mind or Order. Then again in the noble art of politics, who thinks of first principles and of true ideas? We avowedly follow not the truth but the will of the many (compare Republic). Is not legislation too a sort of literary effort, and might not statesmanship be described as the 'art of enchanting' the house? While there are some politicians who have no knowledge of the truth, but only of what is likely to be approved by 'the many who sit in judgment,' there are others who can give no form to their ideal, neither having learned 'the art of persuasion,' nor having any insight into the 'characters of men.' Once more, has not medical science become a professional routine, which many 'practise without being able to say who were their instructors'—the application of a few drugs taken from a book instead of a life-long study of the natures and constitutions of human beings? Do we see as clearly as Hippocrates 'that the nature of the body can only be understood as a whole'? (Compare Charm.) And are not they held to be the wisest physicians who have the greatest distrust of their art? What would Socrates think of our newspapers, of our theology? Perhaps he would be afraid to speak of them;—the one vox populi, the other vox Dei, he might hesitate to attack them; or he might trace a fanciful connexion between them, and ask doubtfully, whether they are not equally inspired? He would remark that we are always searching for a belief and deploring our unbelief, seeming to prefer popular opinions unverified and contradictory to unpopular truths which are assured to us by the most certain proofs: that our preachers are in the habit of praising God 'without regard to truth and falsehood, attributing to Him every species of greatness and glory, saying that He is all this and the cause of all that, in order that we may exhibit Him as the fairest and best of all' (Symp.) without any consideration of His real nature and character or of the laws by which He governs the world—seeking for a 'private judgment' and not for the truth or 'God's judgment.' What would he say of the Church, which we praise in like manner, 'meaning ourselves,' without regard to history or experience? Might he not ask, whether we 'care more for the truth of religion, or for the speaker and the country from which the truth comes'? or, whether the 'select wise' are not 'the many' after all? (Symp.) So we may fill up the sketch of Socrates, lest, as Phaedrus says, the argument should be too 'abstract and barren of illustrations.' (Compare Symp., Apol., Euthyphro.)

When we turn from literature and the arts to law and politics, we again face Socrates' criticism. Don't we often make 'the worse case seem the better one'? And don't 'both sides sometimes agree to tell lies'? Isn't arguing a legal case 'an art of speaking with no connection to the truth'? Another passage from Socrates must not be forgotten here. In the endless maze of English law, is there any 'division of the whole into parts or reunion of the parts into a whole'? Is there any resemblance to an organized living being 'with hands and feet and other limbs'? Instead of a system, we have the Chaos of Anaxagoras (omou panta chremata), with no Mind or Order. Then again, in the noble art of politics, who thinks about first principles and true ideas? We openly follow not the truth but the will of the many (compare Republic). Isn't legislation also a kind of literary work? And couldn't statesmanship be called the 'art of enchanting' the house? Some politicians know nothing of the truth, but only what will probably please 'the many who sit in judgment.' Others cannot give shape to their ideal. They have neither learned 'the art of persuasion' nor gained any insight into the 'characters of people.' Again, hasn't medical science become a professional routine that many 'practice without being able to name their teachers'? Doesn't medicine now mean applying a few drugs found in a book, instead of studying human natures and constitutions throughout life? Do we see as clearly as Hippocrates 'that the body's nature can only be understood as a whole'? (Compare Charm.) And aren't the physicians considered wisest those who most distrust their own art? What would Socrates think of our newspapers and our theology? Perhaps he would be afraid to speak about them. Newspapers are vox populi, the voice of the people. Theology is vox Dei, the voice of God. He might hesitate to attack either. Or he might imagine a fanciful connection between them and ask skeptically whether both are equally inspired. He would observe that we are always searching for belief and lamenting our unbelief. We seem to prefer unverified, contradictory popular opinions to unpopular truths established by the most certain proofs. He would observe that our preachers habitually praise God 'without regard for truth or falsehood. They credit him with every kind of greatness and glory. They say he is all this and the cause of all that, to present him as the fairest and best of all' (Symp.). Yet they give no thought to his real nature and character, or to the laws by which he governs the world. They seek a 'personal judgment,' not the truth or 'God's judgment.' What would he say about the Church, which we praise in the same way, 'meaning ourselves,' regardless of history or experience? Might he not ask whether we 'care more about religious truth, or about the speaker and the country the truth comes from'? Or whether the 'chosen wise' are not 'the many' after all? (Symp.) In this way, we may fill out the sketch of Socrates. Otherwise, as Phaedrus says, the argument might be too 'abstract and lacking in examples.' (Compare Symp., Apol., Euthyphro.)

He next proceeds with enthusiasm to define the royal art of dialectic as the power of dividing a whole into parts, and of uniting the parts in a whole, and which may also be regarded (compare Soph.) as the process of the mind talking with herself. The latter view has probably led Plato to the paradox that speech is superior to writing, in which he may seem also to be doing an injustice to himself. For the two cannot be fairly compared in the manner which Plato suggests. The contrast of the living and dead word, and the example of Socrates, which he has represented in the form of the Dialogue, seem to have misled him. For speech and writing have really different functions; the one is more transitory, more diffuse, more elastic and capable of adaptation to moods and times; the other is more permanent, more concentrated, and is uttered not to this or that person or audience, but to all the world. In the Politicus the paradox is carried further; the mind or will of the king is preferred to the written law; he is supposed to be the Law personified, the ideal made Life.

He next enthusiastically defines the royal art of dialectic as the ability to divide a whole into parts. It also involves bringing the parts together into a whole. Dialectic can also be seen as the mind talking to itself (compare Soph.). This second view probably led Plato to the paradox that speech is superior to writing. In making this claim, he may also seem to undervalue his own work. For speech and writing cannot be fairly compared in the way Plato suggests. The contrast between the living and the dead word seems to have misled him. So does the example of Socrates, whom he has portrayed through the Dialogue. For speech and writing actually serve different purposes. Speech is more fleeting, more expansive, more flexible, and better able to adapt to moods and circumstances. Writing is more lasting and more concentrated. It addresses not a particular person or audience, but the whole world. In the Politicus, the paradox goes further. The king’s mind or will is preferred to written law. The king is imagined as the Law in person, the ideal brought to Life.

Yet in both these statements there is also contained a truth; they may be compared with one another, and also with the other famous paradox, that 'knowledge cannot be taught.' Socrates means to say, that what is truly written is written in the soul, just as what is truly taught grows up in the soul from within and is not forced upon it from without. When planted in a congenial soil the little seed becomes a tree, and 'the birds of the air build their nests in the branches.' There is an echo of this in the prayer at the end of the Dialogue, 'Give me beauty in the inward soul, and may the inward and outward man be at one.' We may further compare the words of St. Paul, 'Written not on tables of stone, but on fleshly tables of the heart;' and again, 'Ye are my epistles known and read of all men.' There may be a use in writing as a preservative against the forgetfulness of old age, but to live is higher far, to be ourselves the book, or the epistle, the truth embodied in a person, the Word made flesh. Something like this we may believe to have passed before Plato's mind when he affirmed that speech was superior to writing. So in other ages, weary of literature and criticism, of making many books, of writing articles in reviews, some have desired to live more closely in communion with their fellow-men, to speak heart to heart, to speak and act only, and not to write, following the example of Socrates and of Christ...

Yet both these statements also contain a truth. They may be compared with each other and with the other famous paradox, that 'knowledge cannot be taught.' Socrates means that what is truly written is written in the soul. In the same way, true learning grows from within the soul and is not forced on it from outside. When planted in suitable soil, the little seed becomes a tree, and 'the birds of the air build their nests in the branches.' The prayer at the end of the Dialogue echoes this idea: 'Give me beauty within my soul, and may my inner and outer selves be in harmony.' We may also compare the words of St. Paul: 'Written not on stone tablets, but on the living tablets of the heart.' And again, 'You are my letters, known and read by everyone.' Writing may be useful as protection against forgetfulness in old age. But living is far greater: being ourselves the book or letter, truth embodied in a person, the Word made flesh. We may believe that something like this was in Plato's mind when he declared speech superior to writing. In other ages, too, some have grown tired of literature and criticism, producing many books, and writing articles for reviews. They have wanted to live in closer fellowship with others and speak heart to heart. They have wanted only to speak and act, not to write, following the example of Socrates and of Christ...

Some other touches of inimitable grace and art and of the deepest wisdom may be also noted; such as the prayer or 'collect' which has just been cited, 'Give me beauty,' etc.; or 'the great name which belongs to God alone;' or 'the saying of wiser men than ourselves that a man of sense should try to please not his fellow-servants, but his good and noble masters,' like St. Paul again; or the description of the 'heavenly originals'...

Some other touches of unmatched grace, artistry, and profound wisdom may also be noted. One example is the prayer or 'collect' just quoted, 'Give me beauty,' etc. Another is 'the great name that belongs to God alone.' Then there is 'the saying of men wiser than ourselves that a sensible man should try to please his good and noble masters, not his fellow servants.' Here again, the thought resembles St. Paul’s. Another example is the description of the 'heavenly originals'...

The chief criteria for determining the date of the Dialogue are (1) the ages of Lysias and Isocrates; (2) the character of the work.

The main clues for dating the Dialogue are (1) the ages of Lysias and Isocrates, (2) the work’s character.

Lysias was born in the year 458; Isocrates in the year 436, about seven years before the birth of Plato. The first of the two great rhetoricians is described as in the zenith of his fame; the second is still young and full of promise. Now it is argued that this must have been written in the youth of Isocrates, when the promise was not yet fulfilled. And thus we should have to assign the Dialogue to a year not later than 406, when Isocrates was thirty and Plato twenty-three years of age, and while Socrates himself was still alive.

Lysias was born in 458, and Isocrates in 436, about seven years before Plato. Lysias, the first of these two great rhetoricians, is described as being at the height of his fame. Isocrates is still young and full of promise. Some argue, therefore, that the dialogue must have been written while Isocrates was young, before his promise was fulfilled. On this reasoning, we would have to date the dialogue no later than 406. Isocrates was then thirty, Plato was twenty-three, and Socrates himself was still alive.

Those who argue in this way seem not to reflect how easily Plato can 'invent Egyptians or anything else,' and how careless he is of historical truth or probability. Who would suspect that the wise Critias, the virtuous Charmides, had ended their lives among the thirty tyrants? Who would imagine that Lysias, who is here assailed by Socrates, is the son of his old friend Cephalus? Or that Isocrates himself is the enemy of Plato and his school? No arguments can be drawn from the appropriateness or inappropriateness of the characters of Plato. (Else, perhaps, it might be further argued that, judging from their extant remains, insipid rhetoric is far more characteristic of Isocrates than of Lysias.) But Plato makes use of names which have often hardly any connection with the historical characters to whom they belong. In this instance the comparative favour shown to Isocrates may possibly be accounted for by the circumstance of his belonging to the aristocratical, as Lysias to the democratical party.

Those who argue this way seem to forget how easily Plato can 'invent Egyptians or anything else.' They also seem to forget how little he cares about historical truth or plausibility. Who would suspect that the wise Critias and the virtuous Charmides ended their lives among the thirty tyrants? Who would imagine that Lysias, whom Socrates attacks here, is the son of Socrates’ old friend Cephalus? Or that Isocrates himself is an enemy of Plato and his school? No argument can rest on whether Plato’s portrayals fit the historical figures. (Otherwise, perhaps, one could make a further argument based on the surviving writings of Isocrates and Lysias. Judging by those writings, bland rhetoric is far more characteristic of Isocrates than of Lysias.) But Plato uses names that often have hardly any connection with the historical figures who bore them. In this case, his more favorable treatment of Isocrates may possibly reflect their political affiliations. Isocrates belonged to the aristocratic party, while Lysias belonged to the democratic party.

Few persons will be inclined to suppose, in the superficial manner of some ancient critics, that a dialogue which treats of love must necessarily have been written in youth. As little weight can be attached to the argument that Plato must have visited Egypt before he wrote the story of Theuth and Thamus. For there is no real proof that he ever went to Egypt; and even if he did, he might have known or invented Egyptian traditions before he went there. The late date of the Phaedrus will have to be established by other arguments than these: the maturity of the thought, the perfection of the style, the insight, the relation to the other Platonic Dialogues, seem to contradict the notion that it could have been the work of a youth of twenty or twenty-three years of age. The cosmological notion of the mind as the primum mobile, and the admission of impulse into the immortal nature, also afford grounds for assigning a later date. (Compare Tim., Soph., Laws.) Add to this that the picture of Socrates, though in some lesser particulars,—e.g. his going without sandals, his habit of remaining within the walls, his emphatic declaration that his study is human nature,—an exact resemblance, is in the main the Platonic and not the real Socrates. Can we suppose 'the young man to have told such lies' about his master while he was still alive? Moreover, when two Dialogues are so closely connected as the Phaedrus and Symposium, there is great improbability in supposing that one of them was written at least twenty years after the other. The conclusion seems to be, that the Dialogue was written at some comparatively late but unknown period of Plato's life, after he had deserted the purely Socratic point of view, but before he had entered on the more abstract speculations of the Sophist or the Philebus. Taking into account the divisions of the soul, the doctrine of transmigration, the contemplative nature of the philosophic life, and the character of the style, we shall not be far wrong in placing the Phaedrus in the neighbourhood of the Republic; remarking only that allowance must be made for the poetical element in the Phaedrus, which, while falling short of the Republic in definite philosophic results, seems to have glimpses of a truth beyond.

Few people will share the shallow assumption of some ancient critics that a dialogue about love must be a youthful work. Equally weak is the argument that Plato must have visited Egypt before writing the story of Theuth and Thamus. There is no real proof that he ever went to Egypt. Even if he did, he might have known or invented Egyptian traditions before going there. A late date for the Phaedrus must rest on other arguments. Its mature thought, polished style, insight, and relationship to Plato's other Dialogues seem inconsistent with such an early date. These qualities suggest that the author could not have been only twenty or twenty-three. The cosmological idea of mind as the primum mobile, or first mover, also supports a later date. So does the inclusion of impulse in the immortal nature. (Compare Tim., Soph., Laws.) The portrait of Socrates provides another reason. In some minor details, the likeness is exact. These include his going barefoot, his habit of staying within the city walls, and his insistence on studying human nature. But overall, the portrait presents Plato's Socrates rather than the historical Socrates. Can we suppose 'the young man to have told such lies' about his teacher while Socrates was still alive? Moreover, the Phaedrus and Symposium are so closely connected that a gap of at least twenty years seems highly unlikely. The conclusion seems to be that Plato wrote the Dialogue at a relatively late but unknown point in his life. He had abandoned the purely Socratic viewpoint. But he had not yet begun the more abstract inquiries of the Sophist or the Philebus. Several features suggest that we would not be far wrong to date the Phaedrus close to the Republic. These include the divisions of the soul, the doctrine of transmigration, the contemplative philosophical life, and the style. We must, however, allow for the poetic element in the Phaedrus. Although the Phaedrus falls short of the Republic in definite philosophical conclusions, it seems to glimpse a truth beyond them.

Two short passages, which are unconnected with the main subject of the Dialogue, may seem to merit a more particular notice: (1) the locus classicus about mythology; (2) the tale of the grasshoppers.

Two short passages are unrelated to the Dialogue’s main subject. They may deserve closer attention: (1) the classic passage about mythology, (2) the tale of the grasshoppers.

The first passage is remarkable as showing that Plato was entirely free from what may be termed the Euhemerism of his age. For there were Euhemerists in Hellas long before Euhemerus. Early philosophers, like Anaxagoras and Metrodorus, had found in Homer and mythology hidden meanings. Plato, with a truer instinct, rejects these attractive interpretations; he regards the inventor of them as 'unfortunate;' and they draw a man off from the knowledge of himself. There is a latent criticism, and also a poetical sense in Plato, which enable him to discard them, and yet in another way to make use of poetry and mythology as a vehicle of thought and feeling. What would he have said of the discovery of Christian doctrines in these old Greek legends? While acknowledging that such interpretations are 'very nice,' would he not have remarked that they are found in all sacred literatures? They cannot be tested by any criterion of truth, or used to establish any truth; they add nothing to the sum of human knowledge; they are—what we please, and if employed as 'peacemakers' between the new and old are liable to serious misconstruction, as he elsewhere remarks (Republic). And therefore he would have 'bid Farewell to them; the study of them would take up too much of his time; and he has not as yet learned the true nature of religion.' The 'sophistical' interest of Phaedrus, the little touch about the two versions of the story, the ironical manner in which these explanations are set aside—'the common opinion about them is enough for me'—the allusion to the serpent Typho may be noted in passing; also the general agreement between the tone of this speech and the remark of Socrates which follows afterwards, 'I am a diviner, but a poor one.'

The first passage is striking because it shows that Plato was entirely free from what may be called his age’s Euhemerism. For there were Euhemerists in Hellas long before Euhemerus. Early philosophers, like Anaxagoras and Metrodorus, had found hidden meanings in Homer and mythology. Plato, with a sounder instinct, rejects these appealing interpretations. He calls anyone who invents them 'unfortunate,' and these interpretations distract people from knowing themselves. Plato has an underlying critical awareness and a poetic sensibility that allow him to reject such interpretations. Yet these qualities also allow him to use poetry and mythology differently, to express thought and feeling. What would he have said about finding Christian doctrines in these old Greek legends? While acknowledging that such interpretations are 'very nice,' would he not have noted that they appear in all sacred literatures? No standard of truth can test these interpretations, nor can they establish any truth. They add nothing to human knowledge. They are whatever we want them to be. If used as 'peacemakers' between the new and the old, they can lead to serious misunderstandings, as he notes elsewhere (Republic). And so he would have 'said farewell to them. Studying them would take too much of his time. And he has not yet learned the true nature of religion.' Several details are worth noting in passing. There is Phaedrus’s 'sophistical' interest and the small detail about the story’s two versions. There is also the irony with which these explanations are dismissed: 'the common opinion about them is enough for me.' The reference to the serpent Typho is also worth noting. So is the general similarity in tone between this speech and Socrates’ later remark: 'I am a diviner, but a poor one.'

The tale of the grasshoppers is naturally suggested by the surrounding scene. They are also the representatives of the Athenians as children of the soil. Under the image of the lively chirruping grasshoppers who inform the Muses in heaven about those who honour them on earth, Plato intends to represent an Athenian audience (tettigessin eoikotes). The story is introduced, apparently, to mark a change of subject, and also, like several other allusions which occur in the course of the Dialogue, in order to preserve the scene in the recollection of the reader.

The surrounding scene naturally suggests the tale of the grasshoppers. The grasshoppers also represent the Athenians as children of the soil. The lively, chirping grasshoppers tell the Muses in heaven about those who honour the Muses on earth. Through this image, Plato means to represent an Athenian audience (tettigessin eoikotes). The story apparently marks a change of subject. It also helps keep the scene in the reader’s mind, like several other references throughout the Dialogue.

No one can duly appreciate the dialogues of Plato, especially the Phaedrus, Symposium, and portions of the Republic, who has not a sympathy with mysticism. To the uninitiated, as he would himself have acknowledged, they will appear to be the dreams of a poet who is disguised as a philosopher. There is a twofold difficulty in apprehending this aspect of the Platonic writings. First, we do not immediately realize that under the marble exterior of Greek literature was concealed a soul thrilling with spiritual emotion. Secondly, the forms or figures which the Platonic philosophy assumes, are not like the images of the prophet Isaiah, or of the Apocalypse, familiar to us in the days of our youth. By mysticism we mean, not the extravagance of an erring fancy, but the concentration of reason in feeling, the enthusiastic love of the good, the true, the one, the sense of the infinity of knowledge and of the marvel of the human faculties. When feeding upon such thoughts the 'wing of the soul' is renewed and gains strength; she is raised above 'the manikins of earth' and their opinions, waiting in wonder to know, and working with reverence to find out what God in this or in another life may reveal to her.

No one can fully appreciate Plato’s dialogues without some sympathy for mysticism. This is especially true of the Phaedrus, Symposium, and parts of the Republic. To those unfamiliar with mysticism, these works will seem like a poet’s dreams disguised as philosophy. Plato himself would have acknowledged this. There are two difficulties in understanding this side of Plato’s writings. First, we do not immediately see the soul alive with spiritual feeling beneath the marble surface of Greek literature. Second, the images Plato’s philosophy takes are unlike those of the prophet Isaiah or the Apocalypse. Those biblical images have been familiar to us since childhood. By mysticism, we do not mean the excesses of a misguided imagination. We mean reason concentrated in feeling, and a passionate love of the good, the true, and the one. We also mean a sense of knowledge’s infinity and of the wonder of human abilities. When the soul feeds on such thoughts, the 'wing of the soul' is renewed and grows stronger. She rises above 'the manikins of earth' and their opinions. She waits in wonder to know what God may reveal to her in this life or another. And she works with reverence to discover what he may reveal.

ON THE DECLINE OF GREEK LITERATURE.

THE DECLINE OF GREEK LITERATURE.

One of the main purposes of Plato in the Phaedrus is to satirize Rhetoric, or rather the Professors of Rhetoric who swarmed at Athens in the fourth century before Christ. As in the opening of the Dialogue he ridicules the interpreters of mythology; as in the Protagoras he mocks at the Sophists; as in the Euthydemus he makes fun of the word-splitting Eristics; as in the Cratylus he ridicules the fancies of Etymologers; as in the Meno and Gorgias and some other dialogues he makes reflections and casts sly imputation upon the higher classes at Athens; so in the Phaedrus, chiefly in the latter part, he aims his shafts at the rhetoricians. The profession of rhetoric was the greatest and most popular in Athens, necessary 'to a man's salvation,' or at any rate to his attainment of wealth or power; but Plato finds nothing wholesome or genuine in the purpose of it. It is a veritable 'sham,' having no relation to fact, or to truth of any kind. It is antipathetic to him not only as a philosopher, but also as a great writer. He cannot abide the tricks of the rhetoricians, or the pedantries and mannerisms which they introduce into speech and writing. He sees clearly how far removed they are from the ways of simplicity and truth, and how ignorant of the very elements of the art which they are professing to teach. The thing which is most necessary of all, the knowledge of human nature, is hardly if at all considered by them. The true rules of composition, which are very few, are not to be found in their voluminous systems. Their pretentiousness, their omniscience, their large fortunes, their impatience of argument, their indifference to first principles, their stupidity, their progresses through Hellas accompanied by a troop of their disciples—these things were very distasteful to Plato, who esteemed genius far above art, and was quite sensible of the interval which separated them (Phaedrus). It is the interval which separates Sophists and rhetoricians from ancient famous men and women such as Homer and Hesiod, Anacreon and Sappho, Aeschylus and Sophocles; and the Platonic Socrates is afraid that, if he approves the former, he will be disowned by the latter. The spirit of rhetoric was soon to overspread all Hellas; and Plato with prophetic insight may have seen, from afar, the great literary waste or dead level, or interminable marsh, in which Greek literature was soon to disappear. A similar vision of the decline of the Greek drama and of the contrast of the old literature and the new was present to the mind of Aristophanes after the death of the three great tragedians (Frogs). After about a hundred, or at most two hundred years if we exclude Homer, the genius of Hellas had ceased to flower or blossom. The dreary waste which follows, beginning with the Alexandrian writers and even before them in the platitudes of Isocrates and his school, spreads over much more than a thousand years. And from this decline the Greek language and literature, unlike the Latin, which has come to life in new forms and been developed into the great European languages, never recovered.

One of Plato’s main aims in the Phaedrus is to satirize Rhetoric. More precisely, he targets the teachers of Rhetoric who swarmed through Athens in the fourth century before Christ. At the Dialogue’s opening, he ridicules those who interpret mythology. In the Protagoras, he mocks the Sophists. In the Euthydemus, he makes fun of the Eristics, who split hairs over words. In the Cratylus, he ridicules the fanciful ideas of Etymologers. In the Meno, Gorgias, and some other dialogues, he criticizes Athens’s upper classes and slyly casts doubt on their character. So in the Phaedrus, especially its later sections, he directs his attacks at the rhetoricians. Rhetoric was the greatest and most popular profession in Athens. It was necessary 'to a man's salvation,' or at least to gaining wealth or power. But Plato finds nothing healthy or genuine in its purpose. Rhetoric is a complete 'sham,' unrelated to facts or truth of any kind. He dislikes it not only as a philosopher, but also as a great writer. He cannot stand the rhetoricians’ tricks or the pedantry and mannerisms they bring into speech and writing. He clearly sees how far they stray from simplicity and truth. He also sees their ignorance of even the basics of the art they claim to teach. They hardly consider, if they consider at all, the most essential thing: knowledge of human nature. Their lengthy systems contain none of the true rules of composition, which are very few. Plato found much about the rhetoricians deeply distasteful: their pretensions, their claims to know everything, and their great fortunes. He disliked their impatience with argument, their indifference to basic principles, and their stupidity. He also disliked their grand tours through Hellas, accompanied by a troop of disciples. Plato valued genius far above technical skill and fully understood the gap between them (Phaedrus). This gap separates Sophists and rhetoricians from celebrated ancient men and women: Homer and Hesiod, Anacreon and Sappho, Aeschylus and Sophocles. Plato’s Socrates fears that these great writers will disown him if he approves of the Sophists and rhetoricians. The spirit of rhetoric would soon spread throughout Hellas. With prophetic insight, Plato may have foreseen the vast literary wasteland where Greek literature would soon disappear. He may have glimpsed that flat, lifeless expanse, that endless marsh, from afar. Aristophanes had a similar vision after the deaths of the three great tragic playwrights (Frogs). He saw Greek drama’s decline and the contrast between the old literature and the new. After about a hundred years, or at most two hundred if we exclude Homer, the genius of Hellas stopped flowering. The dreary wasteland that follows stretches across far more than a thousand years. It begins with the Alexandrian writers, and even earlier with the platitudes of Isocrates and his school. Greek language and literature never recovered from this decline. Latin, by contrast, came to life in new forms and developed into the great European languages.

This monotony of literature, without merit, without genius and without character, is a phenomenon which deserves more attention than it has hitherto received; it is a phenomenon unique in the literary history of the world. How could there have been so much cultivation, so much diligence in writing, and so little mind or real creative power? Why did a thousand years invent nothing better than Sibylline books, Orphic poems, Byzantine imitations of classical histories, Christian reproductions of Greek plays, novels like the silly and obscene romances of Longus and Heliodorus, innumerable forged epistles, a great many epigrams, biographies of the meanest and most meagre description, a sham philosophy which was the bastard progeny of the union between Hellas and the East? Only in Plutarch, in Lucian, in Longinus, in the Roman emperors Marcus Aurelius and Julian, in some of the Christian fathers are there any traces of good sense or originality, or any power of arousing the interest of later ages. And when new books ceased to be written, why did hosts of grammarians and interpreters flock in, who never attain to any sound notion either of grammar or interpretation? Why did the physical sciences never arrive at any true knowledge or make any real progress? Why did poetry droop and languish? Why did history degenerate into fable? Why did words lose their power of expression? Why were ages of external greatness and magnificence attended by all the signs of decay in the human mind which are possible?

This monotonous literature, with no merit, genius, or character, deserves more attention than it has received. Nothing like it has appeared elsewhere in the world’s literary history. How could there have been so much learning and such dedication to writing, yet so little intelligence or real creativity? Why did a thousand years produce nothing better than Sibylline books, Orphic poems, and Byzantine imitations of classical histories? Why only Christian adaptations of Greek plays, novels like the silly and obscene romances of Longus and Heliodorus, countless forged letters, and many epigrams? Why only biographies of the poorest and thinnest kind, and a fake philosophy, the illegitimate offspring of Hellas and the East? Only a few writers show any traces of good sense or originality, or any ability to interest later ages. These are Plutarch, Lucian, Longinus, the Roman emperors Marcus Aurelius and Julian, and some of the Christian fathers. And when people stopped writing new books, why did crowds of grammarians and interpreters appear? Why did these scholars never gain any sound understanding of either grammar or interpretation? Why did the physical sciences never reach any true knowledge or make any real progress? Why did poetry weaken and fade? Why did history sink into fable? Why did words lose their power to express meaning? Why did ages of outward greatness and magnificence show every possible sign of decay in the human mind?

To these questions many answers may be given, which if not the true causes, are at least to be reckoned among the symptoms of the decline. There is the want of method in physical science, the want of criticism in history, the want of simplicity or delicacy in poetry, the want of political freedom, which is the true atmosphere of public speaking, in oratory. The ways of life were luxurious and commonplace. Philosophy had become extravagant, eclectic, abstract, devoid of any real content. At length it ceased to exist. It had spread words like plaster over the whole field of knowledge. It had grown ascetic on one side, mystical on the other. Neither of these tendencies was favourable to literature. There was no sense of beauty either in language or in art. The Greek world became vacant, barbaric, oriental. No one had anything new to say, or any conviction of truth. The age had no remembrance of the past, no power of understanding what other ages thought and felt. The Catholic faith had degenerated into dogma and controversy. For more than a thousand years not a single writer of first-rate, or even of second-rate, reputation has a place in the innumerable rolls of Greek literature.

These questions may have many answers. Even if these answers are not the true causes, they at least count among the signs of decline. Physical science lacked method, history lacked critical judgment, and poetry lacked simplicity or subtlety. Oratory lacked political freedom, the natural setting for public speaking. Ways of life were luxurious and ordinary. Philosophy had become extravagant, drawn from mixed sources, abstract, and empty of real substance. Eventually, philosophy ceased to exist. It had spread words like plaster over the whole field of knowledge. Philosophy had become ascetic on one side and mystical on the other. Neither tendency was good for literature. There was no sense of beauty in either language or art. The Greek world became empty, barbaric, and Oriental. No one had anything new to say or any firm belief in the truth. The age had no memory of the past and no ability to understand what other ages thought and felt. The Catholic faith had declined into dogma and controversy. For more than a thousand years, not one writer of first-rate or even second-rate standing appears in Greek literature’s countless records.

If we seek to go deeper, we can still only describe the outward nature of the clouds or darkness which were spread over the heavens during so many ages without relief or light. We may say that this, like several other long periods in the history of the human race, was destitute, or deprived of the moral qualities which are the root of literary excellence. It had no life or aspiration, no national or political force, no desire for consistency, no love of knowledge for its own sake. It did not attempt to pierce the mists which surrounded it. It did not propose to itself to go forward and scale the heights of knowledge, but to go backwards and seek at the beginning what can only be found towards the end. It was lost in doubt and ignorance. It rested upon tradition and authority. It had none of the higher play of fancy which creates poetry; and where there is no true poetry, neither can there be any good prose. It had no great characters, and therefore it had no great writers. It was incapable of distinguishing between words and things. It was so hopelessly below the ancient standard of classical Greek art and literature that it had no power of understanding or of valuing them. It is doubtful whether any Greek author was justly appreciated in antiquity except by his own contemporaries; and this neglect of the great authors of the past led to the disappearance of the larger part of them, while the Greek fathers were mostly preserved. There is no reason to suppose that, in the century before the taking of Constantinople, much more was in existence than the scholars of the Renaissance carried away with them to Italy.

If we try to look deeper, we can still describe only the outward appearance of the clouds or darkness. They covered the heavens for so many ages without relief or light. We may say that this period, like several other long periods in human history, lacked certain moral qualities. These qualities are the foundation of literary excellence. The period had no energy or ambition, no national or political strength. It had no desire for consistency and no love of knowledge for its own sake. It made no attempt to see through the mists surrounding it. It did not aim to move forward and climb to the heights of knowledge. Instead, it sought in the past what can only be found toward the end. It was lost in doubt and ignorance. It relied on tradition and authority. The period lacked the higher imaginative freedom that creates poetry. And where there is no true poetry, there can be no good prose. It had no great figures, and therefore no great writers. It could not distinguish between words and things. It fell so hopelessly below the ancient standard of classical Greek art and literature that it could neither understand nor value them. It is doubtful whether any Greek author was properly appreciated in antiquity except by his own contemporaries. This neglect of the great authors of the past led to the loss of most of their works. By contrast, the writings of the Greek fathers were mostly preserved. There is no reason to suppose that much more survived in the century before the capture of Constantinople. What survived was probably little more than what Renaissance scholars took with them to Italy.

The character of Greek literature sank lower as time went on. It consisted more and more of compilations, of scholia, of extracts, of commentaries, forgeries, imitations. The commentator or interpreter had no conception of his author as a whole, and very little of the context of any passage which he was explaining. The least things were preferred by him to the greatest. The question of a reading, or a grammatical form, or an accent, or the uses of a word, took the place of the aim or subject of the book. He had no sense of the beauties of an author, and very little light is thrown by him on real difficulties. He interprets past ages by his own. The greatest classical writers are the least appreciated by him. This seems to be the reason why so many of them have perished, why the lyric poets have almost wholly disappeared; why, out of the eighty or ninety tragedies of Aeschylus and Sophocles, only seven of each had been preserved.

The quality of Greek literature declined over time. It increasingly consisted of compilations, scholarly notes, extracts, commentaries, forgeries, and imitations. The commentator or interpreter had no understanding of an author’s work as a whole. He also understood very little of the context of any passage he explained. He preferred the least important matters to the most important. Questions about a text’s wording, grammatical forms, accents, or word usage replaced attention to the book’s purpose or subject. He had no appreciation for an author’s beauty and shed very little light on genuine difficulties. He interpreted past ages through his own age. He appreciated the greatest classical writers least of all. This seems to explain why so many of their works have been lost, and why the lyric poets have almost entirely disappeared. It also seems to explain why only seven of the eighty or ninety tragedies by each writer, Aeschylus and Sophocles, survived.

Such an age of sciolism and scholasticism may possibly once more get the better of the literary world. There are those who prophesy that the signs of such a day are again appearing among us, and that at the end of the present century no writer of the first class will be still alive. They think that the Muse of Literature may transfer herself to other countries less dried up or worn out than our own. They seem to see the withering effect of criticism on original genius. No one can doubt that such a decay or decline of literature and of art seriously affects the manners and character of a nation. It takes away half the joys and refinements of life; it increases its dulness and grossness. Hence it becomes a matter of great interest to consider how, if at all, such a degeneracy may be averted. Is there any elixir which can restore life and youth to the literature of a nation, or at any rate which can prevent it becoming unmanned and enfeebled?

An age of shallow learning and rigid academic thinking may once again take over the literary world. Some predict that signs of such an age are appearing among us again. They also predict that no first-rate writer will still be alive at the end of this century. They think the Muse of Literature may move to countries less dried up or worn out than our own. They seem to see criticism stifling original genius. No one can doubt that such a decline in literature and art seriously affects a nation's manners and character. Such a decline takes away half of life's joys and refinements, making life duller and cruder. So we have good reason to consider how, if at all, this decline can be prevented. Is there any elixir that can restore life and youth to a nation's literature? Or can any elixir at least prevent that literature from losing its vigor and growing weak?

First there is the progress of education. It is possible, and even probable, that the extension of the means of knowledge over a wider area and to persons living under new conditions may lead to many new combinations of thought and language. But, as yet, experience does not favour the realization of such a hope or promise. It may be truly answered that at present the training of teachers and the methods of education are very imperfect, and therefore that we cannot judge of the future by the present. When more of our youth are trained in the best literatures, and in the best parts of them, their minds may be expected to have a larger growth. They will have more interests, more thoughts, more material for conversation; they will have a higher standard and begin to think for themselves. The number of persons who will have the opportunity of receiving the highest education through the cheap press, and by the help of high schools and colleges, may increase tenfold. It is likely that in every thousand persons there is at least one who is far above the average in natural capacity, but the seed which is in him dies for want of cultivation. It has never had any stimulus to grow, or any field in which to blossom and produce fruit. Here is a great reservoir or treasure-house of human intelligence out of which new waters may flow and cover the earth. If at any time the great men of the world should die out, and originality or genius appear to suffer a partial eclipse, there is a boundless hope in the multitude of intelligences for future generations. They may bring gifts to men such as the world has never received before. They may begin at a higher point and yet take with them all the results of the past. The co-operation of many may have effects not less striking, though different in character from those which the creative genius of a single man, such as Bacon or Newton, formerly produced. There is also great hope to be derived, not merely from the extension of education over a wider area, but from the continuance of it during many generations. Educated parents will have children fit to receive education; and these again will grow up under circumstances far more favourable to the growth of intelligence than any which have hitherto existed in our own or in former ages.

First, there is the progress of education. Access to knowledge may spread more widely and reach people living under new conditions. This wider access could, and probably will, lead to many new combinations of thought and language. But so far, experience gives little support for this hope or promise. A fair reply is that teacher training and educational methods are still very imperfect. So we cannot judge the future by the present. More young people may receive an education in the finest literature, focusing on its best parts. When they do, we can expect their minds to develop more fully. They will have more interests, more ideas, and more to talk about. They will have higher standards and begin to think for themselves. Inexpensive publications, high schools, and colleges may give ten times as many people access to the highest level of education. Probably at least one person in every thousand has natural abilities far above average. Yet the seed of that ability dies because no one cultivates it. Nothing has encouraged it to grow or given it room to blossom and bear fruit. Here is a great reservoir, a treasure house of human intelligence, whose waters may flow out and cover the earth. Suppose the world's great figures should ever disappear, and originality or genius seem partly overshadowed. Even then, the intelligence of so many people offers boundless hope for future generations. These people may bring humanity gifts unlike anything the world has received before. They may start from a higher point while still carrying forward all the achievements of the past. Many people working together may produce results as remarkable as those once produced by a single creative genius, like Bacon or Newton. Those results may, however, be different in character. There is also great hope not only in spreading education more widely, but in continuing it over many generations. Educated parents will have children ready to receive an education. These children, in turn, will grow up in conditions far more favorable to intellectual growth. Their conditions will be better than any that have existed in our own time or in earlier ages.

Even if we were to suppose no more men of genius to be produced, the great writers of ancient or of modern times will remain to furnish abundant materials of education to the coming generation. Now that every nation holds communication with every other, we may truly say in a fuller sense than formerly that 'the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns.' They will not be 'cribbed, cabined, and confined' within a province or an island. The East will provide elements of culture to the West as well as the West to the East. The religions and literatures of the world will be open books, which he who wills may read. The human race may not be always ground down by bodily toil, but may have greater leisure for the improvement of the mind. The increasing sense of the greatness and infinity of nature will tend to awaken in men larger and more liberal thoughts. The love of mankind may be the source of a greater development of literature than nationality has ever been. There may be a greater freedom from prejudice and party; we may better understand the whereabouts of truth, and therefore there may be more success and fewer failures in the search for it. Lastly, in the coming ages we shall carry with us the recollection of the past, in which are necessarily contained many seeds of revival and renaissance in the future. So far is the world from becoming exhausted, so groundless is the fear that literature will ever die out.

Even if no more people of genius were born, the great writers of ancient and modern times would remain. Their works would provide abundant material for educating the next generation. Now every nation communicates with every other nation. So we can say more fully than before that 'people’s thoughts grow broader as time passes.' Those thoughts will not be 'hemmed in and confined' within a province or an island. The East will contribute to the culture of the West, just as the West will contribute to the East. The world’s religions and literatures will be open books, available to anyone who wants to read them. Humanity may not always be worn down by physical labor, but may have more leisure to develop the mind. A growing awareness of nature’s greatness and boundlessness will tend to inspire broader, more open-minded thoughts. Love for humanity may inspire greater literary development than national feeling ever has. People may become freer from prejudice and political loyalties. We may better understand where truth lies, and so succeed more often and fail less often in seeking truth. Finally, in the ages ahead, we will carry our memories of the past with us. The past necessarily contains many seeds of future revival and renewal. The world is far from running out of possibilities. The fear that literature will ever die out is without foundation.