Introduction

Of all the works of Plato the Symposium is the most perfect in form, and may be truly thought to contain more than any commentator has ever dreamed of; or, as Goethe said of one of his own writings, more than the author himself knew. For in philosophy as in prophecy glimpses of the future may often be conveyed in words which could hardly have been understood or interpreted at the time when they were uttered (compare Symp.)—which were wiser than the writer of them meant, and could not have been expressed by him if he had been interrogated about them. Yet Plato was not a mystic, nor in any degree affected by the Eastern influences which afterwards overspread the Alexandrian world. He was not an enthusiast or a sentimentalist, but one who aspired only to see reasoned truth, and whose thoughts are clearly explained in his language. There is no foreign element either of Egypt or of Asia to be found in his writings. And more than any other Platonic work the Symposium is Greek both in style and subject, having a beauty 'as of a statue,' while the companion Dialogue of the Phaedrus is marked by a sort of Gothic irregularity. More too than in any other of his Dialogues, Plato is emancipated from former philosophies. The genius of Greek art seems to triumph over the traditions of Pythagorean, Eleatic, or Megarian systems, and 'the old quarrel of poetry and philosophy' has at least a superficial reconcilement. (Rep.)

Of all Plato’s works, the Symposium is the most perfect in form. It may truly contain more than any commentator has ever imagined. Or, as Goethe said of one of his own writings, it may contain more than the author himself knew. For in philosophy, as in prophecy, words may often offer glimpses of the future. Such words could hardly have been understood or interpreted when they were spoken (compare Symp.). They were wiser than their writer intended. The writer could not have expressed their meaning if questioned about them. Yet Plato was not a mystic. Nor was he influenced at all by the Eastern ideas that later spread throughout the Alexandrian world. He was neither carried away by inspiration nor guided by sentiment. He sought only to understand truth through reason, and his language clearly explains his thoughts. His writings contain no foreign element from either Egypt or Asia. More than any other work by Plato, the Symposium is Greek in both style and subject. Its beauty is 'as of a statue,' while its companion Dialogue, the Phaedrus, has a kind of Gothic irregularity. In the Symposium, too, Plato is freer from earlier philosophies than in any other of his Dialogues. The genius of Greek art seems to triumph over the traditions of Pythagorean, Eleatic, or Megarian systems. And 'the old quarrel of poetry and philosophy' is resolved, at least on the surface. (Rep.)

An unknown person who had heard of the discourses in praise of love spoken by Socrates and others at the banquet of Agathon is desirous of having an authentic account of them, which he thinks that he can obtain from Apollodorus, the same excitable, or rather 'mad' friend of Socrates, who is afterwards introduced in the Phaedo. He had imagined that the discourses were recent. There he is mistaken: but they are still fresh in the memory of his informant, who had just been repeating them to Glaucon, and is quite prepared to have another rehearsal of them in a walk from the Piraeus to Athens. Although he had not been present himself, he had heard them from the best authority. Aristodemus, who is described as having been in past times a humble but inseparable attendant of Socrates, had reported them to him (compare Xen. Mem.).

An unnamed person has heard about the speeches praising love given by Socrates and others at Agathon’s banquet. He wants a reliable account of the speeches and thinks he can get one from Apollodorus. Apollodorus is the same excitable, or rather 'mad' friend of Socrates who later appears in the Phaedo. The unnamed person had assumed that the speeches were recent. He is mistaken about their timing. But the speeches are still fresh in Apollodorus’s memory, since he has just repeated them to Glaucon. Apollodorus is quite ready to repeat them again during a walk from the Piraeus to Athens. Although Apollodorus had not attended the banquet himself, he had heard the speeches from the most reliable source. Aristodemus had recounted them to him. Aristodemus is described as having once been a humble but inseparable companion of Socrates (compare Xen. Mem.).

The narrative which he had heard was as follows:—

The story he had heard went as follows:

Aristodemus meeting Socrates in holiday attire, is invited by him to a banquet at the house of Agathon, who had been sacrificing in thanksgiving for his tragic victory on the day previous. But no sooner has he entered the house than he finds that he is alone; Socrates has stayed behind in a fit of abstraction, and does not appear until the banquet is half over. On his appearing he and the host jest a little; the question is then asked by Pausanias, one of the guests, 'What shall they do about drinking? as they had been all well drunk on the day before, and drinking on two successive days is such a bad thing.' This is confirmed by the authority of Eryximachus the physician, who further proposes that instead of listening to the flute-girl and her 'noise' they shall make speeches in honour of love, one after another, going from left to right in the order in which they are reclining at the table. All of them agree to this proposal, and Phaedrus, who is the 'father' of the idea, which he has previously communicated to Eryximachus, begins as follows:—

Aristodemus meets Socrates dressed for a celebration, and Socrates invites him to a banquet at Agathon’s house. The day before, Agathon had offered sacrifices in thanks for his victory in a tragedy competition. But as soon as Aristodemus enters the house, he finds he has arrived alone. Socrates has stayed behind, lost in thought, and does not appear until the banquet is half over. When Socrates arrives, he and his host exchange a few jokes. Then Pausanias, one of the guests, asks, 'What should we do about drinking? We were all very drunk yesterday, and drinking two days in a row is such a bad thing.' Eryximachus the physician confirms this judgment with his medical authority. He also proposes that, instead of listening to the flute-girl and her 'noise', they take turns giving speeches praising love. The guests will speak from left to right, following the order in which they recline at the table. Everyone agrees to the proposal. Phaedrus, the 'father' of the idea, had already suggested it to Eryximachus. Phaedrus begins as follows:

He descants first of all upon the antiquity of love, which is proved by the authority of the poets; secondly upon the benefits which love gives to man. The greatest of these is the sense of honour and dishonour. The lover is ashamed to be seen by the beloved doing or suffering any cowardly or mean act. And a state or army which was made up only of lovers and their loves would be invincible. For love will convert the veriest coward into an inspired hero.

He first discusses how ancient love is, citing the poets as proof. Next, he discusses the benefits love brings to people. The greatest benefit is a sense of honor and dishonor. A lover is ashamed if the person he loves sees him doing or enduring anything cowardly or shameful. And a state or army made up entirely of lovers and those they love would be invincible. For love will turn even the greatest coward into an inspired hero.

And there have been true loves not only of men but of women also. Such was the love of Alcestis, who dared to die for her husband, and in recompense of her virtue was allowed to come again from the dead. But Orpheus, the miserable harper, who went down to Hades alive, that he might bring back his wife, was mocked with an apparition only, and the gods afterwards contrived his death as the punishment of his cowardliness. The love of Achilles, like that of Alcestis, was courageous and true; for he was willing to avenge his lover Patroclus, although he knew that his own death would immediately follow: and the gods, who honour the love of the beloved above that of the lover, rewarded him, and sent him to the islands of the blest.

True love has been shown not only by men but by women too. Alcestis showed such love when she dared to die for her husband. As a reward for her virtue, she was allowed to return from the dead. But Orpheus, the wretched harpist, went down to Hades alive to bring back his wife. He was mocked with nothing more than an apparition of her. The gods later arranged his death as punishment for his cowardice. Achilles’ love, like that of Alcestis, was courageous and true. He was willing to avenge his lover Patroclus, although he knew his own death would follow immediately. The gods honor the love shown by the beloved more than the love shown by the lover. So they rewarded Achilles and sent him to the islands of the blessed.

Pausanias, who was sitting next, then takes up the tale:—He says that Phaedrus should have distinguished the heavenly love from the earthly, before he praised either. For there are two loves, as there are two Aphrodites—one the daughter of Uranus, who has no mother and is the elder and wiser goddess, and the other, the daughter of Zeus and Dione, who is popular and common. The first of the two loves has a noble purpose, and delights only in the intelligent nature of man, and is faithful to the end, and has no shadow of wantonness or lust. The second is the coarser kind of love, which is a love of the body rather than of the soul, and is of women and boys as well as of men. Now the actions of lovers vary, like every other sort of action, according to the manner of their performance. And in different countries there is a difference of opinion about male loves. Some, like the Boeotians, approve of them; others, like the Ionians, and most of the barbarians, disapprove of them; partly because they are aware of the political dangers which ensue from them, as may be seen in the instance of Harmodius and Aristogeiton. At Athens and Sparta there is an apparent contradiction about them. For at times they are encouraged, and then the lover is allowed to play all sorts of fantastic tricks; he may swear and forswear himself (and 'at lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs'); he may be a servant, and lie on a mat at the door of his love, without any loss of character; but there are also times when elders look grave and guard their young relations, and personal remarks are made. The truth is that some of these loves are disgraceful and others honourable. The vulgar love of the body which takes wing and flies away when the bloom of youth is over, is disgraceful, and so is the interested love of power or wealth; but the love of the noble mind is lasting. The lover should be tested, and the beloved should not be too ready to yield. The rule in our country is that the beloved may do the same service to the lover in the way of virtue which the lover may do to him.

Pausanias, who is sitting next, then takes up the discussion. He says Phaedrus should have distinguished heavenly love from earthly love before praising either. For there are two kinds of love, just as there are two Aphrodites. One is the daughter of Uranus. She has no mother and is the older, wiser goddess. The other, the daughter of Zeus and Dione, is popular and common. The first kind of love has a noble purpose and delights only in the intelligent nature of men. It remains faithful to the end and has no trace of sexual excess or lust. The second is a coarser kind of love, directed toward the body rather than the soul. It is a love for women and boys as well as men. Now lovers' actions, like all other actions, vary according to how they are carried out. Different countries also have different views about love between males. Some, like the Boeotians, approve of such relationships. Others, like the Ionians and most foreign peoples, disapprove. This disapproval comes partly from awareness of the political dangers such relationships bring, as Harmodius and Aristogeiton show. In Athens and Sparta, attitudes toward these relationships seem contradictory. At times, such love is encouraged, and lovers are allowed all sorts of outrageous behavior. A lover may make and break oaths (and 'at lovers' perjuries they say Jove laughs'). He may act as a servant and sleep on a mat at his beloved's door without damaging his reputation. But at other times, elders look stern and keep watch over their young relatives, and people make personal remarks. The truth is that some of these relationships are shameful and others honorable. The common love of the body takes flight when the bloom of youth fades, and such love is shameful. So is love motivated by power or wealth. But love for a noble mind lasts. The lover should be tested, and the beloved should not be too quick to give in. In our country, the rule is that the beloved may help the lover develop virtue, just as the lover may help him.

A voluntary service to be rendered for the sake of virtue and wisdom is permitted among us; and when these two customs—one the love of youth, the other the practice of virtue and philosophy—meet in one, then the lovers may lawfully unite. Nor is there any disgrace to a disinterested lover in being deceived: but the interested lover is doubly disgraced, for if he loses his love he loses his character; whereas the noble love of the other remains the same, although the object of his love is unworthy: for nothing can be nobler than love for the sake of virtue. This is that love of the heavenly goddess which is of great price to individuals and cities, making them work together for their improvement.

Among us, people may willingly serve another person for the sake of virtue and wisdom. When love of youth joins with the pursuit of virtue and philosophy, the lovers may rightfully unite. Nor is there any shame in being deceived for a lover who seeks no personal gain. But a lover seeking personal gain suffers a double disgrace. If he loses his love, he also loses his good name. By contrast, the selfless lover’s love remains noble, even if the person he loves is unworthy. For nothing can be nobler than love for the sake of virtue. Such love belongs to the heavenly goddess and is of great value to individuals and cities. It leads them to work together to improve themselves.

The turn of Aristophanes comes next; but he has the hiccough, and therefore proposes that Eryximachus the physician shall cure him or speak in his turn. Eryximachus is ready to do both, and after prescribing for the hiccough, speaks as follows:—

Aristophanes is next to speak, but he has the hiccups. So he suggests that Eryximachus the physician either cure him or speak in his place. Eryximachus is ready to do both. After prescribing a treatment for the hiccups, he speaks as follows:

He agrees with Pausanias in maintaining that there are two kinds of love; but his art has led him to the further conclusion that the empire of this double love extends over all things, and is to be found in animals and plants as well as in man. In the human body also there are two loves; and the art of medicine shows which is the good and which is the bad love, and persuades the body to accept the good and reject the bad, and reconciles conflicting elements and makes them friends. Every art, gymnastic and husbandry as well as medicine, is the reconciliation of opposites; and this is what Heracleitus meant, when he spoke of a harmony of opposites: but in strictness he should rather have spoken of a harmony which succeeds opposites, for an agreement of disagreements there cannot be. Music too is concerned with the principles of love in their application to harmony and rhythm. In the abstract, all is simple, and we are not troubled with the twofold love; but when they are applied in education with their accompaniments of song and metre, then the discord begins. Then the old tale has to be repeated of fair Urania and the coarse Polyhymnia, who must be indulged sparingly, just as in my own art of medicine care must be taken that the taste of the epicure be gratified without inflicting upon him the attendant penalty of disease.

He agrees with Pausanias that there are two kinds of love. But his medical practice has led him to a further conclusion: both kinds of love rule over all things. They exist in animals and plants as well as in humans. The human body also contains two kinds of love. Medicine shows which kind is good and which is bad. It persuades the body to accept good love and reject bad love, bringing conflicting elements together and making them friends. Every skilled practice, including physical training and farming as well as medicine, brings opposites into agreement. This is what Heracleitus meant when he spoke of a harmony of opposites. Strictly speaking, though, he should have described a harmony that follows opposition, since disagreement itself cannot be agreement. Music too deals with the principles of love as they apply to harmony and rhythm. In theory, everything is simple, and the two kinds of love cause us no trouble. But when harmony and rhythm are used in education, accompanied by song and meter, the discord begins. Then we must repeat the old story of beautiful Urania and coarse Polyhymnia. Polyhymnia must be indulged only sparingly. The same care is needed in my own practice of medicine. We must satisfy the lover of fine food without making him pay for that pleasure with disease.

There is a similar harmony or disagreement in the course of the seasons and in the relations of moist and dry, hot and cold, hoar frost and blight; and diseases of all sorts spring from the excesses or disorders of the element of love. The knowledge of these elements of love and discord in the heavenly bodies is termed astronomy, in the relations of men towards gods and parents is called divination. For divination is the peacemaker of gods and men, and works by a knowledge of the tendencies of merely human loves to piety and impiety. Such is the power of love; and that love which is just and temperate has the greatest power, and is the source of all our happiness and friendship with the gods and with one another. I dare say that I have omitted to mention many things which you, Aristophanes, may supply, as I perceive that you are cured of the hiccough.

Similar harmony or conflict appears in the changing seasons and in the relationships between wet and dry, hot and cold, frost and blight. Diseases of all kinds arise from excesses or disorders in the force of love. The study of these forces of love and conflict in the heavenly bodies is called astronomy. In human relations with the gods and with parents, this study is called divination. For divination makes peace between gods and humans. It does so by understanding how purely human loves tend toward reverence or irreverence. Such is the power of love. Love that is just and self-controlled has the greatest power. It is the source of all our happiness and friendship with the gods and with one another. I dare say I have left out many things that you, Aristophanes, may add. I can see that your hiccups have stopped.

Aristophanes is the next speaker:—

Aristophanes speaks next:

He professes to open a new vein of discourse, in which he begins by treating of the origin of human nature. The sexes were originally three, men, women, and the union of the two; and they were made round—having four hands, four feet, two faces on a round neck, and the rest to correspond. Terrible was their strength and swiftness; and they were essaying to scale heaven and attack the gods. Doubt reigned in the celestial councils; the gods were divided between the desire of quelling the pride of man and the fear of losing the sacrifices. At last Zeus hit upon an expedient. Let us cut them in two, he said; then they will only have half their strength, and we shall have twice as many sacrifices. He spake, and split them as you might split an egg with an hair; and when this was done, he told Apollo to give their faces a twist and re-arrange their persons, taking out the wrinkles and tying the skin in a knot about the navel. The two halves went about looking for one another, and were ready to die of hunger in one another's arms. Then Zeus invented an adjustment of the sexes, which enabled them to marry and go their way to the business of life. Now the characters of men differ accordingly as they are derived from the original man or the original woman, or the original man-woman. Those who come from the man-woman are lascivious and adulterous; those who come from the woman form female attachments; those who are a section of the male follow the male and embrace him, and in him all their desires centre. The pair are inseparable and live together in pure and manly affection; yet they cannot tell what they want of one another. But if Hephaestus were to come to them with his instruments and propose that they should be melted into one and remain one here and hereafter, they would acknowledge that this was the very expression of their want. For love is the desire of the whole, and the pursuit of the whole is called love. There was a time when the two sexes were only one, but now God has halved them,—much as the Lacedaemonians have cut up the Arcadians,—and if they do not behave themselves he will divide them again, and they will hop about with half a nose and face in basso relievo. Wherefore let us exhort all men to piety, that we may obtain the goods of which love is the author, and be reconciled to God, and find our own true loves, which rarely happens in this world. And now I must beg you not to suppose that I am alluding to Pausanias and Agathon (compare Protag.), for my words refer to all mankind everywhere.

He promises a new line of discussion, beginning with the origin of human nature. There were originally three sexes: male, female, and a combination of the two. These beings were round, with four hands, four feet, two faces on a round neck, and matching body parts. Their strength and speed were terrifying, and they were trying to climb into heaven and attack the gods. The gods were uncertain what to do. They wanted to crush human pride but feared losing the sacrifices humans offered. At last Zeus thought of a solution. Let us cut them in two, he said. Then they will have only half their strength, and we will receive twice as many sacrifices. With that, he split them as you might split an egg with a hair. Then he told Apollo to turn their faces around and reshape their bodies. Apollo was to smooth out the wrinkles and tie the skin into a knot at the navel. The two halves wandered about searching for each other, ready to starve to death in each other's arms. Then Zeus adjusted their sexual organs so they could marry and get on with the business of life. People's characters now differ according to whether they descend from the original male, female, or combined male-female being. Those descended from the male-female being are lustful and adulterous. Those descended from the female form romantic attachments to women. Those who are halves of the original male seek out and embrace men, who are the focus of all their desires. Such pairs are inseparable and live together in pure, manly affection. Yet neither can say what he wants from the other. But suppose Hephaestus came with his tools and offered to melt the pair into one being, united now and after death. They would recognize his offer as the exact expression of their desire. For love is the desire for wholeness, and the pursuit of wholeness is called love. There was a time when the two sexes were one. But now God has split them in half, much as the Lacedaemonians have divided up the Arcadians. If people do not behave themselves, he will split them again. Then they will hop about with half a nose and a face like a low-relief sculpture. So let us urge everyone to honor the gods, so we may gain the blessings love brings. In this way, we may be reconciled to God and find our own true loves, something that rarely happens in this world. And now I must ask you not to suppose I am referring to Pausanias and Agathon (compare Protag.). My words apply to all humanity everywhere.

Some raillery ensues first between Aristophanes and Eryximachus, and then between Agathon, who fears a few select friends more than any number of spectators at the theatre, and Socrates, who is disposed to begin an argument. This is speedily repressed by Phaedrus, who reminds the disputants of their tribute to the god. Agathon's speech follows:—

Some teasing follows, first between Aristophanes and Eryximachus, then between Agathon and Socrates. Agathon fears a few select friends more than any number of spectators at the theatre. Socrates is inclined to start an argument. Phaedrus quickly stops the debate, reminding them of their duty to pay tribute to the god. Agathon's speech follows:

He will speak of the god first and then of his gifts: He is the fairest and blessedest and best of the gods, and also the youngest, having had no existence in the old days of Iapetus and Cronos when the gods were at war. The things that were done then were done of necessity and not of love. For love is young and dwells in soft places,—not like Ate in Homer, walking on the skulls of men, but in their hearts and souls, which are soft enough. He is all flexibility and grace, and his habitation is among the flowers, and he cannot do or suffer wrong; for all men serve and obey him of their own free will, and where there is love there is obedience, and where obedience, there is justice; for none can be wronged of his own free will. And he is temperate as well as just, for he is the ruler of the desires, and if he rules them he must be temperate. Also he is courageous, for he is the conqueror of the lord of war. And he is wise too; for he is a poet, and the author of poesy in others. He created the animals; he is the inventor of the arts; all the gods are his subjects; he is the fairest and best himself, and the cause of what is fairest and best in others; he makes men to be of one mind at a banquet, filling them with affection and emptying them of disaffection; the pilot, helper, defender, saviour of men, in whose footsteps let every man follow, chanting a strain of love. Such is the discourse, half playful, half serious, which I dedicate to the god.

He will speak first of the god, then of his gifts. He is the most beautiful, most blessed, and best of the gods, and also the youngest. He did not exist in the old days of Iapetus and Cronos, when the gods were at war. What happened then came from necessity, not love. For love is young and lives in soft places. He is not like Ate in Homer, who walks on people’s skulls. Instead, he lives in their hearts and souls, which are soft enough. He is entirely flexible and graceful, and he lives among flowers. He can neither do wrong nor suffer wrong, for everyone serves and obeys him of their own free will. Where there is love, there is obedience, and where there is obedience, there is justice. For no one can be wronged of their own free will. He has self-control as well as justice, for he rules the desires. And if he rules them, he must have self-control. He is also courageous, for he conquers the lord of war. And he is wise too, for he is a poet and inspires poetry in others. He created the animals, and he invented the arts. All the gods are his subjects. He himself is the most beautiful and best, and he causes what is most beautiful and best in others. He brings people together in harmony at a banquet, filling them with affection and clearing away hostility. He is their guide, helper, defender, and savior. Let everyone follow in his footsteps, singing a song of love. Such is the speech, half playful and half serious, that I dedicate to the god.

The turn of Socrates comes next. He begins by remarking satirically that he has not understood the terms of the original agreement, for he fancied that they meant to speak the true praises of love, but now he finds that they only say what is good of him, whether true or false. He begs to be absolved from speaking falsely, but he is willing to speak the truth, and proposes to begin by questioning Agathon. The result of his questions may be summed up as follows:—

Socrates speaks next. He begins by remarking sarcastically that he has misunderstood their original agreement. He thought they had agreed to praise love truthfully. But now he finds they only say good things about love, whether true or false. He asks to be excused from saying anything false, but he is willing to tell the truth. He proposes to begin by questioning Agathon. The results of his questions can be summed up as follows:

Love is of something, and that which love desires is not that which love is or has; for no man desires that which he is or has. And love is of the beautiful, and therefore has not the beautiful. And the beautiful is the good, and therefore, in wanting and desiring the beautiful, love also wants and desires the good. Socrates professes to have asked the same questions and to have obtained the same answers from Diotima, a wise woman of Mantinea, who, like Agathon, had spoken first of love and then of his works. Socrates, like Agathon, had told her that Love is a mighty god and also fair, and she had shown him in return that Love was neither, but in a mean between fair and foul, good and evil, and not a god at all, but only a great demon or intermediate power (compare the speech of Eryximachus) who conveys to the gods the prayers of men, and to men the commands of the gods.

Love always has an object, and love desires something it neither is nor has. For no one desires what they already are or have. And love seeks beauty, so love does not possess beauty. And beauty is goodness, so in lacking and desiring beauty, love also lacks and desires goodness. Socrates says he asked the same questions and received the same answers from Diotima, a wise woman of Mantinea. Like Agathon, she had spoken first about love and then about love’s works. Socrates, like Agathon, had told her that Love was a powerful and beautiful god. In response, she had shown him that Love was neither powerful nor beautiful. Instead, Love was somewhere between beautiful and ugly, good and evil. Love was not a god at all, but only a great demon, or a power between gods and humans. (Compare the speech of Eryximachus.) Love carries human prayers to the gods and the gods’ commands to humans.

Socrates asks: Who are his father and mother? To this Diotima replies that he is the son of Plenty and Poverty, and partakes of the nature of both, and is full and starved by turns. Like his mother he is poor and squalid, lying on mats at doors (compare the speech of Pausanias); like his father he is bold and strong, and full of arts and resources. Further, he is in a mean between ignorance and knowledge:—in this he resembles the philosopher who is also in a mean between the wise and the ignorant. Such is the nature of Love, who is not to be confused with the beloved.

Socrates asks: Who are his father and mother? Diotima replies that he is the son of Plenty and Poverty and shares the nature of both. He is full at times and starving at others. Like his mother, he is poor and dirty, lying on mats at doorways (compare the speech of Pausanias). Like his father, he is bold and strong, full of skills and resourcefulness. He also stands between ignorance and knowledge. In this respect, he resembles the philosopher, who also stands between the wise and the ignorant. Such is the nature of Love, who should not be confused with the person who is loved.

But Love desires the beautiful; and then arises the question, What does he desire of the beautiful? He desires, of course, the possession of the beautiful;—but what is given by that? For the beautiful let us substitute the good, and we have no difficulty in seeing the possession of the good to be happiness, and Love to be the desire of happiness, although the meaning of the word has been too often confined to one kind of love. And Love desires not only the good, but the everlasting possession of the good. Why then is there all this flutter and excitement about love? Because all men and women at a certain age are desirous of bringing to the birth. And love is not of beauty only, but of birth in beauty; this is the principle of immortality in a mortal creature. When beauty approaches, then the conceiving power is benign and diffuse; when foulness, she is averted and morose.

But Love desires beauty. So the question arises: What does he want from beauty? He wants, of course, to possess beauty. But what does possessing beauty give him? Let us replace beauty with goodness. Then we can easily see that possessing goodness is happiness, and Love is the desire for happiness. Yet the word “love” has too often been limited to just one kind of love. And Love desires not only goodness, but to possess goodness forever. Why, then, is there all this agitation and excitement about love? Because all men and women, at a certain age, want to give birth. And love is not only a desire for beauty, but a desire to give birth in beauty. Giving birth in beauty is the source of immortality in a mortal creature. When beauty approaches, the power to conceive becomes gentle and expansive. When ugliness approaches, she turns away and becomes sullen.

But why again does this extend not only to men but also to animals? Because they too have an instinct of immortality. Even in the same individual there is a perpetual succession as well of the parts of the material body as of the thoughts and desires of the mind; nay, even knowledge comes and goes. There is no sameness of existence, but the new mortality is always taking the place of the old. This is the reason why parents love their children—for the sake of immortality; and this is why men love the immortality of fame. For the creative soul creates not children, but conceptions of wisdom and virtue, such as poets and other creators have invented. And the noblest creations of all are those of legislators, in honour of whom temples have been raised. Who would not sooner have these children of the mind than the ordinary human ones? (Compare Bacon's Essays, 8:—'Certainly the best works and of greatest merit for the public have proceeded from the unmarried or childless men; which both in affection and means have married and endowed the public.')

But why does this extend not only to humans but also to animals? Because animals too have an instinct for immortality. Even within one individual, the body's parts and the mind's thoughts and desires are constantly replaced. Even knowledge comes and goes. Nothing stays the same. New mortal life always takes the place of the old. This is why parents love their children, for the sake of immortality. And this is why people seek immortality through fame. For the creative soul produces not children, but ideas of wisdom and virtue, like those poets and other creators have developed. And the noblest creations of all are those of lawmakers, in whose honor temples have been built. Who would not rather have these children of the mind than ordinary human children? (Compare Bacon's Essays, 8: 'Certainly the finest works, those of greatest value to the public, have come from unmarried or childless men. In both their devotion and their resources, these men have married the public and provided for it.')

I will now initiate you, she said, into the greater mysteries; for he who would proceed in due course should love first one fair form, and then many, and learn the connexion of them; and from beautiful bodies he should proceed to beautiful minds, and the beauty of laws and institutions, until he perceives that all beauty is of one kindred; and from institutions he should go on to the sciences, until at last the vision is revealed to him of a single science of universal beauty, and then he will behold the everlasting nature which is the cause of all, and will be near the end. In the contemplation of that supreme being of love he will be purified of earthly leaven, and will behold beauty, not with the bodily eye, but with the eye of the mind, and will bring forth true creations of virtue and wisdom, and be the friend of God and heir of immortality.

I will now guide you into the greater mysteries, she said. For a man who wishes to follow the proper path should first love one beautiful body, then many. He should learn how their beauty is connected. From beautiful bodies, he should move on to beautiful minds, then to the beauty of laws and institutions. He should continue until he sees that all beauty is related. From institutions, he should move on to the sciences. At last, he will glimpse a single science of universal beauty. Then he will see the eternal nature that is the cause of everything, and his journey will be nearly complete. By contemplating that supreme being of love, he will be freed from earthly impurities. He will see beauty not with his physical eyes, but with his mind’s eye. He will bring forth true works of virtue and wisdom, and become a friend of God and heir to immortality.

Such, Phaedrus, is the tale which I heard from the stranger of Mantinea, and which you may call the encomium of love, or what you please.

That, Phaedrus, is the story I heard from the stranger from Mantinea. You may call the story a speech in praise of love, or whatever you like.

The company applaud the speech of Socrates, and Aristophanes is about to say something, when suddenly a band of revellers breaks into the court, and the voice of Alcibiades is heard asking for Agathon. He is led in drunk, and welcomed by Agathon, whom he has come to crown with a garland. He is placed on a couch at his side, but suddenly, on recognizing Socrates, he starts up, and a sort of conflict is carried on between them, which Agathon is requested to appease. Alcibiades then insists that they shall drink, and has a large wine-cooler filled, which he first empties himself, and then fills again and passes on to Socrates. He is informed of the nature of the entertainment; and is ready to join, if only in the character of a drunken and disappointed lover he may be allowed to sing the praises of Socrates:—

The guests applaud Socrates’ speech, and Aristophanes is about to speak. Suddenly, a group of revelers bursts into the courtyard, and Alcibiades is heard asking for Agathon. Alcibiades is led in drunk and welcomed by Agathon, whom he has come to crown with a garland. He is seated on a couch beside Agathon. But suddenly, he recognizes Socrates and jumps up. A kind of quarrel breaks out between Alcibiades and Socrates, and Agathon is asked to settle it. Alcibiades then insists that everyone drink and has a large wine-cooler filled. He empties it himself, then has it filled again and passes it to Socrates. The guests explain what they have been doing. Alcibiades is ready to join, if, as a drunken and disappointed lover, he may sing Socrates’ praises:

He begins by comparing Socrates first to the busts of Silenus, which have images of the gods inside them; and, secondly, to Marsyas the flute-player. For Socrates produces the same effect with the voice which Marsyas did with the flute. He is the great speaker and enchanter who ravishes the souls of men; the convincer of hearts too, as he has convinced Alcibiades, and made him ashamed of his mean and miserable life. Socrates at one time seemed about to fall in love with him; and he thought that he would thereby gain a wonderful opportunity of receiving lessons of wisdom. He narrates the failure of his design. He has suffered agonies from him, and is at his wit's end. He then proceeds to mention some other particulars of the life of Socrates; how they were at Potidaea together, where Socrates showed his superior powers of enduring cold and fatigue; how on one occasion he had stood for an entire day and night absorbed in reflection amid the wonder of the spectators; how on another occasion he had saved Alcibiades' life; how at the battle of Delium, after the defeat, he might be seen stalking about like a pelican, rolling his eyes as Aristophanes had described him in the Clouds. He is the most wonderful of human beings, and absolutely unlike anyone but a satyr. Like the satyr in his language too; for he uses the commonest words as the outward mask of the divinest truths.

Alcibiades begins by comparing Socrates to busts of Silenus, which contain images of the gods. Next, he compares Socrates to Marsyas the flute-player. For Socrates produces the same effect with his voice that Marsyas did with his flute. Socrates is the great speaker and enchanter who captivates people’s souls. He also wins over their hearts, as he has won over Alcibiades. He has made Alcibiades ashamed of his low and miserable life. At one point, Socrates seemed about to fall in love with Alcibiades. Alcibiades thought this would give him a wonderful opportunity to learn wisdom from Socrates. He describes how his plan failed. Socrates has caused him agony, and he does not know what to do. Alcibiades then describes some other details of Socrates’ life. They were together at Potidaea, where Socrates showed his greater ability to endure cold and exhaustion. On one occasion, Socrates stood absorbed in thought for an entire day and night, astonishing those who watched. On another occasion, he saved Alcibiades’ life. At the battle of Delium, after the defeat, Socrates could be seen striding about like a pelican. He rolled his eyes, just as Aristophanes had described him in the Clouds. Socrates is the most extraordinary human being, and he resembles no one except a satyr. His language, too, is like a satyr. For he uses the most ordinary words as an outer mask for the most divine truths.

When Alcibiades has done speaking, a dispute begins between him and Agathon and Socrates. Socrates piques Alcibiades by a pretended affection for Agathon. Presently a band of revellers appears, who introduce disorder into the feast; the sober part of the company, Eryximachus, Phaedrus, and others, withdraw; and Aristodemus, the follower of Socrates, sleeps during the whole of a long winter's night. When he wakes at cockcrow the revellers are nearly all asleep. Only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon hold out; they are drinking from a large goblet, which they pass round, and Socrates is explaining to the two others, who are half-asleep, that the genius of tragedy is the same as that of comedy, and that the writer of tragedy ought to be a writer of comedy also. And first Aristophanes drops, and then, as the day is dawning, Agathon. Socrates, having laid them to rest, takes a bath and goes to his daily avocations until the evening. Aristodemus follows.

When Alcibiades finishes speaking, an argument breaks out between him, Agathon, and Socrates. Socrates provokes Alcibiades by pretending to be fond of Agathon. Soon a band of revelers arrives and throws the feast into disorder. The sober guests, including Eryximachus and Phaedrus, leave. Aristodemus, the follower of Socrates, sleeps through the whole long winter night. When Aristodemus wakes at cockcrow, nearly all the revelers are asleep. Only Socrates, Aristophanes, and Agathon are still awake. The three are drinking from a large goblet, passing it around. Socrates explains to his two half-asleep companions that the same creative talent underlies both tragedy and comedy. He argues that a writer of tragedy should also be a writer of comedy. First Aristophanes falls asleep, and then, as dawn breaks, Agathon does too. After settling them down to sleep, Socrates takes a bath and goes about his daily activities until evening. Aristodemus follows.

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If it be true that there are more things in the Symposium of Plato than any commentator has dreamed of, it is also true that many things have been imagined which are not really to be found there. Some writings hardly admit of a more distinct interpretation than a musical composition; and every reader may form his own accompaniment of thought or feeling to the strain which he hears. The Symposium of Plato is a work of this character, and can with difficulty be rendered in any words but the writer's own. There are so many half-lights and cross-lights, so much of the colour of mythology, and of the manner of sophistry adhering—rhetoric and poetry, the playful and the serious, are so subtly intermingled in it, and vestiges of old philosophy so curiously blend with germs of future knowledge, that agreement among interpreters is not to be expected. The expression 'poema magis putandum quam comicorum poetarum,' which has been applied to all the writings of Plato, is especially applicable to the Symposium.

If Plato’s Symposium contains more than any commentator has dreamed of, readers have also imagined much that is not really there. Some writings hardly allow a more definite interpretation than a piece of music. Each reader may accompany the music with thoughts or feelings of their own. Plato’s Symposium is such a work, and expressing it in words other than the author’s own is difficult. It has so many shifting lights and shadows, so much mythological color, and so many traces of the sophists’ style. Rhetoric and poetry, playfulness and seriousness, are so subtly mixed together. Remnants of ancient philosophy blend so strangely with the beginnings of future knowledge. With all these qualities, agreement among interpreters cannot be expected. The phrase 'poema magis putandum quam comicorum poetarum' has been applied to all of Plato’s writings. It applies especially to the Symposium.

The power of love is represented in the Symposium as running through all nature and all being: at one end descending to animals and plants, and attaining to the highest vision of truth at the other. In an age when man was seeking for an expression of the world around him, the conception of love greatly affected him. One of the first distinctions of language and of mythology was that of gender; and at a later period the ancient physicist, anticipating modern science, saw, or thought that he saw, a sex in plants; there were elective affinities among the elements, marriages of earth and heaven. (Aesch. Frag. Dan.) Love became a mythic personage whom philosophy, borrowing from poetry, converted into an efficient cause of creation. The traces of the existence of love, as of number and figure, were everywhere discerned; and in the Pythagorean list of opposites male and female were ranged side by side with odd and even, finite and infinite.

In the Symposium, the power of love runs through all nature and all existence. At one end, love reaches down to animals and plants. At the other, love rises to the highest vision of truth. The idea of love deeply influenced people in an age when they sought ways to describe the world around them. Gender was one of the first distinctions made in language and mythology. Later, ancient natural philosophers anticipated modern science by seeing, or thinking they saw, sexual differences in plants. Elements had selective attractions to one another, and earth and heaven were joined in marriage. (Aesch. Frag. Dan.) Love became a mythical figure. Philosophy borrowed this figure from poetry and made love a force that brought creation about. Signs of love, like those of number and shape, were seen everywhere. In the Pythagorean list of opposites, male and female stood alongside odd and even, finite and infinite.

But Plato seems also to be aware that there is a mystery of love in man as well as in nature, extending beyond the mere immediate relation of the sexes. He is conscious that the highest and noblest things in the world are not easily severed from the sensual desires, or may even be regarded as a spiritualized form of them. We may observe that Socrates himself is not represented as originally unimpassioned, but as one who has overcome his passions; the secret of his power over others partly lies in his passionate but self-controlled nature. In the Phaedrus and Symposium love is not merely the feeling usually so called, but the mystical contemplation of the beautiful and the good. The same passion which may wallow in the mire is capable of rising to the loftiest heights—of penetrating the inmost secret of philosophy. The highest love is the love not of a person, but of the highest and purest abstraction. This abstraction is the far-off heaven on which the eye of the mind is fixed in fond amazement. The unity of truth, the consistency of the warring elements of the world, the enthusiasm for knowledge when first beaming upon mankind, the relativity of ideas to the human mind, and of the human mind to ideas, the faith in the invisible, the adoration of the eternal nature, are all included, consciously or unconsciously, in Plato's doctrine of love.

But Plato also seems aware of a mystery of love in human beings as well as in nature. This mystery extends beyond the immediate relationship between the sexes. He recognizes that the highest and noblest things in the world cannot easily be separated from sexual desires. These things may even be seen as sexual desires transformed into something spiritual. We may note that Socrates himself is not portrayed as someone who was free from passion to begin with. Instead, he is someone who has overcome his passions. His passionate but self-controlled nature partly explains his power over others. In the Phaedrus and Symposium, love is not merely the feeling usually given that name. Love is also the mystical contemplation of beauty and goodness. The same passion that may sink into filth can also rise to the greatest heights. It can reach the deepest secret of philosophy. The highest love is not love for a person, but for the highest and purest abstract ideal. This ideal is a distant heaven on which the mind's eye rests in loving wonder. Plato's teaching about love includes, consciously or unconsciously, all these ideas: the unity of truth and harmony among the world's conflicting elements. It includes the enthusiasm for knowledge as knowledge first dawned on humanity. It also includes how ideas relate to the human mind, and how the human mind relates to ideas. And it includes faith in the invisible and worship of eternal nature.

The successive speeches in praise of love are characteristic of the speakers, and contribute in various degrees to the final result; they are all designed to prepare the way for Socrates, who gathers up the threads anew, and skims the highest points of each of them. But they are not to be regarded as the stages of an idea, rising above one another to a climax. They are fanciful, partly facetious performances, 'yet also having a certain measure of seriousness,' which the successive speakers dedicate to the god. All of them are rhetorical and poetical rather than dialectical, but glimpses of truth appear in them. When Eryximachus says that the principles of music are simple in themselves, but confused in their application, he touches lightly upon a difficulty which has troubled the moderns as well as the ancients in music, and may be extended to the other applied sciences. That confusion begins in the concrete, was the natural feeling of a mind dwelling in the world of ideas. When Pausanias remarks that personal attachments are inimical to despots. The experience of Greek history confirms the truth of his remark. When Aristophanes declares that love is the desire of the whole, he expresses a feeling not unlike that of the German philosopher, who says that 'philosophy is home sickness.' When Agathon says that no man 'can be wronged of his own free will,' he is alluding playfully to a serious problem of Greek philosophy (compare Arist. Nic. Ethics). So naturally does Plato mingle jest and earnest, truth and opinion in the same work.

The speeches praising love reflect each speaker’s character and contribute in different degrees to the final result. All prepare the way for Socrates, who draws their threads together again and picks out each speech’s highest points. But the speeches should not be seen as stages of an idea, each rising above the last toward a climax. They are imaginative, partly humorous performances, 'yet also having a certain measure of seriousness,' offered by each speaker to the god. All rely more on rhetoric and poetry than on logical argument, but all offer glimpses of truth. Eryximachus says that the principles of music are simple in themselves but become confused in practice. He briefly touches on a difficulty that has troubled both modern and ancient thinkers about music. The same difficulty may extend to the other applied sciences. A mind focused on the world of ideas would naturally feel that confusion begins with concrete examples. Pausanias remarks that personal attachments threaten despots. Greek history confirms the truth of his remark. Aristophanes declares that love is the desire for wholeness. He expresses a feeling much like that of the German philosopher who says that 'philosophy is homesickness.' Agathon says that no one 'can be wronged of his own free will.' He playfully refers to a serious problem in Greek philosophy (compare Arist. Nic. Ethics). So naturally does Plato mix humor and seriousness, truth and opinion in the same work.

The characters—of Phaedrus, who has been the cause of more philosophical discussions than any other man, with the exception of Simmias the Theban (Phaedrus); of Aristophanes, who disguises under comic imagery a serious purpose; of Agathon, who in later life is satirized by Aristophanes in the Thesmophoriazusae, for his effeminate manners and the feeble rhythms of his verse; of Alcibiades, who is the same strange contrast of great powers and great vices, which meets us in history—are drawn to the life; and we may suppose the less-known characters of Pausanias and Eryximachus to be also true to the traditional recollection of them (compare Phaedr., Protag.; and compare Sympos. with Phaedr.). We may also remark that Aristodemus is called 'the little' in Xenophon's Memorabilia (compare Symp.).

Phaedrus has inspired more philosophical discussions than any other man except Simmias the Theban (Phaedrus). Aristophanes hides a serious purpose beneath comic imagery. Agathon is later mocked by Aristophanes in the Thesmophoriazusae for his effeminate manners and the weak rhythms of his verse. Alcibiades shows the same strange combination of great abilities and great vices that we find in historical accounts. These characters are portrayed with lifelike accuracy. We may suppose that the less familiar Pausanias and Eryximachus also reflect traditional memories of them accurately (compare Phaedr., Protag.; and compare Sympos. with Phaedr.). We may also note that Aristodemus is called 'the little' in Xenophon's Memorabilia (compare Symp.).

The speeches have been said to follow each other in pairs: Phaedrus and Pausanias being the ethical, Eryximachus and Aristophanes the physical speakers, while in Agathon and Socrates poetry and philosophy blend together. The speech of Phaedrus is also described as the mythological, that of Pausanias as the political, that of Eryximachus as the scientific, that of Aristophanes as the artistic (!), that of Socrates as the philosophical. But these and similar distinctions are not found in Plato;—they are the points of view of his critics, and seem to impede rather than to assist us in understanding him.

The speeches have been described as following one another in pairs. In this view, Phaedrus and Pausanias focus on ethics, while Eryximachus and Aristophanes focus on the physical world. In Agathon and Socrates, poetry and philosophy blend together. Phaedrus’s speech has also been called mythological, Pausanias’s political, Eryximachus’s scientific, Aristophanes’s artistic (!), and Socrates’s philosophical. But these distinctions, and others like them, do not come from Plato. They reflect his critics’ views and seem to hinder rather than help our understanding of him.

When the turn of Socrates comes round he cannot be allowed to disturb the arrangement made at first. With the leave of Phaedrus he asks a few questions, and then he throws his argument into the form of a speech (compare Gorg., Protag.). But his speech is really the narrative of a dialogue between himself and Diotima. And as at a banquet good manners would not allow him to win a victory either over his host or any of the guests, the superiority which he gains over Agathon is ingeniously represented as having been already gained over himself by her. The artifice has the further advantage of maintaining his accustomed profession of ignorance (compare Menex.). Even his knowledge of the mysteries of love, to which he lays claim here and elsewhere (Lys.), is given by Diotima.

When Socrates’ turn comes, he cannot be allowed to disrupt the arrangement agreed on at the start. With Phaedrus’ permission, he asks a few questions and then presents his argument as a speech (compare Gorg., Protag.). But his speech is really an account of a dialogue between himself and Diotima. At a banquet, good manners would not allow him to defeat either his host or any of the guests. So his victory over Agathon is cleverly presented as a victory Diotima had already won over Socrates himself. This device also allows Socrates to maintain his usual claim of ignorance (compare Menex.). Even his knowledge of the mysteries of love comes from Diotima, though he claims that knowledge here and elsewhere (Lys.).

The speeches are attested to us by the very best authority. The madman Apollodorus, who for three years past has made a daily study of the actions of Socrates—to whom the world is summed up in the words 'Great is Socrates'—he has heard them from another 'madman,' Aristodemus, who was the 'shadow' of Socrates in days of old, like him going about barefooted, and who had been present at the time. 'Would you desire better witness?' The extraordinary narrative of Alcibiades is ingeniously represented as admitted by Socrates, whose silence when he is invited to contradict gives consent to the narrator. We may observe, by the way, (1) how the very appearance of Aristodemus by himself is a sufficient indication to Agathon that Socrates has been left behind; also, (2) how the courtesy of Agathon anticipates the excuse which Socrates was to have made on Aristodemus' behalf for coming uninvited; (3) how the story of the fit or trance of Socrates is confirmed by the mention which Alcibiades makes of a similar fit of abstraction occurring when he was serving with the army at Potidaea; like (4) the drinking powers of Socrates and his love of the fair, which receive a similar attestation in the concluding scene; or the attachment of Aristodemus, who is not forgotten when Socrates takes his departure. (5) We may notice the manner in which Socrates himself regards the first five speeches, not as true, but as fanciful and exaggerated encomiums of the god Love; (6) the satirical character of them, shown especially in the appeals to mythology, in the reasons which are given by Zeus for reconstructing the frame of man, or by the Boeotians and Eleans for encouraging male loves; (7) the ruling passion of Socrates for dialectics, who will argue with Agathon instead of making a speech, and will only speak at all upon the condition that he is allowed to speak the truth. We may note also the touch of Socratic irony, (8) which admits of a wide application and reveals a deep insight into the world:—that in speaking of holy things and persons there is a general understanding that you should praise them, not that you should speak the truth about them—this is the sort of praise which Socrates is unable to give. Lastly, (9) we may remark that the banquet is a real banquet after all, at which love is the theme of discourse, and huge quantities of wine are drunk.

The speeches come to us through the very best authority. The madman Apollodorus has spent the past three years studying Socrates’ actions every day. For him, the whole world comes down to the words 'Great is Socrates'. He heard the speeches from another 'madman,' Aristodemus, who had been Socrates’ 'shadow' in earlier days. Like Socrates, Aristodemus went barefoot, and he had been present at the gathering. 'Could you ask for a better witness?' Alcibiades’ extraordinary account is cleverly presented as accepted by Socrates. When invited to contradict Alcibiades, Socrates remains silent, giving his consent to the account. We may notice, in passing, (1) that Aristodemus’ arrival alone is enough to tell Agathon that Socrates has stayed behind. Also, (2) Agathon’s courtesy makes unnecessary the excuse Socrates was going to offer for Aristodemus’ uninvited arrival. (3) The story of Socrates’ trance is confirmed when Alcibiades describes a similar spell of deep absorption. That spell occurred while Socrates was serving in the army at Potidaea. Similarly, (4) the final scene confirms Socrates’ capacity for drinking and his love of beautiful people. It also confirms Aristodemus’ devotion to Socrates, who does not forget Aristodemus when he leaves. (5) We may notice how Socrates himself views the first five speeches. He sees them not as truthful accounts, but as fanciful and exaggerated praise of the god Love. (6) We may also notice their satirical nature, especially in their appeals to mythology. Examples include Zeus’s reasons for reshaping the human body and the Boeotians’ and Eleans’ reasons for encouraging love between men. (7) Socrates’ overriding passion is for philosophical debate. He insists on questioning Agathon instead of giving a speech. He will speak at all only if he is allowed to tell the truth. We may also notice (8) a touch of Socratic irony that applies widely and shows deep insight into the world. When speaking of sacred things and people, everyone understands that you should praise them, not tell the truth about them. This is the kind of praise Socrates cannot give. Finally, (9) we may observe that the banquet is a real banquet after all. Love is the subject of conversation, and enormous quantities of wine are drunk.

The discourse of Phaedrus is half-mythical, half-ethical; and he himself, true to the character which is given him in the Dialogue bearing his name, is half-sophist, half-enthusiast. He is the critic of poetry also, who compares Homer and Aeschylus in the insipid and irrational manner of the schools of the day, characteristically reasoning about the probability of matters which do not admit of reasoning. He starts from a noble text: 'That without the sense of honour and dishonour neither states nor individuals ever do any good or great work.' But he soon passes on to more common-place topics. The antiquity of love, the blessing of having a lover, the incentive which love offers to daring deeds, the examples of Alcestis and Achilles, are the chief themes of his discourse. The love of women is regarded by him as almost on an equality with that of men; and he makes the singular remark that the gods favour the return of love which is made by the beloved more than the original sentiment, because the lover is of a nobler and diviner nature.

Phaedrus’s speech is half myth, half moral argument. He himself is half-sophist, half-enthusiast, true to his character in the Dialogue named after him. He also acts as a poetry critic, comparing Homer and Aeschylus in the dull, illogical manner of the schools of his day. Typically, he reasons about the likelihood of things that cannot be judged through reasoning. He begins with a noble principle: 'Without a sense of honour and dishonour, neither states nor individuals ever accomplish anything good or great.' But he soon turns to more ordinary topics. His main themes are love’s ancient origins, the blessing of having a lover, and love’s power to inspire daring deeds. He also discusses the examples of Alcestis and Achilles. He considers love for women almost equal to love for men. And he makes the unusual claim that the gods favour the beloved’s returned love more than the lover’s original feeling. This, he says, is because the lover has a nobler and more divine nature.

There is something of a sophistical ring in the speech of Phaedrus, which recalls the first speech in imitation of Lysias, occurring in the Dialogue called the Phaedrus. This is still more marked in the speech of Pausanias which follows; and which is at once hyperlogical in form and also extremely confused and pedantic. Plato is attacking the logical feebleness of the sophists and rhetoricians, through their pupils, not forgetting by the way to satirize the monotonous and unmeaning rhythms which Prodicus and others were introducing into Attic prose (compare Protag.). Of course, he is 'playing both sides of the game,' as in the Gorgias and Phaedrus; but it is not necessary in order to understand him that we should discuss the fairness of his mode of proceeding. The love of Pausanias for Agathon has already been touched upon in the Protagoras, and is alluded to by Aristophanes. Hence he is naturally the upholder of male loves, which, like all the other affections or actions of men, he regards as varying according to the manner of their performance. Like the sophists and like Plato himself, though in a different sense, he begins his discussion by an appeal to mythology, and distinguishes between the elder and younger love. The value which he attributes to such loves as motives to virtue and philosophy is at variance with modern and Christian notions, but is in accordance with Hellenic sentiment. The opinion of Christendom has not altogether condemned passionate friendships between persons of the same sex, but has certainly not encouraged them, because though innocent in themselves in a few temperaments they are liable to degenerate into fearful evil. Pausanias is very earnest in the defence of such loves; and he speaks of them as generally approved among Hellenes and disapproved by barbarians. His speech is 'more words than matter,' and might have been composed by a pupil of Lysias or of Prodicus, although there is no hint given that Plato is specially referring to them. As Eryximachus says, 'he makes a fair beginning, but a lame ending.'

Phaedrus’s speech has something of the sophists’ style. It recalls the first speech imitating Lysias in the dialogue called the Phaedrus. This style is even more noticeable in the next speech, by Pausanias. His speech is overly logical in form, yet also extremely confused and pedantic. Through their pupils, Plato attacks the weak logic of the sophists and rhetoricians. Along the way, he also mocks the monotonous, meaningless rhythms that Prodicus and others were introducing into Attic prose (compare Protag.). Of course, he is 'playing both sides of the game,' as in the Gorgias and Phaedrus. But we need not discuss the fairness of his approach to understand him. Pausanias’s love for Agathon has already been mentioned in the Protagoras, and Aristophanes refers to it too. So Pausanias naturally defends love between males. Like all other human affections or actions, he considers such love good or bad according to how people practise it. Like the sophists and Plato himself, though in a different sense, he begins his discussion by appealing to mythology. He distinguishes between the older and younger love. He values such loves as motives for virtue and philosophy. This view conflicts with modern and Christian ideas, but agrees with Hellenic feeling. Christian opinion has not entirely condemned passionate friendships between people of the same sex. But it has certainly not encouraged such friendships. For people of a few temperaments, these friendships are innocent in themselves, but they can deteriorate into terrible evil. Pausanias defends such loves very earnestly. He describes them as generally approved among Hellenes and disapproved among barbarians. His speech is 'more words than matter,' and could have been written by a pupil of Lysias or Prodicus. Still, nothing suggests that Plato is referring specifically to either of them. As Eryximachus says, 'he makes a fair beginning, but a lame ending.'

Plato transposes the two next speeches, as in the Republic he would transpose the virtues and the mathematical sciences. This is done partly to avoid monotony, partly for the sake of making Aristophanes 'the cause of wit in others,' and also in order to bring the comic and tragic poet into juxtaposition, as if by accident. A suitable 'expectation' of Aristophanes is raised by the ludicrous circumstance of his having the hiccough, which is appropriately cured by his substitute, the physician Eryximachus. To Eryximachus Love is the good physician; he sees everything as an intelligent physicist, and, like many professors of his art in modern times, attempts to reduce the moral to the physical; or recognises one law of love which pervades them both. There are loves and strifes of the body as well as of the mind. Like Hippocrates the Asclepiad, he is a disciple of Heracleitus, whose conception of the harmony of opposites he explains in a new way as the harmony after discord; to his common sense, as to that of many moderns as well as ancients, the identity of contradictories is an absurdity. His notion of love may be summed up as the harmony of man with himself in soul as well as body, and of all things in heaven and earth with one another.

Plato reverses the order of the next two speeches, just as he rearranges the virtues and mathematical sciences in the Republic. He does so partly to avoid monotony and partly to make Aristophanes 'the cause of wit in others.' He also brings the comic and tragic poets side by side, as if by accident. The ridiculous fact that Aristophanes has the hiccups creates a suitable 'expectation' of him. Fittingly, his replacement as speaker, the physician Eryximachus, cures the hiccups. To Eryximachus, Love is the good physician. He views everything as an intelligent student of the physical world. Like many doctors in modern times, he tries to explain moral matters in physical terms. Or he recognizes a single law of love running through both. There are loves and conflicts in the body as well as in the mind. Like Hippocrates the Asclepiad, Eryximachus is a follower of Heracleitus. He gives Heracleitus's idea of the harmony of opposites a new meaning: harmony following discord. To his common sense, opposites being identical is absurd, as it is to many modern and ancient thinkers. His idea of love may be summed up as people's harmony with themselves, in both soul and body. It also includes the harmony of all things in heaven and earth with one another.

Aristophanes is ready to laugh and make laugh before he opens his mouth, just as Socrates, true to his character, is ready to argue before he begins to speak. He expresses the very genius of the old comedy, its coarse and forcible imagery, and the licence of its language in speaking about the gods. He has no sophistical notions about love, which is brought back by him to its common-sense meaning of love between intelligent beings. His account of the origin of the sexes has the greatest (comic) probability and verisimilitude. Nothing in Aristophanes is more truly Aristophanic than the description of the human monster whirling round on four arms and four legs, eight in all, with incredible rapidity. Yet there is a mixture of earnestness in this jest; three serious principles seem to be insinuated:—first, that man cannot exist in isolation; he must be reunited if he is to be perfected: secondly, that love is the mediator and reconciler of poor, divided human nature: thirdly, that the loves of this world are an indistinct anticipation of an ideal union which is not yet realized.

Aristophanes is ready to laugh and make others laugh before he even opens his mouth. Just as naturally, Socrates is ready to argue before he begins to speak. Aristophanes captures the very spirit of old comedy, with its crude, powerful imagery and uninhibited language about the gods. He has no love for clever but misleading theories about love. Instead, he brings love back to its common-sense meaning: love between intelligent beings. His account of how the sexes originated is as convincing and lifelike as a comic story could be. Nothing in Aristophanes is more characteristic of him than his description of the human monster spinning with incredible speed. The creature spins on four arms and four legs, eight limbs in all. Yet there is some seriousness in this joke. Three serious principles seem to be suggested. First, human beings cannot exist in isolation. They must be reunited if they are to become complete. Second, love mediates and reconciles our poor, divided human nature. Third, the loves of this world offer a faint preview of an ideal union not yet achieved.

The speech of Agathon is conceived in a higher strain, and receives the real, if half-ironical, approval of Socrates. It is the speech of the tragic poet and a sort of poem, like tragedy, moving among the gods of Olympus, and not among the elder or Orphic deities. In the idea of the antiquity of love he cannot agree; love is not of the olden time, but present and youthful ever. The speech may be compared with that speech of Socrates in the Phaedrus in which he describes himself as talking dithyrambs. It is at once a preparation for Socrates and a foil to him. The rhetoric of Agathon elevates the soul to 'sunlit heights,' but at the same time contrasts with the natural and necessary eloquence of Socrates. Agathon contributes the distinction between love and the works of love, and also hints incidentally that love is always of beauty, which Socrates afterwards raises into a principle. While the consciousness of discord is stronger in the comic poet Aristophanes, Agathon, the tragic poet, has a deeper sense of harmony and reconciliation, and speaks of Love as the creator and artist.

Agathon’s speech takes a more elevated tone and wins Socrates’ genuine, though half-ironic, approval. It is a tragic poet’s speech and a kind of poem. Like tragedy, it moves among the gods of Olympus, not the older or Orphic gods. Agathon cannot agree with the idea that love is ancient. Love does not belong to the distant past, but is always present and young. His speech may be compared with Socrates’ speech in the Phaedrus, where Socrates describes himself as speaking in dithyrambs. Agathon’s speech both prepares the way for Socrates and provides a contrast to him. Agathon’s rhetoric lifts the soul to 'sunlit heights,' but also contrasts with Socrates’ natural eloquence, which flows necessarily from his argument. Agathon introduces the distinction between love itself and the works of love. He also hints in passing that love is always directed toward beauty. Socrates later develops this idea into a principle. While the comic poet Aristophanes feels discord more strongly, Agathon, the tragic poet, has a deeper sense of harmony and reconciliation. Agathon speaks of Love as the creator and artist.

All the earlier speeches embody common opinions coloured with a tinge of philosophy. They furnish the material out of which Socrates proceeds to form his discourse, starting, as in other places, from mythology and the opinions of men. From Phaedrus he takes the thought that love is stronger than death; from Pausanias, that the true love is akin to intellect and political activity; from Eryximachus, that love is a universal phenomenon and the great power of nature; from Aristophanes, that love is the child of want, and is not merely the love of the congenial or of the whole, but (as he adds) of the good; from Agathon, that love is of beauty, not however of beauty only, but of birth in beauty. As it would be out of character for Socrates to make a lengthened harangue, the speech takes the form of a dialogue between Socrates and a mysterious woman of foreign extraction. She elicits the final truth from one who knows nothing, and who, speaking by the lips of another, and himself a despiser of rhetoric, is proved also to be the most consummate of rhetoricians (compare Menexenus).

All the earlier speeches express common opinions with a touch of philosophy. They provide the material Socrates uses to build his speech. As elsewhere, he begins with mythology and people’s opinions. From Phaedrus he takes the idea that love is stronger than death. From Pausanias, he takes the idea that true love is closely related to intellect and political activity. From Eryximachus, he takes the idea that love is a universal phenomenon and the great power of nature. From Aristophanes, he takes the idea that love is born of need. Love does not seek only what is kindred or what makes a whole, but, as Socrates adds, what is good. From Agathon, he takes the idea that love seeks beauty. But love seeks not beauty alone, but birth in beauty. Since a long speech would be out of character for Socrates, his speech takes the form of a dialogue. Socrates speaks with a mysterious woman from another country. She draws the final truth from someone who knows nothing. Socrates speaks through another person’s lips and despises rhetoric. Yet he also proves to be the most accomplished master of rhetoric (compare Menexenus).

The last of the six discourses begins with a short argument which overthrows not only Agathon but all the preceding speakers by the help of a distinction which has escaped them. Extravagant praises have been ascribed to Love as the author of every good; no sort of encomium was too high for him, whether deserved and true or not. But Socrates has no talent for speaking anything but the truth, and if he is to speak the truth of Love he must honestly confess that he is not a good at all: for love is of the good, and no man can desire that which he has. This piece of dialectics is ascribed to Diotima, who has already urged upon Socrates the argument which he urges against Agathon. That the distinction is a fallacy is obvious; it is almost acknowledged to be so by Socrates himself. For he who has beauty or good may desire more of them; and he who has beauty or good in himself may desire beauty and good in others. The fallacy seems to arise out of a confusion between the abstract ideas of good and beauty, which do not admit of degrees, and their partial realization in individuals.

The last of the six speeches begins with a short argument that overturns Agathon’s claims and those of all the earlier speakers. The argument relies on a distinction that all of them have missed. Love has received extravagant praise as the source of every good thing. No praise was too high for him, whether deserved and true or not. But Socrates has no talent for saying anything but the truth. And if he is to tell the truth about Love, he must honestly admit that Love is not good at all. For love desires what is good, and no one can desire what they already have. This line of reasoning is attributed to Diotima. She has already presented Socrates with the argument he uses against Agathon. The flaw in the distinction is obvious. Socrates himself almost admits that the distinction is flawed. For someone who has beauty or goodness may desire more of either. And someone who has beauty or goodness within themselves may desire beauty and goodness in others. The error seems to come from confusing the abstract ideas of goodness and beauty with their partial expression in individuals. These abstract ideas do not allow for degrees of goodness or beauty.

But Diotima, the prophetess of Mantineia, whose sacred and superhuman character raises her above the ordinary proprieties of women, has taught Socrates far more than this about the art and mystery of love. She has taught him that love is another aspect of philosophy. The same want in the human soul which is satisfied in the vulgar by the procreation of children, may become the highest aspiration of intellectual desire. As the Christian might speak of hungering and thirsting after righteousness; or of divine loves under the figure of human (compare Eph. 'This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church'); as the mediaeval saint might speak of the 'fruitio Dei;' as Dante saw all things contained in his love of Beatrice, so Plato would have us absorb all other loves and desires in the love of knowledge. Here is the beginning of Neoplatonism, or rather, perhaps, a proof (of which there are many) that the so-called mysticism of the East was not strange to the Greek of the fifth century before Christ. The first tumult of the affections was not wholly subdued; there were longings of a creature moving about in worlds not realized, which no art could satisfy. To most men reason and passion appear to be antagonistic both in idea and fact. The union of the greatest comprehension of knowledge and the burning intensity of love is a contradiction in nature, which may have existed in a far-off primeval age in the mind of some Hebrew prophet or other Eastern sage, but has now become an imagination only. Yet this 'passion of the reason' is the theme of the Symposium of Plato. And as there is no impossibility in supposing that 'one king, or son of a king, may be a philosopher,' so also there is a probability that there may be some few—perhaps one or two in a whole generation—in whom the light of truth may not lack the warmth of desire. And if there be such natures, no one will be disposed to deny that 'from them flow most of the benefits of individuals and states;' and even from imperfect combinations of the two elements in teachers or statesmen great good may often arise.

But Diotima, the prophetess of Mantineia, has taught Socrates far more than this about the art and mystery of love. Her sacred, superhuman nature places her above the usual rules of proper conduct for women. She has taught him that love is another aspect of philosophy. In ordinary people, a need in the human soul is satisfied by having children. That same need may become the highest form of intellectual longing. A Christian might speak of hungering and thirsting for righteousness, or describe divine love through images of human love. Compare the passage in Ephesians: 'This is a great mystery, but I speak concerning Christ and the church'. A medieval saint might speak of the 'fruitio Dei', the enjoyment of God. Dante saw all things contained in his love for Beatrice. In the same way, Plato would have us absorb all other loves and desires into the love of knowledge. Here is the beginning of Neoplatonism. Or perhaps it is further evidence that fifth-century BC Greeks were familiar with the so-called mysticism of the East. There are many such pieces of evidence. The first turmoil of feeling had not been entirely calmed. There were longings no art could satisfy, the longings of a being moving through worlds not yet realized. To most people, reason and passion seem opposed both in principle and in practice. The union of the broadest knowledge with the burning intensity of love seems a contradiction in nature. Such a union may have existed long ago, in some Hebrew prophet or other Eastern sage. But now it has become something that exists only in the imagination. Yet this 'passion of the reason' is the theme of Plato's Symposium. There is nothing impossible in supposing that 'one king, or son of a king, may be a philosopher'. Likewise, there is reason to believe that a few people may combine the light of truth with the warmth of desire. Perhaps there are only one or two such people in a whole generation. And if such people exist, no one will be inclined to deny the claim about their influence: 'from them flow most of the benefits of individuals and states'. Even imperfect combinations of reason and passion in teachers or statesmen may often produce great good.

Yet there is a higher region in which love is not only felt, but satisfied, in the perfect beauty of eternal knowledge, beginning with the beauty of earthly things, and at last reaching a beauty in which all existence is seen to be harmonious and one. The limited affection is enlarged, and enabled to behold the ideal of all things. And here the highest summit which is reached in the Symposium is seen also to be the highest summit which is attained in the Republic, but approached from another side; and there is 'a way upwards and downwards,' which is the same and not the same in both. The ideal beauty of the one is the ideal good of the other; regarded not with the eye of knowledge, but of faith and desire; and they are respectively the source of beauty and the source of good in all other things. And by the steps of a 'ladder reaching to heaven' we pass from images of visible beauty (Greek), and from the hypotheses of the Mathematical sciences, which are not yet based upon the idea of good, through the concrete to the abstract, and, by different paths arriving, behold the vision of the eternal (compare Symp. (Greek) Republic (Greek) also Phaedrus). Under one aspect 'the idea is love'; under another, 'truth.' In both the lover of wisdom is the 'spectator of all time and of all existence.' This is a 'mystery' in which Plato also obscurely intimates the union of the spiritual and fleshly, the interpenetration of the moral and intellectual faculties.

Yet there is a higher realm where love is not only felt but satisfied in the perfect beauty of eternal knowledge. Love begins with the beauty of earthly things. It finally reaches a beauty in which all existence appears harmonious and united. Limited affection expands, allowing us to see the ideal of all things. Here, the highest point reached in the Symposium is also the highest point reached in the Republic. But each work approaches this point from a different direction. Both offer 'a way upwards and downwards,' and this way is both the same and different in the two works. The ideal beauty of the Symposium is the ideal good of the Republic. But this beauty is viewed through faith and desire, not knowledge. These ideals are, respectively, the source of beauty and the source of good in all other things. We climb the steps of a 'ladder reaching to heaven' by two paths. One begins with images of visible beauty (Greek). The other begins with the assumptions of the Mathematical sciences, not yet grounded in the idea of good. We move from the concrete to the abstract and, arriving by different paths, see the eternal. (Compare Symp. (Greek) Republic (Greek) also Phaedrus.) From one perspective, 'the idea is love'. From another, it is 'truth.' In both works, the lover of wisdom is the 'spectator of all time and of all existence.' This vision is a 'mystery' through which Plato also hints obscurely at the union of the spiritual and the bodily. He also hints at how the moral and intellectual faculties permeate each other.

The divine image of beauty which resides within Socrates has been revealed; the Silenus, or outward man, has now to be exhibited. The description of Socrates follows immediately after the speech of Socrates; one is the complement of the other. At the height of divine inspiration, when the force of nature can no further go, by way of contrast to this extreme idealism, Alcibiades, accompanied by a troop of revellers and a flute-girl, staggers in, and being drunk is able to tell of things which he would have been ashamed to make known if he had been sober. The state of his affections towards Socrates, unintelligible to us and perverted as they appear, affords an illustration of the power ascribed to the loves of man in the speech of Pausanias. He does not suppose his feelings to be peculiar to himself: there are several other persons in the company who have been equally in love with Socrates, and like himself have been deceived by him. The singular part of this confession is the combination of the most degrading passion with the desire of virtue and improvement. Such an union is not wholly untrue to human nature, which is capable of combining good and evil in a degree beyond what we can easily conceive. In imaginative persons, especially, the God and beast in man seem to part asunder more than is natural in a well-regulated mind. The Platonic Socrates (for of the real Socrates this may be doubted: compare his public rebuke of Critias for his shameful love of Euthydemus in Xenophon, Memorabilia) does not regard the greatest evil of Greek life as a thing not to be spoken of; but it has a ridiculous element (Plato's Symp.), and is a subject for irony, no less than for moral reprobation (compare Plato's Symp.). It is also used as a figure of speech which no one interpreted literally (compare Xen. Symp.). Nor does Plato feel any repugnance, such as would be felt in modern times, at bringing his great master and hero into connexion with nameless crimes. He is contented with representing him as a saint, who has won 'the Olympian victory' over the temptations of human nature. The fault of taste, which to us is so glaring and which was recognized by the Greeks of a later age (Athenaeus), was not perceived by Plato himself. We are still more surprised to find that the philosopher is incited to take the first step in his upward progress (Symp.) by the beauty of young men and boys, which was alone capable of inspiring the modern feeling of romance in the Greek mind. The passion of love took the spurious form of an enthusiasm for the ideal of beauty—a worship as of some godlike image of an Apollo or Antinous. But the love of youth when not depraved was a love of virtue and modesty as well as of beauty, the one being the expression of the other; and in certain Greek states, especially at Sparta and Thebes, the honourable attachment of a youth to an elder man was a part of his education. The 'army of lovers and their beloved who would be invincible if they could be united by such a tie' (Symp.), is not a mere fiction of Plato's, but seems actually to have existed at Thebes in the days of Epaminondas and Pelopidas, if we may believe writers cited anonymously by Plutarch, Pelop. Vit. It is observable that Plato never in the least degree excuses the depraved love of the body (compare Charm.; Rep.; Laws; Symp.; and once more Xenophon, Mem.), nor is there any Greek writer of mark who condones or approves such connexions. But owing partly to the puzzling nature of the subject these friendships are spoken of by Plato in a manner different from that customary among ourselves. To most of them we should hesitate to ascribe, any more than to the attachment of Achilles and Patroclus in Homer, an immoral or licentious character. There were many, doubtless, to whom the love of the fair mind was the noblest form of friendship (Rep.), and who deemed the friendship of man with man to be higher than the love of woman, because altogether separated from the bodily appetites. The existence of such attachments may be reasonably attributed to the inferiority and seclusion of woman, and the want of a real family or social life and parental influence in Hellenic cities; and they were encouraged by the practice of gymnastic exercises, by the meetings of political clubs, and by the tie of military companionship. They were also an educational institution: a young person was specially entrusted by his parents to some elder friend who was expected by them to train their son in manly exercises and in virtue. It is not likely that a Greek parent committed him to a lover, any more than we should to a schoolmaster, in the expectation that he would be corrupted by him, but rather in the hope that his morals would be better cared for than was possible in a great household of slaves.

The divine image of beauty within Socrates has been revealed. Now the Silenus, or outward man, must be shown. The description of Socrates comes immediately after his speech. Each complements the other. Divine inspiration has reached its height, and human nature can go no further. At this point, Alcibiades staggers in with a group of revellers and a flute-girl, contrasting with this extreme idealism. Because he is drunk, he can reveal things he would have been ashamed to disclose when sober. His feelings toward Socrates seem incomprehensible and perverted to us. Yet those feelings illustrate the power Pausanias attributes to love between men in his speech. Alcibiades does not think his feelings are unique. Several others present have been equally in love with Socrates and, like Alcibiades, have been deceived by him. The strange feature of this confession is its combination of the most degrading passion with a desire for virtue and self-improvement. Such a combination is not entirely foreign to human nature. Human beings can combine good and evil to a degree we cannot easily imagine. In imaginative people especially, the god and beast within seem more sharply divided than in a well-balanced mind. Plato's Socrates does not treat the greatest evil of Greek life as something that must never be discussed. Whether the real Socrates shared this attitude is doubtful. Compare his public rebuke of Critias for his shameful love of Euthydemus in Xenophon, Memorabilia. For Plato's Socrates, this evil also has a ridiculous side (Plato's Symp.). It invites irony as well as moral condemnation (compare Plato's Symp.). It also serves as a figure of speech that no one took literally (compare Xen. Symp.). Nor does Plato feel the disgust a modern writer would feel at linking his great teacher and hero with unspeakable crimes. Plato is content to portray Socrates as a saint who has won 'the Olympian victory' over human temptation. To us, this lapse in taste is glaring. Greeks of a later age also recognized it (Athenaeus), but Plato himself did not. Even more surprising is the beauty that prompts the philosopher's first step upward (Symp.). It is the beauty of young men and boys. Only such beauty could inspire in the Greek mind what we now think of as romantic feeling. The passion of love took the false form of enthusiasm for ideal beauty. It became worship, as if directed toward some godlike image of an Apollo or Antinous. But when love of youth was not corrupted, it embraced virtue and modesty as well as beauty. Beauty was the expression of those qualities. In certain Greek states, especially Sparta and Thebes, a youth's honourable attachment to an older man formed part of his education. The 'army of lovers and their beloved who would be invincible if they could be united by such a tie' (Symp.) is not merely Plato's invention. Such an army seems actually to have existed at Thebes in the days of Epaminondas and Pelopidas. This depends on whether we can believe writers whom Plutarch cites without naming them in Pelop. Vit. It is worth noting that Plato never excuses corrupt physical love in the slightest. Compare Charm., Rep., Laws, Symp., and, once again, Xenophon, Mem. Nor does any notable Greek writer condone or approve such relationships. But partly because the subject is puzzling, Plato discusses these friendships differently from the way we usually do. We would hesitate to call most of these friendships immoral or sexually unrestrained. We would feel the same hesitation about Achilles and Patroclus's attachment in Homer. Many people undoubtedly considered love of a beautiful mind the noblest form of friendship (Rep.). They believed friendship between men was higher than love for a woman because it was entirely separate from physical desires. Such attachments can reasonably be traced to women's lower status and seclusion in Hellenic cities. Other causes were the lack of a real family or social life and the lack of parental influence. Gymnastic exercises, political club meetings, and military companionship also encouraged these attachments. These relationships also served an educational purpose. Parents would place a young person in the special care of an older friend. They expected this friend to train their son in manly exercises and virtue. A Greek parent was no more likely to entrust his son to a lover expecting corruption than we would to a schoolmaster. Rather, the parent hoped his son's morals would receive better care than was possible in a large household of slaves.

It is difficult to adduce the authority of Plato either for or against such practices or customs, because it is not always easy to determine whether he is speaking of 'the heavenly and philosophical love, or of the coarse Polyhymnia:' and he often refers to this (e.g. in the Symposium) half in jest, yet 'with a certain degree of seriousness.' We observe that they entered into one part of Greek literature, but not into another, and that the larger part is free from such associations. Indecency was an element of the ludicrous in the old Greek Comedy, as it has been in other ages and countries. But effeminate love was always condemned as well as ridiculed by the Comic poets; and in the New Comedy the allusions to such topics have disappeared. They seem to have been no longer tolerated by the greater refinement of the age. False sentiment is found in the Lyric and Elegiac poets; and in mythology 'the greatest of the Gods' (Rep.) is not exempt from evil imputations. But the morals of a nation are not to be judged of wholly by its literature. Hellas was not necessarily more corrupted in the days of the Persian and Peloponnesian wars, or of Plato and the Orators, than England in the time of Fielding and Smollett, or France in the nineteenth century. No one supposes certain French novels to be a representation of ordinary French life. And the greater part of Greek literature, beginning with Homer and including the tragedians, philosophers, and, with the exception of the Comic poets (whose business was to raise a laugh by whatever means), all the greater writers of Hellas who have been preserved to us, are free from the taint of indecency.

It is difficult to cite Plato as an authority either for or against such practices or customs. For it is not always clear whether he means 'heavenly and philosophical love, or the coarse love of Polyhymnia:' He often refers to such love half jokingly, yet 'with a certain degree of seriousness.' The Symposium is one example. We find these practices in one part of Greek literature but not in another. Most Greek literature is free from such associations. Indecency was part of the humor in old Greek Comedy, as in other times and countries. But the Comic poets always condemned as well as ridiculed effeminate love. In the New Comedy, references to such subjects have disappeared. Such references seem no longer to have been tolerated in that more refined age. False sentiment appears in the Lyric and Elegiac poets. And in mythology, even 'the greatest of the Gods' (Rep.) is not free from accusations of wrongdoing. But a nation's morals should not be judged entirely by its literature. Hellas was not necessarily more corrupt during the Persian and Peloponnesian wars, or in Plato's and the Orators' time. The comparison is with England in Fielding and Smollett's time, or France in the nineteenth century. No one thinks certain French novels represent ordinary French life. And most Greek literature is free from the taint of indecency, beginning with Homer and including the tragedians and philosophers. The same holds for all the other great writers of Hellas whose works survive, except the Comic poets. Their business was to get a laugh by whatever means they could.

Some general considerations occur to our mind when we begin to reflect on this subject. (1) That good and evil are linked together in human nature, and have often existed side by side in the world and in man to an extent hardly credible. We cannot distinguish them, and are therefore unable to part them; as in the parable 'they grow together unto the harvest:' it is only a rule of external decency by which society can divide them. Nor should we be right in inferring from the prevalence of any one vice or corruption that a state or individual was demoralized in their whole character. Not only has the corruption of the best been sometimes thought to be the worst, but it may be remarked that this very excess of evil has been the stimulus to good (compare Plato, Laws, where he says that in the most corrupt cities individuals are to be found beyond all praise). (2) It may be observed that evils which admit of degrees can seldom be rightly estimated, because under the same name actions of the most different degrees of culpability may be included. No charge is more easily set going than the imputation of secret wickedness (which cannot be either proved or disproved and often cannot be defined) when directed against a person of whom the world, or a section of it, is predisposed to think evil. And it is quite possible that the malignity of Greek scandal, aroused by some personal jealousy or party enmity, may have converted the innocent friendship of a great man for a noble youth into a connexion of another kind. Such accusations were brought against several of the leading men of Hellas, e.g. Cimon, Alcibiades, Critias, Demosthenes, Epaminondas: several of the Roman emperors were assailed by similar weapons which have been used even in our own day against statesmen of the highest character. (3) While we know that in this matter there is a great gulf fixed between Greek and Christian Ethics, yet, if we would do justice to the Greeks, we must also acknowledge that there was a greater outspokenness among them than among ourselves about the things which nature hides, and that the more frequent mention of such topics is not to be taken as the measure of the prevalence of offences, or as a proof of the general corruption of society. It is likely that every religion in the world has used words or practised rites in one age, which have become distasteful or repugnant to another. We cannot, though for different reasons, trust the representations either of Comedy or Satire; and still less of Christian Apologists. (4) We observe that at Thebes and Lacedemon the attachment of an elder friend to a beloved youth was often deemed to be a part of his education; and was encouraged by his parents—it was only shameful if it degenerated into licentiousness. Such we may believe to have been the tie which united Asophychus and Cephisodorus with the great Epaminondas in whose companionship they fell (Plutarch, Amat.; Athenaeus on the authority of Theopompus). (5) A small matter: there appears to be a difference of custom among the Greeks and among ourselves, as between ourselves and continental nations at the present time, in modes of salutation. We must not suspect evil in the hearty kiss or embrace of a male friend 'returning from the army at Potidaea' any more than in a similar salutation when practised by members of the same family. But those who make these admissions, and who regard, not without pity, the victims of such illusions in our own day, whose life has been blasted by them, may be none the less resolved that the natural and healthy instincts of mankind shall alone be tolerated (Greek); and that the lesson of manliness which we have inherited from our fathers shall not degenerate into sentimentalism or effeminacy. The possibility of an honourable connexion of this kind seems to have died out with Greek civilization. Among the Romans, and also among barbarians, such as the Celts and Persians, there is no trace of such attachments existing in any noble or virtuous form.

Some general points come to mind when we begin to reflect on this subject. (1) Good and evil are linked in human nature. They have often existed side by side, in the world and in individuals, to an almost unbelievable extent. We cannot distinguish good from evil, and so we cannot separate them. As the parable says, 'they grow together unto the harvest:' society can separate them only by outward standards of decency. Nor should we conclude that a state or individual is morally corrupt throughout because one vice or corruption is widespread. The corruption of the best has sometimes been thought the worst. Yet this very excess of evil may also have encouraged good. Compare Plato, Laws, where he says that even the most corrupt cities contain individuals whose goodness is beyond praise. (2) Evils that vary in degree can seldom be judged accurately. The same name may cover actions with very different degrees of blame. Few accusations spread more easily than claims of secret wickedness against someone whom the world, or part of it, already distrusts. Such wickedness can be neither proved nor disproved, and often cannot even be defined. Greek scandal could be malicious, stirred up by personal jealousy or political hostility. It is quite possible that such scandal turned a great man's innocent friendship with a noble youth into an alleged sexual relationship. Such accusations were made against several leading men of Hellas, including Cimon, Alcibiades, Critias, Demosthenes, and Epaminondas. Several Roman emperors were attacked with similar weapons. Even in our own day, such weapons have been used against statesmen of the highest character. (3) We know that Greek and Christian ethics differ profoundly on this subject. Yet, to judge the Greeks fairly, we must acknowledge that they spoke more openly than we do about what nature conceals. More frequent discussion of such subjects does not measure how common the offenses were or prove that society was generally corrupt. Every religion in the world has probably used words or practiced rites in one age that later ages found distasteful or repugnant. We cannot trust the accounts given by Comedy or Satire, though for different reasons. Still less can we trust those of Christian Apologists. (4) At Thebes and Lacedemon, an older friend's attachment to a beloved youth was often considered part of the youth's education. The youth's parents encouraged the attachment. It was shameful only if it became sexually unrestrained. We may believe that this kind of bond united Asophychus and Cephisodorus with the great Epaminondas. They fell in battle beside him (Plutarch, Amat., and Athenaeus, citing Theopompus). (5) One minor point concerns greetings. Greek customs seem to have differed from ours, just as ours differ from those of continental nations today. We must not suspect wrongdoing in a male friend's warm kiss or embrace when 'returning from the army at Potidaea'. Such a greeting is no more suspicious than the same greeting between members of a family. But people who accept these points may still insist that only humanity's natural and healthy instincts should be tolerated (Greek). They may pity those in our own day whose lives have been ruined by such illusions. Yet they may remain equally determined that our fathers' lesson in manliness should not decline into sentimentalism or effeminacy. The possibility of an honorable relationship of this kind seems to have died out with Greek civilization. Among the Romans, and among barbarians such as the Celts and Persians, no trace remains of such attachments in any noble or virtuous form.

(Compare Hoeck's Creta and the admirable and exhaustive article of Meier in Ersch and Grueber's Cyclopedia on this subject; Plutarch, Amatores; Athenaeus; Lysias contra Simonem; Aesch. c. Timarchum.)

(Compare Hoeck's Creta and Meier's excellent, comprehensive article on this subject in Ersch and Grueber's Cyclopedia. Also see Plutarch, Amatores, Athenaeus, Lysias contra Simonem, and Aesch. c. Timarchum.)

The character of Alcibiades in the Symposium is hardly less remarkable than that of Socrates, and agrees with the picture given of him in the first of the two Dialogues which are called by his name, and also with the slight sketch of him in the Protagoras. He is the impersonation of lawlessness—'the lion's whelp, who ought not to be reared in the city,' yet not without a certain generosity which gained the hearts of men,—strangely fascinated by Socrates, and possessed of a genius which might have been either the destruction or salvation of Athens. The dramatic interest of the character is heightened by the recollection of his after history. He seems to have been present to the mind of Plato in the description of the democratic man of the Republic (compare also Alcibiades 1).

Alcibiades’ character in the Symposium is hardly less remarkable than Socrates’ character. His portrayal matches the one in the first of the two Dialogues named after him. It also matches the brief sketch of him in the Protagoras. He embodies lawlessness, 'the lion's whelp, who ought not to be reared in the city,' yet has a certain generosity. This generosity won people’s hearts. He is strangely fascinated by Socrates and has a genius that might have either destroyed or saved Athens. Knowing his later history makes his character even more dramatically compelling. Plato seems to have had Alcibiades in mind when describing the democratic man in the Republic (compare also Alcibiades 1).

There is no criterion of the date of the Symposium, except that which is furnished by the allusion to the division of Arcadia after the destruction of Mantinea. This took place in the year B.C. 384, which is the forty-fourth year of Plato's life. The Symposium cannot therefore be regarded as a youthful work. As Mantinea was restored in the year 369, the composition of the Dialogue will probably fall between 384 and 369. Whether the recollection of the event is more likely to have been renewed at the destruction or restoration of the city, rather than at some intermediate period, is a consideration not worth raising.

The only clue to the date of the Symposium is its reference to Arcadia’s division after Mantinea’s destruction. This happened in 384 B.C., when Plato was in his forty-fourth year. The Symposium therefore cannot be considered an early work. Since Mantinea was restored in 369 B.C., the Dialogue was probably written between 384 and 369 B.C. There is no point asking when the event was more likely to have come back to mind: at the city’s destruction or restoration, rather than at some time in between.

The Symposium is connected with the Phaedrus both in style and subject; they are the only Dialogues of Plato in which the theme of love is discussed at length. In both of them philosophy is regarded as a sort of enthusiasm or madness; Socrates is himself 'a prophet new inspired' with Bacchanalian revelry, which, like his philosophy, he characteristically pretends to have derived not from himself but from others. The Phaedo also presents some points of comparison with the Symposium. For there, too, philosophy might be described as 'dying for love;' and there are not wanting many touches of humour and fancy, which remind us of the Symposium. But while the Phaedo and Phaedrus look backwards and forwards to past and future states of existence, in the Symposium there is no break between this world and another; and we rise from one to the other by a regular series of steps or stages, proceeding from the particulars of sense to the universal of reason, and from one universal to many, which are finally reunited in a single science (compare Rep.). At first immortality means only the succession of existences; even knowledge comes and goes. Then follows, in the language of the mysteries, a higher and a higher degree of initiation; at last we arrive at the perfect vision of beauty, not relative or changing, but eternal and absolute; not bounded by this world, or in or out of this world, but an aspect of the divine, extending over all things, and having no limit of space or time: this is the highest knowledge of which the human mind is capable. Plato does not go on to ask whether the individual is absorbed in the sea of light and beauty or retains his personality. Enough for him to have attained the true beauty or good, without enquiring precisely into the relation in which human beings stood to it. That the soul has such a reach of thought, and is capable of partaking of the eternal nature, seems to imply that she too is eternal (compare Phaedrus). But Plato does not distinguish the eternal in man from the eternal in the world or in God. He is willing to rest in the contemplation of the idea, which to him is the cause of all things (Rep.), and has no strength to go further.

The Symposium is connected with the Phaedrus in both style and subject. They are the only Dialogues of Plato that discuss love at length. In both, philosophy is seen as a kind of enthusiasm or madness. Socrates himself is 'a prophet new inspired' with Bacchanalian revelry. As with his philosophy, he characteristically pretends that this inspiration comes from others, not himself. The Phaedo also has some points in common with the Symposium. There, too, philosophy might be described as 'dying for love;' There are also many touches of humour and imagination that recall the Symposium. But the Phaedo and Phaedrus look backward and forward to past and future states of existence. In the Symposium, by contrast, there is no break between this world and another. We rise from one world to the other through an orderly series of steps or stages. We move from particular things perceived through the senses to the universal grasped by reason, then from one universal to many. These universals are finally reunited in a single field of knowledge (compare Rep.). At first, immortality means only a succession of existences. Even knowledge comes and goes. Then, in the language of the mysteries, we pass through higher and higher degrees of initiation. At last, we reach the perfect vision of beauty, not relative or changing, but eternal and absolute. This beauty is not bounded by this world, nor is it within or outside this world. Rather, beauty is an aspect of the divine, extending over all things, without limits of space or time. This vision is the highest knowledge the human mind can attain. Plato does not go on to ask whether the individual dissolves into this sea of light and beauty or remains distinct. For Plato, reaching true beauty or goodness is enough. He does not ask precisely how human beings relate to that beauty or goodness. The soul can reach such heights of thought and share in eternal nature. This ability seems to imply that the soul, too, is eternal (compare Phaedrus). But Plato does not distinguish what is eternal in humanity from what is eternal in the world or in God. He is content to contemplate the idea, which he sees as the cause of all things (Rep.). He has no strength to go further.

The Symposium of Xenophon, in which Socrates describes himself as a pander, and also discourses of the difference between sensual and sentimental love, likewise offers several interesting points of comparison. But the suspicion which hangs over other writings of Xenophon, and the numerous minute references to the Phaedrus and Symposium, as well as to some of the other writings of Plato, throw a doubt on the genuineness of the work. The Symposium of Xenophon, if written by him at all, would certainly show that he wrote against Plato, and was acquainted with his works. Of this hostility there is no trace in the Memorabilia. Such a rivalry is more characteristic of an imitator than of an original writer. The (so-called) Symposium of Xenophon may therefore have no more title to be regarded as genuine than the confessedly spurious Apology.

Xenophon’s Symposium also offers several interesting points of comparison. In it, Socrates describes himself as a procurer and discusses the difference between physical and emotional love. But doubts surround other writings attributed to Xenophon. The Symposium also contains many small references to the Phaedrus, Plato’s Symposium, and some of Plato’s other writings. Together, these points raise doubts about whether Xenophon really wrote the work. If Xenophon wrote the Symposium at all, the work would certainly show that he wrote against Plato and knew Plato’s works. There is no trace of this hostility in the Memorabilia. Such rivalry is more typical of an imitator than an original writer. The (so-called) Symposium of Xenophon may therefore have no stronger claim to authenticity than the acknowledged fake, the Apology.

There are no means of determining the relative order in time of the Phaedrus, Symposium, Phaedo. The order which has been adopted in this translation rests on no other principle than the desire to bring together in a series the memorials of the life of Socrates.

There is no way to establish the chronological order of the Phaedrus, Symposium, and Phaedo. The order used in this translation is based on just one aim. That aim is to bring these accounts of Socrates' life together in a series.