Chapter XVI: Part 16

As in the beginning of this account I divided each soul into three parts, two of them having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so let us still maintain that division: but of the horses, one, we said, was good and the other not: what however is the virtue of the good one, or the vice of the bad one, we have not yet explained, but must now declare. That one of them, then, which is in the nobler condition, is in form erect, finely-moulded, high-necked, hook-nosed, white-coloured, black-eyed, a lover of honour, with temperance and modesty, and a companion of true glory, without the whip is driven by word of command and voice only: the other, on the other hand, is crooked, thick set, clumsily put together, strong-necked, short-throated, flat-faced, black-coloured, gray-eyed, hot-blooded, a companion of insolence and swaggering, shaggy about the ears, deaf, scarcely obedient to whip and spur together. 75. When, therefore, the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, his whole soul becoming heated by sensation, he is filled with irritation and the stings of desire, the horse that is obedient to the charioteer, then as ever, overpowered by shame restrains himself from leaping on the beloved object: but the other, no longer heeds either the whip or the spurs of the charioteer, but bounding forward is carried violently along, and giving every kind of trouble to his yoke-fellow and the charioteer, compels them to hurry to the favourite, and to indulge in the delights of love. They at first resist from indignation at being compelled to such a dreadful and lawless course: but at length, when there is no end to the evil, they go on as they are led, having submitted and consented to do what they are ordered; and now they come up to him and behold the gleaming countenance of the favourite. 76. But the memory of the charioteer when he beholds him is carried back to the nature of absolute beauty, and again sees her together with temperance standing on a chaste pedestal. And, on beholding, it[127] shudders, and awe-struck falls down backward, and at the same time is compelled to draw back the reins so violently, as to throw both the horses on their haunches, the one indeed willingly, from his not resisting, but the insolent one very much against his will. When they have withdrawn to some distance, the former through shame and amazement drenches the whole soul with sweat, but the other, having got rid of the pain which he suffered from the bit and the fall, when he has scarcely recovered his breath, bursts out into passionate revilings, vehemently reproaches the charioteer and his yoke-fellow, for having abandoned their station and compact from cowardice and effeminacy. And again compelling them against their wills to approach, he with difficulty yields to their entreaties to defer it to a future time. 77. But when the time agreed on comes, reminding them who pretend to forget it, plunging, neighing, and dragging forward, he compels them again to approach the favourite for the same purpose. And when they are near, bending down his head and extending his spear, he champs the bit and drags them on with wantonness. But the charioteer being affected as before, though more strongly, as if he were falling back from the starting rope, pulls back the bit with still greater violence from the teeth of the insolent horse, and covers his railing tongue and jaws with blood, and forcing his legs and haunches to the ground, tortures him with pain. 78. But when by being often treated in the same way, the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, being humbled he henceforth follows the directions of the charioteer, and when he beholds the beautiful object, he swoons through fear. So that it comes to pass, that thenceforth the soul of the lover follows its favourite with reverence and awe. Since then he is worshipped with all observance as if he were a god, not by a lover who feigns the passion, but who really feels it, and since he is by nature inclined to friendship, he directs his affection to accord with that of his worshipper, even though in past times he may have been misled by his associates or some others, who told him that it was disgraceful to allow a lover to approach him, and he may for this reason have rejected his lover, yet in process of time his age and destiny induce him to admit his lover to familiarity. 79. For surely it was never decreed by fate, that the evil should be a friend to the evil, or the good not a friend to the good. When, therefore, he has admitted him and accepted his conversation and society, the benevolence of the lover being brought into close contact astonishes the beloved, when he perceives that all his other friends and relatives together exhibited no friendship at all towards him in comparison with his inspired friend. But when he has spent some time in doing this, and has approached so near as to come in contact in the gymnastic schools and other places of social intercourse, then the fountain of that stream to which Jupiter, when in love with Ganymede, gave the name of desire, streaming in great abundance upon the lover, partly sinks into him, and partly flows out from him when he is full. And as a wind or any sound rebounding from smooth and hard substances, is borne back again to the place from whence it proceeded, so this stream of beauty, flowing back again to the beautiful one through the eyes, by which way it naturally enters the soul, and having returned thither and fledged itself anew, refreshes the outlets of the feathers, and moves him to put forth wings, and in turn fills the soul of the beloved one with love. 80. Accordingly he is in love, but with whom he knows not; neither is he aware nor is he able to tell what has happened to him, but like a person who has caught a disease in the eyes from another, he is unable to assign the cause, and is not aware that he beholds himself in his lover, as in a mirror. And when the lover is present, he is freed from pain in the same way as the lover is; but, when he is absent, he in turn longs for him in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned; but he calls it and considers it to be not love but friendship. And he desires, in the same way as the lover, though more feebly, to see, to touch, to kiss, to lie down with him; and, as is probable, he soon afterwards does all this. 81. In this lying down together, then, the unbridled horse of the lover has something to say to its charioteer, and begs to be allowed some small enjoyment in recompence for his many toils, but the same horse of the favourite has nothing to say, but swelling with love and in doubt, embraces the lover, and kisses him as he would kiss a very dear friend, and when they are laid down together, he is unable to refuse, as far as in his power, to gratify his lover in whatever he requires. But his yoke-fellow, together with the charioteer, resists this familiarity with shame and reason. If, then, the better parts of their mind have prevailed so as to lead them to a well-regulated mode of living and philosophy, they pass their life here in bliss and concord, having obtained the mastery over themselves, and being orderly, through having brought into subjection that part of the soul in which vice was engendered, and having set free that in which was virtue: and when they depart this life, becoming winged and light, they have been victorious in one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which neither human prudence nor divine madness can possibly bestow on man. 82. If, however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of living, yet still honourable, but perhaps in a fit of drunkenness or some other thoughtless moment, their two unbridled beasts finding their souls unguarded, and bringing them together to one place, have made and consummated that choice which most men deem blissful; and having once consummated it they continue to practise it for the future, though rarely, in that they are doing what is not approved by their whole mind. These too, then, pass their life dear to each other, but less so than the others, both during the period of love and after it, thinking that they have both given to and received from each other the strongest pledges, which it were impious to violate, and so at any time become alienated. 83. But in the end, without wings indeed, yet making an effort to become winged, they quit the body, so as to carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness: for there is a law that those who have already set out in the heavenward path should never again enter on darkness and the paths beneath the earth, but that, passing a splendid life, they should be happy walking with each other, and that, for their love’s sake, whenever they become winged, they should be winged together.

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Footnote 127:

“It,” memory.

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These so great and divine things, my boy, will the affection of a lover confer on you. But the familiarity of one who is not in love, being mingled with mortal prudence, and dispensing mortal and niggardly gifts, generating in the beloved soul an illiberality which is praised by the multitude as virtue, will cause it to be tossed about the earth and beneath the earth for nine thousand years, devoid of intelligence. 84. To thee, beloved Love, this recantation, the most beautiful and the best, according to my ability, is presented and duly paid, both in other respects and by certain poetical phrases, of necessity, adorned for the sake of Phædrus. But do thou, pardoning my former speech, and graciously accepting this, propitiously and benignly, neither take from me the art of love which thou hast given me, nor maim it in thy wrath, but grant that even more than now I may be honoured by the beautiful. And if, in our former speech, Phædrus and I have said any thing offensive to thee, blaming Lysias as the author of the speech, make him desist from such speeches in future, and convert him to philosophy, as his brother Polemarchus has been converted, so that this lover of his may no longer remain neutral as now, but may wholly devote his life to love, in conjunction with philosophic discourses.

_Phæ._ I join with you in praying, Socrates, that if this is better for us, so it may be. 85. But I have been long wondering at your speech, how much more beautiful you have made it than the former one; so that I am afraid that Lysias will appear to me but poor, even if he should be willing to produce another in opposition to it. For only the other day, my admirable friend, one of our public men, as he was attacking him, upbraided him with this very thing, and throughout the whole of his attack called him a writer of speeches. Perhaps, therefore, for ambition’s sake he will refrain from writing any more.

_Socr._ The opinion you express, my youth, is ridiculous; and you very much mistake your friend, if you imagine him to be so easily frightened. Perhaps, too, you think that his assailant really meant what he said.

86. _Phæ._ He seemed to do so, Socrates; and you are doubtless yourself aware, that the most powerful and considerable men in a city are ashamed to write speeches, and to leave their own compositions behind them, through fear of the opinion of posterity, lest they should be called sophists.

_Socr._ It has escaped your notice, Phædrus, that the proverb “a sweet bend” is derived from that long bend in the Nile: and as well as the bend, it escapes your notice, that these public men who think most highly of themselves are most fond of writing speeches, and of leaving their compositions behind them; and moreover, whenever they write a speech, they so love its supporters, that they prefix their names who on each occasion commend them.

87. _Phæ._ How do you mean? for I don’t understand you.

_Socr._ Don’t you understand, that at the beginning of a statesman’s writing, the name of its supporter is written first.

_Phæ._ How?

_Socr._ “Approved,” I think the writing itself says, “by the council, or the people, or both,” and he who proposed it, speaking very pompously of and extolling himself, namely the composer, after this makes a speech so as to display his own wisdom to his supporters, sometimes making a very long composition. Does this appear to you to be any thing else than a written speech?

_Phæ._ It does not to me.

88. _Socr._ If, then, it happens to be approved, the composer goes home from the theatre delighted. But if it should be rubbed out, and he debarred from writing speeches, and from the dignity of an author, both he and his friends take it greatly to heart.

_Phæ._ Just so.

_Socr._ It is clear, then, that they do not despise this practice, but admire it exceedingly.

_Phæ._ Certainly.

_Socr._ What then, when an orator or a king has proved himself competent to assume the power of a Lycurgus, or a Solon, or a Darius, and to become immortal as a speech-writer in a state, does he not deem himself godlike, while he is yet alive, and do not posterity think the very same of his writings?

_Phæ._ Just so.

89. _Socr._ Do you think then that any person of this sort, however ill-disposed he may be towards Lysias, would upbraid him merely because he is a writer?

_Phæ._ It does not seem probable from what you say; for in that case, as it appears, he would upbraid his own passion.

_Socr._ This, then, must be clear to every one, that the mere writing of speeches is not disgraceful.

_Phæ._ Why should it be?

_Socr._ But this I think now is disgraceful, not to express and write them well, but shamefully and ill.

_Phæ._ Clearly so.

_Socr._ What then is the method of writing well or ill? Have we not occasion, Phædrus, to enquire about this from Lysias or some one else, who has at some time or other written or means to write, either a political or private composition, in metre as a poet, or without metre as a prose-writer?

_Phæ._ Do you ask, if we have occasion? For what purpose in the world should any one live, but for the sake of pleasures of this kind? Not, surely, for those which cannot even be enjoyed unless they are preceded by pain, which is the case with nearly all the pleasures connected with the body; on which account they are justly called servile.

90. _Socr._ We have leisure, however, as it seems: and moreover the grasshoppers, while, as is their wont in the heat of the day, they are singing over our heads and talking with one another, appear to me to be looking down upon us. If, then, they should see us too, like most men, not conversing at mid-day, but falling asleep and lulled by them, through indolence of mind, they would justly laugh us to scorn, thinking that some slaves or other had come to them in this retreat, in order like sheep to take a mid-day sleep by the side of the fountain. But if they see us conversing, and sailing by them, as if they were Syrens unenchanted, the boon which they have from the gods to confer upon men, they will perhaps out of admiration bestow upon us.

_Phæ._ But what is this that they have? For I happen not to have heard of it, as it seems.

_Socr._ Yet it is not proper that a lover of the Muses should not have heard of things of this kind. It is said, then, that these grasshoppers were men before the Muses were born; but that when the Muses were born, and song appeared, some of the men of that time were so overcome by pleasure, that through singing they neglected to eat and drink, until they died unawares. 91. From these the race of grasshoppers afterwards sprung, having received this boon from the Muses, that they should need no nourishment from the time of their birth, but should continue singing without food and without drink till they died, and that after that they should go to the Muses and inform them who of those here honoured each of them. Therefore by informing Terpsichore of those who honour her in the dance they make them dearer to her; and Erato they inform of her votaries in love; and so all the rest in a similar manner, according to the kind of honour belonging to each. But the eldest, Calliope, and next to her Urania, they tell of those who pass their lives in philosophy, and honour their music; and these most of all the Muses, being conversant with heaven, and discourse both divine and human, pour forth the most beautiful strains. For many reasons, therefore, we should converse and not sleep at mid-day.

_Phæ._ We should converse, indeed.

_Socr._ Therefore, as we lately proposed to consider, we should enquire in what consists a correct method of speaking and writing, and in what not.

_Phæ._ Evidently.

92. _Socr._ Is it not, then, essential, in order to a good and beautiful speech being made, that the mind of the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak?

_Phæ._ I have heard say on this subject, my dear Socrates, that it is not necessary for one who purposes to be an orator to learn what is really just, but what would appear so to the multitude, who will have to judge; nor what is really good or beautiful, but what will appear so: for that persuasion proceeds from these, and not from truth.

_Socr._ We ought not to reject a saying[128], which wise men utter, but should consider whether they say any thing worth attending to. Wherefore we must not pass by what you have now said.

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Footnote 128:

An expression taken from Homer, Iliad, iii. 65.

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93. _Phæ._ You are right.

_Socr._ Let us then consider it as follows.

_Phæ._ How?

_Socr._ Suppose I should persuade you to purchase a horse for the purpose of repelling enemies, but both of us should be ignorant what a horse is, suppose, however, I did happen to know this much, that Phædrus believes a horse to be that tame animal which has the longest ears.

_Phæ._ That would be ridiculous indeed, Socrates.

_Socr._ Wait a moment: if I should earnestly persuade you, by composing a speech in praise of the ass, calling him a horse, and asserting that it is well worth while to purchase this beast both for domestic purposes and for military service, that he is useful to fight from, and able to carry baggage, and serviceable in many other respects.

_Phæ._ This, now, would be perfectly ridiculous.

_Socr._ But is it not better that a friend should be ridiculous, than dangerous and mischievous?

_Phæ._ Clearly so.

94. _Socr._ When an orator, therefore, who is ignorant of good and evil, having found a city that is likewise so, endeavours to persuade it, not by celebrating the praises of an ass’s shadow[129], as if it were a horse, but of evil, as if it were good, and having studied the opinions of the multitude should persuade them to do evil instead of good, what kind of fruit do you suppose rhetoric will afterwards reap from such a sowing?

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Footnote 129:

A proverb meaning “a thing of no value.” See Suidas ὄνου σκιά.

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_Phæ._ By no means a good one.

_Socr._ But have we not, my good friend, reviled the art of speaking more roughly than is proper? for she may, perhaps, say: “Why, sirs, do you talk so foolishly? For I compel no one who is ignorant of the truth to learn how to speak: but if my advice is worth any thing, when he has acquired that, he then has recourse to me. This, then, I insist on, that without me one who knows the truth will not for all that be able to persuade by art.”

_Phæ._ Will she not speak justly, in asserting this?

95. _Socr._ I admit it, at least if the arguments that assail her testify that she is an art. For I think I have heard some arguments coming up and insisting that she lies and is not an art, but an inartistic trick. But a genuine art of speaking, says the Spartan, without laying hold of truth, neither exists, nor ever can exist hereafter.

_Phæ._ We must have these arguments, Socrates; so bring them forward and examine what they say, and in what manner.

_Socr._ Come hither then, ye noble creatures, and persuade Phædrus with the beautiful children, that, unless he has sufficiently studied philosophy, he will never be competent to speak on any subject whatever. Let Phædrus answer then.

_Phæ._ Put your questions.

_Socr._ Must not then rhetoric in general be an art that leads the soul by means of argument, not only in courts of justice, and other public assemblies, but also in private, equally with respect to trivial and important matters? and is its right use at all more valued when employed about grave than about trifling things? What have you heard said about this?

96. _Phæ._ By Jupiter, nothing at all of this kind; but it is for the most part spoken and written according to art in judicial trials, and it is spoken also in popular assemblies; but I have never heard any thing further.

_Socr._ What, have you heard only of the rhetorical arts of Nestor and Ulysses, which they composed during their leisure in Ilium, and have you never heard of those by Palamedes?

_Phæ._ And, by Jupiter, I have not even heard of those by Nestor, unless you make Gorgias a Nestor, or Thrasymachus and Theodorus a Ulysses.

_Socr._ Perhaps I do. But let us pass over these; do you say however; in courts of justice what do adversaries do? do they not contradict each other? or what shall we say?

_Phæ._ That very thing.

_Socr._ And respecting the just and unjust?

_Phæ._ Yes.

_Socr._ Will not he, then, who accomplishes this by art, make the same thing appear to the same persons, at one time just, and, when he pleases, unjust?

_Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ And in a popular assembly the same things seem to the state at one time good, and at another the contrary?

_Phæ._ Just so.

97. _Socr._ And do we not know that the Eleatic Palamedes[130] spoke by art in such a manner that the same things appeared to his hearers similar and dissimilar, one and many, at rest and in motion?

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Footnote 130:

By Palamedes, as the Scholiast observes, he means Zeno of Elea, the
friend of Parmenides.

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_Phæ._ Assuredly.

_Socr._ The art, then, of arguing on both sides has not only to do with courts of justice and popular assemblies, but as it seems, it must be one and the same art, if it is an art, with respect to all subjects of discourse, by which a man is able to make all things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so, and to drag them to light, when another attempts to make them appear similar and conceals his attempt.

_Phæ._ What mean you by this?

_Socr._ I think it will be evident if we enquire as follows: Does deception more frequently occur in things that differ much or little?

_Phæ._ In things that differ little.

_Socr._ But by changing your position gradually, you will more easily escape detection in going to the opposite side, than by doing so rapidly.

98. _Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ It is necessary, then, that he who means to deceive another, but not be deceived himself, should be able to distinguish with accuracy the similarity and dissimilarity of things.

_Phæ._ It is indeed necessary.

_Socr._ Will he be able, then, if ignorant of the truth of each particular thing, to discern the smaller or greater similarity of the thing of which he is ignorant, in other things?

_Phæ._ Impossible.

_Socr._ It is clear, therefore, that in the case of those who have formed opinions contrary to the truth and are deceived, this error has found its way in by means of certain resemblances.

99. _Phæ._ It doubtlessly does happen so.

_Socr._ Is it possible, then, that one, who is ignorant of what is the nature of each particular thing, should have sufficient art to bring over any one by degrees by leading him through means of resemblances, from each several truth to its opposite, or himself to escape from being so led?

_Phæ._ Never.

_Socr._ He therefore, my friend, who does not know the truth, but hunts after opinions, will, as it appears, produce but a ridiculous and inartistic art of speaking.

_Phæ._ It seems so.

_Socr._ Are you willing, then, in the speech of Lysias, which you have with you, and in those which I delivered, to look for instances of what I assert is inartistic and artistic?

_Phæ._ I should like it of all things; for now we are speaking in a bald sort of way, for want of sufficient examples.

100. _Socr._ And, indeed, by some lucky chance, as it seems, two speeches have been made which furnish examples, of how one who is acquainted with the truth, while he is jesting in his arguments, can lead his hearers astray. And for my part, Phædrus, I attribute that to the deities of the spot. Perhaps, also, the interpreters of the Muses, the songsters over head, have inspired us with this gift; for I at least have no part in any art of speaking.

_Phæ._ Be it as you say, only make your meaning clear.

_Socr._ Come then, read out to me the beginning of Lysias’s speech.

100. _Phæ._ “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent”—

_Socr._ Stop. We are to say, then, in what he errs, and acts inartistically: are we not?

_Phæ._ Yes.

_Socr._ Now is it not plain to every one, that in some things of this kind we are agreed, on others at variance?

_Phæ._ I think I understand what you mean; but explain yourself still more clearly.

_Socr._ When any one pronounces the word iron or silver, do we not all understand the same thing?

_Phæ._ Assuredly.

_Socr._ But what when any one pronounces the word just, or good? are we not carried different ways, and do we not differ both with one another and with ourselves?

_Phæ._ Certainly.

_Socr._ In some things, therefore, we agree, in others not.

_Phæ._ Just so.

_Socr._ In which class of things, then, are we more easily deceived? and in which of the two has rhetoric greater power?

_Phæ._ Clearly in that in which we are easily led astray.

102. _Socr._ He, therefore, who means to pursue the art of rhetoric, ought first of all to have distinguished these methodically, and to have discovered a certain character of each species, both of that in which the generality of men must necessarily be led astray, and of that in which that is not the case.

_Phæ._ He who has attained to this, Socrates, will have devised a noble classification of species.

_Socr._ Then, I think, when he comes to each particular case, he ought not to be at a loss, but should perceive quickly to which of the two classes the subject, on which he is going to speak, belongs.

_Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ What then with respect to Love? shall we say that he belongs to things doubtful, or to such as are not so?

_Phæ._ To things doubtful, surely; otherwise do you think he would have allowed you to say what you just now said about him, that he is both a mischief to the beloved and the lover, and again, that he is the greatest of blessings?

_Socr._ You speak admirably. But tell me this too, for from being carried away by enthusiasm, I do not quite remember whether I defined love at the beginning of my speech.

_Phæ._ By Jupiter you did, and with wonderful accuracy.

103. _Socr._ Alas; how much more artistic in speech-making do you say the nymphs of Acheloüs and Pan son of Mercury are than Lysias son of Cephalus! Or am I wrong, and did Lysias too, in the beginning of his love-speech, compel us to conceive of Love, as some one particular thing, which he wished it to be, and then complete all the rest of his speech in accordance with this? Are you willing that we should read over again the beginning of his speech?

_Phæ._ If you wish it; though what you seek is not there.

_Socr._ Read, however, that I may hear him in person.

104. _Phæ._ “You are well acquainted with the state of my affairs, and I think you have heard, that it would be for our advantage if this took place. And I claim, not for this reason to fail in my request, because I do not happen to be one of your lovers: for they repent of the benefits they have conferred, as soon as their desires cease.”

_Socr._ He seems to be far indeed from doing what we are seeking for, since in making his speech he attempts to swim backwards, with his face uppermost, not setting out from the beginning, but from the end, and he begins with what the lover would say to his favourite at the close of his speech. Have I said nothing to the purpose, Phædrus, my dear friend?

_Phæ._ It is indeed, Socrates, the end of the subject about which he is speaking.

105. _Socr._ But what as to the rest? do not the other parts of the speech appear to have been put together at random? or does it appear that what is said in the second place ought from any necessity to have been placed second, or any thing else that he said? For it seems to me, who however know nothing about the matter, that the writer has without any scruple said whatever came uppermost, But do you know of any rule in speech-writing, in conformity to which he disposed his sentences in the order he has done one after another?

_Phæ._ You are pleasant, in supposing that I am able to see through his compositions so accurately.

_Socr._ But this at least I think you will allow, that every speech ought to be put together like a living creature, with a body of its own, so as to be neither without head, nor without feet, but to have both a middle and extremities, described proportionately to each other and to the whole.

106. _Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ Consider, then, your friend’s speech, whether it is so or otherwise; and you will find that it is in no respect different from the epigram which some say is inscribed on the tomb of Midas the Phrygian.

_Phæ._ What is it, and what is there remarkable in it?

_Socr._ It is as follows;

“I am a maiden of brass and I lie on Midas’s sepulchre,
So long as water flows and tall trees flourish,
Remaining here on the tomb of Midas,
I will tell all passers by, that Midas is buried here.”

That it makes no difference which line is put first or last, you must perceive, I think.

_Phæ._ You are jesting at our speech, Socrates.

107. _Socr._ That you may not be angry, then, we will have done with this; (though it appears to me to contain very many examples, which any one might examine with advantage, so long as he does not at all attempt to imitate them;) and let us proceed to the two other speeches; for there was something in them, I think, fit to be looked into by those who wish to examine into the subject of speeches.

_Phæ._ What do you mean?

_Socr._ They were in a manner opposed to each other. For one said that favour ought to be shewn to a person that is in love, the other to a person that is not in love.

_Phæ._ And this, most strenuously.

_Socr._ I thought you were going to say, with truth, madly. However, this is the very thing I was seeking for. For we said that love was a kind of madness, did we not?

_Phæ._ Yes.

_Socr._ But there are two kinds of madness, one arising from human diseases, the other from an inspired deviation from established customs.

_Phæ._ Certainly.

108. _Socr._ But dividing the divine mania of the four deities into four parts, and assigning prophetic inspiration to Apollo, mystic to Bacchus, poetic to the Muses, and the fourth to Venus and Love, we said that the madness of Love is the best, and I know not how representing the passion of love, probably lighting on some truth and perhaps carried off elsewhere, we compounded a speech not altogether improbable, and sang a kind of mythical hymn, in a seemly and devotional manner, in honour of my lord and thine, Phædrus, Love, the guardian of beautiful boys.

_Phæ._ And one by no means unpleasant to me to hear.

_Socr._ Let us endeavour to find out, then, from the speech itself, how it was able to pass from censure to praise.

_Phæ._ What mean you by this?

109. _Socr._ To me it appears that in all other respects we have really been jesting; but as regards the two methods[131] that are seen in these casually uttered speeches, if any one could apprehend their power by art, it would be by no means an unwelcome circumstance.

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Footnote 131:

The two methods are “definition” and “division,” afterwards explained.

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_Phæ._ What methods are these?

_Socr._ The one is to see under one aspect and to bring together under one general idea, many things scattered in various places, that, by defining each, a person may make it clear what the subject is that he wishes to discuss, as just now with respect to love, its nature being defined, whether it was well or ill described; at all events for that reason my speech was able to attain perspicuity and consistency.

_Phæ._ And what is the other method you speak of, Socrates?

110. _Socr._ The being able, on the other hand, to separate that general idea into species, by joints, as nature points out, and not to attempt to break any part, after the manner of an unskilful cook; but as, just now, my two speeches comprehended mental derangement under one common class. But as from one body there spring two sets of members bearing the same name, one called the left the other the right, so my speeches having considered mental derangement as naturally one class in us, then the speech that had to divide the left part, did not leave off dividing this again until having found in its members a kind of left-handed love, it reviled it deservedly: but the other taking us to the right hand side of madness, and having found a kind of love bearing the same name as the former, but divine, brought it to light and commended it as the cause of the greatest blessings to us.

111. _Phæ._ You speak most truly.

_Socr._ For my part, Phædrus, I am not only myself a lover of these divisions and generalisations, in order that I may be able both to speak and think; but if I perceive any one else able to comprehend the one and the many, as they are in nature, him “I follow behind as in the footsteps of a god[132].” But whether I designate those who are able to do this, rightly or not, God knows, however I have hitherto called them dialecticians. But now, tell me by what name ought we to call those who take lessons from you and Lysias? is this that art of speaking, by the use of which Thrasymachus and others have become able speakers themselves, and make others so who are willing to bring presents to them, as to kings?

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Footnote 132:

See Homer’s Odyssey, v. 193.

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_Phæ._ They are indeed royal men, yet not skilled in the particulars about which you enquire. However you appear to me to call this method rightly, in calling it dialectical; but the rhetorical appears to me still to escape us.

112. _Socr._ How say you? A fine thing indeed that must be, which is destitute of this and yet can be apprehended by art. It must on no account be neglected by you and me; but we must consider what is the remaining part of rhetoric.

_Phæ._ There are indeed very many things, Socrates, which you will find in the books written on the art of speaking.

_Socr._ You have reminded me very opportunely. The exordium, I think, must first be spoken at the beginning of the speech. You mean these, do you not? the refinements of the art?

_Phæ._ Yes.

_Socr._ And secondly a kind of narration, and evidence to support it; thirdly, proofs; fourthly, probabilities; and I think that a famous Byzantian tricker-out of speeches mentions confirmation and after-confirmation.

_Phæ._ Do you mean the excellent Theodorus?

_Socr._ I do. He says, too, that refutation and after-refutation must be employed both in accusation and defence. And must we not adduce the most illustrious Parian, Evenus, who first discovered subordinate intimations and bye-praises? and some say that he put into metre bye-censures, to assist the memory: for he is a wise man. 113. But shall we suffer Tisias and Gorgias to sleep, who found out that probabilities were more to be valued than truths, and who by force of words make small things appear great, and great things small, and new things old, and the contrary new, and who discovered a concise method of speaking and an infinite prolixity on all subjects? When Prodicus once heard me tell this, he laughed, and said that he alone had discovered what speeches are required by art; that we require them neither long nor short, but of a moderate length.

_Phæ._ Most wisely, Prodicus.

_Socr._ But do we not mention Hippias? for I think our Elean friend was of the same opinion with him.

_Phæ._ Why not?

114. _Socr._ But how shall we describe Polus’s new-fangled method of speaking, as his reduplication of words, his sentences, his similitudes, and the words which Licymnius made him a present of, in order to produce a graceful diction.

_Phæ._ But was not the system of Protagoras, Socrates, something of this kind?

_Socr._ His was a correctness of diction, my boy, and many other fine things besides, but in the art of dragging in speeches to excite commiseration for old age and poverty, the Chalcedonian hero appears to me to have carried off the palm. He was moreover a powerful man to rouse the anger of the multitude, and again, when enraged, to soothe them by enchantment, as he used to say; he was most skilful in raising and removing calumnies, on any ground whatever. But all seem to agree in the same opinion with respect to the conclusion of speeches, to which some have given the name of recapitulation, others a different name.

_Phæ._ You mean the summarily reminding the hearers, at the conclusion, of the several things that have been said.

115. _Socr._ I mean that, and now consider if you have any thing else to say about the art of speaking.

_Phæ._ Only some trifling things, and not worth mentioning.

_Socr._ Let us pass over trifles; and rather examine these things in the clear light, and see what influence they have in art, and on what occasion.

_Phæ._ A very powerful influence, Socrates, at least in assemblies of the people.

_Socr._ They have indeed. But, my admirable friend, do you also observe whether their web does not appear to you to be very wide as it does to me.

_Phæ._ Explain what you mean.

_Socr._ Tell me then: If any one should go to your friend Eryximachus, or his father Acumenus, and should say, “I know how to apply such things to the body, as will make it warm or cold, as I please, and if I think proper, I can produce vomitings, and again purgings, and many other things of the kind, and as I know these things I consider myself a physician, and that I can make any one else so, to whom I impart the knowledge of these particulars:” what do you think they would say on hearing this?

_Phæ._ What else, but ask him if he knew besides to what persons, and when, and how far, he ought to do each of these things?

116. _Socr._ If then, he should say, “Not in the least; but I expect that he who should learn these things from me, would be able to do what you ask?”

_Phæ._ He would say, I think, that the man is mad; and that, having heard from some book or other, or having met with certain drugs, he fancies that he has become a physician, though he knows nothing at all about the art.

_Socr._ But what if any one were to go to Sophocles and Euripides, and tell them, that he knew how to make very long speeches on a trifling subject, and very short ones on a great subject, and whenever he pleased, piteous and contrariwise, terrible and threatening speeches, and other things of the kind, and that by teaching these he thought he could impart the power of writing tragedy?

117. _Phæ._ They too, I think, Socrates, would laugh, if any one should suppose that tragedy was any thing else than the composition of all these, so disposed as to be consistent with each other and the whole.

_Socr._ But, I think, they would not upbraid him rudely, but as a musician, who happened to meet with a man who believes himself to be skilled in harmony, because he knows how to make the highest and lowest note, would not harshly say to him, “Miserable fellow, you are stark mad;” but, being a musician, he would speak more mildly; “My excellent man, it is indeed necessary for one who means to be skilled in harmony, to know these things, but at the same time there is nothing to hinder a person from possessing the knowledge you have without his understanding harmony in the least; for you know what is necessary to be learnt before harmony, but not harmony itself.”

_Phæ._ Most correctly.

118. _Socr._ In like manner, Sophocles might reply to the person who displayed his learning to them, that he knew the things before tragedy, but not tragedy itself; and Acumenus, that the medical pretender knew things before medicine, but not medicine itself.

_Phæ._ Most assuredly.

_Socr._ But what must we think the sweet-voiced Adrastus, or even Pericles would do, if they were to hear of the beautiful contrivances which we have just now enumerated, the short sentences and similitudes, and all the rest, which when we went through them, we said must be examined by the clear light, whether they, as you and I did, would rudely make some ill-mannered remark against those who had written and who teach such things as if they constituted the art of rhetoric, or, as being wiser than we are, would they not reprove us, saying, 119. “Phædrus and Socrates, you ought not to be angry with, but rather to excuse those who, through being ignorant of dialectics, are unable to define what rhetoric is, and who, in consequence of this ignorance, possessing the things necessary to be learnt preparatory to the art, think that they have discovered rhetoric itself, and, suppose that by teaching these things to others, they can teach them rhetoric in perfection; but how each of them is to be used persuasively, and the whole combined together, this, as being of no consequence in the world, they think their pupils ought to acquire for themselves in composing their speeches.”

_Phæ._ Such indeed, Socrates, appears to be the case with the art which these men teach and write about as rhetoric; and you seem to me to have spoken the truth: but how and from whence can one acquire the art of true rhetoric and persuasion?

120. _Socr._ The ability, Phædrus, to become a perfect proficient, probably, or rather necessarily, depends on the same things as in other cases: for, if you naturally possess rhetorical abilities, you will be a distinguished orator by adding science and practice; but in whichever of these you are deficient, in that respect you will be imperfect. But so far as it is an art, its method, I think, will not be found in the way that Lysias and Thrasymachus are proceeding.

_Phæ._ In what way then?

_Socr._ Pericles, my excellent friend, appears, with good reason, to have been the most perfect of all men in rhetoric.

_Phæ._ How so?

_Socr._ All the great arts require a subtle and speculative research into the law of nature: for that loftiness of thought and perfect mastery over every subject seems to be derived from some such source as this; which Pericles possessed in addition to a great natural genius. For meeting, I think, with Anaxagoras, who was a person of this kind, and being filled with speculative research, and having arrived at the nature of intelligence and want of intelligence, about which Anaxagoras made that long discourse, he drew from thence to the art of speaking whatever could contribute to its advantage.

121. _Phæ._ What mean you by this?

_Socr._ The method of the art of rhetoric is, in a manner, the same as that of medicine.

_Phæ._ How so?

_Socr._ In both it is requisite that nature should be thoroughly investigated, the nature of the body in the one, and the soul in the other, if you mean not only by practice and experience, but by art, to give health and strength to the former by applying medicine and diet, and to impart such persuasion as you please and virtue to the latter, by means of speeches and legitimate employments.

_Phæ._ This indeed seems probable, Socrates.

_Socr._ But do you think it possible rightly to understand the nature of the soul, without understanding the nature of the universe?

_Phæ._ If we are to believe Hippocrates, of the family of Æsculapius, we cannot understand even the nature of body without this method.

_Socr._ For he says well, my friend. But it is necessary, in addition to the authority of Hippocrates, to examine our argument, and consider whether it is consistent.

_Phæ._ I agree.

122. _Socr._ Consider, then, with respect to nature, what Hippocrates and true reason say. Is it not thus necessary to examine into the nature of any thing? In the first place, whether that is simple or manifold about which we are desirous, both ourselves to be skilled, and to be able to make others so; and, in the next place, if it be simple, to examine the power it naturally possesses of acting on each particular thing, or of being acted upon by each particular thing? And if it possesses several species, having enumerated these, as in the case of the one, ought we not to consider this in each of them, what active and passive power they naturally have?

_Phæ._ It seems so, Socrates.

123. _Socr._ The method, then, that neglected these, would resemble the walk of a blind man. He however who proceeds by art, ought on no account to be compared either to a blind or a deaf man; but it is clear that whosoever teaches another speaking by art, should accurately shew the real nature of the things to which he will have to apply his speeches; and this surely is the soul.

_Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ His whole endeavour, therefore, must be directed to this; for in this he attempts to produce persuasion. Is it not so?

_Phæ._ Yes.

_Socr._ It is clear, therefore, that Thrasymachus, and any one else who seriously endeavours to teach the art of rhetoric, will in the first place describe with all possible accuracy, and make it be seen whether the soul is naturally one and similar, or, like the form of the body, composed of different elements; for this we say is to make known nature.

_Phæ._ Most assuredly.

_Socr._ And, in the second place, in what respect it naturally acts or is acted upon by any thing.

124. _Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ In the third place, having set in order the different kinds of speech and of soul, and the different manners in which these are affected, he will go through the several causes, adapting each to each, and teaching what kind of soul is necessarily persuaded, and what not persuaded, by particular kinds of speech, and for what reason.

_Phæ._ It will assuredly be best done in this way, as it seems.

_Socr._ Never then, my dear friend, will any thing that is otherwise explained or spoken, be spoken or written by art, either in any other case or in this. But the modern writers on the art of speech-making, whom you yourself have heard, are dissemblers, and conceal the very admirable knowledge they have of the soul. Until, then, they both speak and write according to this method, let us never be persuaded that they write artistically.

_Phæ._ What method is this?

_Socr._ It is not easy to mention the very words themselves; but how it is proper to write, if a man means to be as artistic as he possibly can, I am willing to tell you.

_Phæ._ Tell me then.

125. _Socr._ Since the power of speech is that of leading the soul, it is necessary that he who means to be an orator should know how many kinds of soul there are: but they are so many, and of such and such kinds; whence some men are of this character and some of that character. These then being thus divided, there are again so many kinds of speech, each of a certain character. Now men of such a character are for this particular reason easily persuaded by certain speeches, and persons of a different character are for these reasons with difficulty persuaded. It is necessary, therefore, that he, after having sufficiently understood all this, when he afterwards perceives these very things taking place in actions, and being done, should be able to follow them rapidly by perception, otherwise he will know nothing more than the very things which he formerly heard from his preceptor. 126. But when he is sufficiently competent to say, what kind of person is persuaded by what kind of speeches, and is able, when he sees him before him, to point out to himself that this is the person and this the nature for which those speeches were formerly made now actually present before me, and to which these particular speeches are to be addressed, in order to persuade him to these particular things,—when he has acquired all this, and has learnt moreover the proper seasons for speaking and being silent, and again has made himself master of the seasonable and unseasonable occasions for brevity, plaintiveness, and vehemence, and all the other several kinds of speech which he has learnt, then his art will be beautifully and perfectly accomplished, but not before. But whoever is deficient in any of these particulars, either in speaking, or teaching, or writing, and yet asserts that he speaks by art, is overcome by the person who will not be persuaded. 127. “What then,” perhaps the writer on rhetoric will say, “does it appear to you, Phædrus and Socrates, that the art of speaking, as it is called, must be obtained in this or some other way?”

_Phæ._ It is impossible, Socrates, that it should be obtained in any other way; though it seems to be a work of no small labour.

_Socr._ You say truly. And on this account we ought to turn over all speeches again and again, and consider whether any easier and shorter way to it can be found, in order that we may not in vain go by a long and rough one, when we might have taken a short and smooth one. If, therefore, you have heard of any thing that will assist us, from Lysias or any one else, endeavour to call it to mind, and tell it me.

_Phæ._ If the endeavour were enough I should be able to do so, but just at present I cannot.

128. _Socr._ Are you willing, then, that I should repeat to you a statement which I heard from persons who take an interest in such matters?

_Phæ._ How not?

_Socr._ It is said, however, Phædrus, to be right to state even the wolf’s case.

_Phæ._ And do you do so.