"Is not then the knowledge of what is dreadful, and no dreadful, contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?" And here he still nodded assent.

"But is not the want of knowing these things cowardice ?"

He, here, with great difficulty, nodded assent.

"Is not the knowledge therefore, of what is dreadful, and not dreadful, courage, being contrary to a want of knowledge of these things?"

124. Here he would no longer nod assent, but was silent. So I said, " Why, Protagoras, do you neither admit nor deny what I ask?"

"Do you conclude the subject," he said.

"I have only one more question to ask you," said I, “whether some men still appear to you as at first, to be most ignorant, and yet most courageous."

"You seem to be very anxious, Socrates, that I should be the person to answer. I will therefore indulge you, and I say, that from what has been granted, it appears to me to be impossible."

"I ask all these questions," said I, "on no other account, than because I wish to examine how the case stands with respect to things pertaining to virtue, and what virtue itself is. For I know that when this is discovered, that other will be clearly ascertained, about which you and I have both of us held so long a discussion, I maintaining that virtue cannot be taught, but you that it can. 125. And the present issue of our discussion appears to me, as if it were a man, to accuse and laugh at us, and if it had a voice, it would say, Absurd men ye are, Socrates and Protagoras; you, who at the outset maintained that virtue cannot be taught, are now contending in opposition to yourself, and endeavouring to shew that all things are knowledge, as justice, temperance, and courage, according to which method of proceeding it will certainly appear that virtue may be taught. For if virtue were any thing else than knowledge, as Protagoras endeavours to maintain, it clearly could not be taught; but now, if it shall appear to be altogether knowledge, as you contend, Socrates, it will be wonderful if it cannot be taught. Protagoras on the other hand, who at first insisted that it could be taught, now seems to contend for the contrary, that it may appear to be almost any thing else rather than knowledge; and so can on no account be taught. 126. I

therefore, Protagoras, seeing all these things terribly confused, this way and that, am exceedingly anxious that they should be made clear, and should wish, now we have discussed these things, to proceed to enquire what virtue is, and to examine again respecting it, whether it can be taught, or not, lest by chance that Epimetheus of yours should treacherously deceive us in our enquiry, just as he neglected us in the distribution which he made, as you say. Now in the fable, Prometheus pleased me more than Epimetheus, and making use of him, and looking forward with forethought to my whole life, I diligently attend to all these matters; and if you are willing, as I said at the beginning, I would most gladly join with you in examining them thoroughly."

To this Protagoras said, "I, Socrates, praise your zeal, and your method of unfolding arguments. For I am not in other respects, I think, a bad man, and least of all men envious: indeed I have often said of you to many, that I admire you more than all whom I am in the habit of meeting, and far above those of your own age: and I add, that I should not wonder if you were to rank among men renowned for wisdom. And these matters we will further discuss hereafter, when you please; but it is now time for me to attend to other business."

"It is right so to do," I replied, "if you think fit. For I too ought long since to have gone where I had to go, but I staid to oblige the beautiful Callias."

Having said and heard these things, we departed.

INTRODUCTION TO THE PHÆDRUS.

PHEDRUS, whom we have alreadya met with among the followers of the sophist Hippias, happening to meet with Socrates, tells him that he has just left the orator Lysias, who had written and recited a speech on the subject of love, in which he argued that a youth ought rather to shew favour to one who is not in love than to one who is. Socrates, who pretends to be very anxious to hear the speech, begs Phædrus to repeat it from memory as well as he is able, for he cannot doubt but that he has learnt it by heart, so great is his admiration for its author. Phædrus affects shyness, though in reality desirous of practising himself on Socrates: at length, however, Socrates discovers that he has a copy of it under his cloak, so they proceed on their walk, talking by the way, till they reach a planetree on the banks of the Ilissus, outside the walls of Athens, under whose ample shade they lie down".

Phædrus reads the speech, which in addition to the faults of obscurity, inconclusiveness, and tautology, takes a very low and sensual view of the passion of love. When it is ended, Phædrus asks Socrates what he thinks of it, and whether it is not a wonderful composition, especially as to the language. Socrates at first praises it ironically, but on being pressed by Phædrus points out some of its faults, and says that even Lysias himself could not be satisfied with it, and that many others have both spoken and written finer things on the same subject, with which at that very instant his breast is full. Phædrus catches at this, and insists on Socrates repeating these fine things, promising that if he says any thing that excels the speech of Lysias he will erect his statue in gold in Olympiad.

As it is the present design of Socrates to take the same low view of love that Lysias had done, he determines to speak with

his face covered, that he may not falter through shame. He begins by a definition of love, which he represents to be desire hurried on to the pleasure derived from personal beauty; and then he goes on to shew, with great perspicuity, how a person under the influence of such a passion must needs be anxious that the beloved object should not excel himself or be admired by others. Then with regard to the body, he will wish to make it effeminate, and be anxious that his beloved should be as much as possible dependent on him; and at length he will become unfaithful, forget all his former vows and promises, and leave his favourite despised and destitute, who will suffer most of all in this, that he has been debarred from cultivating his soul, than which, he adds, there neither is nor ever will be any thing more precious in the sight of gods and men.

Phædrus expects that Socrates will not only shew the disadvantages of granting favours to a lover, but also go on to point out the advantages of granting them to one who is not in love. This, however, he refuses to do; and then, consciencestricken for that he has been guilty of an offence against the deity of Love in speaking of him in so impious a manner, he determines on making his recantation, by uttering a speech which shall describe that deity in his true character. He begins by condemning his former assertion that favour ought rather to be shewn to one who is not in love than to a lover, because the latter is mad and the former in his sober senses. For, he argues, it is not universally true that madness is an evil, so far from it, that the greatest blessings spring from madness, for even prophetic inspiration is a species of madness and derives its very name from it. And love is one of many kinds of madness, and as such the source of the greatest happiness to To prove this, he says, it is necessary to examine into the nature of the soul, both human and divine. The soul, then, is immortal, because it contains the principle of motion within itself (a subtle argument which it may be observed was

man.

e § 28-40.

not adduced in the Phædo, where the soul's immortality was the immediate point under discussion.) Still, to explain what the soul is would require a divine and lengthened exposition; he must therefore content himself with saying what it is like. He therefore compares the soul to a pair of winged steeds and a charioteer. The horses and charioteers of the gods are all good, but all others are mixed. While the soul is perfect and winged it soars aloft, but when it loses its wings it is borne downward and becomes united with a body in which it takes up its abode, and the two united are called mortal. He then describes how Jupiter goes first, driving a winged chariot, and is followed by a host of gods and demons distributed into eleven divisions: in their flight they reach the external regions of heaven, and behold truth, justice, temperance, science, in their essences. Other inferior souls endeavour to follow and imitate them; few, however, can do so: those that get a glimpse of any of the true essences are free from harm till the next revolution, but those that are unable to do so are weighed down and lose their wings, and become implanted in earthly natures of various orders, and then, according to their conduct in this condition, are either restored to their former state or still further degraded. The mind of the philosopher, however, is alone furnished with wings, because his memory dwells on that which is divinef.

This then is the madness above spoken of, when one, beholding beauty in this lower world, is reminded of the true, and looking upwards to it despises things below and is deemed to be affected with madness. But he who has become corrupted is not easily carried hence to beauty itself, nor does he reverence it when he beholds it, but looks upon it with carnal sensuality; whereas he, who has not been so far corrupted, when he beholds the imitation of beauty here, reverences it as a god, and, but for the imputation of madness, would sacrifice to it. Then his wings begin to swell again and enf § 40-62.