of judging by appearances? or would the latter lead us into error, and often cause us to vary in our choice of the same thing, now choosing one and now another, and to repent both in our actions and our selections of things great and little, but would the art of mensuration do away with this outward show, and making manifest the truth, cause the soul to be at ease, abiding in the truth, and preserve our life?’ Would the men upon this admit that the art of mensuration preserves us, or some other art?”
114. “The art of mensuration,” he admitted.
“‘But what, if the safety of our life consisted in the choice of even and odd, when more ought properly to be chosen, and when less, each with reference to itself, or one with reference to the other, whether they might be near or distant, what, in this case, would preserve our life?
Would it not be a science? and would it not be one of mensuration, since it is an art of excess and defect? But since it has relation to even and odd, can it be any other than arithmetic?’ Would the men grant us this, or not?”
It appeared also to Protagoras that they would.
“‘Be it so, my friends; but since the safety of our life has appeared to consist in the right choice of pleasure and pain, and of more and fewer, greater and smaller, more distant and nearer; does it not first of all appear to be an art of mensuration, since it is a consideration of excess and defect and equality of these with respect to each other?’
‘Necessarily so.’ ‘But since it has to do with mensuration, it must of necessity be an art and a science.’ 115. They will assent to this. What then this art and science may be, we will consider hereafter; but that it is a science is sufficient for the proof of that which Protagoras and I had to make good in answer to the question you asked us. You asked, if you remember, when we agreed with each other that nothing is more powerful than knowledge, but that it always gets the mastery, wherever it may be, both of pleasure and every thing else; but you said that pleasure often gets the mastery, even of a man possessed of knowledge, and when we did not agree with you, you thereupon asked us, ‘Protagoras and Socrates, if this affection is not the being overcome by pleasure, what is it then, and what do you say it is? tell us.’ 116. If, then, we had immediately said to you, that it is ignorance, you would have laughed at us. But now if you laugh at us, you will also laugh at yourselves. For you have admitted that they err through want of knowledge, who err in the choice of pleasures and pains; but these are things good and evil; and not only through want of knowledge, but as you afterwards further admitted, a knowledge of mensuration. Now an erroneous action done without knowledge, as you must yourselves know, is done through ignorance: so that to be overcome by pleasure is the greatest ignorance; of which Protagoras here says he is a physician, and so do Prodicus and Hippias. But you, because you think it is something else than ignorance, neither go yourselves, nor send your children to the teachers of these things, the sophists, as if this knowledge could not be taught, but by saving your money, and not giving it to these men, you fare badly, both in private and public. 117. Such is the answer we should give to the many. But I ask you, Hippias and Prodicus, as well as Protagoras, for let the conversation be common to you all, whether I appear to you to speak the truth, or to speak falsely?”
What had been said appeared to all to be eminently true.
“You admit, then,” said I, “that the pleasant is good, but the painful evil. But I deprecate Prodicus’s verbal distinctions: for whether you call it pleasant, or delightful, or enjoyable, or from whatever derivation or in whatever way you please to denominate such things, most excellent Prodicus, use your own word and answer what I wish.”
118. Prodicus, therefore, laughing, agreed with me, as did the others.
“But what, my friends,” I continued, “do you say to this? All actions that tend to this, that we may live without pain and pleasantly, are they not beautiful? and is not a beautiful action good and profitable?”.
They agreed.
“If then,” I said, “the pleasant is good, no one who either knows or thinks that other things are better than what he is doing, and that they are possible, still continues to do the same, when it is in his power to do the better; nor is to be overcome by one’s-self any thing else than ignorance, nor to be master of one’s-self any thing else than wisdom.”
All agreed to this.
“What then? Do you say that ignorance is a thing of this kind, to have a false opinion, and to be deceived about matters of great importance?”
To this, likewise, all agreed.
“Is it not the case then,” I said, “that no one willingly sets about things evil, or things which he thinks are evil, nor is this, as it seems, in the nature of man willingly to engage in things which he thinks are evil, instead of such as are good; and when of two evils he is compelled to choose one, no one will choose the greater, when it is in his power to choose the less.”
119. All these things were assented to by us all.
“What then,” said I, “do you call dread and fear something? and the same that I do, (I address myself to you, Prodicus,) I mean by it a certain expectation of evil, whether you call it fear or dread.”
It appeared to Protagoras and Hippias that dread and fear were of this nature, but to Prodicus that dread was, but fear not.
“But,” said I, “it is of no consequence, Prodicus; but this is; if what we before said is true, will any man deliberately engage in things which he dreads, when it is in his power to engage in things which he does not dread? or is not this impossible from our former admissions? for it has been admitted that what he dreads he considers to be evil; and what he considers to be evil, no one either engages in or willingly receives.”
These things, likewise, were agreed to by all.
120. “These points, then, being established,” I said, “Prodicus and Hippias, let Protagoras here defend himself and shew us how his first answer is correct, no, not quite the first, for he then said, that there being five parts of virtue, no one of them was like any other, but that each had a peculiar function of its own. I do not however mean this, but what he said afterwards. For afterwards he said, that four of them very much resembled each other, but that one was altogether different from the rest, namely courage. And he said I should know it by the following proof. ‘You will find men, Socrates, who are most unholy, most unjust, most intemperate, and most ignorant, who are yet most courageous; by which you will know that courage differs much from the other parts of virtue.’ And I indeed, at the moment, was very much astonished at the answer, and I have been still more so since I have discussed these things with you. I therefore asked him if he meant that courageous men are bold? He said he did, and ready to rush headlong. 121. Do you remember, Protagoras,” said I, “that you gave this answer?”
He admitted it.
“Come then,” said I, “tell us on what you say the courageous are ready to rush headlong? Is it on the same things as cowards?”
He said not.
“On different things, therefore.”
“Yes,” he replied.
“But whether do cowards attempt things which they can venture on with confidence, but the courageous on such as are dreadful?”
“It is said so, Socrates, by the generality of men.”
“You say truly,” I replied. “I do not, however, ask this: but on what do you say courageous men are ready to rush headlong, on dreadful things, thinking that they are dreadful, or on such as are not dreadful?”
“But this,” he said, “in the arguments which you just now used, was shewn to be impossible.”
“And in this,” I replied, “you say truly. So that if this point was proved correctly, no one attempts things which he considers to be dreadful, since to be overcome by one’s-self was found to be ignorance.”
He admitted it.
“All men, however, attempt things in which they have confidence, both the cowardly and the courageous, and thus both the cowardly and the courageous attempt the same things.”
122. “But indeed, Socrates,” said he, “the things which the cowardly and the courageous attempt are quite contrary to each other; for instance, the latter are willing to engage in war, but the former are unwilling.”
“Whether,” said I, “is it honourable to engage in it, or base?”
“Honourable,” he replied.
“If, therefore, it is honourable, have we not already admitted that it is good, for we have admitted that all honourable actions are good.”
“You say truly, and I am always of this opinion.”
“Right,” said I. “But which of the two do you say are unwilling to engage in war, though it is honourable and good?”
“Cowards,” he replied.
“If therefore,” said I, “it be honourable and good, is it not also pleasant?”
“That has been granted,” he said.
“Are the cowardly, then, unwilling to attempt what they know to be more honourable and better, and more pleasant?”
“But,” said he, “if we admitted this, we should destroy our former admissions.”
123. “But what with respect to the brave man? Does he not engage in what is more honourable, better, and more pleasant?”
“It is necessary,” said he, “to admit that he does.”
“On the whole, then, is it not the case, that the courageous, when they are afraid, have no base fear, nor are they inspired with base confidence.”
“True,” said he.
“But if not base, are they not honourable?”
He assented.
“And if honourable, also good?”
“Yes.”
“And are not the cowardly, and the bold, and the mad, on the contrary, influenced by base fears, and inspired with base confidence?”
He admitted that they are.
“And are they bold in what is base and evil, through any thing else than ignorance and want of knowledge?”
“So it is,” he replied.
“What then? Do you call this, through which cowards are cowardly, cowardice or courage?”
“Cowardice,” said he.
“But have not cowards appeared to be what they are, through not knowing what is dreadful?”
“Certainly,” said he.
“They are cowardly then, through this want of knowledge?”
He admitted it.
“But that through which they are cowardly, you have admitted is cowardice?”
He assented.
“Must not, then, the not knowing what is dreadful, and not dreadful, be cowardice?”
He nodded assent.
“However,” said I, “courage is contrary to cowardice.”
He said it was.
“Is not then the knowledge of what is dreadful, and not 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.
Phædrus, whom we have already[105] 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 plane-tree on the banks of the Ilissus, outside the walls of Athens, under whose ample shade they lie down[106].
----- Footnote 105: See the Protagoras, § 17.
----- 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[107]. 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 Olympia[108].
----- 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[109].
----- 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, conscience-stricken 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 man. 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 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 divine[110].
----- 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 endeavour to burst forth anew; but when separated from the beautiful object the soul becomes parched and the passages through which the wings shoot forth become closed. Thus alternately tormented with agony and joy, it becomes frantic and runs about trying to see the possessor of the beauty. This affection men call love. Now when a follower of Jupiter is thus seized, he is better able to bear the burden of the winged god: for such a one seeks one who resembles Jupiter to be the object of his love; and when he has found him, he endeavours to make him like his own god[111].
----- As each soul was before divided into three parts, two having the form of horses, and the third that of a charioteer, so that division must still be maintained. When therefore the charioteer beholds the love-inspiring sight, the obedient horse is easily restrained, but the other compels them to hurry to the favourite, and longs to indulge in the delights of love. But the charioteer, on approaching him, is carried back to absolute beauty, and being awe-struck falls backward and throws the horses on their haunches. When by being repeatedly checked in this way the vicious horse has laid aside his insolence, he becomes humbled and the soul of the lover follows his favourite with reverence and awe. And the beloved being worshipped by one who does not feign the passion but who really feels it, requites the affection of his worshipper, and in turn longs for the lover in the same manner that he is longed for, possessing love’s image, love returned. If then the better parts of their mind prevail so as to lead to a well-regulated life and philosophy, they pass their life in bliss and concord, and when they depart this life, they become winged and win one of the three truly Olympic contests, a greater good than which neither human prudence nor divine madness can bestow on man. If however, they have adopted a coarser and less philosophic mode of life, but still honourable, in the end they find the body without wings indeed, yet making an effort to become winged and so carry off no trifling prize of impassioned madness[112].
----- When Socrates had ended his recantation to Love, Phædrus expresses great admiration of his speech; and adds that he doubts whether Lysias will ever venture to write speeches again. But Socrates shews him that such an expectation is altogether groundless; and after a charming little episode on the origin of grasshoppers, proposes to consider in what a correct mode of speaking and writing consists[113].
----- The first essential is that the speaker should know the truth of the subject on which he is about to speak. And though it is commonly said that an orator need not know what is really just, but only what will appear so to the multitude, yet Socrates with great force destroys this fallacy, and shews that such rhetoric is not an art but an inartistic trick; for a genuine art of speaking neither does nor can exist without laying hold of truth. Rhetoric must be an art that leads the soul by means of argument. Now in courts of justice and popular assemblies men succeed by making things appear similar to each other so far as they are capable of being made appear so; and deception will more frequently occur in things that nearly resemble each other, so that a person who means to persuade or deceive another must be able to distinguish accurately the similarity and dissimilarity of things, and so lead his hearer by means of resemblances. Taking this as his principle, Socrates proceeds to shew that the speech of Lysias is altogether inartistic, for that he ought first of all to have defined Love and divided it into its different species and shewn of which class he was going to speak, whereas he begins where he should have ended, and throughout speaks at random without any definite design. He then proceeds to comment on his own two speeches. In one he argued that favour ought to be shewn to one that is in love, in the other to a person that is not in love. In one he said that love was a kind of divine madness, and then dividing this madness into four parts he shewed that the madness of Love is the best.
In these speeches, then, are seen the two methods of arguing correctly, definition and division, the former of which contemplates many things under one aspect and brings them together under one general idea, the latter separates that general idea into species[114].
----- Socrates then ridicules the rules of rhetoric laid down by many of the sophists, and having passed a high eulogium on Pericles, shews that a perfect orator must know the real nature of the things to which he will have to apply his speeches, and that is the soul; for as the power of speech consists in leading the soul, he must know how many kinds of soul there are, and by what arguments each kind is most easily persuaded[115].
----- From speaking he proceeds to writing, and tells a pleasant story of the invention of letters, and remarks that the evil of writing is, that, like painting, if you ask it a question it cannot answer; and when once written it is tossed from hand to hand, as well among those who understand it as those who do not. But there is another kind of discourse far more excellent, which is written in the learner’s mind, and knows when to speak and when to be silent. The conclusion of the whole is that a speaker should be acquainted with the true nature of each subject on which he speaks or writes, be able to define, and divide things into their species until he reaches the indivisible, and to investigate the nature of the soul and apply his discourses to each soul according to its capacity.
Then, with a message, in accordance with these principles, to Lysias, and a high encomium on Isocrates, who promised to be led by a diviner impulse to holier and higher things, he concludes by praying that Pan would grant him to be beautiful in the inner man, and that all outward things might be at peace with those within. That he may deem the wise man rich: and may have such a portion of gold as none but a prudent man can bear or employ.
PHÆDRUS.
SOCRATES. PHÆDRUS.
------- _Socr._ My dear Phædrus, whither are you going, and from whence come you?
_Phæ._ From Lysias, son of Cephalus, Socrates; but I am going for a walk outside the walls; for I have spent a long time there, sitting from very early in the morning; but in obedience to your and my friend Acumenus, I take my walks in the open roads; for he says that they are more refreshing than those in the course.
_Socr._ He says rightly, my friend: Lysias then, as it seems, was in the city?
_Phæ._ Yes, with Epicrates in the Morychian house here, near the Olympium.
_Socr._ What was your employment there? Without doubt Lysias feasted you with speeches?
_Phæ._ You shall hear, if you have leisure to go on with me and listen.
_Socr._ What then? do you not think that, according to Pindar[116], I should consider it a matter above all want and leisure, to listen to the conversation between you and Lysias?
----- _Phæ._ Proceed then.
_Socr._ Do you begin your story.
2. _Phæ._ And indeed, Socrates, the subject is suited to you. For the question, in which we spent our time, I know not how, was amatory. For Lysias had written a speech in which he described a beautiful youth as being courted, but not by a lover; and on this very point he argued with great subtilty; for he maintains that favour ought to be shewn to one who is not in love, rather than to one who is in love.
_Socr._ Generous man! I wish he had written that favour should be shewn to a poor man rather than a rich one, and to an old than a young, and so on with respect to such things as happen to me and the most of us; for then his discourses would be charming and of general usefulness. I, for my part, am so very desirous to hear his speech, that even if you prolong your walk to Megara, and, after Herodicus, when you have reached the wall, turn back again, I shall on no account lag behind you.
3. _Phæ._ How say you, most excellent Socrates? Do you think, that what Lysias, the most able writer of the day, composed at his leisure in a long space of time, I who am but a novice could repeat from memory in a manner worthy of him? Far from it; though I would rather be able to do so than be the possessor of a large sum of gold.
_Socr._ Phædrus, if I know not Phædrus, I have also forgotten myself; but neither of these is the case; for I know well that on hearing Lysias’s speech he not only heard it once, but urged him to read it repeatedly, and he readily complied; neither was this sufficient for Phædrus, but at length having got hold of the book, he examined the parts he liked best; and having done this, sitting from very early in the morning, he was fatigued and went out for a walk, as I believe, by the dog, having learnt the whole speech by heart, if it is not a very long one. And he was going outside the walls, that he might con it over, and, [4.] meeting with one who has a desire for hearing speeches, was delighted at seeing him approach, because he would have one to share his enthusiasm, and bade him accompany him in his walk. But when that lover of speeches begged him to recite it, he affected shyness, as if he did not wish to repeat it, though at length he would have compelled one to listen to it even though one was not willing to do so. Do you then, Phædrus, entreat him to do now what he will soon do at all events.
_Phæ._ It is, in truth, far best for me to repeat it as well as I can; for I see you are determined not to let me go, until I have delivered it some how or another.
_Socr._ You think perfectly right.
_Phæ._ I will do it then; but in truth, Socrates, I have by no means learnt the words of this oration by heart, though the general outline of all the several parts, in which he said the claims of one who is in love and one who is not differ from each other, I can go through summarily and in order, beginning from the first.
5. _Socr._ But shew me first, my dear friend, what you have got there in your left hand, under your cloak; for I suspect that you have got the speech itself: and if this is the case, think thus of me, that I love you very much, but that, when Lysias is present, I have by no means made up my mind to lend myself to you to practise upon. Come then, shew it me.
_Phæ._ Stop, you have dashed down the hope I had, Socrates, of practising upon you. But where do you wish we should sit down and read?
_Socr._ Let us turn down here, and go near the Ilissus, then we will sit down quietly, wherever you please.
_Phæ._ Very seasonably, as it appears, I happen to be without shoes, for you are always so. It will be easiest for us then to walk by the shallow stream, wetting our feet, and it will not be unpleasant, especially at this season of the year, and this time of the day.
_Socr._ Lead on then, and at the same time look out for a place where we may sit down.
6. _Phæ._ Do you see that lofty plane-tree?
_Socr._ How should I not.
_Phæ._ There, there is both shade and a gentle breeze, and grass to sit down upon, or, if we prefer it, to lie down on.
_Socr._ Lead on, then.
_Phæ._ But tell me, Socrates, is not Boreas reported to have carried off Orithya from somewhere about this part of the Ilissus?
_Socr._ So it is said.
_Phæ._ Must it not have been from this spot? for the water hereabouts appears beautiful, clear and transparent, and well suited for damsels to sport about.
_Socr._ No, but lower down, as much as two or three stadia, where we cross over to the temple of the Huntress, and where there is, on the very spot, a kind of altar sacred to Boreas.
_Phæ._ I never noticed it. But tell me, by Jupiter, Socrates, do you believe that this fabulous account is true?
7. _Socr._ If I disbelieved it, as the wise do, I should not be guilty of any absurdity: then having recourse to subtleties, I should say that a blast of Boreas threw her down from the neighbouring cliffs, as she was sporting with Pharmacea, and that having thus met her death she was said to have been carried off by Boreas, or from Mars’ hill; for there is also another report that she was carried off from thence and not from this spot. But I, for my part, Phædrus, consider such things as pretty enough, but as the province of a very curious, painstaking, and not very happy man, and for no other reason than this, that after this he must set us right as to the form of the Hippocentaurs, and then as to that of the Chimæra; besides there pours in upon him a crowd of similar monsters, Gorgons and Pegasuses, and other monstrous creatures, incredible in number and absurdity, which if any one were to disbelieve and endeavour to reconcile each with probability, employing for this purpose a kind of vulgar cleverness, he will stand in need of abundant leisure. 8. But I have not leisure at all for such matters; and the cause of it, my friend, is this; I am not yet able, according to the Delphic precept, to know myself. But it appears to me to be ridiculous, while I am still ignorant of this to busy myself about matters that do not concern me. Wherefore dismissing these matters, and receiving the popular opinion respecting them, as I just now said, I do not enquire about them, but about myself, whether I happen to be a beast, with more folds and more furious than Typhon, or whether I am a more mild and simple animal, naturally partaking of a certain divine and modest condition. But, my friend, to interrupt our conversation, is not this the tree to which you were leading me?
_Phæ._ This is the very one.
9. _Socr._ By Juno, a beautiful retreat. For this plane-tree is very wide-spreading and lofty, and the height and shadiness of this agnus castus are very beautiful, and as it is now at the perfection of its flowering, it makes the spot as fragrant as possible. Moreover, a most agreeable fountain flows under the plane-tree, of very cold water, to judge from its effect on the foot. It appears from these images and statues to be sacred to certain nymphs, and to Achelous. Observe again the freshness of the spot how charming and very delightful it is, and how summer-like and shrill it sounds from the choir of grasshoppers. But the most delightful of all is the grass, which with its gentle slope is naturally adapted to give an easy support to the head, as one reclines.
So that, my dear Phædrus, you make an admirable stranger’s guide.
10. _Phæ._ And you, my wonderful friend, appear to be a most surprising being: for as you say, you are just like a stranger who is being shewn the sights, and not a native of the place. This comes from your never