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A   LIST   OF   BOOKS 


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MISCELLANEOUS. 


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IJAYDN'S     DICTIONARY    OF     DATES,    and 

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A  LIST  OF  BOOKS 


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"  The  Poet,  it  is  true,  is  the  son  of  his  time ;  but  pity  for  him  if  he 
is  its  pupil,  or  even  its  favourite !  Let  some  beneficent  deity  snatch 
hitu  when  a  suckling  from  the  breast  of  his  mother,  and  nurse  him 
with  the  milk  of  a  better  time ;  that  he  may  ripen  to  his  full  stature 
beneath  a  distant  Grecian  sky.  And  having  grown  to  manhood,  let 
him  return,  a  foreign  shape,  into  his  century ;  not  however  to  delight 
it  by  his  presence,  but  dreadful  like  the  son  of  Agamemnon,  to  purify 

it." — SCHILLEB. 


ESSAYS, 
LETTERS    FROM    ABROAD, 

TRANSLATIONS  AND  FRAGMENTS. 

BY  PEECY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

EDITED   BY  MRS.  SHELLEY. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  L 


A   NEW  EDITION. 


LONDON : 
EDWAED    MOXON,    DOVEE    STEEET. 

1852. 


LONDON: 
BRAOBUKY    AND    EVANS,   PRINTERS,   WHITEFRIAl 


PREFACE  BY  THE  EDITOR. 

These  volumes  have  long  been  due  to  the  public ; 
they  form  an  important  portion  of  all  that  was  left 
by  Shelley,  whence  those  who  did  not  know  him  may 
form  a  juster  estimate  of  his  virtues  and  his  genius 
than  has  hitherto  been  done. 

We  find,  in  the  verse  of  a  poet,  "  the  record  of  the 
best  and  happiest  moments  of  the  best  and  happiest 
minds."*  But  this  is  not  enough — we  desire  to  know 
the  man.  We  desire  to  learn  how  much  of  the  sensi- 
bility and  imagination  that  animates  his  poetry  was 
founded  on  heartfelt  passion,  and  purity,  and  elevation 
of  character ;  whether  the  pathos  and  the  fire  emanated 
from  transitory  inspiration  and  a  power  of  weaving 
words  touchingly ;  or  whether  the  poet  acknowledged 
the  might  of  his  art  in  his  inmost  soul ;  and  whether 
his  nerves  thrilled  to  the  touch  of  generous  emotion. 
Led  by  such  curiosity,  how  many  volumes  have  been 
filled  with  the  life  of  the  Scottish  plough-boy  and  the 
English  peer ;  we  welcome  with  delight  every  fact 
which   proves    that    the    patriotism   and  tenderness 

*  "  A  Defence  of  Poetry." 


expressed  in  the  songs  of  Burns,  sprung  from  a  noble 
and  gentle  heart ;  and  we  pore  over  each  letter  that 
we  expect  will  testify  that  the  melancholy  and  the 
unbridled  passion  that  darkens  Byron's  verse,  flowed 
from  a  soul  devoured  by  a  keen  susceptibility  to 
intensest  love,  and  indignant  broodings  over  the 
injuries  done  and  suffered  by  man.  Let  the  lovers  of 
Shelley's  poetry — of  his  aspirations  for  a  brotherhood 
of  love,  his  tender  bewailings  springing  from  a  too 
sensitive  spirit — his  sympathy  with  woe,  his  adoration 
of  beauty,  as  expressed  in  his  poetry ;  turn  to  these 
pages  to  gather  proof  of  sincerity,  and  to  become 
acquainted  with  the  form  that  such  gentle  sympathies 
and  lofty  aspirations  work  in  private  life. 

The  first  piece  in  these  volumes,  "A  Defence  of 
Poetry,"  is  the  only  entirely  finished  prose  work 
Shelley  left.  In  this  we  find  the  reverence  with 
which  he  regarded  his  art.  We  discern  his  power 
of  close  reasoning,  and  the  unity  of  his  views  of 
human  nature.  The  language  is  imaginative,  but  not 
flowery ;  the  periods  have  an  intonation  full  of  majesty 
and  grace ;  and  the  harmony  of  the  style  being  united 
to  melodious  thought,  a  music  results,  that  swells 
upon  the  ear,  and  fills  the  mind  with  delight.  It  is  a 
work  whence  a  young  poet,  and  one  suffering  from 
wrong  or  neglect,  may  learn  to  regard  his  pursuit  and 
himself  with  that  respect,  without  which  his  genius 
will  get  clogged  in  the  mire  of  the  earth :  it  will 
elevate  him  into  those  pure  regions,  where  there  is 
neither  pain  from  the  stings  of  insects,  nor  pleasure  in 
the  fruition  of  a  gross  appetite  for  praise.     He  will 


learn  to  rest  his  dearest  boast  on  the  dignity  of  the 
art  he  cultivates,  and  become  aware  that  his  best  claim 
on  the  applause  of  mankind,  results  from  his  being 
one  more  in  the  holy  brotherhood,  whose  vocation  it 
is  to  divest  life  of  its  material  grossness  and  stooping 
tendencies,  and  to  animate  it  with  that  power  of 
turning  all  things  to  the  beautiful  and  good,  which  is 
the  spirit  of  poetry. 

The  fragments*  that  follow  form  an  introduction  to 
"  The  Banquet "  or  "  Symposium  "  of  Plato — and  that 
noble  piece  of  writing  follows,  which  for  the  first 
time  introduces  the  Athenian  to  the  English  reader 
in  a  style  worthy  of  him.  No  prose  author  in  the 
history  of  mankind  has  exerted  so  much  influence 
over  the  world  as  Plato.  Prom  him  the  Pathers  and 
commentators  of  early  Christianity  derived  many  of 
their  most  abstruse  notions  and  spiritual  ideas.  His 
name  is  familiar  to  our  lips,  and  he  is  regarded  even 
by  the  unlearned  as  the  possessor  of  the  highest 
imaginative  faculty  ever  displayed  by  man — the  creator 
of  much  of  the  purity  of  sentiment  which  in  another 
guise  was  adopted  by  the  founders  of  chivalry — the 
man  who  endowed  Socrates  with  a  large  portion  of 
that  reputation  for  wisdom  and  virtue,  which  sur- 
rounds him  evermore  with  an  imperishable  halo 
of  glory. 

With  all  this,  how  little  is  really  known  of  Plato  ! 


*  Small  portions  of  these  and  other  essays  were  published  by  Captain 
Medwin  in  a  newspaper.  Generally  speaking,  his  extracts  are  incorrect 
and  incomplete.  I  must  except  the  Essay  on  Love,  and  Remarks  on  some 
of  the  statues  in  the  Gallery  of  Florence,  however,  as  they  appeared  there, 
from  the  blame  of  these  defects. 


viii  PREFACE. 

The  translation  we  have  is  so  harsh  and  un-Enghsh  in 
its  style,  as  universally  to  repel.  There  are  excellent 
abstracts  of  some  of  his  dialogues  in  a  periodical 
publication  called  the  "Monthly  depository ;"  and 
the  mere  English  reader  must  feel  deeply  obliged  to 
the  learned  translator.  But  these  abstracts  are  de- 
fective from  their  very  form  of  abridgment;  and, 
though  I  am  averse  to  speak  disparagingly  of  pages 
from  which  I  have  derived  so  much  pleasure  and 
knowledge,  they  want  the  radiance  and  delicacy  of 
language  with  which  the  ideas  are  invested  in  the 
original,  and  are  dry  and  stiff  compared  with  the 
soaring  poetry,  the  grace,  subtlety,  and  infinite 
variety  of  Plato.  They  want,  also,  the  dramatic 
vivacity,  and  the  touch  of  nature,  that  vivifies  the 
pages  of  the  Athenian.  These  are  all  found  here. 
Shelley  commands  language  splendid  and  melodious 
as  Plato,  and  renders  faithfully  the  elegance  and  the 
gaiety  which  make  the  Symposium  as  amusing  as  it  is 
sublime.  The  whole  mechanism  of  the  drama,  for 
such  in  some  sort  it  is, — the  enthusiasm  of  ApoUo- 
dorus,  the  sententiousness  of  Eryximachus,  the  wit  of 
Aristophanes,  the  rapt  and  golden  eloquence  of 
Agathon,  the  subtle  dialectics  and  grandeur  of  aim  of 
Socrates,  the  drunken  outbreak  of  Alcibiades, — are 
given  with  grace  and  animation.  The  picture  pre- 
sented reminds  us  of  that  talent  which,  in  a  less 
degree,  we  may  suppose  to  have  dignified  the  orgies 
of  the  last  generation  of  free-spirited  wits, — Burke, 
Eox,  Sheridan,  and  Curran.  It  has  something  of 
license, — too  much  indeed,  and  perforce  omitted ;  but 


PREFACE.  ix 

of  coarseness,  that  worst  sin  against  our  nature,  it  has 
nothing. 

Shelley's  own  definition  of  Love  follows ;  and  reveals 
the  secrets  of  the  most  impassioned,  and  yet  the  purest 
and  softest  heart  that  ever  yearned  for  sympathy,  and 
was  ready  to  give  its  own,  in  lavish  measure,  in  return. 
"  The  Coliseum  "  is  a  continuation  to  a  great  degree  of 
the  same  subject.  Shelley  had  something  of  the  idea  of 
a  story  in  this.  The  stranger  was  a  Greek, — nurtured 
from  infancy  exclusively  in  the  literature  of  his  pro- 
genitors,— and  brought  up  as  a  child  of  Pericles  might 
have  been ;  and  to  heighten  the  resemblance,  Shelley 
conceived  the  idea  of  a  woman,  whom  he  named 
Diotima,  who  was  his  instructress  and  guide.  In 
speaking  of  his  plan,  this  was  the  sort  of  development 
he  sketched;  but  no  word  more  was  written  than 
appears  in  these  pages. 

"  The  Assassins  "  was  composed  many  years  before. 
The  style  is  less  chaste ;  but  it  is  warmed  by  the  fire 
of  youth.  I  do  not  know  what  story  he  had  in  view. 
The  Assassins  were  known  in  the  eleventh  century  as 
a  horde  of  Mahometans  living  among  the  recesses  of 
Lebanon, — ruled  over  by  the  Old  Man  of  the  Moun- 
tain ;  under  whose  direction  various  murders  were 
committed  on  the  Crusaders,  which  caused  the  name 
of  the  people  who  perpetrated  them  to  be  adopted  in 
all  European  languages,  to  designate  the  crime  which 
gave  them  notoriety.  Shelley's  old  favourite,  the 
"Wandering  Jew,  appears  in  the  latter  chapters,  and, 
with  his  wild  and  fearful  introduction  into  the  domestic 
circle  of  a  peaceful  family  of  the  Assassins,  the  frag- 


X  PREFACE. 

ment  concludes.  It  was  never  touched  afterwards. 
There  is  great  beauty  in  the  sketch  as  it  stands ;  it 
breathes  that  spirit  of  domestic  peace  and  general 
brotherhood  founded  on  love,  which  was  developed 
afterwards  in  the  "  Prometheus  Unbound." 

The  fragment  of  his  "  Essay  on  the  Punishment  of 
Death"  bears  the  value  which  the  voice  of  a  philo- 
sopher and  a  poet,  reasoning  in  favour  of  humanity 
and  refinement,  must  possess.  It  alleges  all  the 
arguments  that  an  imaginative  man,  who  can  vividly 
figure  the  feelings  of  his  fellow-creatures,  can  alone 
conceive;*  and  it  brings  them  home  to  the  calm 
reasoner  with  the  logic  of  truth.  In  the  milder  season 
that  since  Shelley's  time  has  dawned  upon  England, 
our  legislators  each  day  approximate  nearer  to  his 
views  of  justice ;  this  piece,  fragment  as  it  is,  may 
suggest  to  some  among  them  motives  for  carrying  his 
beneficent  views  into  practice. 

How  powerful — how  almost  appalling,  in  its  vivid 
reality  of  representation,  is  the  essay  on  ^'Life!" 
Shelley  was  a  disciple  of  the  Immaterial  Philosophy 
of  Berkeley.  This  theory  gave  unity  and  grandeur  to 
his  ideas,  while  it  opened  a  wide  field  for  his  imagina- 
tion. The  creation,  such  as  it  was  perceived  by  his 
mind — a  unit  in  immensity,  was  slight  and  narrow 
compared  with  the  interminable  forms  of  thought  that 
might  exist  beyond,  to  be  perceived  perhaps  hereafter 
by  his  own  mind ;  or  which  are  perceptible  to  other 

*  •'  A  man,  to  be  greatly  good,  must  imagine  intensely  and  compre- 
hensively ;  he  must  put  himself  in  the  place  of  another  and  of  many 
others ;  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species  must  become  his  own." 
— A  Defence  of  Poetry. 


minds  that  fill  the  universe,  not  of  space  in  the  mate- 
rial sense,  but  of  infinity  in  the  immaterial  one.  Such 
ideas  are,  in  some  degree,  developed  in  his  poem 
entitled  "Heaven:"  and  when  he  makes  one  of  the 
interlocutors  exclaim, 

"Peace!  the  abyss  is  wreathed  in  scorn 
Of  thy  presumption,  atom-born," 

he  expresses  his  despair  of  being  able  to  conceive,  far 
less  express,  all  of  variety,  majesty,  and  beauty,  which 
is  veiled  from  our  imperfect  senses  in  the  unknown 
realm,  the  mystery  of  which  his  poetic  vision  sought  in 
vain  to  penetrate. 

The  "  Essay  on  a  Future  State  "  is  also  unhappily  a 
fragment.  Shelley  observes,  on  one  occasion,  "  a  man 
is  not  a  being  of  reason  only,  but  of  imaginations  and 
affections."  In  this  portion  of  his  Essay  he  gives  us 
only  that  view  of  a  future  state  which  is  to  be  derived 
from  reasoning  and  analogy.  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  a  mind  so  full  of  vast  ideas  concerning  the 
universe,  endowed  with  such  subtle  discrimination 
with  regard  to  the  various  modes  in  which  this  does 
or  may  appear  to  our  eyes,  with  a  lively  fancy  and 
ardent  and  expansive  feelings,  should  be  content  with 
a  mere  logical  view  of  that  which  even  in  religion  is  a 
mystery  and  a  wonder.  I  cannot  pretend  to  supply 
the  deficiency,  nor  say  what  Shelley's  views  were — 
they  were  vague,  certainly ;  yet  as  certainly  regarded 
the  country  beyond  the  grave  as  one  by  no  means 
foreign  to  our  interests  and  hopes.  Considering  his 
individual  mind  as  a  unit   divided  from  a  mighty 


whole,  to  which  it  was  united  by  restless  sympathies 
and  an   eager   desire  for    knowledge,   he    assuredly 
believed  that  hereafter,  as  now,   he  would  form  a 
portion  of  that  whole — and  a  portion  less  imperfect, 
less   suifering,   than  the   shackles    inseparable   from 
humanity  impose  on  all  who  live  beneath  the  moon. 
To  me,  death  appears  to  be  the  gate  of  life ;  but  my 
hopes  of  a  hereafter  would  be  pale  and  drooping,  did 
I  not  expect  to  find  that  most  perfect  and  beloved 
specimen  of  humanity  on  the  other  shore ;  and  my 
belief  is,  that  spiritual  improvement  in  this  life  pre- 
pares the  way  to  a  higher  existence.     Traces  of  such  a 
faith  are  found  in  several  passages  of  Shelley's  works. 
In  one  of  the  letters  he  says, "  The  destiny  of  man  can 
scarcely  be  so  degraded,  that  he  was  born  only  to  die." 
And  again,  in  a  journal,  I  find  these  feelings  recorded, 
with  regard  to  a  danger  we  incurred  together  at  sea: — 
"  I  had  time  in  that  moment  to  reflect  and  even  to 
reason  on  death ;  it  was  rather  a  thing  of  discomfort 
and  disappointment  than  terror  to  me.     "We  should 
never  be  separated  ;  but  in  death  we  might  not  know 
and  feel  our  union  as  now.     I  hope — but  my  hopes 
are  not  unmixed  with  fear  for  what  will  befal  this 
inestimable  spirit  when  we  appear  to  die."     A  mystic 
ideality  tinged  these  speculations  in  Shelley's  mind ; 
certain  stanzas  in  the  poem  of  "  The  Sensitive  Plant " 
express,  in  some  degree,  the  almost  inexpressible  idea, 
not  that  we  die  into  another  state,  when  this  state  is 
no  longer,  from  some  reason,  unapparent  as  well  as 
apparent,  accordant  with  our  being — but  that  those 
who  rise  above  the  ordinary  nature  of  man,  fade  from 


PREFACE.  xiii 

before  our  imperfect  organs;  thej  remain,  in  their 
"love,  beauty,  and  delight,"  in  a  world  congenial  to 
them — we,  clogged  bj  "error,  ignorance,  and  strife," 
see  them  not,  till  we  are  fitted  bj  purification  and 
improvement  for  their  higher  state*  For  myself,  no 
religious  doctrine,  nor  philosophical  precept,  can  shake 
the  faith  that  a  mind  so  original,  so  delicately  and 
beautifully  moulded,  as  Shelley's,  so  endowed  with 
wondrous  powers  and  eagle-eyed  genius — so  good,  so 
pure — would  never  be  shattered  and  dispersed  by  the 
Creator ;  but  that  the  qualities  and  consciousness  that 
formed  him,  are  not  only  indestructible  in  themselves, 
but  in  the  form  under  which  they  were  united  here, 
and  that  to  become  worthy  of  him  is  to  assure  the  bliss 
of  a  reunion. 

The  fragments  of  metaphysics  will  be  highly  prized 
by  a  metaphysician.  Such  a  one  is  aware  how  difficult 
it  is  to  strip  bare  the  internal  nature  of  man,  to  divest 


"But  in  this  life 
Of  terror,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair. 
And  all  sweet  shapes,  and  odours  there, 
In  truth,  have  never  passed  away ; 
'Tis  we,  'tis  ours  are  changed — not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 
There  is  no  death,  nor  change ;  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure." 


it  of  prejudice,  of  the  mistakes  engendered  by  fami- 
liarity, and  by  language,  which  has  become  one  with 
certain  ideas,  and  those  very  ideas  erroneous.  Had 
not  Shelley  deserted  metaphysics  for  poetry  in  his 
youth,  and  had  he  not  been  lost  to  us  early,  so  that 
aU  his  vaster  projects  were  wrecked  with  him  in  the 
waves,  he  would  have  presented  the  world  with  a  com- 
plete theory  of  mind  ;  a  theory  to  which  Berkeley, 
Coleridge,  and  Kant,  would  have  contributed;  but 
more  simple,  unimpugnable,  and  entire,  than  the 
systems  of  these  writers.  His  nerves,  indeed,  were  so 
susceptible,  that  these  intense  meditations  on  his  own 
nature,  thrilled  him  with  pain.  Thought  kindled  ima- 
gination and  awoke  sensation,  and  rendered  him  dizzy 
from  too  great  keenness  of  emotion;  tiU  awe  and 
tremor  possessed  him,  and  he  fled  to  the  voice  and 
presence  of  one  he  loved  to  relieve  the  mysterious 
agitation  that  shook  him.* 

He  at  one  time  meditated  a  popular  essay  on  morals  ; 
to  show  how  virtue  resulted  from  the  nature  of  man, 
and  that  to  fulfil  its  laws  was  to  abide  by  that  principle 
from  the  fulfilment  of  which  happiness  is  to  spring. 
The  few  pages  here  given  are  all  that  he  left  on  this 
subject. 

The  fragment  marked  as  second  in  these  "  Specula- 
tions on  Morals"  is  remarkable  for  its  subtlety  and 
truth.  I  found  it  on  a  single  leaf,  disjoined  from  any 
other  subject. — It  gives  the  true  key  to  the  history  of 
man ;  and  above  all,  to  those  rules  of  conduct  whence 
mutual  happiness  has  its  source  and  security. 

*  Sec  p.  205. 


PKEFACE.  XV 

This  concludes  the  essays  and  fragments  of  Shelley. 
I  do  not  give  them  as  the  whole  that  he  left,  but  as 
the  most  interesting  portion.  A  Treatise  on  Political 
Eeform  and  other  fragments  remain,  to  be  published 
when  his  works  assume  a  complete  shape. 

I  do  not  know  why  Shelley  selected  the  "Ion"  of 
Plato  to  translate.  Probably  because  he  thought  it 
characteristic;  that  it  unfolded  peculiar  ideas,  and 
those  Platonic,  with  regard  to  poetry ;  and  gave 
insight  into  portions  of  Athenian  manners,  pursuits, 
and  views,  which  w^ould  have  been  otherwise  lost  to 
us.  We  find  manifestation  here  of  the  exceeding 
partiality  felt  by  the  Greeks,  for  every  exhibition  of 
eloquence.  It  testifies  that  love  of  interchanging  and 
enlarging  ideas  by  conversation,  which  in  modern 
society,  through  our  domestic  system  of  life,  is  too 
often  narrowed  to  petty  objects,  and  which,  from  their 
fashion  of  conversing  in  streets  and  under  porticoes, 
and  in  public  places,  became  a  passion  far  more 
intense  than  with  us.  Among  those  who  ministered 
exclusively  to  this  taste,  were  the  rhapsodists;  and 
among  rhapsodists,  Ion  himself  tells  us,  he  was  the 
most  eminent  of  his  day;  that  he  was  a  man  of 
enthusiastic  and  poetic  temperament,  and  abundantly 
gifted  with  the  power  of  arranging  his  thoughts  in 
glowing  and  fascinating  language,  his  success  proves. 
But  he  was  singularly  deficient  in  reason.  "When 
Socrates  presses  on  him  the  question  of,  whether  he 
as  a  rhapsodist  is  as  well  versed  in  nautical,  hippo- 
dromic,  and  other  arts,  as  sailors,  charioteers,  and 
various  artisans  ?  he  gives  up  the  point  with  the  most 


foolish  inanity.  One  would  fancy  that  practice  in  his 
pursuit  would  have  caused  him  to  reply,  that  though  he 
was  neither  mariner  nor  horseman,  nor  practically 
skilled  in  any  other  of  the  pursuits  in  question,  yet  that 
he  had  consulted  men  versed  in  them;  and  enriching  his 
mind  with  the  knowledge  afforded  by  adepts  in  all  arts, 
he  was  better  qualified  by  study  and  by  his  gift  of 
language  and  enthusiasm  to  explain  these,  as  they 
form  a  portion  of  Homer's  poetry,  than  any  individual 
whose  knowledge  was  limited  to  one  subject  only. 
But  Ion  had  no  such  scientific  view  of  his  profession. 
He  gives  up  point  after  point,  till,  as  Socrates  observes, 
he  most  absurdly  strives  at  victory,  under  the  form  of 
an  expert  leader  of  armies.  In  this,  as  in  all  the  other 
of  Plato's  writings,  we  are  perpetually  referred,  with 
regard  to  the  enthusiastic  and  ideal  portion  of  our 
intellect,  to  something  above  and  beyond  our  sphere, 
the  inspiration  of  the  God — the  influence  exercised 
over  the  human  mind,  either  through  the  direct 
agency  of  the  deities,  or  our  own  half-blind  memory 
of  divine  knowledge  acquired  by  the  soul  in  its  ante- 
natal state.  SheUey  left  Ion  imperfect ;  I  thought  it 
better  that  it  should  appear  as  a  whole,  but  at  the  same 
time  have  marked  with  brackets  the  passages  that  have 
been  added ;  the  rest  appears  exactly  as  Shelley  left  it. 
Eespect  for  the  name  of  Plato  as  well  as  that  of 
Shelley,  and  reliance  on  the  curiosity  that  the  English 
reader  must  feel  with  regard  to  the  sealed  book  of 
the  Ancient  "Wonder,  caused  me  to  include  in  this 
volume  the  fragment  of  "  Menexenus,"  and  passages 
from  "The  Eepublic."     In  the  first  we  have  another 


admirable  specimen  of  Socratic  irony.  In  tlie  latter 
the  opinions  and  views  of  Plato  enounced  in  "  The 
Eepublic,"  which  appeared  remarkable  to  Shelley,  are 
preserved,  with  the  addition,  in  some  instances,  of  his 
own  brief  observations  on  them. 

The  second  volume  is  chiefly  composed  of  letters. 
"The  Journal  of  a  Six  Weeks'  Tour,"  and  "Letters 
from  Geneva,"  were  published  many  years  ago  by 
Shelley  himself.  The  Journal  is  singular,  from  the 
circumstance  that  it  was  not  written  for  publication, 
and  was  deemed  too  trivial  for  such  by  its  author. 
Shelley  caused  it  to  be  printed,  and  added  to  it  his 
own  letters,  which  contain  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
descriptions  ever  written.  The  Letters  from  Italy, 
which  are  addressed  to  the  same  gentleman  as  the 
recipient  of  the  Letters  from  Geneva,  are  in  a  similar 
spirit  of  observation  and  remark.  The  reader  can 
only  regret  that  they  are  so  few,  and  that  one  or  two 
are  missing.  The  eminent  German  writer,  Jean  Paul 
Eichter,  says,  that  "to  describe  any  scene  well,  the 
poet  must  make  the  bosom  of  a  man  his  camera 
ohscura,  and  look  at  it  through  this.''''  Shelley  pursues 
this  method  in  all  his  descriptions ;  he  always,  as  he 
says  himself,  looks  beyond  the  actual  object,  for  an 
internal  meaning,  typified,  illustrated,  or  caused  by 
the  external  appearance.  Adoring  beauty,  he  endea- 
voured to  define  it ;  he  was  convinced  that  the  canons 
of  taste,  if  known,  are  irrefragable  ;  and  that  these  are 
to  be  sought  in  the  most  admirable  works  of  art ;  he 
therefore  studied  intently,  and  with  anxious  scrutiny, 


the  parts  in  detail,  and  their  harmony  as  a  whole,  to 
discover  what  tends  to  form  a  beautiful  or  sublime 
work. 

The  loss  of  our  beloved  child  at  Eome,  which  drove 
us  northward  in  trembliug  fear  for  the  one  soon  after 
born,  and  the  climate  of  Florence  disagreeing  so 
exceedingly  with  Shelley,  he  ceased  at  Pisa  to  be  con- 
versant with  paintings  and  sculpture ;  a  circumstance 
he  deplores  in  one  of  his  letters,  and  in  many  points 
of  view  to  be  greatly  regretted. 

His  letters  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gisborne,  and  to 
Mr.  Eeveley,  the  son  of  the  latter  by  a  former  mar- 
riage, display  that  helpful  and  generous  benevolence 
and  friendship  which  was  Shelley's  characteristic. 
He  set  on  foot  the  project  of  a  steam-boat  to  ply 
between  Marseilles  and  Leghorn,  for  their  benefit,  as 
far  as  pecuniary  profit  might  accrue;  at  the  same 
time  that  he  took  a  fervent  interest  in  the  under- 
taking, for  its  own  sake.  It  was  not  puerile  vanity, 
but  a  nobler  feeling  of  honest  pride,  that  made  him 
enjoy  the  idea  of  being  the  first  to  introduce  steam 
navigation  into  the  Gulf  of  Lyons,  and  to  glory  in  the 
consciousness  of  being  in  this  manner  useful  to  his 
fellow-creatures.  Unfortunately,  he  was  condemned 
to  experience  a  failure.  The  prospects  and  views  of 
our  friends  drew  them  to  England,  and  the  boat  and 
the  engine  were  abandoned.  Shelley  was  deeply  dis- 
appointed ;  yet  it  will  be  seen  how  generously  he 
exculpates  our  friends  to  themselves,  and  relieves 
them  from  the  remorse  they  might  naturally  feel  for 
having  thus  wasted  his  money  and  disappointed  his 


preface:.  xix 

desires.  It  will  be  remembered  that  Shelley  addressed 
a  poetical  letter  to  Mrs.  Grisborne,  when  that  lady  was 
absent  in  England ;  and  I  have  mentioned,  and  in 
some  measure  described  her,  in  my  notes  to  the 
poems.  "Mrs.  Gisborne  had  been  a  friend  of  my 
father  in  her  younger  days.  She  was  a  lady  of  great 
accomplishments,  and  charming  from  her  frank 
affectionate  nature.  She  had  a  most  intense  love  of 
knowledge,  a  delicate  and  trembling  sensibility,  and 
preserved  freshness  of  mind  after  a  life  of  considerable 
adversity.  As  a  favourite  friend  of  my  father,  we  had 
sought  her  with  eagerness,  and  the  most  open  and 
cordial  friendship  subsisted  between  us." 

The  letters  to  Leigh  Hunt  have  already  been  pub- 
lished. They  are  monuments  of  the  friendship  which 
he  felt  for  the  man  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  tragedy 
of  "  The  Cenci,"  in  terms  of  warm  and  just  eulogium. 
I  have  obtained  but  few  to  other  friends.  He  had, 
indeed,  not  more  than  one  or  two  other  correspondents. 
I  have  added  such  letters  as,  during  our  brief  separa- 
tions in  Italy,  were  addressed  to  myself;  precious 
relics  of  love,  kindness,  gentleness,  and  wisdom.  I 
have  but  one  fault  to  find  with  them,  or  with  Shelley, 
in  my  union  with  him.  His  inexpressible  tenderness 
of  disposition  made  him  delight  in  giving  pleasure, 
and,  urged  by  this  feeling,  he  praised  too  much.  Nor 
were  his  endeavours  to  exalt  his  correspondent  in  her 
own  eyes  founded  on  this  feeling  only.  He  had  never 
read  "Wilhelm  Meister,"  but  I  have  heard  him  say 
that  he  regulated  his  conduct  towards  his  friends  by  a 
maxim  which   I   found   afterwards   in   the   pages   of 


Goethe — "  When  we  take  people  merely  as  they  are, 
we  make  them  worse ;  when  we  treat  them  as  if  they 
were  what  they  should  be,  we  improve  them  as  far  as 
they  can  be  improved."  This  rule  may  perhaps 
admit  of  dispute,  and  it  may  be  argued  that  truth 
and  frankness  produce  better  fruits  than  the  most 
generous  deceit.  But  when  we  consider  the  difficulty 
of  keeping  our  best  virtues  free  from  self-blindness 
and  self-love,  and  recollect  the  intolerance  and  fault- 
finding that  usually  blots  social  intercoui'se ;  and 
compare  such  with  the  degree  of  forbearance  and 
imaginative  sympathy,  so  to  speak,  which  such  a 
system  necessitates,  we  must  think  highly  of  the 
generosity  and  self-abnegation  of  the  man  who  regulated 
his  conduct  undeviatingly  by  it. 

Can  anything  be  more  beautiful  than  these  letters  ? 
They  are  adorned  by  simplicity,  tenderness,  and 
generosity,  combined  with  manly  views,  and  acute 
observation.  His  practical  opinions  may  be  found 
here.  His  indignant  detestation  of  political  oppression 
did  not  prevent  him  from  deprecating  the  smallest 
approach  to  similar  crimes  on  the  part  of  his  own 
party ;  and  he  abjured  revenge  and  retaliation,  while 
he  strenuously  advocated  reform.  He  felt  assured 
that  there  would  be  a  change  for  the  better  in  our 
institutions ;  he  feared  bloodshed,  he  feared  the  ruiu 
of  many.  Wedded  as  he  was  to  the  cause  of  public 
good,  he  would  have  hailed  the  changes  that  since  his 
time  have  so  signally  ameliorated  our  institutions  and 
opinions,  each  acting  on  the  other,  and  which  still,  we 
may  hope,  are  proceeding  towards  the  establishment 


of  that  liberty  and  toleration  which  he  worshipped. 
"The  thing  to  fear,"  he  observes,  "  will  be,  that  the 
change  should  proceed  too  fast — it  must  be  gradual  to 
b§  secure." 

I  do  not  conceal  that  I  am  far  from  satisfied  with 
the  tone  in  which  the  criticisms  on  Shelley  are  written. 
Some  among  these  writers  praise  the  poetry  with 
enthusiasm,  and  even  discrimination  ;  but  none  under- 
stand the  man.  I  hope  these  volumes  will  set  him  in  a 
juster  point  of  view.  If  it  be  alleged  in  praise  of 
Goethe  that  he  was  an  artist  as  well  as  a  poet ;  that 
his  principles  of  composition,  his  theories  of  wisdom 
and  virtue,  and  the  ends  of  existence,  rested  on  a 
noble  and  secure  basis ;  not  less  does  that  praise  belong 
to  Shelley.  His  Defence  of  Poetry  is  alone  sufficient 
to  prove  that  his  views  were,  in  every  respect,  defined 
and  complete ;  his  faith  in  good  continued  firm,  and 
his  respect  for  his  fellow-creatures  was  unimpaired  by 
the  wrongs  he  sufiered.  Every  word  of  his  letters 
displays  that  modesty,,  that  forbearance,  and  mingled 
meekness  and  resolution  that,  in  my  mind,  form  the 
perfection  of  man.  "  Gentle,  brave,  and  generous," 
he  describes  the  Poet  in  Alastor  :  such  he  was  himself, 
beyond  any  man  I  have  ever  known.  To  these 
admirable  qualities  were  added,  his  genius.  He  had 
but  one  defect — which  was  his  leaving  his  life  incom- 
plete by  an  early  death.  O  that  the  serener  hopes  of 
maturity,  the  happier  contentment  of  mid-life,  had 
descended  on  his  dear  head,  to  calm  the  turbulence  of 
youthful  impetuosity — that  he  had  lived  to  see  his 
country  advance  towards  freedom,  and  to  enrich  the 


world  with  his  o^\^l  virtues  and  genius  in  their 
completion  of  experience  and  power  !  When  I  think 
that  such  things  might  have  been,  and  of  my  own  share 
in  such  good  and  happiness ;  the  pang  occasioned  by  his 
loss  can  never  pass  away — and  I  gain  resignation  only 
by  believing  that  he  was  spared  much  suffering,  and  that 
he  has  passed  into  a  sphere  of  being,  better  adapted  to 
his  inexpressible  tenderness,  his  generous  sympathies, 
and  his  richly-gifted  mind.  That,  free  from  the 
physical  pain  to  which  he  was  a  martyr,  and  unshackled 
by  the  fleshly  bars  and  imperfect  senses  which  hedged 
him  in  on  earth,  he  enjoys  beauty,  and  good,  and  love 
there,  where  those  to  whom  he  was  united  on  earth 
by  various  ties  of  affection,  sympathy,  and  admiration, 
may  hope  to  join  him. 

PvTNEY,  December,  1839. 


CONTENTS  OE  VOLUME  I. 

Page 

A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY      3 

ESSAY  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ARTS,  AND  MANNERS  OF 

THE  ATHENIANS— A  FRAGMENT 49 

PREFACE  TO  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO    ....  59 

THE  BANQUET— TRANSLATED  FROM  PLATO         .          •     •  61 

ON  LOVE , 135 

THE  COLISEUM— A  FRAGMENT 138 

THE  ASSASSINS-FRAGMENT  OF  A  ROMANCE            .          .  149 

ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH I73 

ON  LIFE 181 

ON  A  FUTURE  STATE 188 

SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

I.   THE  MIND 195 

II.   WHAT    METAPHYSICS     ARE — ERRORS    IN    THE    USUAL 

METHODS   OP   CONSIDERING   THEM        .            .            .      .  199 

in.    DIFFICULTY   OP   ANALYSING   THE   HUMAN    MIND             .  200 

IV.    HOW  THE   ANALYSIS  SHOULD   BE   CARRIED   ON         .      .  201 

V.    CATALOGUE   OF   THE   PHENOMENA   OF   DREAMS   .            .  202 


xxiT  CONTENTS. 

Page 
SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

I.    PLAN    OF    A   TREATISE   ON   MORALS     ....      205 

11.    MORAL     SCIENCE      CONSISTS      IN      CONSIDERING      THE 

DIFFERENCE,  NOT   THE   RESEMBLANCE,  OF  PERSONS      218 

ION ;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD-TRANSLATED  FROM  PLATO     .      222 

MENEXENUS;    OR,    THE    FUNERAL   ORATION-A    FRAG- 
MENT    243 

FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO     .  •      •      248 

ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  CRITO 258 


ESSAYS,  TRANSLATIONS,  AND 
FRAGMENTS. 


"  That  thou,  O  my  brother,  impart  to  me  truly  how  it  stands 
with  thee  in  that  inner  man  of  thine ;  what  lively  images  of 
things  past  thy  memory  has  painted  there  ;  what  hopes,  what 
thoughts,  affections,  knowledge,  do  now  dwell  there.  For  this, 
and  no  other  object  that  I  can  see,  was  the  gift  of  hearing  and 
speech  bestowed  on  us  two." — Thomas  Carlyle. 


ESSAYS,  TRANSLATIONS,  AND 
FRAGMENTS. 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETEl. 

PART  I. 

AccoEDiNG  to  one  mode  of  regarding  those  two 
classes  of  mental  action,  which  are  called  reason  and 
imagination,  the  former  may  be  considered  as  mind 
contemplating  the  relations  borne  loj  one  thought  to 
another,  however  produced ;  and  the  latter,  as  mind 
acting  upon  those  thoughts  so  as  to  colour  them  with 
its  own  light,  and  composing  from  them,  as  from 
elements,  other  thoughts,  each  containing  within  itself 
the  principle  of  its  own  integrity.  The  one  is  the 
TO  TTOLCLv,  OY  thc  priuciplc  of  synthesis,  and  has  for  its 
objects  those  forms  which  are  common  to  universal 
nature  and  existence  itself ;  the  other  is  the  to  XoyiCiiv, 
or  principle  of  analysis,  and  its  action  regards  the 
relations  of  things,  simply  as  relations ;  considering 
thoughts,  not  in  their   integral    unity,   but  as  the 

b2 


4  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

algebraical  representations  which  conduct  to  certain 
general  results.  Eeason  is  the  enumeration  of  quan- 
tities already  known ;  imagination  is  the  perception  of 
the  value  of  those  quantities,  bo1:h  separately  and  as  a 
whole.  Eeason  respects  the  differences,  and  imagi- 
nation the  similitudes  of  things.  Eeason  is  to 
imagination  as  the  instrument  to  the  agent,  as  the 
body  to  the  spirit,  as  the  shadow  to  the  substance. 

Poetry,  in  a  general  sense,  may  be  defined  to  be 
"the  expression  of  the  imagination:"  and  poetry  is 
connate  with  the  origin  of  man.  Man  is  an  instrument 
over  which  a  series  of  external  and  internal  impressions 
are  driven,  like  the  alternations  of  an  ever-changing 
wind  over  an  ^olian  lyre,  which  move  it  by  their 
motion  to  ever-changing  melody.  But  there  is  a 
principle  within  the  human  being,  and  perhaps  within 
all  sentient  beings,  which  acts  otherwise  than  in  the 
lyre,  and  produces  not  melody  alone,  but  harmony,  by 
an  internal  adjustment  of  the  sounds  or  motions  thus 
excited  to  the  impressions  which  excite  them.  It  is 
as  if  the  lyre  could  accommodate  its  chords  to  the 
motions  of  that  which  strikes  them,  in  a  determined 
proportion  of  sound ;  even  as  the  musician  can  accom- 
modate his  voice  to  the  sound  of  the  lyre.  A  child  at 
play  by  itself  will  express  its  delight  by  its  voice  and 
motions  ;  and  every  inflexion  of  tone  and  every  gesture 
will  bear  exact  relation  to  a  corresponding  antitype  in 
the  pleasurable  impressions  which  awakened  it;  it 
will  be  the  reflected  image  of  that  impression  ;  and  as 
the  lyre  trembles  and  sounds  after  the  wind  has  died 
away,  so  the  child  seeks,  by  prolongiag  in  its  voice  and 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 


motions  the  duration  of  the  effect,  to  prolong  also  a 
consciousness  of  the  cause.  In  relation  to  the  objects 
which  delight  a  child,  these  expressions  are,  what 
poetry  is  to  higher  objects.  The  savage  (for  the 
savage  is  to  ages  what  the  child  is  to  years)  expresses 
the  emotions  produced  in  him  by  surrounding  objects 
in  a  similar  manner ;  and  language  and  gesture,  to- 
gether with  plastic  or  pictorial  imitation,  become 
the  image  of  the  combined  effect  of  those  objects,  and 
of  his  apprehension  of  them.  Man  in  society,  with  all 
his  passions  and  his  pleasures,  next  becomes  the  object 
of  the  passions  and  pleasures  of  man ;  an  additional 
class  of  emotions  produces  an  augmented  treasure  of 
expressions ;  and  language,  gesture,  and  the  imitative 
arts,  become  at  once  the  representation  and  the 
medium,  the  pencil  and  the  picture,  the  chisel  and 
the  statue,  the  chord  and  the  harmony.  The  social 
sympathies,  or  those  laws  from  which,  as  from  its 
elements,  society  results,  begin  to  develope  themselves 
from  the  moment  that  two  human  beings  coexist ;  the 
future  is  contained  within  the  present,  as  the  plant 
within  the  seed;  and  equality,  diversity,  unity,  con- 
trast, mutual  dependence,  become  the  principles  alone 
capable  of  affording  the  motives  according  to  which 
the  will  of  a  social  being  is  determined  to  action, 
inasmuch  as  he  is  social;  and  constitute  pleasure  in 
sensation,  virtue  in  sentiment,  beauty  in  art,  truth  in 
reasoning,  and  love  in  the  intercourse  of  kind.  Hence 
men,  even  in  the  infancy  of  society,  observe  a  certain 
order  in  their  words  and  actions,  distinct  from  that 
of  the  objects  and  the  impressions  represented  by 


6  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY." 

them,  all  expression  being  subject  to  tbe  laws  of  that 
from  whicb  it  proceeds.  But  let  us  dismiss  those 
more  general  considerations  which  might  involve  an 
inquiry  into  the  principles  of  society  itself,  and  restrict 
our  view  to  the  manner  in  which  the  imagination  is 
expressed  upon  its  forms. 

In  the  youth  of  the  world,  men  dance  and  sing  and 
imitate  natural  objects,  observing  in  these  actions,  as 
in  all  others,  a  certain  rhythm  or  order.  And,  although 
all  men  observe  a  similar,  they  observe  not  the  same 
order,  in  the  motions  of  the  dance,  in  the  melody  of 
the  song,  in  the  combinations  of  language,  in  the 
series  of  their  imitations  of  natural  objects.  For  there 
is  a  certain  order  or  rhythm  belonging  to  each  of  these 
classes  of  mimetic  representation,  from  which  the 
hearer  and  the  spectator  receive  an  intenser  and  purer 
pleasure  than  from  any  other :  the  sense  of  an  approxi- 
mation to  this  order  has  been  called  taste  by  modem 
writers.  Every  man  in  the  infancy  of  art  observes  an 
order  which  approximates  more  or  less  closely  to  that 
from  which  this  highest  delight  results :  but  the  diver- 
sity is  not  sufficiently  marked,  as  that  its  gradations 
should  be  sensible,  except  in  those  instances  where 
the  predominance  of  this  faculty  of  approximation 
to  the  beautiful  (for  so  we  may  be  permitted  to  name 
the  relation  between  this  highest  pleasure  and  its 
cause)  is  very  great.  Those  in  whom  it  exists  in 
excess  are  poets,  in  the  most  universal  sense  of  the 
word ;  and  the  pleasure  resulting  from  the  manner  in 
which  they  express  the  influence  of  society  or  nature 
upon  their  own  minds,  communicates  itself  to  others, 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  7 

and  gathers  a  sort  of  reduplication  from  that  com- 
munity. Their  language  is  vitally  metaphorical ;  that 
is,  it  marks  the  before  unapprehended  relations  of 
things  and  perpetuates  their  apprehension,  until  the 
words  which  represent  them  become,  through  time, 
signs  for  portions  or  classes  of  thoughts  instead  of 
pictures  of  integral  thoughts ;  and  then  if  no  new 
poets  should  arise  to  create  afresh  the  associations 
which  have  been  thus  disorganised,  language  will  be 
dead  to  all  the  nobler  purposes  of  human  intercourse. 
These  similitudes  or  relations  are  finely  said  by  Lord 
Bacon  to  be  "  the  same  footsteps  of  nature  impressed 
upon  the  various  subjects  of  the  world;"*  and  he 
considers  the  faculty  which  perceives  them  as  the 
storehouse  of  axioms  common  to  all  knowledge.  In  the 
infancy  of  society  every  author  is  necessarily  a  poet, 
because  language  itself  is  poetry ;  and  to  be  a  poet  is 
to  apprehend  the  true  and  the  beautiful,  in  a  word, 
the  good  which  exists  in  the  relation,  subsisting, 
first  between  existence  and  perception,  and  secondly 
between  perception  and  expression.  Every  original 
language  near  to  its  source  is  in  itself  the  chaos  of 
a  cyclic  poem:  the  copiousness  of  lexicography  and 
the  distinctions  of  grammar  are  the  works  of  a  later 
age,  and  are  merely  the  catalogue  and  the  form  of  the 
creations  of  poetry. 

But  poets,  or  those  who  imagine  and  express  this 
indestructible  order,  are  not  only  the  authors  of 
language  and  of  music,  of  the  dance,  and  architecture, 
and  statuary,  and  painting ;  they  are  the  institutors 

*  De  Augment.  Scient.,  cap.  i,  lib.  iii. 


8  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

of  laws,  and  the  founders  of  civil  society,  and  the 
inventors  of  the  arts  of  life,  and  the  teachers,  who 
draw  into  a  certain  propinquity  with  the  beautiful  and 
the  true,  that  partial  apprehension  of  the  agencies  of 
the  invisible  world  which  is  called  religion.  Hence  all 
original  religions  are  allegorical,  or  susceptible  of 
allegory,  and,  like  Janus,  have  a  double  face  of  false 
and  true.  Poets,  according  to  the  circumstances  of 
the  age  and  nation  in  which  they  appeared,  were  called, 
in  the  earlier  epochs  of  the  world,  legislators,  or  pro- 
phets: a  poet  essentially  comprises  and  unites  both 
these  characters.  Eor  he  not  only  beholds  intensely 
the  present  as  it  is,  and  discovers  those  laws  according 
to  which  present  things  ought  to  be  ordered,  but  he 
beholds  the  future  in-  the  present,  and  his  thoughts 
are  the  germs  of  the  flower  and  the  fruit  of  latest 
time.  Not  that  I  assert  poets  to  be  prophets  in  the 
gross  sense  of  the  word,  or  that  they  can  foretell  the 
form  as  surely  as  they  foreknow  the  spirit  of  events  : 
such  is  the  pretence  of  superstition,  which  would  make 
poetry  an  attribute  of  prophecy,  rather  than  prophecy 
an  attribute  of  poetry.  A  poet  participates  in  the 
eternal,  the  infinite,  and  the  one ;  as  far  as  relates 
to  his  conceptions,  time  and  place  and  number  are  not. 
The  grammatical  forms  which  express  the  moods  of 
time,  and  the  difierence  of  persons,  and  the  distinction 
of  place,  are  convertible  with  respect  to  the  highest 
poetry  without  injuring  it  as  poetry ;  and  the  choruses 
of  JEschylus,  and  the  book  of  Job,  and  Dante's  Para- 
dise, would  afford,  more  than  any  other  writings, 
examples  of  this  fact,  if  the  limits  of  this  essay  did  not 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  9 

forbid  citation.     The  creations  of  sculpture,  painting, 
and  music,  are  illustrations  still  more  decisive. 

Language,  colour,  form,  and  religious  and  civil  habits 
of  action,  are  all  the  instruments  and  materials  of 
poetry ;  they  may  be  called  poetry  by  that  figure  of 
speech  which  considers  the  effect  as  a  synonyme  of  the 
cause.  But  poetry  in  a  more  restricted  sense  expresses 
those  arrangements  of  language,  and  especially  metrical 
language,  which  are  created  by  that  imperial  faculty, 
whose  throne  is  curtained  within  the  invisible  nature 
of  man.  And  this  springs  from  the  nature  itself  of 
language,  which  is  a  more  direct  representation  of  the 
actions  and  passions  of  our  internal  being,  and  is  sus- 
ceptible of  more  various  and  delicate  combinations, 
than  colour,  form,  or  motion,  and  is  more  plastic  and 
obedient  to  the  control  of  that  faculty  of  which  it  is 
the  creation.  Tor  language  is  arbitrarily  produced  by 
the  imagination,  and  has  relation  to  thoughts  alone ; 
but  all  other  materials,  instruments,  and  conditions  of 
art,  have  relations  among  each  other,  which  limit  and 
interpose  between  conception  and  expression.  The 
former  is  as  a  mirror  which  reflects,  the  latter  as  a 
cloud  which  enfeebles,  the  light  of  which  both  are 
mediums  of  communication.  Hence  the  fame  of 
sculptors,  painters,  and  musicians,  although  the  in- 
trinsic powers  of  the  great  masters  of  these  arts  may 
yield  in  no  degree  to  that  of  those  who  have  employed 
language  as  the  hieroglyphic  of  their  thoughts,  has 
never  equalled  that  of  poets  in  the  restricted  sense  of 
the  term ;  as  two  performers  of  equal  skill  will  produce 
unequal  effects  from  a  guitar  and  a  harp.    The  fame  of 


10  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

legislators  and  founders  of  religions,  so  long  as  tlieir 
institutions  last,  alone  seems  to  exceed  that  of  poets  in 
the  restricted  sense ;  but  it  can  scarcely  be  a  question, 
whether,  if  we  deduct  the  celebrity  which  their  flattery 
of  the  gross  opinions  of  the  vulgar  usually  conciliates, 
together  with  that  which  belonged  to  them  in  their 
higher  character  of  poets,  any  excess  will  remain. 

We  have  thus  circumscribed  the  word  poetry  within 
the  limits  of  that  art  which  is  the  most  familiar  and 
the  most  perfect  expression  of  the  faculty  itself.  It  is 
necessary,  however,  to  make  the  circle  still  narrower, 
and  to  determine  the  distinction  between  measured  and 
unmeasured  language  ;  for  the  popular  division  into 
prose  and  verse  is  inadmissible  in  accurate  philosophy. 

Sounds  as  well  as  thoughts  have  relation  both 
between  each  other  and  towards  that  which  they 
represent,  and  a  perception  of  the  order  of  those 
relations  has  always  been  found  connected  with  a 
perception  of  the  order  of  the  relations  of  thoughts. 
Hence  the  language  of  poets  has  ever  afiected  a  certain 
uniform  and  harmonious  recurrence  of  sound,  without 
which  it  were  not  poetry,  and  which  is  scarcely  less 
indispensable  to  the  communication  of  its  influence, 
than  the  words  themselves,  without  reference  to  that 
peculiar  order.  Hence  the  vanity  of  translation;  it 
were  as  wise  to  cast  a  violet  into  a  crucible  that  you 
might  discover  the  formal  principle  of  its  colour  and 
odour,  as  seek  to  transfuse  from  one  language  into 
another  the  creations  of  a  poet.  The  plant  must 
spring  again  from  its  seed,  or  it  will  bear  no  flower — 
and  this  is  the  burthen  of  the  curse  of  Babel. 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  11 

An  observation  of  tlie  regular  mode  of  the  recur- 
rence of  harmony  in  the  language  of  poetical  minds, 
together  with  its  relation  to  music,  produced  metre,  or 
a  certain  system  of  traditional  forms  of  harmony  and 
language.  Yet  it  is  by  no  means  essential  that  a  poet 
should  accommodate  his  language  to  this  traditional 
form,  so  that  the  harmony,  which  is  its  spirit,  be 
observed.  The  practice  is  indeed  convenient  and 
popular,  and  to  be  preferred,  especially  in  such  com- 
position as  includes  much  action :  but  every  great 
poet  must  inevitably  innovate  upon  the  example  of  his 
predecessors  in  the  exact  structure  of  his  peculiar  ver- 
sification. The  distinction  between  poets  and  prose 
writers  is  a  vulgar  error.  The  distinction  between 
philosophers  and  poets  has  been  anticipated.  Plato 
was  essentially  a  poet — the  truth  and  splendour  of  his 
imagery,  and  the  melody  of  his  language,  are  the  most 
intense  that  it  is  possible  to  conceive.  He  rejected 
the  measure  of  the  epic,  dramatic,  and  lyrical  forms, 
because  he  sought  to  kindle  a  harmony  in  thoughts 
divested  of  shape  and  action,  and  he  forebore  to  invent 
any  regular  plan  of  rhythm  which  would  include, 
under  determinate  forms,  the  varied  pauses  of  his  style. 
Cicero  sought  to  imitate  the  cadence  of  his  periods, 
but  with  little  success.  Lord  Bacon  was  a  poet.*  His 
language  has  a  sweet  and  majestic  rhythm,  which 
satisfies  the  sense,  no  less  than  the  almost  superhuman 
wisdom  of  his  philosophy  satisfies  the  intellect ;  it  is  a 
strain  which  distends,  and  then  bursts  the  circumference 
of  the  reader's  mind,  and  pours  itself  forth  together 

♦  See  the  Filum  Labyrinth!,  and  the  Essay  on  Death  particularly. 


12  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

with  it  into  the  universal  element  with  which  it  has 
perpetual  sympathy.  All  the  authors  of  revolutions  in 
opinion  are  not  only  necessarily  poets  as  they  are 
inventors,  nor  even  as  their  words  unveil  the  per- 
manent analogy  of  things  by  images  which  participate 
in  the  life  of  truth ;  but  as  their  periods  are  harmonious 
and  rhythmical,  and  contain  in  themselves  the  elements 
of  verse ;  being  the  echo  of  the  eternal  music,  l^or 
are  those  supreme  poets,  who  have  employed  traditional 
forms  of  rhythm  on  account  of  the  form  and  action  of 
their  subjects,  less  capable  of  perceiving  and  teaching 
the  truth  of  things,  than  those  who  have  omitted  that 
form.  Shakspeare,  Dante,  and  Milton  (to  confine 
ourselves  to  modem  writers)  are  philosophers  of  the 
very  loftiest  power. 

A  poem  is  the  very  image  of  life  expressed  in  its 
eternal  truth.  There  is  this  difference  between  a 
story  and  a  poem,  that  a  story  is  a  catalogue  of  de- 
tached facts,  which  have  no  other  connexion  than  time, 
place,  circumstance,  cause  and  effect ;  the  other  is  the 
creation  of  actions  according  to  the  unchangeable 
forms  of  human  nature,  as  existing  in  the  mind  of  the 
Creator,  which  is  itself  the  image  of  all  other  minds. 
The  one  is  partial,  and  applies  only  to  a  definite  period 
of  time,  and  a  certain  combination  of  events  which  can 
never  again  recur  ;  the  other  is  universal,  and  contains 
within  itself  the  germ  of  a  relation  to  whatever  motives 
or  actions  have  place  in  the  possible  varieties  of  human 
nature.  Time,  which  destroys  the  beauty  and  the  use 
of  the  story  of  particular  facts,  stripped  of  the  poetry 
which  should  invest  them,  augments  that  of  poetry, 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  13 

and  for  ever  developes  new  and  wonderful  applications 
of  the  eternal  truth  which  it  contains.  Hence  epitomes 
have  been  called  the  moths  of  just  history ;  they  eat 
out  the  poetry  of  it.  A  story  of  particular  facts  is  as 
a  mirror  which  obscures  and  distorts  that  which  should 
be  beautiful :  poetry  is  a  mirror  which  makes  beautiful 
that  which  is  distorted. 

The  parts  of  a  composition  may  be  poetical,  without 
the  composition  as  a  whole  being  a  poem.  A  single 
sentence  may  be  considered  as  a  whole,  though  it  may 
be  found  in  the  midst  of  a  series  of  unassimilated 
portions :  a  single  word  even  may  be  a  spark  of 
inextinguishable  thought.  And  thus  all  the  great 
historians,  Herodotus,  Plutarch,  Livy,  were  poets ; 
and  although  the  plan  of  these  writers,  especially  that 
of  Livy,  restrained  them  from  developing  this  faculty 
in  its  highest  degree,  they  made  copious  and  ample 
amends  for  their  subjection,  by  filling  all  the  interstices 
of  their  subjects  with  living  images. 

Having  determined  what  is  poetry,  and  who  are  poets, 
let  us  proceed  to  estimate  its  efiects  upon  society. 

Poetry  is  ever  accompanied  with  pleasure  :  all  spirits 
on  which  it  falls  open  themselves  to  receive  the 
wisdom  which  is  mingled  with  its  delight.  In  the 
infancy  of  the  world,  neither  poets  themselves  nor 
their  auditors  are  fuUy  aware  of  the  excellence  of 
poetry:  for  it  acts  in  a  divine  and  unapprehended 
manner,  beyond  and  above  consciousness;  and  it  is 
reserved  for  future  generations  to  contemplate  and 
measure  the  mighty  cause  and  effect  in  all  the  strength 
and  splendour  of  their  union.     Even  in  modern  times, 


14  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

no  living  poet  ever  arrived  at  tlie  fulness  of  his  fame ; 
the  jury  v^hich  sits  in  judgment  upon  a  poet,  belonging 
as  he  does  to  all  time,  must  be  composed  of  his  peers : 
it  must  be  impanelled  by  Time  from  the  selectest  of 
the  wise  of  many  generations.  A  poet  is  a  nightingale, 
who  sits  in  darkness  and  sings  to  cheer  its  own  soli- 
tude with  sweet  sounds ;  his  auditors  are  as  men 
entranced  by  the  melody  of  an  unseen  musician,  who 
feel  that  they  are  moved  and  softened,  yet  know  not 
whence  or  why.  The  poems  of  Homer  and  his  con- 
temporaries were  the  delight  of  infant  Grreece;  they 
were  the  elements  of  that  social  system  which  is  the 
column  upon  which  all  succeeding  civilisation  has 
reposed.  Homer  embodied  the  ideal  perfection  of  his 
age  in  human  character;  nor  can  we  doubt  that  those 
who  read  his  verses  were  awakened  to  an  ambition  of 
becoming  like  to  Achilles,  Hector,  and  Ulysses :  the 
truth  and  beauty  of  friendship,  patriotism,  and  perse- 
vering devotion  to  an  object,  were  unveiled  to  the 
depths  in  these  immortal  creations :  the  sentiments  of 
the  auditors  must  have  been  refined  and  enlarged  by  a 
sympathy  with  such  great  and  lovely  impersonations, 
until  from  admiring  they  imitated,  and  from  imitation 
they  identified  themselves  with  the  objects  of  their 
admiration.  Nor  let  it  be  objected,  that  these  cha- 
racters are  remote  from  moral  perfection,  and  that 
they  can  by  no  means  be  considered  as  edifying 
patterns  for  general  imitation.  Every  epoch,  under 
names  more  or  less  specious,  has  deified  its  peculiar 
errors ;  Eevenge  is  the  naked  idol  of  the  worship  of 
a  semi-barbarous  age ;   and  Self-deceit  is  the  veiled 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  15 

image  of  unknown  evil,  before  which  luxury  and 
satiety  lie  prostrate.  But  a  poet  considers  the  vices 
of  his  contemporaries  as  a  temporary  dress  in  which 
his  creations  must  be  arrayed,  and  which  cover  with- 
out concealing  the  eternal  proportions  of  their  beauty. 
An  epic  or  dramatic  personage  is  understood  to  wear 
them  around  his  soul,  as  he  may  the  ancient  armour  or 
the  modern  uniform  around  his  body  ;  whilst  it  is  easy 
to  conceive  a  dress  more  graceful  than  either.  The 
beauty  of  the  internal  nature  cannot  be  so  far  con- 
cealed by  its  accidental  vesture,  but  that  the  spirit  of 
its  form  shall  communicate  itself  to  the  very  disguise, 
and  indicate  the  shape  it  hides  from  the  manner  in 
which  it  is  worn.  A  majestic  form  and  graceful 
motions  will  express  themselves  through  the  most 
barbarous  and  tasteless  costume.  Pew  poets  of  the 
highest  class  have  chosen  to  exhibit  the  beauty  of 
their  conceptions  in  its  naked  truth  and  splendour; 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  alloy  of  costume,  habit, 
&c.,  be  not  necessary  to  temper  this  planetary  music 
for  mortal  ears. 

The  whole  objection,  however,  of  the  immorality  of 
poetry  rests  upon  a  misconception  of  the  manner  in 
which  poetry  acts  to  produce  the  moral  improvement 
of  man.  Ethical  science  arranges  the  elements  which 
poetry  has  created,  and  propounds  schemes  and  pro- 
poses examples  of  civil  and  domestic  life :  nor  is  it  for 
want  of  admirable  doctrines  that  men  hate,  and  despise, 
and  censure,  and  deceive,  and  subjugate  one  another. 
But  poetry  acts  in  another  and  diviner  manner.  It 
awakens  and  enlarges  the  mind  itself  by  rendering  it 


16  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

the  receptacle  of  a  thousand  unapprehended  combina- 
tions of  thought.  Poetry  lifts  the  veil  from  the  hidden 
beauty  of  the  world,  and  makes  familiar  objects  be  as 
if  they  were  not  familiar;  it  reproduces  all  that  it 
represents,  and  the  impersonations  clothed  in  its 
Elysian  light  stand  thenceforward  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  have  once  contemplated  them,  as  memorials 
of  that  gentle  and  exalted  content  which  extends  itself 
over  all  thoughts  and  actions  with  which  it  coexists. 
The  great  secret  of  morals  is  love ;  or  a  going  out  of 
our  own  nature,  and  an  identification  of  ourselves 
with  the  beautiful  which  exists  in  thought,  action,  or 
person,  not  our  own.  A  man,  to  be  greatly  good, 
must  imagine  intensely  and  comprehensively;  he  must 
put  himself  in  the  place  of  another  and  of  many 
others ;  the  pains  and  pleasures  of  his  species  must 
become  his  own.  The  great  instrument  of  moral  good 
is  the  imagination;  and  poetry  administers  to  the 
effect  by  acting  upon  the  cause.  Poetry  enlarges  the 
circumference  of  the  imagination  by  replenishing  it 
with  thoughts  of  ever  new  delight,  which  have  the 
power  of  attracting  and  assimilating  to  their  own 
nature  all  other  thoughts,  and  which  form  new  inter- 
vals and  interstices  whose  void  for  ever  craves  fresh 
food.  Poetry  strengthens  the  faculty  which  is  the 
organ  of  the  moral  nature  of  man,  in  the  same  manner 
as  exercise  strengthens  a  limb.  A  poet  therefore  would 
do  ill  to  embody  his  own  conceptions  of  right  and 
wrong,  which  are  usually  those  of  his  place  and  time, 
in  his  poetical  creations,  which  participate  in  neither. 
By  this  assumption  of  the  inferior  office  of  interpreting 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  17 

the  effect,  in  which  perhaps  after  all  he  might  acquit 
himself  but  imperfectly,  he  would  resign  a  glory  in  a 
participation  in  the  cause.  There  was  little  danger 
that  Homer,  or  any  of  the  eternal  poets,  should  have 
so  far  misunderstood  themselves  as  to  have  abdicated 
this  throne  of  their  widest  dominion.  Those  in  whom 
the  poetical  faculty,  though  great,  is  less  intense,  as 
Euripides,  Lucan,  Tasso,  Spenser,  have  frequently 
affected  a  moral  aim,  and  the  effect  of  their  poetry  is 
diminished  in  exact  proportion  to  the  degree  in  which 
they  compel  us  to  advert  to  this  purpose. 

Homer  and  the  cyclic  poets  were  followed  at  a 
certain  interval  by  the  dramatic  and  lyrical  poets  of 
Athens,  who  flourished  contemporaneously  with  all 
that  is  most  perfect  in  the  kindred  expressions  of  the 
poetical  faculty ;  architecture,  painting,  music,  the 
dance,  sculpture,  philosophy,  and,  we  may  add,  the 
forms  of  civil  life.  For  although  the  scheme  of  Athe- 
nian society  was  deformed  by  many  imperfections 
which  the  poetry  existing  in  chivalry  and  Christianity 
has  erased  from  the  habits  and  institutions  of  modern 
Europe ;  yet  never  at  any  other  period  has  so  much 
energy,  beauty,  and  virtue,  been  developed ;  never  was 
blind  strength  and  stubborn  form  so  disciplined  and 
rendered  subject  to  the  will  of  man,  or  that  will  less 
repugnant  to  the  dictates  of  the  beautiful  and  the  true, 
as  during  the  century  which  preceded  the  death  of 
Socrates.  Of  no  other  epoch  in  the  history  of  our 
species  have  we  records  and  fragments  stamped  so 
visibly  with  the  image  of  the  divinity  in  man.  But  it 
is  poetry  alone,  in  form,  in  action,  or  in  language, 

VOL.   T.  c 


18  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

which  has  rendered  this  epoch  memorable  above  all 
others,  and  the  storehouse  of  examples  to  everlasting 
time.  For  written  poetry  existed  at  that  epoch  simul- 
taneously with  the  other  arts,  and  it  is  an  idle  inquiry  . 
to  demand  which  gave  and  which  received  the  light, 
which  all,  as  from  a  common  focus,  have  scattered  over 
the  darkest  periods  of  succeeding  time.  We  know 
no  more  of  cause  and  effect  than  a  constant  conjunc- 
tion of  events :  poetry  is  ever  found  to  co-exist  with 
whatever  other  arts  contribute  to  the  happiness  and 
perfection  of  man.  I  appeal  to  what  has  already 
been  established  to  distinguish  between  the  cause  and 
the  effect. 

It  was  at  the  period  here  adverted  to,  that  the  drama 
had  its  birth ;  and  however  a  succeeding  writer  may 
have  equalled  or  surpassed  those  few  great  specimens 
of  the  Athenian  drama  which  have  been  preserved  to 
us,  it  is  indisputable  that  the  art  itself  never  was 
understood  or  practised  according  to  the  true  philo- 
sophy of  it,  as  at  Athens.  For  the  Athenians  em- 
ployed language,  action,  music,  painting,  the  dance, 
and  religious  institutions,  to  produce  a  common  effect 
in  the  representation  of  the  highest  idealisms  of  passion 
and  of  power;  each  division  in  the  art  was  made 
perfect  in  its  kind  by  artists  of  the  most  consummate 
skill,  and  was  disciplined  into  a  beautiful  proportion 
and  unity  one  towards  the  other.  On  the  modern 
stage  a  few  only  of  the  elements  capable  of  expressing 
the  image  of  the  poet's  conception  are  employed  at 
once.  We  have  tragedy  without  music  and  dancing ; 
and  music  and  dancing  without  the  highest  imper- 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  19 

sonations  of  which  they  are  the  fit  accompaniment, 
and  both  without  religion  and  solemnity.  Eeligious 
institution  has  indeed  been  usually  banished  from  the 
stage.  Our  system  of  divesting  the  actor's  face  of  a 
mask,  on  which  the  many  expressions  appropriated  to 
his  dramatic  character  might  be  moulded  into  one 
permanent  and  unchanging  expression,  is  favourable 
only  to  a  partial  and  inharmonious  efiect ;  it  is  fit  for 
nothing  but  a  monologue,  where  all  the  attention  may 
be  directed  to  some  great  master  of  ideal  mimicry. 
The  modern  practice  of  blending  comedy  with  tragedy, 
though  liable  to  great  abuse  in  point  of  practice,  is 
undoubtedly  an  extension  of  the  dramatic  circle  ;  but 
the  comedy  should  be  as  in  King  Lear,  universal, 
ideal,  and  sublime.  It  is  perhaps  the  intervention  of 
this  principle  which  determines  the  balance  in  favour 
of  King  Lear  against  the  (Edipus  Tyrannus  or  the 
Agamemnon,  or,  if  you  will,  the  trilogies  with  which 
they  are  connected ;  unless  the  intense  power  of  the 
choral  poetry,  especially  that  of  the  latter,  should  be 
considered  as  restoring  the  equilibrium.  King  Lear, 
if  it  can  sustain  this  comparison,  may  be  judged  to  be 
the  most  perfect  specimen  of  the  dramatic  art  existing 
in  the  world ;  in  spite  of  the  narrow  conditions  to 
which  the  poet  was  subjected  by  the  ignorance  of  the 
philosophy  of  the  drama  which  has  prevailed  in  modern 
Europe.  Calderon,  in  his  religious  Autos,  has  at- 
tempted to  fulfil  some  of  the  high  conditions  of  dramatic 
representation  neglected  by  Shakspeare ;  such  as  the 
establishing  a  relation  between  the  drama  and  religion, 
and  the  accommodating  them  to  music  and  dancing ; 


20  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

but  he  omits  the  observation  of  conditions  still  more 
important,  and  more  is  lost  than  gained  by  the  substi- 
tution of  the  rigidly-defined  and  ever-repeated  idealisms 
of  a  distorted  superstition  for  the  living  impersonations 
of  the  truth  of  human  passion. 

But  I  digress. — The  connexion  of  scenic  exhibitions 
with  the  improvement  or  corruption  of  the  manners  of 
men,  has  been  universally  recognised  :  in  other  words, 
the  presence  or  absence  of  poetry  in  its  most  perfect 
and  universal  form,  has  been  found  to  be  connected 
with  good  and  evil  in  conduct  or  habit.  The  cor- 
ruption which  has  been  imputed  to  the  drama  as 
an  effect,  begins,  when  the  poetry  employed  in  its 
constitution  ends  :  I  appeal  to  the  history  of  manners 
whether  the  periods  of  the  growth  of  the  one  and  the 
decline  of  the  other  have  not  corresponded  with  an 
exactness  equal  to  any  example  of  moral  cause  and 
effect. 

The  drama  at  Athens,  or  wheresoever  else  it  may 
have  approached  to  its  perfection,  ever  co-existed  with 
the  moral  and  intellectual  greatness  of  the  age.  The 
tragedies  of  the  Athenian  poets  are  as  mirrors  in 
which  the  spectator  beholds  himself,  under  a  thin  dis- 
guise of  circumstance,  stript  of  all  but  that  ideal 
perfection  and  energy  which  every  one  feels  to  be  the 
internal  type  of  all  that  he  loves,  admires,  and  would 
become.  The  imagination  is  enlarged  by  a  sympathy 
with  pains  and  passions  so  mighty,  that  they  distend 
in  their  conception  the  capacity  of  that  by  which  they 
are  conceived ;  the  good  affections  are  strengthened 
by  pity,  indignation,  terror,  and  sorrow ;  and  an  exalted 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  21 

calm  is  prolonged  from  the  satiety  of  this  high  exercise 
of  them  into  the  tumult  of  familiar  life  :  even  crime  is 
disarmed  of  half  its  horror  and  all  its  contagion  by 
being  represented  as  the  fatal  consequence  of  the 
unfathomable  agencies  of  nature ;  error  is  thus  divested 
of  its  wilfulness ;  men  can  no  longer  cherish  it  as  the 
creation  of  their  choice.  In  a  drama  of  the  highest 
order  there  is  little  food  for  censure  or  hatred  ;  it 
teaches  rather  self-knowledge  and  self-respect.  Neither 
the  eye  nor  the  mind  can  see  itself,  unless  reflected 
upon  that  which  it  resembles.  The  drama,  so  long  as 
it  continues  to  express  poetry,  is  as  a  prismatic  and 
many-sided  mirror,  which  collects  the  brightest  rays  of 
human  nature  and  divides  and  reproduces  them  from 
the  simplicity  of  these  elementary  forms,  and  touches 
them  with  majesty  and  beauty,  and  multiplies  all  that 
it  reflects,  and  endows  it  with  the  power  of  propagating 
its  like  wherever  it  may  fall. 

But  in  periods  of  the  decay  of  social  life,  the  drama 
sympathises  with  that  decay.  Tragedy  becomes  a  cold 
imitation  of  the  form  of  the  great  masterpieces  of 
antiquity,  divested  of  all  harmonious  accompaniment 
of  the  kindred  arts  ;  and  often  the  very  form  misunder- 
stood, or  a  weak  attempt  to  teach  certain  doctrines, 
which  the  writer  considers  as  moral  truths  ;  and  which 
are  usually  no  more  than  specious  flatteries  of  some 
gross  vice  or  weakness,  witTi  which  the  author,  in 
common  with  his  auditors,  are  infected.  Hence  what 
has  been  called  the  classical  and  domestic  drama. 
Addison's  "Cato"  is  a  specimen  of  the  one;  and 
would  it  were  not  superfluous  to  cite  examples  of  the 


22  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

other!  To  such  purposes  poetry  cannot  be  made 
subservient.  Poetry  is  a  sword  of  lightning,  ever 
unsheathed,  which  consumes  the  scabbard  that  would 
contain  it.  And  thus  we  observe  that  all  dramatic 
writings  of  this  nature  are  unimaginative  in  a  singular 
degree ;  they  affect  sentiment  and  passion,  w^hich, 
divested  of  imagination,  are  other  names  for  caprice 
and  appetite.  The  period  in  our  own  history  of  the 
grossest  degradation  of  the  drama  is  the  reign  of 
Charles  II.,  when  all  forms  in  which  poetry  had  been 
accustomed  to  be  expressed  became  hymns  to  the 
triumph  of  kingly  power  over  liberty  and  virtue. 
Milton  stood  alone  illuminating  an  age  unworthy  of 
him.  At  such  periods  the  calculating  principle  per- 
vades all  the  forms  of  dramatic  .exhibition,  and  poetry 
ceases  to  be  expressed  upon  them.  Comedy  loses  its 
ideal  universality  :  wit  succeeds  to  humour ;  we  laugh 
from  self-complacency  and  triumph,  instead  of  pleasure; 
malignity,  sarcasm,  and  contempt,  succeed  to  sym- 
pathetic merriment;  we  hardly  laugh,  but  we  smile. 
Obscenity,  which  is  ever  blasphemy  against  the  divine 
beauty  in  life,  becomes,  from  the  very  veil  which  it 
assumes,  more  active  if  less  disgusting :  it  is  a  monster 
for  which  the  corruption  of  society  for  ever  brings 
forth  new  food,  which  it  devours  in  secret. 

The  drama  being  that  form  under  which  a  greater 
number  of  modes  of  expression  of  poetry  are  suscep- 
tible of  being  combined  than  any  other,  the  connexion 
of  poetry  and  social  good  is  more  observable  in  the 
drama  than  in  whatever  other  form.  And  it  is  indis- 
putable that  the  highest  perfection  of  human  society 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  23 

has  ever  corresponded  with  the  highest  dramatic  excel- 
lence ;  and  that  the  corruption  or  the  extinction  of  the 
drama  in  a  nation  where  it  has  once  flourished,  is  a 
mark  of  a  corruption  of  manners,  and  an  extinction  of 
the  energies  which  sustain  the  soul  of  social  life.  But, 
as  Machiavelli  says  of  political  institutions,  that  life 
may  be  preserved  and  renewed,  if  men  should  arise 
capable  of  bringing  back  the  drama  to  its  principles. 
And  this  is  true  with  respect  to  poetry  in  its  most 
extended  sense:  all  language,  institution  and  form, 
require  not  only  to  be  produced  but  to  be  sustained : 
the  office  and  character  of  a  poet  participates  in  the 
divine  nature  as  regards  providence,  no  less  than  as 
regards  creation. 

Civil  war,  the  spoils  of  Asia,  and  the  fatal  predomi- 
nance first  of  the  Macedonian,  and  then  of  the  Eoman 
arms,  were  so  many  symbols  of  the  extinction  or  sus- 
pension of  the  creative  faculty  in  Qreece.  The  bucolic 
writers,  who  found  patronage  under  the  lettered 
tyrants  of  Sicily  and  Egypt,  were  the  latest  repre- 
sentatives of  its  most  glorious  reign.  Their  poetry  is 
intensely  melodious ;  like  the  odour  of  the  tuberose, 
it  overcomes  and  sickens  the  spirit  with  excess  of 
sweetness ;  whilst  the  poetry  of  the  preceding  age  was 
as  a  meadow-gale  of  June,  which  mingles  the  fragrance 
of  all  the  flowers  of  the  field,  and  adds  a  quickening 
and  harmonising  spirit  of  its  own,  which  endows  the 
sense  with  a  power  of  sustaining  its  extreme  delight. 
The  bucolic  and  erotic  delicacy  in  written  poetry  is 
correlative  with  that  softness  in  statuary,  music,  and 
,the  kindred  arts,  and  even  in  manners  and  institutions, 


24  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

which  distinguished  the  epoch  to  which  I  now  refer. 
Nor  is  it  the  poetical  faculty  itself,  or  any  misappli- 
cation of  it,  to  which  this  want  of  harmony  is  to  be 
imputed.  An  equal  sensibility  to  the  influence  of  the 
senses  and  the  afiections  is  to  be  found  in  the  writings 
of  Homer  and  Sophocles  :  the  former,  especially,  has 
clothed  sensual  and  pathetic  images  with  irresistible 
attractions.  Their  superiority  over  these  succeeding 
writers  consists  in  the  presence  of  those  thoughts 
which  belong  to  the  inner  faculties  of  our  nature,  not 
in  the  absence  of  those  which  are  connected  with  the 
external :  their  incomparable  perfection  consists  in  a 
harmony  of  the  union  of  all.  It  is  not  what  the  erotic 
poets  have,  but  what  they  have  not,  in  which  their 
imperfection  consists.  It  is  not  inasmuch  as  they  were 
poets,  but  inasmuch  as  they  were  not  poets,  that  they 
can  be  considered  with  any  plausibility  as  connected 
with  the  corruption  of  their  age.  Had  that  corruption 
availed  so  as  to  extinguish  in  them  the  sensibility  to 
pleasure,  passion,  and  natural  scenery,  which  is  imputed 
to  them  as  an  imperfection,  the  last  triumph  of  evil 
would  have  been  achieved.  Tor  the  end  of  social 
corruption  is  to  destroy  all  sensibility  to  pleasure ; 
and,  therefore,  it  is  corruption.  It  begins  at  the 
imagination  and  the  intellect  as  at  the  core,  and  distri- 
butes itself  thence  as  a  paralysing  venom,  through  the 
affections  into  the  very  appetites,  until  all  become  a 
torpid  mass  in  which  hardly  sense  survives.  At  the 
approach  of  such  a  period,  poetry  ever  addresses  itself 
to  those  faculties  which  are  the  last  to  be  destroyed, 
and  its  voice  is  heard,  like  the  footsteps  of  Astrsea, 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  25 

departing  from  the  world.  Poetry  ever  commmiieates 
all  the  pleasure  which  men  are  capable  of  receiving :  it 
is  ever  still  the  light  of  life ;  the  source  of  whatever  of 
beautiful  or  generous  or  true  can  have  place  in  an  evil 
time.  It  will  readily  be  confessed  that  those  among 
the  luxurious  citizens  of  Syracuse  and  Alexandria,  who 
were  delighted  with  the  poems  of  Theocritus,  were  less 
cold,  cruel,  and  sensual  than  the  remnant  of  their  tribe. 
But  corruption  must  utterly  have  destroyed  the  fabric 
of  human  society  before  poetry  can  ever  cease.  The 
sacred  links  of  that  chain  have  never  been  entirely 
disjoined,  which  descending  through  the  minds  of  many 
men  is  attached  to  those  great  minds,  whence  as  from 
a  magnet  the  invisible  effluence  is  sent  forth,  which  at 
once  connects,  animates,  and  sustains  the  life  of  all. 
It  is  the  faculty  which  contains  within  itself  the  seeds 
at  once  of  its  own  and  of  social  renovation.  And  let 
us  not  circumscribe  the  effects  of  the  bucolic  and 
erotic  poetry  within  the  limits  of  the  sensibility  of 
those  to  whom  it  was  addressed.  They  may  have  per- 
ceived the  beauty  of  those  immortal  compositions, 
simply  as  fragments  and  isolated  portions :  those  who 
are  more  finely  organised,  or  born  in  a  happier  age, 
may  recognise  them  as  episodes  to  that  great  poem, 
which  all  poets,  like  the  co-operating  thoughts  of  one 
great  mind,  have  built  up  since  the  beginning  of  the 
world. 

The  same  revolutions  within  a  narrower  sphere  had 
place  in  ancient  Eome ;  but  the  actions  and  forms  of 
its  social  life  never  seem  to  have  been  perfectly  satu- 
rated with  the  poetical  element.     The  Eomans  appear 


26  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

to  have  considered  the  Grreeks  as  the  selectest  trea- 
suries of  the  selectest  forms  of  manners  and  of  nature, 
and  to  have  abstained  from  creating  in  measured  lan- 
guage, sculpture,  music,  or  architecture,  anything  which 
might  bear  a  particular  relation  to  their  own  condition, 
whilst  it  should  bear  a  general  one  to  the  universal  con- 
stitution of  the  world.  But  we  judge  from  partial 
evidence,  and  we  judge  perhaps  partially.  Ennius, 
Yarro,  Pacuvius,  and  Accius,  all  great  poets,  have  been 
lost.  Lucrethis  is  in  the  highest,  and  Virgil  in  a  very 
high  sense,  a  creator.  The  chosen  delicacy  of  expres- 
sions of  the  latter,  are  as  a  mist  of  light  which  conceal 
from  us  the  intense  and  exceeding  truth  of  his  concep- 
tions of  nature.  Livy  is  instinct  with  poetry.  Yet 
Horace,  Catullus,  Ovid,  and  generally  the  other  great 
writers  of  the  Yirgilian  age,  saw  man  and  nature  in  the 
mirror  of  Grreece.  The  institutions  also,  and  the  religion 
of  Eome  were  less  poetical  than  those  of  Greece,  as  the 
shadow  is  less  vivid  than  the  substance.  Hence  poetry 
in  E-ome,  seemed  to  follow,  rather  than  accompany,  the 
perfection  of  political  and  domestic  society.  The  true 
poetry  of  Rome  lived  in  its  institutions ;  for  whatever  of 
beautiful,  true,  and  majestic,  they  contained,  could  have 
sprung  only  from  the  faculty  which  creates  the  order 
in  which  they  consist.  The  life  of  Camillus,  the  death 
of  Regulus ;  the  expectation  of  the  senators,  in  their 
godlike  state,  of  the  victorious  Gauls :  the  refusal  of 
the  republic  to  make  peace  with  Hannibal,  after  the 
battle  of  Cannae,  Avere  not  the  consequences  of  a 
refined  calculation  of  the  probable  personal  advantage 
to  result  from  such  a  rhythm  and  order  in  the  shows 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  27 

of  life,  to  those  who  were  at  once  the  poets  and  the 
actors  of  these  immortal  dramas.  The  imagination 
beholding  the  beauty  of  this  order,  created  it  out  of 
itself  according  to  its  own  idea  ;  the  consequence  w^as 
empire,  and  the  reward  everliving  fame.  These  things 
are  not  the  less  poetry  quia  carent  vate  sacro.  They 
ar&  the  episodes  of  that  cyclic  poem  written  by  Time 
upon  the  memories  of  men.  The  Past,  like  an  inspired 
rhapsodist,  fills  the  theatre  of  everlasting  generations 
with  their  harmony. 

At  length  the  ancient  system  of  religion  and  man- 
ners had  fulfilled  the  circle  of  its  revolutions.  And  the 
world  would  have  fallen  into  utter  anarchy  and  dark- 
ness, but  that  there  were  found  poets  among  the 
authors  of  the  Christian  and  chivalric  systems  of 
manners  and  religion,  who  created  forms  of  opinion 
and  action  never  before  conceived  ;  which,  copied  into 
the  imaginations  of  men,  became  as  generals  to  the 
bewdldered  armies  of  their  thoughts.  It  is  foreign  to 
the  present  purpose  to  touch  upon  the  evil  produced 
by  these  systems :  except  that  we  protest,  on  the 
ground  of  the  principles  already  established,  that  no 
portion  of  it  can  be  attributed  to  the  poetry  they 
contain. 

It  is  probable  that  the  poetry  of  Moses,  Job,,  David, 
Solomon  and  Isaiah,  had  produced  a  great  effect 
upon  the  mind  of  Jesus  and  his  disciples.  The  scat- 
tered fragments  preserved  to  us  by  the  biographers  of 
this  extraordinary  person,  are  all  instinct  with  the 
most  vivid  poetry.  But  his  doctrines  seem  to  have 
been  quickly  distorted.     At  a  certain  period  after  the 


28  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

prevalence  of  a  system  of  opinions  founded  upon  those 
promulgated  by  him,  the  three  forms  into  which  Plato 
had  distributed  the  faculties  of  mind  underwent  a  sort 
of  apotheosis,  and  became  the  object  of  the  worship  of 
the  civilised  world.  Here  it  is  to  be  confessed  that 
"  Light  seems  to  thicken,"  and 

"  The  crow  makes  wing  to  the  rooky  wood, 
Good  things  of  day  hegin  to  droop  and  drowse, 
And  night's  black  agents  to  their  preys  do  rouze." 

But  mark  how  beautiful  an  order  has  sprung  from  the 
dust  and  blood  of  this  fierce  chaos !  how  the  world,  as 
from  a  resurrection,  balancing  itself  on  the  golden 
wings  of  knowledge  and  of  hope,  has  reassumed  its  yet 
unwearied  flight  into  the  heaven  of  time.  Listen  to 
the  music,  unheard  by  outward  ears,  which  is  as  a 
ceaseless  and  invisible  wind,  nourishing  its  everlasting 
course  with  strength  and  swiftness. 

The  poetry  in  the  doctrines  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  the 
mythology  and  institutions  of  the  Celtic  conquerors  of 
the  Eoman  empire,  outlived  the  darkness  and  the  con- 
vulsions connected  with  their  growth  and  victory,  and 
blended  themselves  in  a  new  fabric  of  manners  and 
opinion.  It  is  an  error  to  impute  the  ignorance  of 
the  dark  ages  to  the  Christian  doctrines  or  the  pre- 
dominance of  the  Celtic  nations.  Whatever  of  evil 
their  agencies  may  have  contained  sprang  from  the 
extinction  of  the  poetical  principle,  connected  with  the 
progress  of  despotism  and  superstition.  Men,  from 
causes  too  intricate  to  be  here  discussed,  had  become 
insensible  and  selfish:  their  own  will  had  become 
feeble,  and  yet  they  were  its  slaves,  and  thence  the 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  29 

slaves  of  the  will  of  others  :  lust,  fear,  avarice,  cruelty, 
and  fraud,  characterised  a  race  amongst  whom  no  one 
was  to  be  found  capable  of  creating  in  form,  language, 
or  institution.  The  moral  anomalies  of  such  a  state  of 
society  are  not  justly  to  be  charged  upon  any  class  of 
events  immediately  connected  with  them,  and  those 
events  are  most  entitled  to  our  approbation  which 
could  dissolve  it  most  expeditiously.  It  is  unfortunate 
for  those  who  cannot  distinguish  words  from  thoughts, 
that  many  of  these  anomalies  have  been  incorporated 
into  our  popular  religion. 

It  was  not  until  the  eleventh  century  that  the  effects 
of  the  poetry  of  the  Christian  and  chivalric  systems 
began  to  manifest  themselves.  The  principle  of  equality 
had  been  discovered  and  applied  by  Plato  in  his 
Eepublic,  as  the  theoretical  rule  of  the  mode  in  which 
the  materials  of  pleasure  and  of  power,  produced  by 
the  common  skill  and  labour  of  human  beings  ought 
to  be  distributed  among  them.  The  limitations  of  this 
rule  were  asserted  by  him  to  be  determined  only  by 
the  sensibility  of  each,  or  the  utility  to  result  to  all. 
Plato,  following  the  doctrines  of  Timseus  and  Pytha- 
goras, taught  also  a  moral  and  intellectual  system  of 
doctrine,  comprehending  at  once  the  past,  the  present, 
and  the  future  condition  of  man.  Jesus  Christ 
divulged  the  sacred  and  eternal  truths  contained  in 
these  views  to  mankind,  and  Christianity,  in  its 
abstract  purity,  became  the  exoteric  expression  of  the 
esoteric  doctrines  of  the  poetry  and  wisdom  of  an- 
tiquity. The  incorporation  of  the  Celtic  nations  with 
the  exhausted  population  of  the  south,  impressed  upon 


60  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

it  the  figure  of  the  poetry  existing  in  their  mythology 
and  institutions.  The  result  was  a  sum  of  the  action 
and  reaction  of  all  the  causes  included  in  it ;  for  it 
may  be  assumed  as  a  maxim  that  no  nation  or  religion 
can  supersede  any  other  without  incorporating  into 
itself  a  portion  of  that  which  it  supersedes.  The 
abolition  of  personal  and  domestic  slavery,  and  the 
emancipation  of  women  from  a  great  part  of  the 
degrading  restraints  of  antiquity,  were  among  the 
consequences  of  these  events. 

The  abolition  of  personal  slavery  is  the  basis  of  the 
highest  political  hope  that  it  can  enter  into  the  mind 
of  man  to  conceive.  The  freedom  of  women  produced 
the  poetry  of  sexual  love.  Love  became  a  religion, 
the  idols  of  whose  worship  were  ever  present.  It  w^as 
as  if  the  statues  of  Apollo  and  the  Muses  had  been 
endowed  with  life  and  motion,  and  had  walked  forth 
among  their  worshippers  ;  so  that  earth  became  peopled 
by  the  inhabitants  of  a  diviner  world.  The  familiar 
appearance  and  proceedings  of  life  became  wonderful 
and  heavenly,  and  a  paradise  was  created  as  out  of 
the  wrecks  of  Eden.  And  as  this  creation  itself  is 
poetry,  so  its  creators  were  poets ;  and  language  was 
the  instrument  of  their  art :  "  Galeotto  fu  il  libro,  e 
chi  lo  scrisse."  The  Proven9al  Trouveurs,  or  inventors, 
preceded  Petrarch,  whose  verses  are  as  spells,  which 
unseal  the  inmost  enchanted  fountains  of  the  delight 
which  is  in  the  grief  of  love.  It  is  impossible  to  feel 
them  without  becoming  a  portion  of  that  beauty 
which  we  contemplate  :  it  were  superfluous  to  explain 
how    the    gentleness    and    the    elevation    of   mind 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  31 

connected  with  these  sacred  emotions  can  render  men 
more  amiable,  more  generous  and  wise,  and  lift  them 
out  of  the  dull  vapours  of  the  little  world  of  self. 
Dante  understood  the  secret  things  of  love  even  more 
than  Petrarch.  His  Vita  Nuova  is  an  inexhaustible 
fountain  of  puritj  of  sentiment  and  language  :  it  is 
the  idealised  history  of  that  period,  and  those  intervals 
of  his  life  which  were  dedicated  to  love.  His  apotheosis 
of  Beatrice  in  Paradise,  and  the  gradations  of  his  own 
love  and  her  loveliness,  by  which  as  by  steps  he  feigns 
himself  to  have  ascended  to  the  throne  of  the  Supreme 
Cause,  is  the  most  glorious  imagination  of  modern 
poetry.  The  acutest  critics  have  justly  reversed  the 
judgment  of  the  vulgar,  and  the  order  of  the  great  acts 
of  the  "  Divine  Drama,"  in  the  measure  of  the  admi- 
ration which  they  accord  to  the  Hell,  Purgatory,  and 
Paradise.  The  latter  is  a  perpetual  hymn  of  ever- 
lasting love.  Love,  which  found  a  worthy  poet  in 
Plato  alone  of  all  the  ancients,  has  been  celebrated  by 
a  chorus  of  the  greatest  writers  of  the  renovated 
world ;  and  the  music  has  penetrated  the  caverns  of 
society,  and  its  echoes  still  drown  the  dissonance  of 
arms  and  superstition.  At  successive  intervals,  Ariosto, 
Tasso,  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Calderon,  Eousseau,  and 
the  great  writers  of  our  own  age,  have  celebrated  the 
dominion  of  love,  planting  as  it  were  trophies  in  the 
human  mind  of  that  sublimest  victory  over  sensuality 
and  force.  The  true  relation  borne  to  each  other  by 
the  sexes  into  which  human  kind  is  distributed,  has 
become  less  misunderstood;  and  if  the  error  which 
confounded  diversity  with  inequality  of  the  powers  of 


32  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

the  two  sexes  has  been  partially  recognised  in  the 
opinions  and  institutions  of  modern  Europe,  we  owe 
this  great  benefit  to  the  worship  of  which  chivaby  was 
the  law,  and  poets  the  prophets. 

The  poetry  of  Dante  may  be  considered  as  the 
bridge  thrown  over  the  stream  of  time,  which  unites 
the  modern  and  ancient  world.  The  distorted  notions 
of  invisible  things  which  Dante  and  his  rival  Milton 
have  idealised,  are  merely  the  mask  and  the  mantle  in 
which  these  great  poets  walk  through  eternity  enve- 
loped and  disguised.  It  is  a  difficult  question  to 
determine  how  far  they  were  conscious  of  the  distinc- 
tion which  must  have  subsisted  in  their  minds  between 
their  own  creeds  and  that  of  the  people.  Dante 
at  least  appears  to  wish  to  mark  the  full  extent  of 
it  by  placing  E-iphseus,  whom  Virgil  calls  justissimus 
unus,  in  Paradise,  and  observing  a  most  heretical 
caprice  in  his  distribution  of  rewards  and  punishments. 
And  Milton's  poem  contains  within  itself  a  philoso- 
phical refutation  of  that  system,  of  which,  by  a  strange 
and  natural  antithesis,  it  has  been  a  chief  popular 
support.  Nothing  can  exceed  the  energy  and  magni- 
ficence of  the  character  of  Satan  as  expressed  in 
"  Paradise  Lost."  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  he 
could  ever  have  been  intended  for  the  popular  personi- 
fication of  evil.  Implacable  hate,  patient  cunning,  and 
a  sleepless  refinement  of  device  to  inflict  the  extremest 
anguish  on  an  enemy,  these  things  are  evil ;  and, 
although  venial  in  a  slave,  are  not  to  be  forgiven  in 
a  tyrant ;  although  redeemed  by  much  that  ennobles 
his   defeat   in  one  subdued,  are  marked  by  all  that 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  33 

dishonours  his  conquest  in  the  victor.  Milton's  Devil  as 
a  moral  being  is  as  far  superior  to  his  Grod,  as  one  who 
perseveres  in  some  purpose  which  he  has  conceived  to 
be  excellent  in  spite  of  adversity  and  torture,  is  to  one 
who  in  the  cold  security  of  undoubted  triumph  inflicts 
the  most  horrible  revenge  upon  his  enemy,  not  from 
any  mistaken  notion  of  inducing  him  to  repent  of  a 
perseverance  in  enmity,  but  with  the  alleged  design  of 
exasperating  him  to  deserve  new  torments.  Milton 
has  so  far  violated  the  popular  creed  (if  this  shall  be 
judged  to  be  a  violation)  as  to  have  alleged  no  supe- 
riority of  moral  virtue  to  his  God  over  his  Devil.  And 
this  bold  neglect  of  a  direct  moral  purpose  is  the  most 
decisive  proof  of  the  supremacy  of  Milton's  genius. 
He  mingled  as  it  were  the  elements  of  human  nature 
as  colours  upon  a  single  pallet,  and  arranged  them  in 
the  composition  of  his  great  picture  according  to  the 
laws  of  epic  truth ;  that  is,  according  to  the  laws  of 
that  principle  by  which  a  series  of  actions  of  the 
external  universe  and  of  intelligent  and  ethical  beings 
is  calculated  to  excite  the  sympathy  of  succeeding 
generations  of  mankind.  The  Divina  Commedia  and 
Paradise  Lost  have  conferred  upon  modern  mytho- 
logy a  systematic  form ;  and  when  change  and  time 
shall  have  added  one  more  superstition  to  the  mass  of 
those  which  have  arisen  and  decayed  upon  the  earth, 
commentators  will  be  learnedly  employed  in  eluci- 
dating the  religion  of  ancestral  Europe,  only  not 
utterly  forgotten  because  it  will  have  been  stamped 
with  the  eternity  of  genius. 

Homer  was  the  first  and  Dante  the  second  epic 


34  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

poet:  that  is,  the  second  poet,  the  series  of  whose 
creations  bore  a  defined  and  intelligible  relation  to  the 
knowledge  and  sentiment  and  religion  of  the  age  in 
which  he  lived,  and  of  the  ages  which  followed  it : 
developing  itself  in  correspondence  with  their  deve- 
lopment. Por  Lucretius  had  limed  the  wings  of  his 
swift  spirit  in  the  dregs  of  the  sensible  world ;  and 
Yirgil,  vdth  a  modesty  that  ill  became  his  genius,  had 
affected  the  fame  of  an  imitator,  even  whilst  he  created 
anew  all  that  he  copied ;  and  none  among  the  flock  of 
mock-birds,  though  their  notes  were  sweet,  ApoUonius 
E-hodius,  Quintus  Calaber,  Nonnus,  Lucan,  Statins,  or 
Claudian,  have  sought  even  to  fulfil  a  single  condition 
of  epic  truth.  Milton  was  the  third  epic  poet.  For 
if  the  title  of  epic  in  its  highest  sense  be  refused  to 
the  ^neid,  still  less  can  it  be  conceded  to  the  Orlando 
Purioso,  the  Gerusalemme  Liberata,  the  Lusiad,  or 
the  Pairy  Queen. 

Dante  and  Milton  were  both  deeply  penetrated  with 
the  ancient  religion  of  the  civilised  world ;  and  its 
spirit  exists  in  their  poetry  probably  in  the  same  pro- 
portion as  its  forms  survived  in  the  unreformed  worship 
of  modern  Europe.  The  one  preceded  and  the  other 
followed  the  Eeformation  at  almost  equal  intervals. 
Dante  was  the  first  religious  reformer,  and  Luther 
surpassed  him  rather  in  the  rudeness  and  acrimony, 
than  in  the  boldness  of  his  censures  of  papal  usurpation. 
Dante  was  the  first  awakener  of  entranced  Europe ; 
he  created  a  language,  in  itself  music  and  persuasion, 
out  of  a  chaos  of  inharmonious  barbarisms.  He  was 
the  congregator  of  those  great  spirits  who  presided 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  35 

over  the  resurrection  of  learning  ;  the  Lucifer  of  that 
starry  flock  which  in  the  thirteenth  century  shone 
forth  from  republican  Italy,  as  from  a  heaven,  into  the 
darkness  of  the  benighted  world.  His  very  words  are 
instinct  with  spirit;  each  is  as  a  spark,  a  burning 
atom  of  inextinguishable  thought ;  and  many  yet  lie 
covered  in  the  ashes  of  their  birth,  and  pregnant  with 
a  lightning  which  has  yet  found  no  conductor.  All 
high  poetry  is  infinite ;  it  is  as  the  first  acorn,  which 
contained  all  oaks  potentially.  Veil  after  veil  may  be 
undrawn,  and  the  inmost  naked  beauty  of  the  meaning 
never  exposed.  A  great  poem  is  a  fountain  for  ever 
overflowing  with  the  waters  of  wisdom  and  delight ; 
and  after  one  person  and  one  age  has  exhausted  all  its 
divine  efl3-uence  which  their  peculiar  relations  enable 
them  to  share,  another  and  yet  another  succeeds,  and 
new  relations  are  ever  developed,  the  source  of  an 
unforeseen  and  an  unconceived  delight. 

The  age  immediately  succeeding  to  that  of  Dante, 
Petrarch,  and  Boccaccio,  was  characterised  by  a  revival 
of  painting,  sculpture,  and  architecture.  Chaucer 
caught  the  sacred  inspiration,  and  the  superstructure 
of  English  literature  is  based  upon  the  materials  of 
Italian  invention. 

But  let  us  not  be  betrayed  from  a  defence  into  a 
critical  history  of  poetry  and  its  influence  on  society. 
Be  it  enough  to  have  pointed  out  the  effects  of  poets, 
in  the  large  and  true  sense  of  the  word,  upon  their 
own  and  all  succeeding  times. 

But  poets  have  been  challenged  to  resign  the  civic 
crown  to  reasoners  and  mechanists,  on  another  plea. 

d2 


36  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

It  is  admitted  that  the  exercise  of  the  imagination  is 
most  delightful,  but  it  is  alleged  that  that  of  reason 
is  more  useful.  Let  us  examine  as  the  grounds  of 
this  distinction,  what  is  here  meant  by  utility.  Plea- 
sure or  good,  in  a  general  sense,  is  that  which  the 
consciousness  of  a  sensitive  and  intelligent  being 
seeks,  and  in  which,  when  found,  it  acquiesces. 
There  are  two  kinds  of  pleasure,  one  durable,  universal 
and  permanent;  the  other  transitory  and  particular. 
Utility  may  either  express  the  means  of  producing  the 
former  or  the  latter.  In  the  former  sense,  whatever 
strengthens  and  purifies  the  affections,  enlarges  the 
imagination,  and  adds  spirit  to  sense,  is  useful.  But 
a  narrower  meaning  may  be  assigned  to  the  word 
utility,  confining  it  to  express  that  which  banishes  the 
importunity  of  the  wants  of  our  animal  nature,  the 
surrounding  men  with  security  of  life,  the  dispersing 
the  grosser  delusions  of  superstition,  and  the  con- 
ciliating such  a  degree  of  mutual  forbearance  among 
men  as  may  consist  with  the  motives  of  personal 
advantage. 

Undoubtedly  the  promoters  of  utility,  in  this  limited 
sense,  have  their  appointed  office  in  society.  They 
follow  the  footsteps  of  poets,  and  copy  the  sketches 
of  their  creations  into  the  book  of  common  life.  They 
make  space,  and  give  time.  Their  exertions  are  of  the 
highest  value,  so  long  as  they  confine  their  adminis- 
tration of  the  concerns  of  the  inferior  powders  of  our 
nature  within  the  limits  due  to  the  superior  ones. 
But  whilst  the  sceptic  destroys  gross  superstitions,  let 
him  spare  to  deface,  as  some  of  the  Trench  writers 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  87 

have  defaced,  the  eternal  truths  charactered  upon  the 
imaginations  of  men.  Whilst  the  mechanist  abridges, 
and  the  political  economist  combines  labour,  let  them 
beware  that  their  speculations,  for  want  of  corre- 
spondence with  those  first  principles  which  belong  to 
the  imagination,  do  not  tend,  as  they  have  in  modern 
England,  to  exasperate  at  once  the  extremes  of  luxury 
and  want.  They  have  exemplified  the  saying,  "To 
him  that  hath,  more  shall  be  given ;  and  from  him 
that  hath  not,  the  little  that  he  hath  shall  be  taken 
away."  The  rich  have  become  richer,  and  the  poor 
have  become  poorer;  and  the  vessel  of  the  state  is 
driven  between  the  Scylla  and  Charybdis  of  anarchy 
and  despotism.  Such  are  the  effects  which  must  ever 
flow  from  an  unmitigated  exercise  of  the  calculating 
faculty. 

It  is  difficult  to  define  pleasure  in  its  highest  sense ; 
the  definition  involving  a  number  of  apparent  para- 
doxes. For,  from  an  inexplicable  defect  of  harmony 
in  the  constitution  of  human  nature,  the  pain  of  the 
inferior  is  frequently  connected  with  the  pleasures  of 
the  superior  portions  of  our  being.  Sorrow,  terror, 
anguish,  despair  itself,  are  often  the  chosen  expres- 
sions of  an  approximation  to  the  highest  good.  Our 
sympathy  in  tragic  fiction  depends  on  this  principle ; 
tragedy  delights  by  affording  a  shadow  of  the  pleasure 
which  exists  in  pain.  This  is  the  source  also  of  the 
melancholy  which  is  inseparable  from  the  sweetest 
melody.  The  pleasure  that  is  in  sorrow  is  sweeter 
than  the  pleasure  of  pleasure  itself.  And  hence  the 
saying,  "  It  is  better  to  go  to  the  house  of  mourning. 


38  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

than  to  the  house  of  mirth."  Not  that  this  highest 
species  of  pleasure  is  necessarily  linked  with  pain. 
The  delight  of  love  and  friendship,  the  ecstacy  of  the 
admiration  of  nature,  the  joy  of  the  perception  and 
still  more  of  the  creation  of  poetry,  is  often  wholly 
unalloyed. 

The  production  and  assurance  of  pleasure  in  this 
highest  sense  is  true  utility.  Those  who  produce  and 
preserve  this  pleasure  are  poets  or  poetical  philo- 
sophers. 

The  exertions  of  Locke,  Hume,  Gribbon,  Voltaire, 
Rousseau,*  and  their  disciples,  in  favour  of  oppressed 
and  deluded  humanity,  are  entitled  to  the  gratitude 
of  mankind.  Yet  it  is  easy  to  calculate  the  degree  of 
moral  and  intellectual  improvement  which  the  world 
would  have  exhibited,  had  they  never  lived.  A  little 
more  nonsense  would  have  been  talked  for  a  century 
or  two;  and  perhaps  a  few  more  men,  women,  and 
children,  burnt  as  heretics.  We  might  not  at  this 
moment  have  been  congratulating  each  other  on  the 
abolition  of  the  Inquisition  in  Spain.  But  it  exceeds 
all  imagination  to  conceive  what  would  have  been  the 
moral  condition  of  the  world  if  neither  Dante,  Petrarch, 
Boccaccio,  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  Calderon,  Lord  Bacon, 
nor  Milton,  had  ever  existed ;  if  Eaphael  and  Michael 
Angelo  had  never  been  born ;  if  the  Hebrew  poetry 
had  never  been  translated ;  if  a  revival  of  the  study 
of  Greek  literature  had  never  taken  place ;  if  no  monu- 
ments of  ancient  sculpture  had  been  handed  down  to 

*  Although  Rousseau  has  been  thus  classed,  he  was  essentially  a  poet. 
The  others,  even  Voltaire,  were  mere  reasoners. 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  39 

us;  and  if  the  poetry  of  the  religion  of  the  ancient 
world  had  been  extinguished  together  with  its  belief. 
The  human  mind  could  never,  except  by  the  inter- 
vention of  these  excitements,  have  been  awakened 
to  the  invention  of  the  grosser  sciences,  and  that 
application  of  analytical  reasoning  to  the  aberrations 
of  society,  which  it  is  now  attempted  to  exalt  over 
the  direct  expression  of  the  inventive  and  creative 
faculty  itself. 

"We  have  more  moral,  political  and  historical  wisdom, 
than  we  know  how  to  reduce  into  practice ;  we  have 
more  scientific  and  economical  knowledge  than  can  be 
accommodated  to  the  just  distribution  of  the  produce 
which  it  multiplies.  The  poetry  in  these  systems  of 
thought,  is  concealed  by  the  accumulation  of  facts  and 
calculating  processes.  There  is  no  want  of  knowledge 
respecting  what  is  wisest  and  best  in  morals,  govern- 
ment, and  political  economy,  or  at  least,  what  is  wiser 
and  better  than  what  men  now  practise  and  endure. 
But  we  let  ^' I  dare  not  wait  upon  I  would,  like  the 
poor  cat  in  the  adage."  We  want  the  creative  faculty 
to  imagine  that  which  we  know;  we  want  the  generous 
impulse  to  act  that  which  we  imagine ;  we  want  the 
poetry  of  life:  our  calculations  have  outrun  concep- 
tion ;  we  have  eaten  more  than  we  can  digest.  The 
cultivation  of  those  sciences  which  have  enlarged  the 
limits  of  the  empire  of  man  over  the  external  world, 
has,  for  want  of  the  poetical  faculty,  proportionally 
circumscribed  those  of  the  internal  world ;  and  man, 
having  enslaved  the  elements,  remains  himself  a  slave. 
To  what  but  a  cultivation  of  the  mechanical  arts  in  a 


40  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

degree  disproportioned  to  the  presence  of  the  creative 
faculty,  which  is  the  basis  of  all  knowledge,  is  to  be 
attributed  the  abuse  of  all  invention  for  abridging  and 
combining  labour,  to  the  exasperation  of  the  inequality 
of  mankind?  Prom  what  other  cause  has  it  arisen 
that  the  discoveries  which  should  have  lightened,  have 
added  a  weight  to  the  curse  imposed  on  Adam  ? 
Poetry,  and  the  principle  of  Self,  of  which  money  is 
the  visible  incarnation,  are  the  God  and  Mammon  of 
the  world. 

The  functions  of  the  poetical  faculty  are  two-fold ; 
by  one  it  creates  new  materials  of  knowledge,  and 
power  and  pleasure ;  by  the  other  it  engenders  in  the 
mind  a  desire  to  reproduce  and  arrange  them  according 
to  a  certain  rhythm  and  order  which  may  be  called 
the  beautiful  and  the  good.  The  cultivation  of  poetry 
is  never  more  to  be  desired  than  at  periods  when, 
from  an  excess  of  the  selfish  and  calculating  principle, 
the  accumulation  of  the  materials  of  external  life 
exceed  the  quantity  of  the  power  of  assimilating  them 
to  the  internal  laws  of  human  nature.  The  body  has 
then  become  too  unwieldy  for  that  which  animates  it. 

Poetry  is  indeed  something  divine.  It  is  at  once 
the  centre  and  circumference  of  knowledge ;  it  is  that 
which  comprehends  all  science,  and  that  to  which  all 
science  must  be  referred.  It  is  at  the  same  time  the 
root  and  blossom  of  all  other  systems  of  thought ;  it 
is  that  from  which  all  spring,  and  that  which  adorns 
all ;  and  that  which,  if  blighted,  denies  the  fruit  and 
the  seed,  and  withholds  from  the  barren  world  the 
nourishment  and  the  succession   of  the  scions  of  the 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  41 

tree  of  life.  It  is  the  perfect  and  consummate  surface 
and  bloom  of  all  things ;  it  is  as  the  odour  and  the 
colour  of  the  rose  to  the  texture  of  the  elements 
which  compose  it,  as  the  form  and  splendour  of  un- 
faded  beauty  to  the  secrets  of  anatomy  and  corruption. 
What  were  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  friendship — what 
were  the  scenery  of  this  beautiful  universe  which  we 
inhabit;  what  were  our  consolations  on  this  side  of 
the  grave — and  what  were  our  aspirations  beyond  it, 
if  poetry  did  not  ascend  to  bring  light  and  fire  from 
those  eternal  regions  where  the  owl- winged  faculty  of 
calculation  dare  not  ever  soar?  Poetry  is  not  like 
reasoning,  a  power  to  be  exerted  according  to  the 
determination  of  the  will.  A  man  cannot  say,  "  I  will 
compose  poetry."  The  greatest  poet  even  cannot  say 
it ;  for  the  mind  in  creation  is  as  a  fading  coal,  which 
some  invisible  influence,  like  an  inconstant  wind, 
awakens  to  transitory  brightness;  this  power  arises 
from  within,  like  the  colour  of  a  flower  which  fades 
and  changes  as  it  is  developed,  and  the  conscious  por- 
tions of  our  natures  are  unprophetic  either  of  its 
approach  or  its  departure.  Could  this  influence  be 
durable  in  its  original  purity  and  force,  it  is  impossible 
to  predict  the  greatness  of  the  results ;  but  when  com- 
position begins,  inspiration  is  already  on  the  decline, 
and  the  most  glorious  poetry  that  has  ever  been  com- 
municated to  the  world  is  probably  a  feeble  shadow 
of  the  original  conceptions  of  the  poet.  I  appeal  to 
the  greatest  poets  of  the  present  day,  whether  it  is  not 
an  error  to  assert  that  the  finest  passages  of  poetry 
are  produced  by  labour  and  study.     The  toil  and  the 


42  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

delay  recommended  by  critics,  can  be  justly  interpreted 
to  mean  no  more  than  a  careful  observation  of  tbe 
inspired  moments,  and  an  artificial  connexion  of  the 
spaces  between  their  suggestions  by  the  intertexture 
of  conventional  expressions ;  a  necessity  only  imposed 
by  the  limitedness  of  the  poetical  faculty  itself;  for 
Milton  conceived  the  Paradise  Lost  as  a  whole  before 
he  executed  it  in  portions.  "We  have  his  own  autho- 
rity also  for  the  muse  having  "  dictated"  to  him  the 
"unpremeditated  song."  And  let  this  be  an  answer 
to  those  who  would  allege  the  fifty-six  various  readings 
of  the  first  line  of  the  Orlando  Furioso.  Compositions 
so  produced  are  to  poetry  what  mosaic  is  to  painting. 
This  instinct  and  intuition  of  the  poetical  faculty  is 
still  more  observable  in  the  plastic  and  pictorial  arts ; 
a  great  statue  or  picture  grows  under  the  power  of  the 
artist  as  a  child  in  the  mother's  womb ;  and  the  very 
mind  which  directs  the  hands  in  formation  is  incapable 
of  accounting  to  itself  for  the  origin,  the  gradations,  or 
the  media  of  the  process. 

Poetry  is  the  record  of  the  best  and  happiest 
moments  of  the  happiest  and  best  minds.  We  are 
aware  of  evanescent  visitations  of  thought  and  feeling 
sometimes  associated  with  place  or  person,  sometimes 
regarding  our  own  mind  alone,  and  always  arising 
unforeseen  and  departing  unbidden,  but  elevating  and 
delightful  beyond  all  expression :  so  that  even  in  the 
desire  and  regret  they  leave,  there  cannot  but  be 
pleasure,  participating  as  it  does  in  the  nature  of  its 
object.  It  is  as  it  were  the  interpenetration  of  a 
diviner  nature  through  our  own ;  but  its  footsteps  are 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  4d 

like  those  of  a  wind  over  the  sea,  which  the  coming 
calm  erases,  and  whose  traces  remain  only,  as  on  the 
wrinkled  sand  which  paves  it.  These  and  correspond- 
ing conditions  of  being  are  experienced  principally  by 
those  of  the  most  delicate  sensibility  and  the  most 
enlarged  imagination;  and  the  state  of  mind  pro- 
duced by  them  is  at  war  with  every  base  desire.  The 
enthusiasm  of  virtue,  love,  patriotism,  and  friendship, 
is  essentially  linked  with  such  emotions ;  and  whilst 
they  last,  self  appears  as  what  it  is,  an  atom  to  a 
universe.  Poets  are  not  only  subject  to  these  expe- 
riences as  spirits  of  the  most  refined  organisation, 
but  they  can  colour  all  that  they  combine  with  the 
evanescent  hues  of  this  ethereal  world ;  a  word,  a  trait 
in  the  representation  of  a  scene  or  a  passion,  will 
touch  the  enchanted  chord,  and  reanimate,  in  those 
who  have  ever  experienced  these  emotions,  the  sleep- 
ing, the  cold,  the  buried  image  of  the  past.  Poetry 
thus  makes  immortal  all  that  is  best  and  most  beautiful 
in  the  world ;  it  arrests  the  vanishing  apparitions  which 
haunt  the  interlunations  of  life,  and  veiling  them,  or  in 
language  or  in  form,  sends  them  forth  among  mankind, 
bearing  sweet  news  of  kindred  joy  to  those  with  whom 
their  sisters  abide — abide,  because  there  is  no  portal  of 
expression  from  the  caverns  of  the  spirit  which  they 
inhabit  into  the  universe  of  tilings.  Poetry  redeems 
from  decay  the  visitations  of  the  divinity  in  man. 

Poetry  turns  all  things  to  loveliness ;  it  exalts  the 
beauty  of  that  which  is  most  beautiful,  and  it  adds 
beauty  to  that  which  is  most  deformed;  it  marries 
exultation  and  horror,  grief  and  pleasure,  eternity  and 


44  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

change ;  it  subdues  to  union  under  its  light  yoke,  all 
irreconcilable  things.  It  transmutes  all  that  it  touches, 
and  every  form  moving  within  the  radiance  of  its  pre- 
sence is  changed  by  wondrous  sympathy  to  an  in- 
carnation of  the  spirit  which  it  breathes :  its  secret 
alchemy  turns  to  potable  gold  the  poisonous  waters 
which  flow  from  death  through  life ;  it  strips  the  veil 
of  familiarity  from  the  world,  and  lays  bare  the  naked 
and  sleeping  beauty,  which  is  the  spirit  of  its  forms. 

All  things  exist  as  they  are  perceived ;  at  least  in 
relation  to  the  percipient.  "  The  mind  is  its  own 
place,  and  of  itself  can  make  a  heaven  of  hell,  a  hell  of 
heaven."  But  poetry  defeats  the  curse  which  binds 
us  to  be  subjected  to  the  accident  of  surrounding 
impressions.  And  whether  it  spreads  its  own  figured 
curtain,  or  withdraws  life's  dark  veil  from  before  the 
scene  of  things,  it  equally  creates  for  us  a  being  within 
our  being.  It  makes  us  the  inhabitants  of  a  world  to 
which  the  familiar  world  is  a  chaos.  It  reproduces 
the  common  universe  of  which  we  are  portions  and 
percipients,  and  it  purges  from  our  inward  sight  the 
film  of  familiarity  which  obscures  from  us  the  wonder 
of  our  being.  It  compels  us  to  feel  that  which  we 
perceive,  and  to  imagine  that  which  we  know.  It 
creates  anew  the  universe,  after  it  has  been  annihilated 
in  our  minds  by  the  recurrence  of  impressions  blunted 
by  reiteration.  It  justifies  the  bold  and  true  words  of 
Tasso :  Non  merita  nome  di  creatore,  se  non  Iddio  ed  il 
Foeta. 

A  poet,  as  he  is  the  author  to  others  of  the 
highest  wisdom,   pleasure,   virtue   and  glory,   so   he 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  45 

ouglit  personally  to  be  the  happiest,  the  best,  the 
wisest,  and  the  most  illustrious  of  men.  As  to  his 
glory,  let  time  be  challenged  to  declare  whether  the 
fame  of  any  other  institutor  of  human  life  be  com- 
parable to  that  of  a  poet.  That  he  is  the  wisest,  the 
happiest,  and  the  best,  inasmuch  as  he  is  a  poet,  is 
equally  incontrovertible :  the  greatest  poets  have  been 
men  of  the  most  spotless  virtue,  of  the  most  consum- 
mate prudence,  and,  if  we  would  look  into  the  interior  of 
their  lives,  the  most  fortunate  of  men :  and  the  excep- 
tions, as  they  regard  those  who  possessed  the  poetic 
faculty  in  a  high  yet  inferior  degree,  will  be  found  on 
consideration  to  confine  rather  than  destroy  the  rule. 
Let  us  for  a  moment  stoop  to  the  arbitration  of 
popular  breath,  and  usurping  and  uniting  in  our  own 
persons  the  incompatible  characters  of  accuser,  wit- 
ness, judge  and  executioner,  let  us  decide  without 
trial,  testimony,  or  form,  that  certain  motives  of  those 
who  are  "there  sitting  where  we  dare  not  soar,"  are 
reprehensible.  Let  us  assume  that  Homer  was  a 
drunkard,  that  Yirgil  was  a  flatterer,  that  Horace  was 
a  coward,  that  Tasso  was  a  madman,  that  Lord  Bacon 
was  a  peculator,  that  Eaphael  was  a  libertine,  that 
Spenser  was  a  poet  laureate.  It  is  inconsistent  with 
this  division  of  our  subject  to  cite  living  poets,  but 
posterity  has  done  ample  justice  to  the  great  names 
now  referred  to.  Their  errors  have  been  weighed  and 
found  to  have  been  dust  in  the  balance ;  if  their  sins 
"were  as  scarlet,  they  are  now  white  as  snow :"  they 
have  been  washed  in  the  blood  of  the  mediator  and 
redeemer,  Time.     Observe  in  what  a  ludicrous  chaos 


46  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

the  imputations  of  real  or  fictitious  crime  have  been 
confused  in  the  contemporary  calumnies  against  poetry 
and  poets ;  consider  how  little  is,  as  it  appears — or 
appears,  as  it  is ;  look  to  your  own  motives,  and  judge 
not,  lest  ye  be  judged. 

Poetry,  as  has  been  said,  differs  in  this  respect  from 
logic,  that  it  is  not  subject  to  the  control  of  the  active 
powers  of  the  mind,  and  that  its  birth  and  recurrence 
have  no  necessary  connexion  with  the  consciousness 
or  will.  It  is  presumptuous  to  determine  that  these 
are  the  necessary  conditions  of  all  mental  causation, 
when  mental  effects  are  experienced  unsusceptible  of 
being  referred  to  them.  The  frequent  recurrence  of 
the  poetical  power,  it  is  obvious  to  suppose,  may 
produce  in  the  mind  a  habit  of  order  and  harmony 
correlative  with  its  own  nature  and  with  its  effects 
upon  other  minds.  But  in  the  intervals  of  inspiration, 
and  they  may  be  frequent  without  being  durable,  a 
poet  becomes  a  man,  and  is  abandoned  to  the  sudden 
reflux  of  the  influences  under  which  others  habitually 
live.  But  as  he  is  more  delicately  organised  than 
other  men,  and  sensible  to  pain  and  pleasure,  both 
his  own  and  that  of  others,  in  a  degree  unknown  to 
them,  he  will  avoid  the  one  and  pursue  the  other 
Tvith  an  ardour  proportioned  to  this  difference.  And 
he  renders  himself  obnoxious  to  calumny,  when  he 
neglects  to  observe  the  circumstances  under  which 
these  objects  of  universal  pursuit  and  flight  have 
disguised  themselves  in  one  another's  garments. 

But  there  is  nothing  necessarily  evil  in  this  error, 
and  thus   cruelty,   envy,   revenge,   avarice,   and    the 


A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY.  47 

passions  purely  evil,  have  never  formed  any  portion  of 
the  popular  imputations  on  the  lives  of  poets. 

I  have  thought  it  most  favourable  to  the  cause  of 
truth  to  set  down  these  remarks  according  to  the  order 
in  which  they  were  suggested  to  my  mind,  by  a  con- 
sideration of  the  subject  itself,  instead  of  observing 
the  formality  of  a  polemical  reply ;  but  if  the  view 
which  they  contain  be  just,  they  will  be  found  to 
involve  a  refutation  of  the  arguers  against  poetry,  so 
far  at  least  as  regards  the  first  division  of  the  subject. 
I  can  readily  conjecture  what  should  have  moved  the 
gall  of  some  learned  and  intelligent  writers  who 
quarrel  with  certain  versifiers  ;  I  confess  myself,  like 
them,  unwilling  to  be  stunned  by  the  Theseids  of  the 
hoarse  Codri  of  the  day.  Bavins  and  Maevius  un- 
doubtedly are,  as  they  ever  were,  insufferable  persons. 
But  it  belongs  to  a  philosophical  critic  to  distinguish 
rather  than  confound. 

The  first  part  of  these  remarks  has  related  to  poetry 
in  its  elements  and  principles  ;  and  it  has  been  shown, 
as  well  as  the  narrow  limits  assigned  them  would  per- 
mit, that  what  is  called  poetry,  in  a  restricted  sense, 
has  a  common  source  with  all  other  forms  of  order  and 
of  beauty,  according  to  which  the  materials  of  human 
life  are  susceptible  of  being  arranged,  and  which  is 
poetry  in  an  universal  sense. 

The  second  part  will  have  for  its  object  an  appli- 
cation of  these  principles  to  the  present  state  of 
the  cultivation  of  poetry,  and  a  defence  of  the  at- 
tempt to  idealise  the  modern  forms  of  manners  and 
opinions,  and  compel  them  into  a  subordination  to  the 


48  A  DEFENCE  OF  POETRY. 

imaginative  and  creative  faculty.  For  the  literature 
of  England,  an  energetic  development  of  which  has 
ever  preceded  or  accompanied  a  great  and  free  de- 
velopment of  the  national  will,  has  arisen  as  it  were 
from  a  new  birth.  In  spite  of  the  low-thoughted 
envy  which  would  undervalue  contemporary  merit,  our 
own  will  be  a  memorable  age  in  intellectual  achieve- 
ments, and  we  live  among  such  philosophers  and  poets 
as  surpass  beyond  comparison  any  who  have  appeared 
since  the  last  national  struggle  for  civil  and  religious 
liberty.  The  most  unfailing  herald,  companion,  and 
follower  of  the  awakening  of  a  great  people  to  work  a 
beneficial  change  in  opinion  or  institution,  is  poetry. 
At  such  periods  there  is  an  accumulation  of  the  power 
of  communicating  and  receiving  intense  and  impas- 
sioned conceptions  respecting  man  and  nature.  The 
persons  in  whom  this  power  resides  may  often,  as  far 
as  regards  many  portions  of  their  nature,  have  little 
apparent  correspondence  with  that  spirit  of  good  of 
which  they  are  the  ministers.  But  even  whilst  they 
deny  and  abjure,  they  are  yet  compelled  to  serve,  the 
power  which  is  seated  on  the  throne  of  their  own  soul. 
It  is  impossible  to  read  the  compositions  of  the  most 
celebrated  writers  of  the  present  day  without  being 
startled  wdth  the  electric  life  which  burns  within  their 
words.  They  measure  the  circumference  and  sound 
the  depths  of  human  nature  with  a  comprehensive 
and  all-penetrating  spirit,  and  they  are  themselves 
perhaps  the  most  sincerely  astonished  at  its  manifes- 
tations ;  for  it  is  less  their  spirit  than  the  spirit  of  the 
age.     Poets  are  the  hierophants  of  an  unapprehended 


ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC.  OF  THE  ATHENIANS.  49 

inspiration ;  the  mirrors  of  the  gigantic  shadows  which 
futurity  casts  upon  the  present ;  the  words  which 
express  what  they  understand  not ;  the  trumpets 
which  sing  to  battle,  and  feel  not  what  they  inspire ; 
the  influence  which  is  moved  not,  but  moves.  Poets 
are  the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world. 


ESSAY  ON  THE  LITEKATUEE,  THE  AETS,  AND 
THE  MANNEES  OF  THE  ATHENIANS. 


A   FRAGMENT." 


The  period  which  intervened  between  the  birth  of 
Pericles  and  the  death  of  Aristotle,  is  undoubtedly, 
whether  considered  in  itself  or  with  reference  to  the 
effects  which  it  has  produced  upon  the  subsequent 
destinies  of  civilised  man,  the  most  memorable  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  What  was  the  combination  of 
moral  and  political  circumstances  which  produced  so 
unparalleled  a  progress  during  that  period  in  lite- 
rature and  the  arts ; — why  that  progress,  so  rapid  and 
so  sustained,  so  soon  received  a  check,  and  became 
retrograde, — are  problems  left  to  the  wonder  and  con- 
jecture of  posterity.  The  wrecks  and  fragments  of 
those  subtle  and  profound  minds,  like  the  ruins  of  a 
fine  statue,  obscurely  suggest  to  us  the  grandeur  and 

*  Shelley  named  tliis*Essay,  *'  A  Discourse  on  the  Manners  of  the 
Ancients,  relative  to  the  subject  of  Love."  It  was  intended  to  be  a  com- 
mentary on  the  Symposium,  or  Banquet  of  Plato,  but  it  breaks  off  at  the 
moment  when  the  main  subject  is  about  to  be  discussed. 

VOL.  I.  E 


50  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC. 

perfection  of  the  whole.  Their  very  language — a  type 
of  the  understandings  of  which  it  was  the  creation  and 
the  image — in  variety,  in  simplicity,  in  flexibility,  and 
in  copiousness,  excels  every  other  language  of  the 
western  world.  Their  sculptures  are  such  as  we,  in 
our  presumption,  assume  to  be  the  models  of  ideal 
truth  and  beauty,  and  to  which  no  artist  of  modern 
times  can  produce  forms  in  any  degree  comparable. 
Their  paintings,  according  to  Pliny  and  Pausanias, 
were  full  of  delicacy  and  harmony;  and  some  even 
were  powerfully  pathetic,  so  as  to  awaken,  like 
tender  music  or  tragic  poetry,  the  most  overwhelming 
emotions.  We  are  accustomed  to  conceive  the 
painters  of  the  sixteenth  century,  as  those  who  have 
brought  their  art  to  the  highest  perfection,  probably 
because  none  of  the  ancient  paintings  have  been 
preserved.  For  all  the  inventive  arts  maintain,  as  it 
were,  a  sympathetic  connexion  between  each  other, 
being  no  more  than  various  expressions  of  one  internal 
power,  modified  by  different  circumstances,  either  of 
an  individual,  or  of  society  ;  and  the  paintings  of  that 
period  would  probably  bear  the  same  relation  as  is 
confessedly  borne  by  the  sculptures  to  all  succeeding 
ones.  Of  their  music  we  know  little ;  but  the  effects 
which  it  is  said  to  have  produced,  whether  they  be 
attributed  to  the  skill  of  the  composer,  or  the  sensi- 
bility of  his  audience,  are  far  more  powerful  than  any 
which  we  experience  from  the  music  of  our  own  times ; 
and  if,  indeed,  the  melody  of  their  compositions  were 
more  tender  and  delicate,  and  inspiring,  than  the 
melodies   of  some  modern  European  nations,   their 


OF  THE  ATHENIANS.  51 

superiority  in  this  art  must  have  been  something 
wonderful,  and  wholly  beyond  conception. 

Their  poetry  seems  to  maintain  a  very  high,  though 
not  so  disproportionate  a  rank,  in  the  comparison. 
Perhaps  Shakspeare,  from  the  variety  and  compre- 
hension of  his  genius,  is  to  be  considered,  on  the 
whole,  as  the  greatest  individual  mind,  of  which  we 
have  specimens  remaining.  Perhaps  Dante  created 
imaginations  of  greater  loveliness  and  energy  than 
any  that  are  to  be  found  in  the  ancient  literature  of 
Grreece.  Perhaps  nothing  has  been  discovered  in  the 
fragments  of  the  Grreek  lyric  poets  equivalent  to  the 
sublime  and  chivalric  sensibility  of  Petrarch. — But, 
as  a  poet.  Homer  must  be  acknowledged  to  excel 
Shakspeare  in  the  truth,  the  harmony,  the  sustained 
grandeur,  the  satisfying  completeness  of  his  images, 
their  exact  fitness  to  the  illustration,  and  to  that  to 
which  they  belong.  Nor  could  Dante,  deficient  in 
conduct,  plan,  nature,  variety,  and  temperance,  have 
been  brought  into  comparison  with  these  men,  but  for 
those  fortunate  isles,  laden  with  golden  fruit,  which 
alone  could  tempt  any  one  to  embark  in  the  misty 
ocean  of  his  dark  and  extravagant  fiction. 

But,  omitting  the  comparison  of  individual  minds, 
which  can  afibrd  no  general  inference,  how  superior 
was  the  spirit  and  system  of  their  poetry  to  that  of 
any  other  period.  So  that,  had  any  other  genius 
equal  in  other  respects  to  the  greatest  that  ever 
enlightened  the  world,  arisen  in  that  age,  he  would 
have  been  superior  to  all,  from  this  circumstance 
alone — that  his  conceptions  would  have  assumed  a 

E   2 


52  '  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC. 

more  harmonious  and  perfect  form.  Tor  it  is  worthy 
of  observation,  that  whatever  the  poets  of  that  age 
produced  is  as  harmonious  and  perfect  as  possible. 
If  a  drama,  for  instance,  were  the  composition  of  a 
person  of  inferior  talent,  it  was  still  homogeneous  and 
free  from  inequalities  ;  it  was  a  whole,  consistent  with 
itself.  The  compositions  of  great  minds  bore  through- 
out the  sustained  stamp  of  their  greatness.  In  the 
poetry  of  succeeding  ages  the  expectations  are  often 
exalted  on  Icarean  wings,  and  fall,  too  much  disap- 
pointed to  give  a  memory  and  a  name  to  the  oblivious 
pool  in  which  they  fell. 

In  physical  knowledge  Aristotle  and  Theophrastus 
had  already — no  doubt  assisted  by  the  labours  of 
those  of  their  predecessors  whom  they  criticise — 
made  advances  worthy  of  the  maturity  of  science. 
The  astonishing  invention  of  geometry,  that  series  of 
discoveries  which  have  enabled  man  to  command  the 
elements  and  foresee  future  events,  before  the  subjects 
of  his  ignorant  wonder,  and  which  have  opened  as  it 
were  the  doors  of  the  mysteries  of  nature,  had  already 
been  brought  to  great  perfection.  Metaphysics,  the 
science  of  man's  intimate  nature,  and  logic,  or  the 
grammar  and  elementary  principles  of  that  science, 
received  from  the  latter  philosophers  of  the  Periclean 
age  a  firm  basis.  All  our  more  exact  philosophy  is 
built  upon  the  labours  of  these  great  men,  and 
many  of  the  words  which  we  employ  in  metaphysical 
distinctions  were  invented  by  them  to  give  accuracy 
and  system  to  their  reasonings.  The  science  of 
morals,  or  the  voluntary  conduct  of  men  in  relation  to 


OF  THE  ATHENIANS.  53 

themselves  or  others,  dates  from  this  epoch.  How 
inexpressiblj  bolder  and  more  pure  were  the  doctrines 
of  those  great  men,  in  comparison  with  the  timid 
maxims  which  prevail  in  the  writings  of  the  most 
esteemed  modern  moralists.  Thej  were  such  as 
Phocion,  and  Epaminondas,  and  Timoleon,  who  formed 
themselves  on  their  influence,  were  to  the  wretched 
heroes  of  our  own  age. 

Their  political  and  religious  institutions  are  more 
difficult  to  bring  into  comparison  with  those  of  other 
times.  A  summary  idea  may  be  formed  of  the  worth 
of  any  poKtical  and  religious  system,  by  observing 
the  comparative  degree  of  happiness  and  of  intellect 
produced  under  its  influence.  And  whilst  many  insti- 
tutions and  opinions,  which  in  ancient  G-reece  were 
obstacles  to  the  improvement  of  the  human  race,  have 
been  abolished  among  modern  nations,  how  many 
pernicious  superstitions  and  new  contrivances  of  mis- 
rule, and  unheard-of  complications  of  public  mischief, 
have  not  been  invented  among  them  by  the  ever- 
watchful  spirit  of  avarice  and  tyranny. 

The  modern  nations  of  the  civilised  world  owe  the 
progress  which  they  have  made — as  well  in  those 
physical  sciences  in  which  they  have  already  excelled 
their  masters,  as  in  the  moral  and  intellectual  inquiries, 
in  which,  with  all  the  advantage  of  the  experience  of 
the  latter,  it  can  scarcely  be  said  that  they  have  yet 
equalled  them, — to  what  is  called  the  revival  of  learn- 
ing ;  that  is,  the  study  of  the  writers  of  the  age  which 
preceded  and  immediately  followed  the  government  of 
Pericles,  or  of  subsequent  writers,  who  were,  so  to 


54  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC. 

speak,  the  rivers  flowing  from  those  immortal  fountains. 
And  though  there  seems  to  be  a  principle  in  the 
modern  world,  which,  should  circumstances  analogous 
to  those  which  modelled  the  intellectual  resources  of 
the  age  to  which  we  refer,  into  so  harmonious  a  pro- 
portion, again  arise,  would  arrest  and  perpetuate  them, 
and  consign  their  results  to  a  more  equal,  extensive, 
and  lasting  improvement  of  the  condition  of  man — 
though  justice  and  the  true  meaning  of  human  society- 
are,  if  not  more  accurately,  more  generally  understood ; 
though  perhaps  men  know  more,  and  therefore  are 
more,  as  a  mass,  yet  this  principle  has  never  been 
called  into  action,  and  requires  indeed  a  universal  and 
almost  appalling  change  in  the  system  of  existing 
things.  The  study  of  modern  history  is  the  study  of 
kings,  financiers,  statesmen,  and  priests.  The  history 
of  ancient  Grreece  is  the  study  of  legislators,  philoso- 
phers, and  poets  ;  it  is  the  history  of  men,  compared 
with  the  history  of  titles.  What  the  Greeks  were, 
was  a  reality,  not  a  promise.  And  what  we  are  and 
hope  to  be,  is  derived,  as  it  were,  from  the  influence 
and  inspiration  of  these  glorious  generations. 

Whatever  tends  to  afibrd  a  further  illustration  of 
the  manners  and  opinions  of  those  to  whom  we  owe  so 
much,  and  who  were  perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  most 
perfect  specimens  of  humanity  of  whom  we  have 
authentic  record,  were  infinitely  valuable.  Let  us  see 
their  errors,  their  weaknesses,  their  daily  actions, 
their  familiar  conversation,  and  catch  the  tone  of 
their  society.  When  we  discover  how  far  the  most 
admirable  community  ever  framed,  was  removed  from 


OF  THE  ATHENIANS.  55 

that  perfection  to  whicli  human  society  is  impelled  by- 
some  active  power  within  each  bosom,  to  aspire,  how 
great  ought  to  be  our  hopes,  how  resolute  our  struggles. 
For  the  Greeks  of  the  Periclean  age  were  widely  dif- 
ferent from  us.  It  is  to  be  lamented  that  no  modern 
writer  has  hitherto  dared  to  show  them  precisely  as 
they  were.  Barthelemi  cannot  be  denied  the  praise  of 
industry  and  system  ;  but  he  never  forgets  that  he  is  a ' 
Christian  and  a  Frenchman.  "Wieland,  in  his  delight- 
ful novels,  makes  indeed  a  very  tolerable  Pagan,  but 
cherishes  too  many  political  prejudices,  and  refrains 
from  diminishing  the  interest  of  his  romances  by 
painting  sentiments  in  which  no  European  of  modern 
times  can  possibly  sympathise.  There  is  no  book 
which  shows  the  Greeks  precisely  as  they  were  ;  they 
seem  all  written  for  children,  with  the  caution  that  no 
practice  or  sentiment,  highly  inconsistent  with  our 
present  manners,  should  be  mentioned,  lest  those 
manners  should  receive  outrage  and  violation.  But 
there  are  many  to  whom  the  Greek  language  is  inac- 
cessible, who  ought  not  to  be  excluded  by  this  prudery 
from  possessing  an  exact  and  comprehensive  conception 
of  the  history  of  man  ;  for  there  is  no  knowledge  con- 
cerning what  man  has  been  and  may  be,  from  partaking 
of  which  a  person  can  depart,  without  becoming  in 
some  degree  more  philosophical,  tolerant,  and  just. 

One  of  the  chief  distinctions  between  the  manners 
of  ancient  Greece  and  modern  Europe,  consisted  in 
the  regulations  and  the  sentiments  respecting  sexual 
intercourse.  "Whether  this  difference  arises  from 
some  imperfect  influence  of  the  doctrines  of  Jesus 


56  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC. 

Christ,  who  alleges  the  absolute  and  unconditional 
equality  of  all  human  beings,  or  from  the  institutions 
of  chivalry,  or  from  a  certain  fundamental  difference 
of  physical  nature  existing  in  the  Celts,  or  from  a 
combination  of  all  or  any  of  these  causes,  acting  on 
each  other,  is  a  question  worthy  of  voluminous  inves- 
tigation. The  fact  is,  that  the  modem  Europeans 
have  in  this  circumstance,  and  in  the  abolition  of 
slavery,  made  an  improvement  the  most  decisive  in 
the  regulation  of  human  society;  and  all  the  virtue 
and  the  wisdom  of  the  Periclean  age  arose  under 
other  institutions,  in  spite  of  the  diminution  which 
personal  slavery  and  the  inferiority  of  women,  recog- 
nised by  law  and  opinion,  must  have  produced  in  the 
delicacy,  the  strength,  the  comprehensiveness,  and  the 
accuracy  of  their  conceptions,  in  moral,  political,  and 
metaphysical  science,  and  perhaps  in  every  other  art 
and  science. 

The  women,  thus  degraded,  became  such  as  it  was 
expected  they  would  become.  They  possessed,  except 
with  extraordinary  exceptions,  the  habits  and  the  qua- 
lities of  slaves.  They  were  probably  not  extremely 
beautiful ;  at  least  there  was  no  such  disproportion  in 
the  attractions  of  the  external  form  between  the  female 
and  male  sex  among  the  G-reeks,  as  exists  among  the 
modem  Europeans.  They  were  certainly  devoid  of 
that  moral  and  intellectual  loveliness  with  which  the 
acquisition  of  knowledge  and  the  cultivation  of  senti- 
ment animates,  as  with  another  life  of  overpowering 
grace,  the  lineaments  and  the  gestures  of  every  form 
which  they  inhabit.     Their  eyes  could  not  have  been 


OF  THE  ATHENIANS.  67 

deep  and  intricate  from  tlie  workings  of  the  mind, 
and  could  have  entangled  no  heart  in  soul-enwoven 
labyrinths. 

Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  because  the  G-reeks 
were  deprived  of  its  legitimate  object,  they  were 
incapable  of  sentimental  love;  and  that  this  passion 
is  the  mere  child  of  chivalry  and  the  literature  of 
modern  times.  This  object,  or  its  archetype,  for  ever 
exists  in  the  mind,  which  selects  among  those  who 
resemble  it,  that  which  most  resembles  it ;  and  instinc- 
tively fills  up  the  interstices  of  the  imperfect  image, 
in  the  same  manner  as  the  imagination  moulds  and 
completes  the  shapes  in  clouds,  or  in  the  fire,  into  the 
resemblances  of  whatever  form,  animal,  building,  &c., 
happens  to  be  present  to  it.  Man  is  in  his  wildest 
state  a  social  being:  a  certain  degree  of  civilisation 
and  refinement  ever  produces  the  want  of  sympathies 
still  more  intimate  and  complete ;  and  the  gratification 
of  the  senses  is  no  longer  all  that  is  sought  in  sexual 
connexion.  It  soon  becomes  a  very  small  part  of  that 
profound  and  complicated  sentiment,  which  we  call 
love,  which  is  rather  the  universal  thirst  for  a  com- 
munion not  merely  of  the  senses,  but  of  our  whole 
nature,  intellectual,  imaginative  and  sensitive ;  and 
which,  when  individualised,  becomes  an  imperious 
necessity,  only  to  be  satisfied  by  the  complete  or 
partial,  actual  or  supposed,  fulfilment  of  its  claims. 
This  want  grows  more  powerful  in  proportion  to  the 
development  which  our  nature  receives  from  civilisa- 
tion ;  for  man  never  ceases  to  be  a  social  being.  The 
sexual  impulse,  which  is  only  one,  and  often  a  small 


58  ON  THE  LITERATURE,  ETC.  OF  THE  ATHENIANS. 

part  of  those  claims,  serves,  from  its  obvious  and 
external  nature,  as  a  kind  of  type  or  expression  of  the 
rest,  a  common  basis,  an  acknowledged  and  visible 
link.  Still  it  is  a  claim  which  even  derives  a  strength 
not  its  own  from  the  accessory  circumstances  which 
surround  it,  and  one  which  our  nature  thirsts  to 
satisfy.  To  estimate  this,  observe  the  degree  of  in- 
tensity and  durability  of  the  love  of  the  male  towards 
the  female  in  animals  and  savages ;  and  acknowledge 
all  the  duration  and  intensity  observable  in  the  love 
of  civilised  beings  beyond  that  of  savages  to  be  pro- 
duced from  other  causes.  In  the  susceptibility  of 
the  external  senses  there  is  probably  no  important 
difference. 

Among  the  ancient  Greeks  the  male  sex,  one  half 
of  the  human  race,  received  the  highest  cultivation 
and  refinement ;  whilst  the  other,  so  far  as  intellect  is 
concerned,  were  educated  as  slaves,  and  were  raised 
but  few  degrees  in  all  that  related  to  moral  or  intel- 
lectual excellence  above  the  condition  of  savages.  The 
gradations  in  the  society  of  man  present  us  with  a 
slow  improvement  in  this  respect.  The  Eoman  women 
held  a  higher  consideration  in  society,  and  were 
esteemed  almost  as  the  equal  partners  with  their 
husbands  in  the  regulation  of  domestic  economy  and 
the  education  of  their  children.  The  practices  and 
customs  of  modern  Europe  are  essentially  different 
from  and  incomparably  less  pernicious  than  either, 
however  remote  from  what  an  enlightened  mind  cannot 
fail  to  desire  as  the  future  destiny  of  human  beings. 


ON  THE  SYMPOSIUM.  59 


ON  THE  SYMPOSIUM,  OR  PEEFACE  TO  THE 
BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

The  dialogue  entitled  "The  Banquet "  was  selected 
bj  the  translator  as  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect 
among  all  the  works  of  Plato.*  He  despairs  of  having 
communicated  to  the  English  language  any  portion  of 
the  surpassing  graces  of  the  composition,  or  having 
done  more  than  present  an  imperfect  shadow  of  the 
language  and  the  sentiment  of  this  astonishing 
production. 

Plato  is  eminently  the  greatest  among  the  Greek 
philosophers,  and  from,  or,  rather,  perhaps  through 
him,  his  master  Socrates,  have  proceeded  those  emana- 
tions of  moral  and  metaphysical  knowledge,  on  which 
a  long  series  and  an  incalculable  variety  of  popular 
superstitions  have  sheltered  their  absurdities  from  the 
slow  contempt  of  mankind.  Plato  exhibits  the  rare 
union  of  close  and  subtle  logic,  with  the   Pythian 

*  The  Republic,  though  replete  with  considerable  errors  of  speculation, 
is,  indeed,  the  greatest  repository  of  important  truths  of  all  the  works  of 
Plato.  This,  perhaps,  is  because  it  is  the  longest.  He  first,  and  perhaps 
last,  maintained  that  a  state  ought  to  be  governed,  not  by  the  wealthiest, 
or  the  most  ambitious,  or  the  most  cunning,  but  by  the  wisest;  the 
method  of  selecting  such  rulers,  and  the  laws  by  which  such  a  selection  is 
made,  must  correspond  with  and  arise  out  of  the  moral  freedom  and 
refinement  of  the  people. 


60  ON  THE  SYMPOSIUM. 

enthusiasm  of  poetry,  melted  by  tlie  splendour  and 
harmony  of  his  periods  into  one  irresistible  stream  of 
musical  impressions,  which  hurry  the  persuasions 
onward,  as  in  a  breathless  career.  His  language  is 
that  of  an  immortal  spirit,  rather  than  a  man.  Lord 
Bacon  is,  perhaps,  the  only  writer,  who,  in  these  par- 
ticulars, can  be  compared  with  him :  his  imitator, 
Cicero,  sinks  in  the  comparison  into  an  ape  mocking 
the  gestures  of  a  man.  His  views  into  the  nature  of 
mind  and  existence  are  often  obscure,  only  because 
they  are  profound ;  and  though  his  theories  respecting 
the  government  of  the  world,  and  the  elementary  laws 
of  moral  action,  are  not  always  correct,  yet  there  is 
scarcely  any  of  his  treatises  which  do  not,  however 
stained  by  puerile  sophisms,  contain  the  most  remark- 
able intuitions  into  all  that  can  be  the  subject  of  the 
human  mind.  His  excellence  consists  especially  in 
intuition,  and  it  is  this  faculty  which  raises  him  far 
above  Aristotle,  whose  genius,  though  vivid  and  various, 
is  obscure  in  comparison  with  that  of  Plato. 

The  dialogue  entitled  the  "  Banquet,"  is  called 
EpcdTLKos,  or  a  Discussion  upon  Love,  and  is  supposed 
to  have  taken  place  at  the  house  of  Agathon,  at  one 
of  a  series  of  festivals  given  by  that  poet,  on  the 
occasion  of  his  gaining  the  prize  of  tragedy  at  the 
Dionysiaca.  The  account  of  the  debate  on  this  occa- 
sion is  supposed  to  have  been  given  by  Apollodorus,  a 
pupil  of  Socrates,  many  years  after  it  had  taken  place, 
to  a  companion  who  was  curious  to  hear  it.  This 
Apollodorus  appears,  both  from  the  style  in  which  he 
is  represented  in  this  piece,  as  well  as  from  a  passage 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  61 

in  the  Phaedon,  to  have  been  a  person  of  an  impas-^ 
sioned  and  enthusiastic  disposition;  to  borrow  an 
image  from  the  Italian  painters,  he  seems  to  have  been 
the  St.  John  of  the  Socratic  group.  The  drama  (for 
so  the  lively  distinction  of  character  and  the  various 
and  well-wrought  circumstances  of  the  story  almost 
entitle  it  to  be  called)  begins  by  Socrates  persuading 
Aristodemus  to  sup  at  Agathon's,  uninvited.  The 
whole  of  this  introduction  affords  the  most  lively 
conception  of  refined  Athenian  manners. 

[unfinished.] 


THE    BANQUET. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  PLATO. 

THE   PERSONS   OF   THE   DIALOGUE. 

APOLLODORUS,  A  FRIEND  OF  APOLLODORUS,  GLAUCO,  ARISTODEMUS,  SOCRATES, 
AGATHON,  PHiEDRUS,  PAUSANIAS,  ERYXIMACHUS,  ARISTOPHANES,  DIOTIMA, 
ALCIBIADES. 

ApoUodorm.  I  think  that  the  subject  of  your 
inquiries  is  still  fresh  in  my  memory ;  for  yesterday,  as 
I  chanced  to  be  returning  home  from  Phaleros,  one  of 
my  acquaintance,  seeing  me  before  him,  called  out  to  me 
from  a  distance,  jokingly, "  ApoUodorus,  you  Phalerian, 
will  you  not  wait  a  minute  ?  " — I  waited  for  him,  and 
as  soon  as  he  overtook  me,  "  I  have  just  been  looking 
for  you,  Apollodorus,"  he  said,  "for  I  wish  to  hear 
what  those  discussions  were  on  Love,  which  took  place 


62  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

at  the  party,  when  Agathon,  Socrates,  Alcibiades,  and 
some  others,  met  at  supper.  Some  one  who  heard  it 
from  Phoenix,  the  son  of  Philip,  told  me  that  you 
could  give  a  full  account,  but  he  could  relate  nothing 
distinctly  himself.  Eelate  to  me,  then,  I  entreat  you, 
all  the  circumstances.  I  know  you  are  a  faithful 
reporter  of  the  discussions  of  your  friends ;  but,  first 
tell  me,  were  you  present  at  the  party  or  not  ?  " 
■  "  Your  informant,"  I  replied,  "  seems  to  have  given 
you  no  very  clear  idea  of  what  you  wish  to  hear,  if  he 
thinks  that  these  discussions  took  place  so  lately  as 
that  I  could  have  been  of  the  party." — "Indeed  I 
thought  so,"  replied  he. — "  For  how,"  said  I,  "  O 
Glauco !  could  I  have  been  present  ?  Do  you  not 
know  that  Agathon  has  been  absent  from  the  city 
many  years  ?  But,  since  I  began  to  converse  with 
Socrates,  and  to  observe  each  day  all  his  words  and 
actions,  three  years  are  scarcely  past.  Before  this 
time  I  wandered  about  wherever  it  might  chance, 
thinking  that  I  did  something,  but  being,  in  truth,  a 
most  miserable  wretch,  not  less  than  you  are  now, 
who  believe  that  you  ought  to  do  anything  rather 
than  practise  the  love  of  wisdom." — "  Do  not  cavil," 
interrupted  Glauco,  "  but  tell  me,  when  did  this  party 
take  place?  " 

"Whilst  we  were  yet  children,"  I  replied,  "when 
Agathon  first  gained  the  prize  of  Tragedy,  and  the  day 
after  that  on  which  he  and  the  chorus  made  sacrifices 
in  celebration  of  their  success." — "  A  long  time  ago, 
it  seems.  But  who  told  you  all  the  circumstances  of 
the  discussion  ?     Did  you  hear  them  from  Socrates 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  63 

himself?"  "No,  by  Jupiter!  But  from  the  same 
person  from  whom  Phoenix  had  his  information,  one 
Aristodemus,  a  Cydathenean, — a  little  man  who  always 
went  about  without  sandals.  He  was  present  at  this 
feast,  being,  I  believe,  more  than  any  of  his  contem- 
poraries, a  lover  and  admirer  of  Socrates.  I  have 
questioned  Socrates  concerning  some  of  the  circum- 
stances of  this  narration,  who  confirms  all  that  I  have 
heard  from  Aristodemus." — "  Why,  then,"  said  Griauco, 
"  why  not  relate  them,  as  we  walk,  to  me  P  The  road 
to  the  city  is  every  way  convenient,  both  for  those 
who  listen  and  those  who  speak." 

Thus  as  we  walked,  I  gave  him  some  account  of 
those  discussions  concerning  Love;  since,  as  I  said 
before,  I  remember  them  with  sufficient  accuracy.  If 
I  am  required  to  relate  them  also  to  you,  that  shall 
willingly  be  done;  for,  whensoever  either  I  myself 
talk  of  philosophy,  or  listen  to  others  talking  of  it,  in 
addition  to  the  improvement  which  I  conceive  there 
arises  from  such  conversation,  I  am  delighted  beyond 
measure ;  but  whenever  I  hear  your  discussions  about 
moneyed  men  and  great  proprietors,  I  am  weighed  down 
with  grief,  and  pity  you,  who,  doing  nothing,  believe 
that  you  are  doing  something.  Perhaps  you  think 
that  I  am  a  miserable  wretch ;  and,  indeed,  I  believe 
that  you  think  truly.  I  do  not  think,  but  well  know, 
that  you  are  miserable. 

Companion.  You  are  always  the  same,  Apollodorus 
— always  saying  some  ill  of  yourself  and  others. 
Indeed,  you  seem  to  me  to  think  every  one  miserable 
except  Socrates,  beginning  with  yourself.     I  do  not 


64  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

know  what  could  have  entitled  you  to  the  surname  of 
the  "Madman,"  for,  I  am  sure,  jou  are  consistent 
enough,  for  ever  inveighing  with  bitterness  against 
yourself  and  all  others,  except  Socrates. 

ApoUodorus.  My  dear  friend,  it  is  manifest  that  I 
am  out  of  my  wits  from  this  alone — that  I  have  such 
opinions  as  you  describe  concerning  myself  and  you. 

Companion.  It  is  not  worth  while,  ApoUodorus,  to 
dispute  now  about  these  things ;  but  do  what  I  entreat 
you,  and  relate  to  us  what  were  these  discussions. 

ApoUodorus.  They  were  such  as  I  will  proceed  to 
tell  you.  But  let  me  attempt  to  relate  them  in  the 
order  which  Aristodemus  observed  in  relating  them  to 
me.  He  said  that  he  met  Socrates  washed,  and, 
contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  sandalled,  and  having 
inquired  whither  he  went  so  gaily  dressed,  Socrates 
replied,  "  I  am  going  to  sup  at  Agathon's ;  yesterday 
I  avoided  it,  disliking  the  crowd,  which  would  attend 
at  the  prize  sacrifices  then  celebrated ;  to-day  I  pro- 
mised to  be  there,  and  I  made  myself  so  gay,  because 
one  ought  to  be  beautiful  to  approach  one  who  is 
beautiful.  But  you,  Aristodemus,  what  think  you  of 
coming  uninvited  to  supper?"  "  I  will  do,"  he  replied, 
"  as  you  command."  "  Follow  then,  that  we  may,  by 
changing  its  application,  disarm  that  proverb  which 
says.  To  the  feasts  of  the  good,  the  good  come  uninvited. 
Homer,  indeed,  seems  not  only  to  destroy,  but  to 
outrage  the  proverb;  for,  describing  Agamemnon  as 
excellent  in  battle,  and  Menelaus  but  a  faint-hearted 
warrior,  he  represents  Menelaus  as  coming  uninvited 
to  the  feast  of  one  better  and  braver  than  himself." — 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  65 

Aristodemus  hearing  this,  said,  "I  also  am  in  some 
danger,  Socrates,  not  as  you  say,  but  according  to 
Homer,  of  approaching  like  an  unworthy  inferior  the 
banquet  of  one  more  wise  and  excellent  than  myself. 
Will  you  not,  then,  make  some  excuse  for  me  ?  for,  I 
shall  not  confess  that  I  came  uninvited,  but  shall  say 
that  I  was  invited  by  you." — "  As  we  walk  together," 
said  Socrates,  "  we  will  consider  together  what  excuse 
to  make — but  let  us  go." 

Thus  discoursing,  they  proceeded.  But  as  they 
walked,  Socrates,  engaged  in  some  deep  contempla- 
tion, slackened  his  pace,  and,  observing  Aristodemus 
waiting  for  him,  he  desired  him  to  go  on  before.  When 
Aristodemus  arrived  at  Agathon's  house,  he  found  the 
door  open,  and  it  occurred,  somewhat  comically,  that  a 
slave  met  him  at  the  vestibule,  and  conducted  him 
where  he  found  the  guests  already  reclined.  As  soon 
as  Agathon  saw  him,  "  You  arrive  just  in  time  to  sup 
with  us,  Aristodemus,"  he  said;  "if  you  have  any 
other  purpose  in  your  visit,  defer  it  to  a  better  oppor- 
tunity. I  was  looking  for  you  yesterday,  to  invite 
you  to  be  of  our  party ;  I  could  not  find  you  anywhere. 
But  how  is  it  that  you  do  not  bring  Socrates  with 
you?" 

But  he  turning  round,  and  not  seeing  Socrates 
behind  him,  said  to  Agathon,  "  I  just  came  hither  in 
his  company,  being  invited  by  him  to  sup  with  you." 
— "You  did  well,"  replied  Agathon,  "to  come;  but 
where  is  Socrates?" — "He  just  now  came  hither 
behind  me;  I  myself  wonder  where  he  can  be." — 
"Go    and    look,   boy,"    said   Agathon,    "and    bring 


6Q  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

Socrates  in ;  meanwliile,  you,  Aristodemus,  recline 
there  near  Eryximachus."  And  lie  bade  a  slave  wash 
his  feet  that  he  might  recline.  Another  slave,  mean- 
while, brought  word  that  Socrates  had  retired  into  a 
neighbouring  vestibule,  where  he  stood,  and,  in  spite  of 
his  message,  refused  to  come  in. — "  What  absurdity 
you  talk!"  cried  Agathon;  "call  him,  and  do  not 
leave  him  till  he  comes." — "  Let  him  alone,  by  all 
means,"  said  Aristodemus ;  "it  is  customary  with  him 
sometimes  to  retire  in  this  way,  and  stand  wherever 
it  may  chance.  He  will  come  presently,  I  do  not 
doubt;  do  not  disturb  him." — ""Well,  be  it  as  you 
will,"  said  Agathon  ;  "  as  it  is,  you  boys,  bring  supper 
for  the  rest ;  put  before  us  what  you  will,  for  I  resolved 
that  there  should  be  no  master  of  the  feast.  Consider 
me  and  these  my  friends,  as  guests,  whom  you  have 
invited  to  supper,  and  serve  them  so  that  we  may 
commend  you." 

After  this  they  began  supper;  but  Socrates  did 
not  come  in.  Agathon  ordered  him  to  be  called,  but 
Aristodemus  perpetually  forbade  it.  At  last  he  came 
in,  much  about  the  middle  of  supper,  not  having 
delayed  so  long  as  was  his  custom.  Agathon  (who 
happened  to  be  reclining  at  the  end  of  the  table,  and 
alone,)  said,  as  he  entered,  "  Come  hither,  Socrates, 
and  sit  down  by  me ;  so  that  by  the  mere  touch  of  one 
so  wise  as  you  are,  I  may  enjoy  the  fruit  of  your 
meditations  in  the  vestibule;  for',' I  well  know,  you 
would  not  have  departed  till  you  had  discovered  and 
secured  it." 

Socrates,  having    sate    down    as    he   was   desired, 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  67 

replied,  "  It  would  be  well,  Agathon,  if,  wisdom  were 
of  such  a  nature,  as  that  when  we  touched  each  other 
it  would  overflow  of  its  own  accord,  from  him  who 
possesses  much  to  him  who  possesses  little ;  like  the 
water  in  the  two  chalices,  which  will  flow  through  a 
flock  of  wool  from  the  fuller  into  the  emptier,  until 
both  are  equal.  If  wisdom  had  this  property,  I  should 
esteem  myself  most  fortunate  in  reclining  near  to  you. 
I  should  thus  soon  be  filled,  I  think,  with  the  most 
beautiful  and  various  wisdom.  Mine,  indeed,  is  some- 
thing obscure,  and  doubtful,  and  dreamlike.  But 
yours  is  radiant,  and  has  been  crowTied  with  amplest 
reward;  for  though  you  are  yet  so  young,  it  shone 
forth  from  you,  and  became  so  manifest  yesterday, 
that  more  than  thirty  thousand  Greeks  can  bear  testi- 
mony to  its  excellence  and  loveliness." — "You  are 
laughing  at  me,  Socrates,"  said  Agathon;  "but  you 
and  I  wiU  decide  this  controversy  about  wisdom  by 
and  by,  taking  Bacchus  for  our  judge.  At  present 
turn  to  your  supper." 

After  Socrates  and  the  rest  had  finished  supper,  and 
had  reclined  back  on  their  couches,  and  the  libations 
had  been  poured  forth,  and  they  had  sung  hymns  to 
the  god,  and  aU  other  rites  which  are  customary 
had  been  performed,  they  tiu-ned  to  drinking.  Then 
Pausanias  made  this  kind  of  proposal :  "  Come,  my 
Iriends,"  said  he,  "  in  what  manner  will  it  be  pleasantest 
for  us  to  drink  ?  I  must  confess  to  you  that,  in  reality, 
I  am  not  very  well  from  the  wine  we  drank  last  night, 
and  I  have  need  of  some  intermission.  I  suspect  that 
most  of  you  are  in  the  same  condition,  for  you  were 

F   2 


68  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

here  yesterday.  Now,  consider  how  we  shall  drink 
most  easily  and  comfortably." 

"  Tis  a  good  proposal,  Pausanias,"  said  Aristophanes, 
*'  to  contrive,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  place  mode- 
ration in  our  cups.  I  was  one  of  those  who  were 
drenched  last  night." — Eryximachus,  the  son  of 
Acumenius,  hearing  this,  said :  "  I  am  of  your  opinion ; 
I  only  wish  to  know  one  thing — whether  Agathon  is 
in  the  humour  for  hard  drinking?" — "Not  at  all," 
replied  Agathon ;  "  I  confess  that  I  am  not  able  to 
drink  much  this  evening." — "It  is  an  excellent  thing 
for  us,"  replied  Eryximachus — "  I  mean  myself, 
Aristodemus,  Phaedrus,  and  these  others — if  you, 
who  are  such  invincible  drinkers,  now  refuse  to  drink. 
I  ought  to  except  Socrates,  for  he  is  capable  of  drinking 
everything  or  nothing  ;  and  whatever  we  shall  deter- 
mine will  equally  suit  him.  Since,  then,  no  one  present 
has  any  desire  to  drink  much  wine,  I  shall  perhaps 
give  less  offence  if  I  declare  the  nature  of  drunkenness. 
The  science  of  medicine  teaches  us  that  drunkenness 
is  very  pernicious :  nor  would  I  choose  to  drink 
immoderately  myself,  or  counsel  another  to  do  so,  espe- 
cially if  he  had  been  drunk  the  night  before." — 
"  Yes,"  said  Phaedrus,  the  Myrinusian,  interrupting 
him,  "  I  have  been  accustomed  to  confide  in  you, 
especially  in  your  directions  concerning  medicine ;  and 
I  would  now  willingly  do  so,  if  the  rest  will  do  the 
same."  All  then  agreed  that  they  would  drink  at 
this  present  banquet,  not  for  drunkenness,  but  for 
pleasure. 

"  Since,  then,"  said  Eryximachus,  "it   is  decided 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  69 

that  no  one  shall  be  compelled  to  drink  more  than  he 
pleases,  I  think  that  we  may  as  well  send  away  the 
flute-player  to  play  to  herself;  or,  if  she  likes,  to  the 
women  within.  Let  us  devote  the  present  occasion  to 
conversation  between  ourselves,  and,  if  you  wish,  I  will 
propose  to  you  what  shall  be  the  subject  of  our  discus- 
sion." All  present  desired  and  entreated  that  he  would 
explain. — "  The  exordium  of  my  speech,"  said  Eryxi- 
machus,  "  will  be  in  the  style  of  the  Menalippe  of 
Euripides,  for  the  story  which  I  am  about  to  tell 
belongs  not  to  me,  but  to  Phsedrus.  Phaedrus  has 
often  indignantly  complained  to  me,  saying — ^  Is  it 
not  strange,  Eryximachus,  that  there  are  innumerable 
hymns  and  paeans  composed  for  the  other  gods,  but 
that  not  one  of  the  many  poets  who  spring  up  in  the 
world  has  ever  composed  a  verse  in  honour  of  Love, 
who  is  such  and  so  great  a  god  ?  Nor  any  one  of 
those  accomplished  sophists,  who,  like  the  famous 
Prodicus,  have  celebrated  the  praise  of  Hercules  and 
others,  have  ever  celebrated  that  of  Love ;  but  what  is 
more  astonishing,  I  have  lately  met  with  the  book  of 
some  philosopher,  in  which  salt  is  extolled  on  account 
of  its  utility,  and  many  other  things  of  the  same 
nature  are  in  like  manner  extolled  with  elaborate 
praise.  That  so  much  serious  thought  is  expended  on 
such  trifles,  and  that  no  man  has  dared  to  this  day  to 
frame  a  hymn  in  honour  of  Love,  who  being  so  great  a 
deity,  is  thus  neglected,  may  well  be  sufficient  to 
excite  my  indignation.' 

"  There  seemed  to  me  some  justice  in  these  com- 
plaints of  Phaedrus  ;  I  propose,  therefore,  at  the  same 


70  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

time,  for  the  sake  of  giving  pleasure  to  Phsedrus,  and 
that  we  maj  on  the  present  occasion  do  something 
Avell  and  befitting  us,  that  this  god  should  receive 
from  those  who  are  now  present  the  honour  which  is 
most  due  to  him.  If  you  agree  to  my  proposal,  an 
excellent  discussion  might  arise  on  the  subject.  Every 
one  ought,  according  to  my  plan,  to  praise  Love  with 
as  much  eloquence  as  he  can.  Let  Phsedrus  begin 
first,  both  because  he  reclines  the  first  in  order,  and 
because  he  is  the  father  of  the  discussion." 

"  'No  one  will  vote  against  you,  Eryximachus,"  said 
Socrates,  "  for  how  can  I  oppose  your  proposal,  who 
am  ready  to  confess  that  I  know  nothing  on  any 
subject  but  Love  ?  Or  how  can  Agathon,  or  Pausanias, 
or  even  Aristophanes,  whose  life  is  one  perpetual 
ministration  to  Venus  and  Bacchus  ?  Or  how  can 
any  other  whom  I  see  here  ?  Though  we  who  sit  last 
are  scarcely  on  an  equality  with  you  ;  for  if  those  who 
speak  before  us  shall  have  exhausted  the  subject  with 
their  eloquence  and  reasonings,  our  discourses  will  be 
superfluous.  But  in  the  name  of  Grood  Fortune,  let 
Phsedrus  begin  and  praise  Love."  The  whole  party 
agreed  to  what  Socrates  said,  and  entreated  Phsedrus 
to  begin. 

What  each  then  said  on  this  subject,  Aristodemus 
did  not  entirely  recollect,  nor  do  I  recollect  all  that  he 
related  to  me ;  but  only  the  speeches  of  those  who 
said  what  was  most  worthy  of  remembrance.  Eirst, 
then,  Phsedrus  began  thus  : — 

"  Love  is  a  mighty  deity,  and  the  object  of  admi- 
ration, both  to  gods  and  men,  for  many  and  for  various 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  71 

claims  ;  but  especially  on  account  of  his  origin.     Tor 
that  he  is  to  be  honoured  as  one  of  the  most  ancient 
of  the  gods,  this  may  serve  as  a  testimony,  that  Love 
has  no  parents,  nor  is  there  any  poet  or  other  person 
who  has  ever  affirmed  that  there  are  such.     Hesiod 
says,  that  first  ^  Chaos  was  produced ;  then  the  broad- 
bosomed  Earth,   to  be   a  secure  foundation  for  all 
things  ;  then  Love.'     He  says,  that  after  Chaos  these 
two  were  produced,  the  Earth  and  Love.    Parmenides, 
speaking  of  generation,  says : — '  But  he  created  Love 
before  any  of  the  gods.'  Acusileus  agrees  with  Hesiod. 
Love,   therefore,   is  universally  acknowledged  to  be 
among  the  oldest  of  things.     And  in  addition  to  this. 
Love  is  the  author  of  our  greatest  advantages ;  for  I 
cannot  imagine  a  greater  happiness  and  advantage  to 
one  who  is  in  the  flower  of  youth  than  an  amiable 
lover,  or  to  a  lover  than  an  amiable  object  of  his  love. 
Eor  neither  birth,  nor  wealth,  nor  honours,  can  awaken 
in  the  minds  of  men  the  principles  which  should  guide 
those  who  from  their  youth  aspire  to  an  honourable 
and  excellent  life,  as  Love  awakens  them.     I  speak  of 
the  fear  of  shame,  which  deters  them  from  that  which 
is  disgraceful ;  and  the  love  of  glory,  which  incites  to 
honourable  deeds.     Eor  it  is  not  possible  that  a  state 
or  private  person  should  accomplish,  without  these 
incitements,  anything  beautiful  or  great.     I  assert, 
then,  that  should  one  who  loves  be  discovered  in  any 
dishonourable    action,     or    tamely    enduring    insult 
through  cowardice,  he  would  feel  more  anguish  and 
shame,  if  observed  by  the  object  of  his  passion,  than 
if  he  were  observed  by  his  father,  or  his  companions, 


72  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

or  any  other  person.  In  like  manner,  among  warmly 
attached  friends,  a  man  is  especially  grieved  to  be 
discovered  by  his  friend  in  any  dishonourable  act.  If 
then,  by  any  contrivance,  a  state  or  army  could  be 
composed  of  friends  bound  by  strong  attachment,  it  is 
beyond  calculation  how  excellently  they  would  admi- 
nister their  affairs,  refraining  from  anything  base, 
contending  with  each  other  for  the  acquirement  of 
fame,  and  exhibiting  such  valour  in  battle  as  that, 
though  few  in  numbers,  they  might  subdue  all  man- 
kind. For  should  one  friend  desert  the  ranks  or  cast 
away  his  arms  in  the  presence  of  the  other,  he  would 
suffer  far  acuter  shame  from  that  one  person's  regard, 
than  from  the  regard  of  all  other  men.  A  thousand 
times  would  he  prefer  to  die,  rather  than  desert  the 
object  of  his  attachment,  and  not  succour  him  in  danger. 
"  There  is  none  so  worthless  whom  Love  cannot 
impel,  as  it  were,  by  a  divine  inspiration,  towards 
virtue,  even  so  that  he  may  through  this  inspiration 
become  equal  to  one  who  might  naturally  be  more 
excellent ;  and,  in  truth,  as  Homer  says :  The  Grod 
breathes  vigour  into  certain  heroes — so  Love  breathes 
into  those  who  love,  the  spirit  which  is  produced  from 
himself.  Not  only  men,  but  even  women  who  love, 
are  those  alone  who  willingly  expose  themselves  to 
die  for  others.  Alcestis,  the  daughter  of  PeHas,  affords 
to  the  G-reeks  a  remarkable  example  of  this  opinion ; 
she  alone  being  willing  to  die  for  her  husband,  and  so 
surpassing  his  parents  in  the  affection  with  which  love 
inspired  her  towards  him,  as  to  make  them  appear,  in 
the  comparison  with  her,  strangers  to  their  own  child, 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO,  73 

and  related  to  him  merely  in  name ;  and  so  lovely  and 
admirable  did  this  action  appear,  not  only  to  men,  but 
even  to  the  gods,  that,  although  they  conceded  the 
prerogative  of  bringing  back  the  spirit  from  death  to 
few  among  the  many  who  then  performed  excellent 
and  honourable  deeds,  yet,  delighted  with  this  action, 
they  redeemed  her  soul  from  the  infernal  regions :  so 
highly  do  the  gods  honour  zeal  and  devotion  in  love. 
They  sent  back  indeed  Orpheus,  the  son  of  (Eagrus, 
from  Hell,  with  his  purpose  unfulfilled,  and  showing 
him  only  the  spectre  of  her  for  whom  he  came,  refused 
to  render  up  herself.  For  Orpheus  seemed  to  them, 
not  as  Alcestis,  to  have  dared  die  for  the  sake  of 
her  whom  he  loved,  and  thus  to  secure  to  himself  a 
perpetual  intercourse  with  her  in  the  regions  to  which 
she  had  preceded  him,  but  like  a  cowardly  musician, 
to  have  contrived  to  descend  alive  into  Hell ;  and, 
indeed  they  appointed  as  a  punishment  for  his 
cowardice,  that  he  should  be  put  to  death  by  women. 
"  Far  otherwise  did  they  regard  Achilles,  the  son  of 
Thetis,  whom  they  sent  to  inhabit  the  islands  of  the 
blessed.  For  Achilles,  though  informed  by  his  mother 
that  his  own  death  would  ensue  upon  his  killing 
Hector,  but  that  if  he  refrained  from  it  he  might 
return  home  and  die  in  old  age,  yet  preferred  revenging 
and  honouring  his  beloved  Patroclus ;  not  to  die  for 
him  merely,  but  to  disdain  and  reject  that  life  which 
he  had  ceased  to  share.  Therefore  the  Grreeks  honoured 
Achilles  beyond  all  other  men,  because  he  thus 
preferred  his  friend  to  all  things  else. 


74  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

"  On  this  account  have  the  gods  rewarded  Achilles 
more  amply  than  Alcestis ;  permitting  his  spirit  to 
inhabit  the  islands  of  the  blessed.  Hence  do  I  assert 
that  Love  is  the  most  ancient  and  venerable  of  deities, 
and  most  powerful  to  endow  mortals  with  the  posses- 
sion of  happiness  and  virtue,  both  whilst  they  live  and 
after  they  die." 

Thus  Aristodemus  reported  the  discourse  of  Phsedrus; 
and  after  Phsedrus,  he  said  that  some  others  spoke, 
whose  discourses  he  did  not  well  remember.  "When 
they  had  ceased,  Pausanias  began  thus : — 

"  Simply  to  praise  Love,  O  Phaedrus,  seems  to  me 
too  bounded  a  scope  for  our  discourse.  If  Love  were 
one,  it  would  be  well.  But  since  Love  is  not  one, 
I  will  endeavour  to  distinguish  which  is  the  Love 
whom  it  becomes  us  to  praise,  and  having  thus  dis- 
criminated one  from  the  other,  will  attempt  to  render 
him  who  is  the  subject  of  our  discourse  the  honour 
due  to  his  divinity.  We  all  know  that  Venus  is 
never  without  Love ;  and  if  "Venus  were  one.  Love 
would  be  one ;  but  since  there  are  two  Venuses,  of 
necessity  also  must  there  be  two  Loves.  Por  assuredly 
are  there  two  Venuses  ;  one,  the  eldest,  the  daughter 
of  "Uranus,  born  without  a  mother,  whom  we  call  the 
IJranian ;  the  other  younger,  the  daughter  of  Jupiter 
and  Dione,  whom  we  call  the  Pandemian ; — of  neces- 
sity must  there  also  be  two  Loves,  the  "Uranian  and 
Pandemian  companions  of  these  goddesses.  It  is 
becoming  to  praise  all  the  gods,  but  the  attributes 
which  fall  to  the  lot  of  each  may  be  distinguished  and 
selected.     Por  any  particular  action  whatever,  in  itself 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  75 

is  neither  good  nor  evil ;  what  we  are  now  doing — 
drinking,  singing,  talking,  none  of  these  things  are 
good  in  themselves,  but  the  mode  in  which  they  are 
done  stamps  them  with  its  own  nature ;  and  that 
which  is  done  well,  is  good,  and  that  which  is  done  ill, 
is  evil.  Thus,  not  all  love,  nor  every  mode  of  love  is 
beautiful,  or  worthy  of  commendation,  but  that  alone 
which  excites  us  to  love  worthily.  The  Love,  there- 
fore, which  attends  upon  Venus  Pandemos  is,  in  truth, 
common  to  the  vulgar,  and  presides  over  transient  and 
fortuitous  connexions,  and  is  worshipped  by  the  least 
excellent  of  mankind.  The  votaries  of  this  deity  seek 
the  body  rather  than  the  soul,  and  the  ignorant  rather 
than  the  wise,  disdaining  all  that  is  honourable  and 
lovely,  and  considering  how  they  shall  best  satisfy  their 
sensual  necessities.  This  Love  is  derived  from  the 
younger  goddess,  who  partakes  in  her  nature  both  of 
male  and  female.  But  the  attendant  on  the  other,  the 
Uranian,  whose  nature  is  entirely  masculine,  is  the 
Love  who  inspires  us  with  affection,  and  exempts  us 
from  all  wantonness  and  libertinism.  Those  who  are 
inspired  by  this  divinity  seek  the  affections  of  those 
who  are  endowed  by  nature  with  greater  excellence 
and  vigoiu'  both  of  body  and  mind.  And  it  is  easy 
to  distinguish  those  who  especially  exist  under  the 
influence  of  this  power,  by  their  choosing  in  early  youth, 
as  the  objects  of  their  love,  those  in  whom  the  intel- 
lectual faculties  have  begun  to  develope.  Tor  those 
who  begin  to  love  in  this  manner,  seem  to  me  to  be 
preparing  to  pass  their  whole  life  together  in  a  commu- 
nity of  good  and  evil,  and  not  ever  lightly  deceiving 


76  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

those  who  love  them,  to  be  faithless  to  their  vows. 
There  ought  to  be  a  law  that  none  should  love  the 
very  young ;  so  much  serious  affection  as  this  deity 
enkindles,  should  not  be  doubtfully  bestowed  ;  for  the 
,body  and  mind  of  those  so  young  are  yet  unformed, 
and  it  is  difficult  to  foretell  what  will  be  their  future 
tendencies  and  power.  The  good  voluntarily  impose 
this  law  upon  themselves,  and  those  vulgar  lovers 
ought  to  be  compelled  to  the  same  observance,  as  we 
deter  them  with  all  the  power  of  the  laws  from  the 
love  of  free  matrons.  For  these  are  the  persons  whose 
shameful  actions  embolden  those  who  observe  their 
importunity  and  intemperance,  to  assert,  that  it  is 
dishonourable  to  serve  and  gratify  the  objects  of  our 
love.  But  no  one  who  does  this  gracefully  and 
according  to  law,  can  justly  be  liable  to  the  imputation 

of  blame. 

***** 

"  Not  only  friendship  but  philosophy  and  the  practice 
of  the  gymnastic  exercises  are  represented  as  dis- 
honourable by  the  tyrannical  governments  under  which 
the  barbarians  live.  Tor  I  imagine  it  would  little 
conduce  to  the  benefit  of  the  governors,  that  the 
governed  should  be  disciplined  to  lofty  thoughts  and 
to  the  unity  and  communion  of  stedfast  friendship,  of 
which  admirable  effects  the  tyrants  of  our  own 
country  have  also  learned  that  Love  is  the  author. 
Eor  the  love  of  Harmodius  and  Aristogiton,  strength- 
ened into  a  finn  friendship,  dissolved  the  tyranny. 
"Wherever,  therefore,  it  is  declared  dishonourable  in 
any  case  to  serve  and  benefit  friends,  that  law  is  a 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  77 

mark  of  the  depravity  of  the  legislator,  the  avarice 
and  tyranny  of  the  rulers,  and  the  cowardice  of  those 
who  are  ruled.  Wherever  it  is  simply  declared  to  be 
honourable  without  distinction  of  cases,  such  a  decla- 
ration denotes  dulness  and  want  of  subtlety  of  mind 
in  the  authors  of  the  regulation.  Here  the  degrees  of 
praise  or  blame  to  be  'attributed  by  law  are  far  better 
regulated ;  but  it  is  yet  difficult  to  determine  the 
eases  to  which  they  should  refer. 

"  It  is  evident,  however,  for  one  in  whom  passion  is 
enkindled,  it  is  more  honourable  to  love  openly  than 
secretly ;  and  most  honourable  to  love  the  most  excel- 
lent and  virtuous,  even  if  they  should  be  less  beautiful 
than  others.  It  is  honourable  for  the  lover  to  exhort 
and  sustain  the  object  of  his  love  in  virtuous  conduct. 
It  is  considered  honourable  to  attain  the  love  of  those 
whom  we  seek,  and  the  contrary  shameful;  and  to 
facilitate  this  attainment,  opinion  has  given  to  the 
lover  the  permission  of  acquiring  favour  by  the  most 
extraordinary  devices,  which  if  a  person  should  practise 
for  any  purpose  besides  this,  he  would  incur  the 
severest  reproof  of  philosophy.  Eor  if  any  one  desirous 
of  accumulating  money,  or  ambitious  of  procuring 
power,  or  seeking  any  other  advantage,  should,  like  a 
lover,  seeking  to  acquire  the  favour  of  his  beloved, 
employ  prayers  and  entreaties  in  his  necessity,  and 
swear  such  oaths  as  lovers  swear,  and  sleep  before  the 
threshold,  and  offer  to  subject  himself  to  such  slavery 
as  no  slave  even  would  endure ;  he  would  be  frustrated 
of  the  attainment  of  what  he  sought,  both  by  his 
enemies  and  friends ;  these  reviling  him  for  his  flattery, 


78  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

those  sharply  admonishing  him,  and  taking  to  them- 
selves the  shame  of  his  servility.  But  there  is  a 
certain  grace  in  a  lover  who  does  all  these  things,  so 
that  he  alone  may  do  them  without  dishonour.  It  is 
commonly  said  that  the  gods  accord  pardon  to  the 
lover  alone  if  he  should  break  his  oath,  and  that  there 
is  no  oath  by  Yenus.  Thus,  as  our  law  declares,  both 
gods  and  men  have  given  to  lovers  all  possible 
indulgence. 

****** 

"  The  affair,  however,  I  imagine,  stands  thus : — As 
I  have  before  said,  love  cannot  be  considered  in  itself 
as  either  honourable  or  dishonourable :  if  it  is  honour- 
ably pursued,  it  is  honourable;  if  dishonourably, 
dishonourable:  it  is  dishonoural-3  basely  to  serve 
and  gratify  a  worthless  person;  it  is  honourable 
honourably  to  serve  a  person  of  virtue.  That  Pandemic 
lover  who  loves  rather  the  body  than  the  soul,  is 
worthless,  nor  can  be  constant  and  consistent,  since 
he  has  placed  his  affections  on  that  which  has  no 
stability.  For  as  soon  as  the  flower  of  the  form,  which 
was  the  sole  object  of  his  desire,  has  faded,  then  he 
departs  and  is  seen  no  more ;  bound  by  no  faith  nor 
shame  of  his  many  promises  and  persuasions.  But  he 
who  is  the  lover  of  virtuous  manners  is  constant 
during  life,  since  he  has  placed  himself  in  harmony  and 
desire  with  that  which  is  consistent  with  itself. 

"  These  two  classes  of  persons  we  ought  to  distin- 
guish with  careful  examination,  so  that  we  may  serve 
and  converse  with  the  one  and  avoid  the  other; 
determining,    by  that  inquiry,   by   what  a  man    is 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  79 

attracted,  and  for  what  the  object  of  his  love  is  dear  to 
him.  On  the  same  account  it  is  considered  as 
dishonourable  to  be  inspired  with  love  at  once,  lest 
time  should  be  wanting  to  know  and  approve  the 
character  of  the  object.  It  is  considered  as  dishonour- 
able to  be  captivated  by  the  allurements  of  wealth  and 
power,  or  terrified  through  injuries  to  yield  up  the 
affections,  or  not  to  despise  in  the  comparison  with  an 
unconstrained  choice  all  political  influence  and  personal 
advantage.  Eor  no  circumstance  is  there  in  wealth  or 
power  so  invariable  and  consistent,  as  that  no  generous 
friendship  can  ever  spring  up  from  amongst  them. 
We  have  an  opinion  with  respect  to  lovers  which 
declares  that  it  shall  not  be  considered  servile  or 
disgraceful,  though  the  lover  should  submit  himself  to 
any  species  of  slavery  for  the  sake  of  his  beloved.  The 
same  opinion  holds  with  respect  to  those  who  undergo 
any  degradation  for  the  sake  of  virtue.  And  also  it  is 
esteemed  among  us,  that  if  any  one  chooses  to  serve 
and  obey  another  for  the  purpose  of  becoming  more 
wise  or  more  virtuous  through  the  intercourse  that 
might  thence  arise,  such  willing  slavery  is  not  the 
slavery  of  a  dishonest  flatterer.  Through  this  we  should 
consider  in  the  same  light  a  servitude  undertaken  for 
the  sake  of  love  as  one  undertaken  for  the  acquirement 
of  wisdom  or  any  other  excellence,  if  indeed  the 
devotion  of  a  lover  to  his  beloved  is  to  be  considered  a 
beautiful  thing.  Por  when  the  lover  and  the  beloved 
have  once  arrived  at  the  same  point,  the  province  of 
each  being  distinguished ;  the  one  able  to  assist  in  the 
cultivation  of  the  mind  and  in  the  acquirement  of  every 


80  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

other  excellence ;  the  other  yet  requiring  education, 
and  seeking  the  possession  of  wisdom ;  then  alone,  by 
the  union  of  these  conditions,  and  in  no  other  case,  is 
it  honourable  for  the  beloved  to  yield  up  the  affections 
to  the  lover.  In  this  servitude  alone  there  is  no 
disgrace  in  being  deceived  and  defeated  of  the  object 
for  which  it  was  undertaken ;  whereas  every  other  is 
disgraceful,  whether  we  are  deceived  or  no. 
*  *  *  *  ♦ 

"  On  the  same  principle,  if  any  one  seeks  the 
friendship  of  another,  believing  him  to  be  virtuous,  for 
the  sake  of  becoming  better  through  such  intercourse 
and  affection,  and  is  deceived,  his  friend  turning  out 
to  be  worthless,  and  far  from  the  possession  of  virtue ; 
yet  it  is  honourable  to  have  been  so  deceived.  For 
such  a  one  seems  to  have  submitted  to  a  kind  of 
servitude,  because  he  would  endure  anything  for  the 
sake  of  becoming  more  virtuous  and  wise  ;  a  disposition 
of  mind  eminently  beautiful. 

"  This  is  that  Love  who  attends  on  the  TJranian 
deity,  and  is  TJranian  ;  the  author  of  innumerable 
benefits  both  to  the  state  and  to  individuals,  and  by 
the  necessity  of  whose  influence  those  who  love  are 
disciplined  into  the  zeal  of  virtue.  All  other  loves  are 
the  attendants  on  Yenus  Pandemos.  So  much, 
although  unpremeditated,  is  what  I  have  to  deliver  on 
the  subject  of  love,  O  Phsedrus." 

Pausanias  having  ceased  (for  so  the  learned  teach 
me  to  denote  the  changes  of  the  discourse),  Aristodemus 
said  that  it  came  to  the  turn  of  Aristophanes  to  speak ; 
but  it  happened  that,  from  repletion  or  some  other 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  81 

cause,  he  had  an  hiccough  which  prevented  him ;  so  he 
turned  to  Erjximachus,  the  physician,  who  was 
reclining  close  beside  him,  and  said — "  Eryximachus, 
it  is  but  fair  that  you  should  cure  my  hiccough,  or 
speak  instead  of  me  until  it  is  over." — "I  will  do 
both,"  said  Eryximachus ;  "  I  will  speak  in  your  turn, 
and  you,  when  your  hiccough  has  ceased,  shall  speak  in 
mine.  Meanwhile,  if  yon  hold  your  breath  some 
time,  it  will  subside.  If  not,  gargle  yonr  throat  with 
water ;  and  if  it  still  continue,  take  something  to 
stimulate  your  nostrils,  and  sneeze ;  do  this  once  or 
twice,  and  even  though  it  should  be  very  violent,  it 
will  cease." — "Whilst  you  speak,"  said  Aristophanes, 
"  I  will  foUow  your  directions." — Eryximachus  then 
began : — 

"Since  Pausanias,  beginning  his  discourse  excel- 
lently, placed  no  fit  completion  and  development  to 
it,  I  think  it  necessary  to  attempt  to  fill  up  what  he 
has  left  unfinished.  He  has  reasoned  well  in  defining 
love  as  of  a  double  nature.  The  science  of  medicine, 
to  which  I  have  addicted  myself,  seems  to  teach  me 
that  the  love  which  impels  towards  those  who  are 
beautiful,  does  not  subsist  only  in  the  souls  of  men,  but 
in  the  bodies  also  of  those  of  all  other  living  beings 
which  are  produced  upon  earth,  and,  in  a  word,  in  aU 
things  which  are.  So  wonderful  and  mighty  is  this 
divinity,  and  so  widely  is  his  influence  extended  over 
all  divine  and  human  thiags  !  Eor  the  honour  of  my 
profession,  I  will  begin  by  adducing  a  proof  from 
medicine.  The  nature  of  the  body  contains  within 
itself  this  double  love.     Eor  that  which  is  healthy 


82  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

and  that  which  is  diseased  in  a  body  differ  and  are 
unlike :  that  which  is  unlike,  loves  and  desires  that 
which  is  unlike.  Love,  therefore,  is  different  in  a 
sane  and  in  a  diseased  body.  Pausanias  has  asserted 
rightly  that  it  is  honourable  to  gratify  those  things  in 
the  body  which  are  good  and  healthy,  and  in  this 
consists  the  skill  of  the  physician  ;  whilst  those  which 
are  bad  and  diseased,  ought  to  be  treated  with  no 
indulgence.  The  science  of  medicine,  in  a  word,  is  a 
knowledge  of  the  love  affairs  of  the  body,  as  they  bear 
relation  to  repletion  and  evacuation ;  and  he  is  the 
most  skilful  physician  who  can  trace  those  operations 
of  the  good  and  evil  love,  can  make  the  one  change 
places  with  the  other,  and  attract  love  into  those  parts 
from  which  he  is  absent,  or  expel  him  from  those 
which  he  ought  not  to  occupy.  He  ought  to  make 
those  things  which  are  most  inimical,  friendly,  and 
excite  them  to  mutual  love.  But  those  things  are 
most  inimical,  which  are  most  opposite  to  each  other  ; 
cold  to  heat,  bitterness  to  sweetness,  dryness  to 
moisture.  Our  progenitor,  ^sculapius,  as  the  poets 
inform  us,  (and  indeed  I  believe  them,)  through  the 
skni  which  he  possessed  to  inspire  love  and  concord 
in  these  contending  principles,  established  the  science 
of  medicine. 

"  The  gymnastic  arts  and  agriculture,  no  less  than 
medicine,  are  exercised  under  the  dominion  of  this 
Grod.  Music,  as  any  one  may  perceive,  who  yields 
a  very  slight  attention  to  the  subject,  originates  from 
the  same  source ;  which  Heraclitus  probably  meant^ 
though  he  could  not  express  his  meaning  very  clearly 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  83 

in  words,  when  he  says,  ^  One  though  apparently 
differing,  yet  so  agrees  with  itself,  as  the  harmony  of 
a  lyre  and  a  bow.'  It  is  great  absurdity  to  say  that  a 
harmony  differs,  and  can  exist  between  things  whilst 
they  are  dissimilar  ;  but  probably  he  meant  that  from 
sounds  which  first  differed,  like  the  grave  and  the 
acute,  and  which  afterwards  agreed,  harmony  was 
produced  according  to  musical  art.  Eor  no  harmony 
can  arise  from  the  grave  and  the  acute  whilst  yet  they 
differ.  But  harmony  is  symphony  :  symphony  is,  as  it 
were,  concord.  But  it  is  impossible  that  concord 
should  subsist  between  things  that  differ,  so  long  as 
they  differ.  Between  things  which  are  discordant  and 
dissimilar  there  is  then  no  harmony.  A  rhythm  is 
produced  from  that  which  is  quick,  and  that  which  is 
slow,  first  being  distinguished  and  opposed  to  each 
other,  and  then  made  accordant;  so  does  medicine, 
no  less  than  music,  establish  a  concord  between 
the  objects  of  its  art,  producing  love  and  agreement 
between  adverse  things. 

"  Music  is  then  the  knowledge  of  that  which 
relates  to  love  in  harmony  and  system.  In  the  very 
system  of  harmony  and  rhythm,  it  is  easy  to  distinguish 
love.  The  double  love  is  not  distinguishable  in  music 
itself;  but  it  is  required  to  apply  it  to  the  service 
of  mankind  by  system  and  harmony,  which  is  called 
poetry,  or  the  composition  of  melody  ;  or  by  the  correct 
use  of  songs  and  measures  already  composed,  which 
is  called  discipline  ;  then  one  can  be  distinguished 
from  the  other,  by  the  aid  of  an  extremely  skilful 
artist.     And  the  better  love  ought  to  be  honoured 

G  2 


84  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

and  preserved  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are  virtuous, 
and  that  the  nature  of  the  vicious  may  be  changed 
through  the  inspiration  of  its  spirit.  This  is  that 
beautiful  Ilranian  love,  the  attendant  on  the  Uranian 
muse  :  the  Pandemian  is  the  attendant  of  Polyhymnia ; 
to  whose  influence  we  should  only  so  far  subject 
ourselves,  as  to  derive  pleasure  from  it  without 
indulging  to  excess  ;  in  the  same  manner  as,  according 
to  our  art,  we  are  instructed  to  seek  the  pleasures  of 
the  table,  only  so  far  as  we  can  enjoy  them  without  the 
consequences  of  disease.  In  music,  therefore,  and  in 
medicine,  and  in  all  other  things,  human  and  divine, 
this  double  love  ought  to  be  traced  and  discriminated  ; 
for  it  is  in  all  things. 

"  Even  the  constitution  of  the  seasons  of  the  year 
is  penetrated  with  these  contending  principles.  For 
so  often  as  heat  and  cold,  dryness  and  moisture,  of 
which  I  spoke  before,  are  influenced  by  the  more 
benignant  love,  and  are  harmoniously  and  temperately 
intermingled  with  the  seasons,  they  bring  maturity 
and  health  to  men,  and  to  all  the  other  animals  and 
plants.  But  when  the  evil  and  injurious  love  assumes 
the  dominion  of  the  seasons  of  the  year,  destruction  is 
spread  widely  abroad.  Then  pestilence  is  accustomed 
to  arise,  and  many  other  blights  and  diseases  fall  upon 
animals  and  plants :  and  hoar  frosts,  and  hails,  and 
mildew  on  the  corn,  are  produced  from  that  excessive 
and  disorderly  love,  with  which  each  season  of  the 
year  is  impelled  towards  the  other ;  the  motions  of 
which  and  the  knowledge  of  the  stars,  is  called 
astronomy.     All   sacrifices,   and  all  those  things   in 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  85 

whicli  divination  is  concerned,  (for  these  things  are  the 
links  by  which  is  maintained  an  intercourse  and 
communion  between  the  Gods  and  men,)  are  nothing 
else  than  the  science  of  preservation  and  right 
government  of  Love.  Eor  impiety  is  accustomed  to 
spring  up,  so  soon  as  any  one  ceases  to  serve  the  more 
honourable  Love,  and  worship  him  by  the  sacrifice  of 
good  actions ;  but  submits  himself  to  the  influences  of 
the  other,  in  relation  to  his  duties  towards  his  parents, 
and  the  Grods,  and  the  living,  and  the  dead.  It  is  the 
object  of  divination  to  distinguish  and  remedy  the 
effects  of  these  opposite  loves ;  and  divination  is 
therefore  the  author  of  the  friendship  of  Gods  and 
men,  because  it  afibrds  the  knowledge  of  what  in 
matters  of  love  is  lawful  or  unlawful  to  men. 

"  Thus  every  species  of  love  possesses  collectively 
a  various  and  vast,  or  rather  universal  power.  But 
love  which  incites  to  the  acquirement  of  its  objects 
according  to  virtue  and  wisdom,  possesses  the  most 
exclusive  dominion,  and  prepares  for  his  worshippers 
the  highest  happiness  through  the  mutual  intercourse 
of  social  kindness  which  it  promotes  among  them,  and 
through  the  benevolence  which  he  attracts  to  them 
from  the  Gods,  our  superiors. 

"  Probably  in  thus  praising  Love,  I  have  unwillingly 
omitted  many  things ;  but  it  is  your  business,  0 
Aristophanes,  to  fill  up  all  that  I  have  left  incom- 
plete ;  or,  if  you  have  imagined  any  other  mode  of 
honouring  the  divinity ;  for  I  observe  your  hiccough 
is  over." 

"  Yes,"  said  Aristophanes, ''  but  not  before  I  applied 


86  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

the  sneezing.  I  wonder  why  the  harmonious  con- 
struction of  our  body  should  require  such  noisy 
operations  as  sneezing ;  for  it  ceased  the  moment  I 
sneezed." — '^Do  you  not  observe  what  you  do,  my 
good  Aristophanes?"  said  Eryximachus;  "you  are 
going  to  speak,  and  you  predispose  us  to  laughter, 
and  compel  me  to  watch  for  the  first  ridiculous  idea 
which  you  may  start  in  your  discourse,  when  you 
might  have  spoken  in  peace." — "  Let  me  unsay  what 
I  have  said,  then,"  replied  Aristophanes,  laughing. 
"  Do  not  watch  me,  I  entreat  you ;  though  I  am  not 
afraid  of  saying  what  is  laughable,  (since  that  would  be 
all  gain,  and  quite  in  the  accustomed  spirit  of  my 
muse,)  but  lest  I  should  say  what  is  ridiculous." — 
"  Do  you  think  to  throw  your  dart,  and  escape  with 
impunity,  Aristophanes  ?  Attend,  and  what  you  say 
be  careful  you  maintain ;  then,  perhaps,  if  it  pleases 
me,  I  may  dismiss  you  without  question." 

"Indeed,  Eryximachus,"  proceeded  Aristophanes, 
"I  have  designed  that  my  discourse  should  be  very 
different  from  yours  and  that  of  Pausanias.  It  seems 
to  me  that  mankind  are  by  no  means  penetrated  with 
a  conception  of  the  power  of  Love,  or  they  would 
have  built  sumptuous  temples  and  altars,  and  have 
established  magnificent  rites  of  sacrifice  in  his  honour ; 
he  deserves  worship  and  homage  more  than  all  the  other 
Grods,  and  he  has  yet  received  none.  Eor  Love  is 
of  all  the  Gods  the  most  friendly  to  mortals ;  and  the 
physician  of  those  wounds,  whose  cure  would  be  the 
greatest  happiness  which  could  be  conferred  upon 
the  human  race.     I  will  endeavour  to  unfold  to  you 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  87 

his  true  power,  and  you  can  relate  what  I  declare 
to  others. 

"  You  ought  first  to  know  the  nature  of  man,  and 
the  adventures  he  has  gone  through ;  for  his  nature 
was  anciently  far  different  from  that  which  it  is  at 
present.  Pirst,  then,  human  beiags  were  formerly 
not  divided  into  two  sexes,  male  and  female ;  there 
was  also  a  third,  common  to  both  the  others,  the 
name  of  which  remains,  though  the  sex  itself  has 
disappeared.  The  androgynous  sex,  both  in  appear- 
ance and  in  name,  was  common  both  to  male  and 
female  ;  its  name  alone  remains,  which  labours  under 
a  reproach. 

"  At  the  period  to  which  I  refer,  the  form  of  every 
human  being  was  round,  the  back  and  the  sides  being 
circularly  joined,  and  each  had  four  arms  and  as  many 
legs  ;  two  faces  fixed  upon  a  round  neck,  exactly  like 
each  other ;  one  head  between  the  two  faces  ;  four 
ears,  and  every  thing  else  as  from  such  proportions 
it  is  easy  to  conjecture.  Man  walked  upright  as  now, 
in  whatever  direction  he  pleased ;  but  when  he  wished 
to  go  fast  he  made  use  of  all  his  eight  limbs,  and 
proceeded  in  a  rapid  motion  by  rolling  circularly 
round, — like  tumblers,  who,  with  their  legs  in  the 
air,  tumble  round  and  round.  "We  account  for  the 
production  of  three  sexes  by  supposing  that,  at 
the  beginning,  the  male  was  produced  from  the  sun, 
the  female  from  the  earth ;  and  that  sex  which 
participated  in  both  sexes,  from  the  moon,  by  reason 
of  the  androgynous  nature  of  the  moon.  They  were 
round,  and  their  mode  of  proceeding  was  round,  from 


88  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

the  similarity  which  must  needs  subsist  between  them 
and  their  parent. 

"  They  were  strong  also,  and  had  aspiring  thoughts. 
They  it  was  who  levied  war  against  the  Qods ;  and 
what  Homer  writes  concerning  Ephialtus  and  Otus, 
that  they  sought  to  ascend  heaven  and  dethrone  the 
Gods,  in  reality  relates  to  this  primitive  people. 
Jupiter  and  the  other  Grods  debated  what  was  to  be 
done  in  this  emergency.  Eor  neither  could  they 
prevail  on  themselves  to  destroy  them,  as  they  had 
the  giants,  with  thunder,  so  that  the  race  should  be 
abolished;  for  in  that  case  they  would  be  deprived 
of  the  honours  of  the  sacrifices  which  they  were  in  the 
custom  of  receiving  from  them ;  nor  could  they  permit 
a  continuance  of  their  insolence  and  impiety.  Jupiter, 
with  some  difficulty  having  desired  silence,  at  length 
spoke.  *  I  think,'  said  he,  ^  I  have  contrived  a  method 
by  which  we  may,  by  rendering  the  human  race  more 
feeble,  quell  the  insolence  which  they  exercise,  without 
proceeding  to  their  utter  destruction.  I  will  cut  each 
of  them  in  half ;  and  so  they  will  at  once  be  weaker 
and  more  useful  on  account  of  their  numbers.  They 
shall  walk  upright  on  two  legs.  If  they  show  any 
more  insolence,  and  will  not  keep  quiet,  I  will  cut 
them  up  in  half  again,  so  they  shall  go  about  hopping 
on  one  leg.' 

"  So  saying,  he  cut  human  beings  in  half,  as  people 
cut  eggs  before  they  salt  them,  or  as  I  have  seen  eggs 
cut  with  hairs.  He  ordered  Apollo  to  take  each  one 
as  he  cut  him,  and  turn  his  face  and  half  his  neck 
towards  the  operation,  so  that  by  contemplating  it  he 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  89 

might  become  more  cautious  and  humble ;  and  then, 
to  cure  him,  Apollo  turned  the  face  round,  and  draw- 
ing the  skin  upon  what  we  now  call  the  belly,  like  a 
contracted  pouch,  and  leaving  one  opening,  that  which 
is  called  the  navel,  tied  it  in  the  middle.  He  then 
smoothed  many  other  wrinkles,  and  moulded  the 
breast  with  much  such  an  instrument  as  the  leather- 
cutters  use  to  smooth  the  skins  upon  the  block.  He 
left  on]  J  a  few  wrinkles  in  the  belly,  near  the  navel,  to 
serve  as  a  record  of  its  former  adventure.  Imme- 
diately after  this  division,  as  each  desired  to  possess 
the  other  half  of  himself,  these  divided  people  threw 
their  arms  around  and  embraced  each  other,  seeking 
to  grow  together;  and  from  this  resolution  to  do 
nothing  without  the  other  half,  they  died  of  hunger 
and  weakness  :  when  one  half  died  and  the  other  was 
left  alive,  that  which  was  thus  left  sought  the  other 
and  folded  it  to  its  bosom  ;  whether  that  half  were  an 
entire  woman  (for  we  now  call  it  a  woman)  or  a  man ; 
and  thus  they  perished.  But  Jupiter,  pitying  them, 
thought  of  another  contrivance.  *  *  *  In  this 
manner  is  generation  now  produced,  by  the  union  of 
male  and  female ;  so  that  from  the  embrace  of  a  man 
and  woman  the  race  is  propagated. 

"  From  this  period,  mutual  love  has  naturally  existed 
between  human  beings ;  that  reconciler  and  bond  of 
union  of  their  original  nature,  which  seeks  to  make 
two,  one,  and  to  heal  the  divided  nature  of  man. 
Every  one  of  us  is  thus  the  half  of  what  may 
be  properly  termed  a  man,  and  like  a  pselta  cut  in 
two,   is  the  imperfect  portion  of  an   entire  whole, 


90  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

perpetually  necessitated  to   seek  the  half  belonging 
to  him. 


"  Such  as  I  have  described  is  ever  an  affectionate 
lover  and  a  faithful  friend,  delighting  in  that  which  is 
in  conformity  with  his  own  nature.  "Whenever,  there- 
fore, any  such  as  I  have  described  are  impetuously 
struck,  through  the  sentiment  of  their  former  union, 
with  love  and  desire  and  the  want  of  community,  they 
are  unwilling  to  be  divided  even  for  a  moment.  These 
are  they  who  devote  their  whole  lives  to  each  other, 
with  a  vain  and  inexpressible  longing  to  obtain  from 
each  other  something  they  know  not  what ;  for  it  is 
not  merely  the  sensual  delights  of  their  intercourse 
for  the  sake  of  which  they  dedicate  themselves  to  each 
other  with  such  serious  affection ;  but  the  soul  of  each 
manifestly  thirsts  for,  from  the  other,  something  which 
there  are  no  words  to  describe,  and  divines  that  which 
it  seeks,  and  traces  obscurely  the  footsteps  of  its 
obsciu'e  desire.  If  Vulcan  should  say  to  persons  thus 
affected,  'My  good  people,  what  is  it  that  you  want  with 
one  another  ?  '  And  if,  while  they  were  hesitating 
what  to  answer,  he  should  proceed  to  ask,  '  Do  you 
not  desire  the  closest  union  and  singleness  to  exist 
between  you,  so  that  you  may  never  be  divided  night 
or  day  ?  If  so,  I  will  melt  you  together,  and  make 
you  grow  into  one,  so  that  both  in  life  and  death  ye 
may  be  undivided.  Consider,  is  this  what  you  desire  ? 
Will  it  content  you  if  you  become  that  which  I 
propose  ? '  We  all  know  that  no  one  would  refuse  such 
an  offer,  but  would  at  once  feel  that  this  was  what  he 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  91 

had  ever  sought ;  and  intimately  to  mix  and  melt  and 
to  be  melted  together  with  his  beloved,  so  that  one 
should  be  made  out  of  two. 

"  The  cause  of  this  desire  is,  that  according  to  our 
original  nature,  we  were  once  entire.  The  desire  and 
the  pursuit  of  integrity  and  union  is  that  which  we  all 
love.  First,  as  I  said,  we  were  entire,  but  now  we 
have  been  dwindled  through  our  OAvn  weakness,  as  the 
Arcadians  by  the  Lacedemonians.  There  is  reason  to 
fear,  if  we  are  guilty  of  any  additional  impiety  towards 
the  Gods,  that  we  may  be  cut  in  two  again,  and  may 
go  about  like  those  figures  painted  on  the  columns, 
divided  through  the  middle  of  our  nostrils,  as  thin  as 
lispse.  On  which  account  every  man  ought  to  be 
exhorted  to  pay  due  reverence  to  the  Gods,  that  we 
may  escape  so  severe  a  punishment,  and  obtain  those 
things  which  Love,  our  general  and  commander,  in- 
cites us  to  desire ;  against  whom  let  none  rebel  by 
exciting  the  hatred  of  the  Gods.  For  if  we  continue 
on  good  terms  with  them,  we  may  discover  and  pos- 
sess those  lost  and  concealed  objects  of  our  love  ;  a 
good-fortune  which  now  befals  to  few. 

*  *■  *  *  * 

"  I  assert,  then,  that  the  happiness  of  all,  both  men 
and  women,  consists  singly  in  the'  fulfilment  of  their 
love,  and  in  that  possession  of  its  objects  by  which  we 
are  in  some  degree  restored  to  our  ancient  nature.  If 
this  be  the  completion  of  felicity,  that  must  neces- 
sarily approach  nearest  to  it,  in  which  we  obtain  the 
possession  and  society  of  those  whose  natures  most 
intimately  accord  with  our  own.     And  if  we  would 


92  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

celebrate  any  Grod  as  the  author  of  this  benefit,  we 
should  justly  celebrate  Love  with  hymns  of  joy  ;  who, 
in  our  present  condition,  brings  good  assistance  in  our 
necessity,  and  affords  great  hopes,  if  we  persevere  in 
piety  towards  the  Gods,  that  he  will  restore  us  to  our 
original  state,  and  confer  on  us  the  complete  happiness 
alone  suited  to  our  nature. 

"  Such,  Eryximachus,  is  my  discourse  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Love ;  different  indeed  from  yours,  which  I 
nevertheless  entreat  you  not  to  turn  into  ridicule,  that 
we  may  not  interrupt  what  each  has  separately  to 
deliver  on  the  subject." 

"  I  will  refrain  at  present,"  said  Eryximachus,  "for 
your  discourse  delighted  me.  And  if  I  did  not  know 
that  Socrates  and  Agathon  were  profoundly  versed  in 
the  science  of  love  affairs,  I  should  fear  that  they  had 
nothing  new  to  say,  after  so  many  and  such  various 
imaginations.  As  it  is,  I  confide  in  the  fertility  of 
their  geniuses." — "Your  part  of  the  contest,  at  least, 
was  strenuously  fought,  Eryximachus,"  said  Socrates, 
"  but  if  you  had  been  in  the  situation  in  which  I  am, 
or  rather  shall  be,  after  the  discourse  of  Agathon,  like 
me,  you  would  then  have  reason  to  fear,  and  be 
reduced  to  your  wits'  end." — "Socrates,"  said  Agathon, 
"  wishes  to  confuse  me  with  the  enchantments  of  his 
wit,  sufficiently  confused  already  with  the  expectation 
I  see  in  the  assembly  in  favour  of  my  discourse." — 
"  I  must  have  lost  my  memory,  Agathon,"  rephed 
Socrates,  "  if  I  imagined  that  you  could  be  disturbed 
by  a  few  private  persons,  after  having  witnessed  your 
firmness  and  courage  in  ascending  the  rostrum  with 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  93 

the  actors,  and  in  calmly  reciting  your  compositions 
in  the  presence  of  so  great  an  assembly  as  that  which 
decreed  you  the  prize  of  tragedy." — "  What  then, 
Socrates,"  retorted  Agathon,  "  do  you  think  me  so 
full  of  the  theatre  as  to  be  ignorant  that  the  judgment 
of  a  few  wise  is  more  awful  than  that  of  a  multitude 
of  others,  to  one  who  rightly  balances  the  value  of 
their  suffrages?"  —  "I  should  judge  ill  indeed, 
Agathon,"  answered  Socrates,  "  in  thinking  you 
capable  of  any  rude  and  unrefined  conception,  for  I 
well  know  that  if  you  meet  with  any  whom  you  con- 
sider wise,  you  esteem  such  alone  of  more  value  than 
all  others.  But  we  are  far  from  being  entitled  to  this 
distinction,  for  we  were  also  of  that  assembly,  and  to 
be  numbered  among  the  rest.  But  should  you  meet 
with  any  who  are  really  wise,  you  would  be  careful  to 
say  nothing  in  their  presence  which  you  thought  they 
would  not  approve — is  it  not  so  ?  " — "  Certainly," 
replied  Agathon. — "  You  would  not  then  exercise  the 
same  caution  in  the  presence  of  the  multitude  in 
which  they  were  included  ?  " — "  My  dear  Agathon," 
said  Phsedrus,  interrupting  him,  "  if  you  answer  all 
the  questions  of  Socrates,  they  will  never  have  an  end; 
he  will  urge  them  without  conscience  so  long  as  he 
can  get  any  person,  especially  one  who  is  so  beautiful, 
to  dispute  with  him.  I  own  it  delights  me  to  hear 
Socrates  discuss ;  but  at  present,  I  must  see  that 
Love  is  not  defrauded  of  the  praise,  which  it  is  my 
province  to  exact  from  each  of  you.  Pay  the  God 
his  due,  and  then  reason  between  yourselves  if  you 
wiU." 


94  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

"Your  admonition  is  just,  Phsedrus,"  replied 
Agathon,  "nor  need  anj  reasoning  I  hold  with 
Socrates  impede  me :  we  shall  find  many  future 
opportunities  for  discussion.  I  will  begin  my  discourse 
then ;  first  having  defined  what  ought  to  be  the 
subject  of  it.  All  who  have  already  spoken  seem  to 
me  not  so  much  to  have  praised  Love,  as  to  have 
felicitated  mankind  on  the  many  advantages  of  which 
that  deity  is  the  cause ;  what  he  is,  the  author  of  these 
great  benefits,  none  have  yet  declared.  There  is  one 
mode  alone  of  celebration  which  would  comprehend 
the  whole  topic,  namely,  first  to  declare  what  are 
those  benefits,  and  then  what  he  is  who  is  the  author  of 
those  benefits,  which  are  the  subject  of  our  discourse. 
Love  ought  first  to  be  praised,  and  then  his  gifts 
declared.  I  assert,  then,  that  although  all  the  Grods 
are  immortally  happy,  Love,  if  I  dare  trust  my  voice 
to  express  so  awful  a  truth,  is  the  happiest,  and  most 
excellent,  and  the  most  beautiful.  That  he  is  the  most 
beautiful  is  evident ;  first,  0  Phaedrus,  from  this  cir- 
cumstance, that  he  is  the  youngest  of  the  Grods ;  and, 
secondly,  from  his  fleetness,  and  from  his  repugnance 
to  all  that  is  old  ;  for  he  escapes  with  the  swiftness  of 
wings  from  old  age ;  a  thing  in  itself  sufficiently 
swift,  since  it  overtakes  us  sooner  than  there  is  need ; 
and  which  Love,  who  delights  in  the  intercourse  of 
the  young,  hates,  and  in  no  manner  can  be  induced 
to  enter  into  community  with.  The  ancient  proverb, 
which  says  that  like  is  attracted  by  like,  applies  to  the 
attributes  of  Love.  I  concede  many  things  to  you,  O 
Phaedrus,  but  this  I  do  not  concede,  that  Love  is  more 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  95 

ancient  than  Saturn  and  Jupiter.  I  assert  tliat  he  is 
not  only  the  youngest  of  the  Gods,  but  invested  with 
everlasting  youth.  Those  ancient  deeds  among  the 
Grods  recorded  by  Hesiod  and  Parmenides,  if  their 
relations  are  to  be  considered  as  true,  were  produced 
not  by  Love,  but  by  Necessity.  For  if  Love  had  been 
then  in  Heaven,  those  violent  and  sanguinary  crimes 
never  would  have  taken  place ;  but  there  would  ever 
have  subsisted  that  affection  and  peace,  in  which  the 
Grods  now  live,  under  the  influence  of  Love. 

"  He  is  young,  therefore,  and  being  young  is  tender 
and  soft.  There  were  need  of  some  poet  like  Homer 
to  celebrate  the  delicacy  and  tenderness  of  Love.  For 
Homer  says,  that  the  goddess  Calamity  is  delicate, 
and  that  her  feet  are  tender.  ^  Her  feet  are  soft,'  he 
says,  '  for  she  treads  not  upon  the  ground,  but  makes 
her  path  upon  the  heads  of  men.'  He  gives  as  an 
evidence  of  her  tenderness,  that  she  walks  not  upon 
that  which  is  hard,  but  that  which  is  soft.  The  same 
evidence  is  sufficient  to  make  manifest  the  tenderness 
of  Love.  For  Love  w^alks  not  upon  the  earth,  nor  over 
the  heads  of  men,  which  are  not  indeed  very  soft ;  but 
he  dwells  within,  and  treads  on  the  softest  of  existing 
things,  having  established  his  habitation  within  the 
souls  and  inmost  nature  of  Grods  and  men ;  not  indeed 
in  all  souls — for  wherever  he  chances  to  find  a  hard 
and  rugged  disposition,  there  he  will  not  inhabit,  but 
only  where  it  is  most  soft  and  tender.  Of  needs  must 
he  be  the  most  delicate  of  all  things,  who  touches 
lightly  with  his  feet,  only  the  softest  parts  of  those 
things  which  are  the  softest  of  all. 


96  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

"  He  is  then  the  youngest  and  the  most  delicate  of 
all  diyinities  ;  and  in  addition  to  this,  he  is,  as  it  were, 
the  most  moist  and  liquid.  !For  if  he  were  otherwise, 
he  could  not,  as  he  does,  fold  himself  around  every- 
thing, and  secretly  flow  out  and  into  every  soul.  Hjs 
loveliness,  that  which  Love  possesses  far  beyond  all 
other  things,  is  a  manifestation  of  the  liquid  and 
flowing  symmetry  of  his  form ;  for  between  deformity 
and  Love  there  is  eternal  contrast  and  repugnance. 
His  life  is  spent  among  flowers,  and  this  accounts  for 
the  immortal  fairness  of  his  skin ;  for  the  winged  Love 
rests  not  in  his  flight  on  any  form,  or  within  any  soul 
the  flower  of  whose  loveliness  is  faded,  but  there 
remains  most  willingly  where  is  the  odour  and  radiance 
of  blossoms,  yet  unwithered.  Concerning  the  beauty 
of  the  Grod,  let  this  be  sufficient,  though  many  things 
must  remain  unsaid.  Let  us  next  consider  the  virtue 
and  power  of  Love. 

"  "What  is  most  admirable  in  Love  is,  that  he  neither 
inflicts  nor  endures  injury  in  his  relations  either  with 
Gods  or  men.  Nor  if  he  sufiers  anything  does  he 
sufier  it  through  violence,  nor  doing  anything  does  he 
act  it  with  violence,  for  Love  is  never  even  touched 
with  violence.  Every  one  willingly  administers  every- 
thing to  Love ;  and  that  which  every  one  voluntarily 
concedes  to  another,  the  laws,  which  are  the  kings  of 
the  republic,  decree  that  it  is  just  for  him  to  possess. 
In  addition  to  justice.  Love  participates  in  the  highest 
temperance ;  for  if  temperance  is  defined  to  be  the 
being  superior  to  and  holding  under  dominion  plea- 
sures and  desires ;  then  Love,  than  whom  no  pleasure 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  97 

is  more  powerful,  and  who  is  thus  more  powerful  tlian 
all  persuasions  and  delights,  must  be  excellently 
temperate.  In  power  and  valour  Mars  cannot  contend 
with  Love :  the  love  of  Venus  possesses  Mars  ;  the 
possessor  is  alw^ays  superior  to  the  possessed,  and  he 
who  subdues  the  most  powerful  must  of  necessity  be 
the  most  powerful  of  all. 

"  The  justice  and  temperance  and  valour  of  the  God 
have  been  thus  declared ; — there  remains  to  exhibit  his 
wisdom.  And  first,  that,  like  Eryximachus,  I  may 
honour  my  own  profession,  the  Grod  is  a  wise  poet ; 
so  wise  that  he  can  even  make  a  poet  one  who  was  not 
before :  for  every  one,  even  if  before  he  were  ever  so 
undisciplined,  becomes  a  poet  as  soon  as  he  is  touched 
by  Love ;  a  sufficient  proof  that  Love  is  a  great  poet, 
and  well  skilled  in  that  science  according  to  the 
discipline  of  music.  Por  what  any  one  possesses  not, 
or  knows  not,  that  can  he  neither  give  nor  teach 
another.  And  who  will  deny  that  the  divine  poetry, 
by  which  all  living  things  are  produced  upon  the  earth, 
is  not  harmonised  by  the  wisdom  of  Love  ?  Is  it  not 
evident  that  Love  was  the  author  of  all  the  arts  of  life 
with  which  we  are  acquainted,  and  that  he  whose 
teacher  has  been  Love,  becomes  eminent  and  illus- 
trious, whilst  he  who  knows  not  Love,  remains  for  ever 
unregarded  and  obscure  ?  ApoUo  invented  medicine, 
and  divination,  and  archery,  under  the  guidance  of 
desire  and  Love ;  so  that  Apollo  was  the  disciple  of 
Love.  Through  him  the  Muses  discovered  the  arts  of 
literature,  and  Yulcan  that  of  moulding  brass,  and 
Minerva  the  loom,  and  Jupiter  the  mystery  of  the 


98  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

dominion  which  he  now  exercises  over  Gods  and  men. 
So  were  the  Grods  taught  and  disciplined  by  the  love  of 
that  which  is  beautiful ;  for  there  is  no  love  towards 
deformity. 

"  At  the  origin  of  things,  as  I  have  before  said, 
many  fearful  deeds  are  reported  to  have  been  done 
among  the  Grods,  on  account  of  the  dominion  of 
Necessity.  But  so  soon  as  this  deity  sprang  forth 
from  the  desire  which  for  ever  tends  in  the  universe 
towards  that  which  is  lovely,  then  all  blessings 
descended  upon  all  living  things,  human  and  divine. 
Love  seems  to  me,  0  Phsedrus,  a  divinity  the  most 
beautiful  and  the  best  of  all,  and  the  author  to  all 
others  of  the  excellences  with  which  his  own  nature  is 
endowed.  Nor  can  I  restrain  the  poetic  enthusiasm 
which  takes  possession  of  my  discourse,  and  bids  me 
declare  that  Love  is  the  divinity  who  creates  peace 
among  men,  and  calm  upon  the  sea,  the  windless 
silence  of  storms,  repose  and  sleep  in  sadness.  Love 
divests  us  of  all  alienation  from  each  other,  and  fills 
our  vacant  hearts  with  overflowing  sympathy;  he 
gathers  us  together  in  such  social  meetings  as  we  now 
delight  to  celebrate,  our  guardian  and  our  guide  in 
dances,  and  sacrifices,  and  feasts.  Yes,  Love  who 
showers  benignity  upon  the  world,  and  before  whose 
presence  all  harsh  passions  flee  and  perish  ;  the  author 
of  all  soft  afiections ;  the  destroyer  of  all  ungentle 
thoughts  ;  merciful,  mild ;  the  object  of  the  admiration 
of  the  wise,  and  the  delight  of  gods ;  possessed  by  the 
fortunate,  and  desired  by  the  unhappy,  therefore 
unhappy  because  they  possess  him  not ;  the  father  of 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  99 

grace,  and  delicacy,  and  gentleness,  and  delight,  and 
persuasion,  and  desire ;  the  cherisher  of  all  that  is 
good,  the  abolisher  of  all  evil ;  our  most  excellent  pilot, 
defence,  saviour  and  guardian  in  labour  and  in  fear, 
in  desire  and  in  reason ;  the  ornament  and  governor 
of  all  things  human  and  divine ;  the  best,  the  loveliest; 
in  whose  footsteps  every  one  ought  to  follow,  celebrating 
him  excellently  in  song,  and  bearing  each  his  part  in 
that  divinest  harmony  which  Love  sings  to  all  things 
which  live  and  are,  soothing  the  troubled  minds  of 
Gods  and  men.  This,  0  Phsedrus,  is  what  I  have  to 
offer  in  praise  of  the  divinity ;  partly  composed,  indeed, 
of  thoughtless  and  playful  fancies,  and  partly  of  such 
serious  ones,  as  I  could  well  command." 

'No  sooner  had  Agathon  ceased,  than  a  loud  murmur 
of  applause  arose  from  all  present ;  so  becomingly  had 
the  fair  youth  spoken,  both  in  praise  of  the  God,  and 
in  extenuation  of  himself.  Then  Socrates,  addressing 
Eryximachus,  said,  "  Was  not  my  fear  reasonable,  son 
of  Acumenus  ?  Did  I  not  divine  what  has,  in  fact, 
happened, — that  Agathon' s  discourse  would  be  so 
wonderfully  beautiful,  as  to  pre-occupy  all  interest  in 
what  I  should  say?" — "You,  indeed,  divined  well  so 
far,  0  Socrates,"  said  Eryximachus,  "that  Agathon 
would  speak  eloquently,  but  not  that,  therefore,  you 
would  be  reduced  to  any  difficulty." — "  How,  my  good 
friend,  can  I  or  any  one  else  be  otherwise  than  reduced 
to  difficulty,  who  speak  after  a  discourse  so  various  and 
so  eloquent,  and  which  otherwise  had  been  sufficiently 
wonderful,  if,  at  the  conclusion,  the  splendour  of  the 
sentences,  and  the  choice  selection  of  the  expressions, 

H  2 


100  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

had  not  struck  all  tlie  hearers  with  astonishment ;  so 
that  I,  who  well  know  that  I  can  never  say  anything 
nearly  so  beautiful  as  this,  would,  if  there  had  been 
any  escape,  have  run  away  for  shame.  The  story  of 
Gorgias  came  into  my  mind,  and  I  was  afraid  lest  in 
reality  I  should  suffer  what  Homer  describes ;  and  lest 
Agathon,  scanning  my  discourse  with  the  head  of  the 
eloquent  Grorgias,  should  turn  me  to  stone  for  speech- 
lessness. I  immediately  perceived  how  ridiculously  I 
had  engaged  myself  with  you  to  assume  a  part  in 
rendering  praise  to  Love,  and  had  boasted  that  I  was 
well  skilled  in  amatory  matters,  being  so  ignorant  of  the 
manner  in  which  it  is  becoming  to  render  him  honour, 
as  I  now  perceive  myself  to  be.  I,  in  my  simplicity, 
imagined  that  the  truth  ought  to  be  spoken  concerning 
each  of  the  topics  of  our  praise,  and  that  it  would  be 
sufficient,  choosing  those  which  are  the  most  honour^ 
able  to  the  Grod,  to  place  them  in  as  luminous  an 
arrangement  as  we  could.  I  had,  therefore,  great 
hopes  that  I  should  speak  satisfactorily,  being  well 
aware  that  I  was  acquainted  with  the  true  foundations 
of  the  praise  which  we  have  engaged  to  render.  But 
since,  as  it  appears,  our  purpose  has  been,  not  to 
render  Love  his  due  honour,  but  to  accumulate  the 
most  beautiful  and  the  greatest  attributes  of  his 
divinity,  whether  they  in  truth  belong  to  it  or  not, 
and  that  the  proposed  question  is  not  how  Love  ought 
to  be  praised,  but  how  we  should  praise  him  most 
eloquently,  my  attempt  must  of  necessity  fail.  It  is 
on  this  account,  I  imagine,  that  in  your  discourses  you 
have  attributed  everything  to  Love,  and  have  described 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  101 

him  to  be  the  author  of  such  and  so  great  effects  as,  to 
those  who  are  ignorant  of  his  true  nature,  may  exhibit 
him  as  the  most  beautiful  and  the  best  of  all  things. 
Not,  indeed,  to  those  who  know  the  truth.  Such  praise 
has  a  splendid  and  imposing  effect,  but  as  I  am 
unacquainted  with  the  art  of  rendering  it,  my  mind, 
which  could  not  foresee  what  would  be  required  of  me, 
absolves  me  from  that  which  my  tongue  promised, 
Farewell  then,  for  such  praise  I  can  never  render. 

"  But  if  you  desire,  I  will  speak  what  I  feel  to  be 
true ;  and  that  I  may  not  expose  myself  to  ridicule,  I 
entreat  you  to  consider  that  I  speak  without  entering 
into  competition  with  those  who  have  preceded  me. 
Consider,  then,  Phsedrus,  whether  you  will  exact  from 
me  such  a  discourse,  containing  the  mere  truth  with 
respect  to  Love,  and  composed  of  such  unpremeditated 
expressions  as  may  chance  to  offer  themselves  to  ray 
mind." — Phaedrus  and  the  rest  bade  him  speak  in  the 
manner  which  he  judged  most  befitting. — "  Permit 
me,  then,  0  Phaedrus,  to  ask  Agathon  a  few  questions, 
so  that,  confirmed  by  his  agreement  with  me,  I  may 
proceed." — "Willingly,"  replied  Phaedrus,  "ask." — 
Then  Socrates  thus  began  : — 

"  I  applaud,  dear  Agathon,  the  beginning  of  your 
discourse,  where  you  say,  we  ought  first  to  define  and 
declare  what  Love  is,  and  then  his  works.  This  rule 
I  particularly  approve.  But,  come,  since  you  have 
given  us  a  discourse  of  such  beauty  and  majesty  con- 
cerning Love,  you  are  able,  I  doubt  not,  to  explain 
this  question,  whether  Love  is  the  love  of  something 
or  nothing  ?     I  do  not  ask  you  of  what  parents  Love 


102  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

is  ;  for  tlie  inquiry,  of  whether  Love  is  the  love  of  anj 
father  or  mother,  would  be  sufficiently  ridiculous. 
But  if  I  were  asking  you  to  describe  that  which  a 
father  is,  I  should  ask,  not  whether  a  father  was  the 
love  of  any  one,  but  whether  a  father  was  the  father  of 
any  one  or  not ;  you  would  undoubtedly  reply,  that  a 
father  was  the  father  of  a  son  or  daughter ;  would  you 
not?" — "Assuredly." — "  You  would  define  a  mother 
in  the  same  manner?" — ''Without  doubt." — "Yet 
bear  with  me,  and  answer  a  few  more  questions,  for  I 
would  learn  from  you  that  which  I  wish  to  know.  If 
I  should  inquire,  in  addition,  is  not  a  brother,  through 
the  very  nature  of  his  relation,  the  brother  of  some 
one  ?" — "  Certainly." — "  Of  a  brother  or  sister  is  he 
not  ?" — "  Without  question." — "  Try  to  explain  to  me 
then  the  nature  of  Love  ;  Love  is  the  love  of  something 
or  nothing  ?" — "  Of  something,  certainly." 

"  Observe  and  remember  this  concession.  Tell  me 
yet  farther,  whether  Love  desires  that  of  which  it  is 
the  Love  or  not?"  —  "It  desires  it,  assuredly." — 
"  Whether  possessing  that  which  it  desires  and  loves, 
or  not  possessing  it,  does  it  desire  and  love  ?" — "  Not 
possessing  it,  I  should  imagine." — "  Observe  ■  now, 
whether  it  does  not  appear,  that,  of  necessity,  desire 
desires  that  which  it  wants  and  does  not  possess,  and 
no  longer  desires  that  which  it  no  longer  wants :  this 
appears  to  me,  Agathon,  of  necessity  to  be ;  how  does 
it  appear  to  you?" — "It  appears  so  to  me  also." — 
"Would  any  one  who  was  already  illustrious,  desire 
to  be  illustrious ;  would  any  one  already  strong,  desire 
to  be  strong  ?     'From  what  has  already  been  conceded, 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  lOS 

it  follows  that  he  would  not.  If  any  one  already 
strong,  should  desire  to  be  strong  ;  or  any  one  already 
swift,  should  desire  to  be  swift;  or  any  one  already 
healthy,  should  desii'e  to  be  healthy,  it  must  be  con- 
cluded that  they  still  desired  the  advantages  of 
which  they  already  seemed  possessed.  To  destroy 
the  foundation  of  this  error,  observe,  Agathon,  that 
each  of  these  persons  must  possess  the  several  advan- 
tages in  question,  at  the  moment  present  to  our 
thoughts,  whether  he  will  or  no.  And,  now,  is  it 
possible  that  those  advantages  should  be  at  that  time 
the  objects  of  his  desire  ?  Tor,  if  any  one  should  say, 
being  in  health,  '  I  desire  to  be  in  health ;'  being  rich, 
*  I  desire  to  be  rich,  and  thus  still  desire  those  things 
which  I  already  possess,'  we  might  say  to  him,  '  You, 
my  friend,  possess  health,  and  strength,  and  riches  ; 
you  do  not  desire  to  possess  now,  but  to  continue  to 
possess  them  in  future ;  for,  whether  you  will  or  no, 
they  now  belong  to  you.  Consider  then,  whether, 
when  you  say  that  you  desire  things  present  to  you, 
and  in  your  own  possession,  you  say  anything  else 
than  that  you  desire  the  advantages  to  be  for  the 
future  also  in  your  possession.'  What  else  could  he 
reply?" — "Nothing,  indeed." — "Is  not  Love,  then, 
the  love  of  that  which  is  not  within  its  reach,  and 
which  cannot  hold  in  security,  for  the  future,  those 
things  of  which  it  obtains  a  present  and  transitory 
possession?" — "Evidently." — "Love,  therefore,  and 
everything  else  that  desires  anything,  desires  that 
which  is  absent  and  beyond  his  reach,  that  which  it 
has  not,  that  which  is  not  itself,  that  which  it  wants ; 


104  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

such  are  the  things  of  which  there  are  desire  and 
love." — "  Assuredly." 

"Come,"  said  Socrates,  "let  us  review  your  con- 
cessions. Is  Love  anything  else  than  the  love  first  of 
something ;  and  secondly,  of  those  things  of  which  it 
has  need  ?  " — "  Nothing." — "  Now,  remember  of  those 
things  you  said  in  your  discourse,  that  Love  was  the 
love — if  you  wish  I  will  remind  you.  I  think  you 
said  something  of  this  kind,  that  all  the  afiairs  of  the 
Gods  were  admirably  disposed  through  the  love  of  the 
things  which  are  beautiful ;  for  there  was  no  love  of 
things  deformed;  did  you  not  say  so?" — "I  confess 
that  I  did." — "  Tou  said  what  was  most  likely  to  be 
true,  my  friend ;  and  if  the  matter  be  so,  the  love  of 
beauty  must  be  one  thing,  and  the  love  of  deformity 
another." — "  Certainly." — "  It  is  conceded,  then,  that 
Love  loves  that  which  he  wants  but  possesses  not  ?" — 
"  Yes,  certainly." — "  But  Love  wants  and  does  not 
possess  beauty  ?" — "Indeed  it  must  necessarily  follow." 
— "What,  then!  call  you  that  beautiful  which  has 
need  of  beauty  and  possesses  not  ?" — "  Assuredly  no." 
— "  Do  you  still  assert,  then,  that  Love  is  beautiful,  if 
all  that  we  have  said  be  true  ?" — "  Indeed,  Socrates," 
said  Agathon,  "  I  am  in  danger  of  being  convicted  of 
ignorance,  with  respect  to  all  that  I  then  spoke." — 
"  You  spoke  most  eloquently,  my  dear  Agathon ;  but 
bear  with  my  questions  yet  a  moment.  You  admit 
that  things  which  are  good  are  also  beautiful?" — 
"  No  doubt." — "  If  Love,  then,  be  in  want  of  beautiful 
things,  and  things  which  are  good  are  beautiful,  he 
must  be  in  want  of  things  which  are  good?" — "I 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  105 

cannot  refute  jour  arguments,  Socrates."  —  "You 
cannot  refute  truth,  mj  dear  Agathon :  to  refute 
Socrates  is  nothing  difficult. 

"  But  I  will  dismiss  these  questionings.  At  present 
let  me  endeavour,  to  the  best  of  my  power,  to  repeat 
to  you,  on  the  basis  of  the  points  which  have  been 
agreed  upon  between  me  and  Agathon,  a  discourse 
concerning  Love,  which  I  formerly  heard  from  the 
prophetess  Diotima,  who  was  profoundly  skilled  in 
this  and  many  other  doctrines,  and  who,  ten  years 
before  the  pestilence,  procured  to  the  Athenians, 
through  their  sacrifices,  a  delay  of  the  disease ;  for  it 
was  she  who  taught  me  the  science  of  things  relating 
to  Love. 

"  As  you  well  remarked,  Agathon,  we  ought  to 
declare  who  and  what  is  Love,  and  then  his  works. 
It  is  easiest  to  relate  them  in  the  same  order,  as  the 
foreign  prophetess  observed  when,  questioning  me, 
she  related  them.  For  I  said  to  her  much  the  same 
things  that  Agathon  has  just  said  to  me — that  Love 
was  a  great  deity,  and  that  he  was  beautiful ;  and  she 
refuted  me  with  the  same  reasons  as  I  have  employed 
to  refute  Agathon,  compelling  me  to  infer  that  he  was 
neither  beautiful  nor  good,  as  I  said. — *  "What  then,' 
I  objected,  *0  Diotima,  is  Love  ugly  and  evil?' — 
*  Good  words,  I  entreat  you,'  said  Diotima ;  *  do  you 
think  that  everything  which  is  not  beautiful,  must  of 
necessity  be  ugly?' — *  Certainly.' — 'And  everything 
that  is  not  wise,  ignorant  ?  Do  you  not  perceive  that 
there  is  something  between  ignorance  and  wisdom  ? ' 
— 'What    is  that?' — 'To  have  a  right  opinion  or. 


106  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

conjecture.  Observe,  that  this  kind  of  opinion,  for 
which  no  reason  can  be  rendered,  cannot  be  called  know- 
ledge ;  for  how  can  that  be  called  knowledge,  which  is 
without  evidence  or  reason  ?  Nor  ignorance,  on  the 
other  hand ;  for  how  can  that  be  called  ignorance 
which  arrives  at  the  persuasion  of  that  which  it  really 
is  ?  A  right  opinion  is  something  between  under- 
standing and  ignorance.' — I  confessed  that  what  she 
alleged  was  true. — '  Do  not  then  say,'  she  continued, 
^  that  what  is  not  beautiful  is  of  necessity  deformed, 
nor  what  is  not  good  is  of  necessity  evil ;  nor,  since 
you  have  confessed  that  Love  is  neither  beautiful  nor 
good,  infer,  therefore,  that  he  is  deformed  or  evil,  but 
rather  something  intermediate.' 

"  ^  But,'  I  said,  *  Love  is  confessed  by  all  to  be  a 
great  Grod.' — *  Do  you  mean,  when  you  say  all,  all 
those  who  know,  or  those  who  know  not,  what  they 
say?' — *A11,  collectively.' — 'And  how  can  that  be, 
Socrates?'  said  she  laughing;  'how  can  he  be 
acknowledged  to  be  a  great  Grod,  by  those  who  assert 
that  he  is  not  even  a  Grod  at  all?' — 'And  who  are 
they?'  I  said. — 'You  for  one,  and  I  for  another.' — 
'How  can  you  say  that,  Diotima?' — 'Easily,'  she 
replied,  '  and  with  truth  ;  for  tell  me,  do  you  not  own 
that  all  the  Grods  are  beautiful  and  happy  ?  or  will 
you  presume  to  maintain  that  any  God  is  otherwise  ?' 
— '  By  Jupiter,  not  1 1 ' — '  Do  you  not  call  those  alone 
happy  who  possess  all  things  that  are  beautiful  and 
good  ?' — '  Certainly.' — '  You  have  confessed  that  Love, 
through  his  desire  for  things  beautiful  and  good, 
possesses  not  those  materials  of  happiness.' — '  Indeed 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  107 

such  was  my  concession.' — ^  But  how  can  we  conceive 
a  Grod  to  be  without  the  possession  of  what  is  beautiful 
and  good?' — 'In  no  manner  I  confess.' — 'Observe, 
then,  that  you  do  not  consider  Love  to  be  a  God.' — 
*  What,  then,'  I  said,  '  is  Love  a  mortal  ? ' — '  By  no 
means.' — '  But  what,  then  ? '  —  *  Like  those  things 
which  I  have  before  instanced,  he  is  neither  mortal 
nor  immortal,  but  something  intermediate.' — *  "What 
is  that,  0  Diotima?' — 'A  great  daemon,  Socrates; 
and  everything  dsemoniacal  holds  an  intermediate  place 
between  what  is  divine  and  what  is  mortal.' 

'"What  is  his  power  and  nature?'  I  inquired. — 
'  He  interprets  and  makes  a  communication  between 
divine  and  human  things,  conveying  the  prayers  and 
sacrifices  of  men  to  the  Grods,  and  communicating  the 
commands  and  directions  concerning  the  mode  of 
worship  most  pleasing  to  them,  from  Gods  to  men. 
He  fills  up  that  intermediate  space  between  these  two 
classes  of  beings,  so  as  to  bind  together,  by  his  own 
power,  the  whole  universe  of  things.  Through  him 
subsist  all  divination,  and  the  science  of  sacred  things 
as  it  relates  to  sacrifices,  and  expiations,  and  disen- 
chantments,  and  prophecy,  and  magic.  The  divine 
nature  cannot  immediately  communicate  with  what  is 
human,  but  all  that  intercourse  and  converse  which  is 
conceded  by  the  Gods  to  men,  both  whilst  they  sleep 
and  when  they  wake,  subsists  through  the  intervention 
of  Love  ;  and  he  who  is  wise  in  the  science  of  this 
intercourse  is  supremely  happy,  and  participates  in 
the  dsBmoniacal  nature  ;  whilst  he  who  is  wise  in  any 
other  science  or  art,  remains  a  mere  ordinary  slave* 


108  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

These  dsemons  are,  indeed,  many  and  various,  and  one 
of  tliem  is  Love.' 

"^Who  are  the  parents  of  Love?'  I  inquired. — 
*  The  history  of  vt^hat  you  ask,'  replied  Diotima,  '  is 
somewhat  long  ;  nevertheless  I  will  explain  it  to  you. 
On  the  birth  of  Yenus  the  Gods  celebrated  a  great 
feast,  and  among  them  came  Plenty,  the  son  of  Metis. 
After  supper.  Poverty,  observing  the  profusion,  came  to 
beg,  and  stood  beside  the  door.  Plenty,  being  drunk 
with  nectar,  for  wine  was  not  yet  invented,  went 
out  into  Jupiter's  garden,  and  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 
Poverty  wishing  to  have  a  child  by  Plenty,  on  account 
of  her  low  estate,  lay  down  by  him,  and  from  his 
embraces  conceived  Love.  Love  is,  therefore,  the 
follower  and  servant  of  Yenus,  because  he  was  con- 
ceived at  her  birth,  and  because  by  nature  he  is  a 
lover  of  all  that  is  beautiful,  and  Yenus  was  beautiful. 
And  since  Love  is  the  child  of  Poverty  and  Plenty, 
his  nature  and  fortune  participate  in  that  of  his 
parents.  He  is  for  ever  poor,  and  so  far  from  being 
delicate  and  beautiful,  as  mankind  imagine,  he  is 
squalid  and  withered ;  he  flies  low  along  the  ground, 
and  is  homeless  and  unsandalled;  he  sleeps  without 
covering  before  the  doors,  and  in  the  unsheltered 
streets;  possessing  thus  far  his  mother's  nature,  that 
he  is  ever  the  companion  of  Want.  But,  inasmuch  as 
he  participates  in  that  of  his  father,  he  is  for  ever 
scheming  to  obtain  things  which  are  good  and 
beautiful;  he  is  fearless,  vehement,  and  strong;  a 
dreadful  hunter,  for  ever  weaving  some  new  con- 
trivance ;  exceedingly  cautious  and  prudent,  and  full 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  109 

of  resources ;  he  is  also,  during  his  whole  existence, 
a  philosopher,  a  powerful  enchanter,  a  wizard,  and  a 
subtle  sophist.  And,  as  his  nature  is  neither  mortal 
nor  immortal,  on  the  same  day  when  he  is  fortunate 
and  successful,  he  will  at  one  time  flourish,  and  then 
die  away,  and  then,  according  to  his  father's  nature, 
again  revive.  All  that  he  acquires  perpetually  flows 
away  from  him,  so  that  Love  is  never  either  rich  or 
poor,  and  holding  for  ever  an  intermediate  state 
between  ignorance  and  wisdom.  The  case  stands 
thus : — no  G-od  philosophises  or  desires  to  become 
wise,  for  he  is  wise  ;  nor,  if  there  exist  any  other 
being  who  is  wise,  does  he  philosophise.  Nor  do  the 
ignorant  philosophise,  for  they  desire  not  to  become 
wise ;  for  this  is  the  evil  of  ignorance,  that  he  who 
has  neither  intelligence,  nor  virtue,  nor  delicacy  of 
sentiment,  imagines  that  he  possesses  all  those  things 
sufficiently.  He  seeks  not,  therefore,  that  possession, 
of  whose  want  he  is  not  aware.' — '  Who,  then,  O 
Diotima,'  I  enquired,  'are  philosophers,  if  they  are 
neither  the  ignorant  nor  the  wise?' — *It  is  evident, 
even  to  a  child,  that  they  are  those  intermediate 
persons,  among  whom  is  Love.  For  Wisdom  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  all  things ;  Love  is  that  which 
thirsts  for  the  beautiful,  so  that  Love  is  of  necessity  a 
philosopher,  philosophy  being  an  intermediate  state  be- 
tween ignorance  and  wisdom.  His  parentage  accounts 
for  his  condition,  being  the  child  of  a  wise  and  well- 
provided  father,  and  of  a  mother  both  ignorant  and 
poor. 

"  *  Such  is  the  daemoniacal  nature,  my  dear  Socrates; 


110  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

nor  do  I  wonder  at  your  error  concerning  Love, 
for  you  thought,  as  I  conjecture  from  what  you  say, 
that  Love  was  not  the  lover  but  the  beloved,  and 
thence,  well  concluded  that  he  must  be  supremely 
beautiful ;  for  that  which  is  the  object  of  Love  must 
indeed  be  fair,  and  delicate,  and  perfect,  and  most 
happy  ;  but  Love  inherits,  as  I  have  declared,  a  totally 
opposite  nature.' — *Tour  words  have  persuasion  in 
them,  0  stranger,'  I  said  ;  *  be  it  as  you  say.  But  this 
Love,  what  advantages  does  he  afford  to  men  ? ' — *  I 
will  proceed  to  explain  it  to  you,  Socrates.  Love 
being  such  and  so  produced  as  I  have  described,  is, 
indeed,  as  you  say,  the  love  of  things  which  are  beau- 
tiful. But  if  any  one  should  ask  us,  saying ;  O  Socrates 
and  Diotima,  why  is  Love  the  love  of  beautiful  things? 
Or,  in  plainer  words,  what  does  the  lover  of  that  which 
is  beautiful,  love  in  the  object  of  his  love,  and  seek 
from  it  ?  ' — '  He  seeks,'  I  said,  interrupting  her,  ^  the 
property  and  possession  of  it.' — 'But  that,'  she  replied, 
'  might  still  be  met  with  another  question,  What  has 
he,  who  possesses  that  which  is  beautiful  ?  ' — '  Indeed, 
I  cannot  immediately  reply.' — '  But  if,  changing  the 
beautiful  for  good,  any  one  should  enquire, — I  ask,  O 
Socrates,  what  is  that  which  he  who  loves  that  which 
is  good,  loves  in  the  object  of  his  love  ?  ' — '  To  be  in 
his  possession,'  I  replied. — '  And  what  has  he,  who  has 
the  possession  of  good  ? ' — '  This  question  is  of  easier 
solution :  he  is  happy.' — '  Those  who  are  happy,  then, 
are  happy  through  the  possession ;  and  it  is  use- 
less to  enquire  what  he  desires,  who  desires  to  be 
happy ;  the  question  seems  to  have  a  complete  reply. 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  Ill 

But  do  you  think  that  this  wish  and  this  love  are 
common  to  all  men,  and  that  all  desire,  that  that  which 
is  good  should  be  for  ever  present  to  them  ?  ' — '  Cer- 
tainly, common  to  all.' — '  Why  do  we  not  say  then, 
Socrates,  that  every  one  loves  ?  if,  indeed,  all  love  per- 
petually the  same  thing  ?  But  we  say  that  some  love, 
and  some  do  not.' — '  Indeed  I  wonder  why  it  is  so.' 
— '  Wonder  not,'  said  Diotima,  '  for  we  select  a  par- 
ticular species  of  love,  and  apply  to  it  distinctively  the 

appellation  of  that  which  is  universal.' 

" '  Give  me  an  example  of  such  a  select  application. 
— *  Poetry  ;  which  is  a  general  name  signifying  every 
cause  whereby  anything  proceeds  from  that  which  is 
not,  into  that  which  is ;  so  that  the  exercise  of  every 
inventive  art  is  poetry,  and  all  such  artists  poets. 
Yet  they  are  not  called  poets,  but  distinguished  by 
other  names ;  and  one  portion  or  species  of  poetry, 
that  which  has  relation  to  music  and  rhythm,  is  divided 
from  all  others,  and  known  by  the  name  belonging  to 
all.  For  this  is  alone  properly  called  poetry,  and  those 
who  exercise  the  art  of  this  species  of  poetry,  poets. 
So,  with  respect  to  Love.  Love  is  indeed  universally 
all  that  earnest  desire  for  the  possession  of  happiness 
and  that  which  is  good ;  the  greatest  and  the  subtlest 
love,  and  which  inhabits  the  heart  of  every  living 
being ;  but  those  who  seek  this  object  through  the 
acquirement  of  wealth,  or  the  exercise  of  the  gymnastic 
arts,  or  philosophy,  are  not  said  to  love,  nor  are 
called  lovers  ;  one  species  alone  is  called  love,  and 
those  alone  are  said  to  be  lovers,  and  to  love,  who  seek 
the   attainment  of  the  universal  desire  through  one 


112  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

species  of  love,  which  is  peculiarly  distinguished  hj 
the  name  belonging  to  the  whole.  It  is  asserted  by 
some,  that  they  love,  w^ho  are  seeking  the  lost  half  of 
their  divided  being.  But  I  assert,  that  Love  is  neither 
the  love  of  the  half  nor  of  the  whole,  unless,  my  friend, 
it  meets  w  ith  that  which  is  good ;  since  men  willingly 
cut  off  their  ow^n  hands  and  feet,  if  they  think  that 
they  are  the  cause  of  evil  to  them.  Nor  do  they 
cherish  and  embrace  that  which  may  belong  to  them- 
selves, merely  because  it  is  their  OAvn  ;  unless,  indeed, 
any  one  should  choose  to  say,  that  that  which  is  good 
is  attached  to  his  own  nature  and  is  his  own,  whilst 
that  which  is  evil  is  foreign  and  accidental ;  but  love 
nothing  but  that  which  is  good.  Does  it  not  appear 
so  to  you?' — 'Assuredly.' — 'Can  we  then  simply 
affirm  that  men  love  that  which  is  good  ?  ' — '  "Without 
doubt.' — '  "What,  then,  must  w^e  not  add,  that,  in 
addition  to  loving  that  which  is  good,  they  love  that 
it  should  be  present  to  themselves  ? ' — '  Indeed  that 
must  be  added.' — '  And  not  merely  that  it  should  be 
present,  but  that  it  should  ever  be  present  ?  ' — '  This 
also  must  be  added.' 

" '  Love,  then,  is  collectively  the  desire  in  men  that 
good  should  be  for  ever  present  to  them.' — '  Most 
true.' — '  Since  this  is  the  general  definition  of  Love, 
can  you  explain  in  what  mode  of  attaining  its  object, 
and  in  what  species  of  actions,  does  Love  pecu- 
liarly consist  ?  ' — '  If  I  knew  what  you  ask,  O 
Diotima,  I  should  not  have  so  much  wondered  at 
your  wisdom,  nor  have  sought  you  out  for  the  purpose 
of  deri\dng  improvement  from  your  instructions.' — '  I 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  113 

will  tell  you,'  she  replied  :  *  Love  is  the  desire  of  gene- 
ration in  the  beautiful,  both  with  relation  to  the  body 
and  the  soul.' — '  I  must  be  a  diviner  to  comprehend 
what  you  say,  for,  being  such  as  I  am,  I  confess  that 
I  do  not  understand  it.' — ^  But  I  wiU  explain  it  more 
clearly.  The  bodies  and  the  souls  of  aU  human  beings 
are  alike  pregnant  with  their  future  progeny,  and 
w^hen  we  arrive  at  a  certain  age,  our  nature  impels  us 
to  bring  forth  and  propagate.  This  nature  is  unable 
to  produce  in  that  which  is  deformed,  but  it  can  pro- 
duce in  that  which  is  beautiful.  The  intercourse  of 
the  male  and  female  in  generation,  a  divine  work, 
through  pregnancy  and  production,  is,  as  it  were, 
something  immortal  in  mortality.  These  things  cannot 
take  place  in  that  which  is  incongruous;  for  that 
which  is  deformed  is  incongruous,  but  that  which  is 
beautiful  is  congruous  with  what  is  immortal  and 
divine.  Beauty  is,  therefore,  the  fate,  and  the  Juno 
Lucina  to  generation.  Wherefore,  whenever  that 
which  is  pregnant  with  the  generative  principle, 
approaches  that  which  is  beautiful,  it  becomes  trans- 
ported with  delight,  and  is  poured  forth  in  overflowing 
pleasure,  and  propagates.  But  when  it  approaches 
that  which  is  deformed.,  it  is  contracted  by  sadness, 
and  being  repelled  and  checked,  it  does  not  produce, 
but  retains  unwillingly  that  with  which  it  is  pregnant. 
Wherefore,  to  one  pregnant,  and,  as  it  were,  already 
bursting  with  the  load  of  his  desire,  the  impulse 
towards  that  which  is  beautiful  is  intense,  on  account 
of  the  great  pain  of  retaining  that  which  he  has  con- 
ceived.    Love,  then,  0  Socrates,  is  not  as  you  imagine 

VOL.  I.  I 


114  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

the  love  of  the  beautiful.'— ^  What  then?'— ^ Of 
generation  and  production  in  the  beautiful.' — '  Why- 
then  of  generation  ?  ' — ^  Generation  is  something 
eternal  and  immortal  in  mortality.  It  necessarily, 
from  what  has  been  confessed,  follows,  that  we  must 
desire  immortality  together  with  what  is  good,  since  Love 
is  the  desire  that  good  be  for  ever  present  to  us.  Of 
necessity  Love  must  also  be  the  desire  of  immortality.' 
"Diotima  taught  me  all  this  doctrine  in  the  dis- 
course we  had  together  concerning  Love  ;  and,  in 
addition,  she  inquired,  *  What  do  you  think,  Socrates, 
is  the  cause  of  this  love  and  desire  ?  Do  you  not 
perceive  how  all  animals,  both  those  of  the  earth  and 
of  the  air,  are  affected  when  they  desire  the  propaga- 
tion of  their  species,  affected  even  to  weakness  and 
disease  by  the  impulse  of  their  love;  first,  longing 
to  be  mixed  with  each  other,  and  then  seeking  nourish- 
ment for  their  offspring,  so  that  the  feeblest  are  ready 
to  contend  with  the  strongest  in  obedience  to  this 
law,  and  to  die  for  the  sake  of  their  young,  or  to 
waste  aw^ay  with  hunger,  and  do  or  suffer  anything  so 
that  they  may  not  want  nourishment.  It  might  be 
said  that  human  beings  do  these  things  through 
reason,  but  can  you  explain  why  other  animals  are 
thus  affected  through  love  ? ' — I  confessed  that  I  did 
not  know. — '  Do  you  imagine  yourself,'  said  she,  *  to 
be  skilful  in  the  science  of  Love,  if  you  are  ignorant 
of  these  things  ?  ' — *  As  I  said  before,  O  Diotima,  I 
come  to  you,  well  knowing  how  much  I  am  in  need  of 
a  teacher.  But  explain  to  me,  I  entreat  you,  the 
cause  of  these  things,  and  of  the  other  things  relating  to 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  115 

Love.' — '  If,'  said  Diotima,  ^  you  believe  that  Love  is  of 
the  same  nature  as  we  have  mutually  agreed  upon, 
wonder  not  that  such  are  its  effects.  Por  the  mortal 
nature  seeks,  so  far  as  it  is  able,  to  become  deathless 
and  eternal.  But  it  can  only  accomplish  this  desire 
by  generation,  which  for  ever  leaves  another  new  in 
place  of  the  old.  For,  although  each  human  being  be 
severally  said  to  live,  and  be  the  same  from  youth  to 
old  age,  yet,  that  which  is  called  the  same,  never  con- 
tains within  itself  the  same  things,  but  always  is 
becoming  new  by  the  loss  and  change  of  that  which 
it  possessed  before ;  both  the  hair,  and  the  flesh,  and 
the  bones,  and  the  entire  body. 

" '  And  not  only  does  this  change  take  place  in  the 
body,  but  also  with  respect  to  the  soul.  Manners, 
morals,  opinions,  desires,  pleasures,  sorrows,  fears ; 
none  of  these  ever  remain  unchanged  in  the  same 
persons;  but  some  die  away,  and  others  are  produced. 
And,  what  is  yet  more  strange  is,  that  not  only  does 
some  knowledge  spring  up,  and  another  decay,  and 
that  we  are  never  the  same  with  respect  to  our  know- 
ledge, but  that  each  several  object  of  our  thoughts 
suffers  the  same  revolution.  That  which  is  called 
meditation,  or  the  exercise  of  memory,  is  the  science 
of  the  escape  or  departure  of  memory ;  for,  forgetful- 
ness  is  the  going  out  of  knowledge ;  and  meditation, 
calling  up  a  new  memory  in  the  place  of  that  which 
has  departed,  preserves  knowledge;  so  that,  though 
for  ever  displaced  and  restored,  it  seems  to  be  the 
same.  In  this  manner  everything  mortal  is  preserved : 
not  that  it  is  constant  and  eternal,  Hke  that  which  is 

I  2 


116  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

divine  ;  but  that  in  the  place  of  what  has  grown  old 
and  is  departed,  it  leaves  another  new  like  that  which 
it  was  itself.  By  this  contrivance,  O  Socrates,  does 
what  is  mortal,  the  body  and  all  other  things,  partake 
of  immortality  ;  that  which  is  immortal,  is  immortal  in 
another  manner.  Wonder  not,  then,  if  everything  by 
nature  cherishes  that  which  was  produced  from  itself, 
for  this  earnest  Love  is  a  tendency  towards  eternity.' 

"  Having  heard  this  discourse,  I  was  astonished,  and 
asked,  *  Can  these  things  be  true,  O  wisest  Diotima  ? ' 
And  she,  like  an  accomplished  sophist,  said,  '  Know 
well,  O  Socrates,  that  if  you  only  regard  that  love  of 
glory  which  inspires  men,  you  will  wonder  at  your 
own  unskilfulness  in  not  having  discovered  all  that  I 
now  declare.  Observe  with  how  vehement  a  desire 
they  are  affected  to  become  illustrious  and  to  prolong 
their  glory  into  immortal  time,  to  attain  which  object, 
far  more  ardently  than  for  the  sake  of  their  children, 
aU  men  are  ready  to  engage  in  many  dangers,  and 
expend  their  fortunes,  and  submit  to  any  labours  and 
incur  any  death.  Do  you  believe  that  Alcestis  would 
have  died  in  the  place  of  Admetus,  or  Achilles  for  the 
revenge  of  Patroclus,  or  Codrus  for  the  kingdom  of 
his  posterity,  if  they  had  not  believed  that  the  immortal 
memory  of  their  actions,  which  we  now  cherish,  would 
have  remained  after  their  death  ?  Ear  otherwise ;  aU 
such  deeds  are  done  for  the  sake  of  ever-living  virtue, 
and  this  immortal  glory  which  they  have  obtained; 
and  inasmuch  as  any  one  is  of  an  excellent  nature,  so 
much  the  more  is  he  impelled  to  attain  this  reward. 
!For  they  love  what  is  immortal. 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  117 

"  *  Those  wliose  bodies  alone  are  pregnant  with  this 
principle  of  immortality  are  attracted  by  women, 
seeking  through  the  production  of  children  what  they 
imagine  to  be  happiness  and  immortality  and  an 
enduring  remembrance  ;  but  they  whose  souls  are  far 
more  pregnant  than  their  bodies,  conceive  and  produce 
that  which  is  more  suitable  to  the  soul.  What  is 
suitable  to  the  soul  ?  Intelligence,  and  every  other 
power  and  excellence  of  the  mind ;  of  which  all  poets, 
and  all  other  artists  who  are  creative  and  inventive,  are 
the  authors.  The  greatest  and  most  admirable  wisdom 
is  that  which  regulates  the  government  of  families 
and  states,  and  which  is  called  moderation  and  justice. 
Whosoever,  therefore,  from  his  youth  feels  his  soul 
pregnant  with  the  conception  of  these  excellences,  is 
divine ;  and  when  due  time  arrives,  desires  to  bring 
forth ;  and  wandering  about,  he  seeks  the  beautiful  in 
which  he  may  propagate  what  he  has  conceived ;  for 
there  is  no  generation  in  that  which  is  deformed ;  he 
embraces  those  bodies  which  are  beautiful  rather  than 
those  which  are  deformed,  in  obedience  to  the  principle 
which  is  within  him,  which  is  ever  seeking  to  perpe- 
tuate itself.  And  if  he  meets,  in  conjunction  with 
loveliness  of  form,  a  beautiful,  generous,  and  gentle 
soul,  he  embraces  both  at  once,  and  immediately 
undertakes  to  educate  this  object  of  his  love,  and  is 
inspired  with  an  overflowing  persuasion  to  declare  what 
is  virtue,  and  what  he  ought  to  be  who  would  attain  to 
its  possession,  and  what  are  the  duties  which  it  exacts. 
For,  by  the  intercourse  with,  and  as  it  were,  the  very 
touch  of  that  which  is  beautiful,  he  brings  forth  and 


118  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

produces  what  he  had  formerlj  conceived ;  and 
nourishes  and  educates  that  which  is  thus  produced 
together  with  the  object  of  his  love,  whose  image, 
whether  absent  or  present,  is  never  divided  from  his 
mind.  So  that  those  who  are  thus  united  are  linked 
by  a  nobler  community  and  a  firmer  love,  as  being  the 
common  parents  of  a  lovelier  and  more  endearing 
progeny  than  the  parents  of  other  children.  And 
every  one  who  considers  what  posterity  Homer  and 
Hesiod,  and  the  other  great  poets,  have  left  behind 
them,  the  sources  of  their  own  immortal  memory  and 
renown,  or  what  children  of  his  soul  Lycurgus  has 
appointed  to  be  the  guardians,  not  only  of  Lacedsemon, 
but  of  all  Grreece  ;  or  what  an  illustrious  progeny  of 
laws  Solon  has  produced,  and  how  many  admirable 
achievements,  both  among  the  Grreeks  and  Barbarians, 
men  have  left  as  the  pledges  of  that  love  which 
subsisted  between  them  and  the  beautiful,  would 
choose  rather  to  be  the  parent  of  such  children  than 
those  in  a  human  shape.  Eor  divine  honours  have  often 
been  rendered  to  them  on  account  of  such  children, 
but  on  account  of  those  in  human  shape,  never. 

"  '  Your  own  meditation,  O  Socrates,  might  perhaps 
have  initiated  you  in  all  these  things  which  I  have 
already  taught  you  on  the  subject  of  Love.  But  those 
perfect  and  sublime  ends,  to  which  these  are  only  the 
means,  I  know  not  that  you  would  have  been  compe- 
tent to  discover.  I  will  declare  them,  therefore,  and 
will  render  them  as  intelligible  as  possible :  do  you 
meanwhile  strain  all  your  attention  to  trace  the 
obscure  depth  of  the  subject.     He  who  aspires  to  love 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO,  119 

rightly,  ought  from  his  earliest  youth  to  seek  an  inter- 
course with  beautiful  forms,  and  first  to  make  a  single 
form  the  object  of  his  love,  and  therein  to  generate 
intellectual  excellences.  He  ought,  then,  to  consider 
that  beauty,  in  whatever  form  it  resides,  is  the  brother 
of  that  beauty  which  subsists  in  another  form  ;  and  if 
he  ought  to  pursue  that  which  is  beautiful  in  form,  it 
would  be  absurd  to  imagine  that  beauty  is  not  one  and 
the  same  thing  in  all  forms,  and  would  therefore  remit 
much  of  his  ardent  preference  towards  one,  through 
his  perception  of  the  multitude  of  claims  upon  his 
love.  In  addition,  he  would  consider  the  beauty 
which  is  in  souls  more  excellent  than  that  which  is  in 
form.  So  that  one  endowed  with  an  admirable  soul, 
even  though  the  flower  of  the  form  were  withered, 
would  suffice  him  as  the  object  of  his  love  and  care, 
and  the  companion  wdth  whom  he  might  seek  and 
produce  such  conclusions  as  tend  to  the  improvement 
of  youth ;  so  that  it  might  be  led  to  observe  the 
beauty  and  the  conformity  which  there  is  in  the 
observation  of  its  duties  and  the  laws,  and  to  esteem 
little  the  mere  beauty  of  the  outward  form.  He  would 
then  conduct  his  pupil  to  science,  so  that  he  might 
look  upon  the  loveliness  of  wisdom  ;  and  that  contem- 
plating thus  the  universal  beauty,  no  longer  would  he 
unworthily  and  meanly  enslave  himself  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  one  form  in  love,  nor  one  subject  of  discipline 
or  science,  but  would  turn  towards  the  wide  ocean  of 
intellectual  beauty,  and  from  the  sight  of  the  lovely 
and  majestic  forms  which  it  contains,  w^ould  abundantly 
bring  forth  his    conceptions    in    philosophy;    until, 


120  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

strengthened  and  confirmed,  he  should  at  length 
steadily  contemplate  one  science,  which  is  the  science 
of  this  universal  beauty. 

"  '  Attempt,  I  entreat  you,  to  mark  what  I  say  with 
as  keen  an  observation  as  you  can.  He  who  has  been 
disciplined  to  this  point  in  Love,  by  contemplating 
beautiful  objects  gradually,  and  in  their  order,  now 
arriving  at  the  end  of  all  that  concerns  Love,  on  a 
sudden  beholds  a  beauty  wonderful  in  its  nature. 
This  is  it,  0  Socrates,  for  the  sake  of  which  all  the 
former  labours  were  endured.  It  is  eternal,  unpro- 
duced,  indestructible ;  neither  subject  to  increase  nor 
decay:  not,  like  other  things,  partly  beautiful  and 
partly  deformed;  not  at  one  time  beautiful  and  at 
another  time  not ;  not  beautiful  in  relation  to  one 
thing  and  deformed  in  relation  to  another ;  not  here 
beautiful  and  there  deformed ;  not  beautiful  in  the 
estimation  of  one  person  and  deformed  in  that  of 
another ;  nor  can  this  supreme  beauty  be  figured  to 
the  imagination  like  a  beautiful  face,  or  beautiful 
hands,  or  any  portion  of  the  body,  nor  like  any 
discourse,  nor  any  science.  JSTor  does  it  subsist  in  any 
other  that  lives  or  is,  either  in  earth,  or  in  heaven,  or 
in  any  other  place ;  but  it  is  eternally  uniform  and 
consistent,  and  monoeidic  with  itself.  All  other  things 
are  beautiful  through  a  participation  of  it,  with  this 
condition,  that  although  they  are  subject  to  production 
and  decay,  it  never  becomes  more  or  less,  or  endures 
any  change.  When  any  one,  ascending  from  a  correct 
system  of  Love,  begins  to  contemplate  this  supreme 
beauty,  he  already  touches  the  consummation  of  his 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  121 

labour.  Por  such  as  discipline  themselves  upon  this 
system,  or  are  conducted  by  another  beginning  to 
ascend  through  these  transitory  objects  which  are 
beautiful,  towards  that  which  is  beauty  itself,  pro- 
ceeding as  on  steps  from  the  love  of  one  form  to  that 
of  two,  and  from  that  of  two,  to  that  of  all  forms  w^hich 
are  beautiful ;  and  from  beautiful  forms  to  beautiful 
habits  and  institutions,  and  from  institutions  to 
beautiful  doctrines ;  until,  from  the  meditation  of 
many  doctrines,  they  arrive  at  that  which  is  nothing 
else  than  the  doctrine  of  the  supreme  beauty  itself,  in 
the  knowledge  and  contemplation  of  which  at  length 
they  repose. 

"  '  Such  a  life  as  this,  my  dear  Socrates,'  exclaimed 
the  stranger  Prophetess,  *  spent  in  the  contemplation 
of  the  beautiful,  is  the  life  for  men  to  live ;  which  if 
you  chance  ever  to  experience,  you  will  esteem  far 
beyond  gold  and  rich  garments,  and  even  those  lovely 
persons  whom  you  and  many  others  now  gaze  on  with 
astonishment,  and  are  prepared  neither  to  eat  nor 
drink  so  that  you  may  behold  and  live  for  ever  with 
these  objects  of  your  love!  What  then  shall  we 
imagine  to  be  the  aspect  of  the  supreme  beauty  itself, 
simple,  pure,  uncontaminated  with  the  intermixture  of 
human  flesh  and  colours,  and  all  other  idle  and  unreal 
shapes  attendant  on  mortality ;  the  divine,  the  original, 
the  supreme,  the  monoeidic  beautiful  itself?  What 
must  be  the  life  of  him  who  dwells  with  and  gazes  on 
that  which  it  becomes  us  all  to  seek  ?  Think  you  not 
that  to  him  alone  is  accorded  the  prerogative  of 
bringing  forth,  not  images  and  shadows  of  virtue,  for 


122  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

he  is  in  contact  not  with  a  shadow  but  with  reality ; 
with  virtue  itself,  in  the  production  and  nourishment 
of  which  he  becomes  dear  to  the  Gods,  and  if  such  a 
privilege  is  conceded  to  any  human  being,  himself 
immortal.' 

"  Such,  O  Phaedrus  and  my  other  friends,  was  what 
Diotima  said.  And  being  persuaded  by  her  words, 
I  have  since  occupied  myself  in  attempting  to  persuade 
others,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  find  a  better  assistant 
than  Love  in  seeking  to  communicate  immortality  to 
our  human  natures.  "Wherefore  I  exhort  every  one 
to  honour  Love  ;  I  hold  him  in  honour,  and  chiefly 
exercise  myself  in  amatory  matters,  and  exhort  others 
to  do  so ;  and  now  and  ever  do  I  praise  the  power  and 
excellence  of  Love,  in  the  best  manner  that  I  can. 
Let  this  discourse,  if  it  pleases  you,  Phsedrus,  be 
considered  as  an  encomium  of  Love  ;  or  call  it  by  what 
other  name  you  will." 

The  whole  assembly  praised  his  discourse,  and 
Aristophanes  was  on  the  point  of  making  some 
remarks  on  the  allusion  made  by  Socrates  to  him  in  a 
part  of  his  discourse,  when  suddenly  they  heard  a 
loud  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  vestibule,  and  a 
clamour  as  of  revellers,  attended  by  a  flute-player. — 
"  Gro,  boys,"  said  Agathon,  "  and  see  who  is  there :  if 
they  are  any  of  our  friends,  call  them  in ;  if  not,  say 
that  we  have  abeady  done  drinking." — A  minute 
afterwards,  they  heard  the  voice  of  Alcibiades  in  the 
vestibule  excessively  drunk  and  roaring  out : — "  "Where 
is  Agathon?  Lead  me  to  Agathon!" — The  flute- 
player,  and  some  of  his  companions,  then  led  him  in, 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  123 

and  placed  him  against  the  door-post,  crowned  with. 
a  thick  crown  of  ivy  and  violets,  and  having  a  quantity 
of  fillets  on  his  head. — "  My  friends,"  he  cried  out, 
"  hail !  I  am  excessively  drunk  already,  but  I'll 
drink  with  you,  if  you  will.  If  not,  we  will  go  away 
after  having  crowned  Agathon,  for  which  purpose 
I  came.  I  assure  you  that  I  could  not  come  yes- 
terday, but  I  am  now  here  with  these  fillets  round  my 
temples,  that  from  my  own  head  I  may  crown  his 
who,  with  your  leave,  is  the  most  beautiful  and  wisest 
of  men.  Are  you  laughing  at  me  because  I  am  drunk  ? 
Ay,  I  know  what  I  say  is  true,  whether  you  laugh 
or  not.  But  tell  me  at  once,  whether  I  shall  come  in, 
or  no.     Will  you  drink  with  me  ?  '* 

Agathon  and  the  whole  party  desired  him  to  come 
in,  and  recline  among  them ;  so  he  came  in,  led 
by  his  companions.  He  then  unbound  his  fillets  that 
he  might  crown  Agathon,  and  though  Socrates  was 
just  before  his  eyes,  he  did  not  see  him,  but  sat  down 
by  Agathon,  between  Socrates  and  him,  for  Socrates 
moved  out  of  the  way  to  make  room  for  him.  When 
he  sat  down,  he  embraced  Agathon  and  crowned  him ; 
and  Agathon  desired  the  slaves  to  untie  his  sandals, 
that  he  might  make  a  third,  and  recline  on  the 
same  couch.  "By  aU  means,"  said  Alcibiades,  "but 
what  third  companion  have  we  here  ?  "  And  at  the 
same  time  turning  round  and  seeing  Socrates,  he 
leaped  up  and  cried  out : — "  O  Hercules  !  what  have 
we  here?  You,  Socrates,  lying  in  ambush  for  me 
wherever  I  go !  and  meeting  me  just  as  you  always 
do,  when  I  least  expected  to  see  you!    And,  now, 


124  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

what  are  you  come  here  for  ?  "Why  have  you  chosen 
to  recline  exactly  in  this  place,  and  not  near  Aris- 
tophanes, or  any  one  else  who  is,  or  wishes  to  be 
ridiculous,  but  have  contrived  to  take  your  place 
beside  the  most  delightful  person  of  the  whole 
party?" — "Agathon,"  said  Socrates,  "see  if  you 
cannot  defend  me.  I  declare  my  friendship  for  this 
man  is  a  bad  business  :  from  the  moment  that  I  first 
began  to  know  him  I  have  never  been  permitted 
to  converse  with,  or  so  much  as  to  look  upon  any  one 
else.  If  I  do,  he  is  so  jealous  and  suspicious  that 
he  does  the  most  extravagant  things,  and  hardly 
refrains  from  beating  me.  I  entreat  you  to  prevent 
him  from  doing  anything  of  that  kind  at  present. 
Procure  a  reconciliation ;  or,  if  he  perseveres  in 
attempting  any  violence,  I  entreat  you  to  defend 
me." — "Indeed,"  said  Alcibiades,  "I  will  not  be 
reconciled  to  you ;  I  shall  find  another  opportunity  to 
punish  you  for  this.  But  now,"  said  he,  addressing 
Agathon,  "  lend  me  some  of  those  fillets,  that  I  may 
crown  the  wonderful  head  of  this  fellow,  lest  I  incur 
the  blame,  that  having  crow^ned  you,  I  neglected  to 
crown  him  who  conquers  all  men  with  his  discourses, 
not  yesterday  alone  as  you  did,  but  ever." 

Saying  this  he  took  the  fillets,  and  having  bound 
the  head  of  Socrates,  and  again  having  reclined,  said  : 
"  Come,  my  friends,  you  seem  to  be  sober  enough. 
You  must  not  flinch,  but  drink,  for  that  w^as  your 
agreement  with  me  before  I  came  in.  I  choose  as 
president,  until  you  have  drunk  enough — myself. 
Come,  Agathon,  if  you  have  got  a  great  goblet,  fetch 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  125 

it  out.  But  no  matter,  that  wine-cooler  will  do  ; 
bring  it,  boy!"  And  observing  tbat  it  beld  more 
than  eight  cups,  he  first  drank  it  off,  and  then  ordered 
it  to  be  filled  for  Socrates,  and  said : — "  Observe,  my 
friends,  I  cannot  invent  any  scheme  against  Socrates, 
for  he  will  drink  as  much  as  any  one  desires  him, 
and  not  be  in  the  least  drunk."  Socrates,  after  the 
boy  had  filled  up,  drank  it  off;  and  Eryximachus 
said : — ^'  Shall  we  then  have  no  conversation  or  singing 
over  our  cups,  but  drink  down  stupidly,  just  as  if  we 
were  thirsty?"  And  Alcibiades  said: — "Ah,  Eryxi- 
machus, I  did  not  see  you  before  ;  hail,  you  excellent 
son  of  a  wise  and  excellent  father!" — "Hail  to  you 
also,"  replied  Eryximachus,  "  but  what  shall  we  do  ?  " — 
"  Whatever  you  command,  for  we  ought  to  submit 
to  your  directions;  a  physician  is  worth  a  hundred 
common  men.  Command  us  as  you  please." — 
"  Listen  then,"  said  Eryximachus  ;  "before  you  came 
in,  each  of  us  had  agreed  to  deliver  as  eloquent  a 
discourse  as  he  could  in  praise  of  Love,  beginning 
at  the  right  hand;  all  the  rest  of  us  have  fulfilled 
our  engagement ;  you  have  not  spoken,  and  yet  have 
drunk  with  us :  you  ought  to  bear  your  part  in  the 
discussion ;  and  having  done  so,  command  what  you 
please  to  Socrates,  who  shall  have  the  privilege  of 
doing  so  to  his  right-hand  neighbour,  and  so  on  to  the 
others." — "  Indeed,  there  appears  some  justice  in  your 
proposal,  Eryximachus,  though  it  is  rather  unfair  to 
induce  a  drunken  man  to  set  his  discourse  in  com- 
petition with  that  of  those  who  are  sober.  And, 
besides,  did  Socrates  really  persuade  you  that  what  he 


126  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

just  said  about  me  was  true,  or  do  you  not  know  that 
matters  are  in  fact  exactly  the  reverse  of  his  repre- 
sentation ?  For  I  seriously  believe  that,  should  I 
praise  in  his  presence,  be  he  god  or  man,  any  other 
beside  himself,  he  would  not  keep  his  hands  off  me. 
But  I  assure  you,  Socrates,  I  will  praise  no  one  beside 
yourself,  in  your  presence." 

"Do  so,  then,"  said  Eryximachus;  "praise  Socrates 
if  you  please." — "What!"  said  Alcibiades,  "shall  I 
attack  him,  and  punish  him  before  you  all  ?  " — "  "What 
have  you  got  into  your  head  now,"  said  Socrates ; 
"  are  you  going  to  expose  me  to  ridicule,  and  to 
misrepresent  me  ?  Or  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  " — 
"  I  will  only  speak  the  truth ;  will  you  permit  me 
on  this  condition  ?  " — "  I  not  only  permit,  but  exhort 
you  to  say  all  the  truth  you  know,"  replied  Socrates. 
"I  obey  you  willingly,"  said  Alcibiades;  "and  if  I 
advance  anything  untrue,  do  you,  if  you  please, 
interrupt  me,  and  convict  me  of  misrepresentation,  for 
I  would  never  willingly  speak  falsely.  And  bear  with 
me  if  I  do  not  relate  things  in  their  order,  but  just  as 
I  remember  them,  for  it  is  not  easy  for  a  man  in  my 
present  condition  to  enumerate  systematically  all  your 
singularities. 

"  I  will  begin  the  praise  of  Socrates  by  comparing 
him  to  a  certain  statue.  Perhaps  he  will  think  that 
this  statue  is  introduced  for  the  sake  of  ridicule,  but  I 
assure  you  that  it  is  necessary  for  the  illustration  of 
truth.  I  assert,  then,  that  Socrates  is  exactly  like  those 
Silenuses  that  sit  in  the  sculptors'  shops,  and  which 
are  carved  holding  flutes  or  pipes,  but  which,  when 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  127 

divided  into  two,  are  found  to  contain  within  side  the 
images  of  the  gods.  I  assert  that  Socrates  is  like  the 
satyr  Marsyas.  That  your  form  and  appearance  are 
like  these  satyrs,  I  think  that  even  you  will  not  venture 
to  deny;  and  how  like  you  are  to  them  in  all  other 
things,  now  hear.  Are  you  not  scornful  and  petulant  ? 
If  you  deny  this,  I  will  bring  witnesses.  Are  you  not 
a  piper,  and  far  more  wonderful  a  one  than  he  ?  Por 
Marsyas,  and  whoever  now  pipes  the  music  that  he 
taught;  for  that  music  which  is  of  heaven,  and 
described  as  being  taught  by  Marsyas,  enchants  men 
through  the  power  of  the  mouth.  For  if  any  musician, 
be  he  skilful  or  not,  awakens  this  music,  it  alone 
enables  him  to  retain  the  minds  of  men,  and  from  the 
divinity  of  its  nature  makes  evident  those  who  are 
in  want  of  the  gods  and  initiation.  You  differ  only 
from  Marsyas  in  this  circumstance,  that  you  effect 
without  instruments,  by  mere  words,  all  that  he  can 
do.  For  when  we  hear  Pericles,  or  any  other  accom- 
plished orator,  deliver  a'  discourse,  no  one,  as  it  were, 
cares  anything  about  it.  But  when  any  one  hears 
you,  or  even  your  words  related  by  another,  though 
ever  so  rude  and  unskilful  a  speaker,  be  that  person  a 
woman,  man,  or  child,  we  are  struck  and  retained,  as  it 
were,  by  the  discourse  clinging  to  our  mind. 

"If  I  was  not  afraid  that  I  am  a  great  deal  too 
drunk,  I  would  confirm  to  you  by  an  oath  the  strange 
effects  which  I  assure  you  I  have  suffered  from  his 
words,  and  suffer  still ;  for  when  I  hear  him  speak, 
my  heart  leaps  up  far  more  than  the  hearts  of  those 
who  celebrate  the  Corybantic  mysteries ;  my  tears  are 


128  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

poured  out  as  lie  talks,  a  tiling  I  have  seen  happen  to 
many  others  beside  myself.  I  have  heard  Pericles  and 
other  excellent  orators,  and  have  been  pleased  vdth 
their  discourses,  but  I  suffered  nothing  of  this  kind ; 
nor  was  my  soul  ever  on  those  occasions  disturbed  and 
filled  with  self-reproach,  as  if  it  were  slavishly  laid 
prostrate.  But  this  Marsyas  here  has  often  affected 
me  in  the  way  I  describe,  until  the  life  which  I  lead 
seemed  hardly  worth  living.  Do  not  deny  it,  Socrates ; 
for  I  well  know  that  if  even  now  I  chose  to  listen 
to  you,  I  could  not  resist,  but  should  again  suffer 
the  same  effects.  Eor,  my  friends,  he  forces  me  to 
confess  that  while  I  myself  am  still  in  want  of  many 
things,  I  neglect  my  own  necessities,  and  attend  to 
those  of  the  Athenians.  I  stop  my  ears,  therefore, 
as  from  the  Syrens,  and  flee  away  as  fast  as  possible, 
that  I  may  not  sit  down  beside  him  and  grow  old 
in  listening  to  his  talk.  For  this  man  has  reduced 
me  to  feel  the  sentiment  of  shame,  which  I  imagine  no 
one  would  readily  believe  was  in  me  ;  he  alone  inspires 
me  with  remorse  and  awe.  For  I  feel  in  his  presence 
my  incapacity  of  refuting  what  he  says,  or  of  refusing 
to  do  that  which  he  directs  ;  but  when  I  depart  from 
him,  the  glory  which  the  multitude  confers  overwhelms 
me.  I  escape,  therefore,  and  hide  myself  from  him, 
and  when  I  see  him  I  am  overwhelmed  with  humi- 
liation, because  I  have  neglected  to  do  what  I  have 
confessed  to  him  ought  to  be  done ;  and  often  and 
often  have  I  wished  that  he  were  no  longer  to  be  seen 
among  men.  But  if  that  were  to  happen,  I  well  know 
that  I  should  suffer  far  greater  pain ;  so  that  where 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  129 

I  can  turn,  or  wliat  I  can  do  with  this  man,  I  know 
not.  All  this  have  I  and  many  others  suffered  from  the 
pipings  of  this  satyr. 

"  And  observe  how  like  he  is  to  what  I  said,  and 
what  a  wonderful  power  he  possesses.  Know  that 
there  is  not  one  of  you  who  is  aware  of  the  real  nature 
of  Socrates ;  but  since  I  have  begun,  I  will  make  him 
plain  to  you.  You  observe  how  passionately  Socrates 
aifects  the  intimacy  of  those  who  are  beautiful,  and 
how  ignorant  he  professes  himself  to  be  ;  appearances 
in  themselves  excessively  Silenic.  This,  my  friends,  is 
the  external  form  with  which,  like  one  of  the  sculptured 
Sileni,  he  has  clothed  himself;  for  if  you  open  him, 
you  will  find  within  admirable  temperance  and  wisdom. 
For  he  cares  not  for  mere  beauty,  but  despises  more  than 
any  one  can  imagine  all  external  possessions,  whether 
it  be  beauty  or  wealth,  or  glory,  or  any  other  thing  for 
which  the  multitude  felicitates  the  possessor.  He 
esteems  these  things  and  us  who  honour  them,  as 
nothing,  and  lives  among  men,  making  all  the  objects 
of  their  admiration  the  playthings  of  his  irony.  But  I 
know  not  if  any  one  of  you  have  ever  seen  the  divine 
images  which  are  within,  when  he  has  been  opened 
and  is  serious.  I  have  seen  them,  and  they  are  so 
supremely  beautiful,  so  golden,  so  divine,  and  wonder- 
ful, that  everything  which  Socrates  commands  surely 
ought  to  be  obeyed,  even  like  the  voice  of  a  Grod. 
*  *  *  * 

"  At  one  time  we  were  fellow-soldiers,  and  had  our 
mess  together  in  the  camp  before  Potidaea.  Socrates 
there  overcame  not  only  me,  but  every  one  beside,  in 

VOL.   I.  K 


130  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

endurance  of  toils :  when,  as  often  happens  in  a 
campaign,  we  were  reduced  to  few  provisions,  tliere 
were  none  who  could  sustain  hunger  like  Socrates ; 
and  when  we  had  plenty,  he  alone  seemed  to  enjoy 
our  military  fare.  He  never  drank  much  willingly, 
but  when  he  was  compelled,  he  conquered  all  even  in 
that  to  which  he  was  least  accustomed ;  and  what  is 
most  astonishing,  no  person  ever  saw  Socrates  drunk 
either  then  or  at  any  other  time.  In  the  depth  of 
winter  (and  the  winters  there  are  excessively  rigid), 
he  sustained  calmly  incredible  hardships :  and  amongst 
other  things,  whilst  the  frost  was  intolerably  severe, 
and  no  one  went  out  of  their  tents,  or  if  they  went 
out,  wrapt  themselves  up  carefully,  and  put  fleeces 
under  their  feet,  and  bound  their  legs  with  hairy  skins, 
Socrates  went  out  only  with  the  same  cloak  on  that  he 
usually  wore,  and  walked  barefoot  upon  the  ice  ;  more 
easily,  indeed,  than  those  who  had  sandalled  themselves 
so  delicately :  so  that  the  soldiers  thought  that  he  did 
it  to  mock  their  want  of  fortitude.  It  would  indeed  be 
worth  while  to  commemorate  all  that  this  brave  man 
did  and  endured  in  that  expedition.  In  one  instance 
he  was  seen  early  in  the  morning,  standing  in  one 
place  wrapt  in  meditation ;  and  as  he  seemed  not  to  be 
able  to  unravel  the  subject  of  his  thoughts,  he  still 
continued  to  stand  as  inquiring  and  discussing  within 
himself,  and  when  noon  came,  the  soldiers  observed 
him,  and  said  to  one  another — *  Socrates  has  been 
standing  there  thinking,  ever  since  the  morning.'  At 
last  some  lonians  came  to  the  spot,  and  having 
supped,  as  it  was  summer,  bringing  their  blankets. 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  131 

they  lay  down  to  sleep  in  tlie  cool;  they  observed 
that  Socrates  continued  to  stand  there  the  whole 
night  until  morning,  and  that,  when  the  sun  rose,  he 
saluted  it  with  a  prayer  and  departed. 

"I  ought  not  to  omit  what  Socrates  is  in  battle. 
Eor  in  that  battle  after  which  the  generals  decreed  to 
me  the  prize  of  courage,  Socrates  alone  of  all  men  was 
the  saviour  of  my  life,  standing  by  me  when  I  had 
fallen  and  was  wounded,  and  preserving  both  myself 
and  my  arms  from  the  hand  of  the  enemy.  On  that 
occasion  I  entreated  the  generals  to  decree  the  prize, 
as  it  was  most  due,  to  him.  And  this,  0  Socrates, 
you  cannot  deny,  that  while  the  generals,  wishing  to 
conciliate  a  person  of  my  rank,  desired  to  give  me  the 
prize,  you  were  far  more  earnestly  desirous  than  the 
generals  that  this  glory  should  be  attributed  not  to 
yourself,  but  me. 

*'  But  to  see  Socrates  when  our  army  was  defeated 
and  scattered  in  flight  at  Delius,  was  a  spectacle 
worthy  to  behold.  On  that  occasion  I  was  among  the 
cavalry,  and  he  on  foot,  heavily  armed.  After  the 
total  rout  of  our  troops,  he  and  Laches  retreated 
together;  I  came  up  by  chance,  and  seeing  them, 
bade  them  be  of  good  cheer,  for  that  I  would  not 
leave  them.  As  I  was  on  horseback,  and  therefore 
less  occupied  by  a  regard  of  my  own  situation,  I  could 
better  observe  than  at  Potidsea  the  beautiful  spectacle 
exhibited  by  Socrates  on  this  emergency.  How  supe- 
rior was  he  to  Laches  in  presence  of  mind  and 
courage !  Your  representation  of  him  on  the  stage, 
0  Aristophanes,  was  not  wholly  unlike  his  real  self  on 

K  2 


132  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

this  occasion,  for  he  walked  and  darted  his  regards 
around  with  a  majestic  composure,  looking  tranquilly 
both  on  his  Mends  and  enemies ;  so  that  it  was 
evident  to  every  one,  even  from  afar,  that  whoever 
should  venture  to  attack  him  would  encounter  a 
desperate  resistance.  He  and  his  companion  thus 
departed  in  safety ;  for  those  who  are  scattered  in 
flight  are  pursued  and  killed,  whilst  men  hesitate  to 
touch  those  who  exhibit  such  a  countenance  as  that  of 
Socrates  even  in  defeat. 

"  Many  other  and  most  wonderful  qualities  could 
well  be  praised  in  Socrates ;  but  such  as  these  might 
singly  be  attributed  to  others.  But  that  which  is 
unparalleled  in  Socrates,  is,  that  he  is  unhke,  and 
above  comparison,  with  all  other  men,  whether  those 
who  have  lived  in  ancient  times,  or  those  who  exist 
now.  Tor  it  may  be  conjectured,  that  Brasidas  and 
many  others  are  such  as  was  Achilles.  Pericles 
deserves  comparison  with  Nestor  and  Antenor ;  and 
other  excellent  persons  of  various  times  may,  vrith 
probability,  be  drawn  into  comparison  with  each  other. 
But  to  such  a  singular  man  as  this,  both  himself  and 
his  discourses  being  so  uncommon,  no  one,  should  he 
seek,  would  find  a  parallel  among  the  present  or  the 
past  generations  of  mankind ;  unless  they  should  say 
that  he  resembled  those  vrith  whom  I  lately  compared 
him,  for,  assuredly,  he  and  his  discourses  are  like 
nothing  but  the  Sileni  and  the  Satyrs.  At  first  I 
forgot  to  make  you  observe  how  like  his  discourses  are 
to  those  Satyrs  when  they  are  opened,  for,  if  any  one 
will  listen  to  the  talk  of  Socrates,  it  will  appear  to 


THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO.  133 

him  at  first  extremely  ridiculous;  the  phrases  and 
expressions  which  he  employs,  fold  around  his  exterior 
the  skin,  as  it  were,  of  a  rude  and  wanton  Satyr.  He 
is  always  talking  about  great  market-asses,  and  brass- 
founders,  and  leather-cutters,  and  skin-dressers ;  and 
this  is  his  perpetual  custom,  so  that  any  dull  and 
unobservant  person  might  easily  laugh  at  his  discourse. 
But  if  any  one  should  see  it  opened,  as  it  were,  and 
get  within  the  sense  of  his  words,  he  would  then  find 
that  they  alone  of  all  that  enters  into  the  mind  of 
man  to  utter,  had  a  profound  and  persuasive  meaning, 
and  that  they  were  most  divine ;  and  that  they  pre- 
sented to  the  mind  innumerable  images  of  every 
excellence,  and  that  they  tended  towards  objects  of  the 
highest  moment,  or  rather  towards  all,  that  he  who 
seeks  the  possession  of  what  is  supremely  beautiful  and 
good,  need  regard  as  essential  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  ambition. 

"These  are  the  things,  my  friends,  for  which  I 
praise  Socrates." 

*  ♦  *  ♦ 

Alcibiades  having  said  this,  the  whole  party  burst 
into  a  laugh  at  his  frankness,  and  Socrates  said, 
"  You  seem  to  be  sober  enough,  Alcibiades,  else  you 
would  not  have  made  such  a  circuit  of  words,  only  to 
hide  the  main  design  for  which  you  made  this  long 
speech,  and  which,  as  it  were  carelessly,  you  just 
throw  in  at  the  last ;  now,  as  if  you  had  not  said  all 
this  for  the  mere  purpose  of  dividing  me  and  Agathon  ? 
You  think  that  I  ought  to  be  your  friend,  and  to  care 
for  no  one  else.    I  have  found  you  out ;  it  is  evident 


134  THE  BANQUET  OF  PLATO. 

enough  for  what  design  you  invented  all  this  Satyrical 
and  Silenic  drama.  But,  my  dear  Agathon,  do  not  let 
his  device  succeed.  I  entreat  you  to  permit  no  one 
to  throw  discord  between  us." — "  No  doubt,"  said 
Agathon,  "he  sate  down  between  us  only  that  he 
might  divide  us  ;  but  this  shall  not  assist  his  scheme, 
for  I  wdll  come  and  sit  near  you." — "Do  so,"  said 
Socrates,  "  come,  there  is  room  for  you  by  me." — 
"  Oh,  Jupiter !"  exclaimed  Alcibiades,  "  what  I  endure 
from  that  man!  He  thinks  to  subdue  every  way; 
but,  at  least,  I  pray  you,  let  Agathon  remain  between 
us." — "Impossible,"  said  Socrates,  "you  have  just 
praised  me  ;  I  ought  to  praise  him  sitting  at  my  right 
hand.  If  Agathon  is  placed  beside  you,  will  he  not 
praise  me  before  I  praise  him  ?  Now,  my  dear  friend, 
allow  the  young  man  to  receive  what  praise  I  can  give 
him.  I  have  a  great  desire  to  pronounce  his  encomium." 
— "  Quick,  quick,  Alcibiades,"  said  Agathon,  "  I  cannot 
stay  here,  I  must  change  my  place,  or  Socrates  wiU 
not  praise  me." — Agathon  then  arose  to  take  his 
place  near  Socrates. 

He  had  no  sooner  reclined  than  there  came  in  a 
number  of  revellers — for  some  one  who  had  gone  out 
had  left  the  door  open — and  took  their  places  on 
the  vacant  couches,  and  everything  became  full  of 
confusion ;  and  no  order  being  observed,  every  one 
was  obliged  to  drink  a  great  quantity  of  wine. 
Eryximachus,  and  Phsedrus,  and  some  others,  said 
Aristodemus,  went  home  to  bed ;  that,  for  his  part,  he 
went  to  sleep  on  his  couch,  and  slept  long  and  soundly 
— the  nights  were  then  long — until  the  cock  crew  in 


ON  LOVE.  135 

the  morning.  When  lie  awoke  he  found  that  some 
were  still  fast  asleep,  and  others  had  gone  home, 
and  that  Aristophanes,  Agathon,  and  Socrates  had 
alone  stood  it  out,  and  were  still  drinking  out  of  a 
great  goblet  which  they  passed  round  and  round. 
Socrates  was  disputing  between  them.  The  beginning 
of  their  discussion  Aristodemus  said  that  he  did  not 
recollect,  because  he  was  asleep ;  but  it  was  terminated 
by  Socrates  forcing  them  to  confess,  that  the  same 
person  is  able  to  compose  both  tragedy  and  comedy, 
and  that  the  foundations  of  the  tragic  and  comic  arts 
were  essentially  the  same.  They,  rather  convicted 
than  convinced,  went  to  sleep.  Aristophanes  first 
awoke,  and  then,  it  being  broad  daylight,  Agathon. 
Socrates,  having  put  them  to  sleep,  went  away, 
Aristodemus  following  him,  and  coming  to  the  Lyceum 
he  washed  himself,  as  he  would  have  done  anywhere 
else,  and  after  having  spent  the  day  there  in  his 
accustomed  manner,  went  home  in  the  evening. 


ON  LOYE. 

"What  is  love  ?  Ask  him  who  lives,  what  is  life  ? 
ask  him  who  adores,  what  is  Grod  ? 

I  know  not  the  internal  constitution  of  other  men, 
nor  even  thine,  whom  I  now  address.  I  see  that 
in  some  external  attributes  they  resemble  me,  but 
when,  misled  by  that  appearance,  I  have  thought  to 
appeal  to  something  in  common,  and  unburthen  my 


136  ON  LOVE. 

inmost  soul  to  them,  1  have  found  my  language  mis- 
understood, like  one  in  a  distant  and  savage  land. 
The  more  opportunities  they  have  afforded  me  for 
experience,  the  wider  has  appeared  the  interval  between 
us,  and  to  a  greater  distance  have  the  points  of 
sympathy  been  withdrawn.  With  a  spirit  ill  fitted  to 
sustain  such  proof,  trembling  and  feeble  through  its 
tenderness,  I  have  everywhere  sought  sympathy,  and 
have  found  only  repulse  and  disappointment. 

Thou  demandest  what  is  love  ?  It  is  that  powerful 
attraction  towards  all  that  we  conceive,  or  fear,  or 
hope  beyond  ourselves,  when  we  find  within  our  own 
thoughts  the  chasm  of  an  insufficient  void,  and  seek 
to  awaken  in  all  things  that  are,  a  community  with 
what  we  experience  within  ourselves.  If  we  reason,  we 
would  be  understood ;  if  we  imagine,  we  would  that 
the  airy  children  of  our  brain  were  born  anew  within 
another's ;  if  we  feel,  we  would  that  another's  nerves 
should  vibrate  to  our  own,  that  the  beams  of  their 
eyes  should  kindle  at  once  and  mix  and  melt  into 
our  own,  that  lips  of  motionless  ice  should  not  reply 
to  lips  quivering  and  burning  with  the  heart's  best 
blood.  This  is  Love.  This  is  the  bond  and  the 
sanction  which  connects  not  only  man  with  man,  but 
with  every  thing  which  exists.  We  are  bom  into  the 
world,  and  there  is  something  within  us  which,  from 
the  instant  that  we  live,  more  and  more  thirsts  after 
its  likeness.  It  is  probably  in  correspondence  with 
this  law  that  the  infant  drains  milk  from  the  bosom 
of  its  mother ;  this  propensity  develops  itself  with  the 
development  of  our  nature.     We  dimly   see  within 


ON  LOVE.  137 

our  intellectual  nature  a  miniature  as  it  were  of  our 
entire  self,  yet  deprived  of  aU  that  we  condemn  or 
despise,  the  ideal  protot3rpe  of  every  thing  excellent  or 
lovely  that  we  are  capable  of  conceiving  as  belonging 
to  the  nature  of  man.  Not  only  the  portrait  of  our 
external  being,  but  an  assemblage  of  the  minutest 
particles  of  which  our  nature  is  composed  ;*  a  mirror 
whose  surface  reflects  only  the  forms  of  purity  and 
brightness;  a  soul  within  our  soul  that  describes  a 
circle  around  its  proper  paradise,  which  pain,  and 
sorrow,  and  evil  dare  not  overleap.  To  this  we 
eagerly  refer  all  sensations,  thirsting  that  they  should 
resemble  or  correspond  with  it.  The  discovery  of  its 
antitype  ;  the  meeting  with  an  understanding  capable 
of  clearly  estimating  our  own ;  an  imagination  which 
should  enter  into  and  seize  upon  the  subtle  and  delicate 
peculiarities  which  we  have  delighted  to  cherish  and 
unfold  in  secret ;  with  a  frame  whose  nerves,  like  the 
chords  of  two  exquisite  lyres,  strung  to  the  accom- 
paniment of  one  delightful  voice,  vibrate  with  the 
vibrations  of  our  own ;  and  of  a  combination  of  all 
these  in  such  proportion  as  the  type  within  demands ; 
this  is  the  invisible  and  unattainable  point  to  which 
Love  tends ;  and  to  attain  which,  it  urges  forth  the 
powers  of  man  to  arrest  the  faintest  shadow  of  that, 
without  the  possession  of  which  there  is  no  rest  nor 
respite  to  the  heart  over  which  it  rules.  Hence  in 
solitude,  or  in  that  deserted  state  when  we  are  sur- 
rounded by  human  beings,  and  yet  they  sympathise  not 

*  These  words  are  ineffectual  and  metaphorical.     Most  words  are  so — 
No  help ! 


138  THE  COLISEUM. 

with  US,  we  love  tlie  flowers,  the  grass,  and  the  waters, 
and  the  sky.  In  the  motion  of  the  very  leaves  of 
spring,  in  the  blue  air,  there  is  then  found  a  secret 
correspondence  with  our  heart.  There  is  eloquence  in 
the  tongueless  wind,  and  a  melody  in  the  flowing 
brooks  and  the  rustling  of  the  reeds  beside  them, 
which  by  their  inconceivable  relation  to  something 
within  the  soul,  awaken  the  spirits  to  a  dance  of 
breathless  rapture,  and  bring  tears  of  mysterious 
tenderness  to  the  eyes,  like  the  enthusiasm  of  patriotic 
success,  or  the  voice  of  one  beloved  singing  to  you 
alone.  Sterne  says  that,  if  he  were  in  a  desert,  he 
would  love  some  cypress.  So  soon  as  this  want  or 
power  is  dead,  man  becomes  the  living  sepulchre  of 
himself,  and  what  yet  survives  is  the  mere  husk  of 
what  once  he  was. 


THE  COLISEUM. 

A   FRAGMENT. 


At  the  hour  of  noon,  on  the  feast  of  the  Passover, 
an  old  man  accompanied  by  a  girl,  apparently  his 
daughter,  entered  the  Coliseum  at  Eome.  They 
immediately  passed  through  the  Arena,  and  seeking  a 
solitary  chasm  among  the  arches  of  the  southern  part 
of  the  ruin,  selected  a  fallen  column  for  their  seat,  and 
clasping  each  other's  hands,  sate  as  in  silent  contem- 
plation of  the  scene.  But  the  eyes  of  the  girl  were 
fixed  upon  her  father's  lips,   and  his   countenance. 


THE  COLISEUM.  139 

sublime  and  sweet,  but  motionless  as  some  Praxitelean 
image  of  the  greatest  of  poets,  filled  the  silent  air  with 
smiles,  not  reflected  from  external  forms. 

It  was  the  great  feast  of  the  Eesurrection,  and  the 
whole  native  population  of  Eome,  together  with  all 
the  foreigners  who  flock  from  all  parts  of  the  earth 
to  contemplate  its  celebration,  were  assembled  round 
the  Vatican.  The  most  awful  religion  of  the  world 
went  forth  surrounded  by  emblazonry  of  mortal 
greatness,  and  mankind  had  assembled  to  wonder  at 
and  worship  the  creations  of  their  ow^n  power.  iNo 
straggler  was  to  be  met  with  in  the  streets  and 
grassy  lanes  which  led  to  the  Coliseum.  The  father 
and  daughter  had  sought  this  spot  immediately  on 
their  arrival. 

A  figure,  only  visible  at  Eome  in  night  or  solitude, 
and  then  only  to  be  seen  amid  the  desolated  temples 
of  the  Eorum,  or  gliding  among  the  weed-grown 
galleries  of  the  Coliseum,  crossed  their  path.  His  form, 
which,  though  emaciated,  displayed  the  elementary 
outlines  of  exquisite  grace,  was  enveloped  in  an  ancient 
chlamys,  which  half  concealed  his  face ;  his  snow-white 
feet  were  fitted  with  ivory  sandals,  delicately  sculptured 
in  the  likeness  of  two  female  figures,  whose  wings  met 
upon  the  heel,  and  whose  eager  and  half-divided  lips 
seemed  quivering  to  meet.  It  was  a  face,  once  seen, 
never  to  be  forgotten.  The  mouth  and  the  moulding 
of  the  chin  resembled  the  eager  and  impassioned 
tenderness  of  the  statues  of  Antinous  ;  but  instead 
of  the  efieminate  sullenness  of  the  eye,  and  the  narrow 
smoothness  of  the  forehead,  shone  an  expression  of 


140  THE  COLISEUM. 

profound  and  piercing  thought ;  the  brow  was  clear 
and  open,  and  his  eyes  deep,  like  two  wells  of  crystalline 
water  which  reflect  the  all-beholding  heavens.  Over 
all  was  spread  a  timid  expression  of  womanish  tender- 
ness and  hesitation,  which  contrasted,  yet  intermingled 
strangely,  with  the  abstracted  and  fearless  character 
that  predominated  in  his  form  and  gestures. 

He  avoided,  in  an  extraordinary  degree,  all  com- 
munication with  the  Italians,  whose  language  he 
seemed  scarcely  to  understand,  but  was  occasionally 
seen  to  converse  with  some  accomplished  foreigner, 
whose  gestures  and  appearance  might  attract  him 
amid  his  solemn  haunts.  He  spoke  Latin,  and  espe- 
cially Greek,  with  fluency,  and  with  a  peculiar  but 
sweet  accent ;  he  had  apparently  acquired  a  knowledge 
of  the  northern  languages  of  Europe.  There  was  no 
circumstance  connected  with  him  that  gave  the  least 
intimation  of  his  country,  his  origin,  or  his  occupation. 
His  dress  was  strange,  but  splendid  and  solemn.  He 
was  forever  alone.  The  literati  of  Eome  thought  him 
a  curiosity,  but  there  was  something  in  his  manner 
unintelligible  but  impressive,  which  awed  their  ob- 
trusions into  distance  and  silence.  The  countrymen, 
whose  path  he  rarely  crossed,  returning  by  starlight 
from  their  market  at  Campo  Yaccino,  called  him,  with 
that  strange  mixture  of  religious  and  historical  ideas  so 
common  in  Italy,  II  Diavolo  di  Bruto. 

Such  was  the  figure  which  interrupted  the  contem- 
plations, if  they  were  so  engaged,  of  the  strangers,  by 
addressing  them  in  the  clear,  and  exact,  but  unidiomatic 
phrases  of  their  native  language  : — "  Strangers,  you 


THE  COLISEUM.  141 

are  two ;  behold  the  third  in  this  great  citj,  to  whom 
alone  the  spectacle  of  these  mighty  ruins  is  more 
delightful  than  the  mockeries  of  a  superstition  which 
destroyed  them." 

"I  see  nothing,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  "What  do  you  here,  then  ?  " 

"  I  listen  to  the  sweet  singing  of  the  birds,  and  the 
sound  of  my  daughter's  breathing  composes  me  like 
the  soft  murmur  of  water — and  I  feel  the  sun- warm 
wind — and  this  is  pleasant  to  me." 

"  Wretched  old  man,  know  you  not  that  these  are 
the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum  ?  " — 

"  Alas !  stranger,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  voice  like 
mournful  music,  "  speak  not  so — he  is  blind." — 

The  stranger's  eyes  were  suddenly  filled  with  tears, 
and  the  lines  of  his  countenance  became  relaxed. 
"Blind! "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  suifering,  which 
was  more  than  an  apology ;  and  seated  himself  apart 
on  a  flight  of  shattered  and  mossy  stairs  which  wound 
up  among  the  labyrinths  of  the  ruin. 

"  My  sweet  Helen,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  did  not 
tell  me  that  this  was  the  Coliseum  ?  " 

"  How  should  I  tell  you,  dearest  father,  what  I 
knew  not  ?  I  was  on  the  point  of  enquiring  the  way 
to  that  building,  when  we  entered  this  circle  of  ruins, 
and,  until  the  stranger  accosted  us,  I  remained  silent, 
subdued  by  the  greatness  of  what  I  see." 

"  It  is  your  custom,  sweetest  child,  to  describe  to 
me  the  objects  that  give  you  delight.  You  array  them 
in  the  soft  radiance  of  your  words,  and  whilst  you 
speak  I  only  feel  the  infirmity  which  holds  me  in  such 


142  THE  COLISEUM. 

dear  dependence,  as  a  blessing.  Why  have  you  been 
silent  now  ?  " 

"  I  know  not — first  the  wonder  and  pleasure  of  the 
sight,  then  the  words  of  the  stranger,  and  then  thinking 
on  what  he  had  said,  and  how  he  had  looked  —and  now, 
beloved  father,  your  own  words." 

"  Well,  tell  me  now,  what  do  you  see  ?  " 

*'  I  see  a  great  circle  of  arches  built  upon  arches, 
and  shattered  stones  lie  around,  that  once  made  a  part 
of  the  solid  wall.  In  the  crevices,  and  on  the  vaulted 
roofs,  grow  a  multitude  of  shrubs,  the  wild  olive  and 
the  myrtle — and  intricate  brambles,  and  entangled 
weeds  and  plants  I  never  saw  before.  The  stones  are 
immensely  massive,  and  they  jut  out  one  from  the 
other.  There  are  terrible  rifts  in  the  wall,  and  broad 
windows  through  which  you  see  the  blue  heaven. 
There  seems  to  be  more  than  a  thousand  arches,  some 
ruined,  some  entire,  and  they  are  all  immensely  high 
and  wide.  Some  are  shattered,  and  stand  forth  in  great 
heaps,  and  the  underwood  is  tufted  on  tbeir  crumbling 
summits.  Around  us  lie  enormous  columns,  shattered 
and  shapeless — and  fragments  of  capitals  and  cornice, 
fretted  with  delicate  sculptures." — 

"  It  is  open  to  the  blue  sky  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes.  We  see  the  liquid  depth  of  heaven  above 
through  the  rifts  and  the  windows  ;  and  the  flowers,  and 
the  weeds,  and  the  grass  and  creeping  moss,  are 
nourisbed  by  its  unforbidden  rain.  The  blue  sky  is 
above — the  wide,  bright,  blue  sky — it  flows  through 
the  great  rents  on  high,  and  through  the  bare  boughs 
of  the  marble  rooted  fig-tree,  and  through  the  leaves 


THE  COLISEUM.  143 

and  flowers  of  the  weeds,  even  to  the  dark  arcades 
beneath.  I  see — I  feel  its  clear  and  piercing  beams 
fill  the  universe,  and  impregnate  the  joj-inspiring 
wind  with  life  and  light,  and  casting  the  veil  of  its 
splendour  over  aU  things — even  me.  Yes,  and  through 
the  highest  rift  the  noonday  waning  moon  is  hanging, 
as  it  were,  out  of  the  solid  sky,  and  this  shows  that 
the  atmosphere  has  all  the  clearness  which  it  rejoices 
me  that  you  feel." 

"  What  else  see  you  ?  " 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"  Only  the  bright- green  mossy  ground,  speckled  by 
tufts  of  dewy  clover-grass  that  run  into  the  interstices 
of  the  shattered  arches,  and  round  the  isolated 
pinnacles  of  the  ruin." 

"  Like  the  lawny  dells  of  soft  short  grass  which 
wind  among  the  pine  forests  and  precipices  in  the  Alps 
of  Savoy?" 

"  Indeed,  father,  your  eye  has  a  vision  more  serene 
than  mine." 

"And  the  great  wrecked  arches,  the  shattered 
masses  of  precipitous  ruin,  overgrown  with  the 
younglings  of  the  forest,  and  more  like  chasms  rent  by 
an  earthquake  among  the  mountains,  than  like  the 
vestige  of  what  was  human  workmanship — ^what 
are  they?" 

"Things  awe-inspiring  and  wonderful." 

"  Are  they  not  caverns  such  as  the  untamed  elephant 
might  choose,  amid  the  Indian  wilderness,  wherein  to 
hide  her  cubs  j  such  as,  were  the  sea  to  overflow  the 


144  THE  COLISEUM. 

earth,  the  mightiest  monsters  of  the  deep  would 
change  into  their  spacious  chambers  ?" 

"  Father,  your  words  image  forth  what  I  would  have 
expressed,  but,  alas !  could  not." 

"  I  hear  the  rustling  of  leaves,  and  the  sound  of 
waters, — but  it  does  not  rain, — like  the  fast  drops  of  a 
fountain  among  woods." 

"  It  falls  from  among  the  heaps  of  ruin  over  our 
heads — it  is,  I  suppose,  the  water  collected  in  the 
rifts  by  the  showers." 

"  A  nursling  of  man's  art,  abandoned  by  his  care, 
and  transformed  by  the  enchantment  of  Nature  into  a 
likeness  of  her  own  creations,  and  destined  to  partake 
their  immortality !  Changed  into  a  mountain  cloven 
vdth  woody  dells,  which  overhang  its  labyrinthine 
glades,  and  shattered  into  toppling  precipices.  Even 
the  clouds,  intercepted  by  its  craggy  summit,  feed  its 
eternal  fountains  with  their  rain.  By  the  column  on 
which  I  sit,  I  should  judge  that  it  had  once  been 
crowned  by  a  temple  or  a  theatre,  and  that  on  sacred 
days  the  multitude  wound  up  its   craggy  path  to 

spectacle  or  the  sacrifice It  was   such   itself!  ^ 

Helen,  what  sound  of  wings  is  that  ?" 

*  Nor  does  a  recollection  of  the  use  to  which  it  may  have  heen  destined 
interfere  with  these  emotions.  Time  has  thrown  its  purple  shadow 
athwart  this  scene,  and  no  more  is  visible  than  the  broad  and  everlasting 
character  of  human  strength  and  genius,  that  pledge  of  all  that  is  to  be 
admirable  and  lovely  in  ages  yet  to  come.  Solemn  temples,  where  the 
senate  of  the  world  assembled,  palaces,  triumphal  arches,  and  cloud- 
surrounded  columns,  loaded  with  the  sculptured  annals  of  conquest  and 
domination — what  actions  and  deliberations  have  they  been  destined  to 
enclose  and  commemorate  ?  Superstitious  rites,  which  in '  their  mildest 
form,  outrage  reason,  and  obscure  the  moral  sense  of  mankind ;  schemes 
for  wide-extended  murder,  and  devastation,  and  misrule,  and  servitude  ; 
and,  lastly,  these  schemes  brought  to  their  tremendous  consummations, 


THE  COLISEUM.  145 

"  It  is  the  wild  pigeons  returning  to  their  young. 
Do  you  not  hear  the  murmur  of  those  that  are  brooding 
in  their  nests  ?" 

"  Ay,  it  is  the  language  of  their  happiness.  They 
are  as  happy  as  we  are,  child,  but  in  a  different  manner. 
They  know  not  the  sensations  which  this  ruin  excites 
within  us.  Yet  it  is  pleasure  to  them  to  inhabit  it ; 
and  the  succession  of  its  forms  as  they  pass,  is  con- 
nected with  associations  in  their  minds,  sacred  to  them, 
as  these  to  us.  The  internal  nature  of  each  being  is 
surrounded  by  a  circle,  not  to  be  surmounted  by  his 
fellows  ;  and  it  is  this  repulsion  which  constitutes 
the  misfortune  of  the  condition  of  life.  But  there 
is  a  circle  which  comprehends,  as  well  as  one  which 
mutually  excludes,  all  things  which  feel.  And,  with 
respect  to  man,  his  public  and  his  private  happiness 
consist  in  diminishing  the  circumference  which  includes 
those  resembling  himself,  until  they  become  one  with 
him,  and  he  with  them.  It  is  because  we  enter  into 
the  meditations,  designs  and  destinies  of  something 
beyond  ourselves,  that  the  contemplation  of  the  ruins 
of  human  power  excites  an  elevating  sense  of  awfulness 
and  beauty.  It  is  therefore  that  the  ocean,  the  glacier, 
the  cataract,  the  tempest,  the  volcano,  have  each  a 
spirit  which  animates  the  extremities   of  our  frame 

and  a  human  being  returning  in  the  midst  of  festival  and  solemn  joy, 
with  thousands  and  thousands  of  his  enslaved  and  desolated  species 
chained  behind  his  chariot,  exhibiting,  as  titles  to  renown,  the  labour  of 
ages,  and  the  admired  creations  of  genius,  overthrown  by  the  brutal 
force,  which  was  placed  as  a  sword  within  his  hand,  and, — contemplation 
fearful  and  abhorred  ! — he  himself  a  being  capable  of  the  gentlest  and  best 
emotions,  inspired  with  the  persuasion  that  he  has  done  a  virtuous  deed ! 
We  do  not  forget  these  things.     *     « 

VOL.  I.  L 


146  THE  COLISEUM. 

with  tingling  joy.  It  is  therefore  that  the  singing  of 
birds,  and  the  motion  of  leaves,  the  sensation  of  the 
odorous  earth  beneath,  and  the  freshness  of  the  living 
vrind  around,  is  sweet.  And  this  is  Love.  This  is  the 
religion  of  eternitj,  whose  votaries  have  been  exiled 
from  among  the  multitude  of  mankind.  O  Power!" 
cried  the  old  man,  lifting  his  sightless  eyes  towards 
the  undazzling  sun,  "  thou  which  interpenetratest  all 
things,  and  without  which  this  glorious  world  were  a 
blind  and  formless  chaos,  Love,  Author  of  Grood,  Grod, 
King,  Father!  Friend  of  these  thy  worshippers! 
Two  solitary  hearts  invoke  thee,  may  they  be  divided 
never !  If  the  contentions  of  mankind  have  been  their 
misery  ;  if  to  give  and  seek  that  happiness  which  thou 
art,  has  been  their  choice  and  destiny;  if,  in  the 
contemplation  of  these  majestic  records  of  the  power 
of  their  kind,  they  see  the  shadow  and  the  prophecy  of 
that  which  thou  mayst  have  decreed  that  he  should 
become ;  if  the  justice,  the  liberty,  the  loveliness,  the 
truth,  which  are  thy  footsteps,  have  been  sought  by 
them,  divide  them  not !  It  is  thine  to  unite,  to 
eternise ;  to  make  outlive  the  limits  of  the  grave  those 
who  have  left  among  the  living,  memorials  of  thee. 
"When  this  frame  shall  be  senseless  dust,  may  the 
hopes,  and  the  desires,  and  the  delights  which  animate 
it  now,  never  be  extinguished  in  my  child ;  even  as, 
if  she  were  borne  into  the  tomb,  my  memory  would 
be  the  written  monument  of  all  her  nameless 
excellences  ! " 

The  old  man's  countenance  and  gestures,  radiant 
with  the  inspiration  of  his  words,  sunk,  as  he  ceased, 


THE  COLISEUM.  147 

into  more  than  its  accustomed  calmness,  for  lie  heard 
his  daughter's  sobs,  and  remembered  that  he  had 
spoken  of  death. — "Mj  father,  how  can  I  outlive 
you?"  said  Helen. 

"  Do  not  let  us  talk  of  death,"  said  the  old  man, 
suddenly  changing  his  tone.  "  Heraclitus,  indeed, 
died  at  my  age,  and  if  I  had  so  sour  a  disposition, 
there  might  be  some  danger.  But  Democritus  reached 
a  hundred  and  twenty,  by  the  mere  dint  of  a  joyous 
and  unconquerable  mind.  He  only  died  at  last,  because 
he  had  no  gentle  and  beloved  ministering  spirit,  like 
my  Helen,  for  whom  it  would  have  been  his  delight  to 
live.  You  remember  his  gay  old  sister  requested  him 
to  put  off  starving  himself  to  death  until  she  had 
returned  from  the  festival  of  Ceres  ;  alleging,  that  it 
would  spoil  her  holiday  if  he  refused  to  comply,  as  it 
was  not  permitted  to  appear  in  the  procession  imme- 
diately after  the  death  of  a  relation ;  and  how 
good-temperedly  the  sage  acceded  to  her  request." 

The  old  man  could  not  see  his  daughter's  grateful 
smile,  but  he  felt  the  pressure  of  her  hand  by  which  it 
was  expressed. — ^^In  truth,"  he  continued,  "that 
mystery,  death,  is  a  change  which  neither  for  ourselves 
nor  for  others  is  the  just  object  of  hope  or  fear.  We 
know  not  if  it  be  good  or  evil ;  we  only  know,  it  is. 
The  old,  the  young,  may  alike  die ;  no  time,  no  place, 
no  age,  no  foresight,  exempts  us  from  death,  and  the 
chance  of  death.  "We  have  no  knowledge,  if  death  be 
a  state  of  sensation,  of  any  precaution  that  can  make 
those  sensations  fortunate,  if  the  existing  series  of 
events  shall  not  produce  that  effect.     Think  not  of 

l2 


148  THE  COLISEUM. 

death,  or  think  of  it  as  something  common  to  us  all. 
It  has  happened,"  said  he,  with  a  deep  and  suffering 
voice,  "that  men  have  buried  their  children." 

"  Alas !  then,  dearest  father,  how  I  pity  you.  Let 
us  speak  no  more." 

They  arose  to  depart  from  the  Coliseum,  but  the 
figure  which  had  first  accosted  them  interposed 
itself: — "Lady,"  he  said,  "if  grief  be  an  expiation 
of  error,  I  have  grieved  deeply  for  the  words  which  I 
spoke  to  your  companion.  The  men  who  anciently 
inhabited  this  spot,  and  those  from  whom  they  learned 
their  wisdom,  respected  infirmity  and  age.  If  I  have 
rashly  violated  that  venerable  form,  at  once  majestic 
and  defenceless,  may  I  be  forgiven?" 

"  It  gives  me  pain  to  see  how  much  your  mistake 
aflBLicts  you,"  she  said;  "if  you  can  forget,  doubt  not 
that  we  forgive." 

"  Tou  thought  me  one  of  those  who  are  blind  in 
spirit,"  said  the  old  man,  "and  who  deserve,  if  any 
human  being  can  deserve,  contempt  and  blame. 
Assuredly,  contemplating  this  monument  as  I  do, 
though  in  the  mirror  of  my  daughter's  mind,  I  am 
filled  with  astonishment  and  delight;  the  spirit  of 
departed  generations  seems  to  animate  my  limbs,  and 
circulate  through  all  the  fibres  of  my  frame.  Stranger, 
if  I  have  expressed  what  you  have  ever  felt,  let  us 
know  each  other  more." 

"  The  sound  of  your  voice,  and  the  harmony  of 
your  thoughts,  are  delightful  to  me,"  said  the  youth, 
"  and  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  any  form  which  expresses 
so  much  beauty  and  goodness  as  your  daughter's ;  if 


THE  ASSASSINS.  149 

you  reward  me  for  my  rudeness,  by  allowing  me  to 
know  you,  my  error  is  already  expiated,  and  you 
remember  my  ill  words  no  more.  I  live  a  solitary  life, 
and  it  is  rare  tbat  I  encounter  any  stranger  with 
whom  it  is  pleasant  to  talk ;  besides,  their  meditations, 
even  though  they  be  learned,  do  not  always  agree  with 
mine ;  and,  though  I  can  pardon  this  difference,  they 
cannot.  JSTor  have  I  ever  explained  the  cause  of  the 
dress  I  wear,  and  the  difference  which  I  perceive 
between  my  language  and  manners,  and  those  with 
whom  I  have  intercourse.  Not  but  that  it  is  painful 
to  me  to  live  without  communion  with  intelligent  and 
affectionate  beings.     Tou  are  such,  I  feel." 


THE  ASSASSINS. 

A   FRAGMENT  OF  A   ROMANCE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

Jerusalem,  goaded  on  to  resistance  by  the  inces- 
sant usurpations  and  insolence  of  Eome,  leagued 
together  its  discordant  factions  to  rebel  against  the 
common  enemy  and  tyrant.  Inferior  to  their  foe  in 
aU  but  the  unconquerable  hope  of  liberty,  they  sur- 
rounded their  city  with  fortifications  of  uncommon 
strength,  and  placed  in  array  before  the  Temple  a 
band  rendered  desperate  by  patriotism  and  rehgion. 
Even  the  women  preferred  to  die,  rather  than  survive 
the  ruin  of  their  country.  When  the  Eoman  army 
approached  the  walls  of  the  sacred  city,  its  preparations. 


150  THE  ASSASSINS. 

its  discipline,  and  its  numbers,  evinced  the  conviction 
of  its  leader,  that  he  had  no  common  barbarians  to 
subdue.  At  the  approach  of  the  Roman  army,  the 
strangers  v^ithdrew  from  the  city. 

Among  the  multitudes  which  from  every  nation  of 
the  East  had  assembled  at  Jerusalem,  was  a  little 
congregation  of  Christians.  They  were  remarkable 
neither  for  their  numbers  nor  their  importance.  They 
contained  among  them  neither  philosophers  nor  poets. 
Acknowledging  no  laws  but  those  of  Grod,  they 
modelled  their  conduct  towards  their  fellow-men  by 
the  conclusions  of  their  individual  judgment  on  the 
practical  application  of  these  laws.  And  it  was  appa- 
rent from  the  simplicity  and  severity  of  their  manners, 
that  this  contempt  for  human  institutions  had  pro- 
duced among  them  a  character  superior  in  singleness 
and  sincere  self-apprehension  to  the  slavery  of  pagan 
customs  and  the  gross  delusions  of  antiquated  supersti- 
tion. Many  of  their  opinions  considerably  resembled 
those  of  the  sect  afterwards  known  by  the  name  of 
Grnostics.  They  esteemed  the  human  understanding 
to  be  the  paramount  rule  of  human  conduct ;  they 
maintained  that  the  obscurest  religious  truth  required 
for  its  complete  elucidation  no  more  than  the  strenuous 
application  of  the  energies  of  mind.  It  appeared 
impossible  to  them  that  any  doctrine  could  be  subver- 
sive of  social  happiness  which  is  not  capable  of  being 
confuted  by  arguments  derived  from  the  nature  of 
existing  things.  "With  the  devoutest  submission  to 
the  law  of  Christ,  they  united  an  intrepid  spirit 
of  inquiry  as  to  the   correctest  mode   of  acting  in 


THE  ASSASSINS.  151 

particular  instances  of  conduct  that  occur  among  men. 
Assuming  the  doctrines  of  the  Messiah  concerning 
benevolence  and  justice  for  the  regulation  of  their 
actions,  they  could  not  be  persuaded  to  acknowledge 
that  there  was  apparent  in  the  divine  code  any 
prescribed  rule  whereby,  for  its  own  sake,  one  action 
rather  than  another,  as  fulfilling  the  will  of  their  great 
Master,  should  be  preferred. 

The  contempt  with  which  the  magistracy  and  priest- 
hood regarded  this  obscure  community  of  speculators, 
had  hitherto  protected  them  from  persecution.  But 
they  had  arrived  at  that  precise  degree  of  eminence 
and  prosperity  which  is  peculiarly  obnoxious  to  the 
hostility  of  the  rich  and  powerful.  The  moment  of 
their  departure  from  Jerusalem  was  the  crisis  of  their 
future  destiny.  Had  they  continued  to  seek  a  pre- 
carious refuge  in  a  city  of  the  Eoman  empire,  this 
persecution  would  not  have  delayed  to  impress  a  new 
character  on  their  opinions  and  their  conduct ;  narrow 
views,  andthe  illiberality  of  sectarian  patriotism,  would 
not  have  failed  speedily  to  obliterate  the  magnificence 
and  beauty  of  their  wild  and  wonderful  condition. 

Attached  from  principle  to  peace,  despising  and 
hating  the  pleasures  and  the  customs  of  the  degenerate 
mass  of  mankind,  this  unostentatious  community  of 
good  and  happy  men  fled  to  the  solitudes  of  Lebanon. 
To  Arabians  and  enthusiasts  the  solemnity  and 
grandeur  of  these  desolate  recesses  possessed  peculiar 
attractions.  It  well  accorded  with  the  justice  of  their 
conceptions  on  the  relative  duties  of  man  towards  his 
fellow  in  society,  that  they  should  labour  in  uncon- 


162  THE  ASSASSINS. 

strained  equality  to  dispossess  the  wolf  and  the  tiger 
of  their  empire,  and  establish  on  its  ruins  the  dominion 
of  intelligence  and  virtue.  No  longer  would  the 
worshippers  of  the  God  of  Nature  be  indebted  to  a 
hundred  hands  for  the  accommodation  of  their  simple 
wants.  No  longer  would  the  poison  of  a  diseased 
civilisation  embrue  their  very  nutriment  with  pesti- 
lence. They  would  no  longer  owe  their  very  existence 
to  the  vices,  the  fears,  and  the  follies  of  mankind. 
Love,  friendship,  and  philanthropy,  would  now  be  the 
characteristic  disposers  of  their  industry.  It  is  for 
his  mistress  or  his  friend  that  the  labourer  consecrates 
his  toil;  others  are  mindful,  but  he  is  forgetful,  of 
himself.  "  God  feeds  the  hungry  ravens,  and  clothes 
the  lilies  of  the  fields,  and  yet  Solomon  in  all  his  glory 
is  not  like  to  one  of  these." 

Eome  was  now  the  shadow  of  her  former  self.  The 
light  of  her  grandeur  and  loveliness  had  passed  away. 
The  latest  and  the  noblest  of  her  poets  and  historians 
had  foretold  in  agony  her  approaching  slavery  and 
degradation.  The  ruins  of  the  human  mind,  more 
awful  and  portentous  than  the  desolation  of  the  most 
solemn  temples,  threw  a  shade  of  gloom  upon  her 
golden  palaces  which  the  brutal  vulgar  could  not  see, 
but  which  the  mighty  felt  with  inward  trepidation  and 
despair.  The  ruins  of  Jerusalem  lay  defenceless  and 
uninhabited  upon  the  burning  sands;  none  visited, 
but  in  the  depth  of  solemn  awe,  this  accursed  and 
solitary  spot.  Tradition  says  that  there  was  seen  to 
linger  among  the  scorched  and  shattered  fragments  of 
the  Temple,  one  being,  whom  he  that  saw  dared  not  to 


THE  ASSASSINS.  153 

call  man,  with  clasped  hands,  immoveable  eyes,  and  a 
visage  horribly  serene.  'Not  on  the  will  of  the  capri- 
cious multitude,  nor  the  constant  fluctuations  of  the 
many  and  the  weak,  depends  the  change  of  empires 
and  religions.  These  are  the  mere  insensible  elements 
from  which  a  subtler  intelligence  moulds  its  enduring 
statuary.  They  that  direct  the  changes  of  this  mortal 
scene  breathe  the  decrees  of  their  dominion  from  a 
throne  of  darkness  and  of  tempest.  The  power  of 
man  is  great. 

After  many  days  of  wandering,  the  Assassins 
pitched  their  tents  in  the  valley  of  Bethzatanai.  For 
ages  had  this  fertile  valley  lain  concealed  from  the 
adventurous  search  of  man,  among  mountains  of  ever- 
lasting snow.  The  men  of  elder  days  had  inhabited 
this  spot.  Piles  of  monumental  marble  and  fragments 
of  columns  that  in  their  integrity  almost  seemed  the 
work  of  some  intelligence  more  sportive  and  fantastic 
than  the  gross  conceptions  of  mortality,  lay  in  heaps 
beside  the  lake,  and  were  visible  beneath  its  trans- 
parent waves.  The  flowering  orange-tree,  the  balsam, 
and  innumerable  odoriferous  shrubs,  grew  wild  in  the 
desolated  portals.  The  fountain  tanks  had  overflowed ; 
and,  amid  the  luxuriant  vegetation  of  their  margin, 
the  yellow  snake  held  its  unmolested  dwelling. 
Hither  came  the  tiger  and  the  bear  to  contend  for 
those  once  domestic  animals  who  had  forgotten  the 
secure  servitude  of  their  ancestors.  No  sound,  when 
the  famished  beast  of  prey  had  retreated  in  despair 
from  the  awful  desolation  of  this  place,  at  whose 
completion  he  had  assisted,  but  the  shrill  cry  of  the 


154  THE  ASSASSINS. 

stork,  and  the  flapping  of  his  heavy  wings  from  the 
capital  of  the  solitary  column,  and  the  scream  of  the 
hungry  vulture  baffled  of  its  only  victim.  The  lore  of 
ancient  wisdom  was  sculptured  in  mystic  characters 
on  the  rocks.  The  human  spirit  and  the  human  hand 
had  been  busy  here  to  accomplish  its  profoundest 
miracles.  It  was  a  temple  dedicated  to  the  Grod  of 
knowledge  and  of  truth.  The  palaces  of  the  Caliphs 
and  the  Caesars  might  easily  surpass  these  ruins  in  mag- 
nitude and  sumptuousness :  but  they  were  the  design  of 
tyrants  and  the  work  of  slaves.  Piercing  genius  and 
consummate  prudence  had  planned  and  executed 
Bethzatanai.  There  was  deep  and  important  meaning 
in  every  lineament  of  its  fantastic  sculpture.  The 
unintelligible  legend,  once  so  beautiful  and  perfect,  so 
full  of  poetry  and  history,  spoke,  even  in  destruction, 
volumes  of  mysterious  import,  and  obscure  significance. 
But  in  the  season  of  its  utmost  prosperity  and 
magnificence,  art  might  not  aspire  to  vie  with  nature 
in  the  valley  of  Bethzatanai.  All  that  was  wonderful 
and  lovely  was  coUecte'd  in  this  deep  seclusion.  The 
fluctuating  elements  seemed  to  have  been  rendered 
everlastingly  permanent  in  forms  of  wonder  and  delight. 
The  mountains  of  Lebanon  had  been  divided  to  their 
base  to  form  this  happy  valley ;  on  every  side  their 
icy  summits  darted  their  white  pinnacles  into  the 
clear  blue  sky,  imaging,  in  their  grotesque  outline, 
minarets,  and  ruined  domes,  and  columns  worn  with 
time.  Tar  below,  the  silver  clouds  rolled  their  bright 
volumes  in  many  beautiful  shapes,  and  fed  the  eternal 
springs  that,  spanning  the  dark  chasms  like  a  thousand 


THE  ASSASSINS.  155 

radiant  rainbows,  leaped  into  the  quiet  vale,  then, 
lingering  in  many  a  dark  glade  among  the  groves  of 
cypress  and  of  palm,  lost  themselves  in  the  lake.  The 
immensity  of  these  precipitous  mountains,  with  their 
starry  pyramids  of  snow,  excluded  the  sun,  which 
overtopped  not,  even  in  its  meridian,  their  overhanging 
rocks.  But  a  more  heavenly  and  serener  light  was 
reflected  from  their  icy  mirrors,  which,  piercing 
through  the  many-tinted  clouds,  produced  lights  and 
colours  of  inexhaustible  variety.  The  herbage  was 
perpetually  verdant,  and  clothed  the  darkest  recesses 
of  the  caverns  and  the  woods. 

JN'ature,  undisturbed,  had  become  an  enchantress  in 
these  solitudes  :  she  had  collected  here  all  that  was 
wonderful  and  divine  from  the  armoury  of  her 
omnipotence.  The  very  winds  breathed  health  and 
renovation,  and  the  joyousness  of  youthful  courage. 
EountaiQS  of  crystalline  water  played  perpetually 
among  the  aromatic  flowers,  and  mingled  a  freshness 
with  their  odour.  The  pine  boughs  became  instruments 
of  exquisite  contrivance,  among  which  every  varying 
breeze  waked  music  of  new  and  more  delightful 
melody.  Meteoric  shapes,  more  eflfulgent  than  the 
moonlight,  hung  on  the  wandering  clouds,  and  mixed 
in  discordant  dance  around  the  spiral  fountains. 
Blue  vapours  assumed  strange  lineaments  under  the 
rocks  and  among  the  ruins,  lingering  like  ghosts  with 
slow  and  solemn  step.  Through  a  dark  chasm  to  the 
east,  in  the  long  perspective  of  a  portal  glittering  with 
the  unnumbered  riches  of  the  subterranean  world, 
shone  the  broad  moon,  pouring  in  one  yellow  and 


156  THE  ASSASSINS. 

unbroken  stream  her  horizontal  beams.  Nearer  the 
icy  region,  autumn  and  spring  held  an  alternate  reign. 
The  sere  leaves  fell  and  choked  the  sluggish  brooks ; 
the  chilling  fogs  hung  diamonds  on  every  spray ;  and 
in  the  dark  cold  evening  the  howling  winds  made 
melancholy  music  in  the  trees.  Par  above,  shone 
the  bright  throne  of  winter,  clear,  cold,  and  dazzling. 
Sometimes  there  was  seen  the  snow-flakes  to  fall 
before  the  sinking  orb  of  the  beamless  sun,  like  a 
shower  of  fiery  sulphur.  -The  cataracts,  arrested  in 
their  course,  seemed,  with  their  transparent  columns, 
to  support  the  dark-browed  rocks.  Sometimes  the 
icy  whirlwind  scooped  the  powdery  snow  aloft,  to 
mingle  with  the  hissing  meteors,  and  scatter  spangles 
through  the  rare  and  rayless  atmosphere. 

Such  strange  scenes  of  chaotic  confusion  and 
harrowing  sublimity,  surrounding  and  shutting  in  the 
vale,  added  to  tlie  delights  of  its  secin^e  and  voluptuous 
tranquillity.  JSTo  spectator  could  have  refused  to 
believe  that  some  spirit  of  great  intelligence  and 
power  had  hallowed  these  wild  and  beautiful  solitudes 
to  a  deep  and  solemn  mystery. 

The  immediate  efiect  of  such  a  scene,  suddenly  pre- 
sented to  the  contemplation  of  mortal  eyes,  is  seldom 
the  subject  of  authentic  record.  The  coldest  slave 
of  custom  cannot  fail  to  recollect  some  few  moments 
in  which  the  breath  of  spring  or  the  crowding  clouds 
of  sunset,  with  the  pale  moon  shining  through  their 
fleecy  skirts,  or  the  song  of  some  lonely  bird  perched 
on  the  only  tree  of  an  unfrequented  heath,  has 
awakened   the    touch    of   nature.      And   they    were 


THE  ASSASSINS.  157 

Arabians  who  entered  tlie  valley  of  Bethzatanai ; 
men  who  idolised  nature  and  the  God  of  nature ;  to 
whom  love  and  lofty  thoughts,  and  the  apprehensions 
of  an  uncorrupted  spirit,  were  sustenance  and  life. 
Thus  securely  excluded  from  an  abhorred  world,  all 
thought  of  its  judgment  was  cancelled  by  the  rapidity 
of  their  fervid  imaginations.  They  ceased  to  acknow- 
ledge, or  deigned  not  to  advert  to,  the  distinctions 
with  which  the  majority  of  base  and  vulgar  minds 
control  the  longings  and  struggles  of  the  soiil  towards 
its  place  of  rest.  A  new  and  sacred  fire  was  kindled 
in  their  hearts  and  sparkled  in  their  eyes.  Every 
gesture,  every  feature,  the  minutest  action,  was 
modelled  to  beneficence  and  beauty  by  the  holy 
inspiration  that  had  descended  on  their  searching 
spirits.  The  epidemic  transport  communicated  itself 
through  every  heart  with  the  rapidity  of  a  blast  from 
heaven.  They  were  already  disembodied  spirits ;  they 
were  already  the  inhabitants  of  paradise.  To  live,  to 
breathe,  to  move,  was  itself  a  sensation  of  immeasurable 
transport.  Every  new  contemplation  of  the  condition 
of  his  nature  brought  to  the  happy  enthusiast  an 
added  measure  of  delight,  and  impelled  to  every 
organ,  where  mind  is  united  with  external  things, 
a  keener  and  more  exquisite  perception  of  all  that 
they  contain  of  lovely  and  divine.  To  love,  to  be 
beloved,  suddenly  became  an  insatiable  famine  of  his 
nature,  which  the  wide  circle  of  the  universe,  com- 
prehending beings  of  such  inexhaustible  variety  and 
stupendous  magnitude  of  excellence,  appeared  too 
narrow  and  confined  to  satiate. 


158  THE  ASSASSINS. 

Alas,  that  these  visitings  of  the  spirit  of  life  should 
fluctuate  and  pass  away!  That  the  moments  when 
the  human  mind  is  commensurate  with  all  that  it  can 
conceive  of  excellent  and  powerful,  should  not  endure 
with  its  existence  and  survive  its  most  momentous 
change !  But  the  beauty  of  a  vernal  sunset,  with  its 
overhanging  curtains  of  empurpled  cloud,  is  rapidly 
dissolved,  to  return  at  some  unexpected  period,  and 
spread  an  alleviating  melancholy  over  the  dark  vigils 
of  despair. 

It  is  true  the  enthusiasm  of  overwhelming  transport 
which  had  inspired  every  breast  among  the  Assassins 
is  no  more.  The  necessity  of  daily  occupation  and 
the  ordinariness  of  that  human  life,  the  burthen  of 
which  it  is  the  destiny  of  every  human  being  to  bear, 
had  smothered,  not  extinguished,  that  divine  and 
eternal  fire.  Not  the  less  indelible  and  permanent 
w^ere  the  impressions  communicated  to  all;  not  the 
more  unalterably  w^ere  the  features  of  their  social 
cljaracter  modelled  and  determined  by  its  influence. 

CHAPTER  II. 

EoME  had  fallen.  Her  senate-house  had  become  a 
polluted  den  of  thieves  and  liars ;  her  solemn  temples, 
the  arena  of  theological  disputants,  w^ho  made  fire  and 
sword  the  missionaries  of  their  inconceivable  beliefs. 
The  city  of  the  monster  Constantino,  symbolising,  in 
the  consequences  of  its  foundation,  the  wickedness 
and  weakness  of  his  successors,  feebly  imaged  with 
declining  power  the  substantial  eminence  of  the  Eoman 


THE  ASSASSINS.  159 

name.  Pilgrims  of  a  new  and  mightier  faitli  crowded 
to  visit  the  lonely  ruins  of  Jerusalem,  and  weep  and 
pray  before  the  sepulchre  of  the  Eternal  God.  The 
earth  was  filled  with  discord,  tumult,  and  ruin.  The 
spirit  of  disinterested  virtue  had  armed  one-half  of 
the  civilised  world  against  the  other.  Monstrous  and 
detestable  creeds  poisoned  and  blighted  the  domestic 
charities.  There  was  no  appeal  to  natural  love,  or 
ancient  faith,  from  pride,  superstition,  and  revenge. 

Four  centuries  had  passed  thus,  terribly  characterised 
by  the  most  calamitous  revolutions.  The  Assassins, 
meanwhile,  undisturbed  by  the  surrounding  tumult, 
possessed  and  cultivated  their  fertile  valley.  The 
gradual  operation  of  their  peculiar  condition  had 
matured  and  perfected  the  singularity  and  excellence 
of  their  character.  That  cause,  which  had  ceased  to 
act  as  an  immediate  and  overpowering  excitement, 
became  the  unperceived  law  of  their  lives,  and  sus- 
tenance of  their  natures.  Their  religious  tenets  had 
also  undergone  a  change,  corresponding  with  the 
exalted  condition  of  their  moral  being.  The  gratitude 
which  they  owed  to  the  benignant  Spirit  by  which 
their  limited  intelligences  had  not  only  been  created 
but  redeemed,  was  less  frequently  adverted  to,  became 
less  the  topic  of  comment  or  contemplation ;  not, 
therefore,  did  it  cease  to  be  their  presiding  guardian, 
the  guide  of  their  inmost  thoughts,  the  tribunal  of 
appeal  for  the  minutest  particulars  of  their  conduct. 
They  learned  to  identify  this  mysterious  benefactor 
with  the  delight  that  is  bred  among  the  solitary  rocks, 
and  has  its  dwelling  alike  in  the  changing  colours  of 


160  THE  ASSASSINS. 

the  clouds  and  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  caverns. 
Their  future  also  no  longer  existed,  but  in  the  blissful 
tranquillity  of  the  present.  Time  was  measured  and 
created  by  the  vices  and  the  miseries  of  men,  between 
whom  and  the  happy  nation  of  the  Assassins,  there 
was  no  analogy  nor  comparison.  Abeady  had  their 
eternal  peace  commenced.  The  darkness  had  passed 
away  from  the  open  gates  of  death. 

The  practical  results  produced  by  their  faith  and 
condition  upon  their  external  conduct  were  singular 
and  memorable.  Excluded  from  the  great  and  various 
community  of  mankind,  these  solitudes  became  to  them 
a  sacred  hermitage,  in  which  all  formed,  as  it  were, 
one  being,  divided  against  itself  by  no  contending  will 
or  factious  passions.  Every  impulse  conspired  to  one 
end,  and  tended  to  a  single  object.  Each  devoted  his 
powers  to  the  happiness  of  the  other.  Their  republic 
was  the  scene  of  the  perpetual  contentions  of  bene- 
volence ;  not  the  heartless  and  assumed  kindness  of 
commercial  man,  but  the  genuine  virtue  that  has  a 
legible  superscription  in  every  feature  of  the  counte- 
nance, and  every  motion  of  the  frame.  The  perverse- 
ness  and  calamities  of  those  who  dwelt  beyond  the 
mountains  that  encircled  their  undisturbed  possessions, 
were  unknown  and  unimagined.  Little  embarrassed 
by  the  complexities  of  civilised  society,  they  knew  not 
to  conceive  any  happiness  that  can  be  satiated  without 
participation,  or  that  thirsts  not  to  reproduce  and 
perpetually  generate  itself.  The  path  of  virtue  and 
felicity  was  plain  and  unimpeded.  They  clearly 
acknowledged,   in  every  case,    that    conduct   to   be 


THE  ASSASSINS.  161 

entitled  to  preference  whicli  would  obviously  produce 
the  greatest  pleasure.  Tliey  could  not  conceive  an 
instance  in  which  it  would  be  their  duty  to  hesitate,  in 
causing,  at  whatever  expense,  the  greatest  and  most 
unmixed  delight. 

Hence  arose  a  peculiarity  which  only  failed  to 
germinate  in  uncommon  and  momentous  consequences, 
because  the  Assassins  had  retired  from  the  intercourse 
of  mankind,  over  whom  other  motives  and  principles 
of  conduct  than  justice  and  benevolence  prevail.  It 
would  be  a  difficult  matter  for  men  of  such  a  sincere 
and  simple  faith,  to  estimate  the  final  results  of  their 
intentions,  among  the  corrupt  and  slavish  multitude. 
They  would  be  perplexed  also  in  their  choice  of  the 
means,  whereby  their  intentions  might  be  fulfilled.  To 
produce  immediate  pain  or  disorder  for  the  sake  of 
future  benefit,  is  consonant,  indeed,  with  the  purest 
religion  and  philosophy,  but  never  fails  to  excite 
invincible  repugnance  in  the  feelings  of  the  many. 
Against  their  predilections  and  distastes  an  Assassin, 
accidentally  the  inhabitant  of  a  civilised  community, 
would  wage  unremitting  hostility  from  principle.  He 
would  find  himself  compelled  to  adopt  means  which 
they  would  abhor,  for  the  sake  of  an  object  which  they 
could  not  conceive  that  he  should  propose  to  himself. 
Secure  and  self-enshrined  in  the  magnificence  and 
pre-eminence  of  his  conceptions,  spotless  as  the  light 
of  heaven,  he  would  be  the  victim  among  men  of 
calumny  and  persecution.  Incapable  of  distinguishing 
his  motives,  they  would  rank  him  among  the  vilest 
and   most   atrocious    criminals.      Great,  beyond  all 


162  THE  ASSASSINS. 

comparison  with  them,  thej  would  despise  him  in  the 
presumption  of  their  ignorance.  Because  his  spirit 
burned  with  an  unquenchable  passion  for  their  welfare, 
they  would  lead  him,  like  his  illustrious  master,  amidst 
scoffs,  and  mockery,  and  insult,  to  the  remuneration  of 
an  ignominious  death. 

"Who  hesitates  to  destroy  a  venomous  serpent  that 
has  crept  near  his  sleeping  friend,  except  the  man  who 
selfishly  dreads  lest  the  malignant  reptile  should  turn 
his  fury  on  himself?  And  if  the  poisoner  has  assumed 
a  human  shape,  if  the  bane  be  distinguished  only  from 
the  viper's  venom  by  the  excess  and  extent  of  its 
devastation,  will  the  saviour  and  avenger  here  retract 
and  pause  entrenched  behind  the  superstition  of  the 
indefeasible  divinity  of  man  ?  Is  the  human  form, 
then,  the  mere  badge  of  a  prerogative  for  unlicensed 
wickedness  and  mischief?  Can  the  power  derived 
from  the  weakness  of  the  oppressed,  or  the  ignorance  of 
the  deceived,  confer  the  right  in  security  to  tyrannise 
and  defraud  ? 

The  subject  of  regular  governments,  and  the 
disciple  of  established  superstition,  dares  not  to  ask 
this  question.  For  the  sake  of  the  eventual  benefit, 
he  endures  what  he  esteems  a  transitory  evil,  and  the 
moral  degradation  of  man  disquiets  not  his  patience. 
But  the  religion  of  an  Assassin  imposes  other  virtues 
than  endurance,  when  his  fellow-men  groan  under 
tyranny,  or  have  become  so  bestial  and  abject  that 
they  cannot  feel  their  chains.  An  Assassin  believes 
that  man  is  eminently  man,  and  only  then  enjoys  the 
prerogatives   of  his    privileged  condition,    when  his 


THE  ASSASSINS.  163 

affections  and  his  judgment  pay  tribute  to  the  God 
of  Nature.  The  perverse,  and  vile,  and  vicious — 
what  were  they?  Shapes  of  some  unholy  vision, 
moulded  by  the  spirit  of  Evil,  which  the  sword  of 
the  merciful  destroyer  should  sweep  from  this 
beautiful  world.  Dreamy  nothings;  phantasms  of 
misery  and  mischief,  that  hold  their  death-like  state 
on  glittering  thrones,  and  in  the  loathsome  dens  of 
poverty.  'No  Assassin  would  submissively  temporise 
with  vice,  and  in  cold  charity  become  a  pander  to 
falsehood  and  desolation.  His  path  through  the 
wilderness  of  civilised  society  would  be  marked  with 
the  blood  of  the  oppressor  and  the  miner.  The  wretch 
whom  nations  tremblingly  adore,  would  expiate  in 
his  throttling  grasp  a  thousand  licensed  and  venerable 
crimes. 

How  many  holy  liars  and  parasites,  in  solemn  guise, 
would  his  saviour  arm  drag  from  their  luxurious, 
couches,  and  plunge  in  the  cold  charnel,  that  the 
green  and  many-legged  monsters  of  the  slimy  grave 
might  eat  off  at  their  leisure  the  lineaments  of  rooted 
malignity  and  detested  cunning.  The  respectable 
man — the  smooth,  smiling,  polished  villain,  whom  all 
the  city  honours ;  whose  very  trade  is  lies  and  murder; 
who  buys  his  daily  bread  with  the  blood  and  tears  of 
men,  would  feed  the  ravens  with  his  limbs.  The 
Assassin  would  cater  nobly  for  the  eyeless  worms  of 
earth,  and  the  carrion  fowls  of  heaven. 

Tet  here,  religion  and  human  love  had  imbued  the 
manners  of  those  solitary  people  with  inexpressible 
gentleness  and  benignity.     Courage  and  active  virtue, 

m2 


164  THE  ASSASSINS. 

and  the  indignation  against  vice,  wHcli  becomes  a 
hurrying  and  irresistible  passion,  slept  like  the 
imprisoned  earthquake,  or  the  lightning  shafts  that 
hang  in  the  golden  clouds  of  evening.  They  were 
innocent,  but  they  were  capable  of  more  than 
innocence ;  for  the  great  principles  of  their  faith  were 
perpetually  acknowledged  and  adverted  to;  nor  had 
they  forgotten,  in  this  uninterrupted  quiet,  the  author 
of  their  felicity. 

Four  centuries  had  thus  worn  away  without 
producing  an  event.  Men  had  died,  and  natural  tears 
had  been  shed  upon  their  graves,  in  sorrow  that 
improves  the  heart.  Those  who  had  been  united  by 
love  had  gone  to  death  together,  leaving  to  their 
friends  the  bequest  of  a  most  sacred  grief,  and  of  a 
sadness  that  is  allied  to  pleasure.  Babes  that  hung 
upon  their  mothers'  breasts  had  become  men;  men 
had  died;  and  many  a  wild  luxuriant  weed  that 
overtopped  the  habitations  of  the  vale,  had  twined  its 
roots  around  their  disregarded  bones.  Their  tranquil 
state  was  like  a  summer  sea,  whose  gentle  undulations 
disturb  not  the  reflected  stars,  and  break  not  the 
long  still  line  of  the  rainbow  hues  of  sunrise. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Where  all  is  thus  calm,  the  slightest  circumstance 
is  recorded  and  remembered.  Before  the  sixth 
century  had  expired  one  incident  occurred,  remarkable 
and  strange.  A  young  man,  named  Albedir,  wandering 
in  the  woods,  was  startled  by  the   screaming  of   a 


THE  ASSASSINS.  165 

bird  of  prey,  and,  looking  up,  saw  blood  fall,  drop 
by  drop,  from  among  the  intertwined  boughs  of  a 
cedar.  Having  climbed  the  tree,  he  beheld  a  terrible 
and  dismaying  spectacle.  A  naked  human  body  was 
impaled  on  the  broken  branch.  It  was  maimed  and 
mangled  horribly ;  every  limb  bent  and  bruised  into 
frightful  distortion,  and  exhibiting  a  breathing  image 
of  the  most  sickening  mockery  of  life.  A  monstrous 
snake  had  scented  its  prey  from  among  the  mountains? 
and  above  hovered  a  hungry  vulture.  From  amidst 
this  mass  of  desolated  humanity,  two  eyes,  black  and 
inexpressibly  brilliant,  shone  with  an  unearthly  lustre. 
Beneath  the  blood-stained  eyebrows  their  steady  rays 
manifested  the  serenity  of  an  immortal  power,  the 
collected  energy  of  a  deathless  mind,  spell-secured 
from  dissolution.  A  bitter  smile  of  mingled  abhorrence 
and  scorn  distorted  his  wounded  lip — he  appeared 
calmly  to  observe  and  measure  all  around — self- 
possession  had  not  deserted  the  shattered  mass 
of  life. 

The  youth  approached  the  bough  on  which  the 
breathing  corpse  was  hung.  As  he  approached,  the 
serpent  reluctantly  unwreathed  his  glittering  coils, 
and  crept  towards  his  dark  and  loathsome  cave.  The 
vulture,  impatient  of  his  meal,  fled  to  the  miountain, 
that  re-echoed  with  his  hoarse  screams.  The  cedar 
branches  creaked  with  their  agitating  weight,  faintly, 
as  the  dismal  wind  arose.     All  else  was  deadly  silent. 

At  length  a  voice  issued  from  the  mangled  man.  It 
rattled  in  hoarse  murmurs  from  his  throat  and  lungs 
— his  words  were  the   conclusion  of  some   strano^e 


166  THE  ASSASSINS. 

mysterious  soliloquy.  They  were  broken,  and  without 
apparent  connection,  completing  wide  intervals  of 
inexpressible  conceptions. 

"  The  great  tyrant  is  baffled,  even  in  success.  Joy ! 
joy !  to  his  tortured  foe !  Triumph  to  the  worm  whom 
he  tramples  under  his  feet !  Ha !  His  suicidal  hand 
might  dare  as  well  abolish  the  mighty  frame  of  things  ! 
Delight  and  exultation  sit  before  the  closed  gates  of 
death  !^— I  fear  not  to  dwell  beneath  their  black  and 
ghastly  shadow.  Here  thy  power  may  not  avail! 
Thou  createst — 'tis  mine  to  ruin  and  destroy. — I  was 
thy  slave — I  am  thy  equal  and  thy  foe. — Thousands 
tremble  before  thy  throne,  who,  at  my  voice,  shall  dare 
to  pluck  the  golden  crown  from  thine  unholy  head !  " 
He  ceased.  The  silence  of  noon  swallowed  up  his 
words.  Albedir  clung  tighter  to  the  tree — he  dared 
not  for  dismay  remove  his  eyes.  He  remained  mute 
in  the  perturbation  of  deep  and  creeping  horror. 

"  Albedir !  "  said  the  same  voice,  "  Albedir !  in  the 
name  of  Grod,  approach.  He  that  suffered  me  to  fall, 
watches  thee; — the  gentle  and  merciful  spirits  of 
sweet  human  love,  delight  not  in  agony  and  horror.  For 
pity's  sake  approach,  in  the  name  of  thy  good  G-od, 
approach,  Albedir ! "  The  tones  were  mild  and  clear, 
as  the  responses  of  ^olian  music.  They  floated  to 
Albedir' s  ear  like  the  warm  breath  of  June  that  lingers 
in  the  lawny  groves,  subduing  all  to  softness.  Tears 
of  tender  affection  started  into  his  eyes.  It  was  as  the 
voice  of  a  beloved  friend.  The  partner  of  his  childhood, 
the  brother  of  his  soul,  seemed  to  call  for  aid,  and 
pathetically  to  remonstrate  with  delay.     He  resisted 


THE  ASSASSINS.  167 

not  the  magic  impulse,  but  advanced  towards  the  spot, 
and  tenderly  attempted  to  remove  the  wounded  man. 
He  cautiously  descended  the  tree  with  his  wretched 
burthen,  and  deposited  it  on  the  ground. 

A  period  of  strange  silence  intervened.  Awe  and 
cold  horror  were  slowly  succeeding  to  the  softer 
sensations  of  tumultuous  pity,  when  again  he  heard 
the  silver  modulations  of  the  same  enchanting  voice. 
"  Weep  not  for  me,  Albedir !  What  wretch  so  utterly 
lost,  but  might  inhale  peace  and  renovation  from  this 
paradise !  I  am  wounded,  and  in  pain ;  but  having 
found  a  refuge  in  this  seclusion,  and  a  friend  in  you,  I 
am  worthier  of  envy  than  compassion.  Bear  me  to 
your  cottage  secretly :  I  would  not  disturb  your 
gentle  partner  by  my  appearance.  She  must  love  me 
more  dearly  than  a  brother.  I  must  be  the  playmate 
of  your  children ;  already  I  regard  them  with  a  father's 
love.  My  arrival  must  not  be  regarded  as  a  thing  of 
mystery  and  wonder.  What,  indeed,  but  that  men  are 
prone  to  error  and  exaggeration,  is  less  inexplicable, 
than  that  a  stranger,  wandering  on  Lebanon,  fell  from 
the  rocks  into  the  vale  ?  Albedir,"  he  continued,  and 
his  deepening  voice  assumed  awful  solemnity,  "  in 
return  for  the  affection  with  which  I  cherish  thee 
and  thine,  thou  owest  this  submission.*' 

Albedir  implicitly  submitted ;  not  even  a  thought 
had  power  to  refuse  its  deference.  He  re-assumed  his 
burthen,  and  proceeded  towards  the  cottage.  He 
watched  until  Khaled  should  be  absent,  and  conveyed 
the  stranger  into  an  apartment  appropriated  for  the 
reception    of   those  who    occasionally   visited    their 


168  THE  ASSASSINS. 

habitation.  He  desired  that  the  door  should  be 
securely  fastened,  and  that  he  might  not  be  visited 
until  the  morning  of  the  follomng  day. 

Albedir  waited  mth  impatience  for  the  return  of 
Khaled.  The  unaccustomed  weight  of  even  so  transi- 
tory a  secret,  hung  on  his  ingenuous  and  unpractised 
nature,  like  a  blighting,  clinging  curse.  The  stranger's 
accents  had  lulled  him  to  a  trance  of  wild  and 
delightful  imagination.  Hopes,  so  visionary  and 
aerial,  that  they  had  assumed  no  denomination,  had 
spread  themselves  over  his  intellectual  frame,  and, 
phantoms  as  they  were,  had  modelled  his  being  to  their 
shape.  Still  his  mind  was  not  exempt  from  the 
visitings  of  disquietude  and  perturbation.  It  was  a 
troubled  stream  of  thought,  over  whose  fluctuating 
waves  unsearchable  fate  seemed  to  preside,  guiding 
its  unforeseen  alternations  with  an  inexorable  hand. 
Albedir  paced  earnestly  the  garden  of  his  cottage, 
revolving  every  circumstance  attendant  on  the  incident 
of  the  day.  He  re-imaged  with  intense  thought  the 
minutest  recollections  of  the  scene.  In  vain  —  he 
was  the  slave  of  suggestions  not  to  be  controlled. 
Astonishment,  horror,  and  awe — ^tumultuous  sympathy, 
and  a  mysterious  elevation  of  soul,  hurried  away  all 
activity  of  judgment,  and  overwhelmed,  with  stunning 
force,  every  attempt  at  deliberation  or  inquiry. 

His  reveries  were  interrupted  at  length  by  the 
return  of  Khaled.  She  entered  the  cottage,  that 
scene  of  undisturbed  repose,  in  the  confidence  that 
change  might  as  soon  overwhelm  the  eternal  world, 
as  disturb  this  inviolable  sanctuary.     She  started  to 


THE  ASSASSINS.  169 

behold  Albedir.  "Without  preface  or  remark,  he 
recounted  with  eager  haste  the  occurrences  of  the 
day.  Khaled's  tranquil  spirit  could  hardly  keep  pace 
with  the  breathless  rapidity  of  his  narration.  She  was 
bewildered  with  staggering  wonder  even  to  hear  his 
confused  tones,  and  behold  his  agitated  countenance. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

On  the  following  morning  Albedir  arose  at  sunrise, 
and  visited  the  stranger.  He  found  him  already  risen, 
and  employed  in  adorning  the  lattice  of  his  chamber 
with  flowers  from  the  garden.  There  was  something 
in  his  attitude  and  occupation  singularly  expressive 
of  his  entire  familiarity  with  the  scene.  Albedir' s 
habitation  seemed  to  have  been  his  accustomed  home. 
He  addressed  his  host  in  a  tone  of  gay  and  afiectionate 
welcome,  such  as  never  fails  to  communicate  by 
sympathy  the  feelings  from  which  it  flows. 

"  My  friend,"  said  he,  "  the  balm  of  the  dew  of  our 
vale  is  sweet;  or  is  this  garden  the  favoured  spot 
where  the  winds  conspire  to  scatter  the  best  odours 
they  can  find?  Come,  lend  me  your  arm  awhile,  I 
feel  very  weak."  He  motioned  to  walk  forth,  but, 
as  if  unable  to  proceed,  rested  on  the  seat  beside  the 
door.  For  a  few  moments  they  were  silent,  if  the 
interchange  of  cheerful  and  happy  looks  is  to  be  called 
silence.  At  last  he  observed  a  spade  that  rested 
against  the  wall.  "  You  have  only  one  spade, 
brother,"  said  he;  "you  have  only  one,  I  suppose, 
of  any  of  the  instruments  of  tillage.     Your  garden 


170  THE  ASSASSINS. 

ground,  too,  occupies  a  certain  space  which  it  will  be 
necessary  to  enlarge.  This  must  be  quickly  remedied. 
I  cannot  earn  mj  supper  of  to-night,  nor  of  to- 
morrow ;  but  thenceforward,  I  do  not  mean  to  eat  the 
bread  of  idleness.  I  know  that  you  would  willingly 
perform  the  additional  labour  which  my  nourishment 
would  require ;  I  know  also,  that  you  would  feel  a 
degree  of  pleasure  in  the  fatigue  arising  from  this 
emplojonent,  but  I  shall  contest  with  you  such  plea- 
sures as  these,  and  such  pleasures  as  these  alone." 
His  eyes  were  somewhat  wan,  and  the  tone  of  his 
voice  languid  as  he  spoke. 

As  they  were  thus  engaged,  Khaled  came  towards 
them.  The  stranger  beckoned  to  her  to  sit  beside  him, 
and  taking  her  hands  within  his  own,  looked  atten- 
tively on  her  mild  countenance.  Khaled  inquired  if 
he  had  been  refreshed  by  sleep.  He  replied  by  a 
laugh  of  careless  and  inoffensive  glee ;  and  placing  one 
of  her  hands  within  Albedir's,  said,  "  If  this  be  sleep, 
here  in  this  odorous  vale,  where  these  sweet  smiles 
encompass  us,  and  the  voices  of  those  who  love  are 
heard — if  these  be  the  visions  of  sleep,  sister,  those 
who  lie  down  in  misery  shall  arise  lighter  than  the 
butterflies.  I  came  from  amid  the  tumult  of  a 
world,  how  different  from  this  !  I  am  unexpectedly 
among  you,  in  the  midst  of  a  scene  such  as  my 
imagination  never  dared  to  promise.  I  must  remain 
here — I  must  not  depart."  Khaled,  recovering  from 
the  admiration  and  astonishment  caused  by  the 
stranger's  words  and  manner,  assured  him  of  the 
happiness  which  she  should  feel  in  such  an  addition  to 


THE  ASSASSINS.  171 

her  society.  Albedir,  too,  who  had  been  more  deeply 
impressed  than  Khaled  by  the  event  of  his  arrival, 
earnestly  re-assured  him  of  the  ardour  of  the  affection 
with  which  he  had  inspired  them.  The  stranger 
smiled  gently  to  hear  the  unaccustomed  fervour  of 
sincerity  which  animated  their  address,  and  was  rising 
to  retire,  when  Khaled  said,  "  You  have  not  yet  seen 
our  children,  Maimuna  and  Abdallah.  They  are  by  the 
water-side,  playing  with  their  favourite  snake.  "We 
have  only  to  cross  yonder  little  wood,  and  wind  down 
a  path  cut  in  the  rock  that  overhangs  the  lake,  and  we 
shall  find  them  beside  a  recess  which  the  shore  makes 
there,  and  which  a  chasm,  as  it  were,  among  the  rocks 
and  woods,  encloses.  Do  you  think  you  could  walk 
there?" — "To  see  your  children,  Khaled?  I  think 
I  could,  with  the  assistance  of  Albedir' s  arm,  and 
yours." — So  they  went  through  the  wood  of  ancient 
cypress,  intermingled  with  the  brightness  of  many- 
tinted  blooms,  which  gleamed  like  stars  through  its 
romantic  glens.  They  crossed  the  green  meadow,  and 
entered  among  the  broken  chasms,  beautiful  as  they 
were  in  their  investiture  of  odoriferous  shrubs.  They 
came  at  last,  after  pursuing  a  path  which  wound 
through  the  intricacies  of  a  little  wilderness,  to  the 
borders  of  the  lake.  They  stood  on  the  rock  which 
overhung  it,  from  which  there  was  a  prospect  of  all 
the  miracles  of  nature  and  of  art  which  encircled  and 
adorned  its  shores.  The  stranger  gazed  upon  it  with 
a  countenance  unchanged  by  any  emotion,  but,  as 
it  were,  thoughtfully  and  contemplatingly.  As  he 
gazed,  Khaled  ardently  pressed  his  hand,  and  said,  in 


172  THE  ASSASSINS. 

a  low  yet  eager  voice,  "Look,  look,  lo  there!"  He 
turned  towards  her,  but  her  eyes  were  not  on  him. 
She  looked  below — her  lips  were  parted  by  the 
feelings  which  possessed  her  soul — her  breath  came 
and  went  regularly  but  inaudibly.  She  leaned  over 
the  precipice,  and  her  dark  hair  hanging  beside  her 
face,  gave  relief  to  its  fine  lineaments,  animated  by 
such  love  as  exceeds  utterance.  The  stranger  followed 
her  eyes,  and  saw  that  her  children  were  in  the  glen 
below;  then  raising  his  eyes,  exchanged  with  her 
affectionate  looks  of  congratulation  and  delight.  The 
boy  was  apparently  eight  years  old,  the  girl  about 
two  years  younger.  The  beauty  of  their  form  and 
countenance  was  something  so  divine  and  strange,  as 
overwhelmed  the  senses  of  the  beholder  like  a  delight- 
ful dream,  with  insupportable  ravishment.  They  were 
arrayed  in  a  loose  robe  of  linen,  through  which  the 
exquisite  proportions  of  their  form  appeared.  Uncon- 
scious that  they  were  observed,  they  did  not  relinquish 
the  occupation  in  which  they  were  engaged.  They 
had  constructed  a  little  boat  of  the  bark  of  trees,  and 
had  given  it  sails  of  interwoven  feathers,  and  launched 
it  on  the  water.  They  sate  beside  a  white  flat  stone, 
on  which  a  small  snake  lay  coiled,  and  when  their  work 
was  finished,  they  arose  and  called  to  the  snake  in 
melodious  tones,  so  that  it  understood  their  language. 
Tor  it  unwreathed  its  shining  circles  and  crept  to  the 
boat,  into  which  no  sooner  had  it  entered,  than  the 
girl  loosened  the  band  which  held  it  to  the  shore,  and 
it  sailed  away.  Then  they  ran  round  and  round  the 
little   creek,   clapping  their  hands,  and  melodiously 


ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH.  173 

pouring  out  wild  sounds,  which  the  snake  seemed  to 
answer  by  the  restless  glancing  of  his  neck.  At  last  a 
breath  of  wind  came  from  the  shore,  and  the  boat 
changed  its  course,  and  was  about  to  leave  the  creek, 
w^hich  the  snake  perceived  and  leaped  into  the  water, 
and  came  to  the  little  children's  feet.  The  girl  sang 
to  it,  and  it  leaped  into  her  bosom,  and  she  crossed  her 
fair  hands  over  it,  as  if  to  cherish  it  there.  Then  the 
boy  answered  with  a  song,  and  it  glided  from  beneath 
her  hands  and  crept  towards  him.  While  they  were 
thus  employed,  Maimuna  looked  up,  and  seeing  her 
parents  on  the  cliif,  ran  to  meet  them  up  the  steep 
path  that  wound  around  it ;  and  Abdallah,  leaving  his 
snake^  followed  joyfully. 


ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

A   FEAGMENT. 

The  first  law  which  it  becomes  a  Eeformer  to 
propose  and  support,  at  the  approach  of  a  period  of 
great  political  change,  is  the  aboHtion  of  the  punishment 
of  death. 

It  is  sufficiently  clear  that  revenge,  retaliation, 
atonement,  expiation,  are  rules  and  motives,  so  far 
from  deserving  a  place  in  any  enlightened  system  of 
political  life,  that  they  are  the  chief  sources  of  a 
prodigious  class  of  miseries  in  the  domestic  circles  of 
society.  It  is  clear  that  however  the  spirit  of  legisla- 
tion may  appear  to  frame  institutions   upon  more 


174  ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

philosophical  maxims,  it  lias  hitherto,  in  those  cases 
which  are  termed  criminal,  done  little  more  than 
palliate  the  spirit,  by  gratifying  a  portion  of  it ;  and 
afforded  a  compromise  between  that  which  is  best ; — 
the  inflicting  of  no  evil  upon  a  sensitive  being,  without 
a  decisively  beneficial  result  in  which  he  should  at  least 
participate ; — and  that  which  is  worst ;  that  he  should 
be  put  to  torture  for  the  amusement  of  those  whom 
he  may  have  injured,  or  may  seem  to  have  injured. 

Omitting  these  remoter  considerations,  let  us  inquire 
what  Death  is  ;  that  punishment  which  is  applied  as  a 
measure  of  transgressions  of  indefinite  shades  of 
distinction,  so  soon  as  they  shall  have  passed  that 
degree  and  colour  of  enormity,  with  which  it  is 
supposed  no  inferior  infliction  is  commensurate. 

And  first,  whether  death  is  good  or  evil,  a  punishment 
or  a  reward,  or  whether  it  be  wholly  indifferent,  no 
man  can  take  upon  himself  to  assert.  That  that 
within  us  which  thinks  and  feels,  continues  to  think 
and  feel  after  the  dissolution  of  the  body,  has  been  the 
almost  universal  opinion  of  mankind,  and  the  accurate 
philosophy  of  what  I  may  be  permitted  to  term  the 
modern  Academy,  by  showing  the  prodigious  depth 
and  extent  of  our  ignorance  respecting  the  causes  and 
nature  of  sensation,  renders  probable  the  affirmative 
of  a  proposition,  the  negative  of  which  it  is  so  difficult 
to  conceive,  and  the  popular  arguments  against  which, 
derived  from  what  is  called  the  atomic  system,  are 
proved  to  be  applicable  only  to  the  relation  which 
one  object  bears  to  another,  as  apprehended  by  the 
mind,  and  not  to  existence  itself,  or  the  nature  of 


ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH.  175 

that  essence  which  is  the  medium  and  receptacle  of 
objects. 

The  popular  system  of  religion  suggests  the  idea  that 
the  mind,  after  death,  will  be  painfully  or  pleasurably 
affected  according  to  its  determinations  during  life. 
However  ridiculous  and  pernicious  we  must  admit  the 
vulgar  accessories  of  this  creed  to  be,  there  is  a  certain 
analogy,  not  wholly  absurd,  between  the  consequences 
resulting  to  an  individual  during  life  from  the  virtuous 
or  vicious,  prudent  or  imprudent,  conduct  of  his 
external  actions,  to  those  consequences  which  are 
conjectured  to  ensue  from  the  discipline  and  order 
of  his  internal  thoughts,  as  affecting  his  condition  in  a 
future  state.  They  omit,  indeed,  to  calculate  upon  the 
accidents  of  disease,  and  temperament,  and  organi- 
sation, and  circumstance,  together  with  the  multitude 
of  independent  agencies  which  affect  the  opinions, 
the  conduct,  and  the  happiness  of  individuals,  and 
produce  determinations  of  the  will,  and  modify  the 
judgment,  so  as  to  produce  effects  the  most  opposite 
in  natures  considerably  similar.  These  are  those 
operations  in  the  order  of  the  whole  of  nature,  tending, 
we  are  prone  to  believe,  to  some  definite  mighty  end, 
to  which  the  agencies  of  our  peculiar  nature  are 
subordinate ;  nor  is  there  any  reason  to  suppose,  that 
in  a  future  state  they  should  become  suddenly  exempt 
from  that  subordination.  The  philosopher  is  unable 
to  determine  whether  our  existence  in  a  previous  state 
has  affected  our  present  condition,  and  abstains  from 
deciding  whether  our  present  condition  will  affect  us 
in  that  which  may  be  future.     That,  if  we  continue  to 


176  ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

exist,  the  manner  of  our  existence  will  be  such  as  no 
inferences  nor  conjectures,  afforded  by  a  consideration 
of  our  earthly  experience,  can  elucidate,  is  sufficiently 
obvious.  The  opinion  that  the  vital  principle  within 
us,  in  whatever  mode  it  may  continue  to  exist,  must 
lose  that  consciousness  of  definite  and  individual  being 
which  now  characterises  it,  and  become  a  unit  in 
the  vast  sum  of  action  and  of  thought  which  disposes 
and  animates  the  universe,  and  is  called  God,  seems 
to  belong  to  that  class  of  opinion  which  has  been 
designated  as  indifferent. 

To  compel  a  person  to  know  all  that  can  be  known 
by  the  dead,  concerning  that  which  the  living  fear, 
hope,  or  forget ;  to  plunge  him  into  the  pleasure  or 
pain  which  there  awaits  him;  to  punish  or  reward 
him  in  a  manner  and  in  a  degree  incalculable  and 
incomprehensible  by  us ;  to  disrobe  him  at  once  from 
all  that  intertexture  of  good  and  evil  with  which 
Nature  seems  to  have  clothed  every  form  of  individual 
existence,  is  to  inflict  on  him  the  doom  of  death. 

A  certain  degree  of  pain  and  terror  usually  accom- 
pany the  infliction  of  death.  This  degree  is  infinitely 
varied  by  the  infinite  variety  in  the  temperament 
and  opinions  of  the  sufferers.  As  a  measure  of 
punishment,  strictly  so  considered,  and  as  an  exhi- 
bition, which,  by  its  known  effects  on  the  sensibility 
of  the  sufferer,  is  intended  to  intimidate  the  spectators 
from  incurring  a  similar  liability,  it  is  singularly 
inadequate. 

Firstly, — Persons  of  energetic  character,  in  whom, 
as  in  men  who   suffer  for  political  crimes,  there  is 


ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH.  177 

a  large  mixture  of  enterprise,  and  fortitude,  and 
disinterestedness,  and  the  elements,  though  misguided 
and  disarranged,  by  which  the  strength  and  happiness 
of  a  nation  might  have  been  cemented,  die  in  such 
a  manner,  as  to  make  death  appear  not  evil,  but  good. 
The  death  of  what  is  called  a  traitor,  that  is,  a  person 
who,  from  whatever  motive,  would  abolish  the  govern- 
ment of  the  day,  is  as  often  a  triumphant  exhibition 
of  suffering  virtue,  as  the  warning  of  a  culprit.  The 
multitude,  instead  of  departing  with  a  panic-stricken 
approbation  of  the  laws  which  exhibited  such  a  spectacle, 
are  inspired  with  pity,  admiration  and  sympathy ;  and 
the  most  generous  among  them  feel  an  emulation 
to  be  the  authors  of  such  flattering  emotions,  as  they 
experience  stirring  in  their  bosoms.  Impressed  by 
what  they  see  and  feel,  they  make  no  distinction 
between  the  motives  which  incited  the  criminals  to 
the  actions  for  which  they  suifer,  or  the  heroic  courage 
with  which  they  turned  into  good  that  which  their 
judges  awarded  to  them  as  evil,  or  the  purpose  itself 
of  those  actions,  though  that  purpose  may  happen  to 
be  eminently  pernicious.  The  laws  in  this  case  lose 
that  sympathy,  which  it  ought  to  be  their  chief  object 
to  secure,  and  in  a  participation  of  which  consists 
their  chief  strength  in  maintaining  those  sanctions 
by  which  the  parts  of  the  social  union  are  bound 
together,  so  as  to  produce,  as  nearly  as  possible,  the 
ends  for  which  it  is  instituted. 

Secondly, — Persons  of  energetic  character,  in  com- 
munities not  modelled  mth  philosophical  skiU  to  turn 
all  the  energies  which  they  contain  to  the  purposes  of 


178  ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

common  good,  are  prone  also  to  fall  into  the  temptation 
of  undertaking,  and  are  peculiarly  fitted  for  despising 
the  perils  attendant  upon  consummating,  the  most 
enormous  crimes.  Murder,  rapes,  extensive  schemes 
of  plunder,  are  the  actions  of  persons  belonging  to  this 
class;  and  death  is  the  penalty  of  conviction.  But 
the  coarseness  of  organisation,  peculiar  to  men  capable 
of  committing  acts  wholly  selfish,  is  usually  found 
to  be  associated  v^ith  a  proportionate  insensibility  to 
fear  or  pain.  Their  sufferings  communicate  to  those  of 
the  spectators,  who  may  be  liable  to  the  commission 
of  similar  crimes,  a  sense  of  the  lightness  of  that 
event,  when  closely  examined,  which,  at  a  distance, 
as  uneducated  persons  are  accustomed  to  do,  probably 
they  regarded  with  horror.  But  a  great  majority  of 
the  spectators  are  so  bound  up  in  the  interests  and  the 
habits  of  social  union  that  no  temptation  would  be 
sufficiently  strong  to  induce  them  to  a  commission  of 
the  enormities  to  which  this  penalty  is  assigned.  The 
more  powerful,  and  the  richer  among  them, — and  a 
numerous  class  of  little  tradesmen  are  richer  and  more 
powerful  than  those  who  are  employed  by  them,  and 
the  employer,  in  general,  bears  this  relation  to  the 
employed, — regard  their  own  wrongs  as,  in  some 
degree,  avenged,  and  their  own  rights  secured  by  this 
punishment,  inflicted  as  the  penalty  of  whatever 
crime.  In  cases  of  murder  or  mutilation,  this  feeling 
is  almost  universal.  In  those,  therefore,  whom  this 
exhibition  does  not  awaken  to  the  sympathy  which 
extenuates  crime  and  discredits  the  law  which  restrains 
it,  it  produces  feelings  more  directly  at  war  with  tl;e 


ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH.  179 

genuine  purposes  of  political  society.  It  excites  those 
emotions  which  it  is  the  chief  object  of  civilisation  to 
extinguish  for  ever,  and  in  the  extinction  of  which 
alone  there  can  be  any  hope  of  better  institutions 
than  those  under  which  men  now  misgovern  one 
another.  Men  feel  that  their  revenge  is  gratified,  and 
that  their  security  is  established  by  the  extinction  and 
the  sufferings  of  beings,  in  most  respects  resembling 
themselves ;  and  their  daily  occupations  constraining 
them  to  a  precise  form  in  all  their  thoughts,  they 
come  to  connect  inseparably  the  idea  of  their  own 
advantage  with  that  of  the  death  and  torture  of  others. 
It  is  manifest  that  the  object  of  sane  polity  is  directly 
the  reverse ;  and  that  laws  founded  upon  reason,  should 
accustom  the  gross  vulgar  to  associate  their  ideas  of 
security  and  of  interest  with  the  reformation,  and  the 
strict  restraint,  for  that  purpose  alone,  of  those  who 
might  invade  it. 

The  passion  of  revenge  is  originally  nothing  more 
than  an  habitual  perception  of  the  ideas  of  the 
sufferings  of  the  person  who  inflicts  an  injury,  as 
connected,  as  they  are  in  a  savage  state,  or  in  such 
portions  of  society  as  are  yet  undisciplined  to  civilisation, 
with  security  that  that  injury  will  not  be  repeated 
in  future.  This  feeling,  engrafted  upon  superstition 
and  confirmed  by  habit,  at  last  loses  sight  of  the  only 
object  for  which  it  may  be  supposed  to  have  been 
implanted,  and  becomes  a  passion  and  a  duty  to  be 
pursued  and  fulfilled,  even  to  the  destruction  of  those 
ends  to  which  it  originally  tended.  The  other  passions, 
both  good  and  evil,  Avarice,  Eemorse,  Love,  Patriotism, 

N   2 


180  ON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

present  a  similar  appearance ;  and  to  this  principle 
of  the  mind  over- shooting  the  mark  at  which  it  aims, 
we  owe  all  that  is  eminently  base  or  excellent  in 
human  nature  ;  in  providing  for  the  nutriment  or 
the  extinction  of  which,  consists  the  true  art  of  the 
legislator* 

Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that  the  infliction  of 
punishment  in  general,  in  a  degree  which  the  refor- 
mation and  the  restraint  of  those  who  transgress  the 
laws  does  not  render  indispensable,  and  none  more 
than  death,  confirms  all  the  inhuman  and  unsocial 
impulses  of  men.  It  is  almost  a  proverbial  remark, 
that  those  nations  in  which  the  penal  code  has  been 
particularly  mild,  have  been  distinguished  from  all 
others  by  the  rarity  of  crime.  But  the  example  is 
to  be  admitted  to  be  equivocal.  A  more  decisive 
argument  is  afibrded  by  a  consideration  of  the  universal 
connection  of  ferocity  of  manners,  and  a  contempt  of 
social  ties,  with  the  contempt  of  human  life.  Grovern- 
ments  which  derive  their  institutions  from  the  existence 


*  The  savage  and  the  illiterate  are  but  faintly  aware  of  the  distinction 
between  the  future  and  the  past ;  they  make  actions  belonging-  to  periods 
so  distinct,  the  subjects  of  similar  feelings  ;  they  live  only  in  the  present, 
or  in  the  past,  as  it  is  present.  It  is  in  this  that  the  philosopher  excels 
one  of  the  many  ;  it  is  this  which  distinguishes  the  doctrine  of  philosophic 
necessity  from  fatalism  ;  and  that  determination  of  the  will,  by  which  it 
is  the  active  source  of  future  events,  from  that  liberty  or  indifference,  to 
which  the  abstract  liability  of  irremediable  actions  is  attached,  according 
to  the  notions  of  the  vulgar. 

This  is  the  source  of  the  erroneous  excesses  of  Remorse  and  Revenge ; 
the  one  extending  itself  over  the  future,  and  the  other  over  the  past ; 
provinces  in  which  their  suggestions  can  only  be  the  sources  of  evil.  The 
purpose  of  a  resolution  to  act  more  wisely  and  virtuously  in  future,  and 
the  sense  of  a  necessity'  of  caution  in  repressing  an  enemy,  are  the  sources 
from  which  the  enormous  superstitions  implied  in  the  words  cited  have 
arisen. 


ON  LIFE.  181 

of  circumstances  of  barbarism  and  violence,  with  some 
rare  exceptions  perhaps,  are  bloody  in  proportion  as 
they  are  despotic,  and  form  the  manners  of  their 
subjects  to  a  sympathy  with  their  own  spirit. 

The  spectators  who  feel  no  abhorrence  at  a  public 
execution,  but  rather  a  self-applauding  superiority, 
and  a  sense  of  gratified  indignation,  are  surely  excited 
to  the  most  inauspicious  emotions.  The  first  reflection 
of  such  a  one  is  the  sense  of  his  own  internal  and 
actual  worth,  as  preferable  to  that  of  the  victim,  whom 
circumstances  have  led  to  destruction.  The  meanest 
wretch  is  impressed  with  a  sense  of  his  own  comparative 
merit.  He  is  one  of  those  on  whom  the  tower  of 
Siloam  fell  not — he  is  such  a  one  as  Jesus  Christ  found 
not  in  all  Samaria,  who,  in  his  own  soul,  throws  the 
first  stone  at  the  woman  taken  in  adultery.  The 
popular  religion  of  the  country  takes  its  designation 
from  that  illustrious  person  whose  beautiful  sentiment 
I  have  quoted.  Any  one  who  has  stript  from  the 
doctrines  of  this  person  the  veil  of  familiarity,  will 
perceive  how  adverse  their  spirit  is  to  feelings  of  this 
nature. 


ON  LIFE. 

Life  and  the  world,  or  whatever  we  call  that  which 
we  are  and  feel,  is  an  astonishing  thing.  The  mist  of 
familiarity  obscures  from  us  the  wonder  of  our  being. 
We  are  struck  with  admiration  at  some  of  its  transient 


182  ON  LIFE. 

modifications,  but  it  is  itself  the  great  miracle.  "What 
are  changes  of  empires,  the  wreck  of  dynasties,  with 
the  opinions  which  supported  them ;  what  is  the  birth 
and  the  extinction  of  religious  and  of  political  systems 
to  life  ?  What  are  the  revolutions  of  the  globe  which 
we  inhabit,  and  the  operations  of  the  elements  of 
which  it  is  composed,  compared  with  life  ?  "What  is 
the  universe  of  stars,  and  suns,  of  which  this  inhabited 
earth  is  one,  and  their  motions,  and  their  destiny, 
compared  with  life  ?  Life,  the  great  miracle,  we 
admire  not,  because  it  is  so  miraculous.  It  is  well 
that  we  are  thus  shielded  by  the  familiarity  of  what  is 
at  once  so  certain  and  so  unfathomable,  from  an 
astonishment  which  would  otherwise  absorb  and 
overawe  the  functions  of  that  which  is  its  object. 

If  any  artist,  I  do  not  say  had  executed,  but  had 
merely  conceived  in  his  mind  the  system  of  the  sun, 
and  the  stars,  and  planets,  they  not  existing,  and  had 
painted  to  us  in  words,  or  upon  canvas,  the  spectacle 
now  afforded  by  the  nightly  cope  of  heaven,  and 
illustrated  it  by  the  wisdom  of  astronomy,  great  would 
be  our  admiration.  Or  had  he  imagined  the  scenery 
of  this  earth,  the  mountains,  the  seas,  and  the  rivers  ; 
the  grass,  and  the  flowers,  and  the  variety  of  the  forms 
and  masses  of  the  leaves  of  the  woods,  and  the  colours 
which  attend  the  setting  and  the  rising  sun,  and  the 
hues  of  the  atmosphere,  turbid  or  serene,  these  things 
not  before  existing,  truly  we  should  have  been 
astonished,  and  it  would  not  have  been  a  vain  boast  to 
have  said  of  such  a  man,  "Non  merita  nome  di 
creatore,  sennon  Iddio  ed  il  Poeta."     But  now  these 


ON  LIFE.  183 

things  are  looked  on  with  little  wonder,  and  to  be 
conscious  of  them  with  intense  delight  is  esteemed  to 
be  the  distinguishing  mark  of  a  refined  and  extra- 
ordinary person.  The  multitude  of  men  care  not  for 
them.     It  is  thus  with  Life — that  which  includes  all. 

What  is  life  ?  Thoughts  and  feelings  arise,  with  or 
mthout  our  will,  and  we  employ  words  to  express 
them.  We  are  born,  and  our  birth  is  unremembered, 
and  our  infancy  remembered  but  in  fragments ;  we 
live  on,  and  in  living  we  lose  the  apprehension  of  life. 
How  vain  is  it  to  think  that  words  can  penetrate  the 
mystery  of  our  being  1  Rightly  used  they  may  make 
evident  our  ignorance  to  ourselves,  and  this  is  much. 
For  what  are  we  ?  Whence  do  we  come  ?  and  whither 
do  we  go  ?  Is  birth  the  commencement,  is  death  the 
conclusion  of  our  being  ?     What  is  birth  and  death  ? 

The  most  refined  abstractions  of  logic  conduct  to  a 
view  of  life,  which,  though  startling  to  the  appre- 
hension, is,  in  fact,  that  which  the  habitual  sense  of  its 
repeated  combinations  has  extinguished  in  us.  It 
strips,  as  it  were,  the  painted  curtain  from  this  scene 
of  things.  I  confess  that  I  am  one  of  those  who  am 
unable  to  refuse  my  assent  to  the  conclusions  of  those 
philosophers  who  assert  that  nothing  exists  but  as  it  is 
perceived. 

It  is  a  decision  against  which  all  our  persuasions 
struggle,  and  we  must  be  long  convicted  before  we 
can  be  convinced  that  the  solid  universe  of  external 
things  is  "  such  stufi"  as  dreams  are  made  of."  The 
shocking  absurdities  of  the  popular  philosophy  of 
mind  and  matter,  its  fatal  consequences   in   morals, 


184  ON  LIFE. 

and  their  violent  dogmatism  concerning  the  source  of 
all  things,  had  early  conducted  me  to  materialism. 
This  materialism  is  a  seducing  system  to  young  and 
superficial  minds.  It  allows  its  disciples  to  talk, 
and  dispenses  them  from  thinking.  But  I  was 
discontented  with  such  a  view  of  things  as  it 
afforded ;  man  is  a  being  of  high  aspirations,  "  looking 
both  before  and  after,"  whose  "  thoughts  wander 
through  eternity,"  disclaiming  alliance  with  transience 
and  decay;  incapable  of  imagining  to  himself  anni- 
hilation ;  existing  but  in  the  future  and  the  past ; 
being,  not  what  he  is,  but  what  he  has  been  and  shall 
be.  "Whatever  may  be  his  true  and  final  destination, 
there  is  a  spirit  within  him  at  enmity  with  nothingness 
and  dissolution.  This  is  the  character  of  all  life  and 
being.  Each  is  at  once  the  centre  and  the  circum- 
ference ;  the  point  to  which  all  things  are  referred,  and 
the  line  in  which  all  things  are  contained.  Such 
contemplations  as  these,  materialism  and  the  popular 
philosophy  of  mind  and  matter  alike  forbid ;  they  are 
only  consistent  with  the  intellectual  system. 

It  is  absurd  to  enter  into  a  long  recapitulation  of 
arguments  sufficiently  familiar  to  those  inquiring 
minds,  whom  alone  a  writer  on  abstruse  subjects  can 
be  conceived  to  address.  Perhaps  the  most  clear  and 
vigorous  statement  of  the  intellectual  system  is  to  be 
found  in  Sir  William  Drummond's  Academical  Ques- 
tions. After  such  an  exposition,  it  would  be  idle 
to  translate  into  other  words  what  could  only  lose  its 
energy  and  fitness  by  the  change.  Examined  point  by 
point,   and  word  by  word,  the  most  discriminating 


ON  LIFE.  185 

intellects  have  been  able  to  discern  no  train  of 
thoughts  in  the  process  of  reasoning,  which  does  not 
conduct  inevitably  to  the  conclusion  which  has  been 
stated. 

What  follows  from  the  admission  ?  It  establishes 
no  new  truth,  it  gives  us  no  additional  insight  into  our 
hidden  nature,  neither  its  action  nor  itself.  Philo- 
sophy, impatient  as  it  may  be  to  build,  has  much  work 
yet  remaining,  as  pioneer  for  the  overgrowth  of  ages. 
It  makes  one  step  towards  this  object ;  it  destroys 
error,  and  the  roots  of  error.  It  leaves,  what  it  is  too 
often  the  duty  of  the  reformer  in  political  and  ethical 
questions  to  leave,  a  vacancy.  It  reduces  the  mind  to 
that  freedom  in  which  it  would  have  acted,  but  for  the 
misuse  of  words  and  signs,  the  mstruments  of  its  own 
creation.  By  signs,  I  would  be  understood  in  a  wide 
sense,  including  what  is  properly  meant  by  that  term, 
and  what  I  peculiarly  mean.  In  this  latter  sense, 
almost  all  familiar  objects  are  signs,  standing,  not  for 
themselves,  but  for  others,  in  their  capacity  of 
suggesting  one  thought  which  shall  lead  to  a  train 
of  thoughts.  Our  whole  life  is  thus  an  education  of 
error. 

Let  us  recollect  our  sensations  as  children.  What 
a  distinct  and  intense  apprehension  had  -we  of  the 
world  and  of  ourselves !  Many  of  the  circumstances 
of  social  life  were  then  important  to  us  which  are  now 
no  longer  so.  But  that  is  not  the  point  of  comparison 
on  which  I  mean  to  insist.  We  less  habitually 
distinguished  aU  that  we  saw  and  felt,  from  ourselves. 
They  seemed  as  it  were  to  constitute  one  mass.     There 


186  ON  LIFE. 

are  some  persons  wlio,  in  this  respect,  are  always 
children.  Those  who  are  subject  to  the  state  called 
reverie,  feel  as  if  their  nature  were  dissolved  into  the 
surrounding  universe,  or  as  if  the  surrounding  universe 
were  absorbed  into  their  being.  They  are  conscious  of 
no  distinction.  And  these  are  states  which  precede, 
or  accompany,  or  follow  an  unusually  intense  and 
vivid  apprehension  of  life.  As  men  grow  up  this 
power  commonly  decays,  and  they  become  mechanical 
and  habitual  agents.  Thus  feelings  and  then  reasonings 
are  the  combined  result  of  a  multitude  of  entangled 
thoughts,  and  of  a  series  of  what  are  called  impressions, 
planted  by  reiteration. 

The  view  of  life  presented  by  the  most  refined 
deductions  of  the  intellectual  philosophy,  is  that  of 
unity.  Nothing  exists  but  as  it  is  perceived.  The 
difterence  is  merely  nominal  between  those  two  classes 
of  thought,  which  are  vulgarly  distinguished  by  the 
names  of  ideas  and  of  external  objects.  Pursuing 
the  same  thread  of  reasoning,  the  existence  of  distinct 
individual  minds,  similar  to  that  which  is  employed  in 
now  questioning  its  own  nature,  is  likewise  found  to 
be  a  delusion.  The  words  J,  you^  they,  are  not  signs 
of  any  actual  difierence  subsisting  between  the 
assemblage  of  thoughts  thus  indicated,  but  are  merely 
marks  employed  to  denote  the  different  modifications 
of  the  one  mind. 

Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  this  doctrine  conducts 
to  the  monstrous  presumption  that  I,  the  person  who 
now  write  and  think,  am  that  one  mind.  I  am  but 
a  portion  of  it.     The  words  J,  and  you^  and  they,  are 


ON  LIFE.  187 

grammatical  devices  invented  simply  for  arrangement, 
and  totally  devoid  of  the  intense  and  exclusive  sense 
usually  attached  to  them.  It  is  difficult  to  find  terms 
adequate  to  express  so  subtle  a  conception  as  that 
to  which  the  Intellectual  Philosophy  has  conducted  us. 
We  are  on  that  verge  where  words  abandon  us,  and 
what  wonder  if  we  grow  dizzy  to  look  down  the  dark 
abyss  of  how  little  we  know. 

The  relations  of  tilings  remain  unchanged,  by 
w^hatever  system.  By  the  word  tilings  is  to  be 
understood  any  object  of  thought,  that  is  any  thought 
upon  which  any  other  thought  is  employed,  with  an 
apprehension  of  distinction.  The  relations  of  these 
remain  unchanged ;  and  such  is  the  material  of  our 
knowledge. 

What  is  the  cause  of  life  ?  that  is,  how  was  it 
produced,  or  what  agencies  distinct  from  life  have 
acted  or  act  upon  life  ?  All  recorded  generations  of 
mankind  have  weariedly  busied  themselves  in  inventing 
answers  to  this  question ;  and  the  result  has  been, — 
Religion.  Yet,  that  the  basis  of  all  things  cannot  be, 
as  the  popular  philosophy  alleges,  mind,  is  sufficiently 
evident.  Mind,  as  far  as  we  have  any  experience  of 
its  properties,  and  beyond  that  experience  how  vain 
is  argument !  cannot  create,  it  can  only  perceive.  It 
is  said  also  to  be  the  cause.  But  cause  is  only  a  word 
expressing  a  certain  state  of  the  human  mind  with 
regard  to  the  manner  in  which  two  thoughts  are 
apprehended  to  be  related  to  each  other.  If  any  one 
desires  to  know  how  unsatisfactorily  the  popular 
philosophy  employs  itself  upon  this   great  question, 


188  ON  A  FUTURE  STATE. 

they  need  only  impartially  reflect  upon  the  manner 
in  which  thoughts  develope  themselves  in  their  minds. 
It  is  infinitely  improbable  that  the  cause  of  mind,  that 
is,  of  existence,  is  similar  to  mind. 


ON  A  FUTTJEE  STATE. 

It  has  been  the  persuasion  of  an  immense  majority 
of  human  beings  in  all  ages  and  nations  that  we  con- 
tinue to  live  after  death, — that  apparent  termination 
of  all  the  functions  of  sensitive  and  intellectual 
existence.  Nor  has  mankind  been  contented  with 
supposing  that  species  of  existence  which  some  philo- 
sophers have  asserted ;  namely,  the  resolution  of  the 
component  parts  of  the  mechanism  of  a  living  being 
into  its  elements,  and  the  impossibility  of  the  minutest 
particle  of  these  sustaining  the  smallest  diminution. 
They  have  clung  to  the  idea  that  sensibility  and 
thought,  which  they  have  distinguished  from  the 
objects  of  it,  under  the  several  names  of  spirit  and 
matter,  is,  in  its  own  nature,  less  susceptible  of 
division  and  decay,  and  that,  when  the  body  is  resolved 
into  its  elements,  the  principle  which  animated  it  wiU 
remain  perpetual  and  unchanged.  Some  philosophers 
— and  those  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  most 
stupendous  discoveries  in  physical  science,  suppose, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  intelligence  is  the  mere  result 
of  certain  combinations  among  the  particles  of  its 
objects ;  and  those  among  them  who  believe  that  we 


ON  A  FUTURE  STATE.  189 

live  after  death,  recur  to  the  interposition  of  a  super- 
natural power,  which  shall  overcome  the  tendency 
inherent  in  all  material  combinations,  to  dissipate  and 
be  absorbed  into  other  forms. 

Let  us  trace  the  reasonings  which  in  one  and  the 
other  have  conducted  to  these  two  opinions,  and 
endeavour  to  discover  what  we  ought  to  think  on  a 
question  of  such  momentous  interest.  Let  us  analyse 
the  ideas  and  feelings  which  constitute  the  contending 
beliefs,  and  watchfully  establish  a  discrimination 
between  words  and  thoughts.  Let  us  bring  the 
question  to  the  test  of  experience  and  fact ;  and  ask 
ourselves,  considering  our  nature  in  its  entire  extent, 
what  light  we  derive  from  a  sustained  and  comprehen- 
sive view  of  its  component  parts,  which  may  enable  us 
to  assert,  with  certainty,  that  we  do  or  do  not  live 
after  death. 

The  examination  of  this  subject  requires  that  it 
should  be  stript  of  all  those  accessory  topics  which 
adhere  to  it  in  the  common  opinion  of  men.  The 
existence  of  a  God,  and  a  future  state  of  rewards  and 
punishments,  are  totally  foreign  to  the  subject.  If  it 
be  proved  that  the  world  is  ruled  by  a  Divine  Power, 
no  inference  necessarily  can  be  dra^vn  from  that 
circumstance  in  favour  of  a  future  state.  It  has  been 
asserted,  indeed,  that  as  goodness  and  justice  are  to 
be  numbered  among  the  attributes  of  the  Deity,  he 
will  undoubtedly  compensate  the  virtuous  who  suffer 
during  life,  and  that  he  will  make  every  sensitive 
being,  who  does  not  deserve  punishment,  happy  for 
ever.     But  this  view  of  the  subject,  which  it  would 


190  ON  A  FUTURE  STATE. 

be  tedious  as  well  as  superfluous  to  develope  and 
expose,  satisfies  no  person,  and  cuts  the  knot  which 
we  now  seek  to  untie.  Moreover,  should  it  be  proved, 
on  the  other  hand,  that  the  mysterious  principle  which 
regulates  the  proceedings  of  the  universe,  is  neither 
intelligent  nor  sensitive,  yet  it  is  not  an  inconsistency 
to  suppose  at  the  same  time,  that  the  animating  power 
survives  the  body  which  it  has  animated,  by  laws  as 
independent  of  any  supernatural  agent  as  those 
through  which  it  first  became  united  with  it.  Nor,  if 
a  future  state  be  clearly  proved,  does  it  follow  that  it 
will  be  a  state  of  punishment  or  reward. 

By  the  word  death,  we  express  that  condition  in 
which  natures  resembling  ourselves  apparently  cease 
to  be  that  which  they  were.  We  no  longer  hear  them 
speak,  nor  see  them  move.  If  they  have  sensations 
and  apprehensions,  we  no  longer  participate  in  them. 
We  know  no  more  than  that  those  external  organs, 
and  all  that  fine  texture  of  material  frame,  without 
which  we  have  no  experience  that  life  or  thought  can 
subsist,  are  dissolved  and  scattered  abroad.  The  body 
is  placed  under  the  earth,  and  after  a  certain  period 
there  remains  no  vestige  even  of  its  form.  This  is 
that  contemplation  of  inexhaustible  melancholy,  whose 
shadow  eclipses  the  brightness  of  the  world.  The 
common  observer  is  struck  with  dejection  at  the 
spectacle.  He  contends  in  vain  against  the  persuasion 
of  the  grave,  that  the  dead  indeed  cease  to  be.  The 
corpse  at  his  feet  is  prophetic  of  his  own  destiny. 
Those  who  have  preceded  him,  and  whose  voice  was 
delightful  to  his  ear ;  whose  touch  met  his  like  sweet 


ON  A  FUTURE  STATE.  191 

and  subtle  fire  ;  whose  aspect  spread  a  visionary  light 
upon  his  path — these  he  cannot  meet  again.  The 
organs  of  sense  are  destroyed,  and  the  intellectual 
operations  dependent  on  them  have  perished  with 
their  sources.  How  can  a  corpse  see  or  feel?  its 
eyes  are  eaten  out,  and  its  heart  is  black  and  without 
motion.  What  intercourse  can  two  heaps  of  putrid 
clay  and  crumbling  bones  hold  together  ?  When  you 
can  discover  where  the  fresh  colours  of  the  faded 
flower  abide,  or  the  music  of  the  broken  lyre,  seek  life 
among  the  dead.  Such  are  the  anxious  and  fearfid 
contemplations  of  the  common  observer,  though  the 
popular  religion  often  prevents  him  from  confessing 
them  even  to  himself 

The  natural  philosopher,  in  addition  to  the  sensations 
common  to  all  men  inspired  by  the  event  of  death, 
believes  that  he  sees  with  more  certainty  that  it  is 
attended  with  the  annihilation  of  sentiment  and 
thought.  He  observes  the  mental  powers  increase 
and  fade  with  those  of  the  body,  and  even  accommo- 
date themselves  to  the  most  transitory  changes  of  our 
physical  nature.  Sleep  suspends  many  of  the  faculties 
of  the  vital  and  intellectual  principle ;  drunkenness  and 
disease  will  either  temporarily  or  permanently  derange 
them.  Madness  or  idiotcy  may  utterly  extinguish  the 
most  excellent  and  delicate  of  those  powers.  In  old  age 
the  mind  gradually  withers  ;  and  as  it  grew  and  was 
strengthened  with  the  body,  so  does  it  together  with 
the  body  sink  into  decrepitude.  Assuredly  these  are 
convincing  evidences  that  so  soon  as  the  organs  of  the 
body  are  subjected  to  the  laws  of  inanimate  matter. 


192  ON  A  FUTURE  STATE. 

sensation,  and  perception,  and  apprehension,  are  at  an 
end.  It  is  probable  that  what  we  call  thought  is  not 
an  actual  being,  but  no  more  than  the  relation  between 
certain  parts  of  that  infinitely  varied  mass,  of  which 
the  rest  of  the  universe  is  composed,  and  which  ceases 
to  exist  so  soon  as  those  parts  change  their  position 
with  regard  to  each  other.  Thus  colour,  and  sound,  and 
taste,  and  odour  exist  only  relatively.  But  let  thought 
be  considered  as  some  peculiar  substance,  which  per- 
meates, and  is  the  cause  of,  the  animation  of  living 
beings.  Why  should  that  substance  be  assumed  to  be 
something  essentially  distinct  from  all  others,  and 
exempt  from  subjection  to  those  laws  from  which  no 
other  substance  is  exempt?  It  differs,  indeed,  from 
all  other  substances,  as  electricity,  and  light,  and 
magnetism,  and  the  constituent  parts  of  air  and  earth, 
severally  differ  from  all  others.  Each  of  these  is 
subject  to  change  and  to  decay,  and  to  conversion  into 
other  forms.  Yet  the  difference  between  light  and 
earth  is  scarcely  greater  than  that  which  exists 
between  life,  or  thought,  and  fire.  The  difference 
between  the  two  former  was  never  alleged  as  an 
argument  for  the  eternal  permanence  of  either,  in  that 
form  under  which  they  first  might  offer  themselves  to 
our  notice.  Why  should  the  difierence  between  the 
two  latter  substances  be  an  argument  for  the  pro- 
longation of  the  existence  of  one  and  not  the  other, 
when  the  existence  of  both  has  arrived  at  their  appa- 
rent termination  ?  To  say  that  fire  exists  without 
manifesting  any  of  the  properties  of  fire,  such  as  light, 
heat,  &c..  or  that  the  principle  of  life  exists  without 


ON  A  rUTUKE  STATE.  193 

consciousness,  or  memorj,  or  desire,  or  motive,  is  to 
resign,  by  an  awkward  distortion  of  language,  the 
affirmative  of  the  dispute.  To  say  that  the  principle 
of  life  may  exist  in  distribution  among  various  forms, 
is  to  assert  what  cannot  be  proved  to  be  either  true 
or  false,  but  which,  were  it  true,  annihilates  all  hope 
of  existence  after  death,  in  any  sense  in  which  that 
event  can  belong  to  the  hopes  and  fears  of  men. 
Suppose,  however,  that  the  intellectual  and  vital  prin- 
ciple differs  in  the  most  marked  and  essential  manner 
from  all  other  known  substances ;  that  they  have  all 
some  resemblance  between  themselves  which  it  in  no 
degree  participates.  In  what  manner  can  this  con- 
cession be  made  an  argument  for  its  imperishability  ? 
All  that  we  see  or  know  perishes  and  is  changed. 
Life  and  thought  differ  indeed  from  everything  else. 
But  that  it  survives  that  period,  beyond  which  we 
have  no  experience  of  its  existence,  such  distinction 
and  dissimilarity  affords  no  shadow  of  proof,  and 
nothing  but  our  own  desires  could  have  led  us  to 
conjecture  or  imagine. 

Have  we  existed  before  birth  ?  It  is  difficult  to 
conceive  the  possibility  of  this.  There  is,  in  the 
generative  principle  of  each  animal  and  plant,  a  power 
which  converts  the  substances  by  which  it  is  sur- 
rounded into  a  substance  homogeneous  with  itself 
That  is,  the  relations  between  certain  elementary 
particles  of  matter  undergo  a  change,  and  submit  to 
new  combinations.  Tor  when  we  use  the  words 
principle,  power,  cause,  &c.,  we  mean  to  express  no 
real  being,  but  only  to  class  under  those   terms   a 


194  ON  A  FUTURE  STATE. 

certain  series  of  co-existing  phenomena ;  but  let  it  be 
supposed  tbat  this  principle  is  a  certain  substance 
which  escapes  the  observation  of  the  chemist  and 
anatomist.  It  certainly  may  le ;  though  it  is  suffi- 
ciently unphilosophical  to  allege  the  possibility  of  an 
opinion  as  a  proof  of  its  truth.  Does  it  see,  hear, 
feel,  before  its  combination  with  those  organs  on 
which  sensation  depends?  Does  it  reason,  imagine, 
apprehend,  without  those  ideas  which  sensation  alone 
can  communicate  ?  If  we  have  not  existed  before 
birth ;  if,  at  the  period  when  the  parts  of  our  nature 
on  which  thought  and  life  depend,  seem  to  be  woven 
together,  they  are  woven  together ;  if  there  are  no 
reasons  to  suppose  that  we  have  existed  before  that 
period  at  which  our  existence  apparently  commences, 
then  there  are  no  grounds  for  supposition  that  we  shall 
continue  to  exist  after  our  existence  has  apparently 
ceased.  So  far  as  thought  and  life  is  concerned,  the 
same  will  take  place  with  regard  to  us,  individually 
considered,  after  death,  as  had  place  before  our  birth. 
It  is  said  that  it  is  possible  that  we  should  continue 
to  exist  in  some  mode  totally  inconceivable  to  us  at 
present.  This  is  a  most  unreasonable  presumption. 
It  casts  on  the  adherents  of  annihilation  the  burthen 
of  proving  the  negative  of  a  question,  the  affirmative 
of  which  is  not  supported  by  a  single  argument,  and 
which,  by  its  very  nature,  lies  beyond  the  experience 
of  the  human  understanding.  It  is  sufficiently  easy, 
indeed,  to  form  any  proposition,  concerning  which  we 
are  ignorant,  just  not  so  absurd  as  not  to  be  contra- 
dictory in  itself,  and  defy  refutation.     The  possibility 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS.  195 

of  whatever  enters  into  the  wildest  imagination  to 
conceive  is  thus  triumphantly  vindicated.  But  it  is 
enough  that  such  assertions  should  be  either  contra- 
dictory to  the  known  laws  of  nature,  or  exceed  the 
limits  of  our  experience,  that  their  fallacy  or  irrelevancy 
to  our  consideration  should  be  demonstrated.  They 
persuade,  indeed,  only  those  who  desire  to  be 
persuaded. 

This  desire  to  be  for  ever  as  we  are ;  the  reluctance  to 
a  violent  and  unexperienced  change,  which  is  common 
to  all  the  animated  and  inanimate  combinations  of  the 
universe,  is,  indeed,  the  secret  persuasion  which  has 
given  birth  to  the  opinions  of  a  future  state. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

I.— THE  MIND. 

It  is  an  axiom  in  mental  philosophy,  that  we  can 
think  of  nothing  which  we  have  not  perceived.  When 
I  say  that  we  can  think  of  nothing,  I  mean,  we  can 
imagine  nothing,  we  can  reason  of  nothing,  we  can 
remember  nothing,  we  can  foresee  nothing.  The  most 
astonishing  combinations  of  poetry,  the  subtlest 
deductions  of  logic  and  mathematics,  are  no  other 
than  combinations  which  the  intellect  makes  of 
sensations  according  to  its  own  laws.  A  catalogue 
of  all  the  thoughts  of  the  mind,  and  of  all  their 
possible  modifications,  is  a  cyclopedic  history  of  the 
universe. 

o  2 


196  SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

But,  it  will  be  objected,  the  inhabitants  of  the 
various  planets  of  this  and  other  solar  systems ;  and 
the  existence  of  a  Power  bearing  the  same  relation 
to  all  that  we  perceive  and  are,  as  what  we  call  a 
cause  does  to  what  we  call  effect,  were  never  subjects 
of  sensation,  and  yet  the  laws  of  mind  almost  univer- 
sally suggest,  according  to  the  various  disposition  of 
each,  a  conjecture,  a  persuasion,  or  a  conviction  of 
their  existence.  The  reply  is  simple ;  these  thoughts 
are  also  to  be  included  in  the  catalogue  of  existence ; 
they  are  modes  in  which  thoughts  are  combined ; 
the  objection  only  adds  force  to  the  conclusion,  that 
beyond  the  limits  of  perception  and  thought  nothing 
can  exist. 

Thoughts,  or  ideas,  or  notions,  call  them  what  you 
will,  differ  from  each  other,  not  in  kind,  but  in  force. 
It  has  commonly  been  supposed  that  those  distinct 
thoughts  which  affect  a  number  of  persons,  at  regular 
intervals,  during  the  passage  of  a  multitude  of  other 
thoughts,  which  are  called  real  or  external  objects,  are 
totally  different  in  kind  from  those  which  affect  only 
a  few  persons,  and  which  recur  at  irregular  intervals, 
and  are  usually  more  obscure  and  indistinct,  such  as 
hallucinations,  dreams,  and  the  ideas  of  madness.  No 
essential  distinction  between  any  one  of  these  ideas,  or 
any  class  of  them,  is  founded  on  a  correct  observation 
of  the  nature  of  things,  but  merely  on  a  consideration 
of  what  thoughts  are  most  invariably  subservient  to 
the  security  and  happiness  of  life ;  and  if  nothing  more 
were  expressed  by  the  distinction,  the  philosopher 
might  safely  accommodate  his  language  to  that  of  the 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS.  197 

vulgar.  But  they  pretend  to  assert  an  essential 
difference,  which  has  no  foundation  in  truth,  and 
which  suggests  a  narrow  and  false  conception  of 
universal  nature,  the  parent  of  the  most  fatal  errors  in 
speculation.  A  specific  difference  between  every 
thought  of  the  mind,  is,  indeed,  a  necessary  conse- 
quence of  that  law  by  which  it  perceives  diversity  and 
number ;  but  a  generic  and  essential  difference  is 
wholly  arbitrary.  The  principle  of  the  agreement 
and  similarity  of  all  thoughts,  is,  that  they  are  all 
thoughts  ;  the  principle  of  their  disagreement  consists 
in  the  variety  and  irregularity  of  the  occasions  on 
which  they  arise  in  the  mind.  That  in  which  they 
agree,  to  that  in  which  they  differ,  is  as  everything  to 
nothing.  Important  distinctions,  of  various  degrees 
of  force,  indeed,  are  to  be  established  between  them, 
if  they  were,  as  they  may  be,  subjects  of  ethical  and 
oeconomical  discussion;  but  that  is  a  question  alto- 
gether distinct. 

By  considering  all  knowledge  as  bounded  by 
perception,  whose  operations  may  be  indefinitely 
combined,  we  arrive  at  a  conception  of  Nature 
inexpressibly  more  magnificent,  simple  and  true,  than 
accords  with  the  ordinary  systems  of  complicated 
and  partial  consideration.  JSTor  does  a  contemplation 
of  the  universe,  in  this  comprehensive  and  synthetical 
view,  exclude  the  subtlest  analysis  of  its  modifications 
and  parts. 

A  scale  might  be  formed,  graduated  according  to 
the  degrees  of  a  combined  ratio  of  intensity,  duration, 


198  SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

connection,  periods  of  recurrence,  and  utility,  whicli 
would  be  the  standard,  according  to  whicli  all  ideas 
might  be  measured,  and  an  uninterrupted  chain  of 
nicely  shadowed  distinctions  would  be  observed,  from 
the  faintest  impression  on  the  senses,  to  the  most 
distinct  combination  of  those  impressions ;  from  the 
simplest  of  those  combinations,  to  that  mass  of  know- 
ledge which,  including  our  own  nature,  constitutes 
what  we  call  the  universe. 


We  are  intuitively  conscious  of  our  own  existence, 
and  of  that  connection  in  the  train  of  our  successive 
ideas,  which  we  term  our  identity.  "We  are  conscious 
also  of  the  existence  of  other  minds ;  but  not  intui- 
tively. Our  evidence,  with  respect  to  the  existence  of 
other  minds,  is  founded  upon  a  very  complicated 
relation  of  ideas,  which  it  is  foreign  to  the  purpose  of 
this  treatise  to  anatomise.  The  basis  of  this  rela- 
tion is,  undoubtedly,  a  periodical  recurrence  of 
masses  of  ideas,  which  our  voluntary  determinations 
have,  in  one  peculiar  direction,  no  power  to  circum- 
scribe or  to  arrest,  and  agaiQst  the  recurrence  of  which 
they  can  only  imperfectly  provide.  The  irresistible 
laws  of  thought  constrain  us  to  believe  that  the  precise 
limits  of  our  actual  ideas  are  not  the  actual  limits  of 
possible  ideas ;  the  law,  according  to  which  these 
deductions  are  drawn,  is  called  analogy ;  and  this  is 
the  foundation  of  all  our  inferences,  from  one  idea  to 
another,  inasmuch  as  they  resemble  each  other. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS.  199 

We  see  trees,  houses,  fields,  living  beings  in  our  own 
shape,  and  in  shapes  more  or  less  analogous  to  our 
own.  These  are  perpetually  changing  the  mode  of 
their  existence  relatively  to  us.  To  express  the 
varieties  of  these  modes,  we  say,  we  move,  they  move ; 
and  as  this  motion  is  continual,  though  not  uniform, 
we  express  our  conception  of  the  diversities  of  its 
course  by — it  has  heen,  it  is,  it  shall  he.  These  diver- 
sities are  events  or  objects,  and  are  essential, 
considered  relatively  to  human  identity,  for  the 
existence  of  the  human  mind.  Tor  if  the  inequalities, 
produced  by  what  has  been  termed  the  operations  of 
the  external  universe  were  levelled  by  the  perception 
of  our  being,  uniting,  and  filling  up  their  interstices, 
motion  and  mensuration,  and  time,  and  space ;  the 
elements  of  the  human  mind  being  thus  abstracted, 
sensation  and  imagination  cease.  Mind  cannot  be 
considered  pure. 


II.-WHAT  METAPHYSICS  AKE.      ERRORS  IN  THE  USUAL 
METHODS  OF  CONSIDERING  THEM. 

We  do  not  attend  sufficiently  to  what  passes  within 
ourselves.  We  combine  words,  combined  a  thousand 
times  before.  In  our  minds  we  assume  entire  opinions ; 
and  in  the  expression  of  those  opinions,  entire  phrases, 
when  we  would  philosophise.  Our  whole  style  of 
expression  and  sentiment  is  infected  with  the  tritest 
plagiarisms.  Our  words  are  dead,  our  thoughts  are 
cold  and  borrowed. 

Let  us  contemplate  facts ;  let  us,  in  the  great  study 
of  ourselves,  resolutely  compel  the  mind  to  a  rigid 


200  SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

consideration  of  itself.  "We  are  not  content  with 
conjecture,  and  inductions,  and  syllogisms,  in  sciences 
regarding  external  objects.  As  in  these,  let  us  also, 
in  considering  the  phenomena  of  mind,  severely 
collect  those  facts  which  cannot  be  disputed.  Meta- 
physics will  thus  possess  this  conspicuous  advantage 
over  every  other  science,  that  each  student,  by 
attentively  referring  to  his  own  mind,  may  ascertain 
the  authorities  upon  which  any  assertions  regarding  it 
are  supported.  There  can  thus  be  no  deception,  we 
ourselves  being  the  depositaries  of  the  evidence  of  the 
subject  which  we  consider. 

Metaphysics  may  be  defined  as  an  inquiry  concerning 
those  things  belonging  to,  or  connected  with,  the 
internal  nature  of  man. 

It  is  said  that  mind  produces  motion ;  and  it  might 
as  well  have  been  said,  that  motion  produces  mind. 


III.— DIFFICULTY  OF  ANALYSING  THE  HUMAN  MIND. 

Ie  it  were  possible  that  a  person  should  give  a 
faithful  history  of  his  being,  from  the  earliest  epochs  of 
his  recollection,  a  picture  would  be  presented  such  as 
the  world  has  never  contemplated  before,  A  mirror 
would  be  held  up  to  all  men  in  which  they  might 
behold  their  own  recollections,  and,  in  dim  perspective, 
their  shadowy  hopes  and  fears, — all  that  they  dare  not, 
or  that  daring  and  desiring,  they  could  not  expose  to 
the  open  eyes  of  day.  But  thought  can  with  difficulty 
visit  the   intricate  and  winding  chambers  which  it 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS.  201 

inhabits.  It  is  like  a  river  whose  rapid  and  perpetual 
stream  flows  outwards  ; — like  one  in  dread  who  speeds 
through  the  recesses  of  some  haunted  pile,  and  dares 
not  look  behind.  The  caverns  of  the  mind  are  obscure, 
and  shadowy ;  or  pervaded  with  a  lustre,  beautifully 
bright  indeed,  but  shining  not  beyond  their  portals. 
If  it  were  possible  to  be  where  we  have  been,  vitally 
and  indeed — if,  at  the  moment  of  our  presence  there, 
we  could  define  the  results  of  our  experience, — if  the 
passage  from  sensation  to  reflection — from  a  state  of 
passive  perception  to  voluntary  contemplation,  were 
not  so  dizzying  and  so  tumultuous,  this  attempt  would 
be  less  difficult. 


IV.— HOW  THE  ANALYSIS  SHOULD  BE  CARRIED  ON. 

Most  of  the  errors  of  philosophers  have  arisen  from 
considering  the  human  being  in  a  point  of  view  too 
detailed  and  circumscribed.  He  is  not  a  moral,  and 
an  intellectual, — but  also,  and  pre-eminently,  an 
imaginative  being.  His  owti  mind  is  his  law;  his 
own  mind  is  all  things  to  him.  If  we  would  arrive  at 
any  knowledge  w^hich  should  be  serviceable  from  the 
practical  conclusions  to  which  it  leads,  we  ought  to 
consider  the  mind  of  man  and  the  universe  as  the 
great  whole  on  which  to  exercise  our  speculations. 
Here,  above  all,  verbal  disputes  ought  to  be  laid  aside, 
though  this  has  long  been  their  chosen  field  of  battle. 
It  imports  little  to  inquire  whether  thought  be  distinct 
from  the  objects  of  thought.     The  use  of  the  words 


202  SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

external  and  internal,  as  applied  to  the  establishment 
of  this  distinction,  has  been  the  symbol  and  the  source 
of  much  dispute.  This  is  merely  an  affair  of  words, 
and  as  the  dispute  deserves,  to  say,  that  when  speaking 
of  the  objects  of  thought,  we  indeed  only  describe  one 
of  the  forms  of  thought — or  that,  speaking  of  thought, 
we  only  apprehend  one  of  the  operations  of  the 
universal  system  of  beings. 


v.— CATALOGUE  OF  THE  PHENOMENA  OF  DREAMS,  AS 
CONNECTING  SLEEPING  AND  WAKING. 

1.  Let  us  reflect  on  our  infancy,  and  give  as 
faithfully  as  possible  a  relation  of  the  events  of 
sleep. 

And  first  I  am  bound  to  present  a  faithful  picture 
of  my  own  peculiar  nature  relatively  to  sleep.  I  do 
not  doubt  that  were  every  individual  to  imitate  me, 
it  would  be  found  that  among  many  circumstances 
peculiar  to  their  individual  nature,  a  sufiiciently 
general  resemblance  would  be  found  to  prove  the 
connection  existing  between  those  peculiarities  and 
the  most  universal  phenomena.  I  shall  employ  caution, 
indeed,  as  to  the  facts  which  I  state,  that  they  contain 
nothing  false  or  exaggerated.  But  they  contain  no 
more  than  certain  elucidations  of  my  own  nature ; 
concerning  the  degree  in  which  it  resembles,  or  difiers 
from,  that  of  others,  I  am  by  no  means  accurately 
aware.  It  is  sufficient,  however,  to  caution  the  reader 
against  drawing  general  inferences  from  particular 
instances. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS.  203 

I  omit  the  general  instances  of  delusion  in  fever 
or  delirium,  as  well  as  mere  dreams  considered  in 
themselves.  A  delineation  of  this  subject,  however 
inexhaustible  and  interesting,  is  to  be  passed  over. 

What  is  the  connection  of  sleeping  and  of 
waking  ? 


2.  I  distinctly  remember  dreaming  three  several 
times,  between  intervals  of  two  or  more  years-,  the 
same  precise  dream.  It  was  not  so  much  what  is 
ordinarily  called  a  dream ;  the  single  image,  uncon- 
nected with  all  other  images,  of  a  youth  who  was 
educated  at  the  same  school  with  myself,  presented 
itself  in  sleep.  Even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  many 
years,  I  can  never  hear  the  name  of  this  youth,  without 
the  three  places  where  I  dreamed  of  him  presenting 
themselves  distinctly  to  my  mind. 


3.  In  dreams,  images  acquire  associations  peculiar 
to  dreaming ;  so  that  the  idea  of  a  particular  house, 
when  it  recurs  a  second  time  in  dreams,  will  have 
relation  with  the  idea  of  the  same  house,  in  the  first 
time,  of  a  nature  entirely  difierent  from  that  which 
the  house  excites,  when  seen  or  thought  of  in  relation 
to  waking  ideas. 


4.  I  have  beheld  scenes,  with  the  intimate  and 
unaccountable  connection  of  which  with  the  obscure 
parts   of  my  own  nature,   I  have   been  irresistibly 


204  SPECULATIONS  ON  METAPHYSICS. 

impressed.  I  have  beheld  a  scene  which  has  produced 
no  unusual  effect  on  my  thoughts.  After  the  lapse 
of  many  years  I  have  dreamed  of  this  scene.  It  has 
hung  on  my  memory,  it  has  haunted  my  thoughts, 
at  intervals,  with  the  pertinacity  of  an  object  connected 
with  human  affections.  I  have  visited  this  scene 
again.  Neither  the  dream  could  be  dissociated  from 
the  landscape,  nor  the  landscape  from  the  dream,  nor 
feelings,  such  as  neither  singly  could  have  awakened, 
from  both.  But  the  most  remarkable  event  of  this 
nature,  which  ever  occurred  to  me,  happened  five  years 
ago  at  Oxford.  I  was  walking  with  a  friend,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  that  city,  engaged  in  earnest  and 
interesting  conversation.  We  suddenly  turned  the 
corner  of  a  lane,  and  the  view,  which  its  high  banks 
and  hedges  had  concealed,  presented  itself.  The  view 
consisted  of  a  mndmill,  standing  in  one  among  many 
plashy  meadows,  inclosed  with  stone  walls ;  the 
irregular  and  broken  ground,  between  the  wall  and 
"the  road  on  which  we  stood ;  a  long  low  hill  behind 
the  windmill,  and  a  grey  covering  of  uniform  cloud 
spread  over  the  evening  sky.  It  was  that  season 
when  the  last  leaf  had  just  fallen  from  the  scant 
and  stunted  ash.  The  scene  surely  was  a  common 
scene;  the  season  and  the  hour  little  calculated  to 
kindle  lawless  thought ;  it  was  a  tame  uninteresting 
assemblage  of  objects,  such  as  would  drive  the  imagi- 
nation for  refuge  in  serious  and  sober  talk,  to  the 
evening  fireside,  and  the  dessert  of  winter  fruits  and 
wine.  The  effect  which  it  produced  on  me  was  not 
such    as    could    have    been   expected.      I    suddenly 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  205 

remembered  to  have  seen  that  exact  scene  in  some 
dream  of  long*- ■ 


PEAaMENTS. 

SPECULATIONS  ON  MOKALS. 
I.— PLAN  OF  A  TREATISE  ON  MORALS. 

That  great  science  which  regards  nature  and  the 
operations  of  the  human  mind,  is  popularly  divided 
into  Morals  and  Metaphysics.  The  latter  relates  to 
a  just  classification,  and  the  assignment  of  distinct 
names  to  its  ideas ;  the  former  regards  simply  the 
determination  of  that  arrangement  of  them  which 
produces  the  greatest  and  most  solid  happiness.  It 
is  admitted  that  a  virtuous  or  moral  action,  is  that 
action  which,  when  considered  in  all  its  accessories 
and  consequences,  is  fitted  to  produce  the  highest 
pleasure  to  the  greatest  number  of  sensitive  beings. 
The  laws  according  to  which  all  pleasure,  since  it 
cannot  be  equally  felt  by  all  sensitive  beings,  ought  to 

*  Here  I  was  obliged  to  leave  ojf,  overcome  by  thrilling  horror.  This 
remark  closes  this  fragment,  which  was  written  in  1815.  I  remember 
well  his  coming  to  me  from  writing  it,  pale  and  agitated,  to  seek  refuge 
in  conversation  from  the  fearful  emotions  it  excited.  No  man,  as  these 
fragments  prove,  had  such  keen  sensations  as  Shelley.  His  nervous 
temperament  was  wound  up  by  the  delicacy  of  his  health  to  an  intense 
degree  of  sensibility,  and  while  his  active  mind  pondered  for  ever  upon, 
and  drew  conclusions  from  his  sensations,  his  reveries  increased  their 
vivacity,  till  they  mingled  with,  and  made  one  with  thought,  and  both 
became  absorbing  and  tumultuous,  even  to  physical  pain. — M,  S. 


206  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

be  distributed  by  a  voluntary  agent,  are  reserved  for 
a  separate  chapter. 

The  design  of  this  little  treatise  is  restricted  to  the 
development  of  the  elementary  principles  of  morals. 
As  far  as  regards  that  purpose,  metaphysical  science 
will  be  treated  merely  so  far  as  a  source  of  negative 
truth ;  whilst  morality  will  be  considered  as  a 
science,  respecting  which  we  can  arrive  at  positive 
conclusions. 

The  misguided  imaginations  of  men  have  rendered 
the  ascertaining  of  what  is  not  true,  the  principal 
direct  service  which  metaphysical  science  can  bestow 
upon  moral  science.  Moral  science  itself  is  the 
doctrine  of  the  voluntary  actions  of  man,  as  a  sentient 
and  social  being.  These  actions  depend  on  the 
thoughts  in  his  mind.  But  there  is  a  mass  of  popular 
opinion,  from  which  the  most  enlightened  persons  are 
seldom  wholly  free,  into  the  truth  or  falsehood  of 
which  it  is  incumbent  on  us  to  inquire,  before  we  can 
arrive  at  any  firm  conclusions  as  to  the  conduct  which 
we  ought  to  pursue  in  the  regulation  of  our  own 
minds,  or  towards  our  fellow-beings ;  or  before  we  can 
ascertain  the  elementary  laws,  according  to  which  these 
thoughts,  from  which  these  actions  flow,  are  originally 
combined. 

The  object  of  the  forms  according  to  which  human 
society  is  administered,  is  the  happiness  of  the 
individuals  composing  the  communities  which  they 
regard,  and  these  forms  are  perfect  or  imperfect  in 
proportion  to  the  degree  in  which  they  promote  this 
end. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  207 

This  object  is  not  merely  the  quantity  of  happiness 
enjoyed  by  individuals  as  sensitive  beings,  but  the 
mode  in  which  it  should  be  distributed  among  them  as 
social  beings.  It  is  not  enough,  if  such  a  coincidence 
can  be  conceived  as  possible,  that  one  person  or  class 
of  persons  should  enjoy  the  highest  happiness,  whilst 
another  is  suffering  a  disproportionate  degree  of 
misery.  It  is  necessary  that  the  happiness  produced 
by  the  common  efforts,  and  preserved  by  the  common 
care,  should  be  distributed  according  to  the  just  claims 
of  each  individual ;  if  not,  although  the  quantity 
produced  should  be  the  same,  the  end  of  society 
would  remain  unfulfilled.  The  object  is  in  a  compound 
proportion  to  the  quantity  of  happiness  produced, 
and  the  correspondence  of  the  mode  in  which  it  is  dis- 
tributed, to  the  elementary  feelings  of  man  as  a  social 
being. 

The  disposition  in  an  individual  to  promote  this 
object  is  called  virtue ;  and  the  two  constituent  parts 
of  virtue,  benevolence  and  justice,  are  correlative  with 
these  two  great  portions  of  the  only  true  object  of  all 
voluntary  actions  of  a  human  being.  Benevolence  is 
the  desire  to  be  the  author  of  good,  and  justice  the 
apprehension  of  the  manner  in  which  good  ought  to 
be  done. 

Justice  and  benevolence  result  from  the  elementary 
laws  of  the  human  mind. 


208  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

ON  THE  NATURE   OF  VIRTUE. 

Sect.  1.  General  View  of  the  Nature  and  Objects  of  Virtue. — 2.  The 
Origin  and  Basis  of  Virtue,  as  founded  on  the  Elementary  Principles 
of  Mind. — 3,  The  Laws  which  flow  from  the  nature  of  Mind  regu- 
lating the  application  of  those  principles  to  human  actions. — 
4.  Virtue,  a  possible  attribute  of  man. 

We  exist  in  the  midst  of  a  multitude  of  beings  like 
ourselves,  upon  v^hose  happiness  most  of  our  actions 
exert  some  obvious  and  decisive  influence. 

The  regulation  of  this  influence  is  the  object  of 
moral  science. 

"We  know  that  we  are  susceptible  of  receiving  painful 
or  pleasurable  impressions  of  greater  or  less  intensity 
and  duration.  That  is  called  good  which  produces 
pleasure;  that  is  called  evil  which  produces  pain. 
These  are  general  names,  applicable  to  every  class  of 
causes,  from  which  an  overbalance  of  pain  or  pleasure 
may  result.  But  when  a  human  being  is  the  active 
instrument  of  generating  or  difiusing  happiness,  the 
principle  through  which  it  is  most  effectually  instru- 
mental to  that  purpose,  is  called  virtue.  And 
benevolence,  or  the  desire  to  be  the  author  of  good, 
united  with  justice,  or  an  apprehension  of  the  manner 
in  which  that  good  is  to  be  done,  constitutes  virtue. 

But  wherefore  should  a  man  be  benevolent  and 
just  ?  The  immediate  emotions  of  his  nature,  espe- 
cially in  its  most  inartificial  state,  prompt  him  to 
inflict  pain,  and  to  arrogate  dominion.  He  desires  to 
heap  superfluities  to  his  own  store,  although  others 
perish  with  famine.     He  is  propelled  to  guard  against 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  209 

the  smallest  invasion  of  his  own  liberty,  though  he 
reduces  others  to  a  condition  of  the  most  pitiless 
servitude.  He  is  revengeful,  proud  and  selfish. 
"Wherefore  should  he  curb  these  propensities  ? 

It  is  inquired,  for  what  reason  a  human  being 
should  engage  in  procuring  the  happiness,  or  refrain 
from  producing  the  pain  of  another  ?  When  a  reason 
is  required  to  prove  the  necessity  of  adopting  any 
system  of  conduct,  what  is  it  that  the  objector 
demands  ?  He  ^requires  proof  of  that  system  of 
conduct  being  such  as  will  most  effectually  promote 
the  happiness  of  mankind.  To  demonstrate  this,  is  to 
render  a  moral  reason.     Such  is  the  object  of  Virtue. 

A  common  sophism,  which,  like  many  others, 
depends  on  the  abuse  of  a  metaphorical  expression  to 
a  literal  purpose,  has  produced  much  of  the  confusion 
which  has  involved  the  theory  of  morals.  It  is  said 
that  no  person  is  bound  to  be  just  or  kind,  if,  on  his 
neglect,  he  should  fail  to  incur  some  penalty.  Duty 
is  obligation.  There  can  be  no  obligation  without  an 
obliger.  Virtue  is  a  law,  to  which  it  is  the  will  of  the 
lawgiver  that  we  should  conform;  which  will  we 
should  in  no  manner  be  bound  to  obey,  unless  some 
dreadful  punishment  were  attached  to  disobedience. 
This  is  the  philosophy  of  slavery  and  superstition. 

In  fact,  no  person  can  be  hound  or  obliged,  without 
some  power  preceding  to  bind  and  oblige.  If  I 
observe  a  man  bound  hand  and  foot,  I  know  that  some 
one  bound  him.  But  if  I  observe  him  returning  self- 
satisfied  from  the  performance  of  some  action,  by 
which  he  has  been  the  willing  author  of  extensive 


210  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

benefit,  I  do  not  infer  that  the  anticipation  of  hellish 

agonies,  or  the  hope  of  heavenly  reward,  has  constrained 

him  to  such  an  act.* 

*  *  *  * 

It  remains  to  be  stated  in  what  manner  the  sensa- 
tions which  constitute  the  basis  of  virtue  originate  in 
the  human  mind ;  what  are  the  laws  which  it  receives 
there  ;  how  far  the  principles  of  mind  allow  it  to  be 
an  attribute  of  a  human  being ;  and,  lastly,  what  is 
the  probability  of  persuading  mankind  to  adopt  it  as  a 
universal  and  systematic  motive  of  conduct. 


BENEVOLENCE. 

Theee  is  a  class  of  emotions  which  we  instinctively 
avoid.  A  human  being,  such  as  is  man  considered  in 
his  origin,  a  child  a  month  old,  has  a  very  imperfect 
consciousness  of  the  existence  of  other  natures 
resembling  itself.  All  the  energies  of  its  being  are 
directed  to  the  extinction  of  the  pains  with  which 
it  is  perpetually  assailed.  At  length  it  discovers  that 
it  is  surrounded  by  natures  susceptible  of  sensations 
similar  to  its  own.  It  is  very  late  before  children 
attain  to  this  knowledge.  If  a  child  observes,  without 
emotion,  its  nurse  or  its  mother  suffering  acute  pain, 
it  is  attributable  rather  to  ignorance  than  insensibility. 
So  soon  as  the  accents  and  gestures,  significant  of 
pain,  are  referred  to  the  feehngs  which  they  express, 
they  awaken  in  the  mind  of  the  beholder  a  desire  that 
they  should  cease.     Pain  is  thus  apprehended  to  be 

*  A  leaf  of  manuscript  is  wanting  here,  manifestly  treating  of  self-love 
and  disinterestedness. — M.  S. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  211 

evil  for  its  own  sake,  without  any  other  necessary 
reference  to  the  mind  by  which  its  existence  is  per- 
ceived, than  such  as  is  indispensable  to  its  perception. 
The  tendencies  of  our  original  sensations,  indeed,  all 
have  for  their  object  the  preservation  of  our  individual 
being.  But  these  are  passive  and  unconscious.  In 
proportion  as  the  mind  acquires  an  active  power,  the 
empire  of  these  tendencies  becomes  limited.  Thus 
an  infant,  a  savage,  and  a  solitary  beast,  is  selfish, 
because  its  mind  is  incapable  of  receiving  an  accurate 
intimation  of  the  nature  of  pain  as  existing  in  beings 
resembling  itself  The  inhabitant  of  a  highly  civilised 
community  will  more  acutely  sympathise  with  the 
sufierings  and  enjoyments  of  others,  than  the  inha- 
bitant of  a  society  of  a  less  degree  of  civilisation.  He 
who  shall  have  cultivated  his  intellectual  powers  by 
familiarity  with  the  highest  specimens  of  poetry  and 
philosophy,  will  usually  sympathise  more  than  one 
engaged  in  the  less  refined  functions  of  manual  labour. 
Every  one  has  experience  of  the  fact,  that  to  sympathise 
with  the  sufferings  of  another,  is  to  enjoy  a  transitory 
oblivion  of  his  own. 

The  mind  thus  acquires,  by  exercise,  a  habit,  as  it 
were,  of  perceiving  and  abhorring  evil,  however  remote 
from  the  immediate  sphere  of  sensations  with  which 
that  individual  mind  is  conversant.  Imagination  or 
mind  employed  in  prophetically  imagiag  forth  its 
objects,  is  that  faculty  of  human  nature  on  which 
every  gradation  of  its  progress,  nay,  every,  the 
minutest,  change,  depends.  Pain  or  pleasure,  if 
subtly  analysed,  will  be  found  to  consist  entirely  in 

p2 


212  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

prospect.  The  only  distinction  between  the  selfish 
man  and  the  virtuous  man  is,  that  the  imagination  of 
the  former  is  confined  within  a  narrow  limit,  whilst 
that  of  the  latter  embraces  a  comprehensive  circum- 
ference. In  this  sense,  wisdom  and  virtue  may  be 
said  to  be  inseparable,  and  criteria  of  each  other. 
Selfishness  is  the  ofispring  of  ignorance  and  mistake ; 
it  is  the  portion  of  unreflecting  infancy,  and  savage 
solitude,  or  of  those  whom  toil  or  evil  occupations  have 
blunted  or  rendered  torpid  ;  disinterested  benevolence 
is  the  product  of  a  cultivated  imagination,  and  has 
an  intimate  connexion  with  all  the  arts  which  add 
ornament,  or  dignity,  or  power,  or  stability  to  the 
social  state  of  man.  Virtue  is  thus  entirely  a  refine- 
ment of  civilised  life  ;  a  creation  of  the  human  mind  ; 
or,  rather,  a  combination  which  it  has  made,  according 
to  elementary  rules  contained  within  itself,  of  the 
feelings  suggested  by  the  relations  established  between 
man  and  man. 

All  the  theories  which  have  refined  and  exalted 
humanity,  or  those  which  have  been  devised  as  alle- 
viations of  its  mistakes  and  evils,  have  been  based 
upon  the  elementary  emotions  of  disinterestedness, 
which  we  feel  to  constitute  the  majesty  of  our  nature. 
Patriotism,  as  it  existed  in  the  ancient  republics,  was 
never,  as  has  been  supposed,  a  calculation  of  personal 
advantages.  "When  Mutius  Scsevola  thrust  his  hand 
into  the  burning  coals,  and  Eegulus  returned  to 
Carthage,  and  Epicharis  sustained  the  rack  silently,  in 
the  torments  of  which  she  knew  that  she  would 
speedily  perish,  rather  than  betray  the  conspirators  to 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  213 

the  tyrant  ;*  these  illustrious  persons  certainly  made  a 
small  estimate  of  their  private  interest.  If  it  be  said 
that  they  sought  posthumous  fame ;  instances  are  not 
wanting  in  history  which  prove  that  men  have  even 
defied  infamy  for  the  sake  of  good.  But  there  is  a 
great  error  in  the  world  with  respect  to  the  selfishness 
of  fame.  It  is  certainly  possible  that  a  person  should 
seek  distinction  as  a  medium  of  personal  gratification. 
But  the  love  of  fame  is  frequently  no  more  than  a 
desire  that  the  feelings  of  others  should  confirm, 
illustrate,  and  sympathise  with,  our  own.  In  this 
respect  it  is  allied  with  aU  that  draws  us  out  of  our- 
selves. It  is  the  "last  infirmity  of  noble  minds." 
Chivalry  was  likewise  founded  on  the  theory  of  self- 
sacrifice.  Love  possesses  so  extraordinary  a  power 
over  the  human  heart,  only  because  disinterestedness 
is  united  with  the  natural  propensities.  These  pro- 
pensities themselves  are  comparatively  impotent  in 
cases  where  the  imagination  of  pleasure  to  be  given, 
as  well  as  to  be  received,  does  not  enter  into  the 
account.  Let  it  not  be  objected  that  patriotism,  and 
chivalry,  and  sentimental  love,  have  been  the  fountains 
of  enormous  mischief.  They  are  cited  only  to  establish 
the  proposition  that,  according  to  the  elementary 
principles  of  mind,  man  is  capable  of  desiring  and 
pursuing  good  for  its  own  sake. 


The  benevolent  propensities  are  thus  inherent  in 
the  human  mind.      We  are  impelled  to  seek    the 


214  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

happiness  of  others.  We  experience  a  satisfaction  in 
being  the  authors  of  that  happiness.  Everything  that 
lives  is  open  to  impressions  of  pleasure  and  pain.  We 
are  led  by  our  benevolent  propensities  to  regard  every 
human  being  indifferently  with  whom  we  come  in 
contact.  They  have  preference  only  with  respect  to 
those  who  offer  themselves  most  obviously  to  our 
notice.  Human  beings  are  indiscriminating  and 
blind ;  they  will  avoid  inflicting  pain,  though  that  pain 
should  be  attended  with  eventual  benefit;  they  will 
seek  to  confer  pleasure  without  calculating  the  mis- 
chief that  may  result.  They  benefit  one  at  the  expense 
of  many. 

There  is  a  sentiment  in  the  human  mind  that 
regulates  benevolence  in  its  application  as  a  principle 
of  action.  This  is  the  sense  of  justice.  Justice,  as 
well  as  benevolence,  is  an  elementary  law  of  human 
nature.  It  is  through  this  principle  that  men  are 
impelled  to  distribute  any  means  of  pleasure  which 
benevolence  may  suggest  the  communication  of  to 
others,  in  equal  portions  among  an  equal  number 
of  applicants.  If  ten  men  are  shipwrecked  on  a 
desert  island,  they  distribute  whatever  subsistence 
may  remain  to  them,  into  equal  portions  among 
themselves.  If  six  of  them  conspire  to  deprive  the 
remaining  four  of  their  share,  their  conduct  is  termed 
unjust. 

The  existence  of  pain  has  been  shown  to  be  a 
circumstance  which  the  human  mind  regards  with 
dissatisfaction,  and  of  which  it  desires  the  cessation. 
It  is  equally  according  to  its  nature  to  desire  that  the 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  215 

advantages  to  be  enjoyed  by  a  limited  number  of 
persons  sbould  be  enjoyed  equally  by  all.  Tliis 
proposition  is  supported  by  the  evidence  of  indisputable 
facts.  Tell  some  ungarbled  tale  of  a  number  of 
persons  being  made  the  victims  of  the  enjoyments  of 
one,  and  he  who  would  appeal  in  favour  of  any  system 
which  might  produce  such  an  evil  to  the  primary 
emotions  of  our  nature,  would  have  nothing  to  reply. 
Let  two  persons,  equally  strangers,  make  appHcation 
for  some  benefit  in  the  possession  of  a  third  to  bestow, 
and  to  which  he  feels  that  they  have  an  equal  claim. 
They  are  both  sensitive  beings ;  pleasure  and  pain 
affect  them  alike. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  is  foreign  to  the  general  scope  of  this  little 
Treatise  to  encumber  a  simple  argument  by  contro- 
verting any  of  the  trite  objections  of  habit  or  fanaticism. 
But  there  are  two ;  the  first,  the  basis  of  all  political 
mistake,  and  the  second,  the  prolific  cause  and  effect 
of  religious  error,  which  it  seems  useful  to  refute. 

Eirst,  it  is  inquired,  "  Wherefore  should  a  man  be 
benevolent  and  just  ?"  The  answer  has  been  given  in 
the  preceding  chapter. 

If  a  man  persists  to  inquire  why  he  ought  to 
promote  the  happiness  of  mankind,  he  demands  a 
mathematical  or  metaphysical  reason  for  a  moral 
action.  The  absurdity  of  this  scepticism  is  more 
apparent,  but  not  less  real  than  the  exacting  a  moral 
reason  for  a  mathematical  or  metaphysical  fact.     If 


216  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

any  person  should  refuse  to  admit  tliat  all  the  radii  of 
a  circle  are  of  equal  length,  or  that  human  actions  are 
necessarily  determined  by  motives,  until  it  could  be 
proved  that  these  radii  and  these  actions  uniformly 
tended  to  the  production  of  the  greatest  general  good, 
who  would  not  wonder  at  the  unreasonable  and 
capricious  association  of  his  ideas  ? 


The  writer  of  a  philosophical  treatise  may,  I 
imagine,  at  this  advanced  era  of  human  intellect,  be 
held  excused  from  entering  into  a  controversy  with 
those  reasoners,  if  such  there  are,  who  would  claim  an 
exemption  from  its  decrees  in  favour  of  any  one 
among  those  diversified  systems  of  obscure  opinion 
respecting  morals,  which,  under  the  name  of  religions, 
have  in  various  ages  and  countries  prevailed  among 
mankind.  Besides  that  if,  as  these  reasoners  have 
pretended,  eternal  torture  or  happiness  will  ensue  as 
the  consequence  of  certain  actions,  we  should  be  no 
nearer  .the  possession  of  a  standard  to  determine  what 
actions  were  right  and  wrong,  even  if  this  pretended 
revelation,  which  is  by  no  means  the  case,  had  furnished 
us  with  a  complete  catalogue  of  them.  The  character 
of  actions  as  virtuous  or  vicious  would  by  no  means 
be  determined  alone  by  the  personal  advantage  or 
disadvantage  of  each  moral  agent  individually  con- 
sidered. Indeed,  an  action  is  often  virtuous  in 
proportion  to  the  greatness  of  the  personal  calamity 
which  the  author  willingly  draws  upon  himself  by 
daring  to  perform  it.     It  is  because  an  action  produces 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS,  217 

an  overbalance  of  pleasure  or  pain  to  the  greatest 
number  of  sentient  beings,  and  not  merely  because  its 
consequences  are  beneficial  or  injurious  to  the  author 
of  that  action,  that  it  is  good  or  evil.  Nay,  this  latter 
consideration  has  a  tendency  to  pollute  the  purity  of 
virtue,  inasmuch  as  it  consists  in  the  motive  rather 
than  in  the  consequences  of  an  action.  A  person  who 
should  labour  for  the  happiness  of  mankind  lest  he 
should  be  tormented  eternally  in  Hell,  would,  with 
reference  to  that  motive,  possess  as  little  claim  to  the 
epithet  of  virtuous,  as  he  who  should  torture,  imprison, 
and  burn  them  alive,  a  more  usual  and  natural 
consequence  of  such  principles,  for  the  sake  of  the 
enjoyments  of  Heaven. 

My  neighbour,  presuming  on  his  strength,  may 
direct  me  to  perform  or  to  refrain  from  a  particular 
action ;  indicating  a  certain  arbitrary  penalty  in  the 
event  of  disobedience  within  his  power  to  inflict.  My 
action,  if  modified  by  his  menaces,  can  in  no  degree 
participate  in  virtue.  He  has  afforded  me  no  criterion 
as  to  what  is  right  or  wrong.  A  king,  or  an  assembly 
of  men,  may  publish  a  proclamation  affixing  any 
penalty  to  any  particular  action,  but  that  is  not 
immoral  because  such  penalty  is  affixed.  Nothing  is 
more  evident  than  that  the  epithet  of  virtue  is 
inapplicable  to  the  refraining  from  that  action  on 
account  of  the  evil  arbitrarily  attached  to  it.  If  the 
action  is  in  itself  beneficial,  virtue  would  rather  consist 
in  not  refraining  from  it,  but  in  firmly  defying  the 
personal  consequences  attached  to  its  performance. 

Some  usurper  of  supernatural  energy  might  subdue 


218  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

the  whole  globe  to  his  power ;  he  might  possess  new 
and  unheard-of  resources  for  enduing  his  punishments 
with  the  most  terrible  attributes  of  pain.  The 
torments  of  his  victims  might  be  intense  in  their 
degree,  and  protracted  to  an  infinite  duration.  Still 
the  "will  of  the  lawgiver"  would  afibrd  no  surer 
criterion  as  to  what  actions  were  right  or  wrong.  It 
would  only  increase  the  possible  virtue  of  those  who 
refuse  to  become  the  instruments  of  his  tyranny. 


II.— MORAL  SCIENCE  CONSISTS  IN  CONSIDERING  THE  DIFFER- 
ENCE, NOT  THE  RESEMBLANCE,  OF  PERSONS. 

The  internal  influence,  derived  from  the  constitution 
of  the  mind  from  which  they  flow,  produces  that 
peculiar  modification  of  actions,  which  makes  them 
intrinsically  good  or  evil. 

To  attain  an  apprehension  of  the  importance  of  this 
distinction,  let  us  visit,  in  imagination,  the  proceedings 
of  some  metropolis.  Consider  the  multitude  of  human 
beings  who  inhabit  it,  and  survey,  in  thought,  the 
actions  of  the  several  classes  into  which  they  are 
divided.  Their  obvious  actions  are  apparently  uniform  : 
the  stability  of  human  society  seems  to  be  maintained 
sufficiently  by  the  uniformity  of  the  conduct  of  its 
members,  both  with  regard  to  themselves,  and  with 
regard  to  others.  The  labourer  arises  at  a  certain 
hour,  and  applies  himself  to  the  task  enjoined  him. 
The  functionaries  of  government  and  law  are  regularly 
employed  in  their  offices  and  courts.  The  trader  holds 
a  train  of  conduct  from  which  he  never  deviates. 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  219 

The  ministers  of  religion  employ  an  accustomed 
language,  and  maintain  a  decent  and  equable  regard. 
The  army  is  drawn  forth,  the  motions  of  every  soldier 
are  such  as  they  were  expected  to  be ;  the  general 
commands,  and  his  words  are  echoed  from  troop  to 
troop.  The  domestic  actions  of  men  are,  for  the  most 
part,  undistinguishable  one  from  the  other,  at  a  super- 
ficial glance.  The  actions  w^hich  are  classed  under  the 
general  appellation  of  marriage,  education,  friend- 
ship, &c.,  are  perpetually  going  on,  and  to  a  superficial 
glance,  are  similar  one  to  the  other. 

But,  if  we  would  see  the  truth  of  things,  they 
must  be  stripped  of  this  fallacious  appearance  of  uni- 
formity. In  truth,  no  one  action  has,  when  considered 
in  its  w^hole  extent,  any  essential  resemblance  with 
any  other.  Each  individual,  who  composes  the  vast 
multitude  which  we  have  been  contemplating,  has  a 
peculiar  frame  of  mind,  which,  whilst  the  features  of 
the  great  mass  of  his  actions  remain  uniform,  impresses 
the  minuter  lineaments  with  its  peculiar  hues.  Thus, 
whilst  his  life,  as  a  whole,  is  like  the  lives  of  other  men, 
in  detail,  it  is  most  unlike ;  and  the  more  subdivided 
the  actions  become  ;  that  is,  the  more  they  enter  into 
that  class  which  have  a  vital  influence  on  the  happiness 
of  others  and  his  own,  so  much  the  more  are  they 
distinct  from  those  of  other  men. 

"  Those  little,  nameless,  unremembered,  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love," 

as  well  as  those  deadly  outrages  which  are  inflicted  by 
a  look,  a  word — or  less — the  very  refraining  from  some 


220  SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS. 

faint  and  most  evanescent  expression  of  countenance  ; 
these  flow  from  a  profounder  source  than  the  series 
of  our  habitual  conduct,  which,  it  has  been  already 
said,  derives  its  origin  from  without.  These  are  the 
actions,  and  such  as  these,  which  make  human  life 
what  it  is,  and  are  the  fountains  of  all  the  good  and 
evil  with  which  its  entire  surface  is  so  mdely  and 
impartially  overspread;  and  though  they  are  called 
minute,  they  are  called  so  in  compliance  with  the 
blindness  of  those  who  cannot  estimate  their  import- 
ance. It  is  in  the  due  appreciating  the  general 
effects  of  their  peculiarities,  and  in  cultivating  the 
habit  of  acquiring  decisive  knowledge  respecting  the 
tendencies  arising  out  of  them  in  particular  cases,  that 
the  most  important  part  of  moral  science  consists. 
The  deepest  abyss  of  these  vast  and  multitudinous 
caverns,  it  is  necessary  that  we  should  visit. 

This  is  the  difference  between  social  and  individual 
man.  Not  that  this  distinction  is  to  be  considered 
definite,  or  characteristic  of  one  human  being  as  com- 
pared with  another;  it  denotes  rather  two  classes 
of  agency,  common  in  a  degree  to  every  human  being. 
None  is  exempt,  indeed,  from  that  species  of  influence 
which  affects,  as  it  were,  the  surface  of  his  being,  and 
gives  the  specific  outline  to  his  conduct.  Almost  all 
that  is  ostensible  submits  to  that  legislature  created 
by  the  general  representation  of  the  past  feelings  of 
mankind — imperfect  as  it  is  from  a  variety  of  causes, 
as  it  exists  in  the  government,  the  religion,  and 
domestic  habits.  Those  who  do  not  nominally,  yet 
actually,  submit  to  the  same  power.      The  external 


SPECULATIONS  ON  MORALS.  221 

features  of  their  conduct,  indeed,  can  no  more  escape 
it,  than  the  clouds  can  escape  from  the  stream  of  the 
wind ;  and  his  opinion,  which  he  often  hopes  he  has 
dispassionately  secured  from  all  contagion  of  pre- 
judice and  vulgarity,  would  be  found,  on  examination, 
to  be  the  inevitable  excrescence  of  the  very  usages 
from  which  he  vehemently  dissents.  Internally  all 
is  conducted  otherwise ;  the  efficiency,  the  essence, 
the  vitality  of  actions,  derives  its  colour  from 
what  is  no  ways  contributed  to  from  any  external 
source.  Like  the  plant,  which  while  it  derives  the 
accident  of  its  size  and  shape  from  the  soil  in  which  it 
springs,  and  is  cankered,  or  distorted,  or  inflated,  yet 
retains  those  qualities  which  essentially  divide  it  from 
all  others ;  so  that  hemlock  continues  to  be  poison, 
and  the  violet  does  not  cease  to  emit  its  odour  in 
whatever  soil  it  may  grow. 

We  consider  our  own  nature  too  superficially.  "We 
look  on  all  that  in  ourselves  with  which  we  can  discover 
a  resemblance  in  others;  and  consider  those  resem- 
blances as  the  materials  of  moral  knowledge.  It  is  in 
the  differences  that  it  actually  consists. 


222  ION  :  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 


ION  ;  OE,  OF  THE  ILIAD ; 

TRANSLATED  FROM  PLATO. 
—  ♦  — 

SOCRATES    AND    ION. 

Socrates.  Hail  to  thee,  O  Ion !  from  whence 
returnest  thou  amongst  us  now  ? — from  thine  own 
native  Ephesus  ? 

Ion.  No,  Socrates ;  I  come  from  Epidaurus  and 
the  feasts  in  honour  of  ^sculapius. 

Socrates.  Had  the  Epidaurians  instituted  a  contest 
of  rhapsody  in  honour  of  the  Grod  ? 

Ion.  And  not  in  rhapsodies  alone ;  there  were 
contests  in  every  species  of  music. 

Socrates.  And  in  which  did  you  contend?  And 
what  was  the  success  of  your  efforts  ? 

Ion.  I  bore  away  the  first  prize  at  the  games,  O 
Socrates. 

Socrates.  Well  done !  You  have  now  only  to 
consider  how  you  shall  win  the  Panathenaea. 

Ion.   That  may  also  happen,  God  willing. 

Socrates.  Your  profession,  O  Ion,  has  often 
appeared  to  me  an  enviable  one.  Eor,  together  with 
the  nicest  care  of  your  person,  and  the  most  studied 
elegance  of  dress,  it  imposes  upon  you  the  necessity 
of  a  familiar  acquaintance  with  many  and  excellent 
poets,  and  especially  with  Homer,  the  most  admirable 
of  them  all.     JS'or  is  it  merely  because  you  can  repeat 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  223 

the  verses  of  this  great  poet,  that  I  envy  you,  but 
because  you  fathom  his  inmost  thoughts.  For  he  is 
no  rhapsodist  who  does  not  understand  the  whole  scope 
and  intention  of  the  poet,  and  is  not  capable  of  inter- 
preting it  to  his  audience.  This  he  cannot  do  without 
a  full  comprehension  of  the  meaning  of  the  author  he 
undertakes  to  illustrate  ;  and  worthy,  indeed,  of  envy 
are  those  who  can  fulfil  these  conditions. 

Ion,  Thou  speakest  truth,  O  Socrates.  And, 
indeed,  I  have  expended  my  study  particularly  on  this 
part  of  my  profession.  I  flatter  myself  that  no  man 
living  excels  me  in  the  interpretation  of  Homer ; 
neither  Metrodorus  of  Lampsacus,  nor  Stesimbrotus 
the  Thasian,  nor  Glauco,  nor  any  other  rhapsodist  of 
the  present  times  can  express  so  many  various  and 
beautiful  thoughts  upon  Homer  as  I  can. 

Socrates.  I  am  persuaded  of  your  eminent  skill,  O 
Ion.  You  will  not,  I  hope,  refuse  me  a  specimen  of  it  ? 

Ion.  And,  indeed,  it  would  be  worth  your  while  to 
hear  me  declaim  upon  Homer.  I  deserve  a  golden 
crown  from  his  admirers. 

Socrates.  And  I  will  find  leisure  some  day  or  other 
to  request  you  to  favour  me  so  far.  At  present,  I 
will  only  trouble  you  with  one  question.  Do  you 
excel  in  explaining  Homer  alone,  or  are  you  conscious 
of  a  similar  power  with  regard  to  Hesiod  and 
Archilochus  ? 

Ion.  I  possess  this  high  degree  of  skill  with  regard 
to  Homer  alone,  and  I  consider  that  sufficient. 

Socrates.  Are  there  any  subjects  upon  which  Homer 
and  Hesiod  say  the  same  things  ? 


224  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Ion.   Many,  as  it  seems  to  me. 

Socrates.  "Whether  do  you  demonstrate  these  things 
better  in  Homer  or  Hesiod  ? 

Ion.  In  the  same  manner,  doubtless;  inasmuch 
as  they  say  the  same  words  with  regard  to  the  same 
things. 

Socrates.  But  with  regard  to  those  things  in 
which  they  differ ; — Homer  and  Hesiod  both  treat  of 
divination,  do  they  not  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  Do  you  think  that  you  or  a  diviner  would 
make  the  best  exposition,  respecting  all  that  these 
poets  say  of  divination,  both  as  they  agree  and  as  they 
differ  ? 

Ion.   A  diviner  probably. 

Socrates.  Suppose  you  were  a  diviner,  do  you  not 
think  that  you  could  explain  the  discrepancies  of  those 
poets  on  the  subject  of  your  profession,  if  you 
understand  their  argument  ? 

Ion.    Clearly  so. 

Socrates.  How  does  it  happen  then  that  you  are 
possessed  of  skill  to  illustrate  Homer,  and  not  Hesiod, 
or  any  other  poet  in  an  equal  degree  ?  Is  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  poetry  of  Homer  different  from  all  other 
poets'  ?  Does  he  not  principally  treat  of  war  and 
social  intercourse,  and  of  the  distinct  functions  and 
characters  of  the  brave  man  and  the  coward,  the 
professional  and  private  person,  the  mutual  relations 
which  subsist  between  the  Gods  and  men ;  together 
with  the  modes  of  their  intercourse,  the  phsenomena  of 
Heaven,  the  secrets  of  Hades,  and  the  origin  of  Gods 


ION;   OR,   OF  THE  ILIAD.  225 

and  heroes  ?  Are  not  these  the  materials  from  which 
Homer  wrought  his  poem  ? 

Ion.   Assuredly,  0  Socrates. 

Socrates.  And  the  other  poets,  do  they  not  treat  of 
the  same  matter  P 

Ion.    Certainly  :  but  not  like  Homer. 

Socrates.   How !     Worse  ? 

Ion.    Oh  !  far  worse. 

Socrates.  Then  Homer  treats  of  them  better  than 
they? 

Ion.   Oh !  Jupiter ! — how  much  better ! 

Socrates.  Amongst  a  number  of  persons  employed 
in  solving  a  problem  of  arithmetic,  might  not  a  person 
know,  my  dear  Ion,  which  had  given  the  right  answer  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  The  same  person  who  had  been  aware  of 
the  false  one,  or  some  other  ? 

Ion.   The  same,  clearly. 

Socrates.  That  is,  some  one  who  understood 
arithmetic  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  Among  a  number  of  persons  giving 
their  opinions  on  the  wholesomeness  of  different  foods, 
whether  would  one  person  be  capable  to  pronounce 
upon  the  rectitude  of  the  opinions  of  those  who  judged 
rightly,  and  another  on  the  erroneousness  of  those 
which  were  incorrect,  or  would  the  same  person  be 
competent  to  decide  respecting  them  both  ? 

Ion.   The  same,  evidently. 

Socrates.   What  would  you  call  that  person  ? 

Ion.   A  physician. 


226  ION ;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Socrates.  We  may  assert  then,  universally,  that 
the  same  person  who  is  competent  to  determine  the 
truth,  is  competent  also  to  determine  the  falsehood  of 
whatever  assertion  is  advanced  on  the  same  subject ; 
and,  it  is  manifest,  that  he  who  cannot  judge  respecting 
the  falsehood,  or  unfitness  of  what  is  said  upon  a 
given  subject,  is  equally  incompetent  to  determine 
upon  its  truth  or  beauty  ? 

Ion.  Assuredly. 

Socrates.  The  same  person  would  then  be  competent 
or  incompetent  for  both  ? 

Ion.   Yes. 

Socrates,  Do  you  not  say  that  Homer  and  the 
other  poets,  and  among  them  Hesiod  and  Archilochus, 
speak  of  the  same  things,  but  unequally ;  one  better 
and  the  other  worse  ? 

Ion.   And  T  speak  truth. 

Socrates.  But  if  you  can  judge  of  what  is  well  said 
by  the  one,  you  must  also  be  able  to  judge  of  what  is 
ill  said  by  another,  inasmuch  as  it  expresses  less 
correctly. 

Ion.   It  should  seem  so. 

Socrates.  Then,  my  dear  friend,  we  should  not  err 
if  we  asserted  that  Ion  possessed  a  like  power  of 
illustration  respecting  Homer  and  all  other  poets ; 
especially  since  he  confesses  that  the  same  person  must 
be  esteemed  a  competent  judge  of  all  those  who  speak 
on  the  same  subjects  ;  inasmuch  as  those  subjects  are 
understood  by  him  when  spoken  of  by  one,  and  the 
subject-matter  of  almost  all  the  poets  is  the  same. 

Ion.   "What   can  be  the  reason    then,  O  Socrates 


ION;  OE,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  227 

that  when  any  other  poet  is  the  subject  of  conversation 
I  cannot  compel  my  attention,  and  I  feel  utterly  unable 
to  declaim  anything  worth  talking  of,  and  positively  go 
to  sleep  ?  But  when  any  one  makes  mention  of 
Homer,  my  mind  applies  itself  without  effort  to  the 
subject ;  I  awaken  as  if  it  were  from  a  trance,  and  a 
profusion  of  eloquent  expressions  suggest  themselves 
involuntarily  ? 

Socrates.  It  is  not  difficult  to  suggest  the  cause  of 
this,  my  dear  friend.  You  are  evidently  unable  to 
declaim  on  Homer  according  to  art  and  knowledge ; 
for  did  your  art  endow  you  with  this  faculty,  you 
would  be  equally  capable  of  exerting  it  with  regard  to 
any  other  of  the  poets.  Is  not  poetry,  as  an  art  or  a 
faculty,  a  thing  entire  and  one  ? 

Ion.   Assuredly. 

Socrates.  The  same  mode  of  consideration  must  be 
admitted  with  respect  to  all  arts  which  are  severally  one 
and  entire.  Do  you  desire  to  hear  what  I  understand 
by  this,  0  Ion  ? 

Ion.  Yes,  by  Jupiter,  Socrates,  I  am  delighted  with 
listening  to  you  wise  men. 

Socrates.  It  is  you  who  are  wise,  my  dear  Ion ;  you 
rhapsodists,  actors,  and  the  authors  of  the  poems  you 
recite.  I,  like  an  unprofessional  and  private  man,  can 
only  speak  the  truth.  Observe  how  common,  vulgar, 
and  level  to  the  comprehension  of  any  one,  is  the 
question  which  I  now  ask  relative  to  the  same  consi- 
deration belonging  to  one  entire  art.  Is  not  painting 
an  art  whole  and  entire  ? 

Ion.   Certainly. 

Q  2 


228  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Socrates,  Did  jou  ever  know  a  person  competent 
to  judge  of  the  paintings  of  Polygnotus,  the  son  of 
Aglaophon,  and  incompetent  to  judge  of  the  production 
of  any  other  painter ;  who,  on  the  supposition  of  the 
works  of  other  painters  being  exhibited  to  him,  was 
wholly  at  a  loss,  and  very  much  inchned  to  go  to  sleep, 
and  lost  all  faculty  of  reasoning  on  the  subject ;  but 
when  his  opinion  was  required  of  Polygnotus,  or  any 
one  single  painter  you  please,  awoke,  paid  attention  to 
the  subject,  and  discoursed  on  it  with  great  eloquence 
and  sagacity  ? 

Ion.   Never,  by  Jupiter  ! 

Socrates.  Did  you  ever  know  any  one  very  skilful 
in  determining  the  merits  of  Daedalus,  the  son  of 
Metion,  Epius,  the  son  of  Panopus,  Theodorus  the 
Samian,  or  any  other  great  sculptor,  who  was  im-me- 
diately  at  a  loss,  and  felt  sleepy  the  moment  any  other 
sculptor  was  mentioned  ? 

Ion.  I  never  met  with  such  a  person  certainly. 

Socrates.  JSTor,  do  I  think,  that  you  ever  met  with 
a  man  professing  himself  a  judge  of  poetry  and  rhap- 
sody, and  competent  to  criticise  either  Olympus, 
Thamyris,  Orpheus,  or  Phemius  of  Ithaca,  the  rhapso- 
dist,  who,  the  moment  he  came  to  Ion  the  Ephesian, 
felt  himself  quite  at  a  loss,  utterly  incompetent  to 
judge  whether  he  rhapsodised  well  or  ill. 

Ion.  I  cannot  refute  you,  Socrates,  but  of  this  I 
am  conscious  to  myself:  that  I  excel  all  men  in  the 
copiousness  and  beauty  of  my  illustrations  of  Homer, 
as  all  who  have  heard  me  will  confess,  and  with  respect 
to  other  poets,  I  am  deserted  of  this  power.     It  is 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  229 

for  you  to  consider  what  maj  be  the  cause  of  this 
distinction. 

Socrates.  I  will  tell  jou,  O  Ion,  what  appears  to 
me  to  be  the  cause  of  this  inequality  of  power.  It  is 
that  you  are  not  master  of  any  art  for  the  illustration 
of  Homer,  but  it  is  a  divine  influence  which  moves 
you,  like  that  which  resides  in  the  stone  called  Magnet 
by  Euripides,  and  Heraclea  by  the  people.  For  not 
only  does  this  stone  possess  the  power  of  attracting  iron 
rings,  but  it  can  communicate  to  them  the  power  of 
attracting  other  rings ;  so  that  you  may  see  sometimes 
a  long  chain  of  rings,  and  other  iron  substances 
attached  and  suspended  one  to  the  other  by  this 
influence.  And  as  the  power  of  the  stone  circulates 
through  all  the  links  of  this  series,  and  attaches  each 
to  each,  so  the  Muse,  communicating  through  those 
whom  she  has  first  inspired,  to  all  others  capable  of 
sharing  in  the  inspiration,  the  influence  of  that  first 
enthusiasm,  creates  a  chain  and  a  succession.  For  the 
authors  of  those  great  poems  which  we  admire,  do  not 
attain  to  excellence  through  the  rules  of  any  art,  but 
utter  their  beautiful  melodies  of  verse  in  a  state  of 
inspiration,  and  as  it  were,  possessed  by  a  spirit  not 
their  own.  Thus  the  composers  of  lyrical  poetry 
create  those  admired  songs  of  theirs  in  a  state  of 
divine  insanity,  like  the  Corybantes,  who  lose  all 
control  over  their  reason  in  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
sacred  dance ;  and,  during  this  supernatural  possession, 
are  excited  to  the  rhythm  and  harmony  which  they 
commuuicate  to  men.  Like  the  Bacchantes,  who, 
when  possessed  by  the  God  draw  honey  and  milk  from 


230  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

the  rivers,  in  which,  when  they  come  to  their  senses, 
they  find  nothing  but  simple  water.  Tor  the  souls  of 
the  poets,  as  poets  tell  us,  have  this  peculiar  ministra- 
tion in  the  world.  They  tell  us  that  these  souls,  flying 
like  bees  from  flower  to  flower,  and  wandering  over 
the  gardens  and  the  meadows  and  the  honey-flowing 
fountains  of  the  Muses,  return  to  us  laden  with  the 
sweetness  of  melody ;  and  arrayed  as  they  are  in  the 
plumes  of  rapid  imagination,  they  speak  truth.  For  a 
poet  is  indeed  a  thing  ethereally  light,  winged,  and 
sacred,  nor  can  he  compose  anything  worth  calling 
poetry  until  he  becomes  inspired,  and,  as  it  were,  mad, 
or  whilst  any  reason  remains  in  him.  For  whilst  a  man 
retains  any  portion  of  the  thing  called  reason,  he  is 
utterly  incompetent  to  produce  poetry  or  to  vaticinate. 
Thus,  those  who  declaim  various  and  beautiful  poetry 
upon  any  subject,  as  for  instance  upon  Homer,  are  not 
enabled  to  do  so  by  art  or  study ;  but  every  rhapsodist 
or  poet,  whether  dithyrambic,  encomiastic,  choral,  epic, 
or  iambic,  is  excellent  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of 
his  participation  in  the  divine  influence,  and  the 
degree  in  which  the  Muse  itself  has  descended  on  him. 
In  other  respects,  poets  may  be  sufficiently  ignorant 
and  incapable.  For  they  do  not  compose  according 
to  any  art  which  they  have  acquired,  but  from  the 
impulse  of  the  divinity  within  them;  for  did  they 
know  any  rules  of  criticism  according  to  which  they 
could  compose  beautiful  verses  upon  one  subject,  they 
would  be  able  to  exert  the  same  faculty  with  respect 
to  aU  or  any  other.  The  Grod  seems  purposely  to 
have  deprived  all  poets,  prophets,  and  soothsayers  of 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  231 

every  particle  of  reason  and  understanding,  the  better 
to  adapt  them  to  their  employment  as  his  ministers 
and  interpreters ;  and  that  we,  their  auditors,  may 
acknowledge  that  those  who  write  so  beautifully,  are 
possessed,  and  address  us,  inspired  by  the  God. 
[Tynnicus  the  Chalcidean,  is  a  manifest  proof  of  this, 
for  he  never  before  composed  any  poem  worthy  to 
be  remembered ;  and  yet,  was  the  author  of  that 
Paean  which  everybody  sings,  and  which  excels 
almost  every  other  hymn,  and  which  he,  himself, 
acknowledges  to  have  been  inspired  by  the  Muse. 
And,  thus,  it  appears  to  me,  that  the  Grod  proves 
beyond  a  doubt,  that  these  transcendant  poems 
are  not  human  as  the  work  of  men,  but  divine 
as  coming  from  the  God.  Poets  then  are  inter- 
preters of  the  divinities — each  being  possessed  by 
some  one  deity;  and  to  make  this  apparent,  the 
God  designedly  inspires  the  worst  poets  with  the  sub- 
limest  verse.  Does  it  seem  to  you  that  I  am  in  the 
right,  0  Ion  ? 

Ion.  Yes,  by  Jupiter!  My  mind  is  enlightened 
by  your  words,  0  Socrates,  and  it  appears  to  me  that 
the  great  poets  interpret  to  us  through  some  divine 
election  of  the  God. 

Socrates.  And  do  not  you  rhapsodists  interpret 
poets  ? 

Ion.  We  do. 

Socrates.  Thus  you  interpret  the  interpreters  ? 

Ion.  Evidently. 

Socrates.  Eemember  this,  and  tell  me ;  and  do  not 
conceal  that  which  I  ask.     When  you  dedaim  well, 


232  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

and  strike  your  audience  with  admiration;  whether 
you  sing  of  Ulysses  rushing  upon  the  threshold  of 
his  palace,  discovering  himself  to  the  suitors,  and 
pouring  his  shafts  out  at  his  feet;  or  of  Achilles 
assailing  Hector ;  or  those  affecting  passages  con- 
cerning Andromache,  or  Hecuba,  or  Priam,  are  you 
then  self-possessed  ?  or,  rather,  are  you  not  rapt  and 
filled  with  such  enthusiasm  by  the  deeds  you  recite, 
that  you  fancy  yourself  in  Ithaca  or  Troy,  or  wherever 
else  the  poem  transports  you  ? 

Ion.  You  speak  most  truly,  Socrates,  nor  will  I 
deny  it ;  for,  when  I  recite  of  sorrow,  my  eyes  fill  with 
tears  ;  and  when  of  fearful  or  terrible  deeds,  my  hair 
stands  on  end,  and  my  heart  beats  fast. 

Socrates.  Tell  me,  Ion,  can  we  call  him  in  his 
senses,  who  weeps  while  dressed  in  splendid  garments, 
and  crowned  with  a  golden  coronal,  not  losing  any  of 
these  things  ?  and  is  filled  with  fear  when  surrounded 
by  ten  thousand  friendly  persons,  not  one  among 
whom  desires  to  despoil  or  injure  him  ? 

Ion.  To  say  the  truth,  we  could  not. 

Socrates.  Do  you  often  perceive  your  audience 
moved  also  ? 

Ion.  Many  among  them,  and  frequently.  I, 
standing  on  the  rostrum,  see  them  weeping,  with  eyes 
fixed  earnestly  on  me,  and  overcome  by  my  declama- 
tion. I  have  need  so  to  agitate  them ;  for  if  they 
weep,  I  laugh,  taking  their  money;  if  they  should 
laugh,  I  must  weep,  going  without  it. 

Socrates.  Do  you  not  perceive  that  your  auditor 
is  the  last  link  of  that  chain  which  I  have  described  as 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  233 

held  together  through  the  power  of  the  magnet  ?  You 
rhapsodists  and  actors  are  the  middle  links,  of  which 
the  poet  is  the  first — and  through  all  these  the  God 
influences  whichever  mind  he  selects,  as  they  conduct 
this  powder  one  to  the  other ;  and  thus,  as  rings  from 
the  stone,  so  hangs  a  long  series  of  chorus-dancers, 
teachers,  and  disciples  from  the  Muse.  Some  poets  are 
influenced  by  one  Muse,  some  by  another ;  we  call 
them  possessed,  and  this  word  really  expresses  the 
truth,  for  they  are  held.  Others,  who  are  interpreters, 
are  inspired  by  the  first  links,  the  poets,  and  are  filled 
with  enthusiasm,  some  by  one,  some  by  another;  some 
by  Orpheus,  some  by  Musseus,  but  the  greater  number 
are  possessed  and  inspired  by  Homer.  You,  0  Ion, 
are  influenced  by  Homer.  If  you  recite  the  works  o{ 
any  other  poet,  you  get  drowsy,  and  are  at  a  loss  what 
to  say  ;  but  when  you  hear  any  of  the  compositions  of 
that  poet  you  are  roused,  your  thoughts  are  excited, 
and  you  grow  eloquent ; — for  what  you  say  of  Homer 
is  not  derived  from  any  art  or  knowledge,  but  from 
divine  inspiration  and  possession.  As  the  Corybantes 
feel  acutely  the  melodies  of  him  by  whom  they  are 
inspired,  and  abound  with  verse  and  gesture  for  his 
songs  alone,  and  care  for  no  other ;  thus,  you,  O  Ion, 
are  eloquent  when  you  expound  Homer,  and  are  barren 
of  words  with  regard  to  every  other  poet.  And  this 
explains  the  question  you  asked,  wherefore  Homer, 
and  no  other  poet,  inspires  you  mth  eloquence.  It  is 
that  you  are  thus  excellent  in  your  praise,  not  through 
science,  but  from  divine  inspiration. 

Ion.  You  say  the  truth,   Socrates.      Yet,    I    am 


234  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

surprised  that  you  should  be  able  to  persuade  me  that 
I  am  possessed  and  insane  when  I  praise  Homer.  I 
think  I  shall  not  appear  such  to  you  when  you 
hear  me. 

Socrates.  I  desire  to  hear  you,  but  not  before  you 
have  answered  me  this  one  question.  "What  subject 
does  Homer  treat  best  ?  for,  surely,  he  does  not  treat 
all  equally. 

Ion.   You  are  aware  that  he  treats  of  everything. 

Socrates.  Does  Homer  mention  subjects  on  which 
you  are  ignorant  ? 

Ion.   "What  can  those  be  ? 

Socrates.  Does  not  Homer  frequently  dilate  on 
various  arts — on  chariot-driving,  for  instance  ?  if  I 
remember  the  verses,  I  will  repeat  them. 

Ion.   I  will  repeat  them,  for  I  remember  them. 

Socrates,  ^Repeat  what  Nestor  says  to  his  son 
Antilochus,  counselling  him  to  be  cautious  in  turning, 
during  the  chariot  race  at  the  funeral  games  of 
Patroclus. 

Ion.    Avrhs  5e  KXivdrjvai  ivTr\€KTCf  ip\  Si^pw, 

'H/c'  €7r'  apiffrepa  roi'iv'  arap  rhv  5e|t^v  'ittttov 
Kevcrai  o/xoKX'fjO'as,  el^al  re  ot  7]via  x^po'iu- 
'Ep  viKTcrr)  Se  roi,  'iinros  apicrrepos  iyxptlJ-(f>0'f]TCOf 
'fls  &p  roi  irXiiixpT]  76  ^odaffcrai  &Kpop  iK4(r6at 
KvkKov  iroir]To7o'  Xidov  5'  a\€a(Tdai  iiravpslp. 

II.  f .  335.* 

*  And  warily  proceed, 

A  little  bending  to  the  left-hand  steed ; 
But  urge  the  right,  and  give  him  all  the  reins  ; 
While  thy  strict  hand  his  fellow's  head  restrains. 
And  turns  him  short ;  till,  doubling  as  they  roll, 
The  wheel's  round  nave  appears  to  brush  the  goal. 
Yet,  not  to  break  the  car  or  lame  the  horse, 
Clear  of  the  stony  heap  direct  the  course. — Fope,  Book  23. 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  235 

Socrates.  Enough.  Now,  0  Ion,  would  a  physician 
or  a  charioteer  be  the  better  judge  as  to  Homer's 
sagacity  on  this  subject  ? 

Ion.    Of  course,  a  charioteer. 

Socrates.  Because  he  understands  the  art — or  from 
what  other  reason  ? 

Ion.   From  his  knowledge  of  the  art. 

Socrates.  Por  one  science  is  not  gifted  with  the 
power  of  judging  of  another — a  steersman,  for  instance, 
does  not  understand  medicine  ? 

Ion.   "Without  doubt. 

Socrates.   Nor  a  physician,  architecture  ? 

Ion.    Of  course  not. 

Socrates.  Is  it  not  thus  with  every  art  ?  If 
we  are  adepts  in  one,  we  are  ignorant  of  another. 
But  first  tell  me,  do  not  all  arts  differ  one  from  the 
other  ? 

Ion.   They  do. 

Socrates.  Tor  you,  as  well  as  I,  can  testify  that 
when  we  say  an  art  is  the  knowledge  of  one  thing,  we 
do  not  mean  that  it  is  the  knowledge  of  another. 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  Tor,  if  each  art  contained  the  knowledge 
of  all  things,  why  should  we  call  them  by  different 
names  ?  we  do  so  that  we  may  distinguish  them  one 
from  the  other.  Thus,  you  as  well  as  I,  know  that 
these  are  five  fingers ;  and  if  I  asked  you  whether  we 
both  meant  the  same  thing  or  another,  when  we  speak 
of  arithmetic — would  you  not  say  the  same  ? 

Ion.   Yes. 

Socrates.   And  tell  me,  when  we  learn  one  art,  we 


236  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

must  both  learn  tlie  same  things  with  regard  to  it ;  and 
other  things  if  we  learn  another  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  And  he  who  is  not  versed  in  an  art,  is 
not  a  good  judge  of  what  is  said  or  done  with 
respect  to  it  ? 

Ion.    Certainly  not. 

Socrates.  To  return  to  the  verses  which  you  just 
recited,  do  you  think  that  you  or  a  charioteer  would  be 
better  capable  of  deciding  whether  Homer  had  spoken 
rightly  or  not  ? 

Ion.   Doubtless  a  charioteer. 

Socrates.  Tor  you  are  a  rhapsodist,  and  not  a 
charioteer  ? 

Ion,   Yes. 

Socrates.  And  the  art  of  reciting  verses  is  different 
from  that  of  driving  chariots  ? 

Ion,    Certainly. 

Socrates.  And  if  it  is  different,  it  supposes  a 
knowledge  of  different  things  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  And  when  Homer  introduces  Hecamede, 
the  concubine  of  Nestor,  giving  Machaon  a  posset  to 
drink,  and  he  speaks  thus : — 

Oivc^  Tlpafiveict},  iirl  S'  a^yeiop  kvtj  rvpov 

11.  X'.  639. 

*  Tempered  in  this,  the  nymph  of  form  divine, 
Pours  a  large  portion  of  the  Pramnian  wine ; 
With  goats'-milk  cheese,  a  flavorous  taste  bestows, 
And  last  with  flour  the  smiling  surface  strews. 

Fope,  Book  11. 


ION;  OE,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  237 

Does  it  belong  to  the  medical  or  rhapsodical  art,  to 
determine  whether  Homer  speaks  rightly  on  this 
subject  ? 

Ion.   The  medical. 

Socrates.   And  when  he  says — 

'H  Se  jxoXv^^aivri  Ik^K-t)  is  ^vffcrhv  'Uav^v, 
"H  r€  Kar  aypavXoio  ^oos  Kepas  i/j-fieinavTa 
"Epx^TO-i  oi}iJir)(rrf}cn  fier'  Ix^vai  irrj/jLa  cpepovcra.* 

II.  c^.  80. 

Does  it  belong  to  the  rhapsodical  or  the  piscatorial  art, 
to  determine  whether  he  speaks  rightly  or  not  ? 

Ion.   Manifestly  to  the  piscatorial  art. 

Socrates.  Consider  whether  you  are  not  inspired  to 
make  some  such  demand  as  this  to  me: — Come, 
Socrates,  since  you  have  found  in  Homer  an  accurate 
description  of  these  arts,  assist  me  also  in  the  inquiry 
as  to  his  competence  on  the  subject  of  soothsayers  and 
divination ;  and  how  far  he  speaks  well  or  ill  on  such 
subjects ;  for  he  often  treats  of  them  in  the  Odyssey, 
and  especially  when  he  introduces  Theoclymenus  the 
Soothsayer  of  the  Melampians,  prophesying  to  the 
Suitors : — 

Aaifiovi,  ri  naKbv  r6^e  7rao"X6T6 ;  vvktL  [xeu  vfieccv 
ElXvarai  KccpaXai  re  Trpoacaira  re  vepOe  re  yuia, 
Ol/j-Mj^  5e  SeSTje,  de^KpvvraL  5e  irapeiai. 
ElSdoKcov  T6  irpiov  irpoOvpov,  irKelr)  5e  Koi  avX^ 


She  plunged,  and  instant  shot  the  dark  profound : 
As,  bearing  death  in  the  fallacious  bait, 
From  the  bent  angle  sinks  the  leaden  weight, 

Fope,  Book  24. 


238  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

'lefJLevcav  epe^Sffdc  virh  ^6(pov'  rjeXios  5e 
Ovpavov  i^aTrdXcoKe,  KaK))  5'  eTrdeBpofxev  ax^vs.* 

Odyss.  {>.  351. 

Often  too  in  tlie  Iliad,  as  at  the  battle  at  the  walls  ;  for 
he  there  says — 

"Opvis  ydp  (T<piv  iirrjAOc  irepTjcrefxevaL  [xeiJ-aSxTiv, 
Aierhs  v^merris^  eV  apiffrepa  Kabv  iepyuv, 
^oivfjcvra  dpdKovra  (pipcav  6vvx€(T(ri  ireAcopoj/, 
Zcahv,  er  acriraipovra'  koI  outtw  \i\OcTo  x^p/J-V^. 
K6^p€  yap  avrhv  exovra  Kara  (TTrjOos  iraph  deip-^Vf 
'l^vuOels  6iri<Tco.  6  8'  airh  edep  ijKe  xa/iia^e 
'AXyfjcras  o^vvpcri,  fxeccp  5*  iyKoi^^aX'  SfxiXcp 
Avrhs  5e  KXdy^as  eTrero  irvoi^s  av4fioio.f — II.  fi\ 

I  assert,  it  belongs  to  a  soothsayer  both  to  observe  and 
to  judge  respecting  such  appearances  as  these. 

Ion.   And  you  assert  the  truth,  O  Socrates. 

Socrates.  And  you  also,  my  dear  Ion.  For  we 
have  in  our  turn  recited  from  the  Odyssey  and  the 
Iliad,  passages  relating  to  vaticination,  to  medicine  and 

*  O  race  to  death  devote !  with  Stygian  shade 
Each  destined  peer  impending  Fates  invade ; 
With  tears  your  wan  distorted  cheeks  are  drowned, 
With  sanguine  drops  the  walls  are  rubied  round ; 
Thick  swarms  the  spacious  hall  with  howling  ghosts, 
To  people  Orcus,  and  the  burning  coasts. 
Nor  gives  the  sun  his  golden  orb  to  roll, 
But  universal  night  usurps  the  pole. — Pope^  Book  20. 

t  A  signal  omen  stopped  the  passing  host. 
Their  martial  fury  in  their  wonder  lost. 
Jove's  bird  on  sounding  pinions  beats  the  skies, 
A  bleeding  serpent  of  enormous  size 
His  talons  trussed,  alive  and  curling  round, 
He  stung  the  bird,  whose  throat  received  the  wound ; 
Mad  with  the  smart,  he  drops  the  fatal  prey. 
In  airy  circles  wings  his  painful  way, 
Floats  on  the  winds  and  rends  the  heaven  with  cries  : 
Amidst  the  host  the  fallen  serpent  lies. — Pope,  Book  12. 


ION ;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  239 

the  piscatorial  art ;  and  as  you  are  more  skilled  in 
Homer  than  I  can  be,  do  you  now  make  mention 
of  whatever  relates  to  the  rhapsodist  and  his  art ; 
for  a  rhapsodist  is  competent  above  all  other  men 
to  consider  and  pronounce  on  whatever  has  relation 
to  his  art. 

Ion.  Or  with  respect  to  everything  else  mentioned 
by  Homer. 

Socrates,  Do  not  be  so  forgetful  as  to  say  every- 
thing. A  good  memory  is  particularly  necessary  for  a 
rhapsodist. 

Ion.   And  what  do  I  forget  ? 

Socrates.  Do  you  not  remember  that  you  admitted 
the  art  of  reciting  verses  was  different  from  that  of 
driving  chariots  ? 

Ion.   I  remember. 

Socrates.  And  did  you  not  admit  that  being  different, 
the  subjects  of  its  knowledge  must  also  be  different  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  You  will  not  assert  that  the  art  of 
rhapsody  is  that  of  universal  knowledge  ;  a  rhapsodist 
may  be  ignorant  of  some  things. 

Ion.  Except,  perhaps,  such  things  as  we  now 
discuss,  O  Socrates. 

Socrates.  What  do  you  mean  by  sucJi  subjects, 
besides  those  which  relate  to  other  arts  ?  And  with 
which  among  them  do  you  profess  a  competent 
acquaintance,  since  not  with  all  ? 

Ion.  I  imagine  that  the  rhapsodist  has  a  perfect 
knowledge  of  what  it  is  becoming  for  a  man  to  speak — 
what  for  a  woman  ;  what  for  a  slave,  what  for  a  free 


240  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

man;  what  for  the  ruler,  what  for  him  who  is 
governed. 

Socrates.  How !  do  you  think  that  a  rhapsodist 
knows  better  than  a  pilot  what  the  captain  of  a  ship  in 
a  tempest  ought  to  say  ? 

Ion.  In  such  a  circumstance  I  allow  that  the  pilot 
w^ould  know  best. 

Socrates.  Has  the  rhapsodist  or  the  physician  the 
clearest  knowledge  of  what  ought  to  be  said  to  a 
sick  man  ? 

Ion.   In  that  case  the  physician. 

Socrates.  But  you  assert  that  he  knows  what  a 
slave  ought  to  say  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  To  take  for  example,  in  the  driving  of 
cattle  ;  a  rhapsodist  would  know  much  better  than  the 
herdsman  what  ought  to  be  said  to  a  slave  engaged  in 
bringing  back  a  herd  of  oxen  run  wild  ? 

Ion.   JSTo,  indeed. 

[^Socrates.  But  what  a  woman  should  say  concerning 
spinning  wool  ? 

Ion.    Of  course  not. 

Socrates.  He  would  know,  however,  what  a  man, 
who  is  a  general,  should  say  when  exhorting  his  troops  ? 

Ion.   Yes ;  a  rhapsodist  would  know  that. 

Socrates.  How  !  is  rhapsody  and  strategy  the  same 
art? 

Ion.   I  know  what  it  is  fitting  for  a  general  to  say. 

Socrates.  Probably  because  you  are  learned  in  war, 
O  Ion.  Por  if  you  are  equally  expert  in  horsemanship 
and  playing  on  the  harp,  you  would  know  whether  a 


ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD.  241 

man  rode  well  or  ill.  But  if  I  should  ask  you  which 
understands  riding  best,  a  horseman  or  a  harper,  what 
would  you  answer  ? 

Ion,   A  horseman,  of  course. 

Socrates.  And  if  you  knew  a  good  player  on  the 
harp,  you  would  in  the  same  way  say  that  he  understood 
harp-playing  and  not  riding  ? 

Ion.    Certainly. 

Socrates.  Since  you  understand  strategy,  you  can 
tell  me  which  is  the  most  excellent,  the  art  of  war  or 
rhapsody  ? 

Ion.    One  does  not  appear  to  me  to  excel  the  other. 

Socrates.  One  is  not  better  than  the  other,  say 
you  ?  Do  you  say  that  tactics  and  rhapsody  are  two 
arts  or  one  ? 

Ion.   They  appear  to  me  to  be  the  same. 

Socrates.  Then  a  good  rhapsodist  is  also  a  good 
general. 

Ion.    Of  course. 

Socrates.  And  a  good  general  is  a  good  rhap- 
sodist ? 

Ion.   I  do  not  say  that. 

Socrates.  You  said  that  a  good  rhapsodist  was  also 
a  good  general. 

Ion.   I  did. 

Socrates.  Are  you  not  the  best  rhapsodist  in 
Greece  ? 

Ion.  By  far,  O  Socrates. 

Socrates.  And  you  are  also  the  most  excellent  general 
among  the  Greeks  ? 

Ion.  I  am.     I  learned  the  art  from  Homer. 


242  ION;  OR,  OF  THE  ILIAD. 

Socrates.  How  is  it  then,  by  Jupiter,  that  being 
both  the  best  general  and  the  best  rhapsodist  among 
us,  you  continually  go  about  Grreece  rhapsodising,  and 
never  lead  our  armies  ?  Does  it  seem  to  you  that 
the  Greeks  greatly  need  golden-crowned  rhapsodists, 
and  have  no  want  of  generals  ? 

Ion.  My  native  town,  0  Socrates,  is  ruled  by 
yours,  and  requires  no  general  for  her  wars ; — and 
neither  will  your  city  nor  the  Lacedemonians  elect 
me  to  lead  their  armies — you  think  your  own  generals 
sufficient. 

Socrates.  My  good  Ion,  are  you  acquainted  with 
Apollodorus  the  Cyzicenian  ? 

Ion.  What  do  you  mean  ? 

Socrates.  He  whom,  though  a  stranger,  the  Athe- 
nians often  elected  general ;  and  Phanosthenes  the 
Andrian,  and  Heraclides  the  Clazomenian,  all  foreign- 
ers, but  whom  this  city  has  chosen,  as  being  great 
men,  to  lead  its  armies,  and  to  fill  other  high  offices. 
"Would  not,  therefore.  Ion  the  Ephesian  be  elected  and 
honoured  if  he  were  esteemed  capable  ?  Were  not 
the  Ephesians  originally  from  Athens,  and  is  Ephesus 
the  least  of  cities  ?  But  if  you  spoke  true.  Ion,  and 
praise  Homer  according  to  art  and  knowledge,  you 
have  deceived  me, — since  you  declared  that  you  were 
learned  on  the  subject  of  Homer,  and  would  com- 
municate your  knowledge  to  me — but  you  have 
disappointed  me,  and  are  far  from  keeping  your  word. 
Eor  you  will  not  explain  in  what  you  are  so  excessively 
clever,  though  I  greatly  desire  to  learn ;  but,  as  various 
as  Proteus,  you  change  from  one  thing  to  another, 


MENEXENUS;  OR,  THE  FUNERAL  ORATION.  243 

and  to  escape  at  last,  you  disappear  in  the  form  of 
a  general,  without  disclosing  your  Homeric  wisdom. 
If,  therefore,  you  possess  the  learning  which  you 
promised  to  expound  on  the  subject  of  Homer,  you 
deceive  me  and  are  false.  But  if  you  are  eloquent  on 
the  subject  of  this  Poet,  not  through  knowledge,  but 
by  inspiration,  being  possessed  by  him,  ignorant  the 
while  of  the  wisdom  and  beauty  you  display,  then  I 
allow  that  you  are  no  deceiver.  Choose  then  whether 
you  will  be  considered  false  or  inspired  ? 

Ion.  It  is  far  better,  O  Socrates,  to  be  thought 
inspired. 

Socrates.  It  is  better  both  for  you  and  for  us,  O  Ion, 
to  say  that  you  are  the  inspired,  and  not  the  learned, 
eulogist  of  Homer. 


MENEXENUS ;  OE,  THE  EUNEEAL  OEATION. 

A   FEAGMENT. 
SOCRATES  AND  MENEXENUS. 

Socrates.  Whence  comest  thou,  O  Menexenus? 
from  the  forum  ? 

Menexenus.  Even  so  ;  and  from  the  senate-house. 

Socrates.  What  was  thy  business  with  the  senate  ? 
Art  thou  persuaded  that  thou  hast  attained  to  that 
perfection  of  discipline  and  philosophy,  from  which 
thou  mayest  aspire  to  undertake  greater  matters  ? 
Wouldst  thou,  at  thine  age,  my  wonderful  friend, 
assume  to  thyself  the  government  of  us  who  are  thine 

R  2 


244  MENEXENUS;  OR,  THE  FUNERAL  ORATION. 

elders,  lest  thy  family  should  at  any  time  fail  in  affording 
lis  a  protector  ? 

Menexenus.  If  thou,  O  Socrates,  shouldst  permit 
and  counsel  me  to  enter  into  public  life,  I  would 
earnestly  endeavour  to  fit  myself  for  the  attempt.  If 
otherwise,  I  would  abstain.  On  the  present  occasion, 
I  went  to  the  senate-house,  merely  from  having  heard 
that  the  senate  was  about  to  elect  one  to  speak  con- 
cerning those  who  are  dead.  Thou  knowest  that  the 
celebration  of  their  funeral  approaches  ? 

Socrates.  Assuredly.     But  whom  have  they  chosen  ? 

Menexenus,  The  election  is  deferred  until  to- 
morrow ;  I  imagine  that  either  Dion  or  Archinus  will 
be  chosen. 

Socrates.  In  truth,  Menexenus,  the  condition  of  him 
who  dies  in  battle  is,  in  every  respect,  fortunate  and 
glorious.  If  he  is  poor,  he  is  conducted  to  his  tomb 
with  a  magnificent  and  honourable  funeral,  amidst  the 
praises  of  all ;  if  even  he  were  a  coward,  his  name  is 
included  in  a  panegyric  pronounced  by  the  most 
learned  men ;  from  which  all  the  vulgar  expressions, 
which  unpremeditated  composition  might  admit,  have 
been  excluded  by  the  careful  labour  of  leisure  ;  who 
praise  so  admirably,  enlarging  upon  every  topic 
remotely,  or  immediately  connected  with  the  subject, 
and  blending  so  eloquent  a  variety  of  expressions,  that, 
praising  in  every  manner  the  state  of  which  we  are 
citizens,  and  those  who  have  perished  in  battle,  and 
the  ancestors  w^ho  preceded  our  generation,  and  our- 
selves who  yet  live,  they  steal  away  our  spirits  as  wdth 
enchantment.     "Whilst   I  listen  to   their  praises,   0 


MENEXENUS;  OR,  THE  FUNERAL  ORATION.  245 

Menexenus,  I  am  penetrated  with  a  very  lofty  concep- 
tion of  myself,  and  overcome  by  their  flatteries.  I 
appear  to  myself  immeasurably  more  honourable  and 
generous  than  before,  and  many  of  the  strangers  who 
are  accustomed  to  accompany  me,  regard  me  with 
additional  veneration,  after  having  heard  these  rela- 
tions ;  they  seem  to  consider  the  whole  state,  including 
me,  much  more  worthy  of  admiration,  after  they  have 
been  soothed  into  persuasion  by  the  orator.  The 
opinion  thus  inspired  of  my  own  majesty  will  last  me 
more  than  three  days  sometimes,  and  the  penetrating 
melody  of  the  words  descends  through  the  ears  into 
the  mind,  and  clings  to  it ;  so  that  it  is  often  three  or 
four  days  before  I  come  to  my  senses  sufficiently  to 
perceive  in  what  part  of  the  world  I  am,  or  succeed  in 
persuading  myself  that  I  do  not  inhabit  one  of  the 
islands  of  the  blessed.  So  skilful  are  these  orators 
of  ours. 

Menexenus.  Thou  always  laughest  at  the  orators, 
O  Socrates.  On  the  present  occasion,  however,  the 
unforeseen  election  will  preclude  the  person  chosen 
from  the  advantages  of  a  preconcerted  speech;  the 
speaker  will  probably  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of 
extemporising. 

Socrates.  How  so,  my  good  friend  ?  Every  one  of 
the  candidates  has,  without  doubt,  his  oration  prepared; 
and  if  not,  there  were  little  difficulty,  on  this  occasion, 
of  inventing  an  unpremeditated  speech.  If,  indeed, 
the  question  were  of  Athenians,  who  should  speak 
in  the  Peloponnesus ;  or  of  Peloponnesians,  who 
should  speak  at  Athens,  an  orator  who  would  persuade 


246  MENEXENUS;    OR,  THE  FUNERAL  ORATION. 

and  be  applauded,  must  employ  all  the  resources  of  his 
skill.  But  to  the  orator  who  contends  for  the  appro- 
bation of  those  whom  he  praises,  success  will  be  little 
difficult. 

Menexenus.   Is  that  thy  opinion,  O  Socrates  ? 

Socrates.    In  truth  it  is. 

Menexenus.  Shouldst  thou  consider  thyself  compe- 
tent to  pronounce  this  oration,  if  thou  shouldst  be 
chosen  by  the  senate  ? 

Socrates.  There  would  be  nothing  astonishing  if  I 
should  consider  myself  equal  to  such  an  undertaking. 
My  mistress  in  oratory  was  perfect  in  the  science 
which  she  taught ;  and  had  formed  many  other  excellent 
orators,  and  one  of  the  most  eminent  among  the 
Grreeks,  Pericles,  the  son  of  Xantippus. 

Menexenus.  Who  is  she  ?  Assuredly  thou  meanest 
Aspasia. 

Socrates.  Aspasia,  and  Connus  the  son  of  Metrobius, 
the  two  instructors.  Erom  the  former  of  these  I 
learned  rhetoric,  and  from  the  latter  music.  There 
would  be  nothing  wonderful  if  a  man  so  educated 
should  be  capable  of  great  energy  of  speech.  A 
person  who  should  have  been  instructed  in  a  manner 
totally  different  from  me ;  who  should  have  learned 
rhetoric  from  Antiphon  the  son  of  Ehamnusius,  and 
music  from  Lampses,  would  be  competent  to  succeed 
in  such  an  attempt  as  praising  the  Athenians  to  the 
Athenians. 

Menexenus.  And  what  shouldst  thou  have  to  say, 
if  thou  wert  chosen  to  pronounce  the  oration  ? 

Socrates.    Of   my    own,    probably    nothing.     But 


MENEXENUS  ;  OR,  THE  FUNERAL  ORATIOX.  247 

yesterday  I  heard  Aspasia  declaim  a  funeral  oration 
over  these  same  persons.  She  had  heard,  as  thou 
sayest,  that  the  Athenians  were  about  to  choose  an 
orator,  and  she  took  the  occasion  of  suggesting  a  series 
of  topics  proper  for  such  an  orator  to  select ;  in  part 
extemporaneously,  and  in  part  such  as  she  had  already 
prepared.  I  think  it  probable  that  she  composed  the 
oration  by  interweaving  such  fragments  of  oratory  as 
Pericles  might  have  left. 

Menexenus.   Rememberest  thou  what  Aspasia  said  ? 

Socrates.  Unless  I  am  greatly  mistaken.  I  learned 
it  from  her ;  and  she  is  so  good  a  schoolmistress,  that 
I  should  have  been  beaten  if  I  had  not  been  perfect  in 
my  lesson. 

Menexenus.   Why  not  repeat  it  to  me  ? 

Socrates.  I  fear  lest  my  mistress  be  angry,  should 
I  publish  her  discourse. 

Menexenus.  0,  fear  not.  At  least  deliver  a  dis- 
course ;  you  will  do  what  is  exceedingly  delightful 
to  me,  whether  it  be  of  Aspasia  or  any  other.  I  entreat 
you  to  do  me  this  pleasure. 

Socrates.  But  you  will  laugh  at  me,  who,  being 
old,  attempt  to  repeat  a  pleasant  discourse. 

Menexenus.  O  no,  Socrates ;  I  entreat  you  to 
speak,  however  it  may  be. 

Socrates.  I  see  that  I  must  do  what  you  require. 
In  a  little  while,  if  you  should  ask  me  to  strip  naked 
and  dance,  I  shall  be  nnable  to  refuse  you,  at  least,  if 
we  are  alone.  Now,  listen.  She  spoke  thus,  if  I 
recollect,  beginning  with  the  dead,  in  whose  honour 
the  oration  is  supposed  to  have  been  delivered. 


248 


FEAGMENTS 

FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO. 

I. — But  it  would  be  almost  impossible  to  build  your 
city  in  such  a  situation  that  it  would  need  no  imports. 
— Impossible. — Other  persons  would  then  be  required, 
who  might  undertake  to  conduct  from  another  city 
those  things  of  which  they  stood  in  need. — Certainly. 
— But  the  merchant  who  should  return  to  his  own 
city,  without  any  of  those  articles  which  it  needed, 
would  return  empty-handed.  It  will  be  necessary, 
therefore,  not  only  to  produce  a  sufficient  supply,  but 
such  articles,  both  in  quantity  and  in  kind,  as  may  be 
required  to  remunerate  those  who  conduct  the  imports. 
There  will  be  needed  then  more  husbandmen,  and 
other  artificers,  in  our  city.  There  will  be  needed  also 
other  persons  who  will  undertake  the  conveyance  of 
the  imports  and  the  exports,  and  these  persons  are 
called  merchants.  If  the  commerce  which  these 
necessities  produce  is  carried  on  by  sea,  other  persons 
will  be  required  who  are  accustomed  to  nautical  aifairs. 
And,  in  the  city  itself,  how  shall  the  products  of  each 
man's  labour  be  transported  from  one  to  another ; 
those  products,  for  the  sake  of  the  enjoyment  and  the 
ready  distribution  of  which,  they  were  first  induced  to 
institute  a  civil  society? — By  selling  and  buying, 
surely. — A  market  and  money,  as  a  symbol  of  exchange, 
arises  out  of  this  necessity. — Evidently. — When  the 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO.  249 

husbandman,  or  any  other  artificer,  brings  the  produce 
of  his  labours  to  the  public  place,  and  those  who 
desire  to  barter  their  produce  for  it  do  not  happen  to 
arrive  exactly  at  the  same  time,  would  he  not  lose  his 
time,  and  the  profit  of  it,  if  he  were  to  sit  in  the 
market  waiting  for  them  ? — Assuredly. — But,  there 
are  persons  who,  perceiving  this,  will  take  upon  them- 
selves the  arrangement  between  the  buyer  and  the 
seller.  In  constituted  civil  societies,  those  who  are 
employed  on  this  service,  ought  to  be  the  infirm,  and 
unable  to  perform  any  other;  but,  exchanging  on 
one  hand  for  money,  what  any  person  comes  to  sell, 
and  giving  the  articles  thus  bought  for  a  similar  equi- 
valent to  those  who  might  wish  to  buy. 


II. — Description    of    a   frugal    enjoyment  of    the 
goods  of  the  world. 


III. — But  with  this  system  of  life  some  are  not 
contented.  They  must  have  beds  and  tables,  and 
other  furniture.  They  must  have  scarce  ointments 
and  perfumes,  women,  and  a  thousand  superfluities  of 
the  same  character.  The  things  w^hich  we  mentioned 
as  sufficient,  houses,  and  clothes,  and  food,  are  not 
enough.  Painting  and  mosaic-work  must  be  culti- 
vated, and  works  in  gold  and  ivory.  The  society  must 
be  enlarged  in  consequence.  This  city,  which  is  of  a 
healthy  proportion,  will  not  suffice,  but  it  must  be 
replenished  with  a  multitude  of  persons,  whose  occu- 
pations are  by  no  means  indispensable.  Huntsmen 
and  mimics,  persons  whose  occupation  it  is  to  arrange 


250    FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO, 

forms  and  colours,  persons  whose  trade  is  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  more  delicate  arts,  poets  and  their  ministers, 
rhapsodists,  actors,  dancers,  manufacturers  of  all  kinds 
of  instruments  and  schemes  of  female  dress,  and  an 
immense  crowd  of  other  ministers  to  pleasure  and 
necessity.  Do  you  not  think  we  should  want  school- 
masters, tutors,  nurses,  hair-dressers,  barbers,  manu- 
facturers and  cooks  ?  Should  we  not  want  pig-drivers, 
which  were  not  wanted  in  our  more  modest  city,  in 
this  one,  and  a  multitude  of  others  to  administer  to 
other  animals,  which  would  then  become  necessary 
articles  of  food, — or  should  we  not? — Certainly  we 
should. — Should  we  not  want  physicians  much  more, 
living  in  this  manner  than  before  ?  The  same  tract 
of  country  would  no  longer  provide  sustenance  for  the 
state.  Must  we  then  not  usurp  from  the  territory  of  our 
neighbours,  and  then  we  should  make  aggressions,  and 
so  we  have  discovered  the  origin  of  war  ;  which  is  the 
principal  cause  of  the  greatest  public  and  private 
calamities. — C.  xi. 


IV. — And  first,  wx  must  improve  upon  the  com- 
posers of  fabulous  histories  in  verse,  to  compose  them 
according  to  the  rules  of  moral  beauty  ;  and  those  not 
composed  according  to  the  rules  must  be  rejected; 
and  we  must  persuade  mothers  and  nurses  to  teach 
those  which  we  approve  to  their  children,  and  to  form 
their  minds  by  moral  fables,  far  more  than  their  bodies 
by  their  hands. — Lib.  ii. 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO.  251 


v.— ON    THE    DANGER    OF    THE     STUDY    OF    ALLEGORICAL 
COMPOSITION  (IN  A  LARGE  SENSE)  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

Tor  a  young  person  is  not  competent  to  judge  what 
portions  of  a  fabulous  composition  are  allegorical  and 
wliat  literal ;  but  the  opinions  produced  by  a  literal 
acceptation  of  that  which  has  no  meaning,  or  a  bad 
one,  except  in  an  allegorical  sense,  are  often  irradi- 
cable. — Lib.  ii. 


Yi. — Grod  then,  since  he  is  good,  cannot  be,  as  is 
vulgarly  supposed,  the  cause  of  all  things ;  he  is  the 
cause,  indeed,  of  very  few  things.  Among  the  great 
variety  of  events  which  happen  in  the  course  of  human 
aifairs,  evil  prodigiously  overbalances  good  in  every- 
thing which  regards  men.  Of  all  that  is  good  there 
can  be  no  other  cause  than  God;  but  some  other  cause 
ought  to  be  discovered  for  evil,  which  should  never  be 
imputed  as  an  effect  to  God. — L.  ii. 


Yii.  —  Plato's  doctrine  of  punishment  as  laid 
down,  p.  146,  is  refuted  by  his  previous  reasonings. 
—P.  26.  

VIII.— THE  UNCHANGEABLE  NATURE  OF  GOD. 

Do  you  think  that  God  is  like  a  vulgar  conjuror, 
and  that  he  is  capable  for  the  sake  of  effect,  of  assuming, 
at  one  time,  one  form,  and  at  another  time,  another  ? 
Now,  in  his  own  character,  converting  his  proper  form 
into  a  multitude  of  shapes,  now  deceiving  us,  and 


252  FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO. 

offering  vain  images  of  himself  to  our  imagination  ? 
Or  do  you  think  that  Grod  is  single  and  one,  and  least 
of  all  things  capable  of  departing  from  his  permanent 
nature  and  appearance  ? 


IX.— THE  PERMANENCY  OF  WHAT  IS  EXCELLENT. 

But  everything,  in  proportion  as  it  is  excellent, 
either  in  art  or  nature,  or  in  both,  is  least  susceptible 
of  receiving  change  from  any  external  influence. 


X.— AGAINST  SUPERSTITIOUS  TALES. 

Nor  should  mothers  terrify  their  children  by 
these  fables,  that  Grods  go  about  in  the  night-time, 
resembling  strangers,  in  all  sorts  of  forms  :  at  once 
blaspheming  the  Gods,  and  rendering  their  children 
cowardly. 

XI.—THE  TRUE  ESSENCE  OF  FALSEHOOD  AND  ITS  ORIGIN. 

Know  you  not,  that  that  which  is  truly  false,  if  it 
may  be  permitted  me  so  to  speak,  all,  both  Gods  and 
men,  detest  ? — How  do  you  mean  ? — Thus  :  No  person 
is  willing  to  falsify  in  matters  of  the  highest  concern 
to  himself  concerning  those  matters,  but  fears,  above 
all  things,  lest  he  should  accept  falsehood. — Yet,  I 
understand  you  not. — You  think  that  I  mean  some- 
thing profound.  I  say  that  no  person  is  willing  in  his 
own  mind  to  receive  or  to  assert  a  falsehood,  to  be 
ignorant,  to  be  in  error,  to  possess  that  which  is  not 
true.  This  is  truly  to  be  called  falsehood,  this  igno- 
rance and  error  in  the  mind  itself.     What  is  usually 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO.  253 

called  falsehood,  or  deceit  in  words,  is  but  a  voluntary 
imitation  of  what  the  mind  itself  suifers  in  the  invo- 
luntary possession  of  that  falsehood,  an  image  of  later 
birth,  and  scarcely,  in  a  strict  and  complete  sense, 
deserving  the  name  of  falsehood. — Lib.  ii. 


XII.— AGAINST  A  BELIEF  IN  HELL. 

If  they  are  to  possess  courage,  are  not  those  doc- 
trines alone  to  be  taught,  which  render  death  least 
terrible  ?  Or  do  you  conceive  that  any  man  can  be 
brave  who  is  subjected  to  a  fear  of  death  ?  that  he 
who  believes  the  things  that  are  related  of  hell,  and 
thinks  that  they  are  truth,  will  prefer  in  battle,  death 
to  slavery,  or  defeat  ? — Lib.  iii. — Then  follows  a  criti- 
cism on  the  jpoetical  accounts  of  hell. 


XIIL— ON  GRIEF. 

We  must  then  abolish  the  custom  of  lamenting  and 
commiserating  the  deaths  of  illustrious  men.  Do  we 
assert  that  an  excellent  man  will  consider  it  anything 
dreadful  that  his  intimate  friend,  who  is  also  an  excel- 
lent man,  should  die  ? — By  no  means  (an  excessive 
refinement).  He  will  abstain  then  from  lamenting 
over  his  loss,  as  if  he  had  suffered  some  great  evil  ? — 
Surely. — May  we  not  assert  in  addition,  that  such  a 
person  as  we  have  described  suffices  to  himself  for  all 
purposes  of  living  well  and  happily,  and  in  no  manner 
needs  the  assistance  or  society  of  another  ?  that  he 
would  endure  with  resignation  the  destitution  of  a 
son,  or  a  brother,  or  possessions,  or  whatever  external 


254    FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO. 

adjuncts  of  life  miglit  have  been  attached  to  him  ? 
and  that,  on  the  occurrence  of  such  contingencies,  he 
would  support  them  with  moderation  and  mildness, 
by  no  means  bursting  into  lamentations,  or  resigning 
himself  to  despondence  ? — Lib.  iii. 

Then  he  proceeds  to  allege  passages  of  the  poets  in 
which  opposite  examples  were  held  up  to  approbation  and 
imitation. 


XIV.— THE  INFLUENCE  OF  EARLY  CONSTANT  IMITATION. 

Do  you  not  apprehend  that  imitations,  if  they  shall 
have  been  practised  and  persevered  in  from  early 
youth,  become  established  in  the  habits  and  nature,  in 
the  gestures  of  the  body,  and  the  tones  of  the  voice, 
and  lastly,  in  the  intellect  itself? — C.  iii. 


XV.— ON  THE  EFFECT  OF  BAD  TASTE  IN  ART. 

Nor  must  we  restrict  the  poets  alone  to  an  exhibi- 
tion of  the  example  of  virtuous  manners  in  their  com- 
positions, but  all  other  artists  must  be  forbidden, 
either  in  sculpture,  or  painting,  or  architecture,  to 
employ  their  skill  upon  forms  of  an  immoral,  unchas- 
tened,  monstrous,  or  illiberal  type,  either  in  the  forms 
of  living  beings,  or  in  architectural  arrangements. 
And  the  artist  capable  of  this  employment  of  his  art, 
must  not  be  suffered  in  our  community,  lest  those 
destined  to  be  guardians  of  the  society,  nourished 
upon  images  of  deformity  and  vice,  like  cattle  upon 
bad  grass,  gradually  gathering  and  depasturing  every 
day  a  little,  may  ignorantly  establish  one  great  evil, 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO.     255 

composed  of  tbese  many  evil  things,  in  their  minds. — 
C.  iii. 

The  monstrous  figures  called  Arabesques,  however  in 
some  of  them  is  to  he  found  a  mixture  of  a  truer  and 
simpler  taste,  which  are  found  in  the  ruined  palaces 
of  the  Roman  JEmperors,  hear,  nevertheless,  the  same 
relation  to  the  hrutal  profligacy  and  hilling  luxury 
which  required  them,  as  the  majestic  figures  of  Castor 
and  Pollux,  and  the  simple  heauty  of  the  sculpture  of 
the  frieze  of  the  Parthenon,  hear  to  the  more  heautiful 
and  simple  manners  of  the  Greeks  of  that  period. 
With  a  liberal  interpretation,  a  similar  analogy  might 
he  extended  into  literary  composition. 


XVL— AGAINST  THE  LEARNED  PROFESSIONS. 

"What  better  evidence  can  you  require  of  a  corrupt 
and  pernicious  system  of  discipline  in  a  state,  than 
that  not  merely  persons  of  base  habits  and  plebeian 
employments,  but  men  who  pretend  to  have  received 
a  liberal  education,  require  the  assistance  of  lawyers 
and  physicians,  and  those  too  who  have  attained  to  a 
singular  degree  (so  desperate  are  these  diseases  of 
body  and  mind)  of  skill.  Do  you  not  consider  it  an 
abject  necessity,  a  proof  of  the  deepest  degradation, 
to  need  to  be  instructed  in  what  is  just  or  what  is 
needful,  as  by  a  master  and  a  judge,  with  regard  to 
your  personal  knowledge  and  suffering  ? 

What  would  Plato  have  said  to  a  priest,  such  as  his 
office  is,  in  modern  times? — C.  iii. 


256  FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO. 


XVII.-ON  MEDICINE. 

Do  you  not  think  it  an  abject  thing  to  require  the 
assistance  of  the  medicinal  art,  not  for  the  cure  of 
wounds,  or  such  external  diseases  as  result  from  the 
accidents  of  the  seasons  (eTrrjTeLrjv),  but  on  account  of 
sloth  and  the  superfluous  indulgences  which  we  have 
already  condemned ;  thus  being  filled  with  wind  and 
water,  like  holes  in  earth,  and  compelling  the  elegant 
successors  of  ^sculapius  to  invent  new  names,  flatu- 
lences, and  catarrhs,  &c.,  for  the  new  diseases  which 
are  the  progeny  of  your  luxury  and  sloth  ? — L.  iii. 


XVIII.— THE  EFFECT  OF  THE  DIETETIC  SYSTEM. 

Herodicus  being  psedotribe  '(TraLdoTpilSrjs,  Maltster 
palcBstrcB),  and  his  health  becoming  weak,  united  the 
gymnastic  with  the  medical  art,  and  having  con- 
demned himself  to  a  life  of  weariness,  afterwards 
extended  the  same  pernicious  system  to  others.  He 
made  his  life  a  long  death.  For  humouring  the  disease, 
mortal  in  its  own  nature,  to  which  he  was  subject, 
without  being  able  to  cure  it,  he  postponed  all  other 
purposes  to  the  care  of  medicating  himself,  and  through 
his  whole  life  was  subject  to  an  access  of  his  malady,  if 
he  departed  in  any  degree  from  his  accustomed  diet, 
and  by  the  employment  of  this  skill,  dying  by  degrees, 
he  arrived  at  an  old  age. — L.  iii. 

^sculapius  never  pursued  these  systems,  nor 
Machaon  or  Podalirius.     They  never  undertook  the 


FRAGMENTS  FROM  THE  REPUBLIC  OF  PLATO.  20>r 

treatment  of  those  whose  frames  were  inwardly 
and  thoroughly  diseased,  so  to  prolong  a  worthless 
existence,  and  bestow  on  a  man  a  long  and  wretched 
being,  during  which  they  might  generate  children  in 
every  respect  the  inheritors  of  their  infirmity. — L.  iii. 


XIX.- AGAINST  WHAT  IS  FALSELY  CALLED  "KNOWLEDGE 
OF  THE  WORLD." 

A  man  ought  not  to  be  a  good  judge  until  he  be 
old ;  because  he  ought  not  to  have  acquired  a  know- 
ledge of  what  injustice  is,  until  his  understanding  has 
arrived  at  maturity :  not  apprehending  its  nature  from 
a  consideration  of  its  existence  in  himself;  but  having 
contemplated  it  distinct  from  his  own  nature  in  that 
of  others,  for  a  long  time,  until  he  shall  perceive  what 
an  evil  it  is,  not  from  his  own  experience  and  its 
effects  within  himself,  but  from  his  observations  of 
them  as  resulting  in  others.  Such  a  one  were  indeed 
an  honourable  judge,  and  a  good;  for  he  who  has  a 
good  mind,  is  good.  But  that  judge  who  is  considered 
so  wise,  who  having  himself  committed  great  injustices, 
is  supposed  to  be  qualified  for  the  detection  of  it  in 
others,  and  who  is  quick  to  suspect,  appears  keen, 
indeed,  as  long  as  he  associates  with  those  who 
resemble  him ;  because,  deriving  experience  from  the 
example  afforded  by  a  consideration  of  his  own  con- 
duct and  character,  he  acts  with  caution ;  but  when  he 
associates  with  men  of  universal  experience  and  real 
virtue,  he  exposes  the  defects  resulting  from  such 
experience  as  he  possesses,  by  distrusting  men  unrea- 
sonably and  mistaking  true  virtue  having  no  example 


258  ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  CRITO. 

of  it  within  himself  with  which  to  compare  the 
appearances  manifested  in  others;  yet,  snch  a  one 
iinding  more  associates  who  are  yirtuous  than  such  as 
are  wise,  necessarily  appears,  both  to  himself  and 
others,  rather  to  be  wise  than  foolish. — But  w^e  ought 
rather  to  search  for  a  wise  and  good  judge  ;  one  who 
has  examples  within  himself  of  that  upon  which  he  is 
to  pronounce. — 0.  iii. 

XX. — Those  who  use  gymnastics  unmingled  with 
music  become  too  savage,  whilst  those  who  use  music 
unmingled  with  gymnastics,  become  more  delicate 
than  is  befittino^. 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  CRITO. 

[It  is  well  known  that  when  Socrates  was  condemned  to  death,  his  friends 
made  arrangements  for  his  escape  from  prison  and  his  after  security ; 
of  which  he  refused  to  avail  himself,  from  the  reason,  that  a  good 
citizen  ought  to  ohey  the  laws  of  his  country.  On  this  Shelley 
makes  the  following  remarks — ] 

The  reply  is  simple. 

Indeed,  your  city  cannot  subsist,  because  tlie  laws 
are  no  longer  of  avail.  Tor  how  can  the  laws  be  said 
to  exist,  when  those  who  deserve  to  be  nourished  in 
the  Prytanea  at  the  public  expense,  are  condemned 
to  suffer  the  penalties  only  due  to  the  most  atrocious 
criminals ;  whilst  those  against,  and  to  protect  from 
wliose  injustice,  the  laws  were  framed,  live  in  honour 
and  security?      I  neither  overthrow  your  state,  nor 


I 


ON  A  PASSAGE  IN  CRITO.  259 

infringe  your  laws.  Although  you  have  inflicted  an 
injustice  on  me,  which  is  sufficient,  according  to  the 
opinions  of  the  multitude,  to  authorise  me  to  consider 
you  and  me  as  in  a  state  of  warfare  ;  yet,  had  I  the 
-power,  so  far  from  inflicting  any  revenge,  I  would 
endeavour  to  overcome  you  by  benefits.  All  that  I 
do  at  present  is,  that  which  the  peaceful  traveller 
would  do,  who,  caught  by  robbers  in  a  forest,  escapes 
from  them  whilst  they  are  engaged  in  the  division  of 
the  spoil.  And  this  I  do,  when  it  would  not  only  be 
indifferent,  but  delightful  to  me  to  die,  surrounded  by 
my  friends,  secure  of  the  inheritance  of  glory,  and 
escaping,  after  such  a  life  as  mine,  from  the  decay  of 
mind  and  body  which  must  soon  begin  to  be  my. 
portion  should  I  live.  But,  I  prefer  the  good,  which 
I  have  it  in  my  power  yet  to  perform. 

Such  are  the  arguments,  which  overturn  the  sophism 
placed  in  the  mouth  of  Socrates  by  Plato.  But  there 
are  others  which  prove  that  he  did  well  to  die. 


END   OF   VOL.    I. 


BRADBURY    AND   EVANS,   PRINTERS,   WHITEFRIARS. 


// 


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