that where I can turn, or what I can do with this
man, I know not. All this have I and many
cthers 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 affects the intimacy of those
who are beautiful, and how ignorant he professes
himself to be; appearances in themselves exces-
sively 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 pos-
sessions, whether it be beauty or wealth, or glory,
or any other thing for which the multitude felici-
tates 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
wonderful, that every thing which Socrates com-
mands surely ought to be obeyed, even like the
voice of a God.

"At one time we were fellow-soldiers, and had
our mess together in the camp before Potidea
Socrates there overcame not only me,
but every
one beside, in endurance of toils: when, as often
happens in a campaign, we were reduced to few
provisions, there 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 sus-
tained 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 enquiring 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 Ionians came to the spot, and having supped, as it was summer, bringing their blankets, they lay down to sleep in the 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. For 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 hands of the enemy. On that occasion I entreated the generals to decree the prize, as it was most due, to him. And this, O 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 Potidea the beautiful spectacle exhibited by Socrates on this emergency. How superior was he to Laches in presence of mind and courage! Your representation of him on the stage, O Aristophanes, was not wholly unlike his real self on this occasion, for he walked and darted his regards around with a majestic composure, looking tranquilly both on his friends 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.

be praised in Socrates; but such as these agus angry be attributed to others but that ❤it is unjarajeva i bocrates, 16, that he is at'ke, and abuse cutujarisut, wii al other men, Whether those who have lived in ancient times, or those who exist now. Fern may be our jectured, that Brasidas and many others are such as was Achilles. Pericles deserves evmparison with Nestor and Antenor; and other excellent persons of various times may, with probabuity, 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 resem bled those with whom I lately compared him, for, assuredly, he and his discourses are like noung 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 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 marketasses, 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 presented 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 accomplish ment 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 enough for what

design you

drama But

device succee throw discord Agathin, “be might divide u for I will com Socrates, “ cut Oh, Jupiter endure from ti way; but, at l between us.”have just prais

at my right h you, will he n Now, my dear receive what

great desire to p quick, Alcibiad here, I must ch praise me.”—A.

near Socrates.

He had no so number of reve out had left the on the vacant co of confusion; a one was obliged Eryximachus, an Aristodemus wen he went to sleep soundly-the nig crew in the morn that some were gone home, and Socrates had alo drinking out of a round and round. them. The begin demus said that h was asleep; but i forcing them to co able to compose h that the foundation than convinced, we were essentially the awoke, and then, it Socrates, having p Aristodemus follow Lyceum he washed anywhere else, and a in his accustomed evening.

ON LOVE.

WHAT is love? Ask him who lives, what is life? | nature of man. Not only the portrait of our ask him who adores, what is God?

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 inmost soul to them, I have found
my language misunderstood, 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 with-
drawn. 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 power-
ful 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 com-
munity 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 born 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 corre-
spondence 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 our intellectual nature a
miniature as it were of our entire self, yet de-
prived of all that we condemn or despise, the ideal
prototype of every thing excellent or lovely that
we are capable of conceiving as belonging to the

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 accompani-
ment of one delightful voice, vibrate with the vibra-
tions 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 surrounded by human beings, and yet they
sympathise not with us, we love the 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 incon-
ceivable 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 him-
self, and what yet survives is the mere husk of
what once he was.

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

set, whome pach starlets fees ther called him, with that and historical idens di Bruta

Such was the fr templations, if they

strangers, by addres

of these mighty ru the mockeries of a them."

A figure, only vimble at Home in night or solitade, and them only to be seen amid the desolated temples of the Yorum, or gliding among the weed-, exact, but unidiomati grown galleries of the Coliseum, crossed their path. 'guage :-"Strangers. His form, which, though emaciated, displayed the, in this great city, t 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 enger 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 effeminate sullenness of the eye, and the narrow smoothness of the forehead, shone an expression of profound and piercing thought; the brow was clear and open, and his eyes deep, like two wolls of crystalline water which reflect the all be holding heavens. Over all was spread a timid expression of womanish tenderness and hesitation, which contrasted, yet intermingled strangely, with

"I see nothing," sa "What do you her "I listen to the swe the sound of my daug like the soft murmur warm wind-and this "Wretched old ma are the ruins of the C

"Alas! stranger," mournful music, "spe

The stranger's eye tears, and the lines o relaxed. "Blind !" suffering, which was m seated himself apart of

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

66

"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 their 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 nourished 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 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 joy-inspiring wind with life and light, and casting the veil of its splendour over all 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; such as, were the sea to overflow the 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 with 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 been 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 gentus, that pledge of all that is to be admirable and lovely in ages yet to come. Solemn tem

ples, where the senate of the world assembled, palaces, triumphal arches, and cloud-surrounded columns, loaded with the sculptured annals of conquest and dominationwhat actions and deliberations have they been destined to enclose and commemorate? Superstitious rites, which in their mildest form, outrage reason, and obscure the mora} sense of mankind; schemes for wide-extended murder.