CHAPTER X.

PLATO.

WHILE it was the hot noon of life with Socrates, the pale early dawn was appearing to the awakening eyes of a tiny brown babe, who was destined to paint a portrait of the great hero of Philosophy whose colours would be so vivid that Time itself would be powerless to temper them.

The black-eyed infant sleeping so peacefully on the bosom of Perictione, the wife of Aristocles, son of Aristony, the sister of the aristocrat, Charmides, and the descendant of the great Solon,-was Plato.

What name outside divine literature is better known than his ?

Yet his infant life scarcely foreshadowed his future. Impetuous, passionate, but indolent, the handsome boy with the bold eyes and the broad shoulders was hardly a docile pupil to the masters who were intrusted with his education. Born in May (7th Thargelion), 429 years before Christ, but few years had passed before he was wrestling in the palæstræ, instructed by the first gymnasts, and was attending the best schools and classes.

Here Homer was taught, as were the sacred writings in Christian times. The Greek was not considered an educated man unless he were well acquainted with the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey." The young Aristocles-whose nickname of Plato, which some consider to have been given him at the gymnasium on account of his broad shoulders, and others trace to his breadth of brow, had scarcely been generally

adopted as yet-was impressed by the very poems against which he waged war in later years because of their superstition.

He soon began to write verses himself.

In this endeavour to distinguish himself there is little doubt he was encouraged by parents, masters, and friends. In those days, when the Peloponnesian war was in its early stages, life in Athens was developing to its climax. Before a country wanes, the reader of history will notice that the national character is developed to its extreme. The Athenians added to their sharp intellects a peculiar restlessness which led them to be first eager for novelty, then swift to acknowledge whatever of the admirable the novelty could boast of. Perhaps their concealed fears for their beloved State, menaced and attacked as it constantly was, fostered and increased their passion for excitement, their ardour in following and prostrating themselves before human greatness of every description, in the forlorn hope that here at last was the one to establish them on a firm basis.

However it happened, the young Plato was a poet. Most likely his first efforts were the passionate dithyramb or the fanciful lyric. An epigram attributed to him is gracefully put

"Thou gazest on the stars: ah! would I were the skies,
That I might gaze on thee with all my thousand eyes."

Another, an epitaph on "Stella" (translated by Shelley), runs thus

"Thou wert the morning star among the living
Till thy fair light had fled;

Now, having died, thou art as Hesperus, giving
New splendour to the dead."

When reaching manhood he began dramatic composition, and, as we may well believe, succeeded in his attempts; for Plato's style is essentially dramatic. In a few sentences he can put a scene before the reader, simply,

and without effort. Therefore the reader of his philosophical dialogues must regret that the turning-point of his life involved the destruction of his poetical writings.

One day, when in his twentieth year, Plato was in a state of intense excitement. He seemed to have reached the summit of the hill of life. . . . He could not rest. . . His identity haunted him as a spirit-double; at every turn, at each moment, he seemed confronted by his own image the lofty, well-proportioned figure, clad in the embroidered tunic and pallium worn by such as he, wellto-do aristocrats; the striking face, more of the modern than the ancient Greek type, with the thick hair brushed back from the slightly receding forehead, with the prominent brow, and the fiery eyes, the wide nostrils of the Roman nose, and the full lips, indicating a passionate temperament. . . .

To-morrow was in his mind- -to-morrow, when he would be the observed of all eyes. . . . .To-day his person was only followed by looks of maternal admiration and parental or friendly approval. But to-morrow this tragic play of his, which had been some time in rehearsal, was to be performed, and he would be known and appreciated by all.

How should he spend the eve of the event? Wound up as he was, it would be impossible to settle down to work. There were the ordinary resources of ordinary Athenians of the upper classes. Rising early, he doubtless bathed, and going to his gymnasium, went through a few exercises.

Then he may first have broken his fast with the bread dipped in wine and fruit that was all allowed at the irregular meal corresponding to our breakfast, and not a rule with men unless engaged in hard work, or he have started without food for the morning wandering stroll of the typical Athenian.

may

Into the Agora, where all was active life-the women, in their bright country costumes, chaffering under the

white tent-covers-the men with their musical street cries, for the fine musical ear of the ancient Greek avoided discord-the good-humoured crowd pushing and jostling.

...

Here he naturally breathed more freely, for his senses, wound to the highest pitch by the excitement of expectancy, were attracted by sound and colour, and were therefore no longer concentrated on the one topic of his mind-to-morrow!

Thucydides (by the mouth of Cleon) somewhat irritably accuses his countrymen of "curiously inquiring into anything but the actual circumstances of their lives."

A reproach from which we may gather that the Athenians were "all eyes and ears" for the passing panorama of life, therefore that the market-place was a very magnet to them.

Plato, wandering among the fruit-stalls, and perhaps thinking, not without self-gratulation, that this was probably the last time he would be able to preserve his incognito-for after to-morrow was it not possible that all would point as he passed, whispering, "That's Plato, who wrote the great play"?-was attracted by the sight of a crowd pushing and elbowing. . . . It consisted of men only.

He walked across to see what it was, and looking over the heads of the throng, saw that it was "only" Socrates.

Socrates was a familiar figure in Athens at that time. Plato, with his refined taste, had doubtless, believing in the caricature of Socrates by Aristophanes in his comedy, "The Clouds," pooh-poohed the grotesque philosopher, and carrying his handsome young head high, had walked anywhere except within his range. Plato was not unacquainted with Philosophy. The melancholy which seized him at times—perhaps when, after being led into some error by the rashness of youth, he was dissatisfied with himself-had led him to adhere to much that was inculcated by the austere Heraclitus; and in the closer

and less emotional phases of the subject he had followed Parmenides. But he never ranked Socrates-the carelessly clad ugly old man, who argued with the lowest of the low-with these. He regarded him as a present follower of the High Church might look upon an illiterate Ranter holding forth to a crowd of idlers in the London streets. He was probably about to turn away, annoyed with having been allured into joining the rest of the gapers," when some chance word caught his ear and arrested him-a word that sent, as it were, an arrow to the very core of his mental nature, palpitating, as he was, in the white heat of anticipation.

And he hesitated, and staying to listen, was lost-lost, at least, to the world of Poetry and Romance.

Could this be Socrates? This man with the grotesque and repulsive face, who seemed to leer with inward amusement as with a word he probed the heart of his listeners, with every speech cut away, root and branch, their timid arguments?

With bent head and clenched teeth, Plato must have listened to every word that followed, as a criminal to his death sentence; for we can hardly doubt that the subject selected for dissection that day by Socrates happened to have been one that bore strongly upon Plato's circumstances at the moment, which told home to the foundation of his being a foundation which his after-life proved to be noble and true.

Plato listened-and returned home.

As one in

a dream, he must have taken down from their shelf the rolls of papyrus upon which he had so lovingly inscribed the crooked characters which represented so many happy moments of grateful inspiration.

Then he laid them down . . . then he took them up again and held them over a brazier or the flame of a lamp till they were burnt. . . .

That night tradition tells us that Socrates had a dream. He was seated in one of his favourite haunts-possibly