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                          Transcriber’s Note:

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                       BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY.

                                -------

                          THE WORKS OF PLATO,

                         LITERALLY TRANSLATED.




                                  THE

                            WORKS OF PLATO.

                             --------------


                       A NEW AND LITERAL VERSION,

                  CHIEFLY FROM THE TEXT OF STALLBAUM.

                                VOL. II.

                               CONTAINING

                   THE REPUBLIC, TIMÆUS AND CRITIAS.




                          BY HENRY DAVIS, M.A.
     AUTHOR OF “PROGRESSIVE EXERCISES IN LATIN COMPOSITION FOR THE
                        USE OF KING’S COLLEGE.“

                                LONDON:
               HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
                               MDCCCXLIX.








                               PRINTED BY
             COX (BROTHERS) AND WYMAN, GREAT QUEEN STREET,
                         LINCOLN’S-INN FIELDS.








                               CONTENTS.

                                ———●———


 PREFACE

 GENERAL INTRODUCTION                                          _Page_  i

 THE REPUBLIC (_in Ten Books_)                                         1

 INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS                                          313

 TIMÆUS                                                              319

 INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITIAS                                         411

 CRITIAS                                                             413




                                PREFACE.


The present volume comprises three connected dialogues, written no doubt
towards the close of Plato’s life (about 350 B. C.), subsequently to his
travels in Italy, Sicily, and Egypt, and after his philosophic views had
attained their full maturity and developement. Two of them, indeed,—the
Republic and the Timæus,—are among the most important and most carefully
elaborated in the entire series of the Platonic dialogues;—the former
being the summary of Plato’s whole ethical system, and combining the
results of most of the other dialogues,—the latter comprising the full
and almost sole developement of his speculations on the formation of the
Universe and the organization of Man. The Critias can be considered only
as an historical, or rather, mythical supplement to the Timæus;—and it
appears to have been left unfinished at the author’s death.

The translation has been formed, with some few exceptions, on the text
of Stallbaum, now justly reputed as the most correct in existence;—and
great pains have been taken throughout, not only to make it a literally
correct exponent of the original, but also to transfuse into it that
easy flow of language which constitutes the peculiar charm of Plato’s
writing. In both these respects, therefore, it will be found strikingly
to differ from the uncouth, obscure, un-English, and often extremely
erroneous version of Taylor,—the only English dress in which this great
philosopher has till now appeared. Abundant use has been made of the
Latin interpretations dispersed through Stallbaum’s notes;—and the
translator has not scrupled to avail himself of the valuable aid
derivable from the French versions of Leroy, Cousin, and Martin, and the
German versions of Schleiermacher and Schneider, the latter of which,
only recently published, deserves the highest praise for its extreme
correctness and perspicuity.

Notes have been added, where the meaning seemed to require explanation
or illustration, as well as to indicate any variation in the text;—and
when any of the other dialogues have been referred to, the quotation
is given from Serranus’s edition, printed by Henry Stephens, 1578, in
three volumes folio,—the last of which comprises the dialogues here
translated. Separate introductions preface each dialogue;—and the
volume opens with a brief account of the Platonic philosophy
generally,—carefully compiled from the writings of Ritter, Van Heusde,
Trendelenburg, and Bishop Hampden. On the whole, therefore, it is
hoped that this volume will be found acceptable, not only to the
classical student, but also to the general reader, as a correct and
pleasing exposition of pure Platonism.




                         GENERAL INTRODUCTION.


                        -----------------------


                                PART I.

                 ON THE PLATONIC PHILOSOPHY GENERALLY.

                                -------

Almost contemporaneously among the learned of Europe, there has arisen a
tendency to study the sublime, spiritual philosophy of Plato, in
preference to the cold materialism of Aristotle, on which have been
erected so many of the systems that have risen and had their day in our
literary world. That this has not hitherto been the case, and that
Platonism (which, in its spiritualising and purifying tendency, may be
deemed to approach Christianity,) has not hitherto been exalted to its
true dignity and station in metaphysical history, is chiefly
attributable to the absurd mysticism and fanatical extravagances which
the New Platonists introduced in their interpretations, and which have
too frequently been regarded as true expositions of the great
philosopher, by modern writers either too lazy or too ignorant to go and
drink the clear waters at the fountain-head. Plato himself wrote
wonderfully little that cannot be comprehended by a reflective mind;—and
the more his works are studied in themselves, and apart from false
interpretation, the more will his acute intelligence, practical good
sense, and pure morality, become apparent, and the higher will he rise
in the respect and admiration of the Christian philosopher.

Our present object is, to give a concise view of the philosophic
doctrines of Plato, as a sort of general key to his Dialogues viewed as
a whole;—and we propose to give, by way of introduction, a short account
of the life of this man of mighty mind, this “Maximus philosophorum,” of
whom Eusebius so beautifully observes, that “he alone, of all the
Greeks, reached to the vestibule of truth, and stood upon its
threshold.”

The true moral history of Plato is to be discovered wholly in his
writings. As for the details of his external life, the records of
antiquity furnish information so varying, contradictory, and uncertain,
as to render it difficult to distinguish the true from the false—the
authentic from the fabulous. The following statement, however, may be
relied on, as generally correct.

Plato, the son of Ariston and Perictione or Potona, was born (probably
in the island of Ægina, then occupied by Athenians) in the month
Thargelion (May), _anno_ 429 A. C., in the third year of the
eighty-seventh Olympiad, about the time of Pericles’s death. By his
mother’s side he was descended from Codrus and Solon;—and he was
connected with the most distinguished families and most renowned
political men of his day. His youth falls in the time of the
Peloponnesian war; and his whole life is closely connected with that
brilliant period when the literature of Attica, historical, dramatic,
and rhetorical, was at the zenith of its glory,—at a time, however, (we
must add,) when the seeds of Athenian decay were being rapidly brought
to maturity by the substitution of a base and brutalizing ochlocracy for
the rational government of good and patriotic men,—and by the elevation
of a troop of superficial, seductive, truth-perverting, applause-loving
sophists to the throne of true, noble, elevating, divine philosophy. He
received the best education that Athens could furnish; being taught
reading, writing, and literary knowledge (γράμματα), by Dionysius,
gymnastics by Ariston an Argive wrestler, music by Metellus of
Agrigentum and Draco of Athens, and the elements of the Heracleitean
philosophy by Cratylus and Hermogenes. He had but little inclination for
political life; for, besides being unfitted for it by a retiring habit
and weak voice, he was utterly disgusted by the endless changes that
occurred in the governments of Greece, by the corruptions of the
Athenian democracy, and by the depravity of Athenian manners. His
studies were happily promoted by an early cultivation of poetry, in
which many of his essays were far from unsuccessful; and his works
betray a very considerable acquaintance with mathematical science. It
was by Socrates, however, that his mind was imbued with that true
philosophic spirit, which gave a right direction and exalted object to
all his after-pursuits. His intercourse with this pure, simple-minded
moralist began, when he was twenty years old (B. C. 410), and lasted
nearly eleven years; during which time he carried on his studies and
inquiries by means of books or oral instruction from others, but in all
cases consulting his favourite master, as the interpreter, commentator,
and critic of the various philosophical studies in which he was engaged.
This, indeed, is the view which Plato has given us of Socrates
throughout the Dialogues;—for the latter seldom or never appears in them
as a didactic expounder of truth, but rather as the critic of opinions,
doctrines, and systems,—the judge, in short, to whom everything is to be
submitted for approval, or rejection, or modification, as the case may
be.

After the persecution and death of his divine master (so beautifully and
pathetically related in the Phædo), Plato went to Megara, where he is
said to have attended the Lectures of Euclid; and he then spent several
years in travel, far distant from the past and the future scene of his
philosophical labours:—nor can there be any question, but that they were
years of great importance to him for developing the peculiar character
of his philosophy. He visited Megara, Cyrene, the Greek cities in Magna
Græcia and Sicily, (where he became acquainted with Archytas, Philolaus,
and others of the Pythagorean school;) and he travelled even as far as
Egypt, where he stayed thirteen years in gaining an insight into the
mysterious doctrines and priest-lore of the sacerdotal caste. At three
different periods he visited the court of Dionysius, tyrant of Sicily,
and made several attempts to subdue his haughty spirit. It was during
the first of these residences (B. C. 389), that he was employed in the
instruction of Dion, the king’s brother-in-law; and in his efforts to
rescue his pupil from the general depravity of the court, he was not
disappointed. Dion, inspired with the love of wisdom, was desirous of
introducing his preceptor to Dionysius the tyrant; but Plato’s discourse
with him being levelled against the vices and cruelties of his reign,
the tyrant conceived a violent prejudice against him and formed a design
against his life, which, by the aid of Dion, Plato happily managed to
escape. His captivity in Ægina, which was brought about by the agents of
Dionysius the elder, happily ended in his manumission, through the
kindness of his friend Anicerris; and he then returned to Athens, there
to found his celebrated School in the Academy. Here he lectured during
twenty-two years, and then undertook a second journey to Syracuse at the
instigation of Dion, who hoped, by the philosophical lessons of Plato,
to inform and improve the ill-educated mind of his nephew, the new ruler
of Syracuse—Dionysius the younger. This prince, it is said, had been
brought up by his father wholly destitute of an enlightened education;
and Plato now attempted the improvement of his mind by philosophy. This
second journey is placed B. C. 367; and he stayed four months in Sicily.
It seems to have been a part also of the plan laid down by Dion and
himself, to bring about a wholesome reform in the Sicilian constitution,
and to give it a more aristocratic character. Whatever may have been
their intentions, however, they were all frustrated by the weak and
luxurious character of Dionysius, who, however he might relish for a
time the sage and virtuous lessons of Plato, soon found it more
conformable to his personal interests to follow the counsels of
Philiston, his father’s friend and adviser. Dion thereupon became the
object of his nephew’s jealousy, and was banished on the ground of his
ambitious designs. In this juncture, Plato did not long stay in
Syracuse, where his position would have been, at best, only ambiguous.
He returned once more to Athens; but in consequence of some fresh
disagreements between Dionysius and Dion with respect to the property of
the latter, he was induced (B. C. 361) to take a third journey to
Syracuse. So far, however, from effecting the expected reconciliation,
he came himself to an open rupture with the tyrant, and was in great
personal danger, till relieved by his philosophic friends at Tarentum.
From this time he appears to have passed his old age in tranquillity,
engaged with the instruction of his numerous disciples and the
prosecution of his literary labours. He died, while yet actively
employed in teaching, _Olymp._ 108, _circ. anno_ 348 B. C.

He was succeeded as Lecturer in the Academy, by his nephew Speusippus;
and among his principal followers may be mentioned, Hippothales and
Callippus of Athens, Xenocrates of Chalcedon, Aristotle of Stageira,
Dion of Syracuse, Demosthenes the orator, and the philosopher
Theophrastus.

The works of Plato, it scarcely need be mentioned, consist of a long
series of Dialogues, in all of which, except the Laws, the principal
interlocutor is Socrates. The form of dialogue he was certainly not the
first to introduce into philosophy; and it seems probable, that his
adoption of this form of composition flowed rather out of the subject
than from any desire of direct imitation. The Eleatic dialectics, with
which Platonism is strongly imbued, could only be explained in the form
of question and answer; and besides, that Plato should write in the form
of dialogue seems to be the natural consequence of his wish to
investigate and analyse dialectically, and after the manner of Socrates,
the various questions of philosophy then in vogue. And so Schleiermacher
remarks:—“In every way, not accidentally only or from practice and
tradition, but necessarily and naturally, Plato’s was a Socratic method,
and, indeed, as regards the uninterrupted and progressive reciprocation,
and the deeper impression made upon the mind of the hearer, to be
certainly as much preferred to that of his master, as the scholar
excelled him, as well in constructive dialectics as in richness and
compass of subjective intuition,” And further,—“if we look only to the
immediate purpose, that writing, as regarded by himself and his
followers, was only to be a remembrance of thoughts already current
among them (ἄγραφα γράμματα)—Plato considers all thought so much like
spontaneous activity, that, with him, a remembrance of this kind of what
has been already acquired, must necessarily be so of the first and
original mode of acquisition. Hence, on that account alone, the
dialogistic form, necessary as an imitation of that original and
reciprocal communication, would be as indispensable and natural to his
writings as to his oral instruction.” But, however essentially different
the _form_ of the dialogues adopted by Plato from that pursued by other
writers, they were composed, as respects their matter, with constant
reference to the labours of his predecessors. In fact, his whole system
is rather critical and eclectic than dogmatical; and several of his
dialogues assume the form of criticisms on the notions of former
philosophers, rather than the formal developments of any doctrines of
his own. He was thoroughly conversant not only with the leading
principles and peculiar system of Socrates, but had no mean
acquaintance, besides, with the notions of Pythagoras, Heracleitus,
Parmenides, Empedocles, Zeno, Anaxagoras, and Protagoras,—extracts from
whose writings, with animadversions on their opinions, are abundantly
scattered throughout his works. Yet, however much Plato may have learnt
from the philosophic works of his predecessors, while he borrowed some
of his leading ideas from his great master Socrates, we should
nevertheless be treating him most unjustly, were we to regard him merely
as a compiler and systematiser of what had been before promulgated, and
so deny him all claim to the merit of being a great original thinker.
His entire system is based, in fact, on some grand and novel ideas,
perhaps faintly shadowed forth by others, but never clearly unfolded
till the time of Plato. The opposition between the general law and the
particular facts, between the objects of reflection and the objects of
the senses, between the world of intelligence and the visible world, was
never clearly proclaimed till Plato announced it. Socrates, indeed,
awakened the germ of science, and laid the foundation of dialectics; but
it was Plato who gave system and consistency to the whole. Socrates had
not the mental capacity or education to arrange his thoughts on any
definite plan;—whereas the kindred genius of Plato was happily fostered
by every encouraging influence, and he stepped in to elaborate
completely the plan of which his master had merely sketched the first
rude outline.

We proceed next to consider the chronological arrangement of the
Platonic Dialogues, and the natural division according to which they
should be classified.[1] The most obvious arrangement is according to
their chronological order;—and viewing them in this light, we may divide
them into three classes. In the _first_ are those written by Plato
before he set out on his travels,—namely, the Lysis, Phædrus, Laches,
Hippias major, Protagoras, Charmides, Ion, Menon, Alcibiades i.,
Euthydemus, Euthyphron, Crito, and the Apology of Socrates;—in the
_second_ are those which he drew up on his return from his travels, and
before his second journey to Sicily,—namely, the Gorgias, Theætetus,
Sophistes, Politicus, Cratylus, Parmenides, the Symposium, Menexenus,
Philebus, and Phædo; and in the _third_ we place those written in more
advanced life, when his views had become matured, and his doctrines
thoroughly digested into one harmonious system,—namely, that noble
trilogy comprising the Timæus, Critias, and Republic,—to which may be
added the long dialogue of the Laws, which, though perfectly genuine, is
but loosely connected with the general system of Plato’s philosophy, and
seems to be quite an extraneous section of this part of his writings.
Schleiermacher, however, has presented us with a classification of a
different kind, based on their subject-matter, and on an acute and
careful examination of the connexion of thought running through the
Dialogues. He arranges them under three heads:—1. _Elementary
Dialogues_, containing the germs of all that follows,—of Logic as the
instrument of philosophy, and of Ideas as its proper object,—viz., the
Phædrus, Protagoras, and Parmenides, the Lysis, Laches, Charmides, and
Euthyphron, to which he appends also, the Apology, Crito, Io, and
Hippias minor;—2. _Progressive Dialogues_, which treat of the
distinction between scientific and common knowledge in their united
application to Moral and Physical science,—viz., the Gorgias, Theætetus,
Menon, Euthydemus, Cratylus, Sophistes, Politicus, the Symposium, Phædo,
and Philebus, with an Appendix containing the Erast, first Alcibiades,
Menexenus, and Hippias major;—3. _Constructive Dialogues_, containing an
objective scientific exposition, in which the practical and speculative
are completely united,—viz., the Timæus, the Critias, and the Republic,
with an Appendix comprising the Laws, Epistles, &c. It is clear also
that the Dialogues will allow of yet another mode of arrangement,
according to their contents,—as being either Dialectical, Ethical, or
Physical:—this division, indeed, is clearly discernible in his works,
though several may not be assignable to any one part in
particular:—thus, the Theætetus and its two connected dialogues,—the
Gorgias and Protagoras, with the Cratylus and the Sophistes, are clearly
dialectical; the Phædrus, Philebus, Republic, and Laws are ethical, and
the Timæus is exclusively physical. If, however, we would view the
Dialogues as a whole, with all its parts fully harmonising, we should
inquire what was the philosopher’s great object visible throughout those
writings. Mr. Sewell answers this very satisfactorily;—we shall give his
own expressive, glowing words:—“Plato’s great object was man. He lived
with man, felt as a man, held intercourse with kings, interested himself
deeply in the political revolutions of Sicily, was the pupil of one,
whose boast it was to have brought down philosophy from heaven to earth,
that it might raise man up from earth to heaven; and, above all, he was
a witness and an actor in the midst of that ferment of humanity
exhibited in the democracy of Athens. The object constantly before the
eyes of Plato was the incorporated spirit, the μέγα θρέμμα of human
lawlessness; he saw it, indeed, in an exhausted state, its power passed
away, its splendour torn off, and all the sores and ulcers which former
demagogues had pampered and concealed, now laid bare and beyond cure.”
Indeed, as the same writer well observes;—“the state of the Athenian
democracy is the real clue to the philosophy of Plato. It would be
proved, if by nothing else, by one little touch in the Republic. _The
Republic is the summary of his whole system, and the key-stones of all
the other Dialogues are uniformly let into it._ But the object of the
Republic is to exhibit the misery of man let loose from law, and to
throw out a general plan for making him subject to law, and thus to
perfect his nature. This is exhibited on a large scale in the person of
a State; and in the masterly historical sketch which, in the eighth and
ninth Books, he draws of the changes of society, having painted in the
minutest detail the form of a licentious democracy, he fixes it by the
slightest allusion (it was perhaps all that he could hazard) on the
existing state of Athens; and then passes on to a frightful prophecy of
that tyranny which would inevitably follow. All the other dialogues
bring us to the Republic, and the Republic brings us to this as its end
and aim.”

-----

Footnote 1:

  We have particularised here only those Dialogues which are usually
  regarded as genuine. The Hipparchus, Minos, Alcibiades ii, Clitophon,
  Theages, Eryxias, Demodocus, Epinomis, and the Letters, are of
  disputable origin, and to be assigned, probably, to some of Plato’s
  followers.

-----

We may now proceed to take a general review of the Platonic philosophy,
and his theory of Ideas in particular, an intelligent acquaintance with
which is wholly indispensable to the student of Plato.

The Platonic philosophy, be it understood, begins and ends, as do the
lessons of Socrates, with an acknowledgment of human ignorance,—the
only true starting-place of sound scientific investigation. Imitating
his master’s example, Plato did not so much endeavour to _teach_, in
the strict sense of the word, as to explore men’s minds, and ascertain
how far they really comprehended the doctrines and opinions which they
professed. Taking for granted that all current opinions are true,
_because_ they are current, was the great fault of the Sophists, who
taught entirely πρὸς δόξαν, relative to opinion;—whereas, with
Socrates and Plato, the preliminary investigation respecting their
truth or falsehood was ALL IN ALL,—any prior assumption of their truth
being positively inadmissible; because, without investigation, it was
impossible to _know_ and be sure of the truth of opinions. The method
of Plato, accordingly, is the reverse of the didactic method employed
by the Sophists, who assumed principles as true, and on these grounds
proceeded to argue and persuade. The Socratic method, on the other
hand, consisted in putting questions with the view of eliciting
replies bearing-on the point in debate,—in simply inquiring and
_pronouncing_ so far only as the answer is approved or rejected,—in a
word, educing the truth by simply bringing the answerer to teach
himself:—and hence it was, that the popular opponents of this method
decried it, as one producing doubt, and therefore of dangerous
tendency. With Plato, however, as with Socrates, the awakening of
doubt was not merely a vain display of logical skill and clever
cavilling, but had for its object the removal of the unstable ground
on which opinions may have been rested, and the formation of more
settled convictions:—indeed, it was exalted by him into a regular
discipline of the mind set in operation for the single purpose of
investigating the truth. The method and discipline by which he
accomplishes this object is, what he calls DIALECTIC, which, as
opposed to the plans of the Sophists, may be termed the true art of
Discussion; and, as contrasted with the mere wisdom of opinion, (the
δοξοσοφία of the Sophists,) it was philosophy—real science—the
knowledge of the truth. The ground of his whole proceeding was the
Fallaciousness of Opinion; and hence Plato had to seek some _criterion
of Truth_, apart from mere opinion. Denying the sufficiency of
_subjective_ truth (_i. e._ the assumption that the mental perceptions
are true simply because they take place), he set himself to search
after _objective_ truth—truth independent of the mind of man and not
affected by the variations of human judgment—as a foundation of his
system of knowledge. Involved with the notion of the Fallaciousness of
Opinion, another is closely allied,—_the Fallaciousness of the
Senses_; and it is the joint application of these two fundamental
principles, which unites his method and his philosophy in one
master-science,—Dialectic. True knowledge, unlike that derived through
the senses, is founded purely on the apprehensions of the intellect,
without any intervention whatever of the senses;—and so also
Dialectic, as being philosophy, is occupied about that which exists
(τὸ ὄντως ὄν), or has Being, in opposition to the presentations made
to the senses, which are conversant only with those things that have
the semblance of being (τὰ φαινομένα);—while, as a method, it
investigates the reason or account of the Being of everything,—of
everything as it IS, and not as it APPEARS, not being satisfied with
opinions, of which no account can be given, but bringing all to the
test of exact argument and definition. Plato thought it his first
business, therefore, to give his method a firm basis by establishing
at the outset a sound Theory of Being, as a sure Criterion of
Truth;—and this is his celebrated Theory of IDEAS.

Plato conceived, that Opinion, in contradistinction from Knowledge,
is grounded _on sensation and becoming_ (τὸ γιγνόμενον). To man,
indeed, such sensation is absolutely necessary; because the soul
resides in the body, which is itself a compound thing, subject to
continual decay and reproduction,—the connexion between the two
consisting in the reciprocal communication either of action or
passion by means of their respective faculties. Hence sensation is
clearly regarded as an effect produced by the union of the soul with
the body; and Plato did not fail to observe that although sensation,
strictly speaking, has cognisance only of corporeal qualities, there
are certain internal states of the soul which have no immediate
reference to the corporeal. The soul, in short, receives sensations
through the sensuous mechanism; but it has moreover, (in addition to
the power which it exercises through the instrumentality of the
bodily organs,) a distinct faculty of investigating by itself the
abstract properties of all sensations; “appearing,” as it is said in
the Theætetus (p. 185. b.) “to have the power of inspecting the
common properties of all things.” In accordance with this view,
Plato distinguishes what is apprehended by the senses (τὸ αἰσθητόν)
from that of which we become cognisant by means of reflection
(διάνοια) through the understanding or rational contemplation
(λογισμός or νόησις);—the former being in a continual state of
transition or becoming (τὰ γιγνόμενα), whereas the latter (τὰ ὄντα)
are constant and permanent, unproduced, imperishable, and ever
identical with themselves, belonging to οὐσία and capable of
becoming the objects of science or certain knowledge. Such are the
notions of genus and species, the laws and ends of nature, as also
the principles of cognition and moral action, and the essences of
individual, concrete, thinking souls;—respecting all of which may be
predicted an εἶδος, which closely corresponds with what we now
designate—_a general term_. (Comp. Republ. vii. p. 532, a., with
Phileb. p. 15. a., and Tim. p. 51. c.) It is in this sense, then,
that he says of science in general (which seeks in the ideas to
seize the essence of things), that its object is to exhibit
everything as it is, by itself, absolutely, (τὸ αὐτὸ καθ’ αὑτὸ, or
τὸ αὑτὸ ἕκαστον, as in Republ. vi. p. 494. a.) and that the ideas
themselves invariably maintain their proper nature, character, and
identity. All things else, therefore, besides ideas, have only so
far a reality, as they participate therein;—all being formed out of
ideas and numbers,[2]—sensible things merely resembling ideas and
being, as copies do originals,—just as Plato himself observes in the
tenth Book of the Republic,—speaking of a couch, οὐ τὸ ὃν, ἀλλά τι
τοιοῦτον οἷον τὸ ὂν. Inquiry, however, must necessarily lead men
from one idea to others in connexion therewith; and on this account
Plato regarded individual ideas as hypothetical notions, for which a
true foundation can only be given by an idea not requiring
explanation and confirmed also by some higher supposition or idea.
He wished, indeed, through the realisation of the lower ideas to
rise to a knowledge of the highest, which represents the principle
of all things,—in short, the idea of God,—God, the measure of all
things (not man, as Protagoras held),—God, the beginning, the
middle, and the end of all,—the Supreme Idea, containing in itself
all others, and the unity which in itself comprises the true essence
of all things.

-----

Footnote 2:

  Θεὸς οὕτω δὴ τότε πεφυκότα ταῦτα πρῶτον διεσχηματίσατο εἴδεσί τε καὶ
  ἀριθμοῖς. “God thus truly formed these things as they first arose
  according to ideas and numbers.”—Tim. p. 53. b.

-----

In conclusion, as Ritter succinctly and well observes, “Plato attempted
to account for the existence of the sensible world, by the ideas alone,
without recourse to any other nature, alien and foreign to them; and in
this attempt to make the transition from the ideal to the sensible,
there is much that is vague and indeterminate.” The source of this
vagueness lies principally in the insufficiency of the distinction which
he makes between different ideas, as indicating either a substantial and
absolute entity, or a mere relation or property. To this must be added
the vague and indeterminate sense of the Platonic idea of the essence
which is exhibited by the ideas severally. In this respect Aristotle
does not seem to be to blame, when he asks how ideas or lifeless numbers
can possibly have a desire, or longing, notwithstanding that we are
constrained to admit that, according to Plato, some ideas, at least,
that of the soul for instance,—must be supposed to be endued with life.
Again, the distinction which is made between ideas in their unity and
totality, and ideas in their opposition to each other, is extremely
vague; although it is the basis on which the whole theory rests. If
moreover, we admit that, according to man’s true and real nature, the
world of ideas is his proper home, and that he there contemplates the
true essence of things, as is implied in the doctrine of reminiscence,
it becomes difficult to account for his removal from so perfect a state
of being, into the present imperfect existence. Finally, Plato was
forced to have recourse to the notion, that there is an impelling
necessity in the secondary causes, the ground of which was the
supposition, that there must be a something opposite to good. In this
there is undoubtedly contained a very ancient cast of thought, still the
very indefinite nature of this necessity shows that, after all his
attempts to reconcile the supra-sensible with the sensible, Plato still
found in it something inexplicable. Thus much at least is certain, that
on the one hand, the tendency of his views was to refer all real entity
to the immutable ideas, and consequently to consider the sensible more
as an unsubstantial shadow than a reality; while, on the other, he seems
never to have forgotten that the only point of view from which
philosophical speculation is possible, lies on the sensible, and so
again the reality of the sensible appears to be a necessary supposition
of his system. In these two tendencies, we may recognise the
well-balanced and measured character of his mind. To discover their true
connection however, was granted neither to Plato nor his age; nor can we
wonder, then, that he should have had recourse to many vague and loose
conceptions in order to explain it, none of which, however, eventually
satisfied his own mind.

The dialectic of Plato, however great its defects may be estimated,
presents, nevertheless, a worthy image of the pure philosophical
feeling. This Plato assumed to be grounded in love and in a longing
after the eternal ideas, by the contemplation of which the mortal soul
sustains itself, and by perpetual renovation becomes participant in
immortality. Stimulated by such a desire, the philosophical mind or soul
strives to attain, as far as possible, to a perfect remembrance of ideas
which are the eternal essence of things, the memory of them being
awakened by sensible phenomena, which are resemblances of the ideas and
real entity, and thereby serve as means by which the cognition of real
being becomes attainable. But while the sensible, by bringing to mind
this resemblance to real entity, is subservient to the efforts of the
reasonable soul, it also impedes and limits it in its pursuits of the
true, since the sensuous representations contain as much of
irresemblance as of resemblance. But the greatest impediment to
philosophical investigation arises from the constant flux of sensation
which allows it no stability. Flowing on in a continual series of
production and decay, sensible things are constantly changing their
state and never exhibit the full perfection of the subsistent. They
comprise at once entity and non-entity, and it is not the true standard
and the all-sufficient which they represent, but only the relative,
which constantly varies by greater or less from the measure of the true
and substantive entity. It was to this that Plato looked when he thought
he had discovered in the ideas of the other and the relatively great and
little, the grounds of the sensible matter of mutability. But contingent
being is only for the absolute, a mean merely by which the resemblance
to ideas is manifested in sensible things; and, viewed in this light,
ideas must appear as the ends of sensible existence, and as the standard
by which the true therein is to be measured. A multiplicity of ends
having been admitted, it followed that there must also be a last end,—an
ultimatum in the realm of ideas,—therefore a _supreme idea_. This result
follows from the consideration of the mutual relation of ideas, for one
idea must be explained by another, and thus we proceed through a series
of subordinate ideas up to higher and higher, in order to reduce them by
a legitimate synthesis into unity, until at last we arrive at the
highest idea, and then again, by a converse method, to descend by
analysis from the supreme unity to the multiplicity of subordinate
ideas. In this higher and lower ordination, each subordinate idea
requires merely as a supposition until it is shown by the latter to be
legitimate. But from such hypotheses or suppositions the mind must at
last arrive at that which implies nothing else, and is in itself
sufficient; of this kind is the nature of good, which, exhausting all
true entity, is itself in want of nothing, but is desired by all. This
idea of good, or God, is consequently the key-stone of all rational
investigation. It embraces whatever subsists without difference, in time
or space,—all truth and science, all substances and all reason, being
neither reason nor essence, but being superior to, unites both within
itself. It is the source of motion to all, for all has a desire towards
it, and consequently it is the mistress of all generation, in which
nought is true beyond its resemblance of the good. However, from some
impelling necessity, evil, the opposite of good, is in generation mixed
up with it. Man, therefore, as living in this scene of production and
decay, cannot attain to a complete knowledge of the unity of good; for
to him truth, and the science of truth, appear in opposition to each
other, and it is not permitted to mortal nature to contemplate the
eternal, in its absolute essence, but merely as shadowed forth in the
temporal. God, then, is the good itself, of which this sensible world is
only an image. But in the present world it ought to be man’s endeavour
to enlarge and cultivate his science, in order that, by attaining to as
pure a knowledge as possible of the multiplicity of ideas, he may be
able to discern therein, however imperfectly, the unity of truth and
science which subsists in the good.


                                PART II.

                                -------

                 PLATO’S VIEWS ON ETHICS AND POLITICS.
                GENERAL SKETCH OF THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF
                             THE REPUBLIC.

The notions entertained by Plato on Political Science will be best
understood by viewing them in connexion with his ethical doctrines, from
which, indeed, he considered them inseparable. The two leading
principles on which his moral system reposes, are—first, that no one is
willingly evil (κακὸς μὲν ἑκὼν οὐδεὶς), and, secondly, that _every one
is endued with the power of producing moral changes in his own moral
character_,—which, indeed, are only the counterpart ethical _changes in
his moral character_;—and these are only the corresponding ethical
expressions of the theory of _Immutable Being_, on the one hand, and, on
the other, of _the world of sensible things_ (τὰ γιγνόμενα),—everything
that is born and perishes,—a principle which places in the strongest
possible contrast the mutability and false appearances of this world
with the true and immutable of the Deity, whom Plato conceived to be not
only the measure of all things and the pattern of his own perfections,
having the supreme good for the object of all his operations, but
likewise as the only real Idea of Good, in comparison with which the
best strivings and conceptions of man are but tendencies and
approximations. So truly is it said in the Phædo, that “all things
desire to be of the same quality as the _summum bonum_, but yet are ever
inferior to it.” Philosophy and morals, in fact, perfectly coincide in
their object,—the love of truth being the love of good, and the love of
good the love of truth;—and morality, viewed _per se_, is the one motive
of the love of truth and good predominating over, purifying, and
absorbing into itself every desire of human nature,—is, in fact, the
purifying of the soul, the perfecting of virtue, the discipline of
immortality, the resemblance and participation of the Deity.[3]

-----

Footnote 3:

  “As the rational soul can only involuntarily be subject to ignorance,
  _it is only against its will that it can be evil_. Every volition, by
  its essential nature, pursues the good; no one is willing to be
  subject to evil or to become bad, inasmuch as the end of volition is
  not the immediate act, but the object for the sake of which the act is
  undertaken; and no man enters on any act or undertaking, except for
  the sake of ultimate good. Now a man, when engaging in any act
  apparently good, may err, and choose the evil instead of the good; but
  in that case he labours under _an involuntary error_, and does not
  what he really desires, but what, in spite of his wishes, seems to him
  either as an immediate good or a mean to ultimate good.”—Ritter’s
  History of Philos. (Morrison’s Tr.) ii. 387.

-----

Of Plato’s moral doctrines, the most important are the following:—that,
independently of other ends, virtue is to be pursued as the true good of
the soul,[4] the proper perfection of man’s nature, the power by which
the soul fitly accomplishes its existence,[5] whereas vice is a disease
of the mind (Republ. iv. 444. c.), arising from delusion or imperfect
apprehension of our proper interests;—that the real freedom of a
rational being consists in an ability to regulate his conduct by reason,
and that every one not guided by his reason, encourages insubordination
in the mental faculties, and becomes the slave of caprice or passion;
(πολλῆς μὲν δουλείας τε ϗ̀ ἀνελευθερίας γέμει ἡ ψυχὴ αὐτοῦ. Republ. ix.
577. d.)—that virtuous conduct, apart from its benefits to society, is
advantageous to the individual practising it, inasmuch as it ensures
that regularity of the imagination,—that tranquillity and internal
harmony, which constitutes the mind’s proper happiness.[6] He,
throughout, and with great power, contends for the earnestness of a
virtuous mind in the attainment of truth, and inculcates the propriety
of pursuing the ordinary pleasures of life,[7] only so far as they are
subservient to, or compatible with, man’s higher and nobler duties. In
the fourth Book of the Laws, there is a pretty complete summary of the
salient features in Plato’s theory of morals,—a condensed view of which
will be found in the article “Plato” of the Encyclopædia
Metropolitana:—the remarks with which it closes—on the coincidence of
the precepts of morality with the conclusions of prudence and
enlightened self-love,—are both happily conceived and well expressed.

-----

Footnote 4:

  Gorg. p. 506. e.

Footnote 5:

  Republ. i. p. 353. d.

Footnote 6:

  Republ. ix. p. 591. d.

Footnote 7:

  Democritus, Aristippus, and the Sophists had taught that _good
  consists in pleasure_;—and Plato, in his refutation of this vicious
  doctrine, does not deny that pleasure belongs to the good things of
  life, but only seeks to determine its relative value. Pleasures, too,
  are of two kinds,—some simple and pure, dependant on the bodily or
  intellectual organisation,—others mixed or impure, as being always
  combined with more or less of pain. The latter are only relatively
  pleasures, inasmuch as they are incapable of affording pleasure except
  by the gratification of some want; whereas true enjoyment consists in
  those pure delights which do not arise after pain, but which the soul
  experiences, when filled with the contemplation of true being.
  (Republ. ix. p. 585. d.)—Ritter’s History of Philos. ii. p. 390.

-----

Plato conceived that there were two great causes of human corruption,
viz., _bad or ill-directed education_, and _the corrupt influence of the
body on the soul_. His ethical discussions, therefore, have for their
object, the limiting of the desires, and the cure of the diseases
produced by them in the soul; while his political discussions have for
their immediate object, the laying down of right principles of
education, and enforcing them by the constitution of the laws and the
power of the State. His two great works, in fact,—the Republic and the
Laws,—may be considered as theories and plans of civic education, rather
than schemes of legislation and details of laws. The former, it is true,
inquires more particularly into the principles on which a right
government may be formed, and the latter presents a systematic view of
the principles of legislation:—but, comprising, as both works do, so
much matter of a purely intellectual and ethical character, we are
compelled to conclude that their primary object is, the improvement of
human nature by social institutions expressly formed for that purpose.
We are not to suppose, moreover, that Plato, in his Republic, had in
view the actual foundation of a State, but that he presents rather an
example of the most perfect life—public as well as private—free from
those impediments which all existing governments and laws throw across
the path of the virtuous. Thus, in the Laws (_lib._ vii.), he says—“Our
whole government consists in the imitation of a most excellent and
virtuous life;” and again, “these excellent things are rather as wishes
stated in a fable than actual facts, though it would be best of all if
they could exist in all States.” He thought, in fact, that as Philosophy
is the guide of private life, elevating it to the knowledge of the true
and the good, so it was seated, likewise, on the throne of government,
and exhibited the eternal ideas of social good and truth,—modifying
society after their pattern;—and hence is it, that (as Aristotle
observes in the second Book of his Politics, ch. 2,) Plato overlooks
impossibilities in his arrangements, and sacrifices all to the one great
object of sketching _the idea of good as a social principle_, apart from
the evil influences of society.

We shall now proceed to describe at some length the subject-matter of
the Republic; and we shall just remark, that if the work itself had been
more studied, there would have been far less difference of opinion
respecting the nature and object of this Dialogue. In fact, no
exposition or theory can explain Plato, who is, above all others, a
writer to be studied in his own works; and his character as a writer and
philosopher would have been far higher in general estimation at the
present day, if there had been fewer to pronounce sentence on him
without having read a single syllable of his writings.

The Republic of Plato is _a development of the analogy between the ideas
of the perfect man and the perfect State_,—the two principles being
elaborated throughout the Dialogue, in perfect harmony and mutual
dependance on each other. He exhibits, indeed, the image of perfect and
consummate virtue, such as ought to be seen in the whole life of man,
whether in his private capacity simply, as a sentient and moral agent,
or in his public position as the member of a State. As man, moreover,
has certain special social relations and social functions, he considers
him also collectively, as part of a State, and is hence led to inquire
into the best or pattern form of a State,—a proceeding quite in unison
with the custom of the Greeks, who treated Politics rather as a branch
of Ethics than a separate science. This Dialogue, therefore,—one of that
splendid group of which the Timæus, the Critias, and the Laws are the
other members,—comprises two subjects constantly connected and
cohering,—the contemplation of the perfectly good man, composed of body
and soul on the one hand, and on the other the perfectly good State,
composed of many members in different classes, performing their
respective functions. Justice, then,—the principle, cause, and uniting
bond of all the other virtues,—one, too, that is essentially of a
political character—forms a very suitable discussion by way of
introduction to this Dialogue. The refutation of incorrect or inadequate
definitions of this virtue, occupies a large portion of the first
Book;—and Socrates (the hero of this, as of most other of the Platonic
Dialogues), then proceeds, with the view of educing some abstract
definition of justice, to explain his notion of a perfect State, as one
in which all ranks of its members accurately fulfil their respective
functions, dwelling together in harmony.

Commencing with the consideration of Virtue, (which consists in the
harmonious cultivation of the different intellectual and moral
faculties,) he opens the inquiry with a kind of analysis of the human
mind, which he divides into three parts,—first, _the rational or
reasoning principle_, (τὸ λογιστικὸν),—secondly, _the spirit or will_,
(τὸ θυμικὸν or θυμοειδὲς),—and thirdly, _the appetite or passion_ (τὸ
ἐπιθυμητικὸν),[8]—which last, however, indicates nothing beyond that
vital impulse which leads from one sensation to another. Of these
faculties the most excellent is Reason, whose proper province is to
direct and controul the other faculties; and of the operations of this
faculty Plato forms several divisions (at the close of the sixth Book),
according as the ideas are abstract, mixed, or material,—the νόησις
constituting the knowledge of pure ideas, the διάνοια that of mixed
ideas, πίστις that of actually existing materials and their affections,
and εἰκασία the knowledge of the images or shadows of bodies,[9]—these
divisions including—first, ἐπιστήμη (true science), and secondly,
opinion true or false, (δόξα).[10] So much for Reason (τὸ λογιστικὸν).
Now,—intermediate between Reason and Passion (τὸ ἐπιθυμητικὸν) is the
Will or Spirit, which should be an assistant to Reason (ἐπίκουρον ὂν τῷ
λογιστικῷ φύσει) in the pursuit of virtue, and should oppose the
indulgence of base desires,—all desires being legitimately under the
controul of the Reason and the Will.[11] Furthermore,—from the exercise
and combination of these three faculties there are generated four
principal or cardinal virtues:—1. Prudence or Wisdom (φρόνησις);—2.
Courage or Fortitude (ἀνδρεία), by which Plato means the maintenance of
right opinion as to what is and is not to be feared, (περὶ τῶν δεινῶν,)
_i. e._ as to good and evil;[12]—3. Temperance or Self-controul
(σωφροσύνη);[13]—and 4. Justice (δικαιοσύνη), which, with Plato, does
not simply mean the virtue of rendering to all their due, but stands for
that harmonious and proportional development of the inner man, by means
of which each faculty of his soul performs its own functions without
interfering with the others[14] (μὴ ἐάσαντα τἀλλότρια πράττειν ἕκαστον
ἐν αὑτῷ μηδὲ πολυπραγμονεῖν πρὸς ἄλληλα). Just or virtuous actions,
then, says he, consist in the performance of actions agreeable to the
nature of the soul,[15] whereas the contrary comprise such as are
discordant to a right nature, and productive of mental disturbance and
agitation. In the realization of this Justice, in short, consists Virtue
itself, which Plato defines to be “a certain health and beauty and good
habit of the soul,” exercising the nobler parts of our nature in the
contemplation of philosophy and more particularly the _summum bonum_ (τὸ
ἀγαθόν), the practical realization of which should be the chief aim of
the State constituted in the soul.[16]

-----

Footnote 8:

  Ritter, ii. p. 363.

Footnote 9:

  (Query—the science of forms?) Comp. Republ. vi. 509. e.

Footnote 10:

  Plato’s system of Ideas (εἴδη) consists, strictly speaking, of what we
  now term generalization and abstraction,—the main part of the
  definition _real_, and he seems to have constructed his theory as a
  mean between the Heraclitean doctrine of a perpetual flux, modified
  into the notion of Protagoras, πάντων μέτρον ἄνθρωπος, (which set up
  γίγνεσθαι instead of εἶναι,) and the Eleatic doctrine that all is
  _one_, without multiplicity, change, augmentation, or decay. He was
  convinced of the reality both of the permanent being or genus (οὐσία)
  and of the mutable γένεσις of the phenomena:—the science that
  contemplates these general terms is called ἡ διαλεκτική—Dialectics.
  These ideas are recognized by the νόησις and διάνοια—not by the
  senses; and as they belong to οὐσία, they become the objects of true
  science or certain knowledge. Everything of this kind is an εἶδος, or
  general term, or quiddity. He thought, moreover, that there was a
  supreme standard Idea—God—in which were comprised all other
  subordinate Ideas, and which contained nothing whatever capable of
  being apprehended by the senses. This is not exactly but nearly the
  view taken by Ritter, ii. 264—270.

Footnote 11:

  Republ. iv. p. 441. a.

Footnote 12:

  Ib. iv. 429. b. c.

Footnote 13:

  Ib. iii. 389. d. and iv. 430. d. e.

Footnote 14:

  Republ. iv. 443. e.

Footnote 15:

  Ib. iv. 444. e.

Footnote 16:

  Ib. ix. 591. e.

-----

The man, then, who studies to produce this harmony in the mental
faculties, is truly consistent with himself,—truly entitled to the
appellation—μουσικὸς and πολιτικὸς,—by which he means far more than is
conveyed by the modern terms, musician and politician. So great, indeed,
is the power and influence of virtue that, without it, there can be
neither true happiness nor mental tranquillity,—all else of the nature
of pleasure being mere shadow and inanity (ἐσκιαγραφημένη τίς.)[17] Now,
with respect to Pleasure, each mental faculty has its own peculiar
species,—the highest as well as purest of all being exclusively enjoyed
by the philosopher, through the exercise of wisdom;[18] and those who
cultivate wisdom and virtue are to be deemed happy, even in the midst of
misfortune, and when it has no probability of proper reward. It is to be
cultivated, indeed, on its own intrinsic merits, without any regard for
expediency—any hope of reward. At the same time, however, it is quite
apparent that good men are praised, loved, and honoured, while the
unjust are eventually exposed and punished;—nay, even by the Deity, good
and just men are not neglected, for God loves and rewards those who
practise virtue and seek to resemble Him. Independently of this, too,
Plato derives another motive to virtue from the immortality of the
soul,—viz., that, if we be not justly and adequately compensated in this
life, we shall meet with perfect and unswerving justice, when arraigned
before the judgment-seat of God.

Having thus far explained Plato’s notions respecting Man’s character
individually, and respecting the dignity and excellence of Virtue—and of
Justice in particular—that union and consummation of all the other
virtues,—we now proceed to shew, how he applied these principles to the
formation of his ideal and perfect Commonwealth (πολιτεία), which he
thought to be analogous to, and a sort of exhibition (παράδειγμα?) of, a
good and virtuous man. Some few incidental remarks occur on the
formation of society for mutual aid and support; and he then proceeds to
classify the members or parts of his ideal Republics.

These he classes under three heads or divisions, corresponding with the
faculties of the soul,—viz., 1. the βουλευτικὸν, (counsellors) those who
employ reason in the contemplation of what best suits the State,—2. the
ἐπικουρικὸν,—those who aid the βουλευταί with a ready will,—3. the
χρηματιστικὸν, who are bent on gain and selfish gratification.[19]
Reason alone is, according to Plato, entitled to and capacitated for the
supreme government (just as reason is the monarch of the properly
energising mind), to the total exclusion of the commonalty
(χρηματισταί), who are totally unacquainted with wisdom or philosophy.
The military class or executive, however, (τὸ ἐπικουρικόν), who are to
be the active guardians (φύλακες) of the State, he requires to be
properly taught and disciplined, so that, while obeying the counsellors,
they may protect the State from both internal and external danger. As
these guardians, therefore, are necessarily to be chosen from the better
class of the citizens, they should be of a philosophic turn, of an
active will, and of a stern determination (φιλόσοφοι καὶ θυμοειδεῖς καὶ
ταχεῖς καὶ [*xviii] ἰσχυροὶ τὴν φύσιν).[20]

As respects the training of the military class, that must be effected by
a thorough discipline,—first, in _Gymnastics_, which includes every
exercise and training of the body, whether patience under hardships, or
endurance of hunger and thirst—cold or heat; and likewise dancing, all
being practised not only to invigorate the body, but to strengthen the
spirit and maintain the entire man—the passions, in particular—in
subjection to reason;—and secondly, in Music,[21] which Plato held to
comprise all imaginative art, the ordinary instruction in grammar, and
also science itself, all of which contribute to elevate and enlarge the
mind, protecting it, at the same time, from all that militates against
virtue. More particularly, the φύλακες must be kept free from all
ambition and avarice, which are unquestionable obstacles to the proper
performance of their civic functions. From these φύλακες the chief
rulers and counsellors of the State (βουλευταί) are to be chosen; to be
chosen, too, for their general fitness and estimation:—and those only
should be placed in charge, who are endowed with high talent, and have
all along maintained a life of virtue, superior to that of the other
citizens. Furthermore, in the same way as human life can only attain to
its highest happiness, under the guidance of reason conducting it to the
highest good,—so also, a State can only attain to consummate virtue and
prosperity, when its rulers apply themselves to the investigation of
eternal truth and the contemplation of the highest good. Hence it is,
that Plato says (v. 473. c.), the rulers must be philosophers,—not,
indeed, necessarily occupied in subtle disputations on general subjects
of investigation, but rather engaged in contemplating the eternal ideas
of things—truth itself; and they must not only admire the beauty of
virtue, but earnestly seek the individual cultivation of it, and teach
it to others also[22] by the exhibition of its development in their own
persons.

Virtue, again, whether exercised by individuals or in communities, is
one and the same,[23] comprising, however, four parts:—first, _Wisdom_,
the essential qualification of rulers;—secondly, _Courage_, the property
of the military class who defend the State;—thirdly, _Temperance_, the
distinctive quality of a well-ordered and obedient commonalty; and,
fourthly, _Justice_, by virtue of which each particular class or
individual energises in his own sphere, without encroaching on that of
his neighbours. The pure exercise of virtue, however, is exceedingly
rare, either in States or individuals; while, on the other hand, errors
and defects are constantly observable and ever likely to interfere with
correct action. Hence, applying this remark to Politics, our pattern
State (ἀριστοκρατία) will insensibly become vitiated; sinking first into
τιμαρχία, and thence into ὀλιγαρχία, δημοκρατία, and lastly downright
τυραννίς, the worst possible mode of social union. No wonder, for if we
compare them with the state of the human soul when reason is on her
throne, and also when she is dethroned by the passions, we discover
between them a close analogy. From the dominance of the will over reason
we realise the idea of _Ambition_; and this seems nearly allied to the
τιμαρχία of the Cretans and Spartans (which Plato greatly preferred to
the democracy of Athens);—again, when rein is given to the appetite,
still other and greater evils arise, and among others, _Avarice_, which
bears a close analogy to ὀλιγαρχία;—thirdly, when the passions are
freely indulged, and in a base manner, without regard to order or
decency, we have before us δημοκρατία or mob-rule;—and lastly, when any
one passion or violent emotion exercises sway to the exclusion of all
the more generous feelings of our nature, we have an exact picture of
τυραννίς, which is the worst species of government, and furthest of all
removed from political perfection.

To return to our pattern State: it must have the principle of permanence
in healthy operation; and this is best effected by harmony, or, as it
were, unity of action in all the members, just as individual virtue
results from the harmonious exercise of the collective mental faculties.
The various establishments in a State, therefore, must so cohere and
harmonise, as mutually to aid each other; and the most anxious pains
must be taken to protect the State from all influences likely to
deteriorate good morals and impair the authority of the government. To
this end, then, care must be observed, that no innovations (τὸ μὴ
νεωτερίζειν, Republ. iv. 424. c.) be introduced in the training of youth
in Gymnastics and Music;—for such innovations, says this ancient
Conservative, have an insidious and destructive tendency. The affairs of
domestic life, also, must be so regulated, that no base desires shall
invade and disturb the State; and to promote this object, as well as to
show that the defenders of the State should consider not so much their
own individual existence, or their own gratifications, as their
inseparable connection and membership with the whole State, to the
welfare of which the individual man is ever subordinate;—on this
principle must be explained those strange views of the community of
wives and children, that have always excited the astonishment of those
not fully acquainted with the moral ends of the Republic. Individuals
are, according to this philosopher, members of, and to be merged in, the
State;—and hence he suggests also, that even the women should undergo
the same kind of training with the young men, as they have their
respective aptitudes. Thus is a State to be maintained in permanent
health, free from the incursions of civil discord. With whatever
ability, however, a State may be formed, it cannot be permanently
prosperous without the constant and active exercise of virtue;—and just
in proportion as sin entails misery and virtue happiness, so, likewise,
Tyranny produces disorder and wretchedness; while Aristocracy, _i. e._,
Plato’s best form of government, will not fail to exalt the State and
its several members to the pinnacle of civil happiness and prosperity.

We have thus briefly sketched the general and ethical system of Plato’s
Philosophy, as well as given a general survey of the subject-matter of
the Republic; and it is presumed that the student will now be enabled to
take up the writings of Plato with improved facilities, and a far
greater probability of getting thoroughly acquainted with the notions of
that great philosopher.

-----

Footnote 17:

  Republ. ix. 583. b.

Footnote 18:

  The relation which, according to Plato, subsists between knowledge and
  pure pleasure, seems to be in general of the following nature.—in the
  gradual growth of the human consciousness, pleasure is necessarily
  combined with cognition,—so however, as that, at one time pleasure, at
  another cognition, is the dominant and determining element. In the
  former case, the pleasure is impure and immoderate while in the latter
  a pure pleasure arises, measured by the truth of Ideas. To avoid the
  former and pursue the latter, ought, therefore, to be the object of a
  truly intellectual life.—_Ritter_, ii. p. 396.

Footnote 19:

  In other words,—“There should be one part to correspond with the
  reason, to whom the sovereignty is to be entrusted,—a second,
  answering to spirit, is to assist the sovereign,—and lastly, a third
  part is made parallel to the appetite, and intended to supply the
  bodily wants of the community. These are the three social classes—the
  ruler, the warrior, and the craftsman. Each contributes a peculiar
  virtue to the general body: by its ruling class it becomes sagacious,
  bold by its warriors, and temperate by the obedience of the artizan to
  the orders of his ruler. From the due combination of these virtues in
  the whole community, results civil justice.” This explanation, so
  happily expressed by Ritter, is fully authorised by the passages, lib.
  ii. 427. c.; 433. d.

Footnote 20:

  Republ. ii. 376. c.

Footnote 21:

  These accomplishments, however, he wished to restrain within due
  bounds, lest their simplicity should become luxurious, and lest they
  should become incentives to passion and vice. Poetry, in particular,
  he desires to restrain, dreading its evil influence on the moral
  habits;—and he almost wishes the expulsion of poets from his ideal
  State. He looks upon poetry, indeed, as a mere art of imitation,
  little better than mere illusion and childishness (x. 602. b.
  c.);—useful, perhaps, for education, but to be placed, for fear of
  abuse, under the strictest surveillance.

Footnote 22:

  Virtue, according to Plato, in the Meno and Protagoras, may be learnt,
  so far as it rests on science, in the same sense as science itself is
  teachable,—_i. e._, originally and naturally it dwells potentially in
  the soul; and for the right attainment of virtue, nothing more is
  requisite than a fitting direction of the mind, leading man to
  contemplate the good through the medium of reflection and memory.

Footnote 23:

  The question, whether virtue is one or many (often raised without
  receiving any decisive solution), is connected with the more general
  one, whether _the one_ (τὸ ἕν) can be manifold or the manifold _one_.
  From the Dialectic, it must be clear, that on this point Plato came to
  the conclusion that virtue must both be regarded as one, and in
  another respect also as many. In a moral point of view, however, this
  question of the unity of virtue must be taken in quite another sense;
  for as all good is considered as a due measure and proportion, no
  single virtue, by itself and apart from the rest, can be truly
  virtuous. Hence Plato often describes some single virtue as comprising
  in itself the sum of all virtues. Thus, Justice is often used for
  virtue in general, because no action, which is not also just, can be
  virtuous;—and similarly with wisdom, temperance, and valour. In the
  Protagoras, too, Plato adds a fifth virtue— ὁσιὸτης, or piety, and in
  the Republic (iii. 402, b.) he mentions liberality and magnanimity.

-----




                                  THE
                           REPUBLIC OF PLATO.

                               ==========

                                BOOK I.

                                ———●———

                               ARGUMENT.

The _first_ Book opens with a pleasant and highly dramatic dialogue, in
    the course of which the happy old Cephalus (a kind of Mæcenas on a
    small scale) sings the praises of an independent old age, free from
    anxiety and debt; and this leads Socrates to introduce the
    discussion of justice, which, by way of provoking inquiry, he first
    generally defines, as τὰ ἀληθῆ τε λέγειν καὶ, ἃ ἂν λάβοι τὶς,
    ἀποδιδόναι. The more complete definition, however, he first attempts
    by the negative process, purposely selecting two species of (false
    or inadequate) justice to be refuted,—thus to make way for the basis
    of a full and true definition. He then proceeds to consider the
    constituents of a state—magistrates and subjects; the former of whom
    he cautions against tyranny—the latter against indecent
    insubordination; insomuch as neither the one party should have
    reference to his own private advantage only, nor should the others
    live without care for the general advantage of the state, nor
    without a due regard for honest, upright principle.

              SOCRATES,                          ADIMANTUS,
              CEPHALUS,                         POLEMARCHUS,
              GLAUCON,                          THRASYMACHUS.

[_The whole is in the form of a narrative related by Socrates in the
    presence of Timæus, Critias, Hermocrates, and another of unknown
    name.[24]—The scene is in the house of Cephalus at the Piræus._]

CHAP. I.—I went down yesterday to the Piræus, with Glaucon,[25] son of
Ariston, to pay my devotion to the goddess,—and wishing, at the same
time, to observe in what manner they would celebrate the festival, as
they were now to do so for the first time.[26] The procession of the
natives themselves, indeed, seemed beautiful; yet that which the
Thracians conducted appeared not less elegant. After we had paid our
devotions, and seen the solemnity, we were going back to the city, when
Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, observing us from a distance, hurrying
home, bid his boy run and tell us to wait for him; and the boy, taking
hold of my robe behind, said:—Polemarchus desires you to wait. I turned
then and asked, where he was. He is coming after you, answered he: but
pray wait for him. Yes, we will wait, said Glaucon; and just afterwards
came Polemarchus and Adimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and Niceratus,
son of Nicias[27], and some others, as from the procession. Then said
Polemarchus, Socrates, you seem to me to be hurrying to the city, as on
your return. Aye, you do not make a bad guess, said I. See you, then,
said he, how many we are? Yes, of course. Well, then, said he, you must
either prove yourselves stronger than these, or else remain here. One
expedient, said I, is still left; namely, to persuade you that you
should let us go. How can you possibly persuade such as will not hear?
By no means, said Glaucon. Make up your mind then, that we will not
hear. But know you not, said Adimantus, that in the evening there is to
be a torch-race on horseback to the goddess?[28] On horseback, said I;
surely, this is a novelty. Are they to have torches, and to hand them to
one another, contending together on horseback;—or how do you mean? Just
so, replied Polemarchus. And besides, they will perform a nocturnal
solemnity well worth seeing;—for we shall rise after supper and see it
[the night festival,][29] and shall be there with many of our young
[friends,] and have a chat. Do you also stay and do the same. It is
right, I think, said Glaucon, that we should stay. Well,—if you please,
said I, we will so.

-----

Footnote 24:

  See the opening of the Timæus.

Footnote 25:

  Glaucon and Adimantus were the brothers of Plato. Comp. Xen. Mem. iii.
  6.

Footnote 26:

  The festival here alluded to is the Βενδίδεια, in which Artemis or
  Bendis was worshipped agreeably to the custom of the Thracians.

Footnote 27:

  Nicias was one of the leading Athenian generals in the Peloponnesian
  war.

Footnote 28:

  In the Panathenæan, Hephæstian, and Promethean festivals, it was
  customary for young men to run with torches or lamps lighted from the
  sacrificial altar; and in this contest that person only was
  victorious, whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race. We are
  here forcibly reminded of the figure used by Plato in the Laws, vi. p.
  776 b, and also of Lucretius, ii. verse 78:—

               Inque brevi spatio mutantur sæcla animantum,
               Et quasi cursores vitaï lampada tradunt.

Footnote 29:

  By this nocturnal solemnity are meant the lesser Panathenæa, which, as
  the name implies, were sacred to Athena. As in the greater Panathenæa
  they carried about the veil of Athena, on which were represented the
  giants vanquished by the Olympian gods, so in the lesser Panathenæa
  another veil was exhibited, in which the Athenians, who were the
  pupils of Athena, were represented victorious in the battle against
  the inhabitants of the Atlantic island.

-----

CHAP. II.—We went home therefore to Polemarchus’s [house,] and there we
found, both Lysias and Euthydemus, brothers of Polemarchus,—likewise
Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Pæoneian, and Clitiphon
the son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, the father of Polemarchus, was
likewise in the house; and he seemed to me to have become a good deal
aged, for I had not seen him for a long time. He was sitting crowned on
a cushioned seat; for he had been offering sacrifice in the inner court.
So we sat down by him; for some seats stood there in a circle.
Immediately, therefore, on seeing me, Cephalus saluted me, and said:
Socrates, you do not often come down to us to the Piræus, though you
ought; for, could I still easily go up to the city, there would have
been no need for you to come hither, but we should have gone up to you.
As it is, however, you should come hither more frequently; for be
assured that with me, the more bodily pleasures decay, the more also do
the desires and pleasures of conversation increase. Do not then fail us,
but accompany these youths, and resort hither, as to friends, and very
dear friends too. As for me, Cephalus, said I, I am delighted to
converse with persons well advanced in years; for it appears to me a
duty to learn from them, as from persons who have gone before us, on a
road which we too must necessarily travel, what kind of road it
is——whether rough and difficult, or level and easy. Moreover, I would
gladly learn from you (as you are now at that time of life which the
poets call the threshold of old age), what your opinion of it is,
whether it be a burdensome part of life, or how you describe it.

CHAP. III.—By Zeus![30] said he, I will tell you, Socrates, what I, for
my part, think of it; for several of us, who are of the same age,
frequently meet together in the same place, observing the old
proverb.[31] Most of us, therefore, when we are together, complain of
missing the pleasures of youth, calling to remembrance the pleasures of
love, those of drinking and feasting, and such like: and they are
mightily in dudgeon, as being bereaved of some great things,—having once
lived happily, but now scarce living at all. Some of them, too, bemoan
the contempt which old age meets with from intimate friends: and, on
this account, they whine about old age, as being the cause of so many of
their ills. To me, however, Socrates, these men seem not to blame the
[real] cause; for, if this were the cause, I myself likewise should have
suffered these very same things through old age,—and all others,
likewise, who have come to these years. Now I have met with several not
thus affected; and particularly I was once in company with Sophocles the
poet, when he was asked by some one: How, said he, do you feel,
Sophocles, as to the pleasures of love; are you still able to enjoy
them? Softly, friend, replied he;—most gladly, indeed, have I escaped
from these pleasures, as from some furious and savage master.[32] To me,
then, he, at that time, seemed to speak well, and now not less so: for,
on the whole, as respects such things there is in old age great peace
and freedom; because, when the appetites cease to be vehement and have
let go their hold, what Sophocles said, most certainly happens; we are
delivered from very many, and those too, furious masters. With relation
to these things, however, and what concerns our intimates, there is one
and the same cause; which is, not old age, Socrates, but the disposition
of [different] men: for, if they be discreet and moderate, even old age
is but moderately burdensome: but if not, Socrates,—to such an one, both
old age and youth are grievous.

-----

Footnote 30:

  The translator wishes it to be understood, that in compliance with a
  now pretty general custom, he has preserved the Greek mythological
  names; Zeus for Jupiter, Athena for Minerva, Poseidon for Neptune,
  Artemis for Diana, and so on.

Footnote 31:

  This alludes to the well-known Greek adage—ἥλιξ ἥλικα τέρπει. Nearly
  the whole of this and the following chapter is quoted by Cicero, de
  Senect. ch. 3.

Footnote 32:

  This passage was evidently in the view of Cicero, when he wrote as
  follows:—Quum ex eo quidam jam affecto ætate quæreret, utereturne
  rebus venereis:—Dii meliora, inquit, s. lubenter verò istinc tanquam à
  domino agresti ac furioso profugi.—Cato Maj. ch. 47.

-----

CHAP. IV.—Delighted to hear him say these things, and wishing him to
discourse further, I urged him, and said: I fancy, Cephalus, the
generality will not agree with you in these opinions; but will imagine
that you bear old age easily, not owing to your natural bias, but from
possessing much wealth; for the rich, say they, have many
consolations.[33] True, replied he; they do not agree with me; and there
is something in what they say, yet not so much as they imagine. The
saying of Themistocles, however, is just; who, when the Seriphian[34]
reviled him, and said, that he was honoured, not on his own account, but
on account of his country, replied, that neither would himself have been
renowned, had he been a Seriphian, nor would he, the [Seriphian,] had he
been an Athenian. To those likewise, who are not rich and bear old age
with impatience, the same saying fairly applies;—that neither would the
worthy man bear old age with poverty quite easily, nor would he who is
unworthy, though enriched, ever be agreeable to himself. But, [tell me,]
Cephalus, said I; was the greater part of what you possess, left you, or
did you acquire it [yourself?] Somewhat, Socrates, replied he, I have
acquired: as to money-getting I am in a medium between my grandfather
and my father: for my grandfather of the same name with myself, who was
left almost as much property as I possess at present, increased it
manifold; while my father Lysanias made it yet less than it is now: I,
on the other hand, am content, if I can leave my sons here not less, but
some little more than I received. I asked you, said I, for this
reason,—because you seem to me to have no excessive love for riches; and
this is generally the case with those who have not acquired them; while
those who have acquired them [themselves,] are doubly fond of them:[35]
for, as poets love their own poems, and as parents love their own
children,—in the same manner, too, those who have enriched themselves,
value their wealth, as their own production, as well as for its
utility,—on which ground it is valued by others. True, replied he.

-----

Footnote 33:

  This seems to allude to the very common Greek adage—τοῖς πλουσίοις
  πόλλ’ ἔστι τὰ παραμύθια.

Footnote 34:

  From Seriphus, one of the Cyclades.

Footnote 35:

  Aristotle expresses nearly the same sentiments in the Nicom. Eth. iv.
  1, and ix. 4.

-----

CHAP. V.—Aye, entirely so, said I. But further, tell me this;—-what do
you conceive to be the greatest good realized through the possession of
extensive property? That, probably, said he, of which I shall not
persuade the generality, were I even to mention it. For, be assured,
Socrates, continued he, that, after a man begins to think he is soon to
die, he becomes inspired with a fear and concern about things, that had
not entered his head before: for those stories concerning a future
state, which tell us, that the man who has been unjust here must be
punished hereafter, have a tendency, much as he formerly ridiculed them,
to trouble his soul at such a time with apprehensions, that they may be
true; and the man, either through the infirmity of old age, or being
now, as it were, in closer proximity to them, views them more
attentively, and consequently becomes full of suspicion and dread, and
reflects and considers whether he has in any thing done any one a wrong.
That man, then, who discovers in his own life much of iniquity, and,
like children, constantly starting in his sleep, is full of terrors, and
lives on with scarce a hope of the future. But with the man who is not
conscious of any such iniquity,

                          Hope, the solace of old age,
                  Is ever present,

As Pindar says: for this, Socrates, he has beautifully expressed, that
whoever lives a life of justice and holiness,

           With him to cheer his heart, the nurse of age,
           Sweet hope abides, companion blest, that sways
           With power supreme the changeful mind of man.[36]

In this he speaks well, and with great elegance. In conformity with this
thought, therefore, I deem the possession of riches to be chiefly
valuable, not to every man indeed, but to the man of worth: for as
respects liberating us from the temptation of cheating or deceiving
against our will,—or again from departing thither in fear, because we
owe either sacrifices to God, or money to man,—for this, indeed, the
possession of money has great advantages. It has many other also;—but
for my part, Socrates, that seems not the least, among all others, which
proves its high advantage to a man of understanding.

You speak admirably, Cephalus, replied I:—but this very thing,
_Justice_,—shall we call it Truth, simply, and the restoring what one
has received from another,—or shall we say, that it is possible to do
the very same things at one time justly and at another unjustly? My
meaning is somewhat as follows: Every one would probably be of opinion,
that if a man received arms from a friend in sound mind, and that person
should demand them back when mad, it would not be proper to restore such
articles, nor would the restorer be just;[37] nor again, [would he] who,
to a man so situated, should willingly tell the whole truth. Right,
replied he. This, then, is not the definition of justice, [namely,] to
speak the truth, and restore what one has received. Of course it is,
Socrates, replied Polemarchus taking up the subject, if at least we are
to believe Simonides. However that be, said Cephalus, I leave this
conversation to you; for I must now go to attend to the sacred
rites.[38] Well then, is not Polemarchus, said I, the heir of your
[argument?] Certainly, replied he, smiling, and went off to the sacred
rites.

-----

Footnote 36:

  This passage will be found in Boeckh’s Fragm. Pind. 243, vol. ii. p.
  2, p. 682.

Footnote 37:

  Comp. Cicero de Off. iii. 25.

Footnote 38:

  Cicero very elegantly refers to this passage in his Epistles to
  Atticus, iv. 16.

-----

CHAP. VI.—Tell me, then, said I, you who are heir in the conversation,
what is it, that you affirm Simonides to have correctly alleged about
justice? That to restore to each his due, is just, replied he: in saying
this, he seems, to me at least, to speak correctly. Aye, indeed, said I,
we cannot easily discredit Simonides; for he is a wise and divine
man:—but as to his meaning in this passage, you, Polemarchus, are
probably acquainted with it, but I am not; for it is plain he does not
mean what we were saying just now,—that, when one has deposited any
thing with us, we should return it to him, even if he demand it in his
insanity: and yet the thing deposited is in some sense due, is it not?
It is. At least, then, [you will grant] it must on no account whatever
be restored, when a man asks for it in his insanity? True, replied he.
Simonides then, it would seem, has some other meaning than this, in
saying that to deliver up what is due, is just? Yes,—one quite
different, replied he: for he is of opinion, that friends ought to do
their friends good—not ill. I understand, said I;—that man does not give
back what is due, who restores money deposited with him, if the
repayment and receipt be really hurtful, and the receiver and restorer
be friends:—is not this what you allege Simonides to say? Surely. What
then?—are we to give our enemies, also, what may chance to be their due?
By all means, said he, what is really due to them; and from an enemy to
an enemy, there is due, I imagine, what is fitting too,—namely some
evil.

CHAP. VII.—Simonides, then, it would seem, replied I, defined the nature
of justice somewhat enigmatically, and after the manner of the poets;
for it seems he had a notion, that justice consists in giving every one
what was expedient for him; and this he called his due. But what is your
opinion? said he. By Zeus, replied I, if any one then should ask him
thus,—Simonides, what is the art, which, dispensing to certain persons
something fitting and due, is called medicine, what, think you, would he
answer us? That art, surely, replied he, which dispenses drugs to the
body, and also meats and drinks. And what is the art, which, dispensing
to certain things something fitting and due, is called cookery? The art
which gives seasonings to victuals. Granted. What then, is that art,
which may be called justice, as dispensing to certain persons something
fitting and due? If we ought to be at all directed, Socrates, by what
has been said above, [it is] the art which dispenses good offices to
friends, and injuries to enemies. To do good, then, to friends, and ill
to enemies, he calls justice? It seems so. Who then can best serve his
friends, when they are sick, and most ill to his enemies, as either in
sickness or health? A physician. And who to those at sea, as respects
danger on the sea? A pilot. But what as to the just man? In what
business, and with respect to what action, can he most serve his friends
and harm his foes? In fighting in alliance with the one, and against the
other,—so far as I think. Just so; but at any rate, to those who are not
sick, Polemarchus, the physician is useless? Aye. And the pilot, to
those who do not sail? He is. And is the just man, in like manner,
useless to those not engaged in war? This, at any rate, is not at all my
opinion. Is justice, then, useful also in time of peace? Yes, useful,
too. And so is agriculture, is it not? Yes. Towards the getting in of
crops? Yes. And is not shoemaking useful too? Yes. Towards the
possession of shoes, methinks you will say? Certainly. But what then?
For the use or possession of what is it, that would you say justice were
useful in time of peace? For contracts, Socrates! By these contracts do
you mean copartnerships, or what else? Copartnerships, certainly. Well
then; is the just man or the dice-player, a good and useful copartner
for playing at dice? The dice-player. But, in the laying of tiles or
stones, is the just man a more useful and a better partner than the
builder? By no means. In what copartnership then, is the just man a
better copartner than the harper, as the harper is better than the just
man for touching the strings of a harp? In one about money, as I
imagine. And yet perhaps, with regard to the use of money, Polemarchus,
when it is necessary jointly to buy or sell a horse, then, I should
think, the jockey is the better copartner, is he not? He would appear
so. And with respect to a ship, the shipwright or pilot? It seems so.
When is it, then, with respect to the joint application of money, that
the just man is more useful than others? When it is to be deposited and
be safe, Socrates! Do you not mean when there is no need to use it, but
to leave it in deposit? Certainly. When money then, is useless, justice
is still useful with regard to it? It seems likely. When, therefore, one
wants to put by a pruning-hook, justice is useful, both for a community
and for a particular person: but when one wants to use it, then the art
of vine-dressing [is useful.] It seems so. You will say, likewise, that
when a shield or a lyre is to be kept and not used, then justice is
useful; but when they are to be used, then the arts of warfare and
music? Of course. And with reference to all other things, when they are
to be used, justice is useless; but when they are not to be used, it is
useful? It seems so.

CHAP. VIII.—Justice, then, my friend, can be no very important matter,
if it is useful only in respect of things not to be used. But let us
consider this matter:—is not he who is the cleverest at striking in a
fight, whether with the fists or some other way, the cleverest likewise,
in self-defence? Certainly. And as to the person who is clever in
warding off and escaping from a distemper, is he not very clever also in
bringing it on? So I suppose. And he too the best guardian of a camp,
who can steal the counsels, and the other operations of the enemy?
Certainly. Of whatever, then, any one is a good guardian, of that
likewise he is a clever thief. It seems so. If, therefore, the just man
be clever in guarding money, he is clever likewise in stealing. So it
would seem, said he, from this reasoning. The just man, then, has been
shewn to be a sort of thief; and it is likely you have learned this from
Homer; for he not only admires Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of
Ulysses, but says, that he was distinguished beyond all men for
thievishness and swearing.[39] Justice, then, seems in your opinion as
well as in that of Homer and Simonides, to be a sort of thieving carried
on for the benefit of our friends on the one hand, and for the injury of
our enemies on the other:—did not you say so? No, by Zeus, I did not;
nor, indeed, do I any longer know what I was saying:—yet it is still my
opinion, that justice benefits friends, but injures foes. But [tell me,]
whether you pronounce such to be friends, as seem to be honest; or such
merely as are so, though not seeming so;—and in the same way as to
enemies? It is reasonable, said he, to love those whom one deems honest,
and to hate those [one deems] wicked. But do not men fall into error on
this point, so that many appear to them honest who are not so, and many
the contrary? Yes, they do. To such as these, then, the good are
enemies, and the bad friends? Certainly. But still is it, in that case,
just for them to benefit the wicked, and hurt the good? So it seems. The
good, moreover, are just, and incapable of doing any ill. True.
According to your argument, then, is it just to do those harm, who do no
harm [themselves?] By no means [think that,] Socrates, replied he; for
that opinion seems to be vicious. With respect to the unjust, then, said
I, is it right to injure these, but to do good to the just? This opinion
seems fairer than the other. To many, then, it will occur [to think,]
Polemarchus,—that is, to as many as have formed wrong opinions of
men,—that they may justly hurt their friends (for they are wicked to
them), and, on the other hand, benefit their enemies, inasmuch as they
are good:—and thus we shall state the very reverse of what we alleged
Simonides to say. That is precisely the case, said he:—but, let us
change our definition; for we seem not to have rightly defined a friend
and a foe. How were they defined, Polemarchus? That he who seems honest,
is a friend. How then are we now to alter our definition, said I? That
the person, replied he, who seems, and also is honest, is a friend; but
that he who is apparently honest, but not really so, seems to be, yet is
not [really] a friend: the definition, too, respecting an enemy, exactly
corresponds. The good man, according to this reasoning, will, it seems,
be a friend; and the wicked man a foe? Yes. Do you bid us then make an
addition to our former definition of justice, by saying that it is just
to serve a friend and harm a foe:—and are we now to say, in addition to
this, that it is just to serve a friend who is good, but to hurt an
enemy who is bad? This last, said he, seems to me perfectly well
expressed.

-----

Footnote 39:

             Μητρὸς ἑῆς πατέρ’ ἐσθλὸν, ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο
             Κλεπτοσύνῃ θ’, ὅρκῳτε.—Odyss. xix. 395.

          His mother’s noble sire, who all mankind
          In furtive arts and fraudful oaths excelled.—_Cowper._

-----

CHAP. IX.—Is it the just man’s part, then, said I, to hurt any one
mortal whatever? By all means, said he; the wicked at least, and his
enemies, he ought certainly to injure. And horses, when hurt, do they
become better or worse? Worse. Do they so, as regards the virtue of dogs
or horses? That of horses. And, do not dogs, when hurt, become worse as
regards the virtue of dogs, but not of horses? Necessarily so. As to
men, then, friend, may we not likewise say, that when hurt, they become
worse with reference to man’s virtue? Certainly. But is not justice a
human virtue? This too we must [allow.] It follows, then, friend, that
those men who are hurt become more unjust? It seems so. Can musicians,
then, by music, make men unmusical? Impossible.—Or horsemen, by
horsemanship, make men unskilled in horsemanship? They cannot. Is it
possible, either, that by justice the just [can make men] unjust; or in
general that by virtue, the good can make men wicked? It is impossible.
[Yes,] for it is not, methinks, the effect of heat to make cold, but
[the effect] of its contrary? Yes. Nor of drought to make moist, but
that of its contrary? Certainly. Neither is it the part of a good man to
hurt, but that of his contrary? It appears so. But, at any rate, the
just is good? Certainly. Neither, then, is it the part of a just man,
Polemarchus, to hurt either friend or any other, but [that] of his
contrary, the unjust man. In all respects, Socrates, said he, you seem
to reason truly. If, then, any one affirms it just to give every one his
due, and consequently thinks this within himself, that injury is due
from a just man to enemies, but service to friends,—he was not wise who
said so, for he spoke not the truth:—for in no case has the justice been
proved of injuring any one at all. I agree, said he. You and I then will
jointly dispute the point, said I, if any one allege, that Simonides, or
Bias, or Pittacus, or any other of those wise and happy men said so. I
am ready, for my part, said he, to take part in this discussion. But
know you, said I, whose saying I conceive it to be,—that it is just to
serve friends, and hurt enemies? Whose, said he? I conceive it to be
Periander’s, or Perdiccas’s, or Xerxes’s, or Ismenius’s, the Theban, or
of some other rich man, who thought himself mightily important. You say
most truly, said he. Be it so, said I:—but as this has not been shewn to
be justice nor the just, what else may one say it is?

CHAP. X.—Now Thrasymachus had frequently during our discourse been on
the point of breaking in upon the discussion with some objection,[40]
but was hindered by the sitters-by, who wanted to hear out the
conversation. When, however, we came to a pause, and after my making
these last remarks, he could no longer keep quiet; but, taking his
spring like a wild beast, attacked us, as if he would tear us in pieces.
Both myself and Polemarchus were frightened and terror-struck. But he,
raising his voice in the midst, cried out:—What is this, Socrates, which
has so long possessed you; and why do you thus play the fool together,
conceding mutually to one another? But if in particular you really want
to know the nature of justice, do not only ask questions, and value
yourself in refuting the answers you may get, well knowing that it is
easier to ask than to answer; but answer yourself, and state your own
view of the nature of justice. And [take care] that you do not tell me
that it is what is fit, or what is due, or what is profitable, or what
is gainful, or what is expedient; but, whatever you mean, express it
plainly and accurately; for I will not allow you to utter such trifles
as these. I was astounded on hearing this; and when I looked at him, I
was frightened; and, methinks, had I not perceived him before he
perceived me, I should have become speechless.[41] But just when he
began to grow fierce under our discussion, I observed him first, so that
I was now able to answer him, and said, somewhat in a flutter:—Be not
hard on us, Thrasymachus; if I and he [Polemarchus] err in the working
out of our arguments, be well assured we err unwittingly: for, think
not, that if we were searching for gold, we would ever wittingly yield
to one another in the search, thus frustrating all chance of discovering
it, and yet searching for justice,—a matter far more valuable than gold,
foolishly make concessions to each other, and not labour with the utmost
ardour for its discovery:—think you so, friend? Nay, methinks, we could
not. That we should be sympathized with by your clever[42] persons is
far more to be expected then, than that we should be treated with
contempt.

-----

Footnote 40:

  For this sense of ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι, comp. book vi. p. 497 d, and p.
  504; also Gorgias, 506 a.

Footnote 41:

  This alludes to the popular belief that men were rendered speechless
  by the fixed look of a wolf; but this, they thought, was not the case,
  if they saw the wolf first.

Footnote 42:

  ὑφ’ ὑμῶν τῶν δεινῶν, alluding of course to the Sophists, who deemed
  themselves emphatically δεινοί. Comp. Protagor. p. 341 a.

-----

CHAP. XI.—On hearing this he [Thrasymachus] gave a disdainful sort of
laugh, and said:—By Heracles, this is Socrates’s wonted irony; and this
I both knew, and foretold to these here,—that you never incline to
answer, but use your irony, and do any thing rather than answer, if any
one asks you any thing. Aye; you are a wise man, Thrasymachus, said I;
for you knew well, that if you asked any one, how many make twelve; and,
if asking, you should tell him, you must not tell me, man, that twelve
are twice six,—or three times four,—or four times three; because I will
not admit it, if you are such a trifler; it was plain to you, methinks,
that no man would answer one so inquiring. But if he should say to you,
What mean you, Thrasymachus, may I not answer in any of these ways you
have told me,—not even though the real answer happen to be one of them;
but am I rather to say something else than the truth? Or, how is it you
mean? What would you say to him in reply to these things? If they were
alike, I should give an answer; for the one, forsooth, is like the
other. That is no real objection, said I[43]; but even if it be not
like, but only appears so to him who has been asked, do you think he
would the less readily express his opinion, whether we should forbid him
or not? And, will you do so now? said he. Will you state, in reply, some
of those things which I forbade you to say? I should not wonder, if I
did, said I, if it appeared so to me on inquiry. What, then, said he, if
I should shew you another answer, besides all these about justice, and
better, too, than these,—what will you deserve to suffer? What else,
said I, but what the ignorant ought to suffer?—and it is proper,
perhaps, to learn from a wise man I consequently deserve to suffer this.
You are merry now, said he; but besides learning, you must pay money
too. Aye, when I have it, said I. We have got some, said Glaucon; but,
as for the money, Thrasymachus, say on, for all of us will club for
Socrates. By all means, I think, said he, in order that Socrates may go
on in his usual manner,—not answer himself, but when another answers,
take up the discourse and confute. How, then, in the first place, my
good fellow, said I, can a man answer, when he neither knows, nor
pretends to know; and when, supposing him to have any opinion at all
about these matters, he is forbidden to say what he thinks by no
ordinary person? But it is more reasonable, then, that you speak, as you
say you know, and can tell us. Do not refuse, then, but oblige me by
answering, and do not begrudge instructing Glaucon here, and the rest of
the company.

-----

Footnote 43:

  Thrasymachus here alleges with a sneer, that the example adduced by
  Socrates had no connection with the subject treated in the last
  chapter.

-----

CHAP. XII.—On my saying this, both Glaucon and the rest of the company
entreated him not to decline it:—and Thrasymachus in particular, was
evidently most anxious to speak, in order to gain applause, reckoning he
had a mighty clever answer to make, and pretending to be earnest that I
should be the answerer; but at last he agreed. Now, this, forsooth, said
he, is the wisdom of Socrates, that he himself is unwilling to teach,
but goes about learning from others, and gives no thanks for it. That I
learn from others, Thrasymachus, is quite true, said I; but in saying,
that I do not thank persons for it, you are wrong. I pay as much as I am
able, and I can only give them praise, for money I have none; but how
readily I do this, when any one appears to me to speak well, you shall
perfectly know directly, whenever you make your answer; for methinks you
will speak well. Hear, then, said he, for I say that the just is nothing
else but what is expedient for the strongest.[44] But why do not you
commend?—Ah! you do not like that. Let me learn first, said I, what it
is you are talking about; for as yet I know not. That which is expedient
for the strongest you say, is the just. And what, at all, is it that you
are talking of now, Thrasymachus? for you certainly do not mean any
thing like this. If Polydamas, the wrestler,[45] be stronger than we,
and if beef be better for his body, this food is likewise both just and
beneficial to us, who are weaker than himself. You are a saucy fellow,
Socrates, and lay hold of my argument just on that side where you may
damage it most. By no means, my good fellow, said I; but say more
plainly what is your meaning. Know you not, then, said he, that with
reference to States, some are tyrannical, others democratical, and
others aristocratical? Of course. And is not the governing part of each
State the more powerful? Certainly: and every government makes laws
precisely to suit itself,—a democracy, democratic laws; a tyranny,
tyrannic; and the rest in like manner:—and when they have made them,
they declare that to be just for the governed, which is advantageous for
themselves, and any one who transgresses it, they punish as one acting
contrary both to law and justice. This, then, most excellent Socrates,
is what I say, that in all States the same thing constitutes justice,
viz., what is expedient for the established government. This, then, is
the fact with him who reasons rightly, that in all cases whatever that
same is just which is expedient for the more powerful. Now, said I, I
understand what you mean. But as to its truth or otherwise, I will try
to find out. As for the expedient, then, even you yourself,
Thrasymachus, have affirmed it to be the just; and yet, though you
forbade me to give the answer, still you are adding the expression _of
the more powerful_. Quite a trifling addition, perhaps, said he. It is
not clear yet, whether it is small or great; but it is clear that we
must inquire whether you speak the truth, since I, too, acknowledge that
the just is something that is expedient; but you say, in addition, that
it is that also which belongs to the most powerful. This I am not sure
of; but that is what we have to inquire. Inquire then, said he.

-----

Footnote 44:

  The Sophists were used to recommend that the laws of a state should be
  made by the most powerful and influential, and that in making them it
  was quite right that they should consult their own advantage, there
  being no fixed standard for virtue and justice, but only that of
  expediency. Comp. Gorgias, p. 483, b, c, d; and Protagor. p. 337.

Footnote 45:

  A celebrated wrestler of Scotussa in Thessaly, who won the prize in
  the Pancratium, at the Olympic games, B.C. 408. He was of immense
  size; and it is related of him, that he killed without arms a huge and
  fierce lion on Mount Olympus, and could stop a chariot at full gallop.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—We will do so, said I:—and, tell me,—do you not say, that it
is just to obey governors? Yes, I do. Are the governors in the several
states infallible, or are they capable of erring? Certainly, said he,
they are liable to err. When they set about making laws, then, do they
not make some of them right, and some of them wrong? I think so. To make
them right, then, is to make them expedient for themselves, and to make
them not right, [is that] inexpedient;—or how mean you? Just so. And
what they enact is to be observed by the governed; and this is what is
just? Of course. According to your reasoning, then, it is just, to do
what is expedient to the stronger, while the contrary is what is not
expedient:—what say you, replied he? I am of the same opinion as
yourself. But let us inquire better. Is it not granted, that governors
in bidding the governed do certain things, may sometimes be in error as
to what is best for themselves; and that what the governors enjoin, is
just for the governed to do? Have not these [truths] been granted? I
think so, said he. Consider also, therefore, said I, that you have
allowed it to be just to do what is inexpedient for governors and the
more powerful, whenever governors unwillingly enjoin what is ill for
themselves; and yet you say, that it is just for the others to do what
these enjoin. Must it not necessarily happen, then, most sage
Thrasymachus, that, in this case, it may be just to do the contrary of
what you say; for that which is the disadvantage of the more powerful,
is sometimes enjoined on the inferiors? Yes, by Zeus, said Polemarchus,
these things are quite clear, Socrates. Yes, if you bear him witness,
said Clitiphon in rejoinder. What need, said I, of a witness?—for
Thrasymachus himself acknowledges that governors sometimes order what is
ill for themselves, and that it is just for the governed to do these
things. Aye, Polemarchus; for he laid it down, that it is just to do
what is bidden by the governors, and he has also defined that as just,
Clitiphon, which is expedient for the more powerful; and, having laid
down both these propositions, he has granted that the more powerful
sometimes bid the inferiors and governed to do what is inexpedient for
themselves; and, from these concessions, what is expedient for the more
powerful can no more be just than what is not expedient. But he alleged,
said Clitiphon, that what was expedient for the strongest was what the
strongest judged expedient for himself; this, too, was to be done by the
inferior, and this he defined as the just. Aye,—but that was not stated,
said Polemarchus. There is no difference, Polemarchus, said I; but, if
Thrasymachus says so now, so let us understand him.

CHAP. XIV.—Now tell me, Thrasymachus; was this what you meant by
justice,—namely, the advantage of the more powerful, such as appeared so
to the more powerful, whether it really were so, or not:—shall we say
that you mean this? Not at all, said he:—for, think you, I call him who
errs, the more powerful, at the time he errs? For my part, said I, I
thought you meant this, when you acknowledged that governors were not
infallible, but that in some things even they erred. You are a
sycophant, said he, in reasoning, Socrates![46] For, for instance do you
call him a physician, who errs about the treatment of the sick, in
respect of that very thing in which he errs; or him a reasoner, who errs
in reasoning, at the very time he errs, and with reference to that very
error? But, we say, in common language, I fancy, that the physician
erred, the reasoner erred, and the grammarian likewise; but in fact I
think, each of these, so far as he is what we designate him, never errs;
so that, strictly speaking (especially as you are a strict reasoner), no
artist errs;—for he who errs, errs through defect of science, in what he
is not an artist; and hence no artist, or wise man, or governor, errs,
in so far as he is a governor. Yet every one would say ‘the physician
erred,’ and ‘the governor erred.’ You must understand, then, that it was
in this way I just now answered you. But the most accurate answer is
this:—that the governor, in as far as he is governor, errs not; and as
he does not err, he enacts that which is best for himself, and this must
be observed by the governed. So that as I said at the beginning, I call
justice the doing that which is for the advantage of the strongest [_i.
e._ the best].

-----

Footnote 46:

  There was a prevalent corruption in the law-courts of Athens, which at
  length gave rise to a separate class,—the infamous sycophants, who
  lived by extortion and making criminal charges against the opulent
  citizens of timid natures and quiet habits, who were ordinarily led to
  purchase the silence of these informers, who hence rose to wealth and
  importance.

-----

CHAP. XV.—Be it so, said I, Thrasymachus;—but do I seem to you to act
the sycophant? Aye, surely, said he. Do you think that I insidiously
mislead you in the argument, to put the question to you as I did? I know
it well, said he, and you shall gain nothing by it; for neither shall
you mislead me unawares, nor can you unawares get the better of me in
argument. I shall not attempt it, said I, my excellent friend, but, that
nothing of this kind may happen to us again,—define in which way you
speak of a ruler, and superior, according only to common talk, or in the
strict sense of the word, as you just now said, he, whose advantage, in
that he is the more powerful, it is just for the inferior to observe. [I
speak of him,] who is a ruler in the strictest sense of the word. For
this now abuse and calumniate me, as you like. I do not deprecate your
doing so; but you are quite unable. Do you think me so mad, said I, as
to attempt to shave a lion,[47] and traduce Thrasymachus? You have just
attempted it, said he, but with no effect. Enough of such matters, said
I; but tell me he who is, strictly speaking, a physician, whom you just
now mentioned, is he a gainer of money, or a tender of the sick?—and
mind—tell us of him who is really a physician. A tender of the sick,
said he. But what of the pilot? is he who is really a pilot, a master of
sailors, or a sailor? A master of sailors. It matters not, I fancy, that
he sails in a ship, and is not to be called a sailor; for he it is not
called a pilot from his sailing, but from his art, and his mastery of
the sailors. True, said he. Has not each of these, then, something that
is advantageous for him? Certainly. Was not the art then acquired for
this very purpose, said I, to seek out and supply to each what is
advantageous for him? For that purpose, said he. To each of the arts,
then, is any other advantage wanting, than to be as perfect as
possible?—How mean you by this question? If you were to ask me, said I,
whether it is sufficient for the body to be a body, or whether it needs
something else, I should say, that it certainly does stand in need of
something else. For this reason, indeed, has the medicinal art been
already invented, because the body is infirm, and it is not sufficient
for it to be such as it is:—in order then to supply what is advantageous
for it, art has been provided. Do you think then, said I, that I am
right, or not, in thus speaking? Right, said he. But what then? Is this
very art of medicine, or any other whatever, imperfect, as being
deficient in a certain virtue; just as the eyes, when deficient as to
sight, and the ears as to hearing; and for these reasons need they a
certain additional art to seek out and furnish what is expedient for
these very organs? Is there then in art itself some imperfection, and
does every art need another art, to consider what is expedient for it,
and does that which considers again need another, and so on to infinity;
or will each art consider what is expedient for itself; or will each
need neither itself, nor any other, to consider what is expedient for it
with reference to its own imperfection?—For there is no imperfection nor
error in any art whatever; nor is it the business of art to seek what is
expedient for anything else, but that of which it is the art;—but as for
itself, it is infallible and pure, because it is right, so long as each,
whatever it is, be an accurate whole:—and consider now, in that same
strict sense of the words, whether it be thus or otherwise. It seems so,
said he. The art of medicine, then, said I, does not consider what is
expedient for the art of medicine, but for the body? Yes, said he. Nor
the art of managing horses, what is expedient for that art, but for
horses. Nor any other art for itself (for that is needless), but only
for that of which it is the art? So it appears, he said. However,
Thrasymachus, the arts rule and govern that of which they are arts? He
assented to this, though with great difficulty. No science whatever,
then, either considers or dictates what is expedient for the superior,
but only what is so for the inferior,—that, namely, which is governed by
it? To this also he at length assented, though he attempted to contend
about it. But when he had assented, What else is this, said I, but
saying that no physician, so far as he is a physician, either considers
or dictates what is expedient for the physician, but only what is
expedient for the sick?—For the physician, strictly so called, has been
acknowledged to be one who has charge of the body, and is not an amasser
of wealth.—Has it not been acknowledged? He assented. And likewise that
the pilot, so called, is the master of the sailors, and not a sailor? It
has been acknowledged. Such a pilot and master then, will not consider
and dictate what is expedient for the pilot, but what is so to the
sailor and the governed? He acquiesced, but unwillingly. Nor yet,
Thrasymachus, said I, does any other in any government whatever, so far
as he is a governor, consider or dictate what is expedient for himself,
but only for the governed and those to whom he acts as steward; and,
with an eye to this, and to what is expedient and suitable for this, he
both says what he says, and does what he does.

-----

Footnote 47:

  A proverb, meaning—_To undertake any thing above one’s power_. There
  is a similar one in Latin.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—When we were at this part of the discussion, and it was
evident to all, that the definition of justice stood now quite contrary
[to that of Thrasymachus,] Thrasymachus, instead of replying, said: Tell
me, Socrates, have you a nurse? What now, said I;—ought you not rather
to answer, than put such questions? Because, forsooth, said he, she
neglects you when your nose is stuffed,[48] and does not wipe it when it
needs it, you, who as well as she, understand neither about sheep nor
shepherd. What is the meaning of all this? said I. Because you think
that shepherds and herdsmen consider the good of the sheep or oxen, to
fatten and tend them, having their eye on something else than their
master’s good and their own; moreover, that those who rule in cities,
those, who rule truly, are somehow differently disposed towards the
governed, than [a shepherd] would be towards sheep, and that they attend
day and night to somewhat else than the question, how they shall be
gainers themselves; and so far are you from the notion of the just and
justice, and the unjust and injustice, that you seem ignorant that both
justice and the just are, in reality, a foreign good, expedient for the
stronger and ruling party, but positively injurious to the subject and
servant,—while injustice, on the contrary, takes the rule of such as are
truly simple and just, and the governed do what is expedient for him,
since he possesses the most power, and promote his happiness, by serving
him, but themselves not at all.—In this case, most simple Socrates, we
should consider, that a just man gets less on all occasions than an
unjust.—First, in mutual contracts with one another, where a certain
party joins with another, you will never find on the dissolution of the
partnership, that the just man gets more than the unjust, but
less:—then, again, in civil affairs, when public imposts are to be paid.
the just man, from equal means, pays more, the other less; and when
anything is to be gained, the one gains nothing, the other much; and
when each of these holds any public office, if no other loss befals the
just man, at any rate his domestic affairs become deteriorated through
neglect, and from the public he derives no benefit, because he is
just;—besides which, he becomes hated by his domestics and acquaintance,
since he will never serve them, beyond what is just.—But with the unjust
man, all the contrary of this occurs; for I maintain, what I lately
said, that such an one has a great power of becoming unfairly
rich.—Consider the case of this man, therefore, if you would discern how
much more it conduces to his private interest to be unjust, rather than
just. This you will most easily of all understand if you come to the
most finished injustice, such as renders the unjust man most happy, but
the injured and those who are unwilling to do injustice, most
wretched.—This, now, is tyranny, which takes away the goods of others,
as well by secret fraud as open violence, both things sacred and holy,
private and public, and these in no small portions, but all at once—In
all particular cases of such crimes, when a man undisguisedly commits
injustice, he is both punished and treated with the greatest ignominy:
and as a proof of this, they are called sacrilegious, kidnappers,
housebreakers, pilferers, and thieves, according to the several kinds of
the wickedness committed. But when a man, in addition to the property of
the citizens, takes prisoners and enslaves the citizens themselves,
instead of these ugly names, he is called happy and blest, not only by
the citizens, but likewise by all the rest, whoever may get informed
that he has committed [such] enormous injustice;—for those who revile
wickedness, revile it—not because they are afraid of doing, but because
they are afraid of suffering what is unjust.—Thus, Socrates, is it, that
injustice, when it attains a certain point, is both more powerful, more
free, and more absolutely despotic than justice: and (as I said at the
beginning) the advantage of the stronger happens to be just, while that
is unjust which profits and benefits one’s self.

-----

Footnote 48:

  Gr. κορυζῶντα, _having a cold_ or rheum _in the nose_.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—Saying this, Thrasymachus purposed going off, after pouring
on our ears, as a bath-keeper, this impetuous and lengthened
discourse.[49] Those present, however, would not suffer him, but forced
him to stay and give account of what he had advanced; and I myself,
also, strongly urged him, and said: Oh! wonderful Thrasymachus; do you
purpose, after throwing on us such strange talk, to go away without
rightly instructing us, or informing yourself whether the case be as you
say, or otherwise? Do you think that you are trying to determine some
small matter, and not the guide of life, by which each of us being
conducted may pass his life most profitably? Can I think that the case
is otherwise? said Thrasymachus. You seem, at any rate, said I, to care
nothing at all about us, nor to be any way concerned whether we shall
live well or ill, through our ignorance of what you say you know:—but,
my good friend, be so obliging as to show it to us also; nor will the
favour be ill-placed,[50] whatever you may bestow on so many of us as
are here present. And I, for my part, can say that I am not persuaded,
nor do I think, that injustice is more gainful than justice,—not even
should we allow it play, and not prevent it doing what it likes. But, my
good friend, even supposing him to be unjust and able to do unjustly,
either secretly or by open force, yet I at least am not persuaded that
injustice is more gainful than justice; and on this point probably some
of us here are of the same mind, and not I alone. Persuade us,
therefore, sufficiently, my admirable friend, that we are wrong in
deeming justice of more value than injustice. But how, said he, am I to
persuade you? for if you are not persuaded by what I have said already,
what further can I do for you? Shall I take and implant my arguments in
your very soul? By Zeus, no, said I;—but, first of all, whatever you
have said, abide by it: or, if you do change, change openly, and do not
deceive us. Now, you see, Thrasymachus—(for we will reconsider what has
been above said),—that in first defining the true physician, you did not
think it needful afterwards, that the true shepherd should strictly keep
his flock, but fancy, that so far as he is a shepherd, he may feed his
flock without regarding the best interests of the sheep, but rather as
some glutton going to feast on them at some entertainment, or to dispose
of them as a merchant, and not [care for them] as a shepherd. The
shepherd art, however, has certainly no other care but that for which it
is appointed, namely, to afford it what is best, since its own affairs
are already so sufficiently provided for, as to be in the very best
state without needing any of the shepherd art. So likewise, I, for my
part, conceived that there you must necessarily agree with us in this,
that every government, in as far as it is government, considers what is
best for nothing else but for that which is governed and tended, whether
in political or private government. But with respect to rulers in
cities, think you that such as are really rulers govern willingly? No,
by Zeus, said he, [I do not think so;] but I am quite certain.

-----

Footnote 49:

  Lucian must have had this passage in view, when writing Encom.
  Demosth. § 16:—ἦ πού γε, ἔφην, διανοεῖ καταχεῖν μου τῶν ὤτων, ὥσπερ
  βαλανεὺς καταντλήσας τὸν λοιπὸν λόγον.

Footnote 50:

  Analogous phrases are common among the Greek Classics. Comp. Gorg. p.
  506 c., and Thucyd. i. c. 129:—Κείσεταί σοι εὐεργεσία ἐν πῷ ἡμετέρῳ
  οἴκῳ εἰσαεὶ ἀνάγραπτος.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—Why now, Thrasymachus, said I, do you not perceive, as
regards all other governments, that no one undertakes them willingly,
but men ask for recompense, since the benefits likely to accrue from
governing are not to come to themselves, but to the governed? Tell me
this, then;—do we not always say that each several art is distinct in
this, in having a distinct function? And my admirable friend, do not
answer contrary to your opinion, that we may make some real progress. In
this respect, at any rate, said he, it is distinct. And does not each of
them afford us some certain peculiar advantage, and not a common
one;—as, for instance, the medicinal, health; the pilot art, safety in
sailing,—and the rest in like manner? Certainly. And has not the
mercenary art mercenary reward? for this is its function. Do you call
both the medicinal art and the pilot art one and the same? Or, if you
mean to define them strictly, as you proposed, though one in piloting
recover his health, on account of the expedience of his going to sea,
you will not at all the more on this account call it the medicinal art?
Not at all, said he. Nor [will you call] the mercenary art the
medicinal, I fancy, though in earning a reward one may recover his
health? No, indeed. What then? Will you call the medicinal the mercenary
art, if, in performing a cure, one earn a reward? No, said he. Have we
not acknowledged, then, that each art has its peculiar advantage?
Granted, said he. Whatever, then, be that advantage, with which all
artists in common are advantaged, it must plainly be by using some same
thing in common to all, that they are advantaged by it. It seems so,
said he. Still, we say that the advantage accruing to artists from
receiving a reward comes to them from the adoption of a mercenary art.
He acquiesced unwillingly. This, then, is not the advantage which each
receives from his own art, [namely,] the receiving a reward?—But if we
strictly consider it, the art of medicine produces health, that of
money-getting a reward, masonry a house, and the mercenary art
accompanying it, a reward; and all the others in like manner,—every one
performs its own work, and confers advantage on that for which it was
designed; but if it meet not with a reward, is the artist benefited at
all by his art? It appears not, said he. But confers he no service when
he works gratuitously? I think he does. This, then, is now evident,
Thrasymachus, that no art or government provides what is advantageous
for itself; but, as we said long ago, it both provides and prescribes
for the governed what is advantageous to him, having in view the
interest of the inferior and not that of the more powerful. For these
reasons, then, friend Thrasymachus, I even just now said, that no one is
willing to govern and undertake the setting right of others’ troubles
without asking a reward; because, whoever intends to practise his art
well, never himself does nor enjoins [on others] what is best for
himself, if he enjoins according to his art, but rather what is best for
the governed; for which reason, therefore, as it seems, a recompense
must be given to those who are likely to be willing governors,—either
money, or honour,—or punishment, on the other hand, if a man will not
govern.

CHAP. XIX.—How say you this, Socrates? said Glaucon:—the two rewards,
indeed, I understand; but the punishment, that you mention, and how you
can speak of it under the head of reward, I know not. As for the reward,
then, of the best of men, said I, do you not understand why the most
worthy govern, when they are willing to govern:—or, do you not know,
that to be ambitious and covetous, is both deemed a reproach, and is so?
I do, said he. For these reasons, then, said I, good men are not willing
to govern, either for money or for honour; inasmuch as they neither wish
to be called mercenary, for openly making gain by governing,—nor
thieves, for taking clandestinely from what belongs to their office:—nor
again [are they willing to govern] for honour, since they are not
ambitious. Hence if they are to be induced to govern willingly, there
must be laid on them both compulsion and punishment; and hence it seems
likely, that a willing undertaking of government, without waiting for
compulsion, has been reckoned dishonourable. The greatest part of the
punishment, however, in case he is not willing to govern himself, is the
being governed by one who is inferior. It is chiefly through fear of
this, methinks, that the good govern, when they do govern: and in that
case they enter on the government, not as on anything good, or as about
to derive any advantage therefrom, but as on a necessary task, and
finding none better than, or even like, themselves, to intrust with the
government. It seems likely, indeed, that if there were a state of good
men, the contest would be, not to govern, as now it is to govern; and,
hence, it would be manifest, that the really true governor does not
naturally aim at his own advantage, but at that of the governed; so that
any one who has sense would rather choose to be benefited by another,
than have trouble in benefiting another. This, therefore, I, for my
part, by no means grant to Thrasymachus; that justice is what is
expedient for the stronger:—but this, indeed, we shall consider again
hereafter.—What Thrasymachus says now, however, seems to me of much more
importance,—when he says, that the life of the unjust man is better than
that of the just. You, then, Glaucon, said I, which opinion do you
choose; and which of the two seems to you most consistent with truth?
The life of the just, said he, is in my opinion the more profitable.
Have you heard, said I, how many good things Thrasymachus just now
enumerated in the life of the unjust? I heard, said he; but I am not
persuaded. Do you wish, then, that we should persuade him (if we can
find any means of doing so), that there is no truth in what he says? How
should I not wish it? said he. If then, by way of opposition, said I, we
advance, as argument against argument, how many good things are involved
in being just,—and again, he on the other side, and we again rejoin, it
will be requisite to compute and estimate what either of us says on
either side; and we shall want also some judges to decide thereon. But
if, as just now, we investigate these matters, by agreeing with each
other, we shall ourselves be both judges and counsel? Certainly, said
he. Which of these plans, then, said I, do you choose? The latter, said
he.

CHAP. XX.—Come then, said I, Thrasymachus;—answer us from the beginning.
Say you, that complete injustice is more profitable than complete
justice? Assuredly, I do say so, replied he;—and why, too, I have
already told you. Come, now, how can you affirm anything like the
following concerning them?—Do you call one of them virtue; and the other
vice? How not? Is not justice, then, a virtue,—and injustice a vice?
Likely, indeed, that I should say so, facetious man; since I say that
injustice is profitable, but justice not so! What then? Quite the
contrary, said he. Do you call justice a vice? No; but a very generous
folly. Do you, then, call injustice a want of principle? No, said he,
but sagacity. Do the unjust, Thrasymachus, seem to you both wise and
good? Such, at least, said he, as are able to do injustice in
perfection, and can subject states and nations to themselves; but you
think, perhaps, that I speak of cut-purses. Even such employment as
this, said he, is profitable, if concealed; but yet is of no value in
comparison with what I just mentioned. I am not ignorant, said I, of
what you mean to say: but at this I am surprised,—that you should reckon
injustice as a part of virtue and wisdom, and justice among their
contraries. But, I certainly do reckon it so. This, my good friend, said
I, is somewhat too hard, and it is no longer easy to know what one can
say: for if you had alleged that injustice is profitable, and had still
allowed it to be a vice, or base, as some others do,—we should have had
something to say, speaking according to received opinions. But now it is
evident that you will say it is beautiful and strong, and will attribute
to it all other properties which we ascribe to the just man, because,
forsooth, you have ventured to class it with virtue and wisdom. You
augur very truly, said he. I must not grudge, however, said I, to pursue
our inquiry, so long as I conceive you speak what you really think; for
you appear to me, Thrasymachus, without doubt, not to be jesting, but
only to speak what you conceive to be the truth. What difference is it
to you, said he, whether I think so, or not;—and why do you not refute
my reasoning? No difference at all, said I:—but try further to reply to
this likewise: does one just man appear to you to wish to have more than
another just man? By no means, said he; for otherwise he would not have
been accommodating and silly, as we just conceived him. What; not even
in a just action? No,—not even in one that is just, said he. But, would
he deem it right to overreach the unjust man, and reckon it just; or
would he not think it just? He would both count it just, said he, and
deem it right; but yet he would not be able [to do it]. That, said I, I
do not ask,—but, whether the just man would neither deem it right, nor
feel a wish to overreach a just man, but yet would do so to the unjust?
Such is the case, said he. What, then, would the unjust man [do?]—Would
he deem it right to overreach the just man, even in a just action? How
not, said he, since he deems it right to overreach all men? With
respect, then, to the unjust man and unjust action, will not the unjust
man desire to overreach both; and eagerly strive himself to receive most
of all? Such is the fact.

CHAP. XXI.—This, then, is what we mean, said I:—the just man does not
try to overreach one like himself, but one that is unlike, while the
unjust man does so both to one like, and one unlike himself. You have
expressed yourself admirably, said he. Well, then, said I, the unjust
man is both wise and good; but the just man is neither. Well, again,
said he. In that case, said I, is not the unjust man like the wise and
the good, and the just man unlike. Of course, said he, a person of a
certain character is likely to resemble one of like character; and he
who is otherwise, not. Well said:—such an one then, of course, is either
of those whom he resembles? Why doubt it? said he. Granted,
Thrasymachus;—now do you call one man musical, and another unmusical? I
do. Which of the two do you call wise, and which unwise? The musical,
surely, wise, and the unmusical unwise. As being wise, then, is he not
good; but as unwise, bad? Yes. And what as to the physician, is it not
the same? The same. Do you think, then, my excellent friend, that any
musician, when he is tuning a harp, wants to overreach, or deems it
right to have more skill than a man who is a musician, in straining and
slackening the strings? Not I. But what with respect to one unmusical?
He could not help it, said he. And what as to the physician? In
prescribing meats or drinks, would he try to overreach either another
physician, or the art he professes? No, indeed. But one who is no
physician [would?] Yes. Just consider then, as respects all science and
ignorance, whether any skilful man, be he who he may, appears to you to
have a desire to grasp at, or do, or say more than another skilful
man,—and not rather to do the same things, in the same business as one
equally skilful with himself? Aye, it seems, it must be so, said he. But
what, as to him who is unskilled, will not he like to overreach both
alike the skilful and the unskilled? Probably. But the skilful man [is]
wise? I admit it.—And the wise, good?—I admit it. Both the good and the
wise, then, will not want to overreach his like, but rather one unlike,
and contrary to himself? It seems so, said he. But the bad and the
ignorant man [will want to overreach] both his like and his contrary? It
appears so. In that case, Thrasymachus, said I;—the unjust man desires
to overreach both one unlike and one like himself:—did not you say so? I
did, said he. The just man, however, on his side, will not overreach his
like, but one unlike? Yes. The just man then, said I, resembles the wise
and the good, but the unjust, the evil and the ignorant? It seems so.
But we agreed, that each of them was such as what he resembled? We did
agree so. The just man, then, has been clearly shown to be good and
wise, but the unjust, ignorant and evil.

CHAP. XXII.—Thrasymachus at last agreed to all these things,—not easily,
as I now narrate them, but dragged to it, and with difficulty, and with
a wondrous deal of sweating, just as if it was summer. Then, indeed, did
I behold—I never did before—Thrasymachus blushing. And after we had
agreed that justice was virtue and wisdom, and injustice, vice and
ignorance,—well, said I, let this be so settled;—but we said also, that
injustice is powerful:—do not you remember, Thrasymachus? I do remember,
said he;—but, to me at least, what you now say is not pleasing, and I
have somewhat to say about it; but should I mention it, I well know you
would say I am declaiming.[51] Either, then, let me say what I please,
or, if you wish to question me, do so, and I will say to you, as to
gossiping old women,[52] “Be it so,” and will assent and dissent. Not by
any means, said I, if against your own opinion. Just to please you, said
he, since you will not let me speak: though what else do you wish?
Nothing, by Zeus, said I: but if you will do this, do it, and I will ask
questions. Ask, then. This, then, I ask, as just now (that we may
regularly examine our argument), of what quality is justice, compared
with injustice? for I think it has been said that injustice was more
powerful and stronger than justice.—But now, at any rate, said I, if
justice be both virtue and wisdom, it will easily, methinks, be seen to
be more powerful also than injustice, since injustice is ignorance; no
one can any longer be ignorant of this—For my part, however,
Thrasymachus, I am not desirous of getting rid of the question at once,
but to consider it somehow thus.—Would you say that a state may be
unjust, and attempt to enslave other states unjustly, and have enslaved
them, and besides that actually hold many in slavery under herself? How
not? said he: and this for the most part the best state will do, and one
that is most completely unjust. I am aware, said I, that this was your
assertion:—but this is what I wish to inquire; whether the state, which
becomes more powerful than another state, is to hold this power without
justice, or must necessarily do so with justice? If indeed, as you now
alleged, said he, justice is wisdom—with justice; but if, as I
said,—with injustice. I am quite delighted, Thrasymachus, said I, that
you not merely assent and dissent; but also that you answer quite
capitally. For I oblige you, he said. Therein doing well: oblige me,
then, in this too, and tell me,—think you that a city, or camp, or
robbers, or thieves, or any other company of men, such as jointly
undertake anything unjustly, can meet with any success, if they injure
one another? No, indeed, said he. But what, if they do no wrong?—-will
they not [get on] better? Certainly. For, somehow or other,
Thrasymachus, injustice induces seditions, and hatreds and contentions
among men,—while justice [brings] harmony and friendship. Does it not?
Granted, said he, that I may not differ from you.

-----

Footnote 51:

  A sly hit at the Sophists, of which dogmatic set Thrasymachus is
  throughout a very apt representative.

Footnote 52:

  The term γραῶν ὕθλος or μῦθος was quite proverbial among the Greeks.
  Comp. Gorg. p. 527 a. Τάχα δ’ οὖν ταῦτα μῦθος σοι δοκεῖ λέγεσθαι ὥσπερ
  γραός.

-----

CHAP. XXIII.—You are very kind, my excellent friend, then tell me this
too;—if this be the work of injustice to engender hatred wherever it
exists, will it not, when exercised both among freemen and slaves, make
them hate one another, and become seditious, and incapable of doing
anything in concert for the common advantage? Certainly. But what if it
happen in the case of two only; will they not differ, and hate, and
become enemies both to one another and to the just also? They will, said
he. If then, my admirable friend, injustice reside in a person,—will it
lose its power, or still retain it? It will still retain it, he replied.
Seems it not, then, to have some such power as this;—that, in whatever
it exists, whether in a city, or race, or camp, or anywhere else, it
first of all renders it unable to act of itself, owing to seditions and
differences; besides which, it becomes an enemy not only to itself, but
to every opponent, especially to the just—is it not so? Certainly. And,
methinks, when injustice residing in one man will have all these
effects, which it is natural for it to produce, it will, in the first
place, render him unable to act, while at variance and discord with
himself;—and, secondly, as being an enemy both to himself and the
just:—is it not so? Yes. But, at any rate, friend, the gods are just?
Granted, said he. As respects the gods, then, Thrasymachus, the unjust
man will be a foe, but the just man a friend? Feast yourself boldly on
this reasoning, said he; for I will not oppose you, that I may not
render myself odious to those who think so.[53] Come then, said I, and
satiate me with the rest of the feast, by answering as you were doing
just now: for as respects the just appearing wiser and better and more
able to act, but the unjust being capable of doing nothing in concert;
and besides that, as to what we said with reference to the unjust, that
they are ever at any time able strenuously to act in mutual
concert,—this we advanced not quite correctly, for being thoroughly
unjust, they would not spare one another: but yet it was evident that
there was a justice in them, which made them refrain at any rate from
injuring one another and those of their party,—owing to which they
performed what they did; and they rushed into unjust actions, through
injustice, in a kind of half-wicked feeling; for the completely wicked
are both perfectly unjust, and also quite incapable of action:—that this
is really so, I understand, but not in the way that you first defined
it. Besides, whether the just live better than the unjust, and are more
happy (which we proposed to consider afterwards), is now to be
considered:—and, methinks, they appear to do so even at present, from
what we have said:—but let us consider the matter still better; for the
discussion is not about a casual matter, but about the manner in which
we ought to live.

-----

Footnote 53:

  A clever way of extricating himself from the dilemma in which his
  general scepticism has involved him!

-----

Consider, then, said he. I am considering, said I;—and tell me, does
there seem to you to be any work peculiar to a horse? Yes. Would you not
call that the [peculiar] work both of a horse, and indeed of any being
whatever, which he can do, or best do, with him alone? I do not
understand, said he. But thus;—see you with anything else than the eyes?
Surely not. What then? Could you hear with anything else than the ears?
By no means. Should we not, then, justly call these the works peculiar
to them? Certainly. And what—could you not with a sword, a knife, and
many other things, lop off a vine-branch? How not? But with nothing, at
any rate, methinks, so well as with a pruning-knife made for that
purpose. True. Shall we not then define this to be its [peculiar] work?
We will so define it then.

CHAP. XXIV.—Now, methinks, you may understand better what I was asking,
when I inquired whether the work of each be not that which, of all
others, one performs either alone or in the best manner. I understand
you, said he; and this seems to me to be each one’s peculiar work.
Granted, said I:—and does there not likewise appear to you to be a
virtue belonging to everything, to which a certain work is assigned? But
let us run over the same ground once more:—We say that the eyes have a
certain work? Yes. Is there not then a virtue belonging to the eyes? A
virtue also. Well, then, have the ears a certain work? Yes. And of
course a virtue also? A virtue also. And, about all the rest;—is it not
thus? It is. But, hold:—could the eyes ever cleverly perform their work,
when not possessed of their own proper virtue, but vice instead of
virtue? How could they? said he; for perhaps you mean blindness instead
of sight. Whatever, said I, be their virtue, that I mean,—for I do not
yet enter on this question; but, whether by their own proper virtue they
will perform their own proper work well, whatever they undertake; and by
vice, badly? In this, at least, said he, you speak the truth. And will
not the ears also, when deprived of their virtue, perform their work
ill? Certainly. And, are we to settle all other things by the same
reasoning? So I suppose. Come then, after this, consider what follows:
has the soul a certain work, which you can perform by no other living
thing,—such as this, to take care, to govern, to consult, and all such
[acts?] Is there any other than the soul, to which we can justly ascribe
them, and say they are its proper functions? No other. But what of
this?—To live; shall we say it is the work of the soul? Most assuredly,
said he. Do not we say, then, that there is some virtue, also, peculiar
to the soul? We do. And can the soul, then, Thrasymachus, ever perform
its own works cleverly, whilst deprived of its proper virtue;—or, is
this impossible? Impossible. Of necessity, then, a bad soul must govern
and take care of things badly, and a good soul perform all these things
well? Necessarily so. Did we not then agree, that justice was the virtue
of the soul, and injustice its vice? We did so agree. The just soul,
then, and the just man, will live well, and the unjust ill? It appears
so, said he, according to your reasoning. Surely, then, he who lives
well is both blessed and happy; and he who does not, the opposite? How
not? The just, then, is happy, and the unjust miserable? Granted, said
he. But at any rate, it is not advantageous to be miserable, but happy?
How not? In that case, excellent Thrasymachus, injustice is never more
profitable than justice. Well, now, Socrates, said he, you have been
capitally well feasted at these Bendideia. Aye, by you, Thrasymachus, I
certainly have; for you are grown quite mild, and have ceased to be
troublesome:—and if I have not feasted handsomely, it is owing to
myself, not you.—But just as greedy guests, ever gloating on what is
fresh brought before them, taste thereof, without having properly
enjoyed what went before,—so I, methinks, without having first
ascertained what we were before investigating,—namely the nature of
justice, have omitted this, and rushed eagerly forward to inquire
concerning it, whether it be vice and ignorance, or wisdom and
virtue;—and when an assertion was afterwards introduced, that injustice
is more profitable than justice, I could not refrain from coming to
this, from the other; so that now, from this conversation, I have learnt
nothing at all;—for since I do not know what justice is, I can scarcely
know whether it be a virtue or not,—and whether he who possesses it be
unhappy or happy.


                       THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.


                                BOOK II.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _second book_ he illustrates justice by a pretty long discourse
    about injustice, its contrary, and the social evils thence arising.
    From such a comprehensive view of society itself he is not
    unnaturally led into his main argument, the subject of civil
    government; carefully distinguishing between the head and the
    members—the governors and the governed; but also bearing in mind
    that society is the stage on which alone the virtues of the just man
    can be seen in perfection. The governors, says he, should be
    spirited and shrewd, so as to be able both to repel the violence of
    the state’s enemies, and severely to punish wicked citizens, as well
    as peaceably to maintain their own subjects or dependants under the
    law’s protection, and to appoint proper rewards for virtuous and
    deserving actions. The principal study then should, as respects a
    state, be devoted jointly to _music_ and _gymnastics_—the former
    referring to mental, the other to bodily training; but above all
    these he places _religion_, which though he does not statedly define
    it, yet he proves to be wholly distinct from the superstition of his
    own time.

CHAP. I.—Having said these things, I thought to have been relieved from
the debate; but this it seems was only the introduction; for Glaucon is
on all occasions most courageous, and then especially did not approve of
Thrasymachus’s withdrawal from the debate, but said;—Socrates, have you
any desire of seeming to have persuaded us, or to succeed in really
persuading us that it is in every respect better to be just than unjust?
I, for my part, said I, would prefer to do so in reality, if it depended
on me. You are not doing then, said he, what you desire: for, tell me,
does there appear to you any good of this kind, such as we would accept
as a possession, without regard to its results, but embracing it
[simply] for its own sake; such as joy and all kinds of harmless
pleasures,[54] though for the future no other advantage springs from
them than the delight arising from their possession. To me, indeed, said
I, there does seem to be something of this kind. But what;—is there not
some species of good which we both love for its own sake, and also for
what springs from it,—as wisdom, sight, and health?—for such goods we
surely embrace on both accounts. Yes, said I. But do you see, said he, a
third species of good,—among which are bodily exercise, being healed
when sick, the practice of medicine, or any other lucrative
employment?—for these things, we should say, are laborious, yet
beneficial to us, and we should not choose them for their own sake, but
on account of the rewards and other advantages that spring from them.
There is, indeed, said I, this third species also: but what then? In
which of these species, said he, do you place justice? I think, indeed,
said I, in the most beautiful,—as being a good, which, both on its own
account and for what springs from it, is desired by a man bent on being
happy. It does not seem so, however, said he, to the multitude, but
rather to be of that laborious kind which is pursued on account of
rewards and honours [gained] through high repute, but on its own account
to be shunned, as fraught with trouble.

-----

Footnote 54:

  ἀβλαβεῖς means not only _harmless_ pleasures, but those which are pure
  and unalloyed with pain. We may remark here, that he divides goods (τὰ
  ἀγαθά) into three classes,—one, to be pursued for its own sake only,
  without reference to advantage.—another, which is to be loved both for
  its own sake, and for the advantages thence accruing,—and a third,
  which of itself perhaps is not worthy to be pursued, but only on
  account of the advantages thence accruing. In the second or mixed
  class Socrates places justice.

-----

CHAP. II.—I am aware, said I, that it seems so; and it was in this view,
that it was some time since condemned by Thrasymachus, but injustice
praised:—it seems, however, that I am one of those who are dull in
learning. Come now, said he, listen to me too, if you please; for
Thrasymachus seems to me to have been charmed by you just like a
snake,[55] more quickly than he ought; while, with respect to myself,
the proof has not yet been made to my satisfaction in either case, for I
desire to hear what each is, and what intrinsic power it has by itself,
when residing in the soul,—letting alone the rewards and what springs
from them. I will proceed, in this manner, therefore, if it be your
pleasure. I will take up Thrasymachus’s argument in another shape; and,
first of all, I will tell you what they say justice is, and whence it
arises,—and, secondly, that all who cultivate it, cultivate it
unwillingly, as necessary, but not as good,—and thirdly, that they do
this with reason, inasmuch as, according to their notion, the life of an
unjust man is much better than that of one that is just. Though, for my
own part, Socrates, it by no means appears so to me, still I am thrown
into a state of doubt, from having my ears stunned by hearing
Thrasymachus and innumerable others.—But as for the statement respecting
justice, that it is better than injustice, I have never yet heard it
explained as I wish. I wish, therefore, to hear it eulogized on its own
account, and am quite of opinion that I shall hear it from you:
wherefore, by way of opposition,[56] I shall speak in praise of an
unjust life, and in so speaking will show you in what manner I want to
hear you in turn condemn injustice and commend justice. But see if my
proposal be agreeable to you. Quite so, said I; for about what would any
man of intellect delight more frequently to speak and hear? You speak
excellently well, said he:—and now, as to what I said I would first
speak about, listen, both what justice is and whence it springs.

-----

Footnote 55:

  Thrasymachus is here, on account of his passionate violence and
  uncouth manners, aptly compared to a snake, which, as the ancients
  believed, could be softened and subdued by music:—and we note
  particularly the elegant use of the verb κηλεῖν, which primarily
  signifies to _charm_, _sooth_, _subdue_, and then generally, _to
  soften by persuasion_ or argument.

Footnote 56:

  Respecting this use of the verb κατατείνειν, comp. ch. ix. p. 367 b.
  p. 47 of this translation:—ὡς δύναμαι μάλιστα κατατείνας λέγω. See
  also, Xen. Anab. ii. 5, s. 30, and Eurip. Hec. v. 132.

-----

They say, forsooth, that to do injustice is naturally good, and to
suffer injustice bad,—but that suffering injustice is attended with
greater evil than doing injustice with good; so that, when men do each
other injustice, and likewise suffer it, and have a taste of both, it
seems advantageous for those, who are not able to avoid the one and
choose the other, to agree among themselves neither to act unjustly nor
yet to be treated so; and also, that hence they began to form for
themselves laws and compacts, and to call what is enjoined by law lawful
and just.—This, then, is the origin and essence of justice,—a medium
between what is best, namely, when a man acts unjustly with impunity,
and what is worst, that is, when one injured is unable to obtain
redress;—and this justice being half-way between both these, is desired,
not as good, but as being held in honour, owing to an incapacity for
doing injustice; because the man who had ability to do so would never,
if really a man, agree with any one neither to injure nor be injured;
for he would be mad to do so. This, then, Socrates, and such like, is
the nature of justice; and such, as they say, is the source whence it
arises.

CHAP. III.—Again,—that those who cultivate it through an incapability of
doing injustice, cultivate it unwillingly, we shall best be made aware,
if we should mentally conceive such a case as follows:—Let us give full
liberty to each of them, both the just and the unjust, to do whatever
they please,—and then follow them, observing whither inclination will
lead each.—We should then detect[57] the just man going the same way
with the unjust, through a desire of having more than others,—which
every nature naturally pursues as good, but by law and compulsion is led
to respect equality.[58] And the liberty of which I speak may be chiefly
of such a kind, as if they possessed such a power, as they say once
belonged to Gyges (the progenitor of the Lydian king[59]); and of him,
forsooth, they say, that he was a hired shepherd with the then governor
of Lydia, but when a portion of ground was torn up by a prodigious rain
and earthquake, and an opening made in the place where he was grazing
[his flocks,]—that, in astonishment at the sight, he descended and saw
other wonders besides, which men hand down in fables, especially a
brazen horse, hollow, provided with doors, leaning against which, he
beheld inside a dead body, apparently larger than that of a man, and
that it had nothing else except that it wore a gold ring on its hand,
which he took off and came out. And when there was a meeting of the
shepherds, as usual, for making their monthly report to the king about
their flocks, he also came with the ring; and while sitting with the
rest, he happened to turn the stone of the ring towards himself into the
inner part of his hand; and when this was done, he became invisible to
those who sat beside him, and they talked of him as absent: and
astonished at this, he again handled his ring, turned the stone outward,
and on turning it became visible. On observing this, then, he made trial
of the ring, whether it had this power; and it always happened so, that,
when he turned the stone inward, he became invisible,—when outward,
visible. Perceiving this, he instantly contrived to be made one of the
embassy to the king; and on his arrival he debauched his wife, and, with
her, assaulted and killed the king,[60] and took possession of the
kingdom. If now, there were two such rings, and the just man had one,
and the unjust the other, no one, we should think, would be so
case-hardened as to persevere in justice, and dare to refrain from
others’ property and not touch it, when it was in his power both to take
fearlessly, even from the market-place, whatever he pleased, and to
enter houses, and embrace any one he pleased,—both to kill and loose
from chains whomever he pleased,—and to do anything else likewise, as a
god among men:—acting in this manner, he would in no respect differ from
the other, but both would go the same road. This, in truth, one may say,
is a strong proof, that no one is willingly just, but only by
constraint, as if it were not an intrinsic good, because every one,
where he thinks he can, does injustice. Every man, then, thinks that
injustice is intrinsically much more profitable than justice, thinking
truly, as he says, who argues on such a subject as this: inasmuch as, if
any one possessed of such a liberty were never to act unjustly, nor
touch others’ property, he would be deemed by men of sense to be most
wretched, and most void of understanding; yet would they praise him in
each others’ presence, mutually deceiving one another through fear of
being injured. Thus much, then, concerning these things.

-----

Footnote 57:

  ἐπ’ αὐτοφώρῳ λαβεῖν, lit. _to catch in the fact_.

Footnote 58:

  Euripides in his Phœn. v. 545, &c., elegantly expresses a similar
  notion:—

                            ——κεῖνο κάλλιον, τέκνον,
                ἰσότητα τιμᾷν, ἣ φίλους ἀεὶ φίλοις
                πόλεις τε πόλεσι, συμμάχους τε συμμάχοις
                ξυνδεῖ· τὸ γὰρ ἴσον νόμιμον ἀνθρώποις ἔφυ.
                τῷ πλέονι δ’ ἀεὶ πολέμιον καθίσταται
                τοὔλασσον.

            To honour justice, and to love the right,
            Which friends to friends and state to state unite,
            Be ours. We honour equal aims and ends;
            But still the greater with the less contends,
            And evil times begin.

Footnote 59:

  The words between brackets are considered spurious by Stallbaum, but
  admitted as genuine by Bekker and Schneider. The pretty generally
  received opinion now is, that ὁ Λυδός alludes to Crœsus, who was
  highly celebrated throughout Greece, and hence was emphatically termed
  “The Lydian.” Comp., however, Herod. i. 8 (pp. 4, 5. Cary’s Transl.),
  who tells a somewhat different story.

Footnote 60:

  Gyges slew Candaules in the second year of the sixteenth Olympiad,
  B.C. 614. See Cic. de Offic. iii. 9, where the story is given in
  nearly the same form.

-----

CHAP. IV.—With respect, again, to the decision on the life of those of
whom we are speaking,—if we distinguish the supremely just and the
supremely unjust, we shall be able to come to a right judgment,—but not
otherwise; and what, then, is this distinction? It is this;—let us, from
the unjust man, take nothing of injustice, nor from the just man, of
justice; but let us make each of them perfect in his own pursuit. First,
then, let the unjust man act as clever artists [do]. For instance, a
skilful pilot or physician comprehends both the possible and impossible
in his art, the former of which he attempts, but relinquishes the
latter;—and again, if he meet with any failure, he is able to rectify
it:—so, in like manner, let the unjust man when he attempts clever acts
of injustice, remain concealed, if he intends to be exceedingly unjust;
but, as for him that is caught, he must be deemed worthless: for the
most complete injustice is—to seem just, when not so.[61] To the
completely unjust, then, we must ascribe the most complete injustice,
and not take it from him, but allow him, while doing the greatest
injustice, to win the highest reputation for justice; and, if he should
fail at all, he should be able to rectify it, and be capable of speaking
persuasively, if any report of his unjust deeds get abroad, and be able
also to effect by force what requires force, owing to his courage and
strength, and through the instrumentality of his friends and his wealth;
supposing him, then, to be such as this, let us for argument place in
contrast with him a just, simple-minded, and generous-hearted man, who,
according to Æschylus, desires less the seeming than the reality of
goodness:[62] let us take from him, then, the mere seeming of goodness;
for, should he seem just, honours and rewards will be his lot, because
he merely seems so:—and thus [it may be] uncertain whether he be such
for the sake of justice, or rewards and honours. Let him be stripped,
then, of everything but justice, and be placed in direct contrast to the
other;—without doing injustice too, let him have the reputation of doing
the greatest,—in order that he may be put to the test for justice, and
not be moved to reproach and its consequences, but rather be
unchangeable till death, seeming, indeed, to be unjust through life,
though really just; and that thus both arriving at the extreme,—one of
justice, the other of injustice, we may judge which of the two is the
happier.

-----

Footnote 61:

  Comp. here Cicero de Off. i. c. 13. Totius autem injustitiæ nulla
  capitalior est, quàm eorum, qui, quum maximè fallunt, id agunt, ut
  viri boni esse videantur.

Footnote 62:

  The entire passage here alluded to is from the Septem cont. Thebas, v.
  577:—

                 Οὐ γὰρ δοκεῖν δίκαιος, ἀλλ’ εἶναι θέλων,
                 Βαθεῖαν ἄλοκα διὰ φρενὸς καρπούμενος,
                 Ἐξ ἧς τὰ κεδνὰ βλαστάνει βουλεύματα.

-----

CHAP. V.—Bah, bah, said I, dear Glaucon, how exceedingly anxious you are
to cleanse each of these men for trial, just as [you would] a statue! As
much, said he, as I can: but, as they are such, there will be no
difficulty, I suppose, in ascertaining what life will be the lot of
either. It shall be told, then:—and, even if it should be told with more
than usual bluntness, think not, that it is I who tell it, Socrates, but
those who praise injustice before justice.—This then will they say, that
the just man, thus situated, will be scourged, tortured, fettered, have
his eyes burnt out, and lastly, suffer all manner of evils, and be
crucified;[63] and he will know too, that a man should desire not to be,
but to appear just. As for that saying of Æschylus, too, it applied far
better against the unjust man: for in reality men will say, that the
unjust man, as being in pursuit of an object connected with truth, and
not living according to opinion, has no desire to appear, but to be
unjust,—

            Reaping the hollow furrow of his mind,
            Whence all his cherished councils blossom forth.

In the first place, he holds the magistracy in the state, because he is
thought just,—next, he marries out of whatever family he pleases, and
gives his children in marriage to whom he pleases, forms agreements and
joins in partnership with whom he likes,—and, besides all this, succeeds
in all his projects for gain, because he scruples not to commit
injustice. When he engages, therefore, in competitions, he both in
private and public surpasses and overreaches his adversaries; and by
this overreaching gets rich, serves his friends, hurts his foes; and to
the gods, as respects sacrifices and offerings, he not only sufficiently
but even magnificently both sacrifices and makes offerings, serving far
better than the just man, not only the gods, but of men also whomsoever
he pleases; so that it is very likely that he should be a greater
favourite of the gods than the just man. Thus, they say, Socrates, that
with gods and men a better life awaits the unjust than the just.

-----

Footnote 63:

  A similar passage occurs in Cicero de Republ. iii. 17:—Proque hac
  opinione bonus ille vir vexetur, rapiatur, manus ei denique
  offerantur, effodiantur oculi, damnetur, vinciatur, uratur,
  exterminetur, exeat, postremo jure etiam optimo omnibus miserrimus
  esse videatur.

-----

CHAP. VI.—Glaucon having said this, I was thinking of saying something
in reply; but his brother Adimantus said—Do you not think, Socrates,
that enough has been already said on the matter? What then? said I. The
very point has not been mooted, said he, which ought most especially to
have been discussed. Why then, said I, as the saying is, let a brother
help a brother,—so that, if he fails at all, do you help him out:—yet,
as far as I am concerned, what he has alleged is quite sufficient to
defeat me, and disable me from defending justice.

And he in reply said: Oh, it is a mere nothing you allege;—but still
hear this in addition;—for we must go through all the arguments in
opposition to what he has said, [those, namely,] which praise justice
and condemn injustice,—in order that it may be more clearly seen, what,
I think, Glaucon means: and perhaps parents tell and exhort their sons,
as all those do who care for them, that they ought to be just,—not
commending justice for itself, but for the reputation arising
therefrom;—and hence to a man reputed to be just, there may accrue from
that very repute both state-offices and marriage-connections, and
whatever Glaucon just now enumerated as the consequences of being
reputed just: these, however, carry this notion of repute too far;—for,
throwing in the approbation of the gods, they can speak of abundant
blessings, which, they say, the gods bestow on the holy. Just as noble
Hesiod and Homer say;—the former, that the gods make oaks produce for
just men

          Acorns at top, and in the middle bees;
          Their woolly sheep are laden thick with fleece;[64]

and a great many other good things of the same nature:—similarly, also,
the latter:—

           [Unrivalled, like the praise] of some great king,
           Who o’er a numerous people and renown’d
           Presiding like a deity, maintains
           Justice and truth. The earth under his sway
           Her produce yields abundantly; the trees
           Fruit-laden bend; the lusty flocks bring forth;
           The ocean teems with finny swarms beneath
           His joint control, and all the land is blest.[65]

Musæus, too, and his son [Eumolpus] tell us, that the gods give just men
far more splendid blessings than these;[66] for carrying them in his
poem into Hades, and placing them at table in company with holy men, at
a feast prepared for them, they crown them, and make them pass the whole
of their time drunken,—deeming eternal inebriation to be the best reward
of virtue.—Some, however, extend down still further than these the
rewards from the gods; for they say, that children’s children, and a
future generation of the holy and faithful, are left on earth. These,
then, and such as these, are their eulogies of justice. As for the
unholy and unjust, however, they bury them in Hades, in mud, and compel
them to carry water in a sieve;—and as for those that are yet living, if
they lead them into wrong notions, as Glaucon did in enumerating the
punishments of just persons, but reputed unjust,—this they can allege
about the unjust, but nothing else. The praise then or blame belongs to
either party [as they please].

-----

Footnote 64:

  Hesiod. Op. et Di. v. 231. Comp. Virg. Eclog. iv. 30, and Hor. Epod.
  xvi. 47.

Footnote 65:

  Hom. Odyss. xix. 109-113.

Footnote 66:

  Eumolpus, the son of Musæus, was a Thracian, who emigrated into
  Attica, and founded the Eleusinian mysteries,—from whom also the
  Athenians in charge of the rites were called Eumolpidæ. See Smith’s
  Dict. of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology,—articles _Musæus_
  and _Eumolpus_;—also Kreuzer’s Symbolik. vol. iv. p. 342, &c.

-----

CHAP. VII.—In addition to this, however, consider, Socrates, another
species of argument about justice and injustice, referred to both
privately and by poets; for all with one mouth celebrate temperance and
justice[67] as beautiful, but still difficult and laborious, but
intemperance and injustice as sweet and easy of attainment, though by
repute only and law disgraceful: and they mostly say, that unjust are
more profitable than just actions; and wicked rich men, and such as have
power of any kind, either public or private, they are quite willing to
pronounce happy and to honour both publicly and privately, but to
despise and overlook those who may be at all weak and poor, even though
they acknowledge them to be better than the others.—But of all these
arguments, the most marvellous are those concerning the gods and
virtue,—as if it were a matter of course, that the gods allot
misfortunes and an evil life to many good men, and to the opposite, an
opposite fate. Pedlar-priests[68] also, and prophets, frequenting the
gates of the rich, persuade them, that they possess a power granted them
by the gods, of expiating by sacrifices and incantations in the midst of
pleasures and feastings, whatever injustice has been committed by any
one, or his forefathers: and if he wishes to blast a foe, he can at
small expense injure the just, as well as the unjust, by certain
blandishments and magic ties, persuading the gods, as they say, to
succour them: and to all these discourses they bring the poets as
witnesses; who, mentioning man’s predisposition to vice, say,—

           How vice at once and easily we choose;
           The way so smooth, its dwelling too so nigh;
           Toil before virtue, thus forewill’d the gods—[69]

and a certain road, both long and steep;—while others make Homer witness
as to the persuasive power of men over the gods, inasmuch as that poet
says,—

                                          ... the gods
             In virtue thy superiors, are themselves
             Yet placable; and if a mortal man
             Offend by transgression of their laws.
             Libation, incense, sacrifice, and prayers
             In meekness offer’d turn their wrath away.[70]

They bring forward, too, a crowd of books of Musæus and Orpheus, the
offspring of the Moon and the Muses, as they say, in accordance with
which they perform their sacred rites, persuading not only private
individuals, but states likewise, that both absolutions and purgations
from iniquities are effected by sacrifices, and sportive pleasures,—and
this, too, for the benefit of the living as well as the dead;—which
purgations they call _mysteries_,[71] which absolve us from the evils of
another life,—whereas a dreadful fate awaits those who perform no
sacrifice.

-----

Footnote 67:

  Comp. Hesiod. Op. et D. v. 287, &c., and Epicharmus, cited by
  Xenophon, Mem. II. 1. § 20.

Footnote 68:

  The ἀγύρται were a species of itinerant sacrificers, who went about
  collecting money for the expense of sacrifices to certain gods or
  goddesses, and contrived to eke out a subsistence by imposing on the
  vulgar, whom they supplied also with nostrums, and cheated with lying
  prophecies.

Footnote 69:

  Hes. Op. et D. v. 285-288;—and they are cited also in the Laws, iv. p.
  718, e.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—As respects all such and so much as has been said, dear
Socrates, about virtue and vice, and what reward both men and gods
attach thereto,—what do we suppose the souls of our youth do when they
hear them, such at least as are of good natural parts, and able to rush,
as it were, to all that is said, and thence infer in what sort of
character, and by what procedure one may best pass through life? He
might probably say to himself, according to Pindar,—

            Shall I yon rampart, loftier far
              Than justice, dare ascend,—or crooked fraud
            Invite, to cheat the world, and thus
              Myself live cased in guilt’s base panoply.[72]

For what is said happens to me, if I am just, though I am not reputed
so, they say it is no profit, but clearly, mere trouble and
punishment,—whereas the unjust man, who has procured for himself the
reputation of justice, is said to have a divine life. Since then, as the
sages tell me,[73] appearance both does violence to reality, and is the
arbiter of happiness, I ought surely to turn wholly thereto, drawing
round myself, as a covering and picture, an image of virtue, but still
dragging after me the cunning and versatile fox of that very clever
Archilochus.[74] Perhaps, however, some one will say,—it is not easy for
a bad man always to practise his wickedness in secret.—Neither is
anything else easy (will we say) of important matters: but still, would
we be happy, thither we must go where the tracks of reasoning lead us:
for, with a view to concealment, we shall form conspiracies and
associations; and there are masters of persuasion, who teach a popular
and forensic wisdom,—by which, partly though persuasion and partly by
force, we may escape punishment after all our over-reaching. However, it
is not possible either to escape the notice of the gods, or to overpower
them.

-----

Footnote 70:

  Il. ix. 493.

Footnote 71:

  Gr. τελετάς.

Footnote 72:

  See _Boeckh_, _Pindari Fragm._ ccxxxii. p. 671.

Footnote 73:

  _Simonidis Fragm._ cxxiii. ed. Gaisford, i. p. 394.

-----

Wherefore, if they have no existence, and have no care about human
affairs, neither need we care about concealment; and as respects their
existence and care for us, we neither know nor have heard of them
otherwise than from traditions, and from the poets who write their
genealogies;[75] and these very persons tell us, that they are to be
moved and persuaded by sacrifices and propitiatory vows, and
offerings,—both of which we are to believe, or neither. If, however, we
are to believe both, we may do injustice, and offer sacrifice from the
fruits of unjust deeds. For if we be just, we shall escape punishment
from the gods, and then deprive ourselves of the gains of injustice: but
if, on the other hand, we be unjust, we shall make gain, and after
transgressing and offending, shall appease them by prayers, and so
escape punishment. Nevertheless, we shall suffer in Hades the punishment
of our misdeeds here, either ourselves, or our children’s children. But
the reasoner may say, Friend, the mysteries again can do much, and the
gods who expiate,—as say the mightiest states, and those children of the
gods,—the poets and prophets, who declare that these things are so.

-----

Footnote 74:

  That is, apparently, _virtue_; but, in reality, mere _cunning_.
  Archilochus has written more than one piece, in which the fox plays
  the part of a cunning and deceitful personage. See _Archil. Fragm._
  ed. Gaisf. i. pp. 307, 308.

Footnote 75:

  That the gods exercise no care over human affairs was a favourite
  doctrine of the sophists, and especially of Protagoras. Comp. Theæt.
  p. 162, d. with Cicero de Nat. Deor. i. ch. 23. See also De Legg. p.
  885, d. e.—ἡμῶν μὲν γὰρ οἱ μὲν τὸ παράπαν θεοὺς οὐδαμῶς νομίζουσιν, οἱ
  δὲ μηδὲν ἡμῶν φροντίζειν, οἱ δὲ εὐχαῖς παράγεσθαι ... νῦν μὲν γὰρ
  ταῦτα ἀκούοντές τε καὶ τοιαῦθ’ ἕτερα τῶν λεγομένων ἀρίστων εἶναι
  ποιητῶν τε καὶ ῥητόρων καὶ μαντέων καὶ ἱερέων καὶ ἄλλων
  πολλακισμυρίων, οὐκ ἐπὶ τὸ μὴ δρᾷν τὰ ἄδικα τρεπόμεθα οἱ πλεῖστοι,
  δράσαντες δὲ ἐξακεῖσθαι πειρώμεθα.

-----

CHAP. IX.—For what reason, then, should we prefer justice before the
greatest injustice?—Should we acquire it by any unfair pretences, we
shall, both with reference to gods and men, fare according to our wishes
both in life and death, as we are told by the sayings both of the
multitude and the learned too.—From all that has been said, then,
Socrates, how shall a man contrive to acquire a will for honouring
justice, who has any power of mind, or wealth, or body, or birth, and
not rather laugh at hearing its praises? Although, therefore, a man be
able even to show what we have said to be false, and fully knows that
justice is best, he will, perhaps, greatly excuse and not be angry with
the unjust, because he knows, that unless a man through a divine
instinct abhor injustice, or from knowledge abstain from it,—of all the
rest not one is willingly just, but either through cowardice, old age,
or some other weakness, condemns injustice, when unable to do it. That
it is so, is plain;—for the first of such persons, who arrives at the
power, is the first to commit injustice, as far as he is able.

The reason of all this, again, is no other than that, from whence all
this discussion set out between my brother and me and you, Socrates,
because, among all of you, my wonderful man, who call yourselves the
eulogists of justice, from these ancient heroes downwards, of all whose
arguments are left to the men of the present time, no one has ever yet
condemned injustice, nor praised justice, otherwise than as respects the
repute, honours, and emoluments arising therefrom; while, as respects
either of them in itself, and subsisting by its own power in the soul of
the possessor, and concealed both from gods and men, no one has yet
sufficiently investigated, either in poetry or prose-writing,—how,
namely, that the one is the greatest of all the evils that the soul has
within it, and justice the greatest good: for had it from the beginning
been thus stated by you all, and you had so persuaded us from our youth,
we should not need to guard against injustice from our fellows, but
every man would be the best guardian over himself, through fear, lest by
doing injustice he should dwell with the greatest evil. These things,
Socrates, and, perhaps also, yet more than these, Thrasymachus, and
others too, might say respecting justice and injustice, perverting their
power, disagreeably as I conceive:[76]—but, I, for I wish to conceal
nothing from you, am very anxious to hear your refutation, and so say
the most I can by way of opposition.—Do not, therefore, merely show us
in your reasoning, that justice is better than injustice, but in what
way each by itself affects the mind, the one as in itself evil, and the
other as good; and put out of the question mere opinion, as Glaucon
recommended; for if you do not set aside the true opinions on both
sides, and add those that are false, we will say you do not praise
justice, but its appearance, and do not condemn injustice, but its
appearance,—advising the unjust man to hide himself, and agreeing with
Thrasymachus that justice is a foreign good expedient for the more
powerful, while injustice is what is expedient and profitable for one’s
self, but inexpedient for the inferior. Since, then, you have granted
that justice is one of those greatest goods, which on account of their
results are worthy to be possessed, but yet far more in themselves for
their own sake,—such as sight, hearing, wisdom, health, and all other
genuine goods, such as are so in their own nature, and not merely in
opinion; for this very reason we may praise justice, as intrinsically,
in itself, profitable to its owner, and injustice harmful; but as for
rewards and repute, let others sing their praises.—I could endure,
perhaps, that the rest of the world should thus praise justice and
condemn injustice, complimenting and reviling the opinions and rewards
that concern them; but certainly [I could not endure] it in you (except
you absolutely require it), because you have passed the whole of life,
engaged in no other inquiry but this.—Show us, then, in course of the
discussion, not only that justice is better than injustice, but also
what either intrinsically by itself makes its owner, whether concealed
or not from gods and men, the one being good, and the other evil.

-----

Footnote 76:

  φορτικῶς, ὥς γ’ ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ.

-----

CHAP. X.—On hearing this, pleased, as I always am, with the disposition
of Glaucon and Adimantus, I was then, in particular, perfectly
delighted, and replied: O sons of that worthy sire [the Sophist,[77]]
with good reason does the lover of Glaucon thus begin his elegies [which
he made] on you, when you distinguished yourselves in the battle of
Megara.[78]

                 Ariston’s sons! of sire renown’d afar,
                 That race divine....

-----

Footnote 77:

  The phrase ἐκείνου τοῦ ἀνδρός does not refer to their father Cephalus,
  but to some sophist of whom they were the disciples, and whose dogmas
  they defended. The words are similarly used in the Philebus. Comp.
  also παῖδες ζωγράφων in Legg. vi. p. 769, b.

Footnote 78:

  A battle fought near Megara between the Athenians and Corinthians, in
  which the former were victors; Ol. 80, 4 (B.C. 453). Comp. Thuc. i.
  105; Diod. Sic. xi. 79.

-----

This, friends, seems well observed; for you must be under some influence
quite divine, if you are not persuaded that injustice is better than
justice, when you can thus speak in its defence. Still methinks, you are
not really persuaded; and I reason from the rest of your behaviour;
because, according to your mode of talking, I should certainly have
disbelieved you:—but the more I trust you, the more I am at a loss, as
to the kind of argument I should use. I know not, indeed, how I am to
defend it,—as I seem unable:—and the proof of it is, that, as respects
what I thought I had clearly shown in arguing with Thrasymachus, that
justice is better than injustice, you did not admit my proofs;—nor, on
the other hand, have I any excuse for not defending it; because I fear
it may be impious to abandon justice, and see it accused when I am
present, without defending it, so long as I have breath and am able to
speak. It is best then to assist it in such a manner as I can. Hereupon
Glaucon and the rest entreated me by all means to defend it, and not
relinquish the discussion, but rather investigate thoroughly the nature
of each, and what the truth is, as to their respective advantages. I
then stated what I thought,—that the inquiry we were attempting was no
trifling one, but one, as appears to me, suited for sharp-sighted
persons. Since then, said I, we are not very expert, it seems proper to
make such an investigation of it, as if a person should order persons
not very sharp-sighted to read small letters at a distance, and then
find out that the same letters are rather larger elsewhere, and in a
larger field;—it would then appear desirable, methinks, first to read
these, and then examine the lesser, whether they happen to be the same.
By all means, said Adimantus. But what analogy do you perceive,
Socrates, in the inquiry about justice? I will tell you, said I:—do we
not say that justice affects an individual man and an entire state also?
Certainly, replied he. Is not a state a greater object than an
individual? Greater, said he. Perhaps, then, justice will be more fully
developed in what is greater, and also more easily intelligible:—we will
first, then, if you please, inquire what it is in states; and then, we
will in like manner examine it in the individual, searching for the
similitude of the greater in the idea of the less. Yes,—you seem to me,
said he, to speak rightly. If then, said I, we contemplate in argument
the rise of a state, shall we not also perceive the rise of justice and
injustice? Perhaps so, said he. Well then, if this be the case, is there
no ground for hoping that we shall more easily find the object of our
inquiry? Just so. Does it not seem, then, that we ought to try after
success? for I imagine this is a work of no small importance. Consider
then. We have considered, said Adimantus, and do you the same.

CHAP. XI.—A state then, said I, takes its rise, methinks,—because none
of us individually happens to be self-sufficient, but stands in need of
many things; do you think that there is any other origin of the
settlement of a state?[79] None, said he. Thus, then, one assisting one
person for the want of one thing, and another another for the want of
another, as we stand in need of many things, we collect into one
dwelling many companions and assistants, and to this joint dwelling we
give the name of city; do we not? Certainly. One then imparts to
another, if he does impart anything, or receives in exchange, thinking
it will be for his advantage? Certainly. Come then, said I, let us, for
argument’s sake, form a city from the beginning;—our necessity, as it
seems, will form it? Of course. But the first and the greatest of wants
is the provision of food, in order that we may subsist and live?
Assuredly. The second is of lodging, the third of clothing, and the
like? Just so. But come, said I, how will the city be able to make so
great a provision?—Shall not one be a husbandman, another a builder, a
third a weaver;—and must we not add to them a shoemaker, or some one
else of those that minister to our bodily wants? Certainly. The state
then, that is most in need, will consist of only four or five men?[80]
It appears so. What then? must each of these contribute his work for the
whole in common?—as, for instance, must the husbandman, though only one,
provide food for four, and spend fourfold time and labour in providing
food and sharing it with others; or is he, without any care for them, to
prepare for himself alone the fourth part of this food in the fourth
part of the time, while of the other three parts of his time, he employs
one in the providing a house, another clothing, the other shoes,—and not
trouble himself to share with others, but give his whole attention to
his own affairs? And Adimantus said—Aye, but perhaps the former way,
Socrates, is easier than the latter. By Zeus, that is not amiss, said
I:—for, while you are speaking, I am thinking that first of all we are
born not each perfectly alike to each, but differing in disposition,—one
fitted for doing one thing, and another for another;—does it not seem so
to you? It does. What then?—Will a man do better, when, as a single
individual, he works in many arts, or only in one? When one works in
one, said he. This, moreover, is also plain, methinks;—that if one miss
the seasonable time for any work, it is ruined? Clearly. Aye,—for the
work, methinks, will not wait on the leisure of the workman, but the
workman must necessarily attend closely on his work, not in the way of a
by-job? He must. And hence more will be done, and better, and with
greater ease, when every one does but one thing, according to his
genius, at the proper time, and when at leisure from all other pursuits.
Quite so, said he. Surely, Adimantus, we need more citizens than four
for the provisions that we mentioned: for the husbandman, it seems, will
not himself make his own plough, if it is to be good, nor yet a spade or
any other instruments of agriculture:—neither, again, will the
builder,—for he, likewise, needs many things; and in the same way, the
weaver also and the shoemaker:—is it not so? True. Carpenters, then, and
smiths, and many other such workmen, by becoming members of our little
city, make it throng? Certainly. Yet it would be no very great matter,
either, if we added to them herdsmen also, and shepherds, and all other
sorts of graziers,—in order that both the husbandmen may have oxen for
ploughing, and the builders by aid of the husbandmen may have cattle for
their carriages, and the weavers also, and shoemakers, hides and wool.
Yet it would be no very small city, said he, that had all these.
Moreover, said I, it is all but impossible to settle the city itself in
such a place that it will not require imported goods. Impossible.
Surely, then, it will require others in addition, to bring to it what it
needs from other cities. It will require them. And, moreover, if the
servant were to go empty, taking with him nothing that they need from
whom what they themselves require is imported, he will return empty;
will he not? I think so. It is necessary for them, then, not only to
produce what is sufficient for themselves, but such and as many things
also, as are required by those whose services they require. It ought.
Our city, then, certainly wants many more husbandmen and other kinds of
workmen. Aye, many more. And all other servants besides, to import and
export the several articles; and these are merchants, are they not? Yes.
We shall want merchants then, as well? Certainly. And if the traffic is
carried on by sea, it will want many others besides, skilled in
navigation. Many others, truly.

-----

Footnote 79:

  Aristotle has made some unnecessarily severe strictures on this notion
  in his Polit. iv. ch. 4, which are ingeniously refuted by Morgenstern,
  Comment. de Plat. Rep. on this passage.

Footnote 80:

  Comp. here the strictures in Aristotle’s Polit. iv. 3 and 4.

-----

CHAP. XII.—What then;—in the city itself, how will they exchange with
one another what each has produced, for the sake of which, we have
formed a city and established a community? It is plain, said he, that by
selling and buying [they will do so]. A market-place, therefore, and an
established coinage, as a symbol for the purposes of exchange, must
spring up from hence. Certainly. If then the husbandman, or any other
workman, bring any of his work to the market, but does not come at the
same time as those who want to make exchanges with him, will he not,
while sitting in the market, be unoccupied at his trade? By no means,
said he; for there are some, who, observing this, devote themselves to
this service; and, in well-regulated cities, they are chiefly such, as
are weakest in body and unfit for any other work;—these then should
attend about the market, to give money in exchange for what people wish
to sell, and goods in exchange for money to such as want to buy. It is
this want, said I, that provides our city with a race of shopkeepers;
for do we not call those shopkeepers, who sit in the market, and serve
both in selling and buying; whereas such as travel to other cities we
call merchants? Certainly. There are certain other servants still, I
conceive, who, though as regards intellectual power unworthy to be taken
into society, yet possess bodily strength adequate for labour; and these
selling the use of their strength, and calling the reward of it hire,
are called, I think, hired labourers;—are they not? Just so. Hired
labourers then, as it seems, form the complement of a city. Aye, it
seems so. Has our city then, Adimantus, so increased on us already, as
to be complete? Perhaps. Where, then, will justice and injustice be
placed in it; and, in which of the matters that we have considered is it
engendered? I do not know, said he, Socrates, unless it be somehow in a
certain use of these very things with one another. Perhaps, said I, you
are right:—but yet we must consider the point, and not avoid it. First,
then, let us consider how the persons thus procured are to be
supported.—In making bread and wine, and clothes, and shoes, and
building houses, will they not work in summer, chiefly without clothes
and shoes, but in winter, sufficiently clad and shod? and will they be
supported partly on barley made into meal, and partly on wheat made into
loaves, partly boiled and partly toasted, with fine loaves and cakes
placed over a fire of stubble or dried leaves, and will they feast, they
and their children, resting on couches strewed with smilax and
myrtle-leaves,—drinking wine, crowned, and singing to the gods,
pleasantly living together, begetting children not beyond their means,
and cautiously guarding against poverty or war?

CHAP. XIII.—Glaucon then, in answer, said: You make the men feast, it
seems, without esculents.[81] You say true, said I: I forgot that they
were to have esculents too;—and they will clearly have salt, and olives,
and cheese, and will boil bulbous roots, and potherbs, such as are
cooked in the fields: and we will set before them desserts of figs,
peas, and beans; and they will toast at the fire myrtle-berries and
beech-nuts, drinking in moderation; and thus passing their life in peace
healthily, they will die in old age, probably, and leave a similar mode
of life to their children. Socrates, said he, if you had been making a
city of hogs, on what else but these would you have fed them? But what
ought we to do then, Glaucon? said I. What is usual, said he: let them
lie down on beds, I think, unless they are to live miserably, and take
their meals from tables, and have esculents, as the present men have,
and desserts. Be it so, said I:—I understand. We are considering, it
seems, not only how a city, but how a luxurious city may exist; and
perhaps it is not amiss: for, in considering one of this character, we
may probably see how justice and injustice arise in cities. But the true
city, which we have lately described, seems to me just like a person
that is in health; but if you are desirous that we should inspect, also,
a city that is inflated, there can be no objection to it: for these
things [that concern a merely simple mode of life] will not of course
suffice for some, nor will this sort of life satisfy them; but there
must be beds, tables, and all other articles of furniture,—seasonings,
unguents, and perfumes, mistresses, confections, and many miscellaneous
articles of this description. And especially as to what we before
mentioned, we must no longer consider these as alone necessary,—namely,
houses, and clothes, and shoes; but we must set in operation painting
too, and all the refined arts, and must possess gold, and ivory, and all
things of that kind; must we not? Yes, said he.

-----

Footnote 81:

  The Greek ὄψον is not to be translated, except by a periphrasis. It
  strictly means _boiled meat_, as opposed to bread,—but more generally,
  as here, anything eaten with bread or other food to give it flavour
  and relish.

-----

CHAP. XIV.—Must we not, then, increase the size of our city?—For that
healthy one is no longer sufficient, but already full of repletion and
abundance of such things as are in nowise requisite for cities,—such as
all kinds of sportsmen, and imitative artists, many of whom imitate in
figures and colours, and many in music: poets too, and their assistants,
rhapsodists, actors, dancers, contractors,[82] and manufacturers of all
sorts of trinkets, especially of those belonging to female attire; and
in that case, too, we shall require many more servants; and think you
not they will require teachers, nurses, tutors, hair-dressers, barbers,
confectioners, too, and cooks? Aye, and further still, we shall want
swine-herds. Of these, indeed, there were none in the other state (for
there needed none); but in this we shall need these also; and shall
require, too, many other sorts of cattle, if any one eats them; shall we
not? Of course. Shall we not, then, in this mode of life, require
physicians far more than in the former one? Much more.

-----

Footnote 82:

  Gr. ἐργολάβοι, i. e. persons undertaking for a certain sum to complete
  a house or any other given task.

-----

And the land, perhaps, which at first sufficed to support the
inhabitants, will, instead of being sufficient, become too little; or
how shall we say? Just so, said he. Must we not then cut off a part from
the neighbouring country, if we would have enough for arable and
pasture, and they in turn from ours, if they on their part devote
themselves to the accumulation of boundless wealth, going beyond the
limits of mere necessity?

We must, Socrates, said he. Shall we go to war afterwards, Glaucon, or
how shall we do? Certainly, said he. But let us not yet, said I,
consider the question, whether war produces harm or good,—but thus much
only, that we have found the origin of war, and whence especially arise
mischiefs to cities, both privately and publicly. Aye, indeed. We shall
require, then, friend, a still larger city,—not for a small, but for a
large army, which may go out and fight with those who assail it, for
their whole substance and everything that we have now mentioned. What,
said he, are not these sufficient to fight? No, said I;—not if you and
all of us were rightly agreed, when we formed our state: and we agreed,
if you remember, that it was impossible for a single person to practise
many arts well. True, said he. What then, said I, do not struggles in
war seem to require art? Very much so, said he. Ought we then to take
more care of the shoemaking art than of that of warfare? By no means.
But we charged the shoemaker not to attempt to be at the same time a
husbandman, or a weaver, or a builder, in order that the work of
shoemaking might be well done; and in like manner we allotted to each of
the others a single calling, to which each was adapted by nature, and at
which, each by abstaining from the rest, and applying to it the whole of
his life, and not neglecting the proper opportunities, he would be
likely to work well; but is it not of the greatest importance that what
concerns war should be well performed? or is it so easy that one who is
a husbandman may also be a soldier, and a shoemaker, and one who
practises any other art,—while no one could become a skilful chess or
dice player, who does not study it from childhood, but makes it a mere
by-work? and can a person who takes a spear or other warlike arms and
instruments, instantly become an expert combatant in an armed encounter
or aught else relating to war; while, as respects the tools of any other
art whatever, one cannot become a good artist, or even a wrestler to any
useful extent, without having correct knowledge and bestowing sufficient
attention? In that case, such tools, said he, would truly be very
valuable.

CHAP. XV.—Therefore, said I, by how much more important is the work of
the state-guardians, by so much will it require the greatest leisure
from other pursuits, and likewise the greatest art and study! I really
think so, replied he. And will it not also require natural talents
suited to this particular profession? Of course. I think, then, we
should make it our special business, if possible, to choose what men and
what talents are suited for the guardianship of a state. Aye, our
special business. By Zeus, said I, in that case we have undertaken no
trifling business; but, still we must not despair, as long, at least, as
we have any ability. Of course not, said he. Think you, then, said I,
that the genius of a high-bred whelp at all differs as respects
guardianship, from that of a high-bred youth? What do you mean? For
instance, must not each of them be acute in perception, swift in
pursuing what he perceives, and strong likewise, if he wants, when he
has taken, to overcome it? Of all these there is great need, said he.
And surely he must be brave also, if he is to fight well. Of course. But
is he likely to be brave, who has not a high spirit;[83] whether horse,
or dog, or any other animal? Have you not observed, how irresistible and
invincible is anger, and, when it is present, that every soul is
fearless of everything and indomitable? I have. It is plain, then, what
species of guardian we ought to have, as respects the body? Yes. And
with reference to his soul moreover, that he should be spirited. That is
clear, also. How then, said I, Glaucon, can they be otherwise than
savage towards each other and the other citizens, when of such a temper?
By Zeus, said he, not easily. Still it is necessary, that towards their
friends they should be mild, but towards their enemies fierce:—for
otherwise they would not wait for others to destroy them, but rather be
beforehand with them in doing it. True, said he. What shall we do, then,
said I;—whence shall we find a disposition at the same time mild and
magnanimous?—for the mild nature is surely opposed to the high-spirited?
It appears so. Nevertheless, if he be deprived of either of these, he
cannot be a good guardian; but this seems to be impossible:—and thus it
turns out that it is impossible there should be a good guardian. It
seems so, said he. Then I, being at a loss, and considering what had
passed, said:—We very justly hesitate, my friend, for we have departed
from the image that we first established. How say you? Did we not
observe that there are such kinds of tempers as we imagined did not
exist, having these opposite qualities? Where? One may see it also in
other animals, and not a little in that, to which we compared our
guardian; for you know it is the natural temper of generous dogs to be
as gentle as possible towards their intimates and their acquaintances,
but the reverse to those whom they know not. Aye,—I know it. This then,
said I, is quite possible; and we do not unnaturally require our
guardian to be so. It seems not.

-----

Footnote 83:

  Gr. ἐθελήσει, in the sense of μέλλει or δύναται.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—Are you, further, of opinion, that he who is to be our
guardian should, besides being spirited, have a philosophic nature also?
How? said he:—for I do not understand. This too, said I, you will
observe in dogs, what is also well worthy of admiration in the brute.
What? He is angry at every unknown person that he sees, though he has
never suffered ill from him before; but one that is known he fawns upon,
even though he may never have received any good from him. Did you never
wonder at this? I never, said he, thought of it before; but he does so,
it is clear. Moreover, this affection of his nature appears elegant at
least, and truly philosophic. In what respect? Because, said I, it
distinguishes a friendly and unfriendly aspect by nothing else but
this,—that it knows the one, but not the other:—and how can we refuse to
consider that as the love of learning, which defines the friendly and
the foreign by intelligence and ignorance? By no means, said he:—it
cannot be otherwise. Nevertheless, said I, to be a lover of learning and
a philosopher, are the same. The same, said he. May we not then boldly
lay down [the principle,] that in man too, if any one be mild towards
his intimates and acquaintances, he must by nature be a philosopher and
a lover of learning? Let us so lay it down, said he.

He, then, who intends to be a good and worthy state-guardian, should be
by nature a philosopher, spirited, swift, and strong. By all means, said
he. Let him, then, be just such as this, said I. In what manner, then,
shall they be trained and instructed? and will the consideration of this
at all aid us in perceiving the object, for the sake of which we are
considering all these things; that is to say, how justice and injustice
arise in a state? that we may not omit any necessary part of our
argument, or wade through what is superfluous? Then, said Glaucon’s
brother: I, for my part, quite expect, that this inquiry will conduce to
this end. By Zeus, said I, friend Adimantus, we must not dismiss it;
even though it be somewhat too long. No, truly. Come then, let us, as if
we were talking in the way of fable, and at our leisure, give some ideal
training to these men.[84] It is right to do so.

CHAP. XVII.—What then is the education?—Is it difficult to discover a
better than has been discovered for a long time? that is, surely,
gymnastics for the body, and music for the mind? It is. Must we not
first, then, begin by teaching music, rather than gymnastics? Of course.
When you say music, you mean arguments, do you not? I do. But of
arguments there are two kinds,—the one true, the other false. Yes. And
they must be instructed in both,—but first in the false. I do not
understand, said he, what you mean. Know you not, said I, that first of
all we tell children fables;—and this, [surely,] to speak generally, is
falsehood; though there is some truth in it; but we employ fables with
children before gymnastic exercises. We do. This was what I meant, then,
by saying that we must begin music before gymnastics. Right, said he.
And know you not, that the beginning of every work is most important,
especially to any one young and tender;—because then that particular
impression is most easily instilled and formed, which any one may wish
to imprint on each individual. Entirely so. Shall we then let children
hear any kind of fables composed by any kind of persons, and receive
into their minds opinions in a great measure contrary to those which we
think they should have when they are grown up? We should by no means
allow it. First of all, then, as it seems, we must exercise control over
the fable-makers; and whatever beautiful fable they may invent, we
should select, and what is not so, we should reject:—and we are to
prevail on nurses and mothers to repeat to the children such fables as
are selected, and fashion their minds by fables, much more than their
bodies by their hands. But very many of those that they now tell them
must be cast aside. What, for instance? said he. In the more important
fables, said I, we shall see the lesser likewise:—for the fashion of
them must be the same; and both the greater and the less must have the
same kind of influence:—do not you think so? I do, said he: but I do not
at all understand, which of them you call the greater. Those, said I,
which both Hesiod and Homer told us, and the other poets also:—for they
composed and related false fables for mankind, and do still relate them.
What class, said he, do you mean;—and what do you blame in them? That,
said I, which ought first and most of all to be blamed,—especially when
one does not falsify well. What is that? When a poet, in his
composition, exhibits bad representations of the nature of gods and
heroes,—just as a painter draws a picture not at all resembling what he
was intending to paint. Yes, it is quite right, said he, that such as
these should be blamed:—but how do we say, and in what respect? First of
all, said I, with reference to that greatest falsehood, in matters of
grave importance too, in saying which he did not falsify well, that
Uranus made what Hesiod says he did; and then again how Kronos punished
him, and what Kronos did, and suffered from his son:[85] for though
these things were true, yet I think they should not be so readily told
to the unwise and the young, but rather concealed from them;—and were
there need to tell them, they should be heard in secrecy, by as few as
possible, after sacrificing not a [valueless] hog,[86] but some great
and wonderful sacrifice, in order that it may fall to the lot of the
fewest possible to hear them. These fables, said he, are indeed
injurious. Neither are they to be told, Adimantus, said I, in our
state:—nor should it be said in the hearing of a youth, that he who
commits the most extreme injustice, or that he who punishes in every
possible way a father who commits injustice, does nothing strange, but
only does the same as the first and the greatest of the gods. No truly,
said he, nor do such things as these seem to me proper to be said.
Neither, generally, said I, must it be told, how gods war with gods, and
plot and fight against one another (for such assertions are not
true),—if, at least, it be the duty of those who are to guard the state
to esteem it most shameful to hate each other on slight grounds. As
little ought we to describe in fables, and with ornamental aids, the
battles of the giants, and other many and various feuds, both of gods
and heroes, with their own kindred and relations:—but if we would
persuade them that never at all should one citizen hate another, and
that it is not holy, such things as these are rather to be told them in
early childhood, by the old men and women and those well advanced in
life; and the poets should be obliged to compose consistently with these
views. And [the fables of] Hera fettered by her son,[87] and Hephæstus
hurled from heaven by his father for going to assist his mother when
beaten,[88] and all those battles of the gods which Homer has composed,
we must not admit into our state;—either in allegory or without
allegory; for young persons are not able to judge what is allegory and
what is not, but whatever opinions they receive at such an age are wont
to be obliterated with difficulty, and immovable. Hence, one would
think, we should of all things endeavour, that what they first hear be
composed in the best manner for exciting them to virtue.

-----

Footnote 84:

  Gr. λόγῳ παιδεύωμεν. Comp. ch. iv. 361 b, and De Legg. iv. p. 712
  a:—πλάττειν τῷ λόγῳ νόμους.

Footnote 85:

  Comp. Hesiod. Theogon. v. 154-6, and 178-80.

Footnote 86:

  Allusion is here made to the mysteries of Eleusis, in which all about
  to be initiated sacrificed a hog,—a circumstance referred to by
  Aristophanes, Pax, v. 373-5; Acharn. vv. 747 and 764. The verb ἀκοῦσαι
  refers to the cabalistic oaths and secrets that were listened to
  during the process of initiation.

Footnote 87:

  Suidas tells us, under the word Ἥρα, that the myth here alluded to was
  mentioned in a passage of Pindar, and that it was to be found also in
  a comedy of Epicharmus, both now lost.

Footnote 88:

  Comp. Hom. Il. i. v. 588.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—There is reason for it, said he:—but, if any one should ask
us about these, what they are, and what kind of fables, which should we
name? Adimantus, I replied, you and I are not poets at present, but
founders of a city, and it is the founder’s business to know the models
on which the poets are to compose their fables, contrary to which they
are not to be tolerated; but it is not our province to make fables for
them. Right, said he. But as to this very thing,—namely, the models to
be taken in speaking about the gods, what must they be? Some such as
these, said I:—God is always to be represented such as he is, whether we
represent him in epic, in song, or in tragedy. Necessarily so. Is not
God essentially good, and is he not to be described as such? Without
doubt. But nothing that is good is hurtful, is it? I do not think so.
Does then what is not hurtful ever hurt? By no means. Does that, which
hurts not, do any evil? Nor this either. And what does no evil cannot be
the cause of any evil? Of course not. But what?—good is beneficial. Yes.
It is, therefore, the cause of prosperity? Yes. Good, therefore, is not
the cause of all things, but the cause of those things only which are in
a right state,—not the cause of those things which are in a wrong state.
Entirely so, said he. Neither, then, can God, said I, since he is good,
be the cause of all things, as the many say, but only the cause of a few
things to men, but of many things not the cause; for our blessings are
much fewer than our troubles: and no other must be assigned as the cause
of our blessings; whereas of our troubles we must seek some other
causes, and not God. You seem to me, said he, to speak most truly. We
must not admit, then, said I, that error of Homer or any other poet who
foolishly errs with respect to the gods, and says how—

           Fast by the threshold of Jove’s courts are placed
           Two casks; one stored with evil, one with good,
           From which the God dispenses as he wills.
           For whom the glorious Thund’rer mingles both,
           He leads a life chequer’d with good and ill
           Alternate; but to whom he gives unmix’d
           The bitter cup, he makes that man a curse,
           His name becomes a by-word of reproach,
           His strength is hunger-bitten, and he walks
           The blessed earth unblest, go where he may,—[89]

Nor, that Zeus—

               Grants mortal man both happiness and woe.

-----

Footnote 89:

  Hom. Il. xxiv. v. 527-31.

-----

CHAP. XIX.—As regards the violation of oaths and treaties which Pandarus
effected, if any should say it was done by the agency of Athena and
Zeus, we cannot approve;—neither [if he were to relate] the dissension
among the gods, and the judgment by Themis and Zeus; nor yet must we
suffer the youth to hear what Æschylus says; how,

             Forthwith to mortals God invents a cause,
             Whene’er he wills their dwellings to destroy;—

and, besides, if any one is making poetical compositions, in which are
these iambics, the sufferings of Niobe, of the Pelopides, or the
Trojans, or others of a like nature, we must either not suffer him to
say, that they are the works of God,—or, if of God, we must discover
that principle of action which we now require, and say, that God did
what was just and good, and that they were benefited by being chastised:
and we must not let a poet say, that those are miserable who are
punished, and that it is God who does these things. If they say,
however, that the wicked, as being miserable, need correction, and that,
in being punished, they are benefited by God, we may suffer the
assertion.—To say, however, that God, who is good, is the cause of ill
to any one, this we must by all means oppose, and suffer no one to say
so in our state; if at any rate we wish it well governed;—neither must
we allow any one, young or old, to hear such things told in fable,
either in verse or prose,—as their relation is neither consistent with
holiness, nor profitable to us, nor consistent with themselves.

I vote along with you, said he, as respects this law,—for it quite
pleases me. This, then, said I, is probably one of the laws and models
as respects the gods, by which it will be necessary for those who speak
to speak and for those who compose to compose, that God is not the cause
of all things, but of good. Yes, said he, of course. But what as to this
second law?—Think you that God is a sorcerer, and appears designedly, at
different times, in different shapes,—sometimes like himself,—and, at
other times, changing his form into many shapes,—sometimes deceiving us
and making us conceive false opinions of him;—or, that he is simple, and
that he by no means quits his proper form? I cannot, now, at least, say
so, replied he. But what as to this;—if anything be changed from its
proper form, must it not be necessarily changed by itself, or by
another? Undoubtedly. Are not those things which are in the best state,
changed and moved least of all other by another;—as the body, by meats
and drinks, and labours, and all kinds of plants by droughts and winds,
and such like accidents? Is not the most healthy and vigorous least of
all changed? Surely. And as to the soul itself, will not external
accidents least of all disorder and change the bravest and wisest? Yes.
And surely all manufactured vessels, and buildings, and vestments, such
as are properly made and in a right state, are according to the same
reasoning least of all changed by time, or other accidents? Such is the
case. Everything then, which is in a good state, either by nature or
art, or both, receives the smallest change from another. It seems so.
But God, and all that belongs to divinity, are in the best state? Of
course. In this way, then, God should least of all have many shapes?
Least of all, truly.

CHAP. XX.—Again,—should he change and alter himself? Clearly so, said
he, if he be changed at all. Does he then change himself to what is
better, and fairer, or to the worse, and more deformed? To the worse,
surely, replied he,—if he be changed at all; for we can never say, that
God is at all deficient in beauty or excellence. You speak most
correctly, said I. And this being so, think you, Adimantus, that any
one, either of gods or men, would willingly make himself any way worse?
Impossible, said he. It is impossible, then, said I, for a god to desire
to change himself; but, as it seems, each being most beautiful and
excellent, continues always to the utmost of his power invariably in his
own form. This seems a necessary conclusion, said he. Well then, said I,
most excellent Adimantus, let not any of the poets tell us, how

                   ... in similitude of strangers oft
             The gods, who can with ease all shapes assume,
             Repair to populous cities....[90]

Neither let any one belie Proteus and Thetis, nor introduce Hera in
tragedies or other poems, as having transformed herself into a
priestess, collecting for

                    Those life-sustaining sons
                    Of Inachus, the Argive streams;—

nor let them tell us many other such falsehoods:—nor again, let mothers,
persuaded by them, terrify their children, telling the stories
wrong,—as, that certain gods wander by night,

             Resembling various guests, in various forms,—

lest they should, at one and the same time, blaspheme against the gods,
and make their children cowards. Surely not, said he. But do the gods,
said I, who in themselves never change, still make us imagine that they
appear in various forms, deceiving us, and playing the sorcerer? Perhaps
they do, said he. What, said I;—can a god wish to deceive,—holding up a
mere phantom, either in word or deed? I know not, said he. Know you not,
said I, that a real falsehood (if we be allowed to say so), both all the
gods and men abhor? How mean you? replied he. Thus, said I: that to be
deceived in the most excellent part of oneself, and that about one’s
highest interests, is what no one wishes of his own accord; but, of all
things, every one is most afraid of this happening to him. Even yet,
said he, I do not understand you. Because, said I, you think I am saying
something awful:—but I am saying, that for the soul to be deceived with
respect to realities, and to be so deceived and ignorant, and in that to
have obtained and to maintain a falsehood, is what every one would least
of all choose; and would most hate it in the soul. Most especially, said
he. But this, as I was now saying, might very correctly be termed a real
falsehood—ignorance in the soul of the deceived person; for imitation in
words is a kind of image of the affection the soul feels, and springs up
afterwards, and is not altogether a pure falsehood:—is it not so?
Assuredly.

-----

Footnote 90:

  Odyss. xvii. v. 485, 6.

-----

CHAP. XXI.—But a real falsehood is not only hated by the gods, but also
by men. It appears so to me. But what as to a falsehood in words? when
is it of such service, so as not to deserve hatred?—Is it not when
employed towards enemies, and some even of those called friends,—when
during madness, or other folly, they attempt to do some mischief;—in
that case, is it not useful for dissuasion as a drug;—and in the fables
we just mentioned, because we know not how the truth stands about
ancient things, do we not forge a falsehood resembling the truth as much
as possible, and so make it useful? It certainly is so, said he. In
which of these cases, then, is a falsehood useful to God?—Does he invent
a falsehood resembling the truth, because he is ignorant of ancient
things? That were ridiculous, said he. In God, then, there is not a
lying poet? I think not. But would he invent a falsehood through fear of
his enemies? Far from it. Or on account of the folly or madness of his
friends? No, said he, none of the foolish and mad are beloved of God.
There is no occasion at all, then, for a god to invent a falsehood?
None. The divine and godlike nature, then, is altogether free from
falsehood? Entirely so, said he. God, then, is quite simple and true,
both in word and deed; neither is he changed himself, nor does he
deceive others,—neither by visions, nor discourse, nor the pomp of
signs, neither when we are awake nor when we sleep? So it appears to me,
said he, just as you say. You agree then, said I, that this shall be the
second principle which we are to lay down both in speaking and composing
concerning the gods,[91]—namely, that they are neither sorcerers and
change themselves, nor mislead us by falsehoods, either in word or deed?
I agree. While, then, we commend many other things in Homer, this we
shall not commend,—namely, the dream sent by Jupiter to Agamemnon; nor
that in Æschylus, when he makes Thetis say that Apollo had sung at her
marriage, that

           ... her happy lot should be
           To bear an offspring fair, from ailment free,
           And blest with lengthen’d days; and then the God,
           Unfolding all, with pæans high proclaim’d
           Thy heaven-blest fortunes, welcome to my soul
           I hoped that all was true that Phœbus sang!
           So sweetly tuned with high prophetic art;—
           But he who at my nuptials joy foretold,
           The same is he, who now hath slain my child.

When any one alleges such things as these about the gods, we must show
disapproval, and not grant them the privilege of a chorus; neither
should we suffer teachers to employ them in the training of youth,—if at
least our guardians are to be pious and divine men, as far as man can
be. As to all these models, I entirely agree with you, said he, and I
should adopt them as laws.

-----

Footnote 91:

  Gr. τοῦτον δεύτερον τύπον εἶναι ἐν ᾧ δεῖ περὶ θεῶν καὶ λέγειν καὶ
  ποιεῖν.

-----


                      THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.


                               BOOK III.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _third book_ he continues to dilate on music and gymnastics, and
    then proceeds to treat of the talents, habits, and education
    suitable for the inferior magistrates of a state. Lastly, from the
    interpretation of a certain Phœnician fable, he demonstrates the
    need of a community and general harmony between citizens, as being
    truly brethren and members of the same family. It is quite
    necessary, however, that there should be a distinct and well-ordered
    εὐταξία, because some are capable of being χρύσος, others only
    ἄργυρος, and so on, according to caste, talent, and conduct, all
    together composing the state;—and lastly, he expresses
    disapprobation at the great weight given to the sayings of poets,
    whom accordingly he wishes to be excluded from his ideal republic,
    though he willingly accords them honour on account of their great
    learning.

CHAP. I.—Concerning the gods, then, said I, such things as these are, it
seems, to be both heard, and not heard, from childhood upwards, by those
who will honour the gods and parents, and not lightly esteem mutual
friendship. Aye,—and methinks, said he, these things are rightly so
understood. But what then?—If men are to be brave, must not these things
be told them, and such others likewise, as may make them least of all
afraid of death; or, think you, that any one can ever be brave, who has
this fear within him? Not I, truly, said he. But what? think you any one
can be free from the fear of death, while he conceives that there is
Hades—and a dreadful place, too,—and that in battles he will choose
death in preference to defeat and slavery? Surely not.

We ought then, it seems, to take the command, also, of those who
undertake to discourse about these fables, and entreat them not so
sweepingly to abuse what is in Hades, but rather to praise it;—since
they neither speak what is true, nor what is expedient for those who
mean to be soldiers. We ought indeed, said he. Beginning then, said I,
at this verse, we will omit all such as these:—

                              I had rather live
          The servile hind for hire, and eat the bread
          Of some man scantily, himself sustained,
          Than sovereign empire hold o’er all the shades;[92]—

And this—

                                 Lest Neptune o’er his head
           Shattering the vaulted earth, should wide disclose
           To mortal and immortal eyes his realm
           Terrible, squalid, to the gods themselves
           A dreaded spectacle;—

And—

           Oh, then, ye gods! there doubtless are below,
           The soul and semblance both, but empty forms;[93]—

And—

         He’s wise alone, the rest are flutt’ring shades;[94]—

And—

              Down into Hades from his limbs dismiss’d
              His spirit fled sorrowful, of youth’s prime
              And vigorous manhood suddenly bereft;[95]—

And—

              ... His soul, like smoke, down to the shades
              Fled howling....[96]

And—

          As when the bats within some hallow’d cave
          Flit screaming all around; for if but one
          Fall from the rock, the rest all follow him;
          In such connexion mutual they adhere;
          So ... the ghosts
          Troop’d downward, gibbering all the dreary way.[97]

As to these and all such like passages, we must request Homer and the
other poets not to be offended at our erasing them,—not as unpoetical
and displeasing to the ears of the multitude;—for the more poetical they
are, the less should they be listened to by children, or men either, who
would be free, and fear slavery more than death. Aye, by all means.

-----

Footnote 92:

  Odyss. xi. v. 488-91.

Footnote 93:

  Il. xxiii. v. 103.

Footnote 94:

  Il. xxii. v. 265.

Footnote 95:

  Il. xvi. v. 856.

Footnote 96:

  Il. xxii. v. 100.

Footnote 97:

  Odyss. xxiv. v. 6.

-----

CHAP. II.—Further, are not all dreadful and frightful titles also, about
these things, to be rejected;—Cocytus and Styx, the infernals, the
life-lorn, and many other appellations of this character, such as make
all hearers shudder?—and perhaps they may well serve some other purpose;
but we fear for our guardians, lest by such terror they be made more
effeminate and soft than is fitting. We are in the right too, to be
afraid of that, said he. Are these then to be suppressed? Yes. And must
they speak, then, and compose on a contrary model to these? Plainly so.
And are we likewise to suppress the wailings and lamentations of
illustrious men? We must, said he, if we do the former. Consider then,
said I, whether we shall suppress them rightly or not,—and do we say,
that the virtuous man to another virtuous man—whose friend he is—deems
death dreadful? We do. He would not then, at any rate, lament over him,
as if he had suffered something dreadful? No, indeed. And we say this
likewise, that such an one is most of all self-sustained as regards
living happily, and distinctively above all others, least in need of
foreign aid. True, said he. To him, then, it is least dreadful to be
deprived of a son, a brother, or property, or other like things? Aye,
least of all so. Least of all then will he lament, but rather endure
with the utmost meekness whatever trouble may befal him? Certainly. We
should be right then in suppressing the lamentations of famous men, and
should assign them to women, (and among these even not to the better
sort), and to such men as are cowards; in order that, as regards those
whom we propose to educate for the guardianship of the country, they may
disdain to act thus. Right, said he. Again, then, we will entreat Homer
and the rest of the poets not to say in their compositions about
Achilles, the son of a goddess, that

           Now on his side he lay, now lay supine,
           Now prone; then starting from his couch he roam’d
           Forlorn the beach....[98]

Nor how—

            ... grasping with both hands the ashes,
            Down he pour’d them burning on his head....[99]

Nor the rest of his lamentation and wailing,—of whatever kind and
quantity he made them;—nor Priam, near as he was to the gods, who—

             ... to all—kneel’d
             In turn, then roll’d himself in dust, and each
             By name solicited to give him way.[100]

Still much more must we entreat them not to represent the gods as
bewailing, and saying,

                 Ah me, forlorn! ah me, parent in vain
                 Of an illustrious birth.[101]

And if they are not thus to introduce the gods, far less should they
dare thus unbecomingly to represent the greatest of those gods:

              Ah! I behold a warrior dear to me,
              Around the walls of Ilium driven, and grieve
              For Hector,—

And again,—

               Alas, he falls! my most beloved of men,
               Sarpedon, vanquished by Patroclus, falls:
               So will the Fates![102]

-----

Footnote 98:

  Il. xxiv. v. 10.

Footnote 99:

  Il. xviii. v. 23, 24.

Footnote 100:

  Il. xxii. v. 414.

Footnote 101:

  Il. xviii. v. 54.

-----

CHAP. III.—Supposing then, friend Adimantus, our youths should seriously
hear such things as these, and not ridicule them as spoken
unworthily,—hardly any one would think it unworthy of himself as a man,
or reprove himself [for it,] if he should chance either to say or do
anything of the kind,—but would rather, without shame or endurance, sing
many lamentations and moanings over trifling sufferings. You speak most
truly, replied he. But they must not,—as our argument has just evinced;
which we must believe, till some one persuades us by some better. They
must not, of course. Neither ought we, moreover, to be over fond of
laughing:—for commonly where a man gives himself to violent laughter,
such a disposition requires a violent change. I think so, said he.
Neither, if any one should represent worthy men as overcome by laughter,
should we allow it, much less if [he thus represent] the gods. Much,
indeed, said he. Neither, then, ought we to receive such statements as
these of Homer concerning the gods:—

              Heaven rang with laughter inextinguishable—
              Peal after peal, such pleasure all conceived
              At sight of Vulcan in his new employ.[103]

This cannot be admitted, according to your reasoning. If you please to
call it my reasoning, said he,—this, indeed, cannot be admitted. Besides
this, however, the truth must be held of great importance:—for if we
just now argued rightly,[104] and falsehood be really of no service to
the gods, but useful to men, in the form of a drug, it is plain that
such a thing should be trusted only to physicians, but not meddled with
by private persons. Quite plain, said he. To the governors of the state,
then, if to any, it especially belongs to speak falsely either about
enemies or citizens, for the good of the state; whereas, for all the
rest, they must venture on no such a thing. For a private person,
moreover, to speak falsely against such governors, we shall deem the
same and even a greater offence, than for a patient not to speak the
truth to his physician, or for one who is learning his exercises to his
gymnastic master about the ailments of his body,—or for one not to tell
the pilot the real state of what concerns the ship and sailors, how
himself and the other sailors are performing their duty. Most true, said
he. If, however, he should detect any other citizen in a falsehood—

              ... of those, who by profession serve
              The public, prophet, healer of disease,
              Or him who makes the shafts of spears,[105]

he will punish him; as introducing a practice subversive and destructive
of the city, as well as of a ship. If, at least, it is on speech that
actions are completed.[106] But what;—will our youths have no need of
temperance? Certainly. And are not such as these in general the
principal parts of temperance; namely, obedience to governors,—and also,
that the governors themselves be temperate in drinking, feasting, and
pleasures of love? I am quite of that opinion. And we shall say, I
believe, that such views are just,—just as in Homer Diomedes says:

             Sit thou in silence, and obey my speech,[107]—

and what is in connexion therewith,—thus:

             So moved the Greeks successive, ev’ry chief
             His loud command proclaiming, while the rest,
             As voice in all those thousands none had been,
             Heard mute....[108]

and so on. Well spoken. But what of such as these?—

            Oh! charged with wine, in steadfastness of face.
            Dog unabash’d, and yet at heart a deer,[109]—

and as respects what follows, and whatever other childish effusions are
uttered in prose or verse by private individuals, are they well
[pronounced]? No, not well:—for, methinks, even as respects temperance,
such [discourses] are not fit for the young to hear; and supposing they
do afford some other sort of pleasure, it is no wonder:—but what is your
notion of the matter? The same as your own, said he.

-----

Footnote 102:

  Il. xxii. v. 168.

Footnote 103:

  Namely as cupbearer to the gods.—Il. i. v. 599.

Footnote 104:

  Comp. B. ii. ch. 21.

Footnote 105:

  Hom. Od. xvii. v. 383.

Footnote 106:

  Gr. ἐάνπερ ἐπί γε λόγῳ ἔργα τελῆται.

Footnote 107:

  Il. iv. v. 412.

Footnote 108:

  Il. iv. v. 431.

-----

CHAP. IV.—What?—To make the wisest man say, that it appears to him
supremely beautiful, when

         ... the steaming table’s spread
         With plenteous viands, while the cups, with wine
         From brimming beakers fill’d, pass brisk around,[110]—

does it seem proper to you that a youth should hear, in order to obtain
a command over himself;—or yet this:—

             ... most miserable it is,
             To die of famine and have adverse fate;[111]—

or that Zeus, through desire for the pleasures of love, could easily
forget all that in solitary watching he had revolved in his mind, while
other gods and men were asleep, and could be so struck on seeing Hera,
as not even to care to enter his chamber, but to desire connexion with
her on the very spot, to embrace her on the ground, and at the same time
to declare that he was possessed with a desire, exceeding even what he
felt on their first acquaintance,

               ... Hidden from their parents dear;[112]—

nor yet how Ares and Aphrodite were bound by Hephæstus,[113] and other
such things? No, by Zeus, said he; these seem quite unfit. But if, said
I, any instances of self-denial in all matters are both to be spoken of
and practised by men of eminence, these should be held up for a
spectacle and celebrated in verse,—such as this:[114]—

              ... Smiting on his breast, thus he reproved
              The mutinous inhabitant within.[115]

Just so, by all means, said he. Of course, then, we cannot by any means
allow men to receive bribes, or be covetous. By no means. Neither must
we sing to them, that

             Gifts gain the gods and venerable kings;[116]—

neither can we commend Phœnix, the tutor of Achilles, as if he spoke
correctly, when counselling him to accept of presents and assist the
Greeks, but, without presents, not to desist from his wrath:[117]—nor
again, should we commend Achilles himself, or approve of his being so
covetous as to receive presents from Agamemnon, and, likewise for giving
up the dead body of Hector, on receiving a ransom, when otherwise he
would not do so. Of course it is not right, said he, to commend such
conduct as this. I am loath, said I, for Homer’s sake, to say, that it
is not allowable to allege these things against Achilles, or to believe
them, when said by others; nor, again, that he spoke thus to Apollo:—

                       Oh! of all the powers above,
           To me most adverse, archer of the skies!
           Thou hast beguiled me, leading me away ...
           And hast defrauded me of great renown.
           Ah! had I power, I would requite thee well,[118]—

and how he disobeyed the river [Xanthus,] though a divinity, and was
ready to fight; and again, how he says to that other river, Spercheius,
with his sacred locks,

               Thy lock to great Patroclus I could give,
               Who now is dead...[119]

Now, that he actually did this, we cannot believe. And again, the
dragging of Hector round the tomb of Patroclus, and the murder of the
captives at his funeral pile,—we shall deny that all this is spoken
truly; nor shall we suffer our people to believe, that Achilles, the son
of a goddess, and of Peleus, the most wise of men, and the third from
Jupiter, educated also by that sage Chiron, could be of so disordered a
constitution as to have within him two positively opposite moral
ailments,—illiberality and covetousness, and moreover a contempt both of
gods and men. You say right, replied he.

-----

Footnote 109:

  Il. i. v. 225.

Footnote 110:

  Od. ix. v. 8.

Footnote 111:

  Od. xi. v. 342.

Footnote 112:

  Il. xiv. v. 291.

Footnote 113:

  Od. viii. v. 266.

Footnote 114:

  θεατέον τε καὶ ἀκουστέον, which we have somewhat paraphrastically
  rendered, in order to give the full meaning of the words.

Footnote 115:

  Od. xx. v. 17.

Footnote 116:

  This verse is not to be found in any of Homer’s writings; and Suidas
  ascribes it to Hesiod. Euripides has a similar sentiment, Med. v. 934.

Footnote 117:

  Comp. Il. xix. v. 278, &c. with Il. xxiv. v. 175, &c.

Footnote 118:

  Il. xxii. v. 15, 16.

Footnote 119:

  Il. xxiii. v. 151.

-----

CHAP. V.—Let us not then believe these things, said I, nor yet suffer
any to say, that Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Pirithous, son of Zeus,
were impelled to such dire abductions; nor that any other son of a
deity, or hero either, would dare to commit horrible and impious deeds,
such as now they falsely ascribe to them; but let us compel the poets to
say, either that the actions do not belong to these persons, or that
these persons are not the children of gods,—but not to say both, nor yet
try to persuade our youth that the gods are the origin of evil, and
heroes no better than men:—for just as we said before, these
[statements] are neither holy nor true; inasmuch as we have somewhere or
other shown, that evils cannot possibly proceed from the gods. Of course
not. But, besides this, they are hurtful to the hearers also; for every
one will pardon his own depravity, through the persuasion that even the
near relatives of the gods, near to Zeus himself, do, and have done,
things of a similar nature, of whom it has been written,—

                 They, on the top of Ida, have uprear’d
                 To parent Jupiter an altar;—

And,

             Whose blood derived from gods is not extinct.

Wherefore, we should suppress all such fables, lest they create in our
youth a great readiness for committing wickedness. We should so, of
course, replied he. What other species of argument, then, said I,—since
we are speaking about arguments,—have we still remaining, which ought,
or ought not, to be maintained?—For in what manner we ought to speak of
the gods we have already mentioned, and likewise of demons and heroes,
and those too in Hades. Certainly. Does it not remain, then, to speak
concerning men? Clearly so. Still it is impossible for us, my friend, to
regulate this at present. How? Because we shall say, I think, that the
poets and orators speak amiss in most important respects concerning
mankind, as [for instance,] that many are unjust, and yet happy, while
the just are miserable; and that injustice is profitable, if it escape
observation, while justice is another’s gain indeed, but injury to one’s
self; such things, as these, we must forbid them to say, but yet bid
them sing and compose in fable the very contrary. Do you not think so? I
know it well, said he. If then you acknowledge that I am right, shall I
conclude that you have admitted what all along we were seeking for? You
judge right, said he. Shall we not allow, then, that such arguments may
be stated about men, whenever we shall have discovered the nature of
justice,—and how it is naturally profitable for the just man to be such,
whether he seem so or not? Most true, replied he.

CHAP. VI.—Concerning the arguments, then, let what we have said suffice,
and now we should consider, methinks, the manner of stating them; and
then we shall have completely considered, both what is to be spoken, and
the manner how. Adimantus here said;—What you now say, I do not
understand. Nevertheless, replied I, it needs you should.—Perhaps then
you will understand it better in this way:—is not everything told by the
mythologists or poets, a narrative of the past, present, or future?[120]
Of course, replied he. And do not they execute it, either in simple
narrative, or through the medium of imitation, or both? This too,
replied he, I yet require to understand more plainly. I appear, said I,
to be a ridiculous and dull instructor:—like those, then, who are unable
to speak, I will endeavour to explain my meaning,—not the whole
generally, but by a particular case. And tell me,—are you acquainted
with the opening of the Iliad, where the poet says, Chryses entreated
Agamemnon to ransom his daughter; but that he was angry, whereupon the
former, since he did not obtain his request, besought the god, against
the Greeks? I know it. You know, then, that down to these verses,—

              His supplication was at large to all
              The host of Greece; but most of all to two,
              The sons of Atreus, highest in command,—

the poet himself speaks, and does not attempt to divert our attention
elsewhere, as if any other person were speaking except himself; but as
to what he says after this, he speaks as though he himself were Chryses,
and tries all he can to make us think that the speaker is not Homer, but
the priest, an old man:—and thus he has composed nearly all the rest of
the narrative of what happened at Troy, and in Ithaca, and the
adventures throughout the Odyssey. Yes, certainly, replied he. Is it not
narrative, then, when he recites the several speeches, and also when [he
recites] what intervenes between the speeches? Of course. But when he
speaks in the person of another, do we not say, that then he assimilates
his speech as much as possible to each person whom he introduces as
speaking? We will grant it;—why not? And is not [a poet’s] assimilation
of himself to another, either in voice or figure, an imitation of that
person to whom he assimilates himself? Of course. In such a case as
this, then, it seems, both he and the other poets execute their
narrative by means of imitation? Certainly. But if the poet were not to
conceal himself at all, his whole action and narrative would be without
imitation.—That you may not say, however, that you do not again
understand how this can be, I will tell you.—If, for instance, in
relating how Chryses came with his daughter’s ransom, beseeching the
Greeks, but chiefly the kings, Homer had subsequently spoken, not in the
character of Chryses, but still as Homer, you know it would not be
imitation, but only simple narrative:—and it would have been somehow
thus (I shall speak without metre, for I am no poet):—“The priest came
and prayed, that the gods would allow them to take Troy, and return in
safety; and begged them also to restore him his daughter, and accept the
presents, out of respect to the god. When he had said this, all the rest
showed respect, and consented; but Agamemnon became enraged, and charged
him to depart instantly, and not return, lest his sceptre and the
garlands of the god should not avail him, and added also, that, before
his daughter should be ransomed she should grow old with him in Argos;
and he ordered him to be gone, and not irritate him, if he would get
home in safety. The old man on hearing this was terrified and went away
in silence. And after his retiring from the camp he offered numerous
prayers to Apollo, calling on the god by his various names, and
reminding as well as imploring him, that, if ever, either in the
building of temples, or the offering of sacrifices, he had made any
acceptable presents,—for the sake of these then, he besought him, to
avenge with his shafts on the Greeks the tears [that had been shed] by
himself.”[121]—Thus far, said I, friend, the narrative is simple,
without imitation. I understand, said he.

-----

Footnote 120:

  This threefold distinction of poetry is mentioned likewise by
  Aristotle; Poet. ch. iii. § 2.

Footnote 121:

  The Greek form—τὰ ἃ δάκρυα is unquestionably archaic; but, as
  Stallbaum well observes, was still extant among the Athenians in
  colloquial language.

-----

CHAP. VII.—Understand, then, said I, that the opposite of this happens,
when one takes out the poet’s words between the speeches, and leaves
only the dialogue. This too, said he, I understand, that something like
this takes place with tragedies. You have apprehended my meaning quite
correctly, said I. And methinks, I can now make plain to you what before
I could not,—that in poetry, and all fabulous writing, one species of it
is wholly imitative, as, for instance (just as you say), tragedy and
comedy; another species employs the narration of the poet himself, (you
will find this chiefly in dithyrambics;) and another again by both, as
in epic poetry, and many other kinds besides:—if you understand me.
Aye,—I now understand, replied he, what you meant before. Remember, too,
that we were before saying, that it had already been settled what were
to be the subjects of speech, but it yet remained to be considered how
they should be spoken. I do remember. This then, is the very thing that
I was saying,—namely, that we ought to have agreed, whether we will
allow the poets to make us narratives wholly through the medium of
imitation, or partly through imitation, partly not so,—and, of what kind
in each,—or lastly whether they are not to employ imitation at all. I
guess, said he, you are inquiring, whether we are to receive tragedy and
comedy into our state, or not. Perhaps so, said I, and something more
too,—for I as yet know not; but wherever our reason, wind-like, carries
us, there must we go. You say well, said he. Let us then consider,
Adimantus, whether our guardians ought to be practised imitators or
not:—does not this follow, from what has been above stated, that each
may exercise one business well, but many, not,—and should he attempt it,
that, in grasping at many things, he will fail in all, and excel,
perhaps, in none?[122] Of course he will. Well then, does not the same
reasoning apply to imitation, that the same man cannot so well imitate
many things as one? Of course he cannot. In that case he can perform
scarcely any of the more eminent employments, and at the same time
imitate many things, and be an apt imitator,—since the same persons
cannot well execute two different sorts of imitations, apparently
similar to each other; as, for instance, comedy and tragedy:—and as for
that, did you not, just now, call both of these imitations? I did; and
you are right in saying, that the same persons cannot succeed [in both].
Nor can they, at the same time, be rhapsodists and actors? True. Nor can
the same persons be actors in comedies and in tragedies:—and all these
are imitations, are they not? Aye,—surely. The genius of man, Adimantus,
seems to have been cut up even into a still greater number of minute
particles,—so much so, indeed,[123] that it cannot properly imitate many
things, or perform [in earnest] those very things, of which even the
imitations are the resemblances. Most true, said he.

-----

Footnote 122:

  Gr. ὥστ’ εἶναι ἐλλόγιμος.

Footnote 123:

  Gr. εἰς ἀμικρότερα κατακεκερματίσθαι.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—If we are to hold to our first reasoning, therefore, that
our guardians, though unoccupied in any productive art whatever, ought
to be the most skilful labourers for the liberty of the state, and to
mind nothing but what refers thereto, it were surely proper that they
should neither perform nor imitate anything else,—but, should they
imitate at all, to imitate from their childhood upwards just what
correspond with these,—brave, temperate, pious, generous-hearted men,
and the like;—but neither to perform, nor desire to imitate what is
illiberal or base, lest from the very imitation they come to experience
the positive reality.[124] Have you not also observed, that imitations,
if from earliest youth onwards they be long continued, become
established in the manners and natural temper, both as to body and
voice, and intellect too? Very much so, replied he. Surely we are not to
allow those, said I, for whom we profess to be anxious, and who ought to
be good men, to imitate a woman either young or old, whether reviling
her husband, or contending against the gods, and speaking boastingly
from the idea of her own happiness;—neither should we imitate her in her
misfortunes, sorrows, and lamentations, when sick, or in love, or in the
throes of child-birth; we shall be far from allowing this. By all means,
replied he. Nor to imitate male or female servants in doing servants’
duties? Nor this either. Nor yet, it seems, depraved men, dastards, and
those who do the contrary of what has been just mentioned, who revile
and rail at one another; and speak abominable things, whether drunk or
sober, or [do] any other misdeeds, such as this class of persons are
guilty of, either in words or actions, either as respects themselves or
others?—I think too, that they should not even accustom themselves to
resemble madmen, in words or actions, for one may know both the mad and
wicked, whether men or women;—yet we must not either do or imitate any
one of their actions. Most true, said he. But what, said I;—are braziers
or other craftsmen, or such as row vessels, or pilot the sailors, or any
others connected therewith to be imitated? How can it be so, said he, by
those at least who are not allowed to give their mind up to those
pursuits? But what,—are they to imitate horses neighing, or bulls
lowing, or rivers murmuring, or the sea roaring, or thunder, and all
such like things? No surely, said he:—we have forbidden them either to
get mad, or resemble madmen. If then I understand what you mean, replied
I, there is a sort of speech and narrative in which the truly good and
worthy man expresses himself, when required to say anything,—and another
again quite dissimilar, to which a person quite oppositely born and bred
always adheres, and in which [he always] expresses himself. But what
sorts are they? asked he. That man, said I, seems a worthy man, who on
coming in his narrative to any speech or action of a good man, will
willingly tell it, as if he were himself the man, and not be ashamed of
such an imitation,—the more especially, if he be imitating a good man
acting cautiously and sensibly, one who is seldom and but little led
astray through ailments, or love, or drink, or any other mishap. But
when there arises [in his narrative] anything unworthy of himself, he
will not be in any hurry to assimilate himself to one that is worse,
except it be for a short time when he is doing some good; and besides,
he will be ashamed of it, both as being unpractised in the imitation of
such characters, and also, as unwilling to mould himself, and stand
among the models of baser men, whom all the while he despises in his
heart, [bearing with them] only for mere amusement. Probably, said he.

-----

Footnote 124:

  Gr. ἵνα μὴ ἐκ τῆς μιμήσεως τοῦ εἶναι ἀπολαύσωσιν.

-----

CHAP. IX.—Will he employ a narrative such as that we not long since
described in the case of Homer’s poems; and will his language partake
both of imitation and simple narrative, but have only a small portion of
imitation inserted in a great quantity [of plain narrative?]—Do you
think I speak to the purpose or not? Yes, certainly, replied he; that
must needs be the type of such an orator. In that case, said I, will not
such a man, the more he is depraved, the more readily narrate any matter
whatever, thinking nothing unworthy of him,—so much so, indeed, that he
will undertake to imitate everything zealously and in public, and such
especially as we just mentioned, thunderings and noises of winds and
tempests, and of axles and wheels, and of trumpets, pipes, whistles, and
sounds of all kinds of instruments, and the cries of dogs likewise, and
sheep, and birds?—and of course the whole expression of this is to be by
imitation, both in voice and gestures, partaking but slightly of
narrative. This too, said he, is a matter of course. These, said I, are
what I termed the two kinds of diction. Yes, they are, replied he. Has
not one of the two, then, very trifling variations; and to give the
diction a becoming harmony and rhythm, he who would speak correctly must
always speak in the same style, in one harmony,—for the variations are
but trifling,—and of course in a rhythm closely corresponding?[125] It
is so, clearly, replied he. But as to the other kind, does it not
require the contrary,—all kinds of harmonies, and all kinds of rhythms,
if, indeed, it is to be naturally expressed, on account of its having
all sorts and shades of variation? That is precisely the case. Do not,
then, all the poets, and writers of narrative generally,[126] use one or
other of these models of diction, or a blending of the other two? They
must, replied he. What are we to do then, said I:—shall we admit into
our state all of these [models,] or only one of the unmixed, or the one
compounded? If my opinion, replied he, is to prevail, [you should
employ] that uncompounded one, which imitates only what is worthy. But
surely, Adimantus, the mixed is at least pleasant:—the most pleasant of
all, both to children and pedagogues, is the opposite of what you
choose, and it is so to the crowd likewise. Yes, it is the most
pleasant. But probably, said I, you will not deem it suited to our civil
establishment, because with us no man can be engaged in two or more
occupations, but each individual is employed in one only? Of course, it
is not fit. Shall we not find then, that in such a state alone, a
shoemaker is only a shoemaker, and not a pilot as well as a shoemaker;
and that the husbandman is only a husbandman, and not a judge as well as
a husbandman; and that the soldier is a soldier, and not a money-maker
as well; and so with the rest? True, replied he. With respect to the man
then, who is enabled by his talents to become everything and imitate
everything, if that person were to come into our state and wish to show
us his poems, we should respect him as a pious, wonderful, and pleasant
person, but would say that we have no such person in our state, nor
could such be allowed; and then we should send him to some other state,
pouring oil on his head, and crowning him with a woollen chaplet,[127]
while we ourselves would call in, to our advantage, a more austere and
less pleasing poet and mythologist, to imitate for us the diction of
what is becoming, and say whatever he says, in accordance with those
models which we regularly set forth on first undertaking the education
of our soldiers. So we should do, replied he, if it depended on us. Now
then, friend, it seems that we have thoroughly discussed that part of
music which concerns oratory and fable; for what is to be spoken, and
how spoken, we have already considered. I think so too, observed he.

-----

Footnote 125:

  Gr. καὶ δὴ ἐν ῥυθμῷ ὡσαύτως παραπλησίῳ τινί.

Footnote 126:

  Gr. καὶ οἵ τι λέγοντες.

Footnote 127:

  Gr. ἀποπέμποιμέν τε ἂν εἰς ἄλλην πόλιν μύρον κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς
  καταχέαντες καὶ ἐρίῳ στέψαντες. This passage with all its beauty is
  somewhat obscure. It plainly refers to that kind of poet, who was used
  to treat all kinds of characters and subjects;—and yet the ancient
  writers evidently understood it, as referring to Homer. Comp. Dion.
  Halic. Epist. de Plat. vol. vi. d. 756:—ἦν τῇ Πλάτωνος φύσει πολλὰς
  ἀρετὰς ἐχούσῃ τὸ φιλότιμον· ἐδήλωσε δὲ τοῦτο μάλιστα διὰ τῆς πρὸς
  Ὅμηρον ζηλοτυπίας, ὃν ἐκ τῆς κατασκευαζομένης ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ πολιτείας
  ἐκβάλλει, στεφανώσας καὶ μύρῳ χρίσας. So also Aristides, Orat. Plat.
  111; vol. ii. p. 326:—Ὅμηρον μύρῳ χρίσας ἐκπέμπει χελιδόνος τιμὴν
  καταθείς. Josephus, Minucius Felix, Theodoret, and Chrysostom bear
  similar testimony to its meaning.

-----

CHAP. X.—Are we not next to speak, said I, about the style of song and
melody?[128] Clearly so. Cannot one already find out, then, what we
ought to say about these things, and of what kind they should be, if we
would be consistent with what we have above said? Here Glaucon, smiling,
said,—I seem, indeed, Socrates, to be a stranger to the whole business,
for I cannot at present conceive what we ought to say, though I have
some inkling. You can, surely, said I, at any rate, fully state this
much,—that melody has three constituents,—sentiment, harmony, and
rhythm?[129] Yes, replied he, this much, at any rate. And as concerns
the sentiment,—that differs in nothing from the sentiment which is not
sung, inasmuch as it ought to be performed on the same models, as we
just said, and after the same fashion. True, said he. Surely, then, the
harmony and rhythm should correspond with the sentiment? Of course. But
yet we said there was no need for wailings and lamentations in written
compositions? None, certainly. Which then are the querulous
harmonies?[130] Tell me,—for you are a musician. The mixed Lydian,[131]
replied he, and the sharp Lydian, and some others of this kind. Are not
these, then, said I, to be rejected, as being useless even to
well-conducted women, not to speak of men? Certainly. Drunkenness,
moreover, is highly unbecoming in our guardians, as well as effeminacy
and idleness? Of course. Which then are the effeminate and convivial
harmonies? The Ionic, replied he, and the Lydian, which are called
relaxing. Can you use these, my friend, for military men? By no means,
replied he; but it seems you have yet the Doric remaining, and the
Phrygian. I am not learned, said I, in harmonies; but let us put out of
the question that harmony, which would fitly imitate the voice and
accents of a brave man, engaged in military action, and every sort of
rough adventure, and, should he fail of success, rushing on wounds or
death, or any other distress, all the while regularly and resolutely
battling with fortune:—let us put out of the question, also, that kind
of harmony which suits what is peaceable, where there is no violence,
but everything is voluntary, where a man either persuades or beseeches
any one, about anything,—either God by prayer, or man by instruction and
admonition; or, on the other hand, where one submits to another’s
entreaties, instructions, or persuasion, and in all these points acts in
accordance with intellect, and does not behave haughtily, but demeans
himself soberly and moderately, gladly embracing whatever may
happen:—put out of the question, too, these two harmonies, the vehement
and the voluntary,[132] which so capitally imitate the voice both of the
unfortunate and fortunate,—the moderate and brave. Aye, you are anxious,
replied he, to leave no others but those I now mentioned. We shall have
no need, then, said I, in our songs and melodies, for many strings or
instruments expressive of all the harmonies. We shall not, it seems,
replied he. We are not to maintain, then, such craftsmen, as make harps
and spinets, and instruments of many strings that produce a variety of
harmony. We are not, it seems. But what,—will you admit into your city
flute-makers or flute-players? for, are not those instruments which
consist of the greatest number of strings,[133] and those that produce
all kinds of harmony, imitations of the flute? Plainly so, replied he.
There are still left you, then, said I, the lyre and the harp, as useful
for your city; and, as respects the fields again, a reed or so for the
shepherds? This is quite reasonable, said he. We are doing nothing new
then, replied I, in preferring Apollo and Apollo’s instruments, to
Marsyas[134] and his instruments. Truly not, it seems, replied he. By
the dog, too, said I, we have been once more unconsciously cleansing our
city, which, we just now said, had become luxurious. Aye; we were wise
to do so, replied he.

-----

Footnote 128:

  It has been rightly stated by Ger. Voss. in his Institut. Poet. ii.
  ch. ix. § 2, that the word μέλος is equivalent to λόγος ᾀδόμενος.
  Comp. also Plato de Legg. ii. p. 655 a.

Footnote 129:

  The distinction between harmony and rhythm is well explained in the
  Laws, ii. p. 655 a:—τῇ δὲ τῆς κινήσεως τάξει ῥυθμὸς ὄνομα· τῇ δ’ αὖ
  τῆς φωνῆς, τοῦ τε ὀξέος ἅμα καὶ βαρέος συκεραννυμένων, ἁρμονίας ὄνομα
  προσαγορεύοιτο.

Footnote 130:

  On the power and character of the several kinds of melody, comp.
  Heraclides Ponticus in Athenæus, xiv. p. 624 d, and Aristotle’s Polit.
  viii. ch. 5-7. Boeckh also in his work on the metres of Pindar (vol.
  i. pt. 2), has learnedly discussed the variety of ancient Greek
  melodies.

Footnote 131:

  Aristoxenus quoted by Plutarch (de Musicâ, p. 1136 d), thus explains
  the word μιξολυδιστί:—καὶ ἡ μιξολύδιος δὲ παθητική τίς ἐστι,
  τραγῳδίαις ἁρμόζουσα. Ἀριστόξενος δέ φησι Σαπφὼ πρώτην εὕρασθαι τὴν
  μιξολυδιστί, παρ’ ἧς τοὺς τραγῳδοποιοὺς μαθεῖν.

Footnote 132:

  A harmony is here termed βίαιος, which (to use the words in the Laws,
  viii. 814 e):—ἐν βιαίῳ ἐργασίᾳ πρεπόντως ἂν μιμήσαιτο φθόγγους τε καὶ
  προσῳδίας, &c.;—and that is called ἑκούσιος, which becomes a man who
  is engaged ἐν ἑκουσίῳ πράξει.

Footnote 133:

  All musical instruments are here rejected, which, from having many
  chords, have the power of soothing the ear with a variety of
  harmonies, and yet do not improve the mind, but rather render it
  effeminate and fill it with sensual desires. Among these is classed
  the lyre,—which is rejected also by Pythagoras, who (according to
  Iamblichus) τοὺς αὐλοὺς ὑπελάμβανεν ὑβριστικόν τε καὶ πανηγυρικὸν καὶ
  οὐδαμῶς ἐλευθέριον τὸν ἦχον ἔχειν. See also Plato’s Gorgias, p. 501 e,
  where he conceives the art of flute-playing—τὴν ἡδονὴν ἡμῶν μόνον
  διώκειν, ἄλλο δ’ οὐδὲν φροντίζειν.

Footnote 134:

  On the contest of Marsyas with Apollo, comp. Herodot. vii. 26, and
  Diodor. Sic. iii. p. 192.

-----

CHAP. XI.—Come then, said I, and let us cleanse the remainder; for what
concerns rhythm will follow after harmonies,—namely, that our citizens
pursue not ever-varying rhythms having a variety of cadences, but
observe what are the rhythms of an orderly and manly life; and observing
these, should compel the time and the melody to subserve the sentiment,
and not the sentiment to subserve the time and melody.—Now, what these
rhythms are, it is your business to tell, as you did with the harmonies.
Nay, by Zeus, replied he, I cannot tell:—so far, indeed, as that there
are three forms from which all measures are composed, just as there are
four primitive sounds, from which all harmony is derived, this I can say
from observation; but what kind of imitations they are, and of what kind
of life, I am not able to tell. These things, however, said I, with
Damon’s[135] aid we will consider,—what measures suit illiberality and
insolence, or madness and any other ill disposition,—and what rhythms
also must be left for their opposites. And I have a confused
recollection of having heard him call a certain [measure] enoplion,
which was compound, another a dactyl, and a third an heroic
measure,—embellishing them I know not how,—making them equal above and
below, in breadth and length: and methinks he called one an iambus, and
another a trochee, and regulated also the long and short measures. In
some of these, too, I fancy, he both blamed and praised the measure of
the foot, no less than the numbers themselves, or something compounded
of both. As for these matters, however, as I said, let them be thrown on
Damon: for to define them distinctly, indeed, would require no small
discourse: do not you think so? No small one, truly. But as for this
point,—whether the propriety or impropriety is dependent on the good or
ill rhythm,—can you at all discern that? Of course. Moreover, with
respect to good or ill rhythm, the one depends on elegant expression,
and conforms to it, while the other is the reverse; and, in the same
way, as to the harmonious and discordant, the rhythm and harmony being
subservient to the sentiment, as we just said, and not the sentiment to
the former. These, indeed, said he, should subserve the sentiment. And
what, said I, as to the manner of expression, and as to the sentiment
itself, must it not be suited to the temper of the soul? Of course. And
all the rest to the expression? Yes. Well then, fine expression, fine
harmony, perfect propriety, and perfect rhythm, are dependent on good
disposition,—not that dulness which in flattering language we call good
temper, but the intellect itself, adorned with excellent and amiable
moral feelings? Surely, altogether so, replied he. Must not all these
then be always pursued by the youth, if they would perform their duties?
They should, indeed, be so pursued. Painting, indeed, is, somehow, full
of these things, and so is every other such kind of craftsmanship; and
weaving, too, is full thereof, and embroidery and architecture, and all
craftship of all kinds of implements; and yet further, the nature of
animal bodies and of all plants,—for in all these is found either
propriety or impropriety: and moreover, impropriety, want of rhythm, and
want of harmony, are close akin to bad language and depraved
manners,—their opposites being likewise related, and imitations of
discretion and good morals. Entirely so, replied he.

-----

Footnote 135:

  A celebrated musician who instructed Pericles in that art. Comp. Rep.
  iv. ch. 3, p. 424 c. See also Plutarch, Life of Pericles, ch. 4.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Must we, then, merely superintend the poets, and oblige them
to present in their poems the idea of good morals, or else not write at
all with us;—or should we superintend all other craftsmen also, and
restrain this immoral, undisciplined, illiberal, indecent style, so as
not to exhibit it either in the representation of animals, or in
buildings, or in any other craftsmanship,—so that he who cannot do this
may not be suffered to work with us?—[This we must do,] for fear that
our guardians, being trained by images of evil, as in bad pasture-land,
by every day plucking and eating many different things, should establish
imperceptibly, by little and little, some mighty evil in their soul;—but
rather should we seek for such craftsmen, as, by the help of a good
natural genius, can investigate the nature of the beautiful and
becoming,—in order that our youths, dwelling, as it were, in a healthful
place, may receive advantage on all sides, and so receive some service,
either by sight or hearing, from fine productions, just as a breeze
brings health from healthy places, and imperceptibly lead them from
childhood onwards to resemblance, friendship, and harmony with right
reason. Thus indeed, said he, they would be brought up in the best
possible manner. In this case, then, Glaucon, said I;—is not musical
training of the utmost importance, inasmuch as rhythm and harmony enter
largely into the inward part of the soul, and most powerfully affect it,
at the same time introducing decorum, and rendering every one becoming,
if properly trained, and, if not so, the reverse?—Moreover, the man, who
has thus been brought up as he ought, very soon perceives whatever
workmanship is defective and badly executed, or what productions are of
such description,—and through a right feeling of disgust will praise and
rejoice in the beautiful, and receiving it in his soul will be fostered
thereby, and thus become a worthy, good man,—while, as to all that is
base, he will rightly despise and hate it, even from early youth, and
before he can partake of reason; and again, when reason comes, having
been thus trained, he will heartily embrace it, because he clearly
recognises it from its intimate familiarity with himself. This appears
to me, replied he, the very reason, why there should be musical
training. Just as in learning our letters, said I, we are only then
sufficiently instructed, when we are acquainted, on meeting them, with
the few elementary letters through their various combinations, and do
not more or less despise them as unnecessary to be learnt, but take all
pains to understand them thoroughly,—as we cannot be good grammarians
till we do so. True. And supposing the images of letters were seen
anywhere, either in water or in mirrors, should we not recognise them
before the letters themselves?—or is this a part of the same art and
study? Surely. Is it then true, what I say, by the gods, that in this
case we shall never become musicians, neither ourselves nor the
guardians we talk of training, unless we understand the ideas of
temperance, fortitude, liberality, and magnificence, and whatever are
akin to these, are acquainted also with their contraries, so familiar to
all, and unless, wheresoever they are, we observe both the virtues
themselves and the images thereof, and despise them neither in small nor
great instances, but conceive them to be rather a part of the same art
and study. It must be so, said he. Must not that person, then, said I,
whose lot it is to have virtuous habits in his soul, and what is
proportioned and corresponding thereto in his appearance, partake of the
same impression and be a fine spectacle to any one who is able to behold
him? Quite so. Yet, what is most beautiful is most lovely? Of course.
He, then, who is most musical should surely love those men, who are most
eminent in this way; but if a man be unmusical, he will not love them?
He will not, replied he, if he be at all defective in his soul: still,
if it were in his body, he would bear with it, and be willing to
associate with him. I understand, said I, that your favourites are or
have been of this kind: and I too agree to that; but tell me this,—is
there any communion between temperance and excessive pleasure? How can
there? said he, for such pleasure causes a privation of intellect, not
less than grief. But has it communion with any other virtue? Not at all.
What then,—has it communion with insolence and intemperance? Most
certainly. Can you mention a greater and more acute pleasure than what
respects the matters of love? I cannot, said he, nor yet one that is
more insane. But right love is of a nature to love the beautiful and the
good temperately and harmoniously? Certainly. Nothing, then, which is
mad, or allied to intemperance, may approach real and right love. It may
not approach it. Nor may pleasure approach it; neither may the lover and
the person he loves have communion with it, if they are rightly to love
and be beloved? No, truly, said he; they may not, Socrates. Thus, then,
it seems, you will lay down a law in the city you are establishing, that
the lover shall love, converse, and associate with the objects of his
love, as with a son,—from a virtuous motive and with his consent; and as
to everything else, every one will so converse with him whose love he
solicits, as never to wish to associate for any other purpose but what
we have said;—for otherwise he would undergo the reproach of being
unmusical and unacquainted with the beautiful. It must be so, replied
he. Do not you think then, said I, that our discourse concerning music
is now concluded?—For it has now terminated where it ought,—as what is
concerned with the art of music somehow ought to terminate in the love
of the beautiful. I agree, said he.

CHAP. XIII.—After music, then, our youths must be trained in gymnastics.
What then? In this likewise they must needs be accurately trained, from
infancy upwards through their whole life:—For the matter, methinks,
stands somehow thus;—and do you also consider.—I do not think that any
sound body can, by its own virtue, render the soul good; and
contrariwise, that a good soul can, by its own virtue, render the body
the best possible: what think you? I think so too, replied he. If then,
after having sufficiently trained the intellect, we commit to it the
careful management of what concerns the body, shall we not, as we are
only laying down patterns, (that we may not be tedious,) act in a right
manner? Entirely so. We say then, that they must abstain from
drunkenness; for any one, rather than a guardian, might be allowed to
get drunk, and not know where he is. It were ridiculous, said he, for a
guardian to need a guardian himself. But what as respects meats;—for
these men are wrestlers in most important combats;—are they not? Yes.
Would not then the bodily state of the wrestlers suit such as these?
Perhaps so. But, said I, they are a sluggish set, and of dubious
health:—do you not observe, that they sleep out their life; and, that if
they only ever so little depart from their regular diet, such wrestlers
become extensively and deeply diseased? I do observe it. But a more
elegant kind of exercise, said I, is required for our military
wrestlers,—who, as dogs, ought to be wakeful, and see and hear most
acutely, and endure, in their expeditions, many changes of water and
food, of heat and cold, that so they may not fail in their health? I
think so. Is not then the best kind of gymnastic exercise very like the
simple music which we just before described? How mean you? That the
gymnastics should be simple and moderate, and of that kind most
especially which concern war. Of what kind? Even from Homer, said I, one
may learn such things as these: for you know, that in their military
expeditions, at their heroes’ banquets, he never feasts them with fish,
not even while they were by the sea at the Hellespont, nor yet with
boiled flesh, but only with roast meat, as what soldiers can most easily
procure: for, in short, one can everywhere more easily use fire, than
carry vessels about? Yes. Neither does Homer, I think, make any mention
of seasonings: and this is what every wrestler knows,—that the body, to
be in good condition, must abstain from these. They are right, said he,
and do abstain. You do not then approve, friend, it would seem, of the
Syracusan table, and the various Sicilian made-dishes, since you think
the other right? It seems I do not. You will disapprove also of a
Corinthian girl, as a mistress, for such as would be in good bodily
condition? By all means. And likewise of those celebrated delicacies of
Attic confections? Surely. As respects all such feeding and dieting, if
we compare it to the melody and song produced in full harmony and
universal rhythm, will not the comparison hold good? Of course. And does
not that diversity cause insubordination in this case—disease in the
other? But simplicity in music, engenders temperance in the soul,—and in
gymnastics, bodily health. True, said he. And when insubordination and
diseases multiply in a city, must not many law-courts and medicine-halls
be opened; and will not the forensic and medicinal arts be in request,
when many, even of the free, will earnestly apply to them? Of course.

CHAP. XIV.—Can you then adduce any greater proof of bad and shameful
training in a city, than the fact of their needing physicians and
supreme magistrates, and these too, not only for base and low craftsmen,
but for those also, who boast of having been liberally educated;—and
again, does it not seem base, and a great proof of defective education,
to be obliged to see justice pronounced on us by others, as our masters
and judges, and yet to have no sense of it in ourselves? This, replied
he, is of all things the most base. And deem you not this far more base,
said I; when a person not only spends a great part of his life in courts
of justice, as defendant or plaintiff,—but, from ignorance of the
beautiful, thinks he is renowned for his very dexterity in doing
injustice, and his cleverness at turning through all sorts of windings,
and using every kind of subterfuge, with the idea of evading
justice,—and all this for the sake of small and contemptible
things,—ignorant how much better and more noble it were so to regulate
life as not to need a sleepy judge? This, replied he, is still baser
than the other. And to need the medicinal art, said I, not on account of
wounds, or some incidental epidemic complaint, but through sloth, and
such diet as we mentioned, being filled with rheums and wind, like
lakes, and obliging the skilful sons of Æsculapius to invent new names
for diseases,—such as dropsies and catarrhs:—do not you think this
abominable? Truly, replied he, those are very new and strange names of
diseases. Such, said I, as I think, existed not in the days of
Æsculapius: and I guess so from this, that when Eurypylus was wounded at
Troy, and was getting Pramnian wine to drink with much flour sprinkled
in it, and cheese grated (all which seem to be of inflammatory
tendency), the sons of Æsculapius neither blamed the woman who presented
it, nor reproved Patroclus, for presenting the cure. Surely such a
potion, said he, is absurdly improper for one in such a case. Not so,
said I, if you consider, that the descendants of Æsculapius, as they
tell us, did not, before the time of Herodicus, practise the method of
cure now in use, which puts the patient on a regimen;—whereas Herodicus,
being a teacher of youth, and in weak health too, confounded gymnastics
and medicine, and made himself first very uncomfortable, and afterwards
many others besides. How was that? said he. By procuring himself a
lingering death, said I; for while he was constantly attending to his
disease, which was mortal, he was not able, as I imagine, to cure
himself; though, to the neglect of everything else, he was constantly
using medicines, and thus passed his life, always most uneasy, if he
departed in the least from his usual diet; and through this wisdom of
his, struggling long with death, he arrived at old age. A mighty reward,
said he, he reaped for his cleverness! Such as became one, said I, who
was unconscious that it was not from ignorance or inexperience of this
method of cure, that Æsculapius did not discover it to his descendants,
but simply because he was aware, that in all well-regulated states there
every one had a certain work enjoined him, necessary to be done, and no
one could be permitted to have time or leisure to get sick throughout
life, or busy himself with taking medicine;—a fact that we amusingly
discover in the case of labouring people, but do not see it in that of
the rich, and those reputed happy. How? said he.

CHAP. XV.—A builder, replied I, when he falls sick, gets from the
physician some potion for throwing up his disease, or purging it
downwards, or else, by means of caustic or amputation, for getting freed
from trouble; but if any one prescribe him a system of regimen, putting
caps on his head and so on, he quickly tells him that he has no leisure
to lie sick, and it does not suit him to live in that manner, attending
to his troubles, and neglecting his duty; and so, bidding the physician
farewell, he returns to his ordinary diet, and, should he recover, he
goes on managing his affairs, but should his body be unable to bear up
against the disease, he dies, and gets rid of his troubles. Such an one,
said he, ought to use the art of medicine just in this manner. Is it
not, said I, because he has a certain business,—and which, if he does
not do it, it is no profit for him to live? Plainly, replied he. But the
rich man, as we say, has no such work allotted him, from which, when
compelled to refrain, life is not worth the having? It is said so of
him, at least. You do not mind, said I, what Phocylides says,—that one
ought, throughout life, to practise virtue. I think, replied he, we
attended to that formerly. We shall not differ on this point, said I.
But let us learn, whether excessive attention to one’s disease is to be
the business of the rich, and life is not worth keeping, if he does not
give this attention; inasmuch, as such a life hinders the mind from
attending to building and other arts,—but, as respects the exhortation
of Phocylides, it is no hinderance. Yes, by Zeus, said he, it is, and
that in the greatest degree, when this unusual care of the body goes
beyond gymnastics. It agrees neither with attention to private economy,
or military expeditions, or sedentary magistracies in the city. But what
is of most importance is, that such application to health ill suits any
sort of learning and inquiry and solitary study, because one is then
perpetually dreading certain pains and swimmings of the head, and
blaming philosophy as the cause thereof,—so that, where there is this
attention to health, it greatly hinders the practice of virtue and
improvement therein, as it makes us always imagine that we are ill and
ailing. Very probably, said he. And shall we not say, that Æsculapius
too understood these things, when to persons in health, and such as used
a wholesome diet, but were afflicted by some particular disease, to
these and such kind of constitution he prescribed medicine, resisting
their ailments by drugs and incisions, but still ordering them their
usual diet, that the public might not be injured; but he did not
attempt, either by low or nourishing diet, to cure thoroughly diseased
systems; and so to afford a long and miserable life to the man himself,
and his descendants too, who would probably be of the same kind: for he
did not think that a man ought to be cured, who could not live in the
ordinary course, as in that case he would be of no service either to
himself or the state. You make Æsculapius, a politician, observed he.
Plainly so, said I; and his sons may evince that he was so.[136] See you
not again, that at Troy they proved their bravery in war, and, as I say,
practised medicine likewise? And do not you remember, that when Menelaus
was wounded by Pandarus,—

             ... they sucked the wound, then spread it o’er
             With drugs of balmy power;[137]—

but as for what he wanted to eat or drink afterwards, they prescribed
for him no more than for Eurypylus, because they deemed external
applications sufficient to heal men, who, before they were wounded, had
been healthy and moderate in their diet, whatever potion they might have
drunk at the time, but conceived, that a diseased constitution and an
intemperate life were beneficial neither to the men themselves nor to
others, and that their art ought not to be employed on, nor minister to
them, even were they richer than Midas.[138] How vastly clever, said he,
you are making the sons of Æsculapius!

-----

Footnote 136:

  Viz. Machaon and Podalirius.

Footnote 137:

  Hom. Il. iv. 218, though somewhat modified by Plato.

Footnote 138:

  Plato is here alluding to Tyrtæus, Eleg. iii. v. 6:—

                  Οὐδ’ εἰ Τιθωνοῖο φύην χαριέστερος εἴη
                  Πλουτοίη δὲ Μίδεω καὶ κινύρῳ βάθιον.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—It is quite right, replied I;—though in opposition to us,
the tragedy-writers, and Pindar also, say that Æsculapius was the son
of Apollo,[139] and was induced by gold to undertake the cure of a
rich man, already in a dying state,—for which indeed he was struck
with a thunderbolt:—but we, in accordance with what has been before
said, will not believe them as to both these statements, but assert,
that were he really a god’s son, he would not have been given to
filthy lucre,—or else, if he were given to filthy lucre, he was not a
god’s son. This at least, said he, is quite correct. But what say you
to this, Socrates?—-Must we not provide good physicians for the state;
and must not these probably be such as have been conversant with great
numbers both of healthy and sick people; and judges also, who have had
experience of all varieties of dispositions? I am speaking
particularly, said I, of those who are good: but [tell me,]—are you
aware who they are, that I deem such? [I shall be,] if you will tell
me, replied he. I will try to do so, said I; but you are inquiring in
one and the same question about two different things. As how? said he.
Physicians, replied I, would become extremely skilled, if, from
childhood upwards, they would, in course of learning their art, gain
experience from a large number of bodies, and these too of a very
sickly character,—especially if they should be themselves afflicted
with all kinds of maladies, and not be altogether of a healthy
constitution,—for it is not by the body, methinks, that they cure the
body (else their own bodies would never be allowed to be diseased, or
become so), but they cure the body by the soul, which, while in a
diseased state, or becoming so, is incapable of properly performing
any cure whatever. Right, said he. But as for the judge, friend, said
I, he governs the soul by the soul; and if it has been bred up from
childhood with depraved souls, has constantly associated with them,
and has itself committed all sorts of crime, it cannot so far
emancipate itself, as of itself to judge correctly about others’ ill
deeds, just as happens with respect to bodily ailments:—no, it must
even in youth be unacquainted with and unpolluted by bad habits, if it
would be fair and honourable itself and judge correctly of what is
just. Hence, therefore, the virtuous, even in youth, appear simple,
and easily deceived by the unjust, because they have within them,
forsooth, no dispositions corresponding in sentiment with those of the
wicked. Aye, indeed, said he, this very often happens to them. For
this reason, said I, the good judge must not be a youth, but old,—one
who has been late in learning the nature of wickedness, which he
apprehends not as a peculiar quality resident in his own soul, but
from having, as a foreign one, long studied it in the souls of others,
and from having ascertained the nature of its evil by positive
science, rather than personal experience. Such an one as this, said
he, is likely to be a very noble judge. And a good one too, said I;
the very thing you required: for the man with a good soul is
good;—while on the other hand, the clever, slyly suspicious man,—he,
namely, who has himself committed much sin, and is deemed subtle and
wise when in the society of his equals, has the repute of being a
clever, wary kind of person, because he has constantly in his eye
those models that reside within himself:—but whenever he approaches
the good, who are his seniors, he appears mightily inferior,
unseasonably suspicious, and wholly ignorant of moral integrity,
having within him no models of any such quality; but, on the other
hand, as he has more frequent intercourse with the wicked than with
the wise, he appears, both to himself and others, unusually wise,
rather than ignorant. Quite true, said he.

-----

Footnote 139:

  Respecting this power of Æsculapius to raise the dead, comp. Pind.
  Pyth. iii. v. 96, &c. Euripides, also, in the opening lines of the
  Alcestis, remarks, that Æsculapius was struck with lightning, but
  without assigning any reason.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—We must not then, said I, in such a man as this, look for
a wise and good judge, but in the former one. Vice, indeed, can never
know both itself and virtue; but virtue, where the moral temper is
gradually instructed, will attain to a scientific knowledge both of
itself and depravity also:—this man, then, and not the wicked one, is,
as I think, wise. I, too, said he, am of the same opinion. You will
establish, then, in your state a science of medicine such as we have
described, and along with it a corresponding system of judicature,
both of which together may carefully provide for such of your citizens
as are naturally well disposed both in body and in mind; while, as
regards the opposite, such as are diseased in their bodies, they
should let die; but as for those who are thoroughly evil and incurable
as to the soul, these they are themselves to put to death? It seems,
at any rate, the best, said he, that can happen, both for those who
are thus afflicted and for the state itself. As respects your youths,
however, it is quite plain, said I, that they will be cautious in
calling in the aid of judicial science, so long as they are employed
on that simple music, which, we said, generates temperance. Of course,
said he. Will not then, the musician who pursues gymnastics, on the
very same principles as his own art, prefer doing so in such a way as
not to want medicine except when absolutely necessary? I think so. His
exercises too, and his labours, he will perform with reference more to
the spirited portion[140] of his nature thus stirred into action, than
to mere physical strength,—differently, indeed, from all other
wrestlers, who take food and undergo toil with a view to the promotion
of bodily strength? Most true, said he. In that case, said I, Glaucon,
they who propose to teach music and gymnastics, propose them, not for
what some imagine, namely, to cure the body by the one, and the soul
by the other. If not, what is their motive? asked he. They seem to
propose them both, said I, chiefly on the soul’s account. As how?
Perceive you not, said I, how those persons have regulated their
intellect itself, who have all their life been conversant with
gymnastics, yet never studied music,—or how those are affected who
have lived in a manner quite the reverse of this? What are you
speaking about? said he. Of savageness and fierceness, said I, and
again of effeminacy and mildness. Yes, I understand, said he;—that is,
persons who apply themselves to unmixed gymnastics become more savage
than they ought; and those again [who attend] to music alone, are
softer than becomes them. And moreover, said I, this very savageness
imparts probably a certain spirit to the disposition, and, if rightly
disciplined, will become fortitude; but when stretched too far, it
will probably become indecently fierce and troublesome. So I think,
said he. But what;—will not the philosophic nature partake of the mild
also; and when this disposition is carried to excess, may it not prove
softer than it ought, and if rightly disciplined, both mild and
modest? Just so. We say also, that our guardians ought naturally to be
possessed of both. They ought. Ought they not, then, to be made to
suit one another? Of course. And the soul of the person thus suited is
temperate and brave? Certainly. But the soul of a person not so suited
is cowardly and savage? Especially so.

-----

Footnote 140:

  Τὸ θυμοειδές. This refers to Plato’s division of the mental faculties
  into τὸ λογιστικόν and τὸ ἄλογον, the latter of which is again divided
  into τὸ θυμικόν and τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν. The art of gymnastics, he
  conceives then, has for its object—not so much the promotion of the
  bodily strength as the excitement of the spirited part of our
  nature,—τὸ θυμοειδές.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—As a matter of course, then, when one consents to be
soothed with the charms of music, and to have poured into his soul
through his ears (as through a pipe) those lately called the sweet,
effeminate, and doleful harmonies, and spends the whole of his life
humming ditties and charmed with melody,[141]—such an one, first of
all,—should he possess any spirit,—softens it like iron, and makes it
serviceable, instead of useless and harsh. When, however, he
positively declines desisting, and becomes the victim of a kind of
fascination,—after this, he is melted and dissolved, till his spirit
is quite spent, and the nerves are, as it were, cut out from his soul,
making him an effeminate warrior.[142] Quite so indeed, said he.
Aye,—said I; if he had originally possessed a nature devoid of spirit,
he would quickly have done thus; but, if [he possesses] one of high
spirit, it makes the mind weak, and causes it to be quickly
overbalanced, speedily either excited and overcome; and hence men
become outrageous and ill-tempered, rather than high-spirited. Quite
so, indeed. But what;—if a man labour much in gymnastics and live on
extremely good diet, but pay no attention to music and philosophy; is
he not first of all, from having his body in good condition,
abundantly filled with prudence and spirit, and does he not become
braver than he was before? Surely. But what;—supposing he does nothing
else, and has no commerce with the Muses, not even if he had any love
of learning in his soul, as neither having a taste for investigation,
nor sharing in any inquiry or reasoning, or other musical pursuit
whatever, does it not become feeble, deaf, and blind, as being neither
awakened, nor nurtured, nor his perceptions purified? Just so. Such an
one then becomes, I suppose, a hater of argument, and indisposed to
music,—one who cannot at all be reasoned into anything, but conducts
himself in all matters with violence and ferocity, like a wild beast;
and thus he lives in ignorance and barbarity, out of measure, and
unpolished? Quite so, said he. Corresponding then to these two
tempers, it seems, I would say, that some deity has furnished men with
two arts,—music and gymnastics,—relating respectively to the
high-spirited and the philosophic nature,—not indeed, for the soul and
body, otherwise than as a by-work and accessory, but with a view to
those two tempers, that they may be mutually suitable to each other by
being tightened and loosened at pleasure. Aye,—it seems so. Whoever
then can most cleverly mingle gymnastics with music, and introduce
them in justest measure into the soul, this person we may most
properly call completely musical, and most harmoniously disposed,—far
more, indeed, than the man who puts in tune the strings of an
instrument. Very likely, Socrates, said he. Shall we not then, always
need, Glaucon, such a president in our city, if its government is to
be kept entire? It will indeed be quite needful, as far at least as we
can.

-----

Footnote 141:

  Gr. ὅταν μέν τις μουσικῇ παρεχῇ καταυλεῖν καὶ καταχεῖν διὰ τῶν ὤτων,
  ὥσπερ διὰ χώνης, ἃς νῦν δὴ ἡμεῖς ἐλέγομεν τὰς γλυκείας τε καὶ μαλακὰς
  καὶ θρηνώδεις ἁρμονίας καὶ μινυρίζων τε καὶ γεγανωμένος ὑπὸ τῆς ᾠδῆς
  διατελῇ τὸν βίον ὅλον, &c. The verb μινυρίζειν signifies _to sing in a
  high and plaintive key_,—sometimes, also, _to whine_; γανοῦν is
  derived from γάνος, _splendour_, _joy_, and hence means _to be radiant
  with pleasure, to be of joyful countenance_.

Footnote 142:

  Allusion is here made to Hom. Il. xvii. v. 586:—

              Ἕκτορ, τίς κέ σ’ ἔτ’ ἄλλος Ἀχαιῶν ταρβήσειεν;
              Οἷον δὴ Μενέλαον ὑπέτρεσας, ὃς τὸ πάρος περ
              Μαλθακὸς αἰχμητής·

             What chiefs of all the Grecians shall henceforth
             Fear Hector, who from Menelaus shrinks
             Once deemed effeminate.      _Cowper._

-----

CHAP. XIX.—The above then are probably the true models both of education
and discipline:—for why should one go through the dances, the hunts of
wild beasts with dogs and nets, the wrestlings and the horse-races
expedient for such persons?—for it is almost manifest that they follow
as a matter of course, nor are they at all hard to discover. Well, said
he, perhaps they are not difficult. Granted, said I:—but after this,
what had we next to determine?—Is it not, which of these shall govern,
and be governed? What else? Is it not plain that the governors should be
the elder, and the governed the younger? Plain. And also, that the best
of them [should govern?] Aye,—that too. And the best husbandmen;—are
they not the cleverest in tillage? Yes. Now, if it be fit that our
guardians be the best, will they not be most strictly watchful over the
city? Yes. With this view should we not make them prudent, and able, and
careful also of the city? It is the fact. At any rate a man would be
most careful of what he happens to love? Necessarily so. And this at
least one must especially love,—namely, what he deems to have a
community of interest with himself, especially when he conceives, that
in another’s good fortune he may find good fortune too,—but if
otherwise, the reverse? Just so, said he. We must choose then, from the
rest of the guardians such men, as on inquiry most of all seem to
perform with all cheerfulness through an entire life whatever they deem
expedient for the state,—while, as to the inexpedient, they will not do
it by any means at all. These are just the proper persons, said he. I
really think that they ought to be observed at all stages of life,
whether they act consistently with this opinion, without either being
reduced or forcibly compelled inconsiderately to throw up the opinion,
of its being a duty to do what is best for the state. What throwing up
do you mean? said he. I will tell you, said I. Opinion seems to me to
come from the intellect either voluntarily or involuntarily,—voluntarily
indeed as regards false opinion, [when it comes] from him who unlearns
it,—but involuntarily, as regards every true one. The case of the
voluntary one, replied he, I understand; but that of the involuntary I
want to learn. What;—are not even you of opinion, said I, that men are
deprived of good things involuntarily, but of evil things voluntarily?
Is being deceived respecting the truth no evil, and the attainment of
truth no good? and think you not, that to form opinions respecting
things as they really exist is attaining the truth? Aye, said he, you
speak correctly:—they do indeed seem to me to be deprived unwillingly of
true opinion. Are they then thus affected by being robbed, or enchanted,
or forced? Now, at any rate, said he, I do not understand you. I am
probably expressing myself, said I, just like the tragedians:[143] for,
I say, that those [have their opinions] stolen, who change them through
persuasion, or else forget them; because, in the one case, they are
imperceptibly removed by time, and in the other by reasoning:—now
perhaps you understand? Yes. And those, I say, are forced out of their
opinions, whom grief or agony obliges to change them? This too, said he,
I understand, and you are right in saying so. Those, moreover, methinks,
you will say, are enchanted out of their opinions, who change them,
either bewitched by pleasure or appalled by fear. For whatever deceives,
said he, seems to exercise a kind of magical enchantment.

-----

Footnote 143:

  Plato here alludes to the obscure style sometimes adopted by them to
  mystify the hearers. Comp. viii. ch. 3, where they are spoken of as
  πρὸς παῖδας ἡμᾶς παιζούσας καὶ ἐρεσχελούσας ὑψηλολογουμένας.
  Aristophanes all through “the Frogs” caricatures this mystifying,
  bombastic tendency.

-----

CHAP. XX.—We must now then inquire,—as I was saying before,—who are the
best guardians of their own particular maxim, that they should do
whatever they deem to be best for the state; and they should observe
them too quite from childhood, setting before them such work, as may
lead them most readily to forget such a matter and delude themselves;
and we should choose one who is mindful and hard to be deluded, while
one who is not so we should reject:—is that it? Yes. And we must appoint
them labours and pains and contests, in which we must observe these very
same things. Right, said he. Should we not, also, said I, appoint a
third contest, that of the mountebank kind; and look to see, just as
persons lead young colts amidst noises and tumults, to find out whether
they are frightened?—and thus, while yet young, they must be led into
various fearful situations, and again be thrown back into pleasures,
trying them far more than gold in the fire, whether a person appears
hard to be beguiled by mountebank tricks, and is of composed demeanour
amidst all, because he is a good guardian of himself, and of that music
in which he had been instructed, proving himself in all these respects
to be in just rhythm and harmony. Being of such character, he would
truly be most useful both to himself and the state. And he who in
childhood, youth, and manhood, has been thus tried, and come out pure,
may be appointed governor and guardian of the state; honours are to be
paid him while he lives, and at his death he should receive the highest
rewards of public burial and other memorials:—while one that is not such
we must reject. Somewhat like this, methinks, Glaucon, said I,—for we
have only drawn it in outline, not defined it accurately,[144]—should be
the mode of choosing and establishing our governors and guardians. I
think so too, rejoined he. Is it not then really most correct to call
these the perfect guardians, both as to what relates to enemies abroad
and friends at home, for taking from one party the will, and from the
other the power of doing mischief, while the youth (whom we just now
called guardians) will be allies and auxiliaries to the decrees of the
governors? Yes, I think so, replied he.

-----

Footnote 144:

  Gr. ὡς ἐν τύπῳ, μὴ δι’ ἀκριβείας, εἰρῆσθαι. Comp. vi. ch. 6—ἔχεις γὰρ
  τὸν τύπον ὧν λέγω, where τύπον, as here means _a general notion_ or
  _sketch_, like ὑπογραφὴν in ch. 16 of the same book.

-----

CHAP. XXI.—What then, said I, should be our plan, when we are falsifying
by one of the well-intentioned and necessary untruths, such as we just
mentioned, with a view to persuade chiefly the governors
themselves;—but, if not these, the rest of the state? What kind of
untruth do you mean? Nothing new, said I, but something like the
Phœnician fable,[145] which has often taken place heretofore, as the
poets say and have persuaded us, but which has not happened in our
times, nor do I know whether it is likely to happen,—to persuade one of
which indeed requires great suasive power. You seem to me, said he, to
hesitate to tell it! I shall appear to you, said I, to hesitate with
very good reason, whenever I shall tell it. Speak, said he, and be not
afraid. I will tell you then, though I know not with what courage, or
what words I am to use in telling you;—and I will attempt, first of all
to persuade the governors themselves, and the soldiers, and then also
the rest of the state, that, whatever training or education we gave
them, all these particulars seemed to affect and befal them like dreams,
while really they were in course of formation and development beneath
the earth, where are fabricated not only themselves, but also their
armour and other equipments:—but after they were completely fashioned,
the earth, who is their mother, brought them forth; and now they ought
to consult the interests of the country in which they reside as for a
mother and nurse, and to defend her in case of invasion, and to look
upon the rest of the citizens as their brethren, and sprung from the
same soil. It is not without reason, said he, that some time back, you
were ashamed to tell this falsehood. Quite so, said I:—but still hear
the remainder of the fable. All of you in the state truly are brethren
(as we shall tell them by way of fable); but the God, in forming you,
mixed gold in the formation of such of you as are able to govern;—on
which account they are the most honourable;—in such as are auxiliaries,
silver;—and in the husbandmen and other craftsmen, iron and brass. Since
then you are all of the same kindred, you would for the most part beget
children resembling yourselves; and sometimes perhaps silver will be
generated out of gold, and out of silver there might be a golden
offspring; and thus in all other ways [are they generated] out of one
another.[146] Governors then, first and chiefly, the God charges, that
over nothing are they to be such good guardians, or to keep such
vigilant watch, as over their children;—[to know] with which of these
principles their souls are imbued;—and should their descendants be of
brass or iron, they will show them no indulgence whatever, but assigning
them honour just proportioned to their natural temper, will thrust them
down to the rank of craftsmen or husbandmen. And if again any from among
these latter shall exhibit a golden or silver sort of nature, they are
to pay them honour and elevate them;—some to the guardianship, others to
the rank of auxiliaries,—the oracle having declared that the state shall
perish whenever iron or brass shall hold its guardianship. With respect
to this fable then, have you any means of persuading them of its truth?
None, said he, of persuading these men themselves; but I have as
respects their sons and posterity, and the rest of mankind afterwards.
Even this, said I, would act well in making them more anxious about the
state’s welfare, and for one another; for I almost understand what you
mean;—and this truly will lead the same way as the oracle.

-----

Footnote 145:

  The scholiast tells us that the Phœnician fable had reference to the
  myths related about the dragon and the sown men that arose at the
  bidding of Cadmus, the son of Agenor, and grandson of Poseidon and
  Libya, whose native country was Phœnicia.

Footnote 146:

  Aristotle makes some rather strong remarks on these views in his
  Polit. ch. 2, § 15, ed. Schneid.

-----

CHAP. XXII.—As for ourselves, having armed these earth-born sons, let us
lead them forward under the conduct of their leaders; and when they are
come into the city, let them consider where they may best pitch their
camp, so as best to keep in order those within it, should any one be
unwilling to obey the laws; and likewise how they may defend it against
those without, should any enemy come, like a wolf, on the fold. And when
they have pitched their camp, and sacrificed to the proper divinities,
let them erect their tents: is that the way? Just so, said he. They
should be such then as may suffice to defend them, both from winter’s
cold and summer-heat? Of course; for I think, said he, you are alluding
to houses. Yes, said I, those of the military class, not those of the
money-makers. How, replied he, do you say that the latter differs from
the former? I will try to tell you, said I; for, of all things, it is
the most dreadful, and disgraceful to shepherds, to breed, as guardians
of the flocks, such kind of dogs, and in such a manner, as that, either
through want of discipline, or hunger, or some other ill habit, the dogs
should themselves attempt to hurt the sheep, and so resemble wolves
rather than dogs. It is dreadful, of course, said he. Must we not then
take all care, lest our allies act thus towards our citizens, as being
the more powerful, and, instead of generous allies, resemble savage
masters? We must take care, said he. Would they not be prepared to
exercise the greatest caution, if they were really well educated? They
are so, moreover, replied he. I then, for my part, observed: that you
cannot properly insist on, friend Glaucon; but what we were just now
saying is proper; namely, that they should have a good education,
whatever its nature, if they are to possess what is most important
towards rendering them mild, both among themselves and towards those
under their guardianship. Right, said he. In addition then to this
training, any intelligent person would say, that their houses and all
other effects ought to be so contrived, as neither to impede their
guardians in becoming the very best possible, nor to excite them to the
injury of the other citizens. Aye, and he will say true. If then they
intend to be such, consider, said I, whether they ought to live and
arrange their household in some such manner, as follows: First, let none
possess any private property unless it be absolutely necessary: next,
let none have any dwelling, or store-house, into which any one that
pleases may not enter: then, as for necessaries, let them be such as
both temperate and brave champions in war may require; making for
themselves this law, not to receive such a reward of their guardianship
from the other citizens, as to have either surplus or deficiency at the
year’s end. Let them also frequent public meals, as in camps, and live
in common; and we must tell them, that they have ever in their souls
from the gods a divine gold and silver, and therefore have no need of
that which is human; and that it were profane to pollute the possession
of the divine ore, by mixing it with the alloy of the mortal metal;
because the money of the vulgar has produced many impious deeds, while
that which they have is pure; and that of all men in the city, they
alone should not be allowed to handle or touch gold or silver, or
harbour it under their roof, or carry it about, nor to drink out of
silver or gold. By such means they will be likely to preserve both
themselves and the state; but whenever they shall possess private lands
and houses, and money, they will become stewards and farmers instead of
guardians, and hateful masters instead of allies to the other citizens;
in hating indeed, and being hated, in plotting, and being plotted
against, they will pass the whole of their life; much more frequently
and more really terrified by the enemies from within than by those from
without, as they and the rest of the state are hastening very near to
destruction. For all these reasons, said I, we must say, that our
guardians should be thus regulated, both as to their houses and all
other matters. And let us consider these things as law; shall we not? By
all means, said Glaucon.


                                BOOK IV.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _fourth book_, after defining the true position and functions of
    the φύλαξ and the arrangement of a model state,—which he further
    conceives to comprise, as essentials, wisdom, temperance, fortitude,
    and justice, the necessary union and coherence of which he
    demonstrates by analogy with the numerous mental faculties, which,
    like the members of a state, exist by mutual connexion and
    dependence. This concord of faculties is at the bottom of Plato’s
    notion of a state; and this constitutes justice, the benefits of
    which are negatively proved by the exposure of injustice. This
    justice, however, he proves to have numerous ramifications, just in
    the same way as both himself and Aristotle conceive that under the
    term politics is included everything that concerns civil
    administration when placed in the hands of the people themselves,
    both generically and in its specific departments.

CHAP. I.—Adimantus hereupon rejoining said: What answer will you make,
Socrates, if one were to say that you do not make these men very
happy,—and that owing to themselves, whose property the state really
is,—yet they enjoy no advantage in the state, such as others do who
possess lands, build beautiful and large houses, purchase suitable
furniture, offer sacrifices to the gods at their own expense, entertain
strangers, and, as you were just now saying, possess gold and silver,
and everything generally supposed to contribute towards making men
happy. Aye, doubtless, he may say, they seem, like hired auxiliaries, to
be settled in the state for no other purpose than keeping guard. Yes,
said I; and that too only for their maintenance, without receiving, like
the rest, pay as well as rations;—so that they are not to be allowed so
much as to travel abroad privately, though they wish it, nor bestow
money on mistresses, nor spend it in such other ways as those do who are
reputed to be happy. These and many such like things you leave out of
the accusation. Well, let these charges too, said he, be made against
them. What answer then, are we to make, you ask? I do. While travelling
on the same road, we shall find, methinks, what is to be said: for we
shall state, that it would be nothing strange, were these men, under
these circumstances, to be the happiest possible:—yet it was not with an
eye to this, that we are establishing our state,—to have any one tribe
in it remarkably happy, but that the whole state might be so to the
fullest extent; for we judged, that in such an one more particularly we
should meet with justice, and again in that the worst established
injustice; and that, on thoroughly examining these, we might determine
what we have long been seeking. Now then, as we suppose, we are forming
a happy state, not by selection, making some few only so in it, but the
whole: and we will next consider one its reverse. Just as if, when we
were painting human figures, a person should come and blame us, saying,
that we do not place the most beautiful colours on the most beautiful
parts of the creature,—inasmuch as the eyes, the most beautiful part,
were not painted with purple, but black; we should seem perhaps to make
a sufficient answer to him, by saying, Clever fellow, do not suppose
that we ought to paint the eyes so beautifully, as that they should not
appear to be eyes, and so with the other parts;—but consider, rather,
whether, in giving each particular part its due, we make the whole
beautiful. And especially now, do not oblige us to confer such happiness
on our guardians as shall make them anything rather than guardians: for
we know too, how to dress out the husbandmen in fine robes and gird them
with gold, and bid them till the ground with a view to pleasure
only,—and in like manner, those who make earthenware, to lie at their
ease by the fire, drinking and feasting, and placing the wheel near them
to work just so much as they like;—and so also how to confer happiness
on every one in such a manner as to render the whole state happy. But do
not advise us in this way; because, if we obey you, neither will the
husbandman be really a husbandman, nor the potter a potter; nor will any
one else be really of any of those professions of which the state is
composed. As to all the rest, it is of less consequence:—for, when
shoemakers become bad and corrupt, and profess to be shoemakers when
they are not so, no great mischief befals the state; but when guardians
of the laws and of the state are not so really, but only in appearance,
you see how entirely they destroy the whole state, and, on the other
hand, that they alone have the opportunity of managing it well and
effecting its happiness. If then we would appoint men who shall be
really guardians of the city, [let us choose] those who will be least
hurtful to it; but he who says that they should be a kind of farmers,
and as in a festival meeting, not in a state, jolly entertainers, must
speak of something else rather than a city. We must consider, then,
whether we establish guardians with this view, that they may enjoy the
greatest happiness,—or, looking to the entire state, we regard whether
it is to be found therein; and we must compel these allies and guardians
to do this, and persuade them to become the best performers of their own
particular work, and act also towards all others in the same manner; and
thus, as the whole city becomes prosperous, and well constituted, we
must permit its several classes to share in that degree of happiness
which their nature admits.

CHAP. II.—I think you say well, said he. Well then, said I, what is near
akin to this, shall I be thought to say rightly. In what particularly?
With respect to all other artificers again, consider whether these
things corrupt them, so as to make them bad workmen. To what do you
allude? Riches, said I, and poverty. As how? Thus:—Would the potter,
think you, after he has become rich, have any desire still to mind his
art? By no means, said he. But will he not become more idle and careless
than he was before? Much more so. Will he not then become a worse
potter? This too, much more so, said he. And, moreover, being unable
through poverty to supply himself with tools, or other requisites of his
art, his workmanship will be more imperfectly executed, and his sons, or
others whom he instructs, will be inferior artists. Of course they will.
Owing to both these causes, then, [namely] poverty and riches, the
workmanship in the arts becomes inferior, and [the artists] themselves
inferior too. It appears so. We have then, it seems, found out other
things for our guardians, against which they must by all means watch,
that they may not steal into the state without their knowledge. Of what
sort are these? Riches, said I, and poverty;—the one engendering luxury,
idleness, and a love of innovation;—the other, illiberality and
mischief, as well as a love of innovation. Quite so, said he. But,
Socrates, pray consider this;—how is our state to have the power of
engaging in war, when she is possessed of no money, especially if
compelled to wage war against a great and opulent one? It is plain, said
I, that to fight against one is somewhat difficult; but against two such
is more easy. How say you? replied he. First of all, now, said I, if
there is any occasion for fighting, will they not, being practised
warriors, fight against rich men? Yes, surely, said he. What then, said
I, Adimantus, would not a single boxer, trained as highly as possible to
this exercise, seem to you easily able to fight against two who are not
boxers, but on the other hand, are rich and fat? Not perhaps with both
at once, said he. Not even, said I, if he should be enabled to retire a
little, and then turn back and give a blow to the furthest in advance,
and repeat this frequently in the sun and heat?—would not a person of
this kind easily defeat many such as these? Clearly so, and no wonder,
said he. But think you not, that the rich have more science and
experience in boxing than in the military art? I do, said he. In that
case, according to appearances, our wrestlers will easily combat with
double and threefold their number. I will agree with you, said he; for I
believe you say right. But what,—supposing they were to send an embassy
to another state, informing them of their true situation, telling them,
We make no use either of gold or silver, neither is it lawful for us to
use them, while for you it is so:—if then you become our allies in war,
you shall receive the enemy’s spoils;—think you that any, on hearing
this, would choose to fight against stanch and resolute dogs, rather
than in alliance with the dogs to fight against fat and tender sheep? I
think not; but, if the wealth of all the rest be accumulated in one
single state, take care that it [the wealthy state] does not endanger
that which is poor. How good you are, said I, to think that any other
deserves to be called a state except such as we have established. Why
not? said he. To those others, said I, we must give a more magnificent
appellation; for each of them comprises very many states, and is not
one, as was said in the game;[147] for there are always in them, however
small they be, two parties hostile to each other,—the poor and the rich;
and in each of these again there are very many;—to which, if you apply
as to one, you would be entirely mistaken;—but if, as to many, giving
one party the goods and power, or even persons, of the other, you will
always have the many for your allies, and the few for enemies; and, so
long as your state be managed temperately, as lately established, it
will be the greatest,—not I mean in mere repute, but really the
greatest, though its defenders were no more than one thousand; for a
single state of such size you will not easily find, either among Greeks
or barbarians, but many which have the repute of being many times larger
than one such as this.[148] Are you of a different opinion? No, by Zeus,
said he.

-----

Footnote 147:

  The scholiast tells us, that “to play at cities” (πόλεις παίζειν) is a
  kind of game at dice, in which the players cried,—“One city,” or “Many
  cities;” and he informs us, moreover, that the expression was
  proverbial.

Footnote 148:

  These notions are severely commented on by Aristotle in his Pol. ii.
  4.

-----

CHAP. III.—This, then, said I, will probably be the best boundary-mark
for our rulers as to the size that a state should attain, and what
extent of ground should be marked off for it in proportion to its bulk,
without reference to anything further?[149] What boundary? said he. I
suppose, said I, [it should be] this: So long as the city, as it
increases, continues to be one, so far it may increase, but no further.
Very right, said he. We will impose, then, this further injunction on
our guardians, to take care by all means that the city be neither small
nor great, but of moderate extent, and one only. This probably, said he,
will be a trifling injunction. A more trifling one still, said I, is
what we previously mentioned, when we observed, that if any descendant
of the guardians be depraved, he should be dismissed to the other
classes; and if one from the other classes be worthy, he should be
promoted to that of the guardians;—by all which it was intended to show
that all the other citizens should apply themselves each to that
particular art for which he has a natural genius, that so, each minding
his own proper work, should not become many, but one; and thus,
consequently, the whole state would have the nature of unity;—not
plurality. Well,—this, indeed, said he, is a still more trifling
injunction than the other. We do not here, said I, good Adimantus, as
any one might suppose, impose on them many and grave injunctions, but
all of them rather trifling, if they take care of one grand point that
we speak about, or rather not so much great as sufficient. What is that?
said he. The education, said I, and nurture of children; for if, by
being well educated, they become temperate men, they will easily see
through all these things, and such other things as we pass by at
present,—women, marriages, and the propagation of the species,—inasmuch
as these things ought all, according to the proverb,[150] to be made
entirely common among friends. Yes,—for that, said he, would be most
right. And moreover, said I, if once a republic is set a-going, it
proceeds as a circle, constantly on the increase. For nurture and good
education, when maintained, engender good dispositions, and good
dispositions, partaking of such education, turn out still better than
the former, especially with reference to propagation, just as with all
other animals. Probably, said he. To speak then in brief, this,
particularly, the guardians of the state must guard against, that it may
not be corrupted unawares,—nay, above all things, must they guard
against this, not to make innovations in gymnastics and music, contrary
to the established order of the state, but as far as possible maintain
it, through fear that while a man adopts that poetical expression,

                  ... Men most admire that song
                  Which most partakes of novelty,[151]

one might often think that the poet means not new songs, but some new
style of song, and so commends it: but such as this one ought neither to
commend nor admit; for as to receiving a new kind of music one should be
specially cautious, as endangering the whole: for never, as Damon says,
and I quite agree with him, are the measures of music altered without
affecting the most important laws of the state. And me too, you may
place, said Adimantus, among those who are of that opinion.

-----

Footnote 149:

  From the previous discussion respecting the unity and harmony of a
  state, Socrates conceives that it may be inferred _also_ what decision
  should be formed respecting its size and boundaries; and he wishes it
  to be increased only in such way as may be consistent with moderate
  bulk, and not endanger its unity and the harmony of its several parts.

Footnote 150:

  Allusion is here made to the well-known Pythagorean adage,—τὰ τῶν
  φίλων κοινά, all the property of friends should be held in common.

Footnote 151:

  Hom. Odyss. i. v. 353; but with slight variation,—the original having
  ἀκουόντεσσι, not ἀειδόντεσσι. Great stress is here laid on the
  necessity of keeping up the severe old style of music, inasmuch as the
  introduction of a new and more luxurious style would infallibly
  produce a general corruption of national morals. The importance
  attached to this point will be more truly seen from considering the
  close relation which, in the opinion of the Greeks, subsisted between
  all the liberal arts. Plato alludes to the subject at length in the
  Laws, ii. pp. 656 c, 659 e, and iii. pp. 700 a, &c., and vii.
  throughout.

-----

CHAP. IV.—We must erect then, said I, in music, as it seems, a kind of
citadel for our guardians. Nevertheless, neglect of the laws even here,
said he, easily and imperceptibly steals in. Yes, said I, in the way of
diversion, and as if it were doing no mischief. No, for it does nothing
else, said he, but by gradually insinuating itself into it, insensibly
flow into their manners and pursuits; and afterwards in a greater degree
it finds its way into their contracts with each other; and from
contracts it enters with much boldness into the laws and political
establishments, Socrates, till at last it overturns everything,
privately as well as publicly. Well, then, said I, is this the case? It
appears so to me, he replied. Ought not our children then, as I said at
the beginning, even from infancy, to be allowed diversions more
conformable to the laws? because, if their diversions are inconsistent
with the laws, and the children such themselves, it is impossible that
they should grow up men obedient to the laws and virtuous. How can it be
otherwise? said he. When, therefore, children beginning well set about
their diversions conformably to the laws, with music, quite the contrary
to what happens in the former case attends them in everything, and grows
up with them, and corrects in the state whatever was before neglected.
True, indeed, said he. And regulations, even, said I, that seem but of
little importance, these persons discover anew, which the others had
allowed altogether to perish. What regulations? Such as these:—That the
younger should keep silence before the elder, as is proper, and give
them place, and rise up before them,[152] and show reverence to parents;
likewise what shaving, what clothes and shoes are proper, with the whole
bodily dress, and all similar matters. Do not you think so? I do. But to
make laws about these things, would, I think, be silly; neither is it
done anywhere; nor would it stand, though established both by word and
writing. For how can it? It seems then, said I, Adimantus, that in
whatever way a man sets out in his education, such accordingly will be
its consequences; for does not the like always attract the like? Of
course. And we may say, I suppose, that it results at last in something
complete and vigorous, whether it be good or the contrary? Of course,
said he. I would not then, said I, for these reasons, undertake as yet,
to make laws about such matters as these. Very properly, said he. But
what, by the gods, said I, as to those laws relative to matters of
contract, and to the traffic which they severally transact with each
other in the market, and, if you please, their traffic likewise among
their handicrafts, their abusiveness and bodily assaults, their entering
of actions at law, their institution of judges, and likewise such
imposts and payments of taxes as might be expedient either in the
markets or at the ports,—or generally as to laws commercial, municipal,
or marine, or any other the like,—shall we venture to establish any of
these? It is improper, said he, to prescribe them to good and worthy
men; for the greater part of them, such as ought to be established by
law, they will easily find out for themselves. Yes, said I, my friend,
if at least God grant them security for those laws which we have above
described. But if not so, said he, they will spend the whole of their
life making and amending many such [regulations,] imagining that they
will thus attain to what is best. You say that such as these, said I,
will lead a life like that of sick persons, and such as are unwilling,
through intemperance, to relinquish a bad mode of living? Quite so. And
truly, these at least pass their time very pleasantly; for though they
undergo remedial treatment, they do nothing but make their ailments
greater and more complex; and they are ever in hopes, when any one
recommends any medicine to them, that by these means they shall soon get
well. Aye, that is just the case with diseased persons like these. But
what, said I, is not this pleasant of them, to reckon that man the most
hateful of all, who tells them the truth, namely, that, till one
abandons drunkenness, gluttony, unchaste pleasures, and laziness,
neither drugs nor caustics, nor the use of the knife, nor charms, nor
amulets, nor any other such things as these, will be of any avail? That,
said he, is not very pleasant; for to be angry with one who tells us
what is right, has nothing in it that is pleasant. You seem to be no
admirer, said I, of such men as these. No, truly.

-----

Footnote 152:

  Comp. here Aristot. Eth. ix. ch. 2:—παντὶ δὲ τῷ πρεσβυτέρῳ τιμὴν καθ’
  ἡλικίαν ἀποδοτέον ὑπαναστάσεσι καὶ κατακλίσεσι.

-----

CHAP. V.—You cannot then surely approve of it, even though the entire
city (as we were lately saying) should act so; or rather, do they not
seem to be doing the same that is done by all those cities, which,
however ill-governed, command their citizens not to alter any part of
the constitution, for that death will be inflicted on all who do any
such things; while, on the other hand, whoever most cheerfully serves
those who thus govern, gratifying them with insinuating flattery, and
exhibits great dexterity in anticipating and satisfying their desires,
will be deemed both good and wise in matters of highest importance, and
will be held by them also in the greatest honour? They seem to me at
least, said he, to do the very same thing, and I cannot by any means
commend them. But what again as to those who desire to manage such
states, and are even fond of it, do you not admire their courage and
dexterity? I do, said he; excepting, indeed, such as are imposed on by
them, and fancy that they are really politicians, because they are
praised by the multitude. How do you mean? Do you not pardon those men?
said I. Do you think it even possible that a man ignorant of the art of
measuring, supposing he should hear many other such men tell him that he
is four cubits high, would not believe this of himself? Impossible, said
he. Be not angry then; for such as these are of all the most ridiculous;
because, as they are ever making laws about such things as we have just
mentioned, and ever mending them, they conceive they shall find some end
to the frauds respecting commerce, and what else I just now spoke about,
through ignorance of the fact that they are in fact, as it were, trying
to destroy a hydra. Nevertheless, it is nothing else, said he, that they
are now attempting. I think, then, said I, that a true lawgiver ought
not to give himself much trouble about such sorts of laws and police,
either in an ill or well ordered state; in the one, because it is
unprofitable and of no avail; in the other, because, as for some of the
laws, any one whatever can find them out, while others flow quite of
their own accord out of their former habits and pursuits.

What then, in the enactment of laws, said he, yet remains for us to
consider? And I said: We have nothing, indeed, remaining: to the
Delphian Apollo, however, there remains the greatest, noblest, and most
important of legal institutions. Of what kind? said he. The erection of
temples, sacrifices, and other services to the gods, demons, and heroes;
likewise the rites of the dead, and what other ceremonies should be gone
through, with a view to their propitiation. Such things as these,
indeed, we neither know ourselves, nor, in founding the state, would we
intrust them to any other, if we be wise; nor would we employ any other
interpreter than that of the country: for surely this god, being the
natural interpreter to all men about such matters, interprets to them
sitting in the middle, and, as it were, navel of the earth. Aye, you say
well, said he; and we must act accordingly.

CHAP. VI.—Thus then, son of Ariston, said I, is our state established.
And, in the next place, having provided from some source or other
sufficient light for it, do you yourself observe, and call on your
brother and Polemarchus and these others also to do so also, whether we
can at all perceive where justice lies, and where injustice, and in what
respect they differ from each other; and likewise which of the two that
man ought to possess, who proposes to be happy, whether with or without
the knowledge of gods and men. You say nothing to the purpose, replied
Glaucon; for you yourself promised to inquire into this, as it was
unholy for you not to assist by all possible means the cause of justice.
What you remind me of, said I, is true; and I must act accordingly;
still it is proper, that you too should assist in the inquiry. Aye, that
we will, said he. I hope then, said I, to be able to find what I want in
the following manner:—I think that our city, if at least it has been
rightly established, should be perfectly good. Necessarily so, said he.
It is evident then, that it is wise, and brave, and temperate, and just.
Manifestly so. Whatever then of these [virtues] we shall find in it, the
remainder will be that which is not found? Of course. Supposing of any
four things whatever, if we were in quest of one, were we to discover
this one at first, we should be satisfied; and were we first to discover
the other three, we should discover from this itself what we were
inquiring after; for it would be manifestly no other than what was left
behind. You say right, said he. Well then, since of the virtues above
mentioned there happened to be four [in our state,] shall we not inquire
about them in a similar manner? Plainly so.

CHAP. VII.—First of all, indeed, to my mind at least, wisdom appears to
hold in it a very conspicuous place; and there appears to be something
very peculiar about it. What is that? said he. The state which we have
described appears to me to be really wise, for it is well advised; is it
not? It is. And surely this very thing, the ability of advising well, is
evidently a kind of science; for in no case do men advise well through
ignorance, but only by means of science. Plainly so. But there are many
and various kinds of science in the state? Of course there are. Is it
then owing to the science of builders, that the state is to be termed
wise and well-advised? By no means through this, said he; for it would
only be clever in building. A state, then, is not to be called wise on
account of its skill in advising the best methods of building? Surely
not. And what, as respects skill in brass-work or anything else of a
similar nature? For none of these, said he. Nor yet for its knowledge of
the productions of the earth [is it said to be wise,] but only skilled
in agriculture. I think so. But what, said I; is there any science among
any of the citizens in the state which we have just founded, which
deliberates, not about any particular thing in the city, but about the
whole, how it may best be conducted, both as regards itself and its
intercourse with other cities? Yes, there is. What is it, said I, and
among whom to be found? This very guardianship, said he; and [it may be
found] among those very governors, whom we lately termed perfect
guardians. On account then of this skill, what do you term the state?
Well-advised, said he, and really wise. Whether then, said I, do you
imagine that the braziers, or these true guardians, will be the more
numerous in the state? The braziers, said he, far more so. And of all,
said I, who owing to their skill are to be held in account, will not
these guardians be the fewest in number? By far. By this smallest class
and portion of the state then, and by the science that presides over and
governs it, is the whole city wisely established on natural principles;
and this class, as it seems, is by nature the smallest, whose business
it is to have a share in that science, which of all others ought alone
to be denominated wisdom. Your remark, replied he, is perfectly true. We
have found then, I know not how, one of the four, both as respects its
nature and the part of the state in which it resides. And for my part,
said he, I think it has been sufficiently described.

CHAP. VIII.—But as to fortitude, both as respects itself, and the
particular part of the state in which it resides, on account of which
the state is termed brave, that can be no difficult matter to discover.
How so? Who, said I, would call a state brave or cowardly, with relation
to any other than that particular portion which makes war and fights in
its defence? No one would, said he, with relation to any other. No, said
I, for I do not think that the other classes therein, whether cowardly
or brave, can have any influence to make it either the one or the other.
No, indeed. The state then is brave in a certain part of itself, because
it contains such a power as will constantly maintain its opinion about
things dreadful, as to their being these very things, and such like,
just as the lawgiver inculcated during training:—Do you not call this
fortitude? I have not thoroughly comprehended, said he, what you say; so
tell it over again. Fortitude, said I, I term a kind of preservative.
What sort of preservative? A preservative of opinion formed by law in a
course of education about things dreadful, as to their nature and
quality; and I called it a constant preservative, because one retains it
both in pains and pleasures, desires and fears, and never casts it off;
and, if you please, I will liken it to what I think it closely
resembles. Pray do. Do not you know then, said I, that dyers, when they
want to dye their wool, that it may be purple, choose out of ever so
many colours only the white, and then prepare and manage it with no
trifling pains, so that it may best take a bright hue, and then they dye
it? And whatever is dyed in this manner is of an indelible dye; nor can
any washing, either without or with soap, take away its hue; but as for
wool not thus managed, you know of what sort it proves, whether one dye
either this or other colours, without previous preparation. I know, said
he, that they are easily washed out, and get shabby.[153] Suppose then,
that we, too, were to perform according to our ability a similar
operation, when selecting our soldiers, and instructing them in music
and gymnastics; and that we should attend to no other object, than that
they should obediently and in the best manner receive the laws, as they
would a colour, and so acquire indelible opinions about the dreadful,
and other things as well, through having had a suitable temper and
education; these leys then, however strongly detersive, could not wash
away their dye, whether they be pleasure (which is more powerful in
effecting this than any alkali[154] or ley whatever), or pain, fear, and
desire, which exceed in power all other solvents.—Such a power then, and
constant maintenance of right and legitimate opinion about what is
dreadful or not so, I term and define to be fortitude, unless you offer
some other meaning. No; I can offer none, said he; for you seem to me to
hold, that when a right opinion about these matters arises without
education, it is both savage and slavish, and not at all according to
law; and you give it some other name besides fortitude. Your remark is
quite true, said I. I admit, then, that this is fortitude. Admit
further, said I, that it is political fortitude, and you will admit
rightly; but we will inquire about it, if you please, more perfectly
some other time; for, at present, it is not this, but justice, that we
are seeking; and with regard to the inquiry about the other, that has,
in my opinion, been carried far enough. You say well, he rejoined.

-----

Footnote 153:

  The original is γελοῖα—a word not very easy to render.

Footnote 154:

  The word χαλαστραῖον, lit. nitre (nitrate of potash), is derived from
  Χαλάστρα, a town and lake of Macedonia, where this mineral was found
  in great abundance.—Comp. Plin. Nat. Hist. xxxi. 10, 5, 46. The
  rendering, _alkali_, may perhaps be thought an anachronism; but it
  expresses the author’s meaning better than any one word in our
  language.

-----

CHAP. IX.—There yet remain, said I, two [virtues] in the state which we
must consider,—namely, temperance, and that, for the sake of which we
have been searching after all the rest,—that is justice. Certainly. How
then can we find out justice, so as to trouble ourselves no further
about temperance? I truly neither know, said he, nor do I wish it to be
developed before the other, if at least we are on that account to
dismiss altogether the consideration of temperance; but, pray oblige me,
and consider this before the other. I for my part am quite willing, said
I; for I should be acting wrongly not to do so.[155] Consider then, said
he. We must consider, I replied; and as it appears from this point of
view, it seems to resemble a sort of symphony and harmony more than the
virtues formerly mentioned. How? Temperance, said I, is somehow a
certain decorum, and a restraint, as one may say, exercised over certain
pleasures and desires; and when one boasts of being superior to oneself,
and many other such-like expressions, these are mentioned as indications
of it; are they not? Yes,—they are its leading indications, said he. But
is not the expression, “superior to oneself,” ridiculous?—for he who is
superior to himself must somehow also be inferior to himself; and the
inferior be the superior,—for the same person is spoken of in all these
cases. How otherwise? To me, however, said I, the expression seems to
denote, that in the same man, as regards his soul, there is one part
better, and another worse; and that when the better part of his nature
governs the inferior, this is what is termed being superior to himself,
and expresses a commendation; but when, owing to bad education or
associations, that better and smaller part is swayed by the superior
power of the worse part,—then one says, by way of reproach and blame,
that the person thus affected is inferior to himself and altogether in
disorder. Aye,—it would seem so, said he. Look then, said I, at our new
state, and you will find one of these in it: for you will agree, that it
may justly be addressed as superior to itself, if that state, in which
the better part governs the worse, is called temperate and superior to
itself. I do see it, said he;—and you say true. And moreover one may
find very many and various desires, and pleasures, and pains, especially
among children, and women, and domestics, and likewise among the
greatest and most depraved portion of those who are called free.
Certainly. But as for the simple and moderate desires, which are led by
the intellect, with judgment and right opinion, you will meet with them
only in the few, those, namely, of the best temper and best educated.
True, said he. And do not you see that these things are contained in our
state, and that there too the desires of the many and the baser part are
restrained by the desires and prudence of the smaller and more moderate
part? I do, said he.

-----

Footnote 155:

  The original is very elliptical:—Ἀλλὰ μέντοι, ἦν δ’ ἐγὼ, βούλομαί γε,
  εἰ μὴ ἀδικῶ. The form εἰ μὴ ἀδικῶ occurs again, x. ch. 9, p. 608 d,
  and ch. 12, p. 612 d.

-----

CHAP. X.—If then, we are to call any state superior to pleasures and
desires, and to itself also, this may be so called. Yes, by all means,
said he. And is it not on all these accounts temperate? Quite so, said
he. And if, again, in any other state, the governors and the governed
agree in opinion on the point, as to the fit governing party, it is to
be found in this:—do you not think so? I am strongly of that opinion. In
whom then of the citizens will you say that temperance resides, when
they are thus situated;—in the governors, or the governed? In both of
them, probably, said he. Do you see then, said I, that we just now
rightly guessed, that temperance resembles a kind of harmony? How so?
Because—not as fortitude and wisdom (each of which resides in a certain
part, the latter making the state wise, and the former courageous), not
after this manner does temperance render the state temperate; but it is
naturally diffused through the whole, making the weakest and the
strongest and the intermediate all to agree, either in prudence, if you
will, or if you will, in strength, magnitude, or in substance, or
anything else of the same kind; so that most justly may we say, that
this concord is temperance, a natural consent between the worse and the
better part, [with reference to the question] which of them ought to
govern, either in the state or in each individual. I am quite of the
same opinion, said he. Well then, said I, three qualities in our state,
it would seem, have been clearly discovered: but with respect to the
remaining species, owing to which the state has the quality of virtue;
what can it be? It is plain that it is justice. It is plain. Ought we
not then, Glaucon, like huntsmen, closely surrounding a thicket, to take
great care that justice does not somehow or other escape, and vanish
from our sight?—for it is clear that it is somewhere here. Look
earnestly, therefore, to spy it out, if you can any how see it sooner
than me, and then point it out to me. Would that I could, said he; but
if you will use me rather as an attendant, and one able only to perceive
what is pointed out to him, you will then be treating me just as you
ought. Call on the gods with me, said I, and follow. I will do so, said
he; do you only lead the way. To me, said I, this seems a place somehow
hard of access, and overcast with shadow:—it is indeed dark, and hard to
penetrate;—but still we must go on. We must, said he. And I perceiving,
said, Ho! Ho! Glaucon, we seem to have some track; and I think that it
will not altogether escape us. You tell good news, said he. Verily, said
I, our senses are somewhat blunted. As how? Long since, even from the
first, my fine fellow, has it been rolling at our feet; and we perceived
it not, but made the most ridiculous figure, like those who sometimes
seek for what they already have in their hands:—so we did not perceive
it, but were looking out to a distance; and thus perhaps it escaped us.
How mean you? said he. Thus, said I;—that I think, although we have been
long talking and hearing of it, we do not understand ourselves, as to
the manner in which we expressed it. A long preamble, said he, to one
who is eager to hear.

CHAP. XI.—Well now, said I, listen whether I say anything to the
point:—for what we at first settled, when regulating the state, as what
ought always to be done,—that, I think, or a species thereof, is
justice:—this surely we settled, and frequently mentioned, if you
remember;—that every one ought to apply himself to one thing, with
reference to the state,—to that, namely, to which his genius most
naturally inclines him? Yes, we did say so. And also, that attending to
one’s own affairs, and not busying oneself about many things, is
justice, and this we have not only heard from many others, but have
frequently said ourselves. We have said so. This then, my friend, said
I, somehow seems to be justice, to attend to one’s own business.—Do you
know whence I infer this? No; pray tell me, said he. Besides what we
have already considered in the state,—namely, temperance, fortitude, and
wisdom,—this, said I, seems to remain, which enables all these both to
have a being in the state and to afford safety to its indwellers as long
as it continues therein; and we said likewise, that justice would be
that remaining part, if we found the other three. It must be so, said
he. But if, said I, you want to judge, which of these, by its presence
in the state, will do it the greatest proportionate good; it would be
difficult to determine whether the coincidence of opinion between the
governors and the governed, or the maintenance of legitimate opinion
among the soldiers about what is dreadful, and what is not so,—or what
is wisdom and guardianship in the rulers,—or whether this, by its
existence in the state, makes it proportionably best,—namely, when child
and woman, bond and free, artificer, magistrate, and subject, every one
in short attends to his own business, and does not meddle. Yes, it is
hard to decide, said he, of course. With reference, then, to the virtue
of a state, that power which makes each person in it attend to his own
business, rivals, as it seems, its wisdom, temperance, and courage.
Undoubtedly so, said he. Will you not then constitute justice as a
co-rival with these, with reference to the virtue of a state? By all
means. Consider, then, whether you agree with me in this: will you
enjoin the rulers to give just decisions in judgment? Of course. And in
giving judgment, what else are they to aim at in preference to
this,—namely, that no one shall have what belongs to others, or be
deprived of his own? No; they [must aim] at this. And [do they not aim
at it,] when acting justly? Yes. And thus justice is acknowledged to be
the habitual practice of one’s own proper and special work? It is so.
See then, if you agree with me:—suppose a carpenter to take in hand the
work of a shoemaker, or a shoemaker the work of a carpenter, exchanging
either their tools or wages; or if the same man undertake both, and make
all the other exchanges; think you that the state would be much injured?
Not very much, said he. But methinks, if a craftsman, or one born to a
money-getting employment, should afterwards, through being elated by
wealth, popularity, strength, or any thing else of the kind, try to
advance into the military class, or out of the military class into that
of counsellor and guardian, when unworthy of it,—and these should
exchange tools and rewards; or if the same man should undertake to do
all these things at once; then, I suppose, you will be of opinion, that
this interchange of things and this multiplicity of employments by a
single person is the destruction of the state. By all means. A meddling
spirit, then, in these three classes, and the change from one to
another, is the greatest injury to the state, and may be most correctly
called its depravity. Aye, truly so. But will not you say that injustice
is the greatest ill a state can do itself? Of course. This then is
injustice.

CHAP. XII.—Again we say, as follows: The peculiar occupation of the
money-getting, the auxiliary, and the guardian class, when each of them
does his own work in a state, will be the contrary of the other, that is
justice, and will make the state just. The case appears to me, said he,
to be no otherwise than thus. Let us not as yet, said I, affirm this for
certain: but if it shall be conceded by us, that this kind enters into
each individual, and that there is justice, we will then agree; for what
shall we say? but if not, then we must push our inquiries further.—But
now let us finish the inquiry on which we were engaged,—namely, whether,
in judging, we should be better able, by first contemplating justice in
some of the greater objects that possess it, to distinguish its nature
in a single man, and that as a state appeared to us this very object; we
thus therefore formed it as well as we possibly could, in the assurance
that justice would be found in one that is good. As to what we have
discovered in the state, then, let us now transfer and apply it to a
single person; and if the two correspond, it will be well; but if there
be any difference in the individual, we will go back again to the state,
and put it to the test; and, perhaps, in considering them side by side,
and by striking them, we shall make justice shine forth, like fire from
flints; and when once clearly apparent, we can then firmly establish it
among ourselves. Aye, you are speaking quite in the right way, said he;
and thus, too, we must act.

With respect then, said I, to what may be termed the same, whether
greater or less, does it happen to be dissimilar in that respect in
which we call it the same, or is it similar? Similar, said he. The just
man then, said I, will not at all differ from the just state, as
respects the idea of justice, but will be similar to it. Aye, similar,
said he. However a state appeared to be just, because three kinds of
dispositions being in it, each performed its own work; but it appeared
to be temperate, brave, and wise, on account of certain other affections
and habits of these very same kinds. True, said he. And in that case, my
friend, we shall deem it proper, that the individual, who has these very
same principles in his soul (namely, temperance, fortitude, wisdom),
should have a good right, from having the same affections with the
state, to be called by the same names? He needs must, said he. Here
again, my clever fellow, we have fallen into a trifling discussion[156]
about the soul, whether it does or does not contain within itself these
three principles. I do not think it is a trifling one, said he: for
probably, Socrates, the common saying is true, that things excellent are
difficult. They seem so, said I. And be assured of this at least,
Glaucon, that, in my opinion, we shall never comprehend this matter
accurately by such methods as we are now using in our conversation,
because the road which really leads to it is longer and of greater
extent: still we will consider it in a manner consistent with our former
disquisitions and inquiries. Ought we not to acquiesce in this? said he:
for to me at least, and for the present, it would be satisfactory
enough. Aye, and for me too, said I, it will be quite sufficient. Do not
get tired then, said he; but pursue the inquiry. Is it then necessary,
said I, that we should acknowledge the very same characters and manners
to exist in every individual that are found in the state? because there
is no other source whence they arrived thither. It were ridiculous,
indeed, to imagine that the high spirit for which the Thracians,
Scythians, and nearly all the northern nations are reputed, does not
arise from individual personages; and the same may be said respecting
the love of learning, which one may especially deem natural to the
people of this country,—or, with reference to the love of riches, which
we may say prevailed especially among the Phœnicians and the people of
Egypt. Quite so, said he. It is so, of course, said I; and it is not
hard of recognition. No, indeed.

-----

Footnote 156:

  Stallbaum reads—εἰς φαῦλόν γε σκέμμα, which is the reading of the best
  MSS., though the old editions read—οὐκ εἰς φαῦλόν γε. The words are
  spoken ironically.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—This, however, is truly hard [to decide,] whether we perform
our separate acts by one and the same power, or whether, as they are
three, we perform one by one, and another by another; that is, learn by
one, get angry by another, and by a third covet the pleasures of
nutrition and propagation, and others akin to these; or whether, when we
devote ourselves to them, we act on each with the whole soul: these
matters are difficult adequately to determine. I think so too, said he.
Let us try to define these things, whether they are the same with one
another, or different. How can we? It is plain that the same thing
evidently cannot at the same time produce or experience contrary effects
in the same respect, and relatively to the same object; so that, if we
ever find anything thus occurring, we shall know that it was not one and
the same thing, but several. Granted. Attend now to what I am saying.
Proceed, replied he. Is it possible for the same thing, considered in
the same relation, to be both at rest and in motion? By no means. Let us
define this more accurately still, lest, as we proceed, we be inclined
to waver:—for, if one were to say that, when a man stands, though yet
moving his hands and head, the same person is at once still and in
motion; we should not, I conceive, reckon this a correct mode of
speaking, but that one part of him is at rest, and another part in
motion:—is it not so? Just so. But if a person arguing thus were to
proceed jestingly and facetiously allege that tops are wholly at rest,
but yet are at the same time in motion, when, fixed on the same point,
they are whirled about their centre,—or that anything else going round
in a circle in the same position does the same,—we should not admit it,
as it is not in the same respect that they both stand still and are in
motion; but we should say that they have in them the straight line [_i.
e._ the axis ] and the circumference; and that, with relation to the
axis they are at rest (because it inclines to neither side); but with
relation to the circumference, they move in a circle:—and again, if,
while it is whirling round, its perpendicularity inclines either to the
right or the left, forwards or backwards, then it is by no means at
rest. Very right, said he. No assertion then of this kind will frighten
us; nor shall any one persuade us, that anything, being one and the
same, can do and suffer contraries at one and the same time, in the same
respect, and relatively to the same object. Me, at any rate, he shall
not, said he. But once more, said I, not to be tedious in going over and
refuting all these quibbles, let us proceed on the supposition, that
this is really the case, acknowledging, also, that if at any time these
things are found to be different from what they now are, all that we
have gained will be lost. This then, said he, is what we must do.

CHAP. XIV.—Well then,—nodding an assent, said I, and making a sign of
dissent, desiring to take a thing and refusing it, attracting or
repelling—will you reckon all such things contraries respectively,
whether actions or passions;—for it matters not which? Contraries,
certainly, said he. What then, said I,—thirst, hunger, and the desires
generally,—and further, to wish and to will, may not all these be
considered as of the same kind with the species just mentioned?—As for
instance, will you not always say of a man who desires, that his soul
aims after what it desires, or attracts to itself what it wishes to
have?—-Or again, so far as the soul wishes something to be given to it,
does it not make a sign for it, as if a person were asking for it,
through desire of acquiring its possession? I should say so. But
what?—to be unwilling, not to wish, and not to desire,—shall we not deem
them synonymous with repelling and driving off from the soul, and so all
things else that are contrary of the former? Of course. This being the
case, shall we say that there is a certain species of desires, and that
the most conspicuous are those which we call thirst and hunger? We shall
say so, he replied. Is not one the desire of drinking, the other of
eating? Yes. In the case of thirst then, is it, so far as it is thirst,
a desire in the soul of anything more than what we were saying; and as
far as thirst goes,—is there a thirst for hot drink, or cold, for much
or little, or in short for some particular kind of drink?—or again, if
heat be added to the thirst, will it not readily occasion a desire for
cold drink; but if cold [be added to it,] then [a desire] for warm
drink: and if the thirst be great, owing to numerous causes, will it not
occasion a desire for much drink, but if small, [a desire] for little;
while as for the desire of thirst itself, it never becomes the desire of
anything else, but of that only to which it naturally belongs,—and so,
also, of hunger with reference to meat? Just so, said he, every desire
belongs in itself to that alone of which it is the desire; but whether
they be desires of such or such a particular kind, are adventitious
circumstances. Let no one then, said I, trouble us, as if we were
inadvertent, [by objecting to us] that no one desires drink, but good
drink,—nor meat, but good meat;—inasmuch as all men desire what is good.
If then thirst be a desire, it is one of something good; whether it be
of drink, or anything else whatever,—and in the same way with all the
other desires. Aye, perhaps, replied he, the man who says this may be
deemed to say something to the purpose. But in truth, said I, things
naturally relative, refer in each particular, as I think, to this or
that object, to which they belong, while in their individual character
they refer only to themselves individually. I do not understand, said
he. Do not you understand, said I, that greater is relatively greater
than something? Certainly. Is it not greater than the lesser? Yes. And
that which is much greater than that which is much less; is it not? Yes.
And that which was formerly greater than that which was formerly less,
and that which is to be greater than that which is to be less? Of
course, said he. And in like manner, the more numerous has reference to
the less numerous, and the double to the half, and so in all such-like
cases;—and further, the heavier to the lighter, and the swifter to the
slower; and further still, the hot to the cold; and all such like, are
they not thus related? Entirely so. But what as to the sciences;—is not
the case the same?—for, science itself is the science of pure learning,
or of whatever else one sees fit to make it the science; while, on the
other hand, a certain particular science, of a particular kind, refers
to a certain particular kind, and also to a particular object. My
meaning is as follows:—when the science of building houses arose, was it
not so far separated from the other sciences, as to acquire the name of
architecture? Of course. Was it not so, because it was of a kind like
none else? Yes. Was it not then from its being the art of such a
particular thing, that it became itself such a particular art;—and are
not all other arts and sciences in like manner? They are so.

CHAP. XV.—Consider then, said I, that this is what I wanted to express,
if you now understand me; namely, that things which are relative, taken
by themselves alone, relate to themselves alone, but considered as of
such a quality, relate to particular objects. I do not say, however,
that a science altogether resembles that of which it is the science; (as
if, for example, the science of healthy and sickly were itself healthy
and sickly, or the science of good and evil itself good and evil;) but
as science is not constituted the science of that generally of which it
is the science, but only of a certain quality of it (that is, of its
healthy and sickly state), so it comes to be itself a particular
science; and hence it is no longer called simply a science, but the
medicinal science, the particular class to which it belongs being
superadded. I understand you, said he; and I think it is so. As for
thirst then, said I, will you not class it among those things which have
relation to something else, so far as it is what it is? and is not
thirst a thirst for something? I should, certainly, said he, for drink.
And does not a particular thirst desire a particular drink?—whereas
thirst in general is neither of much nor of little, nor of good nor bad,
nor, in one word, of any particular kind; but abstractly and in general,
the natural desire of drink. Assuredly. The soul of the man then who
thirsts, so far as he thirsts, wishes nothing further than to drink; and
this he covets, and to this he hurries? Clearly so. If therefore, when
the soul is athirst, anything draws it back, must it not be some
different principle from that which excites thirst, and leads it as a
wild beast to drink;—since it is impossible, we say, for the same thing,
by itself, and at the same time, to produce contrary results from the
same cause? It is indeed impossible. Just as it is not proper, methinks,
to say of an archer, that his hands at once propel and draw in the bow,
but that one of his hands propels it, and the other draws it in?
Assuredly, said he. Can we say, then, that there are some, who when
athirst are not willing to drink? Certainly, said he, many, and often.
What then, said I, is one to say of these persons?—Might it not be said,
that there is something in their soul that prompts them to drink, and
likewise something that restrains them, quite different, and that
prevails over the prompting principle? I think so, said he. Does not the
restraining principle then, whenever it arises, arise from reason; while
those that lead and urge men onwards, proceed from affections and
ailments? It appears so. We shall not then, said I, be unreasonable in
defining these as distinctly two, and separate from one another, if we
call that with which one reasons, the rational part of the soul, but
that part with which it loves, and hungers, and thirsts, and is carried
away by desires, the irrational and concupiscent part, as associated
with certain gratifications and pleasures. We shall not, said he; but we
may reasonably regard them in this light. Let these two then, said I, be
defined as distinct principles in the soul. But as to that of anger, and
by which we are angry, is it a third principle, or is it of like nature
with one or other of these two? Perhaps, said he, with one of them, the
concupiscent. But I believe, said I, what I have somewhere
heard:—Leontius, son of Aglaion, as he was returning from the Piræus,
along the outside of the northern wall, perceiving some dead bodies
lying close to the place of public punishment,[157] had a desire to look
at them, but yet at the same time revolted therefrom and turned away;
and for a while he resisted, and covered his eyes, but, at last,
overcome by his desire, ran with eyes wide open towards the dead bodies,
and said: “Here now, ye wretched eyes of mine! glut yourselves with this
fine spectacle.” I too have heard it, said he. This story now shows,
said I, that anger sometimes opposes the desires, as being distinct from
each other. Yes, said he, it does show it.

-----

Footnote 157:

  Gr. παρὰ τῷ δημείῳ, which admits of no concise rendering.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—Do we not then in other cases, and very frequently, perceive,
said I, when the appetites compel any one against his reason, that he
reproaches himself, and is angry at the compelling principle within him;
and that like two persons at variance, the anger of such a person
becomes an ally to reason; but that it sides with the desires when
reason decides that no opposition is to be offered, you will say, I
think, that you have never perceived anything of this kind either in
yourself, nor yet in any other? No, by Zeus, replied he. What then, said
I, is it not the case, when a man imagines he is doing a wrong, that the
more generous he is, the less is he apt to be angry, however he may
suffer hunger or cold, or other like privations, from one, who, as he
thinks, inflicts them with justice?—And, as I have said, his anger will
not incline him to rise up against such an one. True, said he. But
what;—when a man thinks himself injured, does he not in this case boil
with rage and become indignant and ally himself on the side of what
seems just; and under all the sufferings of hunger, cold, and the like,
does he not bear up and strive to conquer; nor does he cease from his
generous toils, until he has either accomplished them, or dies, or, like
a dog by the shepherd, is called off and pacified by the rational
principle within him? Certainly, said he, it is precisely like what you
say; for, in our state, we appointed the auxiliaries to be obedient,
like dogs, to the state rulers, as being shepherds of the state. You
quite understand, said I, what I mean to say:—but have you considered
this also? What? That here apparently, as regards the irascible, the
reverse takes place from what took place in the former instance,—for
then we reckoned it the same as the concupiscent; but now we say it is
far from it, or rather that, in the sedition of the soul, it more
willingly arrays itself on the side of the rational part. Entirely so,
said he. Is it then as something entirely distinct, or as a species of
the rational;—so as that there are not three species, but only two in
the soul, the rational and concupiscent?—or, as there were three species
which completed the city, the money-getting, the auxiliary, the
deliberative; so, in the soul, is this irascible a third natural
principle, auxiliary to the rational, when not corrupted by bad
education? Of course, it must, said he, be a third. Yes, said I, if at
least it seem at all different from the rational, just as it seemed to
be distinct from the concupiscent. Aye, that is not hard to see, said
he;—and as a proof of this, one may see, even in little children, that
quite from their infancy they are full of anger, while some of them, at
least in my opinion, never have any share in reason, the majority indeed
only arriving at it but late in life. Aye, truly, said I, you are right.
And in the brute beasts, too, one may observe yet further, that what you
say is really the case; and besides this, it is attested also by what we
formerly cited from Homer[158]—

          His breast he struck, and thus his heart reproved;—

for, in this passage, Homer has plainly made one part reprove the other;
that part, namely, which reasons about good and evil, to reprove the
part which is unreasonably angry. You are quite right, said he.

-----

Footnote 158:

  Hom. Odyss. lib. xx. v. 17.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—These things, said I, we have agreed to after some
difficulty; and it is now sufficiently acknowledged, that the same sort
of principles that are in a state reside also in the soul of every
individual, and equal in number. Must it not, then, necessarily follow,
that in whatever manner the state is wise, and in whatever respect,
after the same manner and in the same respect, the individual is so
also? Of course. And in whatever respects, and after whatever manner,
the individual is brave, in the same respect, and after the same manner,
a state is brave also? and so in all other respects, both are the same
as regards virtue? Necessarily so. And I think, Glaucon, it may be said
that a man is so just in the same way as a state is so. This also must
needs be the case. Aye; but have we not somehow or other forgotten this,
that the state is just, when every one of the three species in it does
its own particular work? No, said he, I do not think we have forgotten
that point. We must remember then likewise, that each of us will be
just, and do his own work, each part of whose soul does its own proper
duty. Aye, said he, we must be sure to recollect that. Is it not proper,
then, that the rational part should govern, as being wise, and charged
with the care of the whole soul; and that the spirited part should obey
and ally itself to the other? Certainly. Will not the mixture then, as
we said, of music and gymnastics, make the two to harmonize by exalting
and nurturing the one with excellent arguments and good discipline,
while it unbends the other by soothing and rendering it mild through
harmony and rhythm? Assuredly, said he. And when these two are thus
nurtured and have been truly taught and practised in their own affairs,
they will preside over the concupiscent part, which in every one
occupies the largest part of the soul, and by its nature is insatiable
of wealth; and they will take care, lest, having acquired growth and
strength by being filled with bodily pleasures, as they are termed, it
become discontented with its own work, and so attempt to enslave and
rule over those it ought not, and thus wholly upset the entire system of
life. Certainly, said he. And by this principle, said I, will not the
two maintain a good guard against enemies from without, owing to their
joint influence over both soul and body, the one laying down the plans,
and the other fighting in obedience to its leader, and executing with
fortitude the plans laid down? Such is the case. And I think we call a
man brave, when, through all the pains and pleasures of life, the spirit
maintains the opinion dictated by reason about what is terrible, and
what is not so. Right, said he. And we call a man wise, from that small
part which governs him, and dictates this, inasmuch as it possesses the
knowledge of what is expedient for each separately, and for the whole of
the three together. Certainly. And, do we not moreover term a man
temperate, from the association and harmony of these very principles,
when the governing and governed agree in one,—namely, when reason
governs, and when the others are not at variance therewith? Temperance,
said he, is no other than this, either as respects the state or the
individual. But he will be just, owing to those causes and in the manner
which we have often before mentioned? He must. What then, said I; has
anything blunted us, that we should regard justice as anything else than
what it is seen to be in a state? Not in my opinion at least, said he.
In this manner then (if there yet remain any doubt in the soul), let us,
by all means, satisfy ourselves by bringing the man into difficult
circumstances. As what? For instance, if we be compelled to declare,
concerning such a state and a man born and educated conformably thereto,
whether such a man, if intrusted with gold or silver, is likely to
embezzle it,—who do you think would imagine, that such an one would do
it sooner than those of a different character? No one would, said he.
Will not such an one then be free from sacrileges, thefts, and
treacheries, either privately against his friends, or publicly against
the state? He will. Nor will he ever, in any shape, be faithless, either
as to his oaths, or other compacts? How should he. Adulteries, neglect
of parents, and impiety against the gods, will be found then in any one
rather than such a man as this? Aye, in any one else, truly, said he.
And is not this the cause of all these things,—that, of all the parts
within him each separate one does its own work, as to governing and
being governed? This is it, and nothing else. What else do you wish
justice to be, except such a power as produces men and states like
these? Not I, truly, said he, for my part.

CHAP. XVIII.—Our dream then, which we conjectured, is at last
accomplished; that on our very first attempt to found our state we have
apparently arrived by divine assistance at a principle and pattern of
justice? Quite so. And that, Glaucon, was a certain image of justice,
that the man naturally fitted for the office of a shoemaker, should make
shoes properly, and do nothing else; and that he also, who is a
carpenter, should do that work,—and so also, of the rest. It appears so.
In truth, then, of such a kind was justice, as it seems; nor does it
regard merely a man’s external action, but what is really internal,
relating to the man himself, and what is properly his own; not allowing
any principle in him to attempt what is another’s province, or to meddle
and interfere with what does not belong to it; but really well
establishing his own proper affairs, and maintaining proper
self-government, keeping due order, becoming his own friend, and most
naturally attuning these three principles, as three musical strings,
base, tenor, and treble, or whatever others may intervene:—thus will he
be led to combine all these together, and out of many to form one whole,
temperate, attuned, and able to perform whatever is to be done, either
in acquiring wealth, or managing the body, or any public affair or
private bargain, and in all these cases reckoning that action to be just
and good, which always sustains and promotes this habit; and so also
calling the knowledge which presides over this action wisdom,—and on the
contrary, calling that an unjust action, which destroys this habit,—and
the opinion which presides over this, folly. Perfectly true, Socrates,
said he. Be it so, said I:—if then we should say, that we have found out
a just man and state, and the nature of justice in both, I think we
should not be considered altogether in error. No, by Zeus, said he. May
we assume it, then? We may.

CHAP. XIX.—Be it so, said I. But we were next, I think, to consider
injustice? Clearly so. Is it not then necessarily a kind of variance
between the three principles, a kind of meddling and interfering spirit
in things foreign to their proper business, and an insurrection of some
one principle against the whole soul, to govern where it is not its
province, though it be really of such a nature, that it ought to be in
subjection to the governing principle? I imagine then we are to call
this tumult and error by some such names as these,—injustice,
intemperance, cowardice, folly, and in a word, all vices? Just so, said
he. To commit injustice then, said I, and to be injurious, and likewise
to act justly, all these must be very manifest, if indeed injustice and
justice are so. How? Because, said I, they do not differ from what is
salutary or noxious;—as the latter are in the body, so are the former in
the soul. In what way? said he. Such things as are healthy produce
health, and such as are noxious, disease. Yes. And does not acting
justly produce justice,—and acting unjustly, injustice? Necessarily so.
To produce health, however, is to establish everything in the body, so
that they shall mutually govern and be governed, conformably to
nature,—while the production of disease, on the other hand, consists in
one part governing and being governed by another, contrary to nature. It
is indeed. Then again, said I, to produce justice, is it not to
establish all in the soul, so that its parts shall mutually govern and
be governed according to nature;—and does not injustice consist in
governing and being governed by one another contrary to nature? Plainly
so, said he. Virtue then, as it seems, is a kind of health, beauty, and
good habit of the soul; and vice its disease, deformity, and infirmity?
It is so. Do not honourable pursuits then lead to the attainment of
virtue, but dishonourable to that of vice? They must. What remains for
us to consider then is,—whether it be profitable to act justly, and
pursue what is honourable, and to be just, and whether a man can be of
such a character unconsciously or not;—or to act unjustly, and to be
unjust, though one be never punished, or reformed by correction? But,
said he, Socrates, this inquiry seems, to me at least, quite
ridiculous;—that if in a corrupt state of the body life be deemed not
worth possession, not even though accompanied by all kinds of meats and
drinks, and all wealth and power, yet when the nature of the vital
principle is disordered and thoroughly corrupted, life will then be
worth having, though a man were to do everything else that he likes,
except ascertaining how he shall get released from vice and injustice,
and cultivate justice and virtue,—since both these things have been
proved such as we have represented them. Aye, it would be truly
ridiculous, said I. However, since we have arrived at such a point as
enables us most distinctly to perceive that these things are so, we must
not get weary. On no account, by Zeus, said he, must we be weary. Come
then, said I, and let us see also how many principles vice
possesses,—principles indeed that are worthy of attention. I am all
attention, said he;—only tell me. And truly now, said I;—since we have
reached this part of our discourse, it appears to me, as to one looking
from a height, that there is but one principle of virtue, while those of
vice are infinite:—and of these there are four, particularly deserving
of mention. How say you? replied he. There seem to be as many classes of
the soul as there are forms of government. How many then? Five, said I,
of governments, and five of the soul. Name them, said he. What we have
just described, replied I, is one species of government; and it may have
a twofold appellation; for, if among the rulers one prevails over the
rest, it may be termed a Monarchy,—but if there be several, an
Aristocracy. True, said he. I call this then, said I, one species; for,
whether there be several, or whether it be but one who governs, they
will never alter the principal laws of the state,—because they will
observe the nature and education we have described. It is not likely,
said he.


                      THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.


                                BOOK V.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _fifth_ book he shows how the magistracy is to be constituted, so
    as to establish a prosperous state. True philosophy, says he, is its
    basis; and this, so far from being superficial and affecting only
    the outward bearing and life of the citizens, turns the mind away
    from all these fleeting subjects to that which is real, positive,
    and consistent with the knowledge of God. Carrying the subject
    somewhat back, therefore, he considers in detail the subject-matter
    of philosophy, proving that it is the knowledge both of virtue and
    of God, both of which are indispensable to a well-ordered state, in
    which either philosophers must be rulers or _vice versâ_. As however
    he had said in the third book, that a state’s welfare depended on
    the community of ideas and of property, he now shows in detail, how
    the duties of men and women are common in a state, and how
    consequently themselves and their property too should be common,—a
    notion which Aristotle rather severely handles in the second book of
    the Politics (ch. 3), where he says, that, though the state be one,
    but with this restriction, that we must bear in mind that to
    different men belong different dispositions, and if εὐταξία is
    gently to be maintained, we must specially guard against confusion
    and unnecessary interference, the certain means of downfal to a
    state.

CHAP. I.—Such a state and government then, and such a man as we have
described, I term good and upright: and if this government be an upright
one, I reckon the others bad and erroneous, both as to the regulations
in states, and the establishment of the moral nature in individuals,
inasmuch as there are four species of depravity.[159] Of what kind are
these? said he. I was about to mention them in order, as they each
appeared to me to rise one out of another; but Polemarchus stretching
out his hand—(for he sat a little further off than Adimantus,)—caught
him by the robe at his shoulder, and drew him near; and, bending towards
him, he spoke something in a whisper, of which we heard nothing but
this: Shall we let that pass, then? said he, or what shall we do? By no
means, said Adimantus, now speaking aloud. And I replied, What will not
you let pass? You, indeed, said he:—for it was to you I alluded. You
seem to us to be getting careless and to be stealing through a whole
branch of the discourse, and that not the least important, that you may
not have the trouble of going through it; and you think you escaped our
notice, when you made this speech so simply, viz., that it is clear to
every one both as to wives and children, that whatever belongs to
friends will be common. Did not I say right, Adimantus? Yes, said he:
but this, which was rightly said, like the rest of your discourse,
requires explanation;—namely, to show what is the mode of that
community; for there must be many:—do not omit saying then which mode
you mean; for we have been expecting it for some time past, thinking you
would, some time or other, speak of the propagation of children, how
they are to be propagated;—and when born, how they should be brought up,
and everything relating to this community that you were mentioning both
of wives and children; for we suppose it to be of great, nay—paramount
importance to the state, whether this be rightly performed or not. Now
then, since you are taking in hand another kind of state-government
before you have sufficiently discussed this, we have determined, as you
just heard, not to let you pass, without going over all these things, as
you did the others. And me too you may reckon, said Glaucon, as joining
in this vote. Be quite sure, Socrates, said Thrasymachus, that this is
the opinion of us all.

-----

Footnote 159:

  The argument here interrupted respecting the four kinds of depravity,
  individually or in states, is resumed at the commencement of the
  eighth book.

-----

CHAP. II.—What have you done, said I, in seizing me thus? What a mighty
talk is this you are again raising, as you did at the beginning, about
your republic, which I was so glad at having completely described,
pleased [to think] that any one would let these things pass, and admit
what was then said!—And as to what you now challenge me to, you know not
what a swarm of disputes you are stirring up: I foresaw them, and let
them pass at that time, for fear of making a great disturbance. What
then, said Thrasymachus, think you that these are now come hither to
melt gold, and not to hear reasonings?[160] Aye, said I, but in
moderation. As for moderation, Socrates, said Glaucon, the whole of life
serves for hearing such reasonings as these:—but let pass what relates
to us; and as to what we are inquiring, do not begrudge explaining what
you think about it,—what sort of community of wives and children is to
be observed by our guardians, and how the latter ought to be reared
while very young, in the period between their birth and their education,
which seems to be the most troublesome of all. Try and tell us now, how
that is to be accomplished. It is not easy, my good fellow, said I, to
describe them; for many of them are very hard to be believed, even more
than those we have before described; for even their possibility we might
well disbelieve; and even were they possible, one might still doubt,
whether they would best be done in this particular way:—on this account,
my dear friend, I somewhat hesitate to touch on these topics, lest our
reasoning appear to be a mere wish, rather than absolute reality. Do not
hesitate now, said he; for your hearers are neither unreasonable, nor
incredulous, nor ill-disposed. Now, my very good Glaucon, said I, is it
with the desire of reassuring me, that you say this? I do, said he. Then
you have produced quite a contrary effect, said I; for could I trust to
myself, that I thoroughly know what I am to say, your encouragement
would have been quite right; for among intelligent and friendly persons,
one who understands the truth, may speak with safety and confidence
about the most important matters; but when one speaks, as of course I
do, with diffidence and a sort of searching spirit, there is both fear
and danger, not only of being exposed to ridicule (for that is but a
trifling thing), but lest, mistaking the truth, I not only fall myself,
but draw my friends along with me into an error about matters, in which
we ought least of all to be mistaken. I conjure Adrasteia,[161]
therefore, Glaucon, with respect to what I am going to say:—For I hope
it is a smaller offence to be unintentionally a murderer, than an
impostor about what is good and excellent, just and lawful: and as for
this risk, it were better to risk it among enemies than friends; so that
you are not giving me proper encouragement. Then said Glaucon, laughing:
Aye, but Socrates, even if we should suffer aught amiss from your
discourse, we acquit you as clear of homicide, and as no impostor: so
proceed boldly. But the man, said I, who is acquitted in a court of
justice is, at any rate, deemed clear of the crime, as the law says; and
if it be so in that case, it should be so in this. As respects this
then, said he, pray proceed. We must now, said I, once more return to
what perhaps in strict order should have been considered before; and
thus perhaps it would be correct, after having entirely completed the
men’s part, to complete also the women’s; especially since you challenge
me to do so.

-----

Footnote 160:

  The verb χρυσοχοεῖν is used proverbially to indicate the entertaining
  of great hopes that are afterwards unfulfilled.

Footnote 161:

  Adrasteia or Nemesis was a daughter of Zeus, and regarded as the
  punisher of murderers and homicides,—even those involuntarily so. See
  Blomfield’s note to Æschyl. Prom. v. 972.

-----

CHAP. III.—Men who have been born and educated as we have described,
cannot, in my opinion, otherwise rightly acquire and employ their wives
and children than by following the same track, in which we have
proceeded from the beginning: for we surely undertook, in our argument,
to represent men as the guardians of a flock. Yes. Let us proceed then,
to give the children a corresponding birth and education; and let us
consider, whether it be proper for us or not. How? replied he. Thus: Are
we to reckon it proper for the females among our guardian dogs to watch
and hunt, and do everything else in common with the males; or rather to
manage domestic affairs within doors, as being disabled from other
exercises on account of bearing and nursing the whelps, while the males
are to labour and take the entire charge of the flocks? All in common,
said he; except that we employ the females as the weaker, and the males
as the stronger. Is it possible then, said I, to employ an animal for
the same purposes [with another,] without giving it the same nurture and
education? It is not possible. If therefore, we are to employ the women
for the same purposes as the men, must we not give them also the same
kind of instruction? Yes. Were both music and gymnastics bestowed on the
males? Yes. To the women too, then, we must impart these two arts, and
those likewise that refer to war; and we must employ them in the same
manner. It is probable from what you say, said he. Perhaps, however,
said I, many things, concerning what we are now speaking, may appear
ridiculous, because contrary to custom,—if they shall be practised in
the way now mentioned. Quite so, replied he. But which of them, said I,
do you conceive to be the most ridiculous? Would it not clearly be to
behold the women naked in the palæstra wrestling with the men, and not
only the young women, but even those more advanced in years, just like
the old men in the wrestling-schools, who are still fond of the
exercises, though wrinkled, and not at all comely to the eye? Aye, by
Zeus, said he; it would appear truly ridiculous, as present fashions go.
Ought we not then, said I, since we have entered on this discourse, to
fear the raillery of wits, which they would probably bestow pretty
abundantly on such innovations [as respects exercising the women] in
gymnastics, music, and more especially in the use of arms, and the
management of horses? You say right, he replied. But since we have
entered on this discourse, let us go to the rigour of the law, and beg
these men not to be the slaves of prejudice, but to think seriously, and
remember, that not long since the sight of naked men appeared base and
disgusting to the Greeks, just as now indeed it does to most of the
barbarians: and when first the Cretans, and afterwards the
Lacedæmonians, began their exercises, the wits of that day might have
made a jest of all this: do not you think so? I do. But methinks, when
those experienced in the art thought it better to strip themselves, than
to cover up such parts, the merely apparent ridiculousness of the thing
is set aside by the advantage stated in our reasoning; and this, too,
manifestly shows that the man is a fool who deems anything ridiculous
except what is bad, and tries to run down as ridiculous any other idea
but that of the foolish and the vicious, or employs himself seriously
with any other end in view but that of the good. Assuredly, said he.

CHAP. IV.—Must we not then, first of all, agree on this,—whether these
things be possible or not;—and set forth a question, whether any one,
either in jest or earnest, can doubt, if the human nature in the female
can in all cases share with the male, or in no case share at all; or in
some cases, but not in others; and this too with reference to what
concerns war? Would not the man who thus sets out so also probably
conclude? Certainly, said he. Do you wish then, said I, that we should
argue against ourselves about these things, in order that the opposite
side may not, if attacked, be destitute of defence? Nothing hinders,
said he. Let us then say this for them: There is no need, Socrates and
Glaucon, for others to dispute with you about this matter; for
yourselves, in first establishing your state, agreed that each
individual ought to practise one business, according to his particular
talent. We did so agree, I think; for how could we do otherwise? Does
not then the nature of a woman differ widely from that of a man? Of
course it differs. And is it not right to allot to each a different
work, according to the nature of each? Of course. Are not you in the
wrong then, and do you not contradict yourselves, in saying that men and
women ought to do the same things, with natures so widely different?
Have you any answer to make against this, my clever Glaucon? To do so on
the moment is no such easy matter, said he; but I will entreat you, and
I do so now, to unravel the arguments on our side, whatever they may be.
These, Glaucon, replied I, and many other such things, are what I long
ago foresaw; and I was both afraid and unwilling to touch on the law
concerning the possession of wives and the education of children. No, by
Zeus, replied he, it seems no easy matter. Certainly not, said I. The
case, however, is thus: If a man fall into a small fish-pond, or quite
into the ocean itself, still he has to swim no less. Certainly. Let us
too, then, swim, and try to escape from this argument, expecting that
either some dolphin[162] will rescue us, or that we shall have some
other remarkable deliverance? It seems we ought, replied he. Come then,
said I;—let us see, if we can anywhere find an outlet; for we
acknowledged that different natures ought to study different things, and
that the natures of a woman and a man are different; yet now we say,
that different natures ought to study the same things:—do you accuse us
of this? Just so. How admirable, Glaucon, said I, is the power of the
art of disputing! How? Because, replied I, many seem to fall into it
unwillingly, supposing that they are not cavilling, but reasoning truly,
owing to their inability to divide a subject rightly and investigate it
according to its species; but following the literal sense, they pursue
what is quite contradictory to their subject, making use of cavilling
instead of argument. This is indeed the case with many, said he; but
does that extend likewise to us in the present instance? Quite so, said
I; for I think, that without meaning it, we have fallen into a
contradiction. How? Because we have very boldly and disputatiously
asserted, that unless persons’ natures are the same, they ought not to
have the same employments; though we have not at all inquired the sort
of difference and identity of the nature [here referred to,] and with
reference to which we defined them, when we ascribed different pursuits
to different natures, and to the same natures the same pursuits. No
certainly, said he, we did not consider that. It would seem then,
replied I, that we may still ask ourselves the question, whether the
nature of the bald and those who wear hair be the same and not
different;—and if we agree that it be different, whether, if the bald
made shoes, we should let those who wear hair make them;—or if again,
those who wear hair [made them, whether we should allow] the others [to
do so likewise]? That were ridiculous, replied he. Is it then
ridiculous, said I, for any other reason than that we did not then in
general define the sameness and diversity of natures, but observed only
that species of diversity and sameness, which respects their peculiar
functions, just as we say that a physician, and a man who has a genius
for being a physician, have one and the same nature? Do not you think
so? I do. But have the physician and the carpenter a different [nature]?
Most assuredly.

-----

Footnote 162:

  Allusion is here made to the fable of Arion,—or if not to that, to the
  vulgar notion that the dolphin was particularly friendly to man. See
  Plin. Hist. Nat. ix. 8.

-----

CHAP. V.—In that case, said I, as regards the natures of men and women,
if they appear different, with respect to any art, or other employment,
we are supposed to assign to each separately his proper employment:—but
if it appear to differ only in this,—namely, that the female bears
children, and the male begets them,—we must not say that it has at all
as yet been proved that a man differs from a woman in the sense of which
we are speaking, and we must still think, that both our guardians and
their wives may pursue the same employments. And with reason, said he.
After this, then, should we not require any one who says the contrary,
to inform us on this point,—what is that art or function in the
arrangements of a state, where the nature of a man and woman is not the
same, but different? A reasonable demand, too. Perhaps then some one may
reply, as you said some time since, that it is not easy all at once to
explain this sufficiently, but yet no hard matter for one who has
considered it? Yes,—one might well say so. Do you wish then, that we
should request such an opponent to follow us, while we try to show him,
that there is no function peculiar to a woman in the management of a
state? By all means. Come then (we will say to him), answer us:—did you
not mean that one man has a natural talent for anything, and another
not, in this respect,—namely, that one learns a thing easily, and
another with difficulty; and one with a little instruction discovers
much in what he learns, while another, after much instruction and care,
does not retain even what he has learned; and that with the one, the
body is duly subservient to the mind; while in the other it is opposed
to it?—Well, and what other marks are there besides these, by which you
would distinguish a man that has particular talents from him that has
none at all? One cannot mention any other, said he. Know you then of any
function performed by mankind, in which the males have not all these
characteristics in a superior degree to the females;—and would it not be
tedious to specify particularly the weaving art, and the making of
pastry and spice-meats, for which female talents seem to have some
repute, and cannot be surpassed without the greatest disgrace? You are
right, said he, in saying that in all things universally the talent of
the one is superior to that of the other;—yet many women are superior in
many respects to many men; though, on the whole, it is as you say. There
is no function, my friend, then, among the entire members of our state
that is peculiar to woman, considered as such, nor to man, considered as
such; but natural talents are indiscriminately diffused through both,
and the woman naturally shares in all offices, the same as the man,
though in all cases the woman is weaker than the man. Certainly. Are we
then to commit all [state concerns] to the men, and none to the women?
How should we? It is true then, I think (as we say), that one woman too
is fitted for being a physician, and another not so,—one is musical,
another by nature unmusical. How otherwise? And is one fitted for
gymnastics and warlike,—another not fitted either for war or gymnastics?
That is my opinion too. And what;—is not one a lover of philosophy, and
another averse to it; and one high-spirited, and another timid? This is
true, too. And is not one woman naturally suited for being a guardian,
and another not so;—and have we not made choice of such a talent as this
for our guardian men? Yes—just of such as this. The nature then of the
woman and of the man, as respects the guardianship of the state, is the
same,—only that the one is weaker, the other stronger. So it seems.

CHAP. VI.—Women such as these then are to be chosen to dwell with such
men, and to be their fellow-guardians,—inasmuch as they are naturally
suited for them, and of kindred talents. Certainly. And must not the
same employments be assigned to the same natures? The same. We have now
got round then, to our former point; and, we allow that it is not
contrary to nature, to allot to the wives of our guardians the study
both of music and gymnastics? Assuredly. We did not establish then what
is impossible, or to be only vainly wished for, when we established the
law according to nature:—and it would seem rather, that what is at
present contrary to these things is contrary to nature? It seems so. Was
not then our inquiry, whether our establishment was possible and best?
It was. And we have agreed, that it is possible? Yes. And we must next
be convinced, that it is best? Clearly so. In order, therefore, that a
woman may become a suitable guardian, there will not be one mode of
education for making men [guardians,] and another for women, especially
as the latter have received the same natural genius? No,—it will not be
different. What think you then of such an opinion as this? Of what? That
of imagining in your own mind, that one man is better and another
worse;—or do you deem them to be all alike? By no means. In the state
then which we were just establishing,—which of the two do you think to
make the better men,—the guardians provided with this education we have
described, or shoemakers that are taught shoemaking? That question,
replied he, is ridiculous. I understand you, said I:—but, tell me; of
all the other citizens, are not they the best? By far. But what;—will
not these women too be the best of women? They will, replied he, by far.
Is there anything better in a state, than that both women and men be
rendered the very best? There is not. And this is to be effected by
music and gymnastics being imparted to them, as we have described? Of
course. We have been establishing then a law, which is not only
possible, but best also for the state? Just so. We must unclothe, then,
the wives of our guardians, since they are to put on virtue for
clothes;[163] and they must bear a part in war, and all other
guardianship of the state, and do nothing else:—but of these special
services the lightest part is to be allotted to the women rather than
the men, on account of the weakness of their sex:—and the man who laughs
at naked women while going through their exercises with a view to the
best object, reaps the unripe fruit of a ridiculous wisdom, and seems
not rightly to know at what he laughs, or why he does it:[164]—for that
ever was and will be deemed a noble saying, that the profitable is
beautiful, and the hurtful base. Assuredly.

-----

Footnote 163:

  The expression of Herodotus, Clio, ch. 8, is not dissimilar:—ἅμα δὲ
  χιτῶνι ἐκδυομένῳ συνεκδύεται καὶ τὴν αἰδω γυνή.

Footnote 164:

  The cited words—ἀτελῆ σοφίας δρέπων καρπόν are from Pindar. See.
  Stobæus, Serm. ccxi. p. 711, and Boeck’s Pindar, vol. ii. part 2, p.
  669.

-----

CHAP. VII.—We may say then, that we have escaped one wave, as it were,
by thus settling the law with respect to women, and have not been quite
overwhelmed, through determining that our male and female guardians are
to manage all things in common:[165] and besides that, our reasoning has
been consistent with itself, as respects both what is possible and
advantageous also. Truly, it is no small wave you have escaped, said he.
You will not call it a great one, replied I, when you see what follows.
Tell me, said he; and let me see. After this enactment, replied I, and
the others formerly mentioned, the following, I think, comes naturally.
Which is that? That these women be all common to all these men, and that
no one woman dwell with any man privately, and that their children
likewise be common;—so that neither shall the parents know their own
children, nor the children their parents.[166] This, in comparison with
the other, is far more difficult to persuade, both as to its possibility
and utility. I do not think, replied I, as to its utility at least, that
any one would doubt about it being a very great good to have the women
and children in common, if it were but possible:—but the greatest
question, methinks, will be, whether it be possible or not? One might
very well, said he, raise a discussion on both points. You are
mentioning, replied I, a combination of discussions; but I thought, at
least, that I should escape from one of them, if its utility had been
agreed on, and that in that case it would only have remained to consider
its possibility. But you have not slunk off, said he, quite unobserved;
and so, give us an account of both. I must submit to a trial, said
I:—indulge me thus far, however: let me feast myself, as the slow in
intellect are wont to feast themselves, when they walk alone:—for men of
this sort, I imagine, ere finding out how to attain what they desire,
waive that inquiry, in order that they may not tire themselves in
deliberating about its possibility or impossibility, supposing they have
obtained what they desire, and then they go through what
remains,—rejoicing, also, to recount what they will do, when it has
happened, and rendering their soul, otherwise indolent, more indolent
still. Now I too am become languid, and would, therefore, defer such
debates, and inquire afterwards into the possibility of these
[arrangements]. At present, however, supposing them possible, I will, if
you please, consider how our rulers are to regulate matters thence
arising, in order that the doing of these things may be most
advantageous both to the state and the guardians:—this, first, I will
try to examine with your assistance, and the other question afterwards,
if you allow me. Oh, I will give you leave, said he;—so pray proceed
with your inquiry.

-----

Footnote 165:

  The figure here used bears some resemblance to that used in ch. iv. of
  this book, p. 453 d:—ἄντε τις εἰς κολυμβήθραν μικρὰν ἐμπέσῃ, ἄντε εἰς
  τὸ μέγιστον πέλαγος μέσον, &c.

Footnote 166:

  This peculiar notion on the community of wives and children is
  severely handled by Aristotle, Polit. ii. ch. 2, and Hist. Anim. ix.
  1. It seems probable, however, that Plato did not intend here entirely
  to destroy all domestic ties whatever, but to inculcate a general
  community of goods as far as possible,—as most conducive to civil
  concord and national prosperity. Compare, however, the opening of the
  ninth chapter of this book. The fact is, that the question is here
  viewed simply in its physical, not in its moral relations.

-----

I imagine then, said I, if our rulers will be worthy of that name, and
those also who are their auxiliaries, that the latter will cheerfully do
whatever they are bidden, while the former will take the command, giving
their directions in some matters conformably to the laws, and imitating
their spirit in whatever matters we leave to their sole guidance. Very
likely, said he. Do you then, their lawgiver, said I, as you have chosen
out the men, so choose out also the women, making them, as far as
possible, of similar dispositions:—and these, as they dwell and eat
together in common, and none possesses anything whatever in private,
will be always together;—and as they mingle in the gymnastic yards and
in all their other training exercises, they will, I think, be led by
innate necessity, to mutual intimacies:—do not you think I am speaking
of what must necessarily happen? Not, replied he, by any geometrical
necessity, but by one founded on love, which seems to be more cogent
than the other, in persuading and winning over the bulk of mankind.

CHAP. VIII.—Quite so, said I; but in the next place, Glaucon, to form
irregular intimacies, or to do anything else of the same character, is
not at all right in a city of happy persons, nor ought the rulers to
allow it. No, it were not just, said he. It is evident, by right, in the
next place, to make marriages as far as possible sacred; and those most
advantageous would be sacred. Altogether so. How then are they to be
most advantageous? Tell me this, Glaucon;—for in your house I see both
sporting dogs, and a great number of well-bred birds; have you, by Zeus,
ever attended to their pairing, and bringing forth young? How? said he.
First of all, among these, though all be well-bred, are not some of them
far better than all the rest? They are. Do you breed then from all
alike; or are you anxious to do so, as far as possible, from the best
breeds? From the best. But how; from the youngest or the oldest, or
those quite in their prime? From those in their prime. And if they are
not thus bred, you consider that the breed both of birds and dogs
greatly degenerates? I do, replied he. And what think you as to horses,
said I, and other animals;—is the case otherwise with respect to these?
It were absurd [to think so,] said he. How strange, my dear fellow, said
I; what extremely perfect governors must we have,—if the same applies to
the human race! Nevertheless, it is so, replied he; but what then?
Because, said I, they must necessarily use many medicines; but as for a
physician, where the body does not want medicines, but men willingly
subject themselves to a regimen of diet, we think that an inferior and
less skilful one may suffice; but when there is need for taking
medicines, we know that we want a more able physician. True; but with
reference to what do you say this? With reference to this, replied I: it
seems likely that our rulers must use an abundance of lying and deceit
for the advantage of the governed; and we said somewhere, that all these
things were useful in the way of a remedy. Rightly too, said he. This
apparent right now seems by no means inconsiderable in marriages and the
propagation of children. How so? It necessarily follows, said I, from
what has been acknowledged, that the best men should as often as
possible form alliances with the best women, and the most depraved men,
on the contrary, with the most depraved women; and the offspring of the
former is to be educated, but not of the latter, if the flock is to be
of the most perfect kind:—and this must be so done, as to escape the
notice of all but the governors themselves, if at any rate the whole
band of the guardians is to be as free as possible from sedition. Quite
right, said he. Are there not to be festivals legally established, in
which we shall draw together the brides and bridegrooms;—and must not
there be sacrifices, and hymns composed by our poets suitable to the
marriages in course of celebration?—But as to the number of the
marriages, this we will leave to the rulers, that they may as much as
possible keep up the same number of men, having a regard both to wars
and diseases, and all other such matters, so that as far as possible our
state may be neither great nor small. Right, said he. And chances too, I
conceive, should be so well managed, that the depraved man may, on every
turn of them, accuse his fortune, and not the governors. Of course, said
he.

CHAP. IX.—As for those youths, who distinguish themselves, either in war
or other pursuits, they ought to have rewards and prizes given them, and
the most ample liberty of lying with women, that so, under this pretext,
the greatest number of children may spring from such parentage. Right.
And as for the offspring born from time to time, are the authorities
presiding over these matters to receive them, whether they be men or
women, or both?—for somehow these offices belong in common both to men
and women. Yes, they do. As respects, then, the children of worthy
persons, I think, they should carry them to some retirement, to certain
nurses dwelling apart in a certain quarter of the city; but as for the
children of the more depraved, and such of the rest as may be maimed or
lame, they will hide them, as is right, in some secret and obscure
place. Yes, indeed, said he, if the race of guardians is to be pure.
Will they not then take care also of their children’s nurture, bringing
to the nursery mothers with full breasts, taking every precaution that
no woman should recognise her own child, and, where the mothers cannot
suckle them, providing others who would be able to do so? And they will
be careful also of this most particularly, that the nurses suckle only
during a proper time, and they will enjoin, both on the nurses and
keepers, their watching duties, and every other necessary toil. You
speak, said he, of a time of great ease to the wives of our guardians,
in the breeding of children. Yes, for it should be so, replied I. But
let us next discuss what we were so anxious to do, when we said that the
procreation of children should take place among persons in the prime of
life. True. Do you agree with me then, that this prime season is at
twenty in a woman, and at thirty in a man? How do you reckon this time
for each sex? said he.[167] The woman, replied I, is to bear children to
the state from the age of twenty to that of forty; and the man, after
having passed the most excitable period of his course, is from that
period to beget children to the state up to the age of fifty-five. This
indeed, is the prime, replied he, in both sexes, both as respects body
and mind. If then any one, either older or younger than these, should
employ himself in begetting children for the commonwealth, we should say
that the trespass is neither right nor just, since he is begetting to
the state a child, which (if concealed) is born and grows up, ushered in
neither by sacrifices nor prayers—(which, on every marriage, the
priestesses and priests, and the whole state offer, that the descendants
of the good may be still better, and that from useful descendants others
still more useful may arise),—but is born in darkness, and the result of
dreadful incontinence. Right, said he. And the law, said I, must be the
same, if any of those men, who are yet of the age for procreation, have
intercourse with women of a proper age, without the magistrate’s leave;
for we may consider him as having raised to the state a bastard, born in
adultery and unhonoured by religious auspices. Most right, said he. And
I presume, whenever either the women or the men are past the age of
procreation, we are to let the men cohabit with any woman they like,
except their daughter and mother, and the children of their daughters,
or those upwards from their mother; and so likewise the women are to
embrace any, except a son, a father, and the children of these, in
either direction: all this liberty we are to grant them, after we have
enjoined them to be careful, first, if a child be conceived, not to
bring it to the light, but if, by accident, it should be brought forth,
so to expose it as if there were no provision for it. All these things,
said he, are reasonably said:—but how are the fathers and daughters, and
the other relations you just mentioned, to be known to one another? They
are not to be known at all, said I; but from the day on which any one is
married, whatever children are born between the seventh or tenth month
after it, all these he is to call, the males his sons, and the females
his daughters, and they are to call him father; and in the same way
again, he is to call the children of these—grandchildren; and they in
turn are to call them grandfathers and grandmothers; and those who were
born during the period in which their fathers and mothers were begetting
children, they shall call sisters and brothers, as I just observed,—so
that they may have no sexual intercourse.—But as for brothers and
sisters, the law will allow them to live together,—if their lot so fall,
and the Pythian oracle give consent. Quite right, said he.

-----

Footnote 167:

  The Greek (τὰ ποῖα αὐτῶν) is very elliptical; but we agree with Cousin
  in considering this to be its real meaning.

-----

CHAP. X.—This, and such as this, Glaucon, is the community of women and
children, among the guardians of the state: and that this is consistent
both with the rest of our polity, and is by far the best, we must next
establish from reason;—or how shall we do? By Zeus, just so, said he. Is
not this, then, the beginning of our agreement, to ask ourselves what we
can allege to be the greatest good for the establishment of a state,
with a view to which the lawgiver is to enact the laws, and what the
greatest evil,—and next to examine, whether what we have hitherto
described tends to or conforms with the track of the good, and is
opposed to that of the evil? Most certainly, said he. Is there, then,
any greater evil for a state than that which tears it in pieces, and
makes it many instead of one;—or, any greater good than that which binds
it together, and makes it one? There is not. Does not then the communion
both of pleasure and pain bind men together, when the whole of the
citizens as much as possible rejoice and mourn in fellowship, for the
same matters, whether gainful or the contrary?[168] Assuredly, he
replied. And again, any mere private perception of such things dissolves
[that union,] when some grieve exceedingly, and others rejoice
exceedingly at the same events, either in the state or those composing
it? Of course. Does not this then arise from the following
circumstance,—when such words as these are not pronounced at the same
time in a state, as _mine_, and _not mine_; and with regard to what
concerns another, in the same way? Aye, surely. And the state, in which
the greatest number unite in saying of the same things, that _this
concerns me_, and _that does not concern me_,—that is best regulated? By
far. And it is that also, which most closely resembles the individual
man;—just as, when a person’s finger is wounded, the entire fellowship
of feeling, extending through the body towards the soul, and producing
that harmony which is the work of the governing principle within it,
[viz. the soul,][169] experiences a sensation, and at the same time
wholly sympathizes with the ailing part; and thus we say that the man
has a finger-ache:—and so also, with respect to any part whatever of the
human frame, the same reasoning applies either with respect to grief,
when a part is in pain, or with respect to pleasure, when it is at ease.
Aye, the very same, said he: and as to what you are asking, the state
that nearest approaches this is the best governed. When, therefore, any
individual citizen receives good or ill, such a state, methinks, will
most especially maintain that she herself is the party affected, and
will unite as a whole in joy or mourning. That must be the case, said
he, in a state, governed, at least, by good laws.

-----

Footnote 168:

  Gr. τῶν αὐτῶν γιγνομένων τε καὶ ἀπολλυμένων, &c.

Footnote 169:

  Gr. ὅταν που ἡμῶν δάκτυλός που πληγῇ, πᾶσα ἡ κοινωνία ἡ κατὰ τὸ σῶμα
  πρὸς τὴν ψυχὴν τεταμένη εἰς μίαν σύνταξιν τὴν τοῦ ἄρχοντος ἐν αὐτῇ,
  &c.

-----

CHAP. XI.—It will be time perhaps for us to return to our state, and
consider as to the points on which we have agreed in our discussion,
whether they belong more particularly to our state than any other.
Yes,—we must, he replied. What then? there are surely in other states,
both governors and people?—and so also in this? There are. And will not
all these address one another as citizens? Of course. But besides
calling them citizens, what do the people call their governors under the
other forms of government? In most states, masters, but in democracies,
this very name governors. But what as to the people in our state?
besides citizens, what do they say their governors are? Saviours, said
he, and helpers. And what do they call the people? Paymasters, replied
he, and supporters. And in the other states, what do the governors call
their people? Slaves, he replied. And what do the governors call one
another? Fellow-governors, said he. And ours, what? Fellow-guardians.
Can you then tell about the governors in other states, whether any one
of them can address one of his fellow-governors as an intimate, and
another as a stranger? Aye, very many can. Does he not then esteem and
speak of his intimate as his own, and the stranger as not his own? Just
so. But how is it with your guardians? Is there any one of them, who can
esteem or address any of his fellow-guardians as a stranger? By no
means, he replied;—for with whomever a person falls in, he will conceive
that he falls in with a brother or sister, or a father or mother, or a
son or daughter, or their descendants or ancestry. You speak exceedingly
well, replied I:—and further, tell me this also, whether you will give
them only a legal right to these familiar names,—or rather bid them
perform all their actions in accordance with these names, especially as
respects parents, whatever the law enjoins as the parents’ due,—such as
reverence, and care, and obedience,—it being otherwise not for his
advantage, either in the sight of God or of men, inasmuch as he would do
what is neither holy nor just, if he acted otherwise than thus?—Will
these, or other maxims coming from the whole body of our citizens, echo
close round the ears of our children, both about their parents, when
pointed out to them, and about other relations likewise? These [maxims
must so,] replied he; for it were ridiculous, if, without actions, their
proper names were uttered by the mouth alone. Of all states then, in
this especially, when any one individual fares either well or ill, the
citizens will mostly agree in exclaiming, according to our late
expression,—namely, “Mine fares well, or mine ill?” Quite true, said he.
Did we not say too, that agreeably to this opinion and expression, their
common pleasures and pains should agree? Aye,—and we said rightly. Will
not then our citizens most especially hold in common that same thing,
which they call “_my own_,”—and, holding this in common, thus have a
special fellowship in pleasure and pain? Very much so. And the cause of
all this, independently of other regulations of the state,—is it not the
community of women and children among the guardians? Most especially so,
he replied.

CHAP. XII.—We had agreed, moreover, as to the greatest good of a state,
by comparing a well-managed state to a body, which feels pleasure or
pain affecting any part of it. Aye, we were right, said he, in agreeing
about this. The cause then of all this high degree of good to our state
was found to be the community of women and children among our defenders?
Surely, replied he. And in that case, we agree at least with what was
before alleged; for we said, I believe, that they ought to have neither
houses of their own, nor land, nor any possession, but to receive their
subsistence from others, as a reward for their guardianship, and all to
consume it in common, if they mean really to be guardians? Right, said
he. Do not then, as I say, the circumstances formerly mentioned, and
still more those now mentioned, cause them to be true guardians, and
prevent those divisions in the state [which arise] from not calling one
and the same thing their own,—but one one thing, and another
another;—one drawing to his own dwelling whatever he can acquire
separately from the rest, and another, to his likewise that which is
separate; and also different wives and children, occasioning both
pleasures and pains, individually private, though holding one and the
same opinion concerning what is domestic,—all, as far as possible,
pointing towards the same thing,—namely, a community of feeling
respecting pleasure and pain? Of course, we grant that, replied he. But
what?—will not lawsuits and criminal charges in the courts be banished
from among them (so to speak), from the fact of their possessing nothing
in private but their body, but all the rest in common,—owing to which,
they will be kept free from all the dissensions which men raise about
money, or children and relatives? It is quite clear, they will be thus
relieved. And, moreover, in these there could not fairly be any suits,
as regards personal violence or improper treatment:—for conceiving
personal preservation to be an absolute necessity, we will own it to be
handsome and just for compeers in age to help their compeers. Right,
said he. And this privilege, said I, at any rate this law possesses:—if
a man be in a passion with any one, he will in such a case be less apt
to venture on still greater seditions. Certainly. The elder, moreover,
will be ordered both to govern and chastise all the younger. Clearly so.
And moreover, as to the younger, with regard to the elder, unless the
magistrates order it, he will never attempt to beat the elder, or
otherwise offer him violence,—nor, methinks, will he by any other means
dishonour him:—for there are two sufficient guardians to hinder it, fear
and respect,—respect on the one hand restraining him from laying hands
on a parent, and fear on the other, that others might come to the
defence of the sufferer;—some as sons, others as brothers, and others as
fathers. Yes,—such is the case, said he. In every respect then, in
consequence of the laws, these men, [_i. e._ the warriors,] will enjoy
peace with one another? Yes, much. And so long as these do not quarrel
among themselves, there is no danger of the rest of the state rising or
mutually splitting into factions. No, of course not. As for the least
important evils, I am unwilling for propriety’s sake even to mention
from how many they will have been relieved,—the poor, [for instance,] as
regards the work of flattering the rich,—and the difficulties and
anxieties, which people have in bringing up their children and procuring
money for the support of servants,—sometimes borrowing, sometimes
denying debts, and at other times using all manner of shifts in
procuring [money,] and then giving it to the management of their wives
and domestics;—about these matters, friend, how many slavish and ignoble
troubles they suffer are not even worthy to be mentioned. Yes, they are
manifest, said he, even to one blind.

CHAP. XIII.—From all these troubles, therefore, they will be relieved,
and will live more blessedly than that most blessed life which those
live who gain the Olympic prizes. How? On one small account only are
those esteemed happy, compared with what these enjoy;—for the victory of
these is more noble, and their maintenance at the public expense more
complete: inasmuch as the victory that they gain brings safety to the
entire state,—and by way of crown and reward, both they and their
children receive their maintenance and all other necessaries of life,
thus winning honours from their own state while living, and at their
death an honourable funeral. Noble rewards! indeed, said he. Do you
remember, then, said I, that in a former part of our discussion, some
one,—I know not who,—objected to us, that we were not making our
guardians happy, by decreeing that those who had the whole wealth of the
citizens at their command should nevertheless have nothing at all?—and
we said, I believe, that we would consider this afterwards, if it fell
in our way; but that at present we were making our guardians real
guardians, and the state itself as happy as possible, without
exclusively regarding any single class in it, with a view to make it
happy? I remember, said he. What think you now of the life of our
auxiliaries, which appears far more noble and happy than that of those
of the Olympic prizemen;—do you think it can be compared to the life of
the leather-cutter, or any other kind of craftsman, or even the farmer?
I do not think so, said he. Still even, what I said before, it is proper
that I mention here also,—if the guardian should try to become happy in
such a way as to lose his character as a guardian, and not be content
with a life thus moderate and steady, and as we say, of the best
quality, but on the other hand be impelled by a silly boyish notion
about happiness, to appropriate to himself all the property in the
state, because he has the power, he will know that Hesiod was really
wise, in saying that “the half is considerably more than the
whole.”[170] If he take me for his counsellor, said he, he will remain
in such a life. You agree then, said I, as to the fellowship of the
women with the men, which we have explained, in matters referring to
education and children, and the guardianship of the other citizens;—that
whether they remain in the state, or go forth to war, they ought to keep
guard with them, and hunt with them like hounds, and in every case take
a share in all things, as far as they can; and that doing these things
they will do what is best, and not contrary to the nature of the female,
as regards the male,—by which nature, indeed, they act jointly with one
another? I agree, said he.

-----

Footnote 170:

  Comp. Hes. Op. et Di. v. 40—νήπιοι οὐδ’ ἴσασιν ὅσῳ πλέον ἥμισυ παντός.

-----

CHAP. XIV.—Does not this then, said I, still remain to be discussed,
whether it be possible that this community of habits can take place
among men, even as among other animals? and how it is possible? You have
forestalled me, said he, by mentioning what I was just going to ask.
Aye;—for as to war, said I, it is plain, methinks, how they will fight.
How? said he. They will go out jointly on their military expeditions,
and will carry along with them to battle also such of their children as
are robust, in order that those of the craftsmen may see what they ought
to practise when arrived at full age, and, apart from mere observation,
may serve and minister in all such matters subserviently both to their
fathers and mothers. Have you not observed also what happens in the
common arts, as, for instance, among the children of the potters,—how
long a time they help and look on, before they apply themselves to the
making of pottery? Yes, indeed. Should these then, or our guardians, be
more careful in instructing their children by their own experience, and
by observation of what is suitable for them? [To suppose that the
craftsman would,] replied he, were truly ridiculous. Yet every creature
whatever will fight more valiantly in the presence of its offspring? It
is so: but there is no small danger, Socrates, should they be defeated,
as is often the case in war, that when their children, as well as
themselves, are cut off, it will be impossible to restore the rest of
the state. Yon speak truly, replied I: but think you, that our first
duty should Be never to expose them to risk? No, by no means. What then:
if they are to hazard themselves in any case, is it not—where they will
become better men, if they succeed? Clearly so. But do you think it a
small matter, and unworthy of the risk, that children destined for
military life should or should not be observers of the transactions of
war? No;—for it is highly important with reference to what you now
mention. This then, we must first contrive,—to make our children
spectators of war, yet providing for their safety:—and then all will go
well, will it not? Yes. And surely their fathers, said I, in the first
place, as far as men can, will not be ignorant, but well informed as to
the kinds of expeditions which are dangerous or not so. Probably so,
said he. Into the one then, they will take them; but will be cautious of
exposing them to the other. Right. And they will probably, said I, set
governors over them, not such as are the most depraved, but such as by
experience and years are able leaders and trainers of the young. Yes,
quite proper. Yet many things, we may say, happen to many contrary to
expectation. Quite so. With reference, therefore, to such events as
these, it is fit that we should provide the children with things while
quite young, in order, if need be, that they may escape by flight. How
do you mean? said he. We must mount them on horseback, said I, when
extremely young; and when they have learnt to ride, they must be taken
to see battles, not on high-mettled war-horses, but on the fleetest and
most obedient to the rein; for thus they will best observe their proper
work, and in case of need, escape with the greatest safety, following
the aged leaders. I think, said he, your remark is correct. What then,
said I, as to the affairs of war; how are you to manage our soldiers,
both as respects each other and their enemies? Is my opinion correct or
not? Tell me what it is, replied he. As for that man among them, said I,
who has left his rank, thrown away his arms, or done any such like act
from mere cowardice, ought we not to make him a craftsman, or field
labourer? Certainly. And the man who is taken alive by the enemy, should
he not be given away as a present to those inclined to use their booty
just as they please? Yes, surely. And as to him who has signalized
himself and attained to high renown, think you not, that he ought, first
of all in the field itself, to be crowned successively by each of the
youths and boys who are his fellow-soldiers?—is it not so? Yes, I think
so. And will they give him the right hand likewise? And that too. But
what I am going to tell you, said I, will not, methinks, be quite so
pleasing. What? That they should kiss and be kissed by each
individually? This is by far the best of all, said he: and for myself, I
would add this regulation,—that, so long as they are on this expedition,
no one shall be allowed to refuse the man, whoever it be that he pleases
to kiss,—so that if a warrior happen to be in love with any one, male or
female, he may be the more animated to win the noblest prize of
valour.[171] Very well, said I:—for it has been already said, that more
opportunities for marriage should be provided for the brave citizen than
for others, and more frequent choice in such matters should be allowed
to them than to all others, in order that such a man’s descendants may
be as numerous as possible. Yes, we did say so, replied he.

-----

Footnote 171:

  Comp. here Aristot. Pol. ii. 2.

-----

CHAP. XV.—Moreover, even according to Homer, it is just that really
brave youths should be honoured in this way; inasmuch as Homer said,
that Ajax, who on account of the renown he had gained in battle, was
rewarded with a large share at the entertainments,—fit reward, too, for
a brave and youthful man, from which he at once acquired both honour and
strength. Most right, said he. In this matter, at least, then, said I,
we are to obey the authority of Homer; and as a proof of this, we will
so honour the brave, both at our sacrifices, and on such like occasions,
in as far as they appear deserving, both with hymns, and the honours
just mentioned; and besides this, with seats and viands, and brimming
cups, so as at once both to honour and exercise the virtue of worthy men
and women. You speak capitally well, replied he. Well, of those then
that die in the campaign, shall we not, in the first place, say, of the
man that closes his life with glory, that he is of the golden race?
Quite so, indeed. And are we not to believe Hesiod, when he tells us,
that if any of this race die, then—

               Chaste, holy, earthly spirits they become,
               Expelling evil, guardians of mankind?[172]

Yes, we will believe him. We will ask the oracle then, how we ought to
bury noble and divine men, and with what marks of distinction; and then
we will bury them in the very manner that [the God] directs. Of course.
And in all after-time we will reverence and worship their tombs as those
of demigods, and enact that the same ceremonies shall be observed with
regard to persons dying of old age, or from any other cause, after
having been deemed remarkably good during their lifetime? Aye, it is
only just, said he. But what?—how are our soldiers to behave towards
enemies? In what respect? First, as respects enslavement, think you it
just, that Greeks should enslave Greek cities?—-nay, ought they not, as
far as they can, to prevent others from doing it, and act on the
principle of sparing the Grecian tribe, cautiously looking to the
possibility of being themselves enslaved by barbarians? Aye, said he;
both generally, and in every particular case, it is the best plan to be
sparing. Are they then not to keep any Greek slave themselves, and to
counsel the rest of the Greeks to agree to the same plan? Surely, said
he: because they will thus at least, turn themselves the more against
the barbarians, and abstain from one war against another. But what?
Stripping the dead, said I, of anything but their arms after conquering
them, is that right;—or does it not rather furnish cowards with an
excuse not to go against a foe, as if they were doing some duty when
bending over a mere corpse; and have not many armies been destroyed by
this kind of plunder? Very many. Do not you think it also illiberal and
forbidden to plunder a corpse, and the mark of a feminine and little
mind to deem the body of the deceased an enemy, after the enemy has fled
away, and nought remains behind, but the instrument with which he
fought? Do you think that they who act thus do any otherwise than dogs
do, who snap at the stones with which they are pelted and do not touch
the man who throws them? Not at all, he replied. We must have done then
with this stripping of the dead, and these hinderances arising from the
carrying off of booty. Aye, by Zeus, said he, we must have done with
them.

-----

Footnote 172:

  Hesiod. Op. et Di. v. 121, 2.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—Moreover, we shall not at any time bring arms into the
temples, for the purpose of dedicating them, at least not the arms of
Greeks,—if we at all care for the kind feeling of the rest of the
Greeks; but we shall rather fear its being a kind of profanation to
bring into the temple such things as these from our close connexions,
unless the oracle direct us otherwise. Quite right, replied he. And as
regards the laying waste of Grecian lands and the burning of houses, how
would your soldiers treat their enemies? Aye,—I should be glad, said he,
to hear you state your opinion on that point. Truly then, said I, my
opinion is, that we should do neither of these things, but only carry
off the year’s crop:—and would you have me tell you the reason, why this
should be done? By all means. It appears to me, that as these two words,
war and discord, are different, so two different things are signified by
them; and I call them different—the latter between members of the same
community, and the former between foreigners and strangers.—When hatred
is among one’s own people, it is called discord; when it respects
foreigners, war. What you say, replied he, is not at all unreasonable.
But consider, whether what I now state is also to the purpose; for I
assert that the Greek nation itself is friendly and in alliance with
itself, though foreign and strange to the barbarian. Well observed, said
he. When therefore Greeks fight with barbarians, and barbarians with
Greeks, we may then say, that they are at war, and naturally enemies;
and this hatred we may call war: but when Greeks act thus towards
Greeks, we may say that they are naturally friends, and that Greece in
such a case is distempered, and at discord; and such a hatred is to be
called discord. I agree, said he, that we must view it thus. Consider
then, said I, that in the discord just mentioned, whenever such a thing
happens, how the state is split in factions, and when they sequester
each other’s lands and burn each other’s houses, how destructive the
discord seems, and neither of them seem to be lovers of their country;
for otherwise they would never have dared to pillage their nurse and
mother, but it would have been sufficient for the victors to carry off
the crops of the vanquished, and to conceive that they would one day be
reconciled, and not perpetually be at war. This indeed is by far a
milder sentiment than the other. But what then? said I; this state that
you are founding, is it to be a Greek one? It ought, he replied. Are
they not then to be good and mild? By all means. And will they not be
lovers of Greece; and will they not account Greece as related to them;
and will they not observe the same religious rites as the rest of the
Greeks? Most decidedly. Any difference then, that they have with Greeks,
as kinsmen, will they not consider that as discord,—not war? Yes, for it
is not war. And they will behave then, as those capable of being
reconciled? Quite so, of course. They will be mild then and moderate,
not punishing so far as to enslave or destroy,—as advocates for
correction, and not as enemies. Just so, said he. Neither then, as they
are Greeks, will they pillage the lands, or burn the houses of Greeks;
nor will they allow, that in every state, individually, all are their
enemies, men, women, and children, but that in all cases a few only are
enemies,—the originators of the quarrel: and on all these accounts they
will not choose to lay waste their lands, since the majority of the
occupants are their friends; nor will they overturn the houses:—and so
far only will they carry on the war, until the real originators be
obliged by the innocent to make reparation to those whom they have
grieved. I agree, said he, that we ought so to behave towards opponents
among our own citizens,—but towards the barbarians, as the Greeks now
act towards each other. This law, then, also, let us enact for our
guardians, that they shall neither lay waste the lands, nor burn the
houses. Aye, let us enact it, said he; and this further, that these
things are right, and those also, that you before mentioned.

CHAP. XVII.—It appears to me, however, Socrates, that if one allow you
to go on speaking in this fashion, you will never remember what you
formerly put aside, when you entered on all that you have now
said;—namely, how far such a government is possible, and in what way it
is at all possible? For, if it be at all possible, I will allow that all
these high advantages will belong to that state in which it exists, and
the following also, which you omitted; and I now tell you, that they
will, with all possible courage, fight against their enemies, and least
of all abandon each other, recognising, and calling one another by these
names,—fathers, sons, and brothers; and if the females encamp along with
them, whether in the same rank, or drawn up behind them, they will
strike terror into the enemies, and at the same time, in case of need,
give all assistance:—in this way, I know, they will be utterly
unconquerable; and as for the advantages they have at home, which we
have omitted, those at any rate I plainly see.—But as I allow, that all
these, and ten thousand other things, will belong to this form of
government, if it actually does exist, let us talk no more about it, but
try to persuade each other of this itself, how far it is possible, and
in what way:—and let us omit the other points. You have suddenly, said
I, made an attack on my argument, and make no allowance for one who is
but a bungler;[173] because, perhaps, you do not know with what
difficulty I have got over two breakers, and now you are driving me on
the greatest and most dangerous of all the three. After having seen and
heard this, you will, I am sure, forgive me; allowing, that I had reason
for hesitation, and was frightened by the mention of so great a paradox
from undertaking its examination. The more, said he, you mention such
things, the less will you be excused from explaining in what respect
this government is possible. Proceed then without delay. Must we not
then, said I, first remember this, that we are come hither to inquire
into the nature of justice and injustice? We must, said he. But what is
this to the purpose? Nothing. But supposing we find out the nature of
justice, are we to judge then, that the just man ought nowise to differ
therefrom, but in every respect to resemble justice; or are we to be
satisfied, if he approach to it, as nearly as possible, and, of all
others, partake of it the most? This will satisfy us, said he. For
example’s sake, then, said I, we were inquiring into this,—what is the
nature of justice; and we were in quest also of the perfectly just man,
how he became so, and what was his nature, if he really existed,—and so
also with respect to injustice, and the supremely unjust man, in order
that, looking to them as regards their apparent qualities in relation to
happiness and its opposite, we might be obliged to acknowledge
concerning ourselves, that whoever most resembles them in character will
have a fortune most resembling theirs; and not for the purpose of
showing that these things are possible or not. It is quite true, said
he. Think you, then, that he is in any degree an inferior painter, who
having painted the portrait of a very handsome man, and having expressed
everything fully in his picture, is yet unable to show that such a man
really exists? By Zeus, said he, I do not. Well, have we not now then
logically defined, [shall we say,] the model of a good state? Yes,
indeed. Have we, indeed, less ably stated the case, think you, for this
reason, because we are unable to show the possibility of a state being
established as we have described?[174] No, indeed, said he. This then,
said I, is the truth of the case:—but if indeed, I must now, on your
account, be anxious on this point,—that is, to show how and in what
respects it is most possible, with a view to this discovery, you must
again allow what you did before. What? Can anything possibly be executed
as perfectly as it is described; or, is it the nature of practice, that
it does not approach so near to truth as theory, though some may think
otherwise:—will you allow this or not? I allow it, said he. Do not
oblige me then to show you, that all these things in every respect
positively exist in as great perfection as we have described in our
reasoning:—if, however, we can find out how a state may be established
as closely as possible to what has been mentioned, you will agree that
we have discovered the possibility of what you require; or will you not
even be satisfied, if this be proved? For my own part I should be
satisfied. Yes, and I too, said he.

-----

Footnote 173:

  Gr. στραγγευομένῳ, which is Bekker’s emendation, the old reading being
  στρατευομένῳ. The verb means—_to be wearied_, _to delay_, _trifle_,
  _play the coward_.

Footnote 174:

  Plato’s object here is to show, that painters in the high departments
  of art copy _ideal_, not actual nature,—nature in its perfection,—not
  in its imperfect and actual nature.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—Next then, it seems, we must endeavour to find out and show
what is the evil now existing in states, owing to which they are not
established in the manner we have described,—and what is that smallest
change, by making which we could bring the state to this model of
government;—and let us chiefly see, if this can be effected by the
change of one thing,—if not, by the change of two,—if not that, by the
change of the fewest things in number, and the smallest in power. By all
means, said he. By changing one thing only then, said I, methinks, I can
show that the state may be moulded into this form of government:—that
change, however, is neither small nor easy, though possible. What is it?
said he. I am now come, said I, to what I compared to the greatest wave:
and it shall now be mentioned, even though, as with a wave, I should be
overwhelmed with ridicule and infamy. Consider, however, what I am now
going to say. Proceed, replied he. Unless either philosophers, said I,
govern in states, or those who are at present called kings and governors
philosophize genuinely and sufficiently, and both political power and
philosophy unite in one,—and until the bulk of those now pursuing each
of these separately are of necessity excluded, there will be no end,
Glaucon, to the miseries of states, nor yet, as I think, to those of the
human race; nor till then will that government, which we have described
in our reasonings, ever spring up to a positive existence, and behold
the light of the sun.—And this is what all along made me dislike
mentioning it, that I saw what a paradox I was about to advance: for one
can scarcely be convinced that no other government but this can enjoy
happiness, either public or private. You have thrown out such an
expression and argument, Socrates, said he, as you think may bring on
you a great many, and these too so specially bold as to put off their
clothes, and snatch naked whatever weapon each happens to have ready (as
if about performing prodigies) for rushing forward in battle-array:—and
if you do not mow them down with argument, and so make your escape, you
will pay for it by suffering the severest ridicule. And are not you the
cause of all this? said I. Aye, through acting well at least, replied
he:—yet in this affair, I will not betray but defend you, as far as I
can; and I am enabled to do so both by my own good-will and your
encouragement; and your questions probably I shall answer more carefully
than any other:—only do you try, by help of such assistance, to show
those who are loath to believe these things, that they really are what
you represent them. I must try, said I; especially, as you afford me so
much assistance. And here it seems necessary, if we can at all escape
from those you mention, that we should at any rate define clearly what
kind of men those are whom we call philosophers,—those, who, we are bold
enough to say, ought alone to govern;—so that, when they are clearly
pointed out, an able defence may be set up, by asserting that it is
their natural province both to study philosophy, and also assume to
themselves the government of the state,—while the other members of the
state study neither philosophy nor politics, but only obey their leader.
It is quite fit, said he, that we should define them. Come then, follow
me this way, [and see] if we can in some way or other sufficiently
explain this matter. Lead on then, said he. Will it be necessary then,
to remind you, said I,—or do you recollect, that when we say of any one,
that he loves a thing, he would not appear, if we speak strictly, to
love one part of it, and not another, but to have an affection for the
whole?

CHAP. XIX.—I need, it seems, to be reminded of that, replied he; for I
do not understand it perfectly. Some one else, indeed, Glaucon, replied
I, might say what you say; but it does not become a man who is a lover,
to forget that all things in their bloom somehow excite, and agitate an
amorous person and lover, as seeming worthy both of respect and of
proper salutes:—do you not behave in this manner towards the beautiful?
One, because flat-nosed, will be called agreeable, and be an object of
praise; and the hooked nose of another, you call princely; and that
between these, formed with exact symmetry: the dark are said to have a
manly look, and the fair to be the children of the gods: but this name
of delicate white, think you it is the invention of any other than a
flattering lover, who easily bears with the paleness, if it be in the
season of youth?—in one word, do you not make all kinds of pretences,
and say everything that you can, so as not to reject any one who is in
the prime of life? If you are disposed, said he, to judge by me of other
lovers, that they act in this manner, I agree to it for argument’s sake.
And what, said I, as to lovers of wine:—do not you find they act in the
same manner, cheerfully drinking every kind of wine on every pretext?
Yes, indeed. And you perceive, I suppose, that the ambitious likewise,
if they cannot obtain the command of an army, will take the command of a
τριττύς;[175] and if they cannot get honour from greater and nobler men,
are content to be honoured by the lesser and the meaner sort, because
they are desirous of honour at any rate? Perfectly true. Will you allow
this or not: if we say, one desires a thing, are we to say that he
desires the whole species, or that he desires one part of it, but not
another? The whole, replied he. May we not then likewise say, that the
philosopher desires wisdom, and that too, not one part only, but the
whole? True. He then, who is averse to a course of discipline,
especially if he be young, and has not understanding to discern what is
good and what is otherwise, should not be called a lover of learning,
nor a philosopher;—just as we say of a person disgusted with meats, that
he neither hungers after nor desires meats, and is not a lover but a
hater of them. Aye,—and we shall say right. But the man who has a ready
inclination to taste of every branch of learning, and enters with
pleasure on its study, and is insatiable thereof, this man we may with
justice call a philosopher, may we not? Whereon Glaucon said, Many such
philosophers as those will go into great absurdities; for all your
lovers of shows appear to me to be of this kind, from taking a pleasure
in learning; and your story-lovers are of all persons to be reckoned the
most stupid,—among philosophers at least. These indeed would not
willingly attend to such reasoning, or to such a disquisition as this.
But yet, as if they had hired out their ears to listen to every public
ditty, they run about to the Dionysia, omitting neither the civic nor
village festivals.[176] Are all these then, and others who run after
such matters, and those likewise who devote themselves to the inferior
arts, to be called by us philosophers? By no means, said I, but only
like philosophers.

-----

Footnote 175:

  The Scholiast states by way of explanation, that the Athenian people
  were divided into ten φυλαί or wards, which were again subdivided into
  τριττύες, ἔθνη and φρατρίαι. The commander of a τρίττυς then was
  called a τριττύαρχος,—whence the verb τριττυαρχεῖν.

Footnote 176:

  There were three festivals at Athens, commonly termed Bacchic,—the
  great or city festival (the most important of all, at which the
  dramatic poets contended with their new plays), celebrated in the
  month Elaphebolion,—the Lenæa, in the month Maimacterion,—and the
  rural Dionysia, in the month Poseideon.

-----

CHAP. XX.—Who are they, however, said he, whom you call the true ones?
Those, said I, who are desirous of discerning the truth.[177] That too,
said he, is correct:—but how do you mean? It is not easy, said I, to
tell another this; but you, I think, should agree with me in this. In
what? That since the beautiful is contrary to the deformed, these are
two things. Of course, they are. And if they are two, then each of them
is one. Granted also. And as regards justice and injustice,—good and
evil,—and also respecting all ideas whatever, the argument is the
same—that each of them is one in itself, though, as to their relation
with actions and bodies, and each other mutually, they take an
all-varying number of forms, so as to make the one appear many. Right,
said he. In this manner then, said I, do I distinguish and set apart
those that you just mentioned, the lovers of public shows, from
craftsmen and mechanics; and then quite apart from these I place those
of whom we are now discoursing, whom alone we may properly call
philosophers. How say you? replied he. The lovers of common stories and
spectacles, delight in fine sounds, colours, and figures, and everything
made up of these; but the nature of beauty itself their intellect is
unable to discern and admire. That is the case, indeed, said he. As to
those, however, who are able to approach this beauty itself and behold
it in its real essence, surely they must be few in number? Extremely so.
He then who deems some things beautiful, but neither knows beauty itself
nor is able to follow, should any one lead to the knowledge of it, do
you think he lives in a dream, or is awake? consider: is not this to
dream, when a man, either asleep or awake, imagines the likeness of a
thing not to be its likeness, but the real thing itself which it
resembles? I for my part would assert, replied he, that such a person is
really in a dream. But what now as to him who comes to an exactly
opposite conclusion, who understands the real nature of beauty, and is
able to discern both it and its accessories, and deems neither the
accessories to be beauty, nor beauty the accessories;—does such a man,
think you, live in a waking or dreaming state? Wide awake, said he. May
we not then properly call this man’s intellectual power, so far as he
really knows, knowledge, but that of the other, opinion,—as he only
opines? Surely so. But what,—if the person, who, we say, only opines
things, but does not really know them, becomes indignant, and raises a
dispute, alleging that our position is not true, shall we have any
method of soothing and gently persuading him, and yet at the same time
concealing that he is not in a sound state? We surely ought, replied he.
Come then, bethink you what we are to say to him,—are you disposed that
we should question him thus,—saying, that if he knows anything, no one
envies him, and we should gladly see him possessed of more
knowledge;—and tell us this too, does the man who has so much knowledge,
know something or nothing? Do you answer me in his behalf. I will
answer, said he, that he knows something. Is it something then, that
does or does not exist? What does exist: for how can that, which does
not exist, be known? This, then, we have sufficiently considered;—though
we might have considered it more fully,—that what really is, may be
really known, but what does not at all exist, cannot be known at all?
Yes,—this we have examined quite sufficiently. Be it so: but if there be
anything of such character, as both to be and not to be, must it not lie
between what has a perfect existence, and what has none at all? Between
them. If then there is knowledge as to what really exists, and
necessarily ignorance as to what does not exist,—as to what lies between
these, must we not seek for something between ignorance and science, if
there be any such thing? By all means. Are we to allege, then, that
opinion is anything? Of course. Is it a different faculty from science,
or the same? Different. Opinion then is conversant about one thing, and
science about another, each according to its own peculiar faculty? Just
so. Is not then the nature of science as regards that which exists, to
know what existence is? It seems to me, however, far more necessary to
lay down the distinction thus. How?

-----

Footnote 177:

  The portrait of the true philosopher, whom Plato conceives to be the
  only true president and ruler of his state, is described from this
  chapter onwards to the end of the third chapter of the sixth book,
  with farther illustration in the thirteenth chapter of that book.
  Should the reader conceive, that too little regard is paid to worldly
  affairs and too little stress laid on the doctrine of ideas, he must
  recollect that this philosopher conceived that all knowledge of truth
  (—without which not even civil business could be conducted, according
  to his notions—) is to be gained only from the contemplation of things
  considered _per se_,—and that there can be no real human felicity
  unconnected with wisdom and virtue, which can only be attained by true
  philosophers engaged in inquiring into the eternal nature of things
  around or in themselves.

-----

CHAP. XXI.—We will say, that faculties are a certain kind of real
existences, by which both we can do whatever we are able, and every
being else also whatever it is able: for instance, I say, that seeing
and hearing are faculties, if you understand what I mean to call ‘the
species’ [or idea].[178] I understand, said he. Hear then what is my
opinion about them: for I do not see any colour nor figure, nor any of
such qualities of a faculty, as of many other things, with reference to
which I form a mental internal perception of their differences: but in a
faculty, I regard that alone, about which it is employed, and what it
accomplishes; and on this account I call each of these a faculty; and
that which is employed about and accomplishes one and the same purpose,
this I call the same faculty; but what is employed about and
accomplishes a different purpose, that I call a different faculty:—what
say you? In what manner do you call it? Just the same, he replied. Here
again, excellent Glaucon, said I,—do you allege, that science is itself
a certain faculty, or to what class do you refer it? To this, he said,
the strongest of all the faculties. But what then;—are we to refer
opinion to faculty, or to some other species? By no means, said he; for
that by which we have the power of forming opinions is nothing else but
opinion. But some time since, you allowed that science and opinion were
not the same. How, said he, can any one with common sense reduce under
one, what is infallible, and what is not infallible? Right, said I;—and
it is plain, that we have allowed opinion to be a different thing from
science. Yes,—different. Each of them then has naturally a different
faculty in reference to a different object? Of course. Science surely as
regards that which exists, so as to know the nature of real existence?
Yes. But we say that opinion opines? Yes. Is it cognizant of the same
thing that science is;—and will that which is known, and that which is
matter of opinion, be the same;—or is this impossible? Impossible, said
he, from what has been granted: since they are naturally faculties of
different things, and both of them are faculties,—opinion and
science,—and each of them different from the other, as we have said;
hence it cannot be, that what is opined is the same with that which is
known. If then that which exists is known, must it not differ from what
is perceived by opinion? It does differ. Does opinion then entertain
what has no existence;—or is it impossible to opine what does not exist
at all?—Consider now, does not the man who opines, refer his opinion to
some standard;—or is it possible to opine, and yet opine nothing at all?
Impossible. But whoever opines, opines some one thing? Yes. But surely
that which does not exist, cannot be called any one thing, but most
properly nothing at all? Certainly. But we necessarily referred
ignorance to that which has no true being, and knowledge to real
existence? Right, said he. He does not, therefore, opine true being, nor
yet that which has no being? He does not. Opinion then is neither
knowledge, nor is it ignorance? It seems not. Does it then exceed these,
either knowledge in perspicuity, or ignorance in obscurity? Neither.
Think you then, said I, that opinion is more obscure than knowledge, but
clearer than ignorance? Far, said he. Does it lie then between them
both? Yes. Opinion then is between the two? Entirely so. And have we not
already said, that if anything appeared of such a nature, as at once to
exist and yet not exist, such a thing would lie between what really
exists, and that which has no existence at all, and neither science nor
ignorance would take cognizance of it, but that only which appeared to
be between ignorance and science? Right. And now, what we call opinion
has been shown to lie between them. It has been so shown.

-----

Footnote 178:

  Plato makes use of two terms in his system,—τὸ εἶδος and ἡ ἰδέα;—and
  some commentators are disposed to think, that the former corresponds
  with the dialectical term, _species_,—the higher intellectual,
  abstract notion being expressed only by the latter. It must be
  confessed, however, that they are often used with scarcely any
  distinction of meaning.

-----

CHAP. XXII.—This then yet remains for us, as it seems, to discover,—what
participates in both—that is, being, and non-being, and what can
properly be called neither of them perfectly,—so that if it seems to be
what it is reputed, we may with justice term it so, assigning to the
extremes what are extreme, and to the middle what are between the
two:—must we not? Just so. These things being determined, I will say,
let this worthy man tell and answer me,—he who reckons that there is
neither beauty, nor idea of beauty, always the same; but that lover of
beautiful objects[179] reckons that there are many beautiful objects,
not enduring to be told that there is only one beautiful, and one just,
and so of the rest. Of all these many things, excellent man! shall we
say, whether there be any which will not appear deformed, and of those
just which will not appear unjust, and of those holy which will not
appear profane? No; but said he, the objects themselves must in some
respects necessarily appear both beautiful and deformed, and whatever
else you ask. But what?—Do double quantities generally seem to have less
capacity for being halves than the doubles [of others?] Not at all. And
things great and small, light and heavy, are they to be termed what we
call them, any more than the opposite? No; said he:—each of them, always
participates of both. Is then, or is not, each of these many things just
what it is said to be? It resembles their equivocal jokes at feasts,
said he, and the riddle of children about the eunuch’s striking the bat,
with what and on what part they guess he strikes it:[180] for all these
things have a double meaning, and it is impossible to know accurately
whether they are, or are not,—or are both, or neither of the two. How
can you act with them then, said I, or what better position have you for
them than a medium between being and non-being?—For nothing seems more
obscure than non-being as compared with having no being at all, nor more
clear than being in respect of real being.[181] Most true, said he. We
have discovered then, it seems, that most of the maxims of the people
about the beautiful, and those other things, fluctuate somehow between
being and non-being. Yes, we have discovered it. But it was formerly
agreed at least, that if such a thing were apparent, it ought to be
called that which is opined, and not what is known; and that which
fluctuates between the two is to be perceived by the intermediate
faculty. We agreed. Those then, who contemplate many beautiful things,
but yet never perceive beauty itself, and cannot follow another who
would lead them to it,—and many just things, though not justice itself,
and all other things in like manner, these persons, we will say, hold
opinions on all things, yet have no accurate knowledge of what they
opine. It must be so, said he. But what then, as regards those who
perceive each of the objects themselves, always existing in the same
manner, and in the same relations,—shall we not say that they know, and
do not opine? This must be the case also. And shall we not say, that
these embrace and love the things of which they have knowledge, and the
others the things of which they entertain only opinions;—and remember we
not, that we alleged them to behold and love fine sounds and colours,
and such things; though beauty itself they do not admit to have any real
being? Yes,—we remember. Shall we be wrong then in calling them lovers
of opinion, rather than philosophers?—And yet they will be greatly
enraged at us, if we call them so. Not, if they be persuaded by me, said
he; for it is not right to be enraged at the truth. Those then who
embrace and love what has real being, we must call philosophers, and not
lovers of opinion? Most assuredly.

-----

Footnote 179:

  The words ἐκεῖνος ὁ φιλοθεάμων (which Ast. considers superfluous)
  convey a sly hit at those sophists who set up for admiration various
  different objects of beauty, sensual and physical, instead of the
  eternal and immutable beauty of truth and virtue.

Footnote 180:

  The Scholiast cites the following lines, which he ascribes to
  Clearchus:—

                αἶνος τίς ἐστιν ὡς ἀνήρ τε κοὐκ ἀνὴρ
                ὄρνιθα κοὐκ ὄρνιθ’ ἰδών τε κοὐκ ἰδών
                ἐπὶ ξύλου τε κοὐ ξύλου καθημένην
                λίθῳ τε κοὐ λίθῳ βάλοι τε κοὐ βάλοι——ἄλλως
                ——ἄνθρωπος οὐκ ἄνθρωπος ἄνθρωπος δ’ ὅμως,
                ὄρνιθα, κοὐκ ὄρνιθα, ὄρνιθα δ’ ὅμως
                ἐπὶ ξύλου τε κοὐ ξύλου καθημένην
                λίθῳ βάλων με κοὐ λίθῳ διώλεσεν——
                νυκτερίδα ὁ εὐνοῦχος νάρθηκι κισήρει.

Footnote 181:

  This is rather an obscure passage, which, however, receives some
  illustration from the Parmenides (pp. 137 c—155 e), in which the
  philosopher teaches, among other things, that τὸ ἕν (i.e. _the one by
  itself and infinite_) is nothing, destitute of all reason and form,
  void of truth and in no way falling within the cognizance of the
  mental faculties;—whereas τὸ ἓν ὄν (_the one finite_—inasmuch as it
  has form, mode, and reason of existence,)—is everything, that is,
  receives within itself a variety of certain forms, and is capable
  therefore of being perceived and recognised by opinion, perception,
  and real knowledge.

-----


                       THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK.


                                BOOK VI.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _sixth book_,—continuing the argument respecting the
    indispensability of true philosophy to a well-ordered state, and the
    absolute need of distinguishing true from false philosophy (_i. e._
    that of the sophists which throws discredit on the whole pursuit),
    and likewise from what is warped by prejudice, he goes on to show
    that a state will be blessed with philosophers for rulers, and shows
    what is the true subject of true philosophy, as well as the means
    and manner of learning it,—the sum of which is, that a good φύλαξ
    must be provided with all the defences of true science, not with a
    view to unprofitable speculations, but that all science and all
    virtue, his moral clothing, may be considered with reference to its
    real bearing on the common good of human society. Philosophy, says
    Plato, has for its proper subject the idea of good (the true end of
    being), and this being the subject, he next goes on to show the mode
    of becoming acquainted therewith.

CHAP. I.—Philosophers then, Glaucon, said I, and those who are not so,
have, at length, after a long parade of talk and with some difficulty,
been respectively defined. Aye, said he,—for perhaps, it was not easy to
do it briefly. It appears not, said I.—I still think, however, that
their qualities would have been better exhibited, had we deemed it right
to speak about this alone, and not discussed a multitude of other
matters while considering the difference between a just and an unjust
life. What then, said he, are we to consider next? What else, said I,
but that which is next in order?—Since those are philosophers who are
able to concern themselves with what always maintains a constant
relation, whereas those who cannot effect this, but ruminate among a
host of [material objects] that are every way shifting,[182] are not
philosophers;—which of these ought to be the rulers of the state? Which
way, said he, shall we define the matter, and define correctly? Such of
them, said I, as seem capable of preserving the laws and institutions of
states, these are to be made guardians. Right, said he. This then, said
I, is of course evident,—whether we ought to seek for a guardian one
that is blind or one that is sharp-sighted. Of course, that is quite
evident, said he. What difference then is there between blind persons
and those who are in fact deprived of the knowledge of each individual
essence, and have no clear demonstration of it in the soul, and cannot
(like painters who look at what is positively true, and refer everything
thereto, examining it with all possible accuracy), if need be, form
settled notions, of the beautiful, just, and good, and so maintain them,
as if sanctioned by law? No, by Zeus, said he;—they do not differ much.
Shall we then rather appoint these as our guardians, or those rather who
know each individual being, and in experience are not at all inferior to
those others, nor behind them in any other department of virtue? It were
absurd, said he, to choose any others, if at least they be not deficient
in all other matters; since they excel in this, which is the most
important. Must we not inquire this then,—in what manner the same
persons will be able to have both the one and the other?[183] Certainly.
As we observed then, at the opening of this discussion, we must first of
all thoroughly understand their disposition; and I think, if we are
pretty well agreed about that, we shall agree also, that the same
persons are able to possess both these qualities; and none else but
these ought to be the governors of states. How so?

-----

Footnote 182:

  Gr. ἐν πολλοῖς καὶ παντοίως ἴσχουσι πλανώμενοι, &c.

Footnote 183:

  Gr. κἀκεῖνα καὶ ταῦτα ἔχειν,—that is, both a practical acquaintance
  and experience of things, and a more subtle scientific knowledge of
  truth.

-----

CHAP. II.—Let us then so far agree about philosophic dispositions, that
as respects learning they always covet that which discovers to them that
ever-existing essence which does not vary through generation or
corruption. Let it be agreed. And likewise, said I, that they desire the
whole of such learning, and do not willingly omit any part of it, either
small or great, more honourable or more dishonourable, as we formerly
observed concerning the ambitious and those engaged in love. You say
right, said he. Consider then, in the next place, whether, besides, what
we have mentioned, it be necessary for those who would be such as we
have described, to have this also in their natures. What? Freedom from
falsehood, and never willingly to admit a lie, but rather to hate it
through love of truth. It probably would, replied he. It is not only
probable, my friend, but quite necessary, that one who naturally loves a
thing should love everything that is allied and belongs to the object of
his affection. Right, said he. Is there anything that you can find more
nearly allied to wisdom than truth? I cannot, said he. Is it possible,
then, for the same disposition to be both philosophic, and fond of
falsehood? By no means. He then who is really a lover of learning, ought
from early infancy wholly to desire all truth? By all means. But we know
somehow, that whoever has his desires vehemently set on one object, for
this very reason has them weaker as regards other things,—just as a
current diverted from its channel. Certainly. Whoever then has his
desires running out after learning and such like matters, would be
engaged, methinks, with the pleasure of the soul itself, and forsake the
pleasures arising from the body,—if indeed, he be not a pretender, but a
real philosopher. This of course must necessarily follow. Such an one
moreover is prudent, and by no means fond of money;—for the reasons why
money is so anxiously sought at so great a sacrifice are likely to make
any one anxious rather than a man like this. Certainly. And surely you
should consider this too, when deciding about a philosophic disposition,
and one that is not so. What? That it shall not unconsciously take an
illiberal turn,—since narrow-mindedness is most revolting to a soul that
is ever earnestly pursuing all that is divine and human. Most true, said
he. Think you then, that he who possesses magnificent intellectual
conceptions and can contemplate all time and all being, can possibly
consider human life as a thing of great consequence? It is impossible,
said he. Such an one then will not regard death as anything terrible.
Least of all, surely. It seems then, that a cowardly and illiberal
disposition will not readily connect itself with true philosophy. I do
not think it will. What then;—can the well-disposed man, who has
moderate desires, and is not a lover of money, nor illiberal, nor
arrogant, nor cowardly, ever possibly be unjust, or a breaker of
engagements? It is impossible. And this also you will likewise consider,
when viewing from its very source what is and is not a philosophic soul,
whether it be just and gentle, or unsocial and savage. By all means.
Neither, as I think, will you omit this. What? Whether it learn easily
or with difficulty:—in fact, do you expect that a person will ever love
a thing sufficiently, while he is uneasy in its performance, and makes
but small progress? It cannot be. But what if he be oblivious and
retains nothing of what he learns, can he then possibly acquire
science?[184] How is it possible? And when he thus vainly labours, think
you not that he will be forced at last to hate both himself and such
employment? Of course he must. We can never reckon then among
philosophic souls, that which is forgetful; but we shall on the other
hand require it to have a good memory? By all means. And we can never
say this at any rate, that an unmusical and ill-regulated disposition
leads anywhere but towards irregularity. Where else should it? But as
regards truth, think you it is allied to irregularity or regularity? To
regularity. Let us require then, in addition to all other qualities, an
intellect naturally well-regulated and gracious, as a willing and
naturally well-disposed guide in realizing the idea of individual being.
Of course. What then;—do you not think, that we have in some measure
discussed the necessary qualifications, and such as are mutually
connected in a soul that would attain a fitting and perfect apprehension
of being?—Aye, the most necessary, said he. Can you then any how blame
such a study as this, which a man can never sufficiently pursue, unless
he has a naturally good memory, learns with facility, and is generous,
kind-hearted, the friend and ally of truth, justice, manliness, and
temperance? Not even Momus himself, said he, could find fault with such
a study.[185] Aye, said I, and will it not be to such as these alone,
when perfected by education and age, that you will intrust the state?

-----

Footnote 184:

  ἄρ’ ἂν οἷός τ’ εἴη ἐπιστήμης μὴ κενὸς εἶναι;—lit. _can he be otherwise
  than void of science?_

Footnote 185:

  This proverbial expression is well illustrated by Erasmus, Chiliad. i.
  5, § 75.

-----

CHAP. III.—Then said Adimantus: No one, indeed, Socrates, can contradict
you on these points; but all who from time to time hear you advancing
what you do at present, feel somehow thus;—being led a little astray by
your reasoning on each question, through inexperience in this mode of
question and answer, when all these littles are collected together, they
reckon at the close of the discussion that the mistake appears
considerable, and the contrary of their first concessions; and just as
those who play at talus with such as are dexterous, themselves being
unskilful, are in the end driven into a corner and cannot move a piece,
so your hearers have nothing to say, being driven into a corner, at this
different kind of play, not with the dice, but your reasonings;—though
the truth at least is not thus at all advanced.[186]—I say this with
reference to the present inquiry; for a person may tell you, that he has
nothing to allege as an argument against your questions individually,
but sees in fact that all those who plunge into philosophy do not pursue
it with the view of being taught in it during childhood, and liberated
from it when they arrive at mature age, but rather in order that they
may continue in it much longer, becoming most of them quite
perverse,—not to say, altogether depraved; while even such of them as
appear most worthy, are still so far affected by this pursuit, that you
so much commend, as to become useless to the public. When I had heard
this, I said,—Think you then, that such as say these things are telling
a falsehood? I know not, said he; but I should like to hear what is your
opinion.

-----

Footnote 186:

  This elegant comparison of Socrates to the clever πεττεύτης is more
  lightly touched in a passage in the Laws, vii. p. 820 c:—προβάλλοντά
  τε ἀλλήλοις ἀεὶ διατριβὴν τῆς πεττείας πολὺ χαριέστερον πρεσβυτῶν
  διατρίβοντα φιλονεικεῖν ἐν τοῖς τούτων ἀξίαισι σχολαῖς.

-----

You will hear then, that in my opinion they speak the truth. How,
replied he, can it be right to say that the miseries of states are never
to come to a close, till they be governed by philosophers, whom we now
acknowledge as useless thereto? You ask a question, said I, which needs
a figurative reply. And yet said I, I do not think you usually speak by
figures.

CHAP. IV.—Granted, said I:—and are you not jesting me, after having
involved me in a subject so hard of explanation?—Yet attend to the
comparison, in order that you may the better see how nicely I make
it:—for the sufferings of the best philosophers in the management of
public affairs are so grievous, that there is not one other suffering so
severe: but in making our simile, and putting in a defence for them, we
must collect from many particulars, in the same way as painters mingle
together different figures, and paint a creature both goat and stag in
one,[187] and others of the same kind. Conceive now such a person as
this to be the pilot of a fleet or a single ship, one who surpasses all
in the ship both in bulk and strength, but is somewhat deaf, and
short-sighted as well, and whose skill in nautical affairs is much of
the same kind;—and also that the sailors are all quarrelling among each
other about the pilotage, each thinking he ought to be pilot, though he
never learned the art, and cannot show who was his master, nor at what
time he got his learning;—that besides this, they all say that the art
itself cannot be taught, and are ready to cut in pieces any one who says
that it can.—Imagine further, that they are constantly crowding round
the pilot himself, begging, and forming all schemes to induce him to
commit the helm into their hands, and that sometimes even, when they do
not so well succeed in persuading him as others may, they either kill
these others, or throw them overboard, and after having, by mandragora
or wine or something else, rendered the noble pilot incapable, they
manage the ship by aid of the crew, and sail on, thus drinking and
feasting, as may be expected of such people;—and besides this, if any
one be clever at assisting them in getting the management into their own
hands, and either by persuasion or force, setting aside the pilot, they
praise such an one, calling him sailor and pilot, and versed in
navigation, but despise as useless every one not of this character,—not
in the least considering that the true pilot must necessarily study the
year, the seasons, the heavens, and stars, and winds, and everything
belonging to his art, if he would be a real commander of a ship; but at
the same time as respects the art and practice of governing men, whether
some be willing or not, they think it impossible for a man to attain it
in connexion with the art of navigation.—Whilst affairs are thus
situated as regards ships, do you not think that the true pilot will be
called by the sailors on board of ships thus regulated, a mere
star-gazer,[188] trifler, and of no use to them whatever? Undoubtedly,
said Adimantus. I think then, said I, that you do not want this
comparison explained, in order to see that it represents how people feel
in states towards true philosophers, but that you quite understand what
I mean. Perfectly, said he. First of all then, as regards this,—namely,
a person’s wondering that philosophers are not honoured in states,—you
must acquaint him with our comparison, and try to persuade him, that it
would be much more wonderful if they were honoured. I will so, replied
he. And further, that it is quite true, as you were just observing, that
the best of those who study philosophy are useless to the bulk of
mankind:—but nevertheless, for all this, they intend to lay the blame
not on the philosophers, but on such as make no use of them,—for it is
not natural that the pilot should beg of the sailors to allow him to
govern them, nor that the wise should hold attendance at the gates of
the rich:[189]—and whoever wittily said this was mistaken; for this
indeed is the natural method, that whoever is sick, whether rich or
poor, must necessarily go to the gates of the physician, and whoever
wants to be governed must wait on a person able to govern; for it is not
natural that a really worthy governor should beg of the governed to
subject themselves to his government.—You will not be far wrong,
however, in comparing our present political governors to those sailors
we now mentioned, and those whom they call insignificant and star-gazers
to those who are truly pilots. Quite right, said he. Hence, then, it
would seem, that the best pursuit is not likely to be held in much
honour by persons engaged in those of an opposite nature,—but by far the
greatest and most violent outcry against philosophy is caused by those
who profess its study;—the very persons, whom most of all, you say, your
reviler of philosophy calls downright wicked, and the very best useless;
and I agreed that you spoke correctly,—did I not? Yes.

-----

Footnote 187:

  The τραγέλαφος was a mere fictitious or fabled animal, like the
  griffin.

Footnote 188:

  μετεωροσκόπον, the usual term of reproach with which the Sophist
  visited Socrates. Compare Apolog. Socr. p. 18 b; and see throughout
  Aristophanes’s caricature in his comedy of the Clouds.

Footnote 189:

  τοὺς σοφοὺς ἐπὶ τὰς τῶν πλουσίων θύρας ἰέναι. The Scholiast has a long
  note on this bon-mot, which he ascribes to Eubulus in a dialogue with
  Socrates. Schleiermacher, however, following Diogenes Laertius (ii.
  69), attributes it to Aristippus, and Schneider to Simonides, on the
  authority of Aristotle, Rhetor. ii. 16.

-----

CHAP. V.—Have we not now fully explained the cause, why the best of them
are useless? We have. Do you wish, then, that we should next explain the
reason, why most of them must necessarily be depraved, and try also to
show, that philosophy is not the cause of this. Certainly. Let us open
our argument then, by carefully calling to mind what we before observed
about the natural disposition necessarily belonging to the good and
worthy [philosopher;]—and if you remember, the leading part therein was
truth, which he must by all means wholly pursue, or else be a vain
boaster, having no fellowship with true philosophy. Aye,—so it was said.
Is not this single part of his character wholly the reverse of what is
at present held respecting him? Quite so, replied he. We shall be
urging, therefore, no trifling argument in his defence, if we can show
that the true lover of learning is naturally inclined to aspire after
the knowledge of real being, and, so far from being arrested by the
numerous individual things which are the objects of opinion, that he
proceeds undauntedly forward and desists not from his love of truth[190]
till he becomes acquainted with the nature of all existing things
through the agency of that part of the soul whose business it is to take
cognizance of such matters:—but it is the office of that part of the
soul which is allied [to real being;] and when this true lover of
learning approaches thus far, and mingles therewith, thus giving rise to
intellect and truth, he will attain to true knowledge, and truly live
and be maintained, and at length become liberated from the pains of
production,[191]—but not before. As good a defence, said he, as there
possibly can be. What then;—will it be a part of such a person’s
business to love falsehood, or quite the contrary, to hate it? To hate
it, said he. While truth, however, leads the way, we can never say, I
think, that any band of evils follows in her train? No, we cannot. But
on the contrary, sound and just morals accompanied with temperance?
Right, said he. Well then;—is it necessary that we again examine and
re-arrange all the qualities of a philosophic nature?—for, no doubt, you
remember that men of this character possess fortitude, magnanimity,
aptitude for learning, and a good memory; and when you said by way of
rejoinder, that every one would be compelled to agree to our statement,
we quitted that subject, and turned to the subject of our present
discourse—your assertion of having found some of the philosophers
useless, and the majority also completely depraved.—And in investigating
the cause of that calumny, we are at length come to inquire, how it is,
that the greater part of them are bad; and on this account we have again
analyzed the nature of true philosophers, and necessarily defined it. It
is so, said he.

-----

Footnote 190:

  Comp. here Book v., ch. 20 (p. 476, c, d).

Footnote 191:

  Gr. οὕτω λήγοι ὠδῖνος. Allusion is here made to the pangs attending
  the birth of the idea and love of beauty—τὸ καλόν,—as more largely
  treated in the Sympos. p. 206, b, e.

-----

CHAP. VI.—We must therefore, consider, said I, the corruptions of this
nature, how it becomes ruined in many, so that only some few escape,
whom men call not depraved, but useless; and next we must consider those
dispositions that counterfeit this nature, and only pretend to pursue
it, and what is the nature also of those souls, which aspire to a
pursuit not belonging to them, and above their reach: for these persons,
by their multiplied errors, have everywhere and among all men, attached
this opinion to philosophy which you are now mentioning. To what kind of
corruptions, said he, do you allude? I will try to recount them, said I,
if I can.—And this now, methinks, every one will allow us, that such a
nature, with all the qualifications that we just now enjoined to a
person aspiring to be a perfect philosopher, is rarely to be found among
men, and of these there are but very few: do you not think so? Quite so.
And among those few, just consider how many and how great are the causes
of corruption. What are they? The most surprising of all to
hear,—namely, that of those qualities which we commended in the nature
of a philosopher, each corrupts the soul possessing them, and withdraws
it from philosophy—from fortitude, I mean, and temperance, and all those
other qualities which we enumerated. That is a strange saying, said he.
And further still, said I;—besides these things, all that are commonly
called good,—such as beauty, riches, bodily strength, a powerful family
connexion in the state,[192] and all that relates to these, corrupt and
withdraw it from philosophy:—there, you now have the outline of what I
mean. I have, he replied, and would be glad more clearly to understand
what say. Apprehend, therefore, the whole of it aright, said I; and it
will become perfectly clear, and what we before said will not be thought
absurd. How then, said he, do you bid me act? With respect to every kind
of seed, or plant, said I, whether of vegetables or animals, we know,
that what is not properly nurtured and has not its proper nourishment,
or season, or place, the stronger it is, so many more kindly influences
does it require,—for evil is more contrary to good, than to that which
is not good. Of course. It is reasonable then, I suppose, that the very
best nature, if supported on diet unsuited to it, should become worse
than one which is inferior? It is. Well then, Adimantus, said I, are we
to say, that souls naturally the best, if badly trained, become more
than commonly depraved;—or think you that gross iniquity and extreme
wickedness arise from an inferior rather than from a good disposition
ruined in its education; whereas a weak disposition will never produce
either great good or great evil? No,—I think not, said he;—and the case
is as you say. If then this philosophic nature, that we have here
defined, meet with suitable training, it will of necessity grow up, I
suppose, and attain to every virtue; but if it be sown in an improper
soil, and grow up and be nurtured accordingly, it will become quite the
reverse, unless one of the gods should by chance come to its
assistance;—think you then, as most do, that some youths are corrupted
by sophists, and that these sophists are men in private life who corrupt
them in any matter soever that is worthy of their attention;—or rather,
that the very persons who say these things are themselves the greatest
sophists, conveying their instruction with most perfect skill, and
rendering young and old, men and women, such as they wish them to be?
When is that? said he. When many of them, said I, are seated and crowded
together in an assembly, in their law-courts, theatres, camps, or other
public meetings of the people, and when they blame with much tumult some
speeches and acts, and commend others, shouting and stamping, [to see]
which shall outvie the other;—and besides this, the echo from the rocks
and the place where they are sitting, redoubles the tumult of their
disapprobation and applause;—in such a situation as this, what kind of
heart, as the saying is, do you think the youth has; or what private
instruction can so restrain him, as to prevent him from being quite
overwhelmed by such blame or applause, and from yielding and being
carried along the stream wherever it bears him;—and will he not call
things beautiful and base, according as these people call them, and just
as they pursue them, thus becoming of the very same character? This,
said he, must of course be the case, Socrates.

-----

Footnote 192:

  Gr. ξυγγένεια ἐῤῥωμένη ἐν πόλει. Plato similarly speaks of political
  connexions in the Sympos. p. 178 c:—ὃ γὰρ χρὴ ἀνθρώποις ἡγεῖσθαι
  παντὸς τοῦ βίου τοῖς μέλλουσι καλῶς βιώσεσθαι, τοῦτο οὔτε ξυγγένεια
  οἵα τε ἐμποιεῖν οὕτω καλῶς, οὔτε τιμαὶ οὔτε πλοῦτος οὔτ’ ἄλλο οὐδέν.

-----

CHAP. VII.—And yet, said I, we have not yet mentioned what is the
greatest necessity of all. What is that? said he. What these, your
teachers and sophists, add, by way of acts to their talk, when they
cannot persuade:—know you not that they punish with disgraces and fines
and deaths, the man whom they cannot persuade? I know that, said he,
extremely well. What other sophist then, or what private reasonings, do
you think, will counteract and overpower these? I know none, said he. Is
it not besides, said I, great folly also even to attempt it?—For there
neither is, nor was, nor can ever possibly be, any other system as
regards virtue, to be compared with this education by the sophists,—I
mean a human method, my friend; for a divine one, according to the
proverb, we keep out of the question.[193]—Indeed, you must well know,
with respect to whatever is preserved, and becomes what it ought in such
a constitution of government, that you will not be far wrong in deeming
it preserved by divine destiny.[194] Nor am I; said he, of a different
opinion. But further now, besides this, said I, you must also be of this
opinion. Of what? That each of these hired private teachers, whom these
men call sophists and consider as rival artists, teach nothing else but
those dogmas of the vulgar, which they approve in their assemblies, and
term wisdom;—just as if a man were to learn the tempers and desires of a
great and strong animal that he is training,—how it must be approached,
how touched, and when it is most fierce or most mild,—and from what
sorts it springs, and the sounds also which it is used occasionally to
utter, and by what sounds when uttered by another, this beast is
rendered either gentle or savage; and if, after learning all these
things by long associating with this animal, he should call this wisdom
and apply himself to the teaching thereof, as to an established
art,—while yet, as regards these dogmas and desires, he has no real
knowledge of what is beautiful or base, good or ill, just or unjust, but
defines them all by the opinions of that great animal, calling those
things good by which it is pleased, and those evil with which it is
vexed, having no other measure respecting them, but calling things
necessary both just and beautiful, though he has never himself seen, nor
can show to another, the nature of the necessary and the good, and how
far they really differ from each other. Being such as this, then, do you
not, by Zeus, think him a ridiculous teacher? I do, he replied. And,
think you, he in any way differs from the man, who deems it wisdom to
have understood the tempers and pleasures of the multitude, and of mixed
assemblies, either in painting, music, or politics?—For if any one
converse with these, and show them either a poem, or other work of art,
or piece of service connected with the state, and make the multitude the
judges thereof, he is, beyond all other necessities, under what is
called a “Diomedean”[195] necessity,—that of doing whatever they
commend.—But as respects these things being really good and beautiful,
did you ever hear any of them advance a reason that was not quite
ridiculous? No;—and I think, said he, I never shall.

-----

Footnote 193:

  Ast conjectures that there was a well-known adage;—τὸ θεῖον ἐξαιρῶ
  λόγου.

Footnote 194:

  Similarly in the Menon (p. 97 b, 100 b), Plato, in ridiculing the
  statesmen of his own day, declares that they acquired virtue,—not from
  human instruction, but by a certain gift from heaven.

Footnote 195:

  A Diomedean necessity is a proverbial expression applied to those, who
  do anything from necessity: its origin is as follows. Diomedes and
  Ulysses, having stolen the Palladium from Ilium, returned by night to
  their ships. Ulysses, however, most anxious that the glory of the deed
  should be his alone, endeavoured to slay Diomedes, who walked before
  him with the Palladium. Diomedes, however, on seeing by moonlight the
  shadow of the sword raised over him, seized Ulysses, bound his hands,
  bid him walk before him, and, after striking him on the back with the
  flat part of his sword, proceeded onward, and at length reached the
  Argive camp.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—Considering all these things, then, bear this in mind, that
the multitude never will admit or reckon that there is the one beautiful
itself, and not many beautiful,—one thing itself individually existing,
and not many such individual things. They will be the last to do so, he
replied. It is impossible, then, for the multitude to be philosophers.
Impossible. And those who philosophize must necessarily be subject to
their reproach? Necessarily so. And likewise to that of those private
persons, who, in conversing with the multitude, desire to please them?
Clearly. In consequence of this, then, what security do you see for the
philosophic nature to continue its pursuit, and arrive at
perfection?—And consider from what has gone before; for it has been
admitted, that aptitude for learning, memory, fortitude, and magnanimity
belong to this kind of disposition. Yes,—it has. Will not such an one as
this, then, be the first of all men in all things whatever, especially
if he have a body naturally suited to his soul? Of course he will, he
replied. And when he is further advanced in years, his kindred and
citizens, methinks, will be disposed to employ him in their affairs. Why
not? As suppliants then they will pay him homage, and submit to him,
anticipating and flattering beforehand his growing power. Aye, said he,
such is usually the case. What then, said I, think you such an one will
do under such circumstances, especially if he be a member of a great
state, rich, and nobly born, handsome withal and of large
stature?[196]—Will he not be filled with extravagant hopes, deeming
himself capable of managing the affairs both of Greeks and barbarians,
and on this account demean himself loftily, being full of ostentation
and vain conceit, but without judgment? Quite so, he replied. If one
should gently approach a man of this disposition, and tell him the
truth, that he has no judgment, but needs it;—as judgment is only to be
acquired by one who devotes himself as a slave to its acquisition, think
you, that, amidst all these evils it would be easy for him to hearken?
Far from it, he replied. But if, said I, through a good natural temper,
and innate attachment to reasoning, he were to acquire penetration, and
thus be bent and drawn towards philosophy,—what, think we, will those
others do, when they reckon on losing his services and company:—will
they not by every action, and every speech, say and do all to the man to
prevent his being persuaded,—and as respects his adviser, take away all
his influence, both by forming private plots and arraigning him at
public trials? This, of course, must necessarily be the case, he
replied. Is it likely then, that such an one as this will be a
philosopher? Not at all.

-----

Footnote 196:

  It seems highly probable that Plato is here drawing a portrait of
  Alcibiades, with whose general character this description most closely
  tallies.

-----

CHAP. IX.—You see then, said I, that we were not wrong in saying, that
even the very essentials of the philosophic disposition, are, when badly
directed, in some measure the cause of a falling off from this pursuit,
as well as from those vulgarly reputed goods,—riches, and all such-like
matters. No, certainly, he replied;—that was correctly observed. Such
then, said I, admirable friend! is the ruin, such and so great the
corruption of the best nature for the best of all pursuits, and which,
as we observe, is rarely elsewhere to be found:[197] and among these are
the men who do the greatest harm both to states and private persons, and
those also who do the greatest good, such as are drawn to one particular
side, [viz. what is good:]—whereas small talents do nothing great for
any one, either private person or state. Most true, said he. Since
those, then, who thus fall off, whose chief business was to apply to
philosophy, and who, leaving her deserted and imperfect, lead themselves
a life neither becoming nor true,—while on this same philosophy other
unworthy persons have intruded and disgraced her, loading her with
reproaches, such as those with which you say her revilers reproach
her:—of those who engage with her,—some are worth nothing, and most of
them deserve great punishments. Aye surely, this, replied he, is
commonly said. Aye,—and said too with reason, replied I;—for other
contemptible men seeing the field unoccupied, and the possession of it
followed by dignities and honourable names, just like persons who take
refuge from their prisons in the temples, these likewise gladly leap
from their trade-crafts to philosophy;—such of them I mean, as are most
adept in their own little art.—Indeed, even in this position of
philosophy, her remaining dignity, in comparison with all the other
arts, is still of surpassing magnificence,—which dignity many eagerly
covet, who yet are of an imperfect nature, and have bodies not only
deformed by their arts and crafts, but souls likewise that are broken
and crushed by their servile occupations:[198]—must it not necessarily
be so? Undoubtedly, said he. Think you, then, said I, that they at all
differ in appearance from a bald and puny blacksmith, who having made a
little money, has been newly liberated from chains, and washed in the
bath,[199] with a new robe on him, just decked out as a bridegroom,
presuming, on account of his master’s poverty and forlorn situation, to
propose for his daughter’s hand? There is no great difference, replied
he. What sort of a race must such as these produce;—must it not be
bastardly and abject? Certainly,—it must. But what;—when persons
unworthy of instruction study it, and meddle with it unworthily, what
kind of sentiments and opinions must we say come from them?—Must they
not be such as to be properly termed sophisms, and neither genuine, nor
allied to true discretion? Wholly so, of course, he replied.

-----

Footnote 197:

  Gr. ὀλίγης καὶ ἄλλως γινομένης, ὡς ἡμεῖς φαμέν.

Footnote 198:

  We give the Greek entire:—οὗ δὴ ἐφιέμενοι πολλοὶ ἀτελεῖς μὲν τὰς
  φύσεις, ὑπὸ δὲ τῶν τεχνῶν τε καὶ δημιουργιῶν ὥσπερ τὰ σώματα
  λελώβηνται, οὕτω καὶ τὰς ψυχὰς συγκεκλασμένοι τε καὶ ἀποτεθρυμμένοι
  διὰ τὰς βαναυσίας τυγχάνουσιν.

Footnote 199:

  The elegant play on the words λελυμένου and λελουμένου is wholly lost
  in the translation.

-----

CHAP. X.—An extremely small number is left, said I, Adimantus, of those
who engage worthily in philosophy,—men of that noble and well-cultivated
nature, which somehow seeks retirement, and naturally persists in
philosophic study, through the absence of corrupting tendencies; or it
may be, in a small state, some mighty soul arises, who has despised and
wholly neglected civil honours;—and there may be some small portion
perhaps, who, having a naturally good disposition, hold other arts in
just contempt, and then turn to philosophy.—These the bridle of our
friend Theages will probably be able to restrain; for all other things
are calculated to withdraw Theages from philosophy, while the care of
his health occupies him to the exclusion of politics:[200]—and as to
what concerns myself, namely the sign of my demon, it is not worth while
to mention that; for I think it has heretofore been met with only by one
other, if any at all.—And even of these few [they are] such as taste,
and have tasted, how sweet and blessed is the acquisition of philosophy,
and have withal sufficiently observed the madness of the multitude, and
that none of them, as I may say, does what is wholesome in state
matters, and that a man can get none to aid him in securely succouring
the just, but is like one falling among wild beasts, neither willing nor
able to aid them in doing wrong, as one only against a host of wild
creatures, and so without doing any good either to the state or his
friends, perishes unprofitably to all the world. Quietly reasoning on
all these things, and attending to his own affairs, like a man sheltered
under a wall in a storm of dust and foam borne along on the wind, by
which he sees all about him overwhelmed in disorder, such an one is
content anyhow to pass his life pure from injustice and unholy deeds,
and to effect his exit hence with good hopes cheerful and agreeable.
Aye,—and he will make his exit, said he, without having done even the
least of them. Nor the greatest either, said I;—because he has not found
a suitable form of government; for in one that suits him, he will both
make greater progress himself, and together with the affairs of private
persons, will preserve those of the public also.

-----

Footnote 200:

  Theages is stated in the Apology of Socrates (p. 33 c), to be the son
  of Demodocus and the brother of Paralus, and to have been most
  desirous of attaining to a knowledge of the Socratic philosophy;—and
  we are here told that his delicate health hindered him from
  persevering in its pursuit:—so true is the saying of Plutarch (de
  Sanit. tuend. p. 126 b), φιλοσοφεῖν ἀῤῥωστίαι πολλοὺς παρέχουσιν.

-----

CHAP. XI.—As respects philosophy, then, for what reasons it has been
traduced, and that it has been so unjustly, we have, I think,
sufficiently stated,—unless you have anything else to allege. Nay, said
he;—I can say nothing further about this point:—but which of the present
forms of government do you conceive to be suited to philosophy? None
whatever, said I; and this particularly is what I complain of, that no
existing constitution of a state is worthy of the philosophic nature;
and on this account therefore it is turned and altered, just as a
foreign seed sown in an improper soil becomes worthless, and has a
tendency to fall under the influence of the soil in which it is
placed;—so this race likewise has not at present its proper power, but
degenerates to some pattern foreign to it;—but in case that it does meet
with the best form of government, being itself also best, it will then
be evident that this is really divine, and all others only human, both
as to their natures and pursuits:—but as a matter of course you are
evidently about to ask what is this form of government? You are
mistaken, said he,—for this I was not going to ask; but whether it be
this, which we have described in establishing our state, or some other.
As regards all other things, said I, it is this one:—and this very thing
was then mentioned, that there must always be in our state something
having the same regard for the government, which you the legislator had
in establishing the laws. Aye,—that was mentioned, said he. Yes, but,
said I, it was not made sufficiently clear, owing to the fear of what
you objected, when you showed also, that the illustration of the thing
would be both tedious and difficult;—for indeed it is not on the whole
quite easy to discuss what remains. What is that? In what manner a state
is to undertake the study of philosophy, so as not itself to be
destroyed; for all great pursuits are dangerous; and,—as the saying
is,—those noble even are truly difficult. But still, rejoined he, let
our demonstration be completed by making this evident. Want of
inclination, said I, will not hinder, though possibly want of power
may:—and now you shall at once be assured of my readiness.—Consider
indeed, how readily and adventurously I am about to assert, that a state
ought to attempt this study in a way opposite to what it does at
present. How? At present, said I, those who engage in it are striplings,
who, quite from childhood, amidst their domestic affairs and lucrative
employments, betake themselves to most abstruse inquiries, considering
themselves consummate philosophers,—(and I call what respects reasoning,
the most difficult of all;)—and should they in after-time be invited by
others practising this art, they are pleased to become hearers, and
think it a great condescension, reckoning they ought to do it as a
by-work:—but towards old age, with the exception indeed of some few,
they are extinguished even more than the Heraclitean[201] sun, because
they are never again rekindled. But how should they act? said he. Quite
the reverse of what they do:—while they are lads and youths they should
study youthful learning and philosophy,[202] and, take special care of
the body, during its growth and strengthening by inviting its services
to the aid of philosophy; and then, as that time of life progresses,
during which the soul is attaining its perfection, they should
vigorously apply to her exercises;—but when strength decays, and is no
longer suited for civil and military employments, they should then be
dismissed, and live at pleasure, with the exception of a by-work, [that
is, studying philosophy,]—if indeed they propose to live happy, and,
when they die, possess in the other world, a destiny suited to the life
which they have led in this.

CHAP. XII.—How truly do I think, Socrates, said he, that you speak with
ready zeal:—I think, however, that most of your hearers will still more
zealously oppose you, and by no means be persuaded, and Thrasymachus
even first. Do not divide Thrasymachus and me, said I, who are now
become friends, though not enemies heretofore; for we will not at all
relax our efforts, till we either persuade both him and the rest, or
make some advances towards that life, on attaining which they will again
meet with such discourses as these. You have spoken, said he, only for a
short time. No time at all, said I, as compared at least with the whole
of time: but that the multitude are not persuaded by what is said, is no
wonder; for they have never as yet seen that what was mentioned actually
came to pass, but rather that they were certain mere words cleverly
fitted to each other, and not as now coming out spontaneously:—and as
regards the man, who is, as completely as possible, squared and made
consistent with virtue both in word and deed, holding power in a state
of such different character; they have never at all seen either one or
more of the kind:—do you think they have? By no means. And again, as
respects arguments, my excellent friend, they have not sufficiently
listened to what are fair and liberal, such as persevere in the search
for truth, by every method, for the mere sake of knowledge, saluting at
a distance[203] such intricate and contentious questions, as tend only
to opinion and strife, either in their law-courts or private meetings.
Not even as respects these, he replied. On these accounts then, said I,
and foreseeing these things, we, although with fear, still asserted
(compelled by truth), that neither state nor government, nor even a man
in the same way, could ever become perfect, till some need of fortune
should compel those few philosophers, who at present are termed not
depraved but useless, to take the government of the state, whether they
will or not, and oblige it to be obedient to them; or till the sons of
those who are now in high offices and magistracies, or they themselves,
be by some divine inspiration filled with a true love of sincere
philosophy: and I am sure that no one can reasonably suppose either or
both of these to be impossible; for thus might we justly be derided, as
saying things which otherwise are only like wishes:—is it not so? It is.
If then, in the infinite series of past ages, absolute necessity has
compelled men who have reached the summit of philosophy to take the
government of a state,—or even if such is now the case in some barbarous
region, remote from our observation, or is likely to be the case
hereafter, we are ready, in that case, to advance in argument, that this
form of government just described has existed and now exists [in
possibility,] and will actually arise, when this our muse shall obtain
the government of the state: for this is neither impossible to happen,
nor do we speak of impossibilities, though we ourselves confess that
they are difficult. I too, said he, am of the same opinion. But you will
say, replied I, that the multitude are not of that opinion? Very likely,
said he. My excellent friend, said I, do not thus altogether condemn the
multitude; and do not upbraid them for their opinion, but rather
encourage them,—remove the reproach thrown on philosophy,—and point out
to them the persons you call philosophers, defining distinctly, as at
present, both their genius and pursuits, that they may not think that
you speak of such as they themselves call philosophers.—Indeed, if they
talk of the same men, will you not say that they have conceived a
different opinion of the men from what you have, and give very different
replies from yours; and think you that one man can be angered at
another, who is not angry himself; or that a man will envy the envious,
who is himself free from envy, and of a gentle temper? I will anticipate
you by saying, that I think some few, though not the great mass of
mankind, have naturally so bad a temper as you have described. I am
quite of that opinion also, said he. Are you then of my opinion in this
also,—namely, that, as regards the ill-feeling of the populace towards
philosophy, those people from without, [_i. e._ the sophists,] are the
real cause of it, by making an indecent and turbulent irruption
thereinto, insulting and showing a downright hatred of philosophers,
ever directing their discourses at particular men, and so doing what
least of all becomes philosophy? Certainly, said he.

-----

Footnote 201:

  Heraclitus the Ephesian said that the sun descended to the western
  sea, and at its setting was extinguished,—being again enkindled when
  it ascended above the earth in the east; and that this took place
  perpetually.

Footnote 202:

  The Scholiast suggests, that Plato here refers to mathematical
  science: but Stallbaum conceives with far greater probability, that
  allusion is made to all liberal or musical arts whatsoever, which are
  to be studied as disciplines for the mind, just as gymnastics are
  practised to promote the growth and strength of the body.

Footnote 203:

  Gr. πόῤῥωθεν ἀσπαζομένων, an elegant phrase equivalent to χαίρειν
  ἐώντων, _bidding farewell to_. Perhaps Plato had in memory the line of
  Euripides, Hippolyt. v. 101, where Hippolytus accosts Aphrodite—

                    πρόσωθεν αὐτὴν ἁγνὸς ὢν ἀσπάζομαι.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—In fact, Adimantus, the man who really applies his intellect
to reflect on true being, probably has no leisure to look down on the
little affairs of mankind, and by fighting with them, become filled with
envy and ill-nature; but on the other hand, beholding and contemplating
objects that are orderly, always self-consistent and stable,[204] such
as neither injure nor are injured by each other, but are in all respects
beautiful and consonant with reason, these he imitates and resembles as
far as possible:—what, think you it at all possible, that a man will not
imitate what he admires as soon as he is conversant therewith?
Impossible, he replied. The philosopher then, who is occupied with what
is divine and orderly, becomes himself divine and orderly, as far as
lies in man’s power:—yet in all there is great room for blame. Most
assuredly. If then, said I, he should be any how compelled to try to
introduce among men what he beholds there [in his world of
contemplation,] with a view of forming their manners, both in private
and public, and not merely to form himself alone,—would he prove, think
you, a bad artist, in the matter of temperance and justice and every
civil virtue? Not at all, said he. But, supposing that the multitude
should perceive that we are speaking the truth about him, [_i. e._ the
philosopher,] will they be angry at philosophers and discredit our
assertion, that the state can never otherwise be happy, except as
portrayed by painters who employ a divine pattern?[205] They will not be
angry, said he, if they do perceive it: but what method of painting do
you mean? When they have got for their groundwork, said I, the state and
manners of mankind, they would first make them pure, which is not
altogether an easy matter; for you know, that in this they differ from
others,—in being unwilling to meddle either with a private man or state,
or to prescribe laws, till they have either received them as pure, or
themselves have made them so. Rightly too, said he. And after this,
think you not they will draw a sketch of their form of government? Of
course. Afterwards, I think, as they proceed in their work, they will
frequently look in two directions,—not only to what is naturally just
and beautiful, and temperate and the like, but also, again, to that
which they can establish among mankind, blending and compounding their
human form out of different human characters and pursuits, drawing from
what Homer calls the divine likeness, and the divine resemblance
subsisting among men? Right, said he. They will, of course, I think,
erase one thing, and put in another, till they have, as far as possible,
made human morals pleasing to the gods? At that rate, said he, the
picture will be most beautiful. In this case, said I, do we at all
succeed in persuading these men, who, you said, were coming upon us in
battle-array, that a person who can thus depict governments is the man
we then recommended to them,—and on whose account they were angry with
us, for committing to him our states:—and will they now be more mild,
when they hear our mention thereof? Certainly, said he, if they be
wise:—for what is there now, that they can further question?—will they
assert that philosophers are not lovers of real being and truth? That,
said he, were absurd. Or that their disposition, as just described, is
not allied to what is best? Nor this either. What then;—will not a
disposition such as we have described, by finding suitable employments,
become perfectly good and philosophic, if any other be so;—will men say
that those more attain to it, whom we have selected? Not at all. Will
they still then be indignant at us for saying, that until the
philosophic race have the government of the state, the miseries neither
of state nor citizens can have an end, nor can this government, which we
ideally describe, be ever perfectly realized? Perhaps somewhat less
indignant, rejoined he. Is it your wish, then, said I, that we say—not
that they are somewhat less [indignant,] but that they have become
altogether mild, and are persuaded, that they will at least consent, if
no more, through very shame? By all means, said he.

-----

Footnote 204:

  The reader will take in connexion with this what had been stated at
  the close of the first chapter of this book,—that the philosopher’s
  studies were concerned with real and eternal being, and not allowed to
  wander to the changeable and destructible—οὐ πλανωμένην ὑπὸ γενέσεως
  καὶ φθορᾶς.

Footnote 205:

  Philosophers ideally contemplating the image of a perfect state are
  here elegantly compared to painters about to make an original design
  of a city, who of course require that their tablets be clean, ere they
  commence their drawing.

-----

CHAP. XIV.—Let them then, said I, be persuaded of this:—-and is there
any one who will dispute this,—that men of a philosophic disposition do
not usually spring from kings and sovereigns? No one, said he, would
assert that. And though they be born of such a character, one may say
they are necessarily prone to be corrupted; for indeed, it is a hard
matter for them to be preserved untainted, even we ourselves agree;—but
will any one contend throughout all time, that not one of the whole
human race, would be preserved pure and untainted? How can there be? But
surely, said I, any individual born with adequate abilities, and who has
his state in obedience to him, can accomplish everything now so much
disbelieved? Yes, for he is adequate to his task, said he. And when the
governor, said I, establishes the laws and customs here detailed, it is
not at all impossible for him to make the citizens willingly obey him?
In no way whatever. But is it wonderful or impossible, that what is our
opinion should be the opinion of others also? I, at least, do not think
so, said he. And that these things are best, if they be possible, we
have, I think, sufficiently explained in the former part of our
discourse. Yes, quite sufficiently. Now then, it seems, we are agreed
about our legislation; that the laws we mention are the best, if they
could be realized,—and that if it be hard to establish them, yet it is
not impossible? Yes,—we are agreed, said he.

CHAP. XV.—Since this then has been with difficulty brought to a
conclusion, shall we not next consider what remains;—in what manner, and
in consequence of what sciences and pursuits, they will become installed
as the preservers of the government, and at what periods of life they
will all apply to their several pursuits? Aye, we must talk of this,
observed he. My cunning has done me no service, said I, in having left
untouched, in the former part of our discourse, the difficulty attending
the possession of women, and the procreation of children, and the
establishment of governors, knowing how invidious the business is, and
full of difficulty, even though it be perfectly true and correct:—for we
are now under no less a compulsion of entering into these details.—What
relates to women and children has already been brought to a close; and
as to what concerns the governors, we must now from the beginning
reconsider that subject.—We have alleged, if you remember, that they
should appear to be lovers of the state,—proved to be so both by
pleasures and pains, and not seen to abandon this principle, either
through toils or fears or any other change; and that he who cannot do
this should be rejected; while as for him who comes forth altogether
pure, as gold tried in the fire, we should appoint him ruler, and endow
him with honours and rewards both during life and after death. Such was
what we said, when our argument was wandering and assuming a veil,
through fear of disturbing the present state of things. You speak quite
truly, said he;—for I remember it. Yes,—for I was loath, to say, my
friend, what I must now venture to assert:—but now this assertion must
at any rate be ventured,—that the most perfect guardians must be
established philosophers. Yes,—that has been stated, replied he. But
consider, I pray, that you will probably have only a few of these; for
such a disposition, as we declared that they must necessarily have, is
but rarely used to centre in one single individual; though its different
parts are commonly found in many different persons. How say you? he
replied. That such as learn with facility, have a good memory, are
sagacious and acute, and endued with all qualifications thereto allied,
are yet not at the same time of so vigorous and lofty an intellect, as
to live orderly, with calmness and constancy, but are carried hapchance
by mere buoyancy of spirits, and are deserted by everything like
stability. Your remark is true, replied he. Well then, these firm habits
of the mind, which are not easily changeable, and which one might
specially employ as trusty, and which in time of war are hard to be
excited to terror;—and similarly also as regards learning,—they move
heavily, and learn with difficulty, as if benumbed, and oppressed with
sleep and yawning, when compelled to labour at any work of this
description? It is so, replied he. But we said, that he ought to have a
good and fair share of both these, or else should have no share whatever
either in the most perfect kind of education, or in magisterial
dignities or state-honours? Right, said he. Do not you think then, that
this will but rarely happen? Of course it will. They must be tried then
both in what we before alluded to,—labours, fears, and pleasures;—and
likewise in what we then passed over, and are now mentioning;—we must
exercise them in various kinds of learning, with due regard for the
power of their talents to go through the highest branches of study, or
else their failure, as that of persons failing in all other things. It
is fit now, said he, that we consider this question in this manner:—but
what kind of studies are they, which you call the highest?

CHAP. XVI.—You remember, perhaps, said I, that when we divided the soul
into three parts, we defined the nature respectively of justice,
temperance, fortitude, and wisdom? If I did not remember, said he, I
should have no right to hear what remains. [Do you remember likewise]
what was said before that? What was it? We somewhere said, that it was
possible to behold these in their most beautiful forms, but that the
journey would be tedious, which a person must make, who would see them
clearly; yet that it was possible, to approach them through our proofs
before mentioned, and you said also, that these were sufficient; so,
what was then asserted fell in my opinion far short of the truth; though
if agreeable to you, you may say so. I at least thought, replied he,
that they had been discussed in fair measure; and the rest seemed to
think so too. But my friend, said I, in speaking of things of this kind,
such a measure as omits any part whatever of the truth is not wholly in
measure;—for nothing imperfect is the measure of anything;—though people
sometimes think that things are sufficiently well when thus
circumstanced, and there is no need for further inquiry. Very many, said
he, thus behave through indolence. But the guardian of the state and the
laws, said I, should least of all be thus affected. So it seems, replied
he. Such an one, then, my friend, said I, must make a more comprehensive
circuit, and labour as much in learning as in exercising himself:
otherwise, as we were just saying, he will never arrive at the summit of
the greatest and most suitable learning. But are not these branches the
highest:—or is there, said he, any one yet higher than justice, and
those virtues which we have discussed? There is something greater, said
I; and even of these we must not, as just now, only contemplate the mere
rude sketch; but we must not omit even its complete elaboration: is it
not ridiculous in other things of small moment to employ our whole
labour, and strive to attain the utmost accuracy and perfection, and yet
not deem the highest and most important affairs worthy of our highest
attention, with a view to making them as perfect as possible? The
sentiment, said he, is very just:—but with respect to the question,—what
is this most important branch of study, and about what you say it is
employed,—think you that any one will let you go without asking its
nature? Not at all, said I:—but do you ask; although you have assuredly
often heard it, but at present you do not bear it in mind, or else
intend to embarrass me by raising objections:—and I think this the more,
as you have often heard at least, that the idea of the good is the
highest branch of study;—about which, when justice and the other virtues
employ themselves, they then become useful and advantageous.—Now then,
you know pretty well that I mean to say this, and besides, that we do
not sufficiently know that idea; and without this knowledge, though we
were to understand everything else as fully as possible, yet you know
that it could be of no service whatever to us: in the same manner as no
possession whatever would be of aught avail, without the possession of
the good:—and think you that it is more profitable to possess all things
without the possession of the good than to know all things without the
knowledge of the good, having no perception at all of the beautiful and
good? Not I, by Zeus, he exclaimed.

CHAP. XVII.—Of this, moreover, you may be quite certain, that to the
multitude pleasure seems to be the good, while the more refined think it
to be virtue. How otherwise? And you know also, my friend, that those
who hold this opinion, are unable to show what knowledge is, but are
compelled at last to call it the knowledge of the good. Aye, and most
absurdly too, said he. How indeed can it be otherwise, replied I, if
when upbraiding us for not knowing the good, they yet speak as to
persons knowing it,[206] and say that knowledge is good itself, as if we
understood their meaning when pronouncing the word “the good?” Most
true, said he. But what? those who define pleasure to be good, are they
less in error than the others; or are not these too compelled to confess
that pleasures are evil? Quite so. It happens then, I think, that they
acknowledge the same things to be both good and evil,—do they not?
Undoubtedly. Is it not clear, then, that on this point there are great
and manifold varieties of opinion? Of course there are. But what;—is it
not clear also, that with reference to things just and beautiful, the
multitude choose what is apparent, even though it has no real existence,
yet acting and possessing and appearing to possess it;—though the
acquisition of only apparent goods, never yet satisfied any one:—for
people on the other hand seek what is real, and all men despise what is
only apparent? Just so, said he. This then is what every soul pursues,
and for the sake of which it does everything, conjecturing it to be
something, though still in doubt, and unable either fully to comprehend
its nature, or employ belief alone respecting it as of other things; and
hence is it, that they fail of success even in other matters however
useful.—Are we to say then, that about a matter of this nature, and of
such vast consequence, even the best men in the state, to whom we commit
the management of all things, will be thus in the dark? By no means,
said he. I am of opinion then, said I, that the just and the beautiful,
so long as they are unknown in what particular way they are good, cannot
be of any great importance to have a guardian who is ignorant of this;
and I suspect that no one will before this attain a sufficient knowledge
thereof. Yes,—you guess rightly, observed he. Will not our government,
therefore, have been completely set in order, if a guardian be set over
it that is scientifically acquainted with these things?

-----

Footnote 206:

  The meaning is;—that as such persons are forced to allow that
  knowledge of itself is not the highest good, but should be referred to
  the highest good, as the arbiter thereof,—those persons run into an
  absurd error, who denying that we have any knowledge of “the good,”
  yet so act as if we had a sufficient knowledge thereof,—fixing their
  notion on some abstract theory of good.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—It must of necessity, said he:—but yet with respect to
yourself, Socrates, say you that the good is science, or pleasure, or
something independent of these? Oh, you fine fellow, said I, you long
ago clearly showed that you were not to be satisfied with other men’s
opinions about these matters. Nor does it seem to me just, Socrates,
said he, that a man should keep talking of other men’s opinions, and not
his own, after having spent so much time in inquiring about these
particulars. But what, said I;—do you think it just then, that a man
should talk about matters of which he is ignorant, just as if he knew
them? By no means as if he knew them, said he; yet, according to his
thoughts, whatever he thinks he should willingly tell us. But what, said
I;—have you not observed respecting unscientific opinions, how
contemptible they all are, and the best of them blind;—and think you,
that these persons, who without intellect form true opinions, are at all
different from blind men walking on the right road? Not at all, said he.
Do you wish, then, that we should contemplate things base, blind, and
crooked, when it is in our power to hear from others what is clear and
beautiful? By Zeus, Socrates, said Glaucon, do not stop here, as if you
had come to a close; for we shall be satisfied, if, in the same way as
you have spoken of justice, temperance, and the other virtues, you will
in like manner discourse of the good. And I too shall be very well
satisfied, my friend, said I; but [I am afraid] that I shall not be
able, and so, by my readiness may incur the ridicule of unmannerly
persons.—But, my excellent friends, let us at present dismiss[207] this
inquiry about the nature of the good, (for it seems to me more, as far
as I now think, than we can attain, in our present attempt): but I am
willing to tell you, if you please, what I conceive to be the offspring
of the good, and its nearest representation; and if not, I shall dismiss
it. Well then, tell us, said he; for you shall afterwards acquit
yourself of your debt by telling us of its parent. I could wish, said I,
both that I were able to oblige you by explaining that, and not as now
the offspring only and interest of my debt.[208] This child and
offspring of the good itself, pray receive;—but still take due care that
I deceive you nowise unwillingly by paying my account of this offspring
in base coin. We will take care of that, said he, as far as we can:—only
do you tell us. I will then, said I, when we are once thoroughly agreed,
and I have reminded you of what was before mentioned, and has been often
said on other occasions. What is that? said he. That there are many
things beautiful, said I, and many good also; and each of these we
declare to be so, and so define them in our argument. Yes, so we say.
But as to the beautiful itself and the good itself, and similarly as to
all those things which we then considered as of various natures, we are
now again establishing them according to the unity of the general idea,
to which we conceive each related; and these indeed, we say, are
observed by the eye, but are not objects of intellectual perception;
whereas the ideas are perceived by the intellect, not seen by the eye.
Assuredly. By what part then of ourselves do we see things visible? By
the sight, said he. And is it not, said I, by hearing, that we perceive
what is heard; and by the other senses, all the other objects of sense?
Of course. But have you not perceived, said I, as regards the artificer
of the senses, with what perfect skill he has formed the power of
seeing, and being seen? Not quite, he replied. But consider it thus:—is
there a third kind of faculty required by the hearing and voice, in
order that the one may hear and the other be heard, in the absence of
which the one will not hear, and the other not be heard? There is not,
said he. I conceive, said I, that many others also (not to say, none at
all) require no such thing:—can you name any one that does? Not I, he
replied. But with reference to the sense of seeing and the object of
sight, do you not perceive that they require something? How? When there
is sight in the eyes, and when he who has it attempts to use it, and
when there is colour in the objects before him, unless there concur some
third kind of medium naturally formed for the purpose,—the sight, you
are aware, will see nothing, and colours will be invisible. What is this
of which you are now speaking? inquired he. What you call light, said I.
Your remark is true, replied he. This sense of seeing then, and power of
being seen, are no unimportant ideas, and are connected by a bond more
precious than all other bonds, if light be not valueless. But it is far,
said he, from being valueless.

-----

Footnote 207:

  Socrates says this in consequence of the inability of his auditors to
  understand the nature of _the good_: for the Greek Scholiast well
  observes on this part of the Republic, that it is through the
  inaptitude of subordinate natures that the more excellent are unable
  to energize. Παρὰ γὰρ τῶν καταδεεστέρων ἀνεπιτηδειότητα τὰ κρείττονα
  ἀδυνατοῦσιν ἐνεργεῖν.

Footnote 208:

  The _equivoque_ of the word τόκους is difficult to translate; as it
  signifies equally _children_, _productions_, and _the interest of a
  debt_. The word πατήρ, if τόκος be taken in the latter sense, will
  refer to _the capital_. Comp. Aristotle, Polit. i. ch. 10—μεταβολῆς
  γὰρ ἐγένετο χάριν, ὁ δὲ τόκος αὐτὸ ποιεῖ πλέον. ὅθεν καὶ τοὔνομα τοῦτ’
  εἴληφεν· ὅμοια γὰρ τὰ τικτόμενα τοῖς γεννῶσιν αὐτά ἐστιν, ὁ δὲ τόκος
  γίνεται νόμισμα νομίσματος. Plato uses the same figure in the
  Politicus, p. 267 a.

-----

CHAP. XIX.—Whom then of the gods in heaven can you assign as the cause
of this,—that light makes our sight to see, and visible objects to be
seen, in the best manner? The same, he replied, as you and others do;
for it is evident that you mean the sun. Does not sight then derive its
nature through its relation to this god? How?—The sight is not the sun,
nor is that the sun, in which sight is engendered,—which we call the
eye. It is not. But yet, methinks, this at least of all the organs of
sense is most sun-like? Very much so. And the power which it possesses,
does it not possess, as dispensed and emanating hence? Certainly. Is not
the sun then, though not sight itself, but the principle thereof, seen
by sight itself? It is so, said he. This then, said I, be assured, is
what I called the offspring of _the good_, which _the good_ generates,
analogous to itself; and what this is in the sphere of intelligence,
with reference to intellect, and the objects of intellect, that the sun
is in the visible [world] with reference to sight and visible things.
How is that? said he: pray further explain it. You are aware, that the
eyes, said I, when directed towards objects, whose colours are no longer
visited by the light of day,[209] but by the glimmerings of the night,
grow dim and appear almost blind, as if they had in them no pure vision.
Just so, said he. But when they turn to objects which the sun
illuminates, then, methinks, they see clearly, and in those very eyes
there now appears vision. There does. Understand the same, then, to be
the case with reference to the soul.—When it firmly adheres to what is
enlightened by truth and real being, then it understands and knows it,
and appears to possess intellect; but when it adheres to what is blended
with darkness, and is subject to generation and destruction, it then has
to do with opinion, and is dull, wandering from one opinion to another,
like one without intellect. So it seems. That therefore which imparts
truth to what is known, and dispenses the faculty of knowledge to him
who knows, you may call the idea of _the good_ and the principle of
science and truth, as being known through intellect. And as both
these,—knowledge and truth, are so beautiful, you will be right in
thinking that the good is something different, and still more beautiful
than these. Science and truth here are as light and sight there, which
we rightly judged to be sun-like, but yet did not think them to be the
sun:—so here it is right to hold, that both of them partake of the form
of _the good_,—but yet not right to suppose that either of them is _the
good_, inasmuch as _the good itself_ is worthy of still greater honour.
You speak, said he, of some inestimable idea of “the beautiful,” which
exhibits science and truth, and yet is itself their superior in
beauty;—for you have nowhere said, that it was pleasure. Hope better
things, said I; but thus rather consider its image still further. How?
You will say, I think, that the sun imparts to things which are seen,
not only their visibility, but likewise their generation, growth, and
nourishment, though not itself generation?[210] Of course. We may say,
therefore, as to things cognizable by the intellect, that they become
cognizable not only from _the good_, by which they are known, but
likewise that their being and essence are thence derived, while _the
good_ itself is not essence, but beyond essence, and superior to both in
dignity and power.

-----

Footnote 209:

  The words φῶς and φέγγος are here opposed,—the first referring to the
  original and primary light of the sun, the latter to the inferior and
  borrowed light of the moon and stars.

Footnote 210:

  The generation of things illuminated by the sun, shows that it is
  perfectly unbegotten; for, according to the Platonic philosophy, the
  sun alone of all the bodies in the universe is without generation,
  neither receiving any accession nor diminution; whereas all that it
  illuminates receives light, through the motion of the sun about its
  proper centre, which also at different times sends different rays to
  the heavenly bodies belonging to its system. So far therefore as the
  sun illuminates, it is unbegotten; and, on this principle only, and
  not as respects its corporeal shape, is it assimilated to _the good_.

-----

CHAP. XX.—Here Glaucon, heartily laughing, said, By Apollo, here is a
marvellous transcendency! You yourself, replied I, are the cause of it,
by compelling me to relate what I think about it. And by no means stop,
said he, unless there be some cause; from again discussing the analogy
about the the sun, if you have omitted anything. Aye, I have omitted
many things, replied I. Ah, but, replied he, pray do not omit the
smallest particular. I think, said I, that much will be omitted: yet, as
far as I can at present, I will not willingly omit anything. Do not,
said he. Understand then, said I, that we allege these to be two;
ruling—the one over the intelligible genus and place, and the other over
the visible world,—not to say the heavens, lest I should seem to you to
employ a sophistical expression: you understand then these two
descriptions of being,—the visible and intelligible? I do. Supposing now
you to take a line cut into two equal sections, then again cut each part
according to the same ratio, both that of the visible and that of the
intelligible species, you will then have them placed in contrast with
each other, either in clearness or obscurity,—the second section in the
visible species being images. Now images I call, in the first place,
shadows,—in the next, appearances in water, and such as subsist in
opaque, polished and bright bodies, and all such-like representations,
if you understand me. Yes, I understand. Consider now the other section
of the visible which this resembles,—the animals around us, and all
kinds of plants, and everything of an artificial nature. I do consider
it, said he. Do you wish to assert, then, that this section is divided
by truth and its opposite;—and just as the objects of opinion are
opposed to the objects of true knowledge, so also that which is compared
[is opposed] to that with which it is compared? Aye, indeed: I am quite
willing. Consider once more about this section of the intelligible, how
it is to be effected. How? That with respect to one part thereof, the
soul uses the former sections as images, and is compelled to investigate
by means of hypothesis, not going back to first principles, but
advancing onward to conclusions; and the other part, again, is that
where the soul proceeds from hypothesis to an unhypothetical principle,
and makes its way even without those images by means of the ideas
themselves. What you now say, rejoined he, I do not fully understand.
Once more, said I,—for you will more easily understand me, from what has
been previously stated,—you are not unaware, methinks, that persons
versed in geometry, and computations, and such-like, after laying down
hypotheses of the odd and even, and figures, and three kinds of angles,
and other similar matters, according to each method, proceed on them as
known, after establishing them as mere hypotheses, and give no further
reason about them, either to themselves or others, as being things
obvious to all;—but, beginning with these, then directly discuss the
rest, and end by meeting at the point where the inquiry set out? I know
this, said he, perfectly well. And [do you not likewise know] that they
use the visible species, and reason about them, not employing their
intellect about these species, but about those of which they are the
resemblances, arguing about the square itself, and the diameter itself,
and not about what they describe;—and, so also, with reference to other
particulars, those very things which they form and describe, among which
are shadows and images in water, these they use as images, trying to
behold those very things, which a man can only perceive by his
intellect? You say true, he replied.

CHAP. XXI.—This then was what I meant by the idea of the intelligible;
but [I said also,] that the soul was obliged to use hypotheses in its
investigation, not going back to the principle, as though unable to
ascend higher than hypotheses, and employed comparisons formed from
things below, to lead to those above, as to clearly-seen objects of
thought, distinct from the things themselves. I understand, said he,
that you are speaking of what concerns geometry and its sister arts. By
that other section of the intelligible, then, you must understand me to
mean what reason itself attains by its dialectic faculty, forming
hypotheses, not as principles, but really hypotheses, just like steps
and starting-points, in order that by proceeding up to the
unhypothetical,—[that is,] the principle of the universe, coming in
contact therewith, and so again coming into union with what is united to
it in principle, it may thus reach the end without making use of
anything sensible, but only of ideas themselves, proceeding through some
to others, and so ending in ideas. I understand, said he, but not
fully:—(for I think you are talking of some difficult work:) but I
understand it is your wish to prove that knowledge obtained by dialectic
science respecting real and intelligible being is clearer than that
acquired by means of what are called arts, which take hypotheses for
their first principles, and which those who contemplate must view with
the understanding and not the perceptive faculties; whereas, through
their inability to go back to first principles, and as they reason only
from hypotheses, you think they do not exercise intellect [νοῦν] in
these matters, much as they might become intelligible with some
principle for a foundation:—and as for understanding [or
reasoning,]—that which we acquire through geometry and its kindred arts,
and not pure reason, this is something lying between opinion and pure
intellect. You have fully understood me, said I:—and understand me now,
that analogous to these four branches of knowledge are four affections
[or faculties] of the soul,—pure reasoning answering to the
highest,—understanding [or reasoning] to the second, faith to the
third,—conjecture to the last:[211]—and so arrange them, as to assign to
them respectively more or less of clearness, as they are more or less
allied to truth. I understand, replied he, and quite agree; and so let
us adopt your proposed arrangement.

-----

Footnote 211:

  Plato conceived that there was an ideal and a visible world,—the world
  of reason and the world of sense, and two essences in each;—in the
  _former_, pure or abstract ideas and mixed ideas,—in the visible world
  (which comprises exclusively the objects of sense), material
  substances; and secondly, the images, shadows, or representations of
  bodies. Analogous to these also are four faculties of the human mind,
  two only of which have any relation to the ideal world or form any
  part of true science;—1. νόησις, the knowledge of pure ideas
  (reflection, the pure reason of Kant);—2. διάνοια (_understanding_),
  the knowledge of mixed ideas;—3. πίστις, _faith_, the knowledge of
  bodies and their properties;—4. εἰκασία, _conjecture_, the knowledge
  of the images or shadows of bodies. The two last belong to unstable,
  varying opinion (δόξα). This explanation is here given, as the words
  require a more accurate definition than can be furnished by the text.
  See article _Plato_, in the P. Cycl.

-----


                               BOOK VII.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _seventh book_, which opens with a beautiful description of the
    nature of man confined in a dark cave, Plato proceeds to show the
    means and plan for learning true philosophy, and how we may attain
    to the serious and sober practice of social life and politics. That
    moral discipline, argues he, which I require in my guardian, is not
    mere vacant contemplation, but a profound and practical knowledge of
    all matters nearly or more remotely concerning the duties of life
    and the social relations of mankind,—that is, the state in its most
    broad and general sense: in fact, that he should be a philosophic
    ruler acquainted with divine and human things,—in other words, with
    true and primary philosophy. This he terms _dialectic_, the
    subordinates of which are _physics_, the science which considers the
    origin and formation of matter, and _mathematics_, which is halfway
    between the two others, engaged indeed in contemplating abstract and
    purely argumentative, but not on that higher eternal truth;
    emphatically, τὸ ὄν, that primarily exists in the mind of God: of
    these matters he treats, particularly the first, at very
    considerable length: which, as Ritter says, is a regulating
    superintendent, which, from the knowledge of the eternally true, may
    indicate to each special science its proper object.

CHAP. I.—After this then, said I, compare our nature as respects
education, or the want thereof, to a condition such as follows:—Behold
men, as it were, in an underground cave-like dwelling, having its
entrance open towards the light and extending through the whole
cave,—and within it persons, who from childhood upwards have had chains
on their legs and their necks, so as, while abiding there, to have the
power of looking forward only, but not to turn round their heads by
reason of their chains, their light coming from a fire that burns above
and afar off, and behind them; and between the fire and those in chains
is a road above, along which one may see a little wall built along, just
as the stages of conjurers are built before the people in whose presence
they show their tricks. I see, said he. Behold then by the side of this
little wall men carrying all sorts of machines rising above the wall,
and statues of men and other animals wrought in stone, wood, and other
materials, some of the bearers probably speaking, others proceeding in
silence.[212] You are proposing, said he, a most absurd comparison and
absurd captives also. Such as resemble ourselves, said I;—for think you
that such as these would have seen anything else of themselves or one
another except the shadows that fall from the fire on the opposite side
of the cave? How can they, said he, if indeed they be through life
compelled to keep their heads unmoved? But what respecting the things
carried by them:—is not this the same? Of course. If then they had been
able to talk with each other, do you not suppose they would think it
right to give names to what they saw before them? Of course they would.
But if the prison had an echo on its opposite side, when any person
present were to speak, think you they would imagine anything else
addressed to them, except the shadow before them? No, by Zeus, not I,
said he. At all events then, said I, such persons would deem truth to be
nothing else but the shadows of exhibitions. Of course they would. Let
us inquire then, said I, as to their liberation from captivity, and
their cure from insanity, such as it may be, and whether such will
naturally fall to their lot;—were a person let loose and obliged
immediately to rise up, and turn round his neck and walk, and look
upwards to the light, and doing all this still feel pained, and be
disabled by the dazzling from seeing those things of which he formerly
saw the shadows;—what would he say, think you, if any one were to tell
him that he formerly saw mere empty visions, but now saw more correctly,
as being nearer to the real thing, and turned towards what was more
real, and then, specially pointing out to him every individual passing
thing, should question him, and oblige him, to answer respecting its
nature:—think you not he would be embarrassed, and consider that what he
before saw was truer than what was just exhibited? Quite so, said he.

-----

Footnote 212:

  Allusion is here made to puppets which are made to perform on a
  moveable stage by means of strings pulled from behind. See Ruhnken’s
  Lexicon to the Timæus, on the word θαύματα, which he explains by the
  compound word νευροσπάσματα.

-----

CHAP. II.—Therefore, even if a person should compel him to look to the
light itself, would he not have pain in his eyes and shun it, and then,
turning to what he really could behold, reckon these as really more
clear than what had been previously pointed out? Just so, replied he.
But if, said I, a person should forcibly drag him thence through a
rugged and steep ascent without stopping, till he dragged him to the
light of the sun, would he not while thus drawn be in pain and
indignation, and when he came to the light, having his eyes dazzled with
the splendour, be unable to behold even any one thing of what he had
just alleged as true? No, he could not, at the moment at least, said he.
He would require, at least then, to get some degree of practice, if he
would see things above him:—and first, indeed, he would most easily
perceive the shadows, and then the images of men and other animals in
the water, and after that the things themselves;—and after this he would
more easily behold the things in heaven, and heaven itself, by night,
looking to the light of the stars and the moon, than after daylight to
the sun and the light of the sun. How else? Last of all, then, methinks,
he might be able to perceive and contemplate the nature of the sun, not
as respects its images in water or any other place, but itself by itself
in its own proper station? Necessarily so, said he. And after this, he
might reason with himself concerning the sun, that it is the body which
gives us the seasons and years and administers everything in its stated
place, being the cause also in a certain manner of all natural events.
It is evident, said he, after what has been formerly stated, that one
must arrive at this conclusion. What then,—when a man remembers his
first habitation and the wisdom therein residing, and his fellow
captives also,—think you not, that he would congratulate himself on the
change and pity the rest? Quite so. And whatever honours and praises and
rewards were assigned by mutual consent to him that had the most acute
perception of the present, and the best recollection both of long past
and recent events, and from such observations was best able to
conjecture the future,—think you that he would desire such honours, or
envy those honoured by these, or possessing influence, or would not he
rather experience what Homer says, and ardently desire

                   As labourer, for some ignoble man
                   To work for hire,[213]—

and rather endure anything than entertain such opinions and live in such
a manner? I think, said he, that he would choose to suffer anything
rather than live in that way. And consider this, said I, whether, in the
case of such an one going down and again sitting in the same place, his
eyes would not be blinded in consequence of coming so suddenly from the
sun? Quite so, replied he. As for those shadows again, if he were
compelled to split straws and dispute about them with those persons who
had been in constant captivity, while yet he was in darkness before the
establishment of his sight,—(and this time of getting habituated would
not be short,)—would he not excite ridicule; and would it not be said of
him, that after having once ascended he had come back with his eyesight
destroyed, and should not even try to ascend again; and as for any one
that attempted to liberate him and lead him up, they ought to put him to
death, if they could get him into their hands? Especially so, said he.

-----

Footnote 213:

  Comp. Hom. Odyss. x. 428.

-----

CHAP. III.—As respects this image then, we must apply the whole of it to
our preceding discourse; comparing the region that is seen by the eyes
to the prison-habitation, and the light of the fire therein to the power
of the sun;—and if you were to consider the ascent above, and the
contemplation of things above as the soul’s ascent into the region of
intellect, you would not disappoint my expectations, since this it is
which you desire to hear;—but God knows whether it be true. As respects
appearances then, it thus seems, that in the subjects of human knowledge
the idea of the good is the last object of vision, and hard to be seen;
and when beheld it must be inferred from reason to be the cause of what
is right and beautiful in all things, generating in what is visible,
both light and its parent also, [viz. the sun,] while in that which is
intelligible, it is itself the sovereign producing truth and
intelligence; and it must be seen too by him that would act with
judgment, either privately or in public. I too, said he, am quite of
your opinion, as far indeed as I can be. Come then, said I, agree on
this point also;—and be not surprised that those who come here are
unwilling to act in human affairs, but have their souls ever urged to
dwell on things above; for it is surely reasonable it should be so,
since these things take place according to the above-mentioned image.
Aye, quite reasonable, replied he. But what, said I;—think you it at all
surprising, that a man coming from divine contemplations to mere human
woes, should appear awkward and extremely ridiculous, while he is yet
dazzled,[214]—and when, ere being used to the present darkness, he is
obliged to contend in courts of law or elsewhere about the shadows of
justice, or the statues of which they are the shadows, and then to
dispute how these matters are apprehended by those who have never
contemplated justice itself? No wonder this, replied he. Nay, said I, if
a man has intelligence, he will be conscious, that there are two
disturbances of vision arising from two causes,—viz., when we turn from
light into darkness and from darkness into light;—and when a man thinks
that the same takes place with reference to the soul likewise, when it
beholds him disturbed and unable to realize its perceptions, he will not
laugh immoderately, but rather consider whether the soul has come out of
a more brilliant existence and is now darkened by ignorance, or else
emerging out of gross ignorance into a more luminous existence, be
overpowered by dazzling splendour;—and thus he will congratulate the
former on its life and destiny, while he pities the life and destiny of
the other; and even if he wished to laugh at it, his laughter will be
less ridiculous than if it were directed to the soul which comes from
light into darkness. Your remark is perfectly reasonable, he replied.

-----

Footnote 214:

  This refers to the reproach made to philosophers on the unpractical
  nature of their pursuits, and elsewhere alluded to in the preceding
  book, ch. 3, and likewise in the Gorgias, p. 484 c.

-----

CHAP. IV.—It is fit then, said I, if these things be true, that we form
such an opinion as this respecting them,—that education is not of that
character which some persons announce it to be, when they somehow assert
that, there is no science in the soul, but that they can implant it just
as if they implanted sight in the eyes of the blind. Aye, they say so,
he replied.[215] Our present argument however, said I, shows this power
to reside in the soul of every person, and to be the organ by which
every one learns.—Just as the eye cannot turn otherwise than with the
whole body from darkness to the light, so also one must turn with the
whole soul from sensible objects until it has become able to endure the
contemplation of what is real, and what is most apparent of the real,
and this we term _the good_: do we not? Yes. It will be the art then of
this very person, said I, in turning about, to contrive this; namely,
how he may turn with the greatest ease and advantage, not for the sake
of implanting sight in him, but viewing him as already possessing it,
though not rightly turned, and not looking in the right direction? It
seems so, said he. The other virtues of the soul, as they are called,
seem to me somewhat like those of the body; for in fact those not before
contained therein are afterwards engendered by custom and practice:—but
the faculty of intellect possesses, it seems, a nature somewhat more
god-like than all the rest;—never losing its power, but by exertion
becoming useful and profitable,—by the opposite, useless and hurtful.
Have you never yet observed of those that are termed wicked yet
clever,—how sharply the little soul looks, acutely distinguishing all to
which it is turned, having indeed no contemptible power of vision, but
compelled to be so far the servant of wickedness, that in proportion as
its vision is more acute, the more crime it perpetrates? Quite so, of
course, observed he. As regards this part of such a disposition, if from
childhood upwards it should be stripped and cut off from what belongs to
human production, as from leaden weights,—which have a relation to
feastings, and pleasures, and lusts, that turn the sight of the soul to
things downward;—if the soul can free itself and turn towards truth, the
very same principle in the same individuals would as acutely see those
things as the objects to which it is now turned. Certainly, he replied.
What then, is not this probable, said I, and a necessary consequence of
what has just been stated, that those who are untaught and inexperienced
in truth can never exercise a sufficient superintendence over the state,
nor yet those who are allowed to spend the whole of their time in
philosophical pursuits,—the former, because they have no single object
in life, towards which they should direct all their actions both private
and public,—and the latter, because, as far as their will is concerned,
they will not engage in public life, from the idea that even while yet
living they have been transported to the islands of the blessed? True,
said he. It is our business then, said I, to compel those of the
inhabitants, who possess the greatest talent, to devote themselves to
that learning which we formerly considered most important, both to
contemplate the good and go in search of it;—and when they have gained
it, and taken a sufficient view thereof, yet they are not to be allowed
what is now allowed them. What is that? To abide there, said I, and show
an unwillingness to descend again to those captives of whom we were
speaking, or share with them, both their labours and honours, whether
trifling or more important. In that case, said he, are we to do them
injustice, and make them live a worse life, when they could have lived a
better?

-----

Footnote 215:

  Euripides alludes to the same false notion in the Hippolytus, v. 917.

                 ὦ πόλλ’ ἁμαρτάνοντες ἄνθρωποι μάτην,
                 τί δὴ τέχνας μὲν μυρίας διδάσκετε
                 καὶ πάντα μηχανᾶσθε κἀξευρίσκετε,
                 ἓν δ’ οὐκ ἐπίστασθ’ οὐδ’ ἐθηράσασθέ πω
                 φρονεῖν διδάσκειν οἷσιν οὐκ ἔνεστι νοῦς;

  Pindar has a similar sentiment in Olymp. ix. 152-5.

-----

CHAP. V.—You have forgotten again, said I, that this is not the
lawgiver’s concern, how any one class in a state may be especially
happy, but to contrive rather that happiness shall be generated
throughout the state, uniting the citizens both by persuasion and
compulsion, making them share each other’s services, such as they can
confer on the community at large; and when he introduces such men as
these into the state, he does so, not that he may dismiss them and let
them turn whichever way each likes, but that he may employ them as a
bond of the state. True indeed, said he, for I had forgotten that.
Anxiously consider then, Glaucon, that we must do no injustice to the
philosophers born among us, but tell them what is just, when we compel
them to take charge of and guard the remainder:—for we will assert, that
those who in all other states become such [philosophers,] do not
probably take a share in the labours going on therein, as they spring up
of their own accord without the consent of the government in each; and
it is just that what is voluntary, inasmuch as it owes its nurture to
none, should willingly pay no one the price of its nurture;—but as for
you, we brought into being both yourselves and the rest of the state, as
leaders and kings in beehives, brought up better and more perfectly than
the others, and better able to take a share in both [public life and
philosophical pursuits]. Each must then in turn descend to the dwelling
of the rest, and accustom himself to behold obscure objects; for, when
once used to them, you will perceive the individual images of each, what
they are and whence sprung, ten thousand times better from having
already seen the truth concerning what is beautiful, and just, and
good:—and thus the state will be settled as a real vision, both by us
and yourselves, and not as a dream, like most of those inhabited by
persons fighting about shadows, and quarrelling about government, as if
it were some great good.—The truth, however, is as follows: in whatever
state those about to rule are least anxious to take the government, this
must necessarily be the best and most peacefully governed, while one
that has governors of an opposite character, must of course be the
opposite. Certainly, said he. Think you then, that those under our
charge, when they hear these things, will disobey us, and be unwilling
to take their individual share in the labours of the state, and spend
the greater part of their time with one another in a state of leisure?
Impossible, said he;—for we will prescribe what is just to just men, and
each of them will enter on his office from this consideration above all
others, that he should act in a manner directly contrary from those who
now govern individual states. Yes, for so it is, my friend;—if you find
the life of those appointed to official stations superior to the dignity
of their office, then your state may possibly be well settled; as in
that alone will the really wealthy govern,—not those rich in gold, but
as happy men should be rich, in a life of virtue and good
sense;—whereas, should they be poor, and destitute of property of their
own, and then come into public life, thinking that they ought to plunder
the public of its property, it is not possible [that such a state can be
rightly settled]:—for as the contest is about the possession of the
ruling power, such a war being domestic and intestine, is destructive to
themselves as well as the rest of the state. Most true, he replied. Do
you conceive then that any other kind of life despises political offices
except that of true philosophy? No, by Zeus, said he. But still it is
fitting, at least, that those should enter upon it who are not fond of
governing, otherwise the rivals will fight about it. Of course, it
cannot be otherwise. Whom else, then, would you compel to enter on the
guardianship of a state, except such as are most intelligent in what
concerns the best establishment of a state, and possess other honours,
and a mode of life superior to that of a mere politician? None other, he
replied.

CHAP. VI.—Do you wish, then, that we should now consider this,—in what
manner such persons will be produced and how any one can draw them
upward into light, just as some are said to have ascended from Hades to
the gods? Of course that is my wish, he replied. This then, as it seems,
is not a mere turning of a die,[216] but a movement of the soul, which
ascends from some half-night kind of day to the true light of existence,
which we will term true philosophy. Certainly. Ought we not, then, to
inquire what branch of learning possesses this influence? Of course.
What then, Glaucon, may that training of the soul be, which draws it
from what is generated and unstable towards that which has a positive
existence? And talking of this, I am reminded:—did we not say that it is
necessary for these persons even while young to engage in warlike
exercises? We did say so. We should add this, then, to the training
which we are now seeking. What is that? That of not being useless to
military men. Aye, we must indeed, said he, if it be possible. Moreover,
in our former discourse, we somewhere said we would have them taught
gymnastics and music. We did so, said he. The art of gymnastics has to
do, I think, with what is unstable and perishable; for it presides over
corporeal growth and decrease. It appears so. This then cannot be the
branch of study, of which we are in pursuit. It cannot. Is it music
then, such as we have previously described? That, said he, if you
remember, corresponded to gymnastics, as it trains the habits of the
guardians, giving them a sort of concord founded on harmony—not
science,—and good rhythm on the principles of rhythm, and other things
in discourses which are akin to these both in such as are fabulous and
such as more resemble truth; but as to its being a branch of science
that refers to a good such as you are now investigating, music had no
such character. Most correctly, said I, do you remind me; for it is in
reality no such thing: but, excellent Glaucon, what branch of science is
it, that possesses this character?—for all the arts somehow seem to be
mechanical and illiberal. Of course;—and moreover what other branch of
science is there, that is distinct from music, gymnastics, and the arts?
Come, said I, if we cannot conceive any except these, let us take one of
those which extends over all. Of what kind is that? Such as this common
idea which all arts, and intellects, and sciences employ, and which
every person must learn at the outset. What is that? said he. This
trifling matter, said I;—how to distinguish one, and two, and three,
which I call in general terms arithmetic and computation:—is it not thus
as regards these, that every art and science must necessarily have a
share in these? Surely, he replied. Must not then the art of war? said
I. Necessarily, he replied. What a ridiculous general then, said I, does
Palamedes in his tragedies constantly represent Agamemnon to
be.[217]—And have you not observed how he says, that after inventing
numeration he adjusted the ranks at Ilium, and numbered the ships and
the rest of the forces, as if they had never been numbered before, even
when Agamemnon, as it seems, did not know how many feet he had, since he
did not know how to count;—what kind of a general would you think him to
be? I should think him a mighty absurd one, he replied, if this be true.

-----

Footnote 216:

  This alludes to a game of chance,—ἡ ὀστρακίνδα, fully described in the
  Onomast. of Pollux, lib. ix. ch. 7 § 110-112.

Footnote 217:

  This passage refers, no doubt, to some one or more lost tragedies in
  which Palamedes is made to accuse Agamemnon of an utter ignorance of
  arithmetic.

-----

CHAP. VII.—Shall we not say, then, said I, that the power of computing
and reckoning is a necessary attainment for a military man? Most
certainly, he replied, if he intends to understand anything at all about
marshalling troops,—or rather, if he means to be a man. Do you then
understand, said I, about this branch of learning just what I do? What
is that? It seems in its nature to be among the number of those things
which lead to pure reason—of which indeed we are in search; but no one
seems rightly to employ it, as evidently leading the mind to the
consideration of true being. How say you? inquired he. I will at least,
try, said I, to explain what is my opinion.—As to what I distinguish in
my own mind as leading or not leading whither we are saying, [viz., to
true being,] do you assist me in contemplating them, and either agree or
dissent, so that we may more distinctly see whether they be such as I
conjecture. Pray show me, said he. I will show you then, said I, if you
will observe that some things relating to the perceptions do not invite
intellect to the inquiry, as being sufficiently determined by
perception; while there are other things which by all means bid its
interference, as perception alone does nothing correct. You are
evidently speaking, said he, of objects seen at a distance, and things
sketched in a picture. You have not quite comprehended my meaning, said
I. What are you speaking of then? asked he. There are some things,
replied I, which do not appeal [to the intellect], and yet do not issue
at once into a contrary perception; while those that do so issue I
consider as so appealing, when the perceptive faculty takes cognizance
of one thing more than another, on meeting it either near or afar
off.—And you will thus more clearly know what I mean: these we say are
three fingers, the little finger, the next to it, and the middle finger.
Just so, observed he. Consider me then to speak of them as seen only
from a short distance, and consider this also, respecting them. What?
Each of them appears equally to be a finger, and so far it makes no
difference whether one looks at the middle one or the last, whether it
be white or black, thick or slender, or anything of the kind; for in all
these the soul of man is not compelled to ask the intellect what of many
things a finger is,[218] for sight itself never at the same time
indicates a finger to be a finger, and its contrary. Of course not,
replied he. It is probable, then, said I, that such a case as this would
neither appeal to nor rouse the intellect. Probably. But what then;—does
the sight sufficiently distinguish their large or small size, and does
it make no difference to it whether one of them be placed in the middle
or at the end?—And so in like manner does the sense of touch take
cognizance of thickness and slenderness, softness and hardness?—And as
for the other perceptions, are they not defective in showing such
things, or rather does not each of them so act; and first of all, is not
the sense which is affected by hardness necessarily also affected by
softness, and does it not, when it perceives this, announce to the soul,
that hard and soft are one and the same thing? Just so. he replied. It
must necessarily follow then, said I, that in such matters, the soul
will be in doubt as to what the perception indicates as hard, since it
calls the same thing soft also;—and so also as regards the sense
referring to light and heavy, the soul must be in doubt what is light
and what is heavy, if the sense intimates heavy to be light, and light
heavy? These at least, said he, are truly absurd reports made to the
soul, and require investigation. Probably then, said I, in such cases as
these the soul would first call in reason and intelligence to
investigate the question whether the things reported be one or whether
they be two. Of course. If then they appeared to be two, each of them
will appear to be one and distinct from the other? Yes. If then each of
them be one and both of them two, he will understand them to be two
distinct; for, were they not distinct, he would not perceive two, but
only one. Right. The sight, moreover, we say, could contemplate what is
great and small, though not as distinct from each other, but as somewhat
confused:—could it not? Yes. But for the sake of clearness in this
matter, the intellect is once more obliged to consider great and small,
not as confused, but as distinct in an opposite way from the
other,—viz., the sense of sight. True. And is it not hence somehow, that
it first sets on questioning us, as to what is the great and what is the
small? Assuredly. And thus then we call the one intelligible, and the
other visible. Very right, he replied.

-----

Footnote 218:

  Gr. ἐν πᾶσι γὰρ τούτοις οὐκ ἀναγκάζεται τῶν πολλῶν ἡ ψυχὴ τὴν νόησιν
  ἐπέρεσθαι τί ποτ’ ἔστι δάκτυλος. The words τῶν πολλῶν are usually
  taken with τί ποτε, as above translated. Schleiermacher, however,
  takes it with ἡ ψυχὴ, _the souls of people generally_. Ast thinks the
  words an interpolation.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—This then is what I just now attempted to express, that some
things appeal to the intellect and others not; defining those that make
such an appeal, as what affect the senses at the same time as their
opposites, while such as do not, do not excite the intellect. I quite
understand now, said he; and I am of the same opinion. What then;—to
which of them, think you, do number and unity belong? I do not
understand, replied he. But let us reason by analogy, said I, from what
we have already said:—for if unity can be sufficiently seen of itself,
or comprehended by any other sense, it still would not lead to true
being, just as we remarked about the finger:—but if there be always seen
at the same time an exact opposite thereto, so that it shall no more
appear unity than it does the contrary, some one would then be wanted to
judge respecting it; and in that very matter the soul would necessarily
be in difficulty, exciting reflection within itself, and would inquire
into the nature of this same unity, and thus that branch of science
which concerns unity would be among those which lead and turn the soul
to the contemplation of real being. Ah, said he;—this is what the very
sight of it does in no small degree; for we at once behold the same
thing, both as one and as an infinite multitude. If then, said I, unity
be thus affected, will not number generally be so likewise? Of course.
Yet, again, all computation and arithmetic concern number? Quite so. But
these at least seem to lead towards truth? Especially so, of course.
They belong then, it seems, to the branches of learning which we are now
investigating;—for a military man must necessarily learn them with a
view to the marshalling of his troops, and so must a philosopher with
the view of understanding real being, after having emerged from the
unstable condition of becoming, or else he can never become an apt
reasoner. That is the fact, he replied. But that guardian of ours
happens to be both a military man and a philosopher? Unquestionably so.
It would be proper then, Glaucon, to lay down laws for this branch of
science and persuade those about to engage in the most important
state-matters to apply themselves to computation, and study it, not in
the common vulgar fashion, but with the view of arriving at the
contemplation of the nature of numbers by the intellect itself,—not for
the sake of buying and selling as anxious merchants and retailers, but
for war also, and that the soul may acquire a facility of turning itself
from what is in course of generation to truth and real being. A capital
remark, he replied. And, moreover, I now observe, said I, respecting
that branch of science which concerns computation, how refined it is,
and in many ways useful to us as respects our wishes, if we will apply
thereto for the sake of getting knowledge, and not with a view of
traffic. In what way? inquired he. Just what we now said—that it
powerfully leads the soul upwards, and compels it to reason on abstract
numbers, without in any way allowing a person in his reasoning to
advance numbers which are visible and tangible bodies;[219]—for perhaps
you know of some persons skilled in these matters, who, if one were in
argument to attempt dividing unity itself, would at once both ridicule
him and not allow it; though, were _you_ to divide it into parts, they
would multiply them, lest unity should somehow seem not to be unity, but
numerous parts. A very true remark, he replied. What think you then,
Glaucon, if a person should ask them—You wonderfully clever men, about
what kind of numbers are you reasoning;—in which unity, such as you deem
it, is equal, each whole to the whole, without any difference whatever,
and having no parts in itself?—what think you they would reply? This, as
far as I think;—that they speak of such numbers only—as can be
comprehended by the intellect alone, but in no other way. You see then,
my friend, I observed, that our real need of this branch of science, is
probably because it seems to compel the soul to use pure intelligence in
the search after pure truth. Aye, remarked he, it does this to a
remarkable extent. Have you yet considered this,—that persons naturally
skilled in computation seem clever in all branches of science,—whereas
those naturally slow, if instructed and exercised in this, will yet all
of them, if they derive no other advantage, make such progress, as to
become cleverer than they were before? Exactly so, he replied. And,
moreover, I think you will not easily find that many things give the
learner and student more trouble than this. Of course not. On all these
accounts, then, we must not omit this branch of science, but those with
the best of talents should be instructed therein? I agree with you, he
replied.

-----

Footnote 219:

  _Abstract_, ideal numbers, Plato terms αὐτοὶ οἱ ἀριθμοί; and these
  only are the subject of _scientific_ calculation. The _concrete_
  numbers (ἀριθμοὶ σώματα ἔχοντες) are the subjects only of every-day
  practical numeration and computation. The monad is the idea of unity,
  abstract, indivisible unity (αὐτὸ τὸ ἕν), the duad of abstract
  duality, &c.

-----

CHAP. IX.—Let this one thing then, said I, [that has just been
discussed,] be settled between us; and now let us consider, in the
second place, with respect to what follows from it,—whether and how
far it concerns ourselves. What is it, said he;—is it geometry you
mean? That very thing, said I. So far, observed he, as it bears a
relation to the concerns of war, it evidently does concern us;—for in
pitching encampments, occupying positions, contracting and extending a
line of troops, and as respects all the varied forms in which they
draw up armies, either in battle itself or during a march, it would
make a vast difference, whether a general were a geometrician or not.
Of course, rejoined I, for such purposes as these a very slender
knowledge of geometry, and a small portion of arithmetic would
suffice;—but as for any considerable amount thereof, and great
progress in it, we must inquire how far they tend to this,—namely, to
make us apprehend more easily the idea of the good:—and we say that
all things contribute thereto, which compel the soul to turn itself to
that region in which is the happiest portion of true being, which it
must by all means perceive. Your remark is correct, said he. If then
it compels the soul to contemplate true being, it is suitable,—but if
only what is sensible and evanescent, it is not suitable. Aye, truly,
we say so. This point then, at least, said I, those who have but
little acquaintance with geometry, will not argue with us,—that this
science has an entirely opposite nature to the words employed in it by
those who practise it. How? said he. They speak somehow most absurdly,
and necessarily so, since all the terms they use seem to be with a
view to operation and practice,[220]—such as squaring, producing,
adding, and such-like sounds; whereas on the other hand, the whole
science should be studied for the sake of real knowledge. Assuredly,
said he. Is this, then, further to be agreed on? What? That [it be
studied] with a view to the knowledge of eternal being, and not of
that which is subject to generation and destruction? We may well grant
that, said he; for it is the business of geometry to concern itself
with eternal being. It would have a tendency, therefore, gentle sir,
to draw the soul to truth, and to cause a philosophic intelligence to
direct upwards [the thoughts] which we now improperly cast downwards.
As much as possible, he replied. As far as possible, then, said I, we
must give special orders, that the inhabitants of that fine state[221]
of yours should by no means omit the study of geometry, since even its
by-works are not inconsiderable. What are they? inquired he. Those
which you have just mentioned that concern war;—and indeed with
reference to all branches of science, for the better understanding
thereof, we are some how sure that it makes an entire difference every
way, whether a man be acquainted with geometry or not. Every way,
indeed, by Zeus, observed he. Let us fix on this then, as the second
branch of learning for youth. Let us so fix it, he replied.

-----

Footnote 220:

  Gr. ὡς πράττοντές τε καὶ πραξέως ἕνεκα.

Footnote 221:

  The use of the ironical compound καλλίπολις gives a force and beauty
  to the passage which is wholly lost in translation. It is the reading,
  too, of all the best MSS., and altogether preferable to the old
  reading.—ἐν τῇ καλλίστῃ πόλει σου.

-----

CHAP. X.—But what; shall we fix upon astronomy, as the third, or think
you otherwise? I quite think we should, said he; for to have unusually
acute perceptions respecting the times of months and years, is suitable
not only for agriculture and navigation, but not less so for the art of
war. You are jesting, said I, when you seem to be afraid that the
multitude will charge you with enjoining useless objects of study:—yet
it is not altogether a trifle, but rather difficult to persuade that by
these branches of study some organ of the soul in each individual, is
purified and rekindled like fire, after having been destroyed and
blinded by other kinds of study,—an organ, indeed, better worth saving
than ten thousand eyes, since by that alone can truth be seen. Among
such, then, as join me in this opinion, you will have the reputation of
reasoning admirably well; though such as never had any perception of
this will think perhaps that you say nothing to the purpose, as they see
no advantage therefrom accruing that is worthy of notice. Consider,
then, from this point, against which of the parties you are arguing,—or
whether against neither, but chiefly for your own sake you are carrying
on the discussion; moreover, do not envy any other, if therefrom any one
could derive any possible advantage. Thus, said he, do I choose, on my
own account chiefly, to argue and ask questions, and make replies. Let
us go a little back then, in our argument, for just now, indeed, we did
not rightly take what is next in order after geometry. How then did we
act? asked he. After a plain surface, said I, we took a solid in a state
of revolution, without first considering it by itself, in the abstract;
but the correct plan is to take the third in order, after the second
dimension:—and this, probably, refers to the dimension of cubes, and
what has to do with depth. Aye, it is so, said he: but these matters,
Socrates, do not seem yet to have been investigated. Aye, there are two
causes for this: because no state holds them in honour, they are only
slightly investigated, as being difficult; and those that do so
investigate them require a guide, without whom they cannot discover
them,—one whom, first of all, it would be hard to get, and, when he is
got, as things are at present, the investigators of these matters having
lofty notions of themselves, would not obey him; whereas, if the whole
state were to hold such pursuits in honour, and superintend them, these
persons would be obedient, and the investigations being conducted with
assiduity and vigour, would exhibit their true character; whereas now,
despised and mutilated by the multitude, as well as by those who study
them without being able to account for their usefulness, they still, in
spite of all things, increase through their native grace; and it is no
wonder that they should appear so to do. Aye, indeed, said he, this
gracefulness is especially remarkable; but tell me more plainly what you
were just now saying,—for you somehow defined geometry to be a study
that concerns plane surfaces. I did, said I. Then next in order you
mentioned astronomy; but afterwards you drew back. Yes, replied I,
because when I am in a hurry to get quickly over the discussion, I get
on the more slowly; for as regards the mode of measuring depth, which is
next in order, that I passed over, as a hopeless investigation, and
proceeded, after geometry, to speak about astronomy, which is the motion
of solids. You say rightly, observed he. Let us fix on astronomy then,
said he, as a fourth branch of science; as if that which we now omit,
[viz. solid geometry,] may have an existence, whenever the state enters
on that pursuit. Probably, said he: and as to what you just now urged on
me, Socrates, about astronomy, as having needlessly praised it, I now
praise it in accordance with your notions: for I think it is clear to
every one, that it is this which compels the soul to look upwards, and
from what is here conducts it thither. Perhaps, rejoined I, it may be
clear to all except myself;—to me it does not seem so. Ah! how is that?
said he. As those who introduce it into philosophy, nowadays pursue it,
it makes the soul look altogether downwards. How say you? inquired he. I
am of opinion, replied I, that you are not ungenerous in forming your
mental estimate of the real nature of that branch of science which
concerns things above; for you seem to be of opinion, that if a person
were to look up and discover some of the heavenly bodies in an enclosed
space, he would contemplate them with his intellect and not his eyes.
Perhaps, then, you judge rightly, and I am wrong; though I, on the other
hand, cannot hold the opinion that any other branch of science can make
the soul look upwards, except that which concerns real being and the
invisible,—whether one were to gape upwards, or try by peering downwards
to get acquainted with those matters:—and if any one were to gape
upwards and so try to get acquainted with any perceptible object, I
think that he never would get acquainted with it; as his soul has no
scientific knowledge of such things,—nor would his soul look upwards,
but downwards,—even though he were to try to learn, swimming on his back
at sea or lying so on the ground.

CHAP. XI.—I am punished, rejoined he;—for you have rightly reproved
me:—but in what manner did you say we ought to learn astronomy different
from that in which they now teach it, if people are to be taught
advantageously for the purposes of which we now speak? Thus, said
I:—these various bright bodies in the heaven,—since indeed they are so
variously placed in visible space,—ought to be deemed very beautiful and
most perfect in their kind, though much inferior to the true
magnificence of movement, with which real velocity and real retardation
mutually bear along those bodies with all that belongs to them, in their
true number and in all their true shapes;[222]—which things, indeed, can
be apprehended only by reason and intelligence, not by sight:—do you
think they can? By no means, said he. Must we not then, said I, use the
various heavenly phenomena, as an exhibition for the purpose of
instructing us in those [real] concerns,—just as one might meet with
sketches, capitally well drawn and elaborated by Dædalus, or some other
artist or painter?—For one skilled in geometry, on seeing such drawings,
would, perhaps, think them to be exceedingly well wrought, and
nevertheless deem it absurd to give them a serious consideration,—as if
he were thence to get his conception of truth about equals, or doubles,
or any other proportion, Of course, it would be absurd, he replied. And
think you not then, that the true astronomer will feel just the same,
when he looks up to the orbits of the stars,—reckoning, indeed, that the
heavens and all in them are established by the heavenly architect in the
most beautiful manner possible for the formation of such works; and
would not one deem it absurd of a man to conceive that this proportion
of night with day, and of both these to a month, and of a month to a
year, and of other stars to both of these, and towards each other has
existed always in the same manner, and without experiencing any change,
because they have a body, and are visible, and so to take all possible
means to apprehend the truth of these things? So I think, he replied,
whilst I listen to you. Let us then, said I, make use of problems, [or
hypotheses,] in astronomy, as in geometry, and dismiss the heavenly
bodies,—if we intend really to get acquainted with astronomy, and render
useful instead of useless that portion of the soul which is naturally
intelligent. You really impose, said he, a far harder task on
astronomers than is enjoined them at present. I think, however, replied
I, that we must enjoin other duties likewise, according to the same
fashion, if we would be of any service as lawgivers.

-----

Footnote 222:

  Gr. τῶν δὲ ἀληθινῶν πολὺ ἐνδεῖν, ἃς τὸ ὂν τάχος καὶ ἡ οὖσα βραδυτὴς ἐν
  τῷ ἀληθινῷ ἀριθμῷ καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς ἀληθέσι σχήμασι φοράς τε πρὸς ἄλληλα
  φέρεται καὶ τὰ ἐνόντα φέρει. The passage is evidently corrupt,—and, as
  it now stands, is almost incapable of translation. That given above
  closely resembles that given by Victor Cousin, a far better one than
  Schleiermacher’s.

-----

CHAP. XII.—But have you anything to suggest about the fitting branches
of study? I have not, he replied,—at present at least. Motion, moreover,
said I, affords us, I think, not one indeed, but many species
thereof;—all of which any wise man can probably tell; but those which
occur to me are two. What are they? In addition to this, said I, there
is its counterpart. Which? As the eyes, said I, seem formed for studying
astronomy, so do the ears seem formed for harmonious motions; and these
seem to be twin sciences to one another, as also the Pythagoreans[223]
say; and we too, Glaucon, agree with them:—how shall we do? Just so,
replied he. Shall we not, then, said I, since it is a matter of high
importance, inquire of them how they speak concerning them, and whether
they have anything else to say besides this; but we, notwithstanding all
this, shall defend our own conclusion? What is that? That those whom we
educate should never attempt to learn these things imperfectly, nor
without always aiming at the object, to which all ought to be
directed,—as we just stated with reference to astronomy:—and do not you
know that they do some such thing with regard to harmony?—for, while
they measure one with another the symphonies and sounds which are heard,
they go through a fruitless toil, like the astronomers. Aye, by the
gods, said he,—and absurdly too, when they make very frequent trials of
the notes, lending their ears to catch the sound as from a neighbour’s
voice,—some indeed saying that they hear some middle note, with the
smallest appreciable interval, and others again doubtingly saying that
the notes are just what were sounded before,—both parties placing the
ears above the intellect. But you are now speaking, said I, of those
thrifty, money-making musicians, who are ever harassing and tormenting
their strings, turning them on the pegs:—but, that the comparison may
not be too tedious, I refrain from speaking of their complaints about
the refusal and stubbornness of the strings, and at once give up the
simile, saying that we do not mean to speak of these, but of those true
musicians whom we before mentioned:—for these do here just what the
others did in astronomy; for they search for numbers, in the symphonies
which they hear, but do not go on to the inquiry proposed,—what numbers
are symphonious, what not, and the reason why they are either the one or
the other. You speak, said he, of a noble undertaking. It is
serviceable, of course, said I, in the search for the beautiful and
good,—but, if pursued in another manner, it is quite useless. Aye,
probably so, said he. Still, methinks, said I, the plan of inquiry into
all these matters that we have described, if it touches on their mutual
communion and alliance, and proves how they are mutually related, will
contribute something to what we require, and our labour will not be
fruitless; but otherwise it will. I likewise, said he, guess the very
same thing:—but you are speaking, Socrates, of a most laborious
undertaking. Mean you the introduction, or what else? said I:—what,—know
we not, that all these things are introductory to the strain
itself;[224] which we ought to learn?—for even persons clever in these
things you perhaps do not think skilled in dialectics. No, by Zeus, said
he, only some very few of such as I have met. But supposing some of them
not able, said I, to offer and admit reasoning, will they ever be able
to get acquainted with what we say they ought to know? They will never
be able to do this, he replied. Is not this then the very strain,
Glaucon, said I, which dialectic science executes,—which also, being
cognizable by the intellect, may be said to be imitated by the power of
sight,—which faculty seeks, first, as we observed, to gaze at animals,
then at the stars, and last of all at the sun himself:—so when a man
attempts to discuss a subject without the aid of his perceptive
faculties, he is impelled by reason to what is individual and real
being; and if he stops not, till he apprehends by intelligence what is
the good itself, then, indeed, he arrives at the end of the
intelligible, as the other does at the end of the visible. Assuredly, he
replied. What then;—do not you call this the dialectic process? What
else?

-----

Footnote 223:

  It is here alleged that there are two species of motion (φορά),—one
  affecting the eyes, and including the motion of the heavenly bodies,
  which are the subject-matter of astronomical science,—the other
  affecting the ears, and comprising that harmony of the heavenly
  motions which the Pythagoreans conceived to have given the first
  notion of music.

Footnote 224:

  Glaucon is here complaining of the difficulty of the task proposed;
  and Socrates replies, that is a mere introduction or prelude to the
  main composition or piece of music (meaning dialectics) that is to
  follow. The word νόμος often means _a strain_ or _piece of music_.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—And now, said I, [to revert to our former simile of the man
in the cave,] there is his liberation from chains, his turning from
shadows towards the images and the light, and his ascent from the
underground cavern to the sun,—and when there, his looking at images in
water, owing to a want of power at first of beholding animals and
plants, and the sun itself;—so also here [in the intellectual world] you
have the contemplation of divine phantasms, and the shadows of real
beings, and not the shadows of images shadowed out by another similar
light, as by the sun.[225]—All this exercise in the arts which we have
discussed has this tendency,—namely, to lead back again the best part of
the soul to the contemplation of what is best in existing beings; as in
the former case, what is brightest in the body is led to what is most
splendid in bodily and visible existence. I admit these things, said he;
though it really seems to me extremely difficult to admit them, though
in other respects difficult not to admit them. However, granting what
has been asserted (for we shall not only now hear these things, but
often again discuss them), let us proceed to and discuss the strain
itself, as we have finished the introduction. Say, then, of what kind is
the power of dialectic,—into what species is it divided,—and what are
the paths leading to it;—for these probably conduct us to that place,
which we shall find a resting-place, and the end of our journey. You
will not as yet, dear Glaucon, said I, be able to follow:—had you been
so, no zeal would be wanting on my part; nor should you any longer only
see the image of what we are now speaking about, but the truth itself,
or what to me seems so. Whether it be so really or not, however, it is
not proper positively to affirm; but that it is somewhat of this kind
may be most strongly affirmed:—may it not? Of course. And further, that
it is the power of dialectics alone, which can discover this to a person
skilled in what we have discussed, and that it can be done by no other
power. This also, said he, we may positively affirm. This statement at
least no one, said I, will dispute with us,—that no other method can
attempt to ascertain through a regular process the nature of each
particular being; for all other arts respect either the opinions and
desires of men, or generations and compositions, or are employed wholly
in the study of what is generated and compounded:—but as for those
others, which we alleged to have some relation to being, as geometry,
and its dependent sciences, we behold them, as if dreaming indeed about
real existence, it being impossible to have a true vision, so long as
they employ hypotheses and keep them immovable, without the power of
accounting for their existence:—for where the starting-point is the
unknown, and the conclusion and intermediate steps are connected with
that unknown principle, how can any such kind of assent ever possibly
become science? By no means, replied he. Is it not then the dialectic
method only, said I, that proceeds thus onwards,—removing all hypotheses
back to the starting-point, that it may become firmly established, and
so gradually draw and lead upward the eye of the soul, which was truly
buried in a certain barbaric mire, by the aid and guidance of those arts
we have mentioned, which through custom we frequently call sciences, but
which require another name clearer indeed than opinion, but more obscure
than science? We have somewhere in the former part of our discourse
termed it reflection, or reasoning. But the controversy is not, as it
appears to me, about a mere name, when people are investigating things
of such great importance as those now before us. It is not, said he.

-----

Footnote 225:

  This is a passage, the difficulties of which have caused much
  discussion. The above translation seems on the whole the best; but the
  reader can consult the conjectures of Ast and others in Stallbaum’s
  long note on the passage.

-----

CHAP. XIV.—You are pleased, then, said I, as formerly, to call the first
part science, the second reflection, the third faith, the fourth
conjecture,—both these last being opinion, and the two former
intelligence;—and that opinion is employed also about generation, and
intelligence about true being;—likewise, that true being bears to
generation the same relation as intelligence to opinion, science to
faith, and reflection to conjecture;—but as for the analogy of the
things which these powers respect, and the twofold division of
each,—viz., into the objects of opinion, and those of intellect, these
we omit, Glaucon, that we may not be more prolix here than in our former
discussions. As for me, said he, as regards those other things, so far
as I can comprehend, I am of the same opinion. But do not you call that
man skilled in dialectics, who apprehends the reason of the essence of
each particular?—and as for the man who is unable to give a reason to
himself, and to another, so far as regards this inability, will you not
so far say he wants intelligence of the thing? Of course I shall, he
replied. And is not the case the same with reference to _the
good_?—whoever cannot logically define it, abstracting the idea of _the
good_ from all others, and taking as in a fight one opposing argument
after another, and cannot proceed with unfailing proofs, eager to rest
his case, not on the ground of opinion, but of true being,—such an one
knows nothing of _the good itself_, nor of any good whatever: and should
he have attained to any knowledge of _the good_, we must say he has
attained it by opinion, not science; that he is sleeping, and dreaming
away his present life; and before he is roused, will descend to Hades,
and there be profoundly and perfectly laid asleep. By Zeus, said he, I
will certainly affirm all these things. But surely, methinks, you will
not allow those children of yours, whom you are ideally training and
educating,—if ever in fact you should educate them,—to have the supreme
government of the most important affairs in the state, while they are
void of reason, as letters of the alphabet? By no means, he replied. You
will lay this down then as a law: that they shall most especially get
that amount of education which may enable them to question and answer in
the most scientific manner. I will make that a law, said he, by your
assistance at least. Are you of opinion then, said I, that dialectic
science is to be placed on high as a bulwark to moral training, and that
no other training can with propriety be more elevated than this, but
that this is the completion of scientific training? I am, said he.

CHAP. XV.—There now remains for you, said I, the regulation of the
persons to whom we shall assign these studies, and after what manner.
That is evident, said he. Do you remember then, in our former election
of rulers, what kind we chose? Of course I do, said he. As to other
things then, conceive, said I, that those dispositions should be
selected, and that we should prefer the bravest, most resolute, and, as
far as possible, the most handsome; and besides, we must not only seek
for those whose manners are noble and grave,[226] but such as have
dispositions adapted to this education. What dispositions do you enjoin?
They must have, said I, my excellent friend, acuteness as respects
instruction, that they may learn without difficulty; for souls are much
more daunted by severe mental studies, than by strenuous bodily
exercise; for the employment which is most familiar to them is of a
peculiar nature, having no connexion with the body. True, said he. And
we must seek for one of good memory, hardy, and in every way fond of
toil:—or how think you any one would willingly endure bodily fatigue,
and at the same time accomplish such learning and study? No one, said
he, unless he be in all respects of a naturally good disposition. The
mistake then about philosophy, and the dishonour done to it, have been
occasioned by this, as I formerly said, that it is not studied in a way
suitable to its dignity: for it ought not to have been attempted by
bastards, but the well-born. How? said he. In the first place, he who is
to apply to philosophy, said I, must not be lame in his love of labour,
half-laborious, and half-averse to it; and this is the case, when a man
is fond of wrestling and hunting, and all bodily exercises, but has no
fondness for learning, or hearing instruction or making investigations,
but in all these respects has an aversion to labour.—He too is lame,
though in an opposite manner from the man who has wrongly employed his
love of labour. You say most truly, replied he. And shall we not, said
I, in like manner account that soul lame as to truth, which, though it
hates a voluntary falsehood and is troubled by it, and is vastly
indignant when others tell a lie, yet easily admits the involuntary lie,
and if at any time it be found ignorant, is not displeased, but like a
savage sow willingly wallows in ignorance? Assuredly, said he. And in
like manner, said I, as to temperance and fortitude, and magnanimity,
and all other branches of virtue, we must no less carefully attend to
what is bastardly, and what is well-born; for when either private
persons or a state understand not how to attend to all these things,
they unwarily employ the lame and the bastardly for whatever they
want,—private persons employing them as friends, and states as
governors. Such is exactly the case, said he. But we must be on our
guard, said I, about all such things; so that if we select for such
extensive discipline such as are entire in body and mind, and take care
to instruct them in suitable exercises, justice herself will not blame
us, and we shall preserve both the state and constitution; but if we
introduce persons of a different description into these affairs, we
shall do everything the reverse, and pour still greater contempt on
philosophy. That indeed were shameful, said he. Certainly, said I. But I
myself seem at present to be somewhat ridiculous. How so? said he. I
forgot, said I, that we were amusing ourselves, and I spoke with too
great keenness; for, while speaking, I was referring to philosophy; and
seeing her most unworthily abused, I seem to have been filled with
indignation, and, through rage, as it were, with those who are the cause
of it, to have said what I did somewhat too earnestly. No truly, said
he, not for me as a listener at least. Aye, but for me, said I, who said
it:—but let us not forget this, that in our former election we made
choice of old men, which in this will not be allowed;—for we must not
believe Solon, that a man in years can learn many things, far less even
than running, but that all the most important and numerous kinds of toil
are assigned to the young. Of necessity, said he.

-----

Footnote 226:

  Gr. γενναίους τε καὶ βλοσυροὺς τὰ ἤθη. The word βλοσυρός usually means
  _stern_, _scowling_, _fierce_; but also _grave_, _serious_, as here.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—Everything then relating to arithmetic and geometry and all
the previous instruction which they should receive before they learn
dialectics, ought to be set before them while they are children, and on
such a plan of teaching that they may learn without compulsion.[227] Why
so? Because, said I, a free man ought to acquire no learning under
slavery: for the labours of the body when endured through compulsion do
not at all deteriorate the body: but as for the soul, it can endure no
compulsory discipline. True, said he. Do not then, said I, my best of
friends, force boys to their learning; but train them up by amusements,
that you may be better able to discern the direction of each one’s
genius. What you say, replied he, is reasonable. Do not you remember our
stating then, said I, that the boys should even be carried to war, as
spectators, on horseback, and be brought as near as possible with
safety, and allowed like young hounds, to taste the blood? I remember,
said he. Whoever then, said I, shall appear the most forward in all
these labours, studies, and dangers, such as these are to be selected to
a certain number. At what age? said he. When they have finished their
necessary exercises, said I; for this period of life, even should it
last two or three years, cannot accomplish anything else; for fatigue
and sleep are hostile to learning; and this too is none of the least of
their trials, what each will prove himself in his exercises. Certainly,
said he. And after this period, said I, such as have formerly been
selected of the age of twenty are to receive greater honours than
others; and those studies, which in their youth they have pursued
promiscuously, must be brought before them in one view, that they may
see the connexion of the whole with each other, and with the nature of
real being. This indeed is the only kind of instruction that will abide
permanently in those in whom it is engendered. And this, said I, is the
best criterion for distinguishing talents naturally fitted for
dialectics, from those which are not so. He who perceives this alliance
is skilled in dialectics; he who does not, is not so. I am of the same
opinion, said he. You will need then, said I, after observing these
things, and seeing who are most distinguished herein, and who persevere
both in learning and in war, and in other things established by law, to
make choice of them after they exceed thirty years, selecting from those
before chosen, and then advance them to greater honours. Observing then
likewise by the test of dialectics, in order to ascertain which of them
can without aid from the eyes, or any other sense, proceed with truth to
being itself. And here, my companion, is a work of great caution. In
what principally? said he. Do not you perceive, said I, how great is the
evil which at present attends dialectics? What is it, said he, you mean?
[Its followers,] observed I, are somehow or other full of disorder. Very
much so, replied he. Think you then, said I, that their being so is at
all extraordinary; and will you not forgive them? How do you mean? said
he. Just as if, said I, a certain supposititious child were brought up
in great opulence in a rich and noble family, and amidst many
flatterers, and were to perceive, when grown up to manhood, that he is
not descended from those alleged to be his parents, but yet cannot
discover his real parents; can you guess how such an one would feel both
towards his flatterers and his supposed parents, both at the time when
he knew nothing of the cheat, and again at the time when he came to
perceive it?—are you willing to hear me while I give a guess? I am
willing, said he. I guess then, said I, that he will honour his father
and mother, and other supposed relatives, more than the flatterers, and
that he will neglect them less in case of their need, and be less apt to
do or say anything amiss to them, and in matters of consequence will
disobey them less than those flatterers, during that period in which he
knows not the truth. It is likely, said he. But when he perceives the
real state of the case, I again guess, he will relax in honour and
respect for them, and attend to the flatterers, and be much more
persuaded by them now than formerly, and live also according to their
fashion,—while for the father, and the rest of his fictitious relations,
if he be not of an entirely good natural disposition, he will have no
regard. You mention everything, said he, just as it would happen. But in
what manner does this comparison respect those conversant with
dialectics? In this:—there are certain doctrines about justice and
honour, in which we have been bred, as by parents, from childhood to
render them respect and obedience. There are, said he. Aye,—and there
are other pursuits also, the opposite of these, attended by pleasures,
that flatter and seduce the soul, but do not persuade those who are in
any degree well-mannered; because these honour their relations, and obey
them. Such is the case. What then, said I, if to a person thus affected
the question be proposed, What is the beautiful? and, in reply to what
he has heard from the lawgiver, he be refuted by reason; which
frequently and in all ways convicts him and brings him round to the
opinion, that objects are no more beautiful than they are deformed; and
so also, as respects what is just and good, and whatever else he held in
highest esteem, what do you think such an one will after this do, with
regard to these things, as to honouring and obeying them? Of necessity,
said he, he will no longer either honour or obey them, as he formerly
had done. If then, said I, he no longer deems these things honourable,
and allied to him as formerly, and cannot discover those which really
are so, can he possibly with readiness join himself to any other life
than that of flattery? It is not possible, said he. And from being an
observer of the law, he will now, I think, appear to be a law-breaker.
Of necessity.

-----

Footnote 227:

  So Quinctilian in his Institutes, lib. i. c. 1, 20:—Nam id in primis
  cavere oportebit, ne studia qui amare nondum potest oderit, et
  amaritudinem semel perceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidat.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—Is it not likely then, said I, that the affections of
persons who thus engage in reasoning, are deserving, as I was just now
saying, of great consideration? Aye, and pity too, said he. While you
take care then, that this pitiable case befal not those of the age of
thirty, ought they not by every method to apply themselves to reasoning?
Certainly, said he. And is not this one prudent caution,—that they
meddle not with discussions while young: for you have not forgotten, I
suppose, that youths, when they first join in discussions, abuse them by
way of mere amusement, ever using them for the purpose of contradiction;
and in imitation of those who are refuters, they themselves oppose
others, ever delighting like whelps to drag and tear to pieces, by
arguments, those who are their neighbours. Especially so, said he. And
after they have confuted many, and been themselves confuted by many,
then they vehemently and speedily fall into an indifference about their
former opinions; and by these means they themselves, and the whole of
philosophy, are calumniated by the rest of the world. Most true, said
he. But he who is of a riper age, said I, will not like to share in such
madness, but will imitate him who is disposed to reason and inquire
after truth, rather than one who, for the sake of diversion, amuses
himself by contradiction; and he will himself be more modest, thus
rendering the practice of disputing honourable instead of dishonourable.
Right, said he. Have not then all our former remarks been rightly
premised, by way of precaution on this point, that those who are to be
taught dialectics should have gracious and steady dispositions, and not
as now, when every chance person, even when quite unfit, is admitted
thereto? Certainly, said he. Is twice the former period then sufficient
for a man to be diligently and constantly engaged in acquiring
dialectics without doing anything else but practising by way of contrast
all bodily exercises? Do you mean six years, said he, or four? No
matter, said I;—make it five:—for after this they must be made to
descend to that cave again, and obliged to govern both in things
relating to war, and in other youthful offices, so as not to fall short
of others in experience; and among these they must be still further
tested, that it may be seen whether they will continue firm, when drawn
in all directions, or be somewhat drawn aside. And how long a time, said
he, do you reckon for this? Fifteen years, said I. And when they are of
the age of fifty, such of them as have been kept safely, and have in
every way obtained all the prizes both in actions and sciences, are now
to be led to the end, and are to be obliged to incline the eye of their
soul to look at that which imparts light to all things, and, when they
contemplate _the good itself_, to use it as a pattern, each in turn,
either state or private persons, for adorning themselves, during the
remainder of their life, for the most part, indeed, occupying themselves
with philosophy, and when it is their turn, toiling in political
affairs, and taking the government, each for the good of the state
performing this office, not as something honourable, but as a thing
necessary; and after bringing up others also from time to time to be of
the same character, and leaving them to be state-guardians, they depart
to inhabit the islands of the blest:—and the state, will erect monuments
for them at the public cost, and if the Pythian goddess consent, will
offer sacrifice, as to superior beings,—if not, as to happy and divine
men. Socrates, said he, you have made our governors all-beautiful, just
as a sculptor would. And our governesses likewise, Glaucon, said I;—for
suppose not that what I have said referred more to men than women,—such
at least as have sufficient talent. Right, said he, if at least, as we
said, they are to share in all things equally with the men. What then,
said I;—do you agree, that with reference to a state and form of
government, we have not altogether stated mere wishes,—but such things
as though difficult, are yet in a certain respect possible, and not
otherwise than has been mentioned,—[that is,] when true philosophers,
whether one or more of them, on becoming governors in a state, despise
present honours, and deem them illiberal and of no value; but esteem,
above all things, rectitude and the honours therefrom derived; account
justice as a thing of all others the greatest, and most absolutely
necessary; and, by ministering to it and advancing it, thoroughly
regulate the constitution of their own state? How? said he. Such, said
I, of the more advanced in life, as have lived ten years in the state,
let them send all into the country; and, removing their children away
from the habits now contracted by domestics, let them bring them up
according to their own manners and laws, as we formerly described
them:—thus the state and government that we have described being most
speedily and easily established, will both be happy itself, and of the
greatest service to the people among whom it is established. Very much
so indeed, said he;—and you seem to me, Socrates, to have very well
described how this state will rise, if it rise at all. Well then, said
I, have we not had sufficient talk, both about such a state as this, and
the individual that corresponds thereto?—For it is now clear, perhaps,
what kind of a man we shall say he ought to be. It is evident, replied
he; and your inquiry, methinks, is now at an end.


                      THE END OF THE SEVENTH BOOK.


                               BOOK VIII.

                               ARGUMENT.

The mode of rightly governing a state having been duly set forth, Plato
    in the _eighth book_ treats of the bad government which he had
    previously designated as ἀδικία. Having mentioned then three
    principal forms of government, monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy,
    he shows in this and also the following book the excesses and
    defects peculiar to each. He considers these faults in two lights;
    first, as affecting the manners of _the citizens individually_; and,
    secondly, those of the state collectively. Aristocracy, says he, is
    apt to verge into oligarchy,—democracy into ochlarchy, and monarchy
    into τιμαρχία and tyranny. The two former classes only are treated
    in this book.

CHAP. I.—Well then, Glaucon, these things have been agreed on, that in a
state that is to be perfectly administered the women are to be in
common, the children in common, and their education also,—so likewise
their employments both in war and peace in common, and their kings the
best possible both in philosophy and warfare. It has been so agreed, he
replied. And this, moreover, we agreed on, that when the commanders are
appointed and leading their soldiers, they should dwell in habitations,
such as we have described, containing nothing particularly belonging to
any individual, but common to all; and besides these habitations, we
agreed also, if you recollect, as to their possessions, to what sort
they should be entitled. Aye, I recollect, said he, that we thought them
entitled to no possessions whatever, like the other citizens, but that,
like military wrestlers and guardians, they should receive the yearly
pay of their service in maintenance provided by the rest, and should
take care both of themselves and the rest of the state. You say rightly,
said I:—but come,—since we have settled these matters, let us recollect
from what point we made this digression, in order that we may again take
up the same argument. No hard matter, said he;—for you were pursuing
much about the same argument respecting the state, as you did just now,
when saying that you considered such a state to be good as you then
described, and the individual man also analogous thereto,—and this, too,
as it seems, when you were able to define both a better state and a
better man. You said, moreover, that all the rest were wrong, if this
were right;—and of the other kinds of states you said, I remember, that
four were deserving of consideration, with the view of seeing the errors
therein and the people thereto corresponding,—in order that by seeing
all these and deciding on the best and worst man, we might inquire
whether the best be the happiest, and the worst the most wretched or
otherwise:—and when I inquired which were the four kinds of states to
which you referred, on this Polemarchus and Adimantus interrupted
us;[228] and so now resuming the subject you have arrived at this point.
You have recollected it, said I, with great accuracy. Once more then,
like a wrestler, furnish me with the same handle; and when I ask the
same question, try to say just what you were then about to tell me. Aye,
said I, if I can. Moreover, said he, I am anxious also myself to hear
what those four kinds of states were. You shall hear that, and welcome,
said I:—for, of those which I can mention and which have names,—that
praised by the multitude is the Cretan and Lacedæmonian polity,—the
second, and that which deserves the second praise, called oligarchy, a
polity full of abundant evils,—that which differs from it, and follows
next in order, democracy,—and then genuine tyranny, [or monarchy,]
differing from all the others, the fourth and last ailment of the
state:—surely you have no other form of polity, having a distinct and
established species?—for small principalities and purchased kingdoms,
and such-like polities as these, are of an intermediate class, and may
be found no less among barbarians than Greeks. Aye, indeed, said
he;—many are mentioned, and those, too, absurd enough.

-----

Footnote 228:

  This refers to the interruption at the beginning of the fifth book,
  when, Socrates being about to describe the four kinds of wickedness in
  both individuals and states, was desired to develop his notions about
  the community of women and children.

-----

CHAP. II.—Do you know, then, said I, that of men there are as many
descriptions as of states?—or do you think that states, somehow or
other, spring out of an oak or a rock, and not out of the habits of
those in the state, whither, indeed, everything else must verge and be
attracted? I, for my part, think it is derived from no other source than
that. In that case, if there be five kinds of states, the intellectual
distinctions of the individuals will be five likewise. Of course. As for
the person then, who resembles an aristocracy, we have already described
him, and rightly pronounced him to be both good and just. Aye, we have
described him. Are we then, in the next place, to argue about the
inferior,—the contentious and ambitious man formed according to the
Spartan model, and him again, who resembles an oligarchy, or a
democracy, or a tyranny, in order that we may contemplate the most
unjust, and contrast him with the most just, and thus our inquiry may be
complete, how unmingled justice stands in opposition to unmingled
injustice, as respects the happiness or misery of its possessor,—thus
either pursuing injustice in compliance with Thrasymachus’s suggestion,
or else justice in compliance with our present argument? We must do so,
by all means, said he. Are we then, just as we began, to consider moral
habits in states primarily, or rather in private individuals, as being
there more clearly developed; and now must we not thus first consider
the ambitious republic (for I cannot call it by any other term, but only
denominate it a timocracy or a timarchy), and in connexion with it an
individual of the same character,—then again an oligarchy and a man of
oligarchical character,—and so also, when considering a democracy, must
we contemplate a democratic person,—and, fourthly, coming to a state
governed by a tyrant, consider a person of tyrannical disposition;—thus
trying to become competent judges about what we proposed? According to
reason, indeed, such should be both our view and decision.

CHAP. III.—Come then, said I;—let us try to show in what way a timocracy
arises out of an aristocracy:—is it not plain, at any rate, that every
government changes through the agency of that portion which holds the
public offices, whenever sedition arises in that particular part;
whereas, if it only agree with itself, however small the state, it
cannot possibly be disturbed? Such is the case. How then, Glaucon, said
I, will our state be disturbed and how will our allies and rulers fall
into quarrels with each other and amongst themselves:—do you wish, like
Homer, that we implore the muses to tell us how first sedition rose, and
address them in tragic fashion, as if we were children, playing and
jesting, so to speak, with seriousness uttering lofty language? How so?
Somehow thus:—it is hard indeed for a state thus constituted to become
disturbed;—but, as everything generated is liable to corruption, not
even such a constitution as this can abide for ever, but must be
dissolved:—and its dissolution is as follows.—Not only as regards
terrestrial plants, but likewise terrestrial animals, a fertility and
sterility both of soul and body take place, when the revolutions of the
heavenly bodies complete the periphery of their respective orbits, which
are shorter to the shorter-lived, and contrariwise to the contrary: and
with reference to the fertility and sterility of your race, though those
are wise whom you have trained as governors of the state, yet they will
never, by intellect and sense united, observe the proper season for
procreation, but let it slip by, and sometimes generate children when
they ought not.—To that, however, which is divinely generated, there is
a period which is comprehended by the perfect number; whereas, to that
generated by man, there is one, in which the augmentations, both
surpassing and surpassed, after having received three separations and
four boundaries of things similar and dissimilar, increasing and
decreasing, will render all things correspondent and rational;—of which
the sesquiternian root, conjoined with the pentad and thrice increased,
affords two harmonies,—one of these, the equally equal, just a hundred
times as much;—while the other, of equal length indeed, but of oblong
shape, is of a hundred numbers from effable diameters of the pentad,
each wanting one, two of which are irrational and of a hundred cubes of
the triad.—And the whole of this geometric number is, having such an
influence, concerned with worse and better generations.[229] Now, if our
governors be ignorant of this, and join our couples together
unseasonably, the children will neither possess talent, nor be fortunate
either; and though former governors should have placed the best of them
in office, nevertheless as they are unworthy of it, and only come into
the power which their fathers had, they will begin to neglect us in
their guardianship, holding music first of all, and then gymnastics in
less esteem than they ought, and hence our young men will become too
little disposed to music;—in consequence of which the governors to be
appointed from among them will not be very clever guardians, as respects
proving, according to Hesiod and ourselves, what are the several species
of talents, the golden, the silver, the brazen, and the iron. Where
iron, however, mingles with silver, and brass with gold, then there
arises a dissimilitude and unharmonious unevenness;—(and when this is
the case, wherever it prevails, it perpetually generates war and
hatred;)—we must say that sedition belongs to such a race as this,
whenever it arises. Aye,—and we shall say that the answer was correctly
given, replied he. Aye, and it must be so too, said I—as they are Muses.
What then, said he, do the Muses say next? Sedition having once arisen,
said I, two classes of genius,—the iron and the brazen, will be allured
to gain, and the acquisition of land and houses, gold and silver,—while
the golden and silver, not being in poverty but naturally rich, will
lead souls to virtue and their original constitution; whereas, should
they be violent and strive one against the other, they would agree to
divide their lands and houses as individual possessions; and then,
enslaving those formerly guarded by them as freemen, friends, and
tutors, keep them as denizens and slaves, themselves providing for war
and their own protection. This revolution, said he, seems to me to have
just this origin. Will not then this government, said I, be a medium
between aristocracy and oligarchy? Certainly.

-----

Footnote 229:

  This passage, descriptive of the geometric or fatal number, has
  baffled the ingenuity of every commentator. Any literal translation is
  little better than nonsense, and any explanation would be too long for
  a mere note. The views of Baroccius, Schneider, &c. are given in a
  dissertation at the end of the volume;—but they are all far from
  satisfactory.

-----

CHAP. IV.—Thus then will the revolution be effected, and when it has
taken place, what arrangement will then be made?—Is it not plain, that
in some things they will follow the pattern of the former republic, and
in others oligarchy, as halfway between the two, and having something
also peculiar to itself? Just so, he replied. Will they, then, in
honouring their rulers, in allowing their military to abstain from
agriculture, as with us from mechanical and other money-making pursuits,
in establishing common meals, and in studying both gymnastics and
military contests,—in all these things will they not follow the pattern
of the last form of government? Yes. But, through the fear of admitting
wise men into the magisterial office, inasmuch as the state no longer
possesses men who are simple and resolute, but only such as are of a
mixed character,—and through an inclination towards the high-spirited
and even simple, naturally more suited for war than peace, and also
towards those who are clever at tricks and schemes, spending their whole
time in continual war;—in all these respects, will it not possess many
such things as are peculiar to itself? Yes. And such as these, said I,
will ever be lovers of wealth, just like those in oligarchies, and will
have a wild though disguised love for gold and silver, as if they
possessed treasuries of their own and domestic storehouses in which to
hoard and hide them,—and circularly-enclosed houses also,—nests as it
were wholly their own, in which they can lose and spend much, together
with their own wives and such others as they fancy. Most true, said he.
Well then,—will they not from their love of wealth be sparing of it
also, though not openly acquiring it, but disposed to squander other
people’s property through lustful desire and secret indulgence in
pleasure;—just as children escaping from parental law, who have been
brought up not by persuasion but force, owing to their neglect of the
true muse, which unites reasoning and philosophy and the preference also
which they give to gymnastics over music? It is quite a mixed
government, said he, of which you are now speaking,—compounded of good
and ill. Aye, mixed indeed, said I:—but the most remarkable thing in it
is what simply arises from the prevalence of high spirit,—contention and
ambition. Aye, just so, said he. Such then is the origin and character
of this form of government, if one may ideally sketch it without giving
a complete description,—though enough for us to see from this
sketch,—who is the just and the unjust man; and it were a work of
tedious length to argue on all governments and all the various manners
of men without any exception whatever. Quite right, said he.

CHAP. V.—What then will the individual be, who corresponds to this form
of government;—how did he become so: and what is his nature? I think
indeed, said Adimantus, he has a tendency to be like this Glaucon here,
as far at least as concerns the love of contention. Perhaps so, said I,
as to this particular;—but I think, that in these respects he cannot at
all resemble him. How? He must necessarily, said I, be more self-willed,
and somewhat unapt to music, though fond of it; and fond of hearing, but
by no means a rhetorician:—such an one will be rough towards the slaves,
without despising them, as the man does who is fairly educated. He will
be polite towards the free, submissive to governors, a lover of dominion
and honour,—not thinking it proper to govern by eloquence or anything of
the kind, but by political management and military achievements, being a
lover of gymnastics and hunting. This indeed, said he, is the spirit of
that form of government. And will not such an one, said I, despise money
during his youth, but the older he grows, always value it the more,
because he partakes of the covetous disposition, and is not sincerely
affected towards virtue, because destitute of the best guardian? Of what
guardian? said Adimantus. Reason, said I, accompanied with music, which
being the only inbred preservative of virtue, dwells with the possessor
through the whole of life. You say well, he replied. And surely the
timocratic youth, said I, resembles such a state. Certainly. And such an
one, said I, is somehow thus formed.—He may happen perhaps to be the
youthful son of a worthy father, dwelling in an ill-governed state, and
shunning public honours, magisterial offices, lawsuits, and all such
public business, content to live neglected in obscurity, that he may
have no trouble. In what manner then, said he, is he formed? First of
all, said I, when he hears his mother complaining that her husband is
not in magisterial office, and that she is on this account neglected
among other women, and then sees that he is not over attentive to the
acquisition of wealth, and does not wrangle and quarrel privately and
publicly in the law courts, but on all these occasions acts
indolently;—and when she perceives him always attentive to himself, and
treating her neither with extreme respect nor contempt;—on all these
accounts, she is filled with indignation, and tells her son that his
father is unmanly, extremely careless, and whatever else wives are wont
to chant about such matters. Aye,—many things, truly, said Adimantus,
and quite in accordance with their spirit.—And you know, said I, that
the domestics likewise of such families, such of them as would be
thought good-natured, sometimes say privately the very same to the sons;
and if they see either a debtor whom the father does not sue, or any one
otherwise acting unjustly, they exhort him to punish all such persons
when he comes to manhood, and to be more of a man than his father.—And
when he goes abroad, he hears other such-like things, and sees also that
such in the state as attend to their own affairs are called simple, and
held in little esteem, while such as do not attend to their affairs are
both honoured and commended.—The youth then who hears and sees all this,
and then again hears his father’s speeches, and closely observes his
pursuits in contrast with those of others, is drawn in two opposite
directions,—his father irrigating and promoting the growth of his
rational part, and the others his passions and high spirit;—and so,
being not naturally bad, but spoiled only by evil connexion with others,
he is brought to a mean between both and delivers up the government
within himself to a middle power,—the love of contention and high
spirit:—and so he becomes a haughty and ambitious man. I think, said he,
you have quite correctly explained the training of such a person.—We
have here then, said I, the second form of government and the second
individual. Aye,—we have, said he.

CHAP. VI.—Shall we not then after this say with Æschylus,—

           Where state to state,—then each to each incline;—

or rather, shall we, according to our plan, establish the state first?
Certainly, he replied. It would be an oligarchy then, methinks, that
would succeed such a government as this. But what constitution is it,
said he, that you call an oligarchy? That government, said I, which is
founded on the estimate of men’s property;—in which the rich rule, and
the poor have no share in the government. Aye,—I understand, said he.
Should we not, first of all explain, how the change is made from a
timocracy to an oligarchy? We should. And surely the way, in which this
change is made, said I, is manifest even to the blind! How? That
treasury, said I, which each one fills with gold destroys such a state;
for, first of all, they discover for themselves modes of expense, for
which they set aside the laws,—both themselves and their wives
disobeying them. Very likely, said he, and afterwards, I think, when one
observes another, and enters into rivalry, the people generally become
of this character. It is likely. And thence then, said I, as they
advance in the intensity of the desire for acquiring wealth, the more
honourable they account this, the more dishonourable will they deem
virtue;—for is not virtue so at variance with wealth, that, supposing
each to be placed at the opposite end of a balance, they would always
weigh the one against the other? Justly so, he replied. While wealth
then and the wealthy are honoured in the state, both virtue and good men
must necessarily be held in dishonour? It is plain. And what is honoured
is always pursued, while what is dishonoured is neglected? Just so.
Instead then of being contentious and ambitious men, they have at last
become lovers of gain and wealth;—and the rich they praise and admire,
elevating them to the magistracy, while the poor man they quite despise.
Certainly. And do they not enact laws, marking out the boundary of the
oligarchal constitution, and regulating the quantity of oligarchal power
by the quantity of wealth,—allotting more to the more wealthy and less
to those less so, intimating that he who has not the amount settled by
law can have no share in the government;—and do they not settle these
matters compulsorily, by force of arms, establishing such a state after
previous intimidation?—Is it not thus? Aye, indeed. This then, so to
speak, is its constitution? Yes, replied he. What then is the nature of
the government, and what are the faults thereto ascribed? First of all,
said I, of this very thing, the constitution itself, what think you?—for
consider, if a person were thus to appoint pilots of ships, by the
amount of their property never intrusting one of them with a poor man,
though better skilled in piloting,—what would then be the consequence?
They would make a very bad voyage, he replied. And is it not the same
about any other matter, or any presiding office whatever? I think so. Is
it always so, except in a state, said I; or is it so as regards a state
likewise? There, beyond all others, said he; inasmuch as it is the most
difficult, and most important kind of government. Oligarchy then would
seem to have this unquestionably very great fault. So it seems. But
what;—is this no less a fault? What? That such a state is not integrally
one, but necessarily two; one containing the poor, and the other the
rich, dwelling in one place and always plotting against one another. By
Zeus, said he, not a whit less;—and this besides is a fine thing,—the
incapacity of waging war, through the necessity, either of employing the
armed multitude, who are to be dreaded more than the enemy themselves,
or else refusing to employ them at all, and so appearing quite
oligarchical in battle,—being unwilling also to advance money for the
public service, through a natural disposition to covetousness? This is
not well. What then;—with reference to what we long ago
condemned,—engaging in a variety of pursuits, the same persons in such a
state giving their attendance all at once to agriculture, money-making,
and military affairs; does this seem right? Not at all, of course.

CHAP. VII.—Let us see, then,—does this form of government above all
others introduce this greatest of all evils? What is that? The
permission to each person of selling the whole of his effects, and to
another of purchasing them from him, and the privilege to the seller of
dwelling in our state, though he belongs to no one class therein, and
can be called neither a money-maker, nor mechanic, nor horseman, nor
foot-soldier, but poor and destitute. Yes, above all others, he replied.
Such a thing is not prevented in oligarchal governments; for, in that
case some of them would not be over-rich, and others altogether poor.
Right. But consider this likewise;—when such a rich man as this spends
his property, would it do the state any more service, as regards the
objects just mentioned; or did he only seem to be one of the
magistrates, while in truth he was neither magistrate nor servant to the
state, but only a consumer of its substance? Aye,—he did seem so, he
replied;—he was nothing but a consumer. Do you desire, then, said I,
that we should say of him, that, as a drone in a beehive brings ailment
among the whole swarm, just so, such a person as this, like a drone in
his house, is the ailment of a state? Quite so, Socrates, he replied.
And has not God, Adimantus, made all the winged drones without any
sting,—and those that have feet, some without stings, and some with
dreadful stings?—And do not those that are without stings continue poor
to old age:—whereas those that have stings, are those that we called
mischievous? Most true, said he. It is plain then, said I, that in a
state where you would observe poor people, there are doubtless concealed
thieves, cutpurses, sacrilegious persons, and workers of all such evils.
Evidently so, said he. What then? Do not you find poor people in states
that are placed under oligarchal government? Almost all are so, said he,
except the governors themselves. And do we not think, said I, that they
contain within them many mischievous persons with stings, whom the
magistrates must restrain by vigilance and compulsory measures? We do
indeed think so, said he. And must we not say, that it is through want
of education, bad nurture, and a corrupt constitution of state, that
persons of this character are here engendered? Yes we must. Well then,
is not the state oligarchally governed when under an oligarchy of this
character; and is it not affected by all these evils, and probably more
too? It is nearly so, said he. Let us distinguish then this form of
government likewise, said I, which they call oligarchy, as one having
its governors [elected] according to the valuation of their property.

CHAP. VIII.—Next let us consider the man who is analogous to this [form
of government,] how he is formed and what is his character. By all
means, said he. Is it not thus then chiefly that the individual man
changes from the timocratic to the oligarchic form? How? When such an
one has a son, he, first of all, emulates his father, and follows his
steps; afterwards, when he sees him suddenly dashed on the state [like a
ship] on a rock, squandering his property and ruining himself, either at
the head of the army, or in some other high magisterial office,—then
falling into the law-courts, ruined by public informers, and either put
to death, or exiled, and stripped of his honours and entire property. It
is likely, said he. Aye, my friend, and after seeing and suffering this,
and losing his property, he instantly, through fear, I think, pushes
headlong from the throne within his soul, his ambitious, lofty temper,
and at length, humbled by poverty, turns his attention to gain, lives
meanly and sparingly, and by hard labour acquires wealth;—do you not
think that such a man will seat on that throne in his soul a covetous
and money-loving spirit, making it a mighty king within himself, and
girding it, as it were, with tiaras, and bracelets, and sceptres? I
think so, said he. But, as for the principles of reason and high spirit,
having laid them both at his feet on either side as mere slaves, he
forbids the one to reason at all, or at any rate to inquire into aught
else, except by what means a smaller amount of property can be made
greater; and the other, again, to admire and honour anything but riches
and the rich, and to receive honour with any other view than the
acquisition of money, or whatever else may tend thereto. There is no
change, said he, so sudden and powerful as that of an ambitious to an
avaricious man. Is not this, then, said I, the oligarchic man? Aye—the
change which he undergoes is from a person who resembles that government
from which oligarchy arises. Shall we consider, now, if he does at all
resemble it? Let us consider.

CHAP. IX.—Does he not, in the first place, resemble it in valuing money
above all things? Of course he does. And he does so surely in being
sparing and laborious, satisfying only his necessary desires, and not
allowing himself any other expenses, but subduing the other desires as
foolish. Certainly. And in being, said I, a sordid kind of man, making
gain of everything, intent on hoarding,—one, such as the multitude
extols, will not this be the man that resembles such a form of
government? Aye, I think so, he replied: wealth at least must be highly
valued by the state, as well as by the individual of such a character.
Aye,—for I do not think, said I, that such a man has attended to
education. I do not think he has, said he; for he would not then have
chosen a blind guide for his chorus.[230] But further still, consider
this attentively, said I;—must we not say that, owing to his want of
education, dronish desires springing in him, some of them beggarly, and
some mischievous, forcibly kept under restraint by the rest of his
pursuits? Just so, said he. Do you know, then, said I, where you will
best observe their wickedness? Where? said he. [By looking] at their
tutelage of orphans, or whatever else of this kind comes in their way,
so as to give them much power to do injustice. True. Is not this then
quite clear, that in all other kinds of contracts, wherever such an one
gains approbation, by the mere semblance of justice, he restrains the
other wrong desires within him by exercising a certain moderation, not
from any persuasion that it is not better to indulge them, nor from
sober reason, but from necessity and fear, because he trembles for the
remainder of his property? Certainly, said he. Aye, by Zeus, said I, my
friend, most of them, when they want to spend the property of others,
display passions much akin to those of drones. Yes, exceedingly so,
observed he. Such a person as this, then, will not be free from internal
discord; nor be integrally one, but a kind of double man; possessing
desires, however, that are at variance with one another, the better,
usually, governing the worse. It is so. On these accounts, then, such an
one, methinks, will present a better appearance than many others; though
the true virtue of a harmonized and consistent soul will wholly escape
him. Aye, it seems so. And the sparing man, either privately or in the
state, will be but a poor rival, as regards any victory or other
struggle for honour; because either for reputation’s sake, or any such
contests, he is unwilling to spend his property, through fear of
kindling expensive desires, and calling them into alliance or
rivalry;—and warring, as he does, in oligarchic fashion, with only a few
of his resources, he is in most cases defeated, though he still
contrives to get rich. Quite so, replied he. Can we any longer hesitate,
said I, to rank the niggard and the money-maker as resembling a state
under an oligarchy? By no means, said he.

-----

Footnote 230:

  Allusion is here made to Plutus, the god of riches,—who is usually
  represented blind. The word χοροῦ, which is the reading of the best
  MSS., refers to the noisy crowd of desires that hurry a man through
  life.

-----

CHAP. X.—Democracy, as it seems, must next be considered,—how it arises,
and when once arisen, what kind of man it produces;—in order that
understanding the nature of such a man, we may at once bring him to
trial. Yes, said he;—that would be our consistent course. Well then,
said I, is not the change from oligarchy to democracy produced in some
such way as this,—through the insatiable desire of the proposed good,
viz. the desire of becoming as rich as possible? How? Inasmuch as its
governors govern through the possession of great wealth, they will have
no wish, methinks, to restrain by law the profligate portion of the
young men from squandering and wasting their property at pleasure;
because, by purchasing such persons’ effects, and lending on usury, they
will not only be still more enriched, but held in higher repute. Far
more so than any other. This, then, is already quite clear in our state,
that to honour riches, and at the same time practise temperance, is
impossible, since either the one or the other must necessarily be
neglected. Of course, that is quite plain, said he. While, therefore,
they are neglectful in oligarchies, and allow the youths to indulge in
licentiousness, they must necessarily sometimes bring men to poverty,
even those that are not ignoble. Quite so. And these, I suppose, stand
in our state both spurred, and in armour; some in debt, others in
disgrace, others in both, hating and conspiring against those who have
got what belonged to them, and against others also, for mere love of
change. Aye, such is the case. These usurers, however, bent on their own
interests, and apparently unobservant of these, wound all that ever
yield to them by advancing them money, and so, by getting multiplied
interest for the parent principal,[231] fill the state with many a drone
and pauper. Aye, with many a one, he replied. And even when such an evil
is raging in the state, said I, they are not willing to extinguish it,
not even by restraining people from spending their property at pleasure,
nor yet in this way by making another law to destroy such disorders.
What law? One that shall follow the other, compelling the citizens to
cultivate virtue; for if they were bidden to engage in voluntary
contracts chiefly at their own hazard, their usurers would create less
scandal in the state, and fewer also of the evils now mentioned would
arise therein. Far fewer, said he. At present, however, said I, it is by
all these means that the governors in the state thus dispose of the
governed; and both as to themselves and those belonging to them, do they
not render the youths luxurious and idle as respects all bodily and
mental exercises, effeminate in bearing pleasure and pains, and indolent
likewise? What else? And as to themselves, they neglect everything but
the acquisition of wealth, and pay no more regard to virtue than the
poor? No, surely. Having then been thus trained up, when the governors
and their subjects are thrown together, either on a journey along the
road, or in other meetings, either at public spectacles, or on warlike
expeditions, either as fellow-sailors or fellow-soldiers, or when they
see one another in real dangers, the poor in this case are by no means
despised by the rich;—but very often a robust fellow, poor and sunburnt,
whose post in battle is by the side of a rich man bred up in the shade,
and swoln with much unnecessary fat,[232] if he should see him panting
for breath and in agony,—think you not, he will consider such persons to
grow rich to their own injury, and will say to his fellow, when meeting
in private, that our rich men are good for nothing? Of course, I well
know, said he, that they do so. Well then, as a diseased body needs but
the smallest shock from without to give it pain, and is sometimes thrown
into disorder without any interference from without, so also the state
that resembles it will, on the smallest occasion from without, either
when one party forms an alliance with an oligarchal, or the other with a
democratic state, become disorded, and fight with itself, and also rise
in revolt without any external interference. Yes, certainly. A democracy
then, I think, arises, when the poor prevailing over the rich, kill
some, and banish others, and share the state-offices and magistracies
equally among the remainder; and for the most part the magistracies
therein are disposed of by lot. Aye, said he, this is the establishment
of a democracy, whether it be effected through force of arms, or from
the withdrawal of the other party through fear.

-----

Footnote 231:

  The word πατήρ is here used to signify the principal sum (τὸ
  κεφάλαιον), from which the interest (τόκοι or τὰ ἔκγονα) are derived.
  Comp. b. vi. ch. 18, p. 196.

Footnote 232:

  Gr. πολλάκις ἰσχνὸς ἀνὴρ πένης, ἡλιώμενος, παραταχθεὶς ἐν μάχῃ πλουσίῳ
  ἐσκιατροφήκοτι, πολλὰς ἔχοντι σάρκας ἀλλοτρίας, &c.

-----

CHAP. XI.—In what way then, said I, do these live,—and what will be the
character of this government;—for it is plain, that a man of this kind
will appear democratic? It is plain, said he. First, then, are they not
free, and is not the state full of freedom of action, and speech, and
each one at liberty to do what he pleases? So it is said, he replied.
And where there is liberty, every one will evidently regulate his own
plan of life just as he pleases? Plainly so. Under such a government
especially, methinks, men of all characters will spring up. Of course.
This, said I, seems likely to be the best of all governments;—just as a
various-coloured robe, embroidered with flowers of all kinds,—so will
this appear best, variegated as it is with all sorts of manners. Of
course, said he. And perhaps too, said I, the multitude will reckon this
the best, just as children and women looking at embroidered dresses.
Very likely, said he. Aye, my excellent friend, here is a state in which
we may fitly look for a government. How so? Because it comprises all
kinds of government on the score of its liberty; and it seems necessary
for one that desires to establish a state, as we are now doing, to come
to any democratic state, the form of which he likes, as to a general
political fair, and establish that which he has chosen. Aye, said he, he
would probably be in no want of models. Is not this, said I, a divine
and pleasant kind of life for the present,—that there be no need of
governing in this state, even though you be able to do so,—nor yet of
being a subject, unless you please,—nor of engaging in war because
others do,—nor of keeping peace when others keep it, unless you desire
peace;—nor again, though there be a law that restrains you from
governing or administering justice, yet you no less shall govern and
administer justice, if so disposed? It is likely, said he;—in this
particular at least. But what; is not their lenience towards some of
those who are condemned very polite; and in such a government did you
never yet see its lenity towards men condemned to death or banishment,
who nevertheless remain there in open intercourse, the banished man,
too, returning like a hero as if no one attended to or observed him?
Aye, many, he replied. But this indulgence of the state,—not to mention
the small regard, and even contempt which it shows for all that we
deemed so important when settling our state, as that, unless a man had a
most exalted nature,[233] he would never become a good man, except he
had from childhood upwards delighted in noble actions, and diligently
followed all such pursuits;—how magnanimously does it despise and think
as naught all these things, evincing an utter disregard as to the kind
of pursuits from which a man comes to engage in politics, though it
honours him if he only declares himself well affected towards the
multitude? How very generous, he rejoined. These then, said I, and
others akin to these, are to be found in democracy; and it seems to be a
pleasant sort of government, both anarchical and variegated,
distributing a certain equality to all alike, both equals and unequals.
Aye, you say, he replied, what is perfectly well known.

-----

Footnote 233:

  Gr. ὑπερβεβλημένην φύσιν. Euripides uses a similar expression in the
  Alcestis, v. 155:—τί χρὴ γενέσθαι τὴν ὑπερβεβλημένην—γυναῖκα.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Consider then, said I, what kind of man such an one is in
private; or shall we first consider, as we did with respect to the
government, in what manner he is formed? Yes, said he. Is he not then
formed in this manner,—namely, from the parsimonious man who was under
the oligarchy,—as a son, trained up under his father according to his
habits? Of course. Such an one forcibly governs his own pleasures,—such
as are expensive, but not tending to the acquisition of wealth, which
are hence called unnecessary. It is plain, said he. That we may not
argue in the dark then, said I, let us first, if you please, determine
what desires are necessary, and what are not. Willingly, said he. May
not such be justly called necessary, which we cannot get rid of, and the
gratification of which does us service? For both these kinds our nature
must necessarily seek after; must it not? Quite so. This then, we may
justly say, is a necessary part to these desires? Justly. But what now?
Such desires as a man may relinquish, if he try to do so from his youth,
and which while they remain, do no good, if we say of these that they
are not necessary, shall we not say right? Right, indeed. Let us select
a pattern of each, that we may understand from example what they are.
Quite right. Is not the desire of eating necessary so far as is
conducive to health and a good habit of body, and the desire of food and
victuals? I think so. The desire of food, at least, is necessary on two
accounts, as being advantageous in itself, and because the want of it
must bring life to an end.[234] It is. And the desire of victuals is
likewise necessary, as contributing towards a good habit of body.
Certainly. But what?—even such desire as goes beyond these things, or
any other sorts of meats, and yet can be curbed from youth, and trained
to abstain from most things, and which is hurtful both to body and soul
as regards the attainment of wisdom and temperance, may not that be
rightly called unnecessary? Most rightly, indeed. May we not say then
that these too are expensive, and the others frugal, as they conduce
towards the actions of life? Of course. We may speak in the same manner,
surely, of venereal, and the other desires? In the same manner. And did
we not, by him whom we just now called the drone, indicate a person full
of such desires and pleasures, and governed by those that are
unnecessary; but one governed by those merely necessary, a parsimonious
man, and disposed to an oligarchy? Without doubt.

-----

Footnote 234:

  Gr. ᾗ τε ὠφέλιμος σῖτος, ᾗ τε παῦσαι ζῶντα δυνατή,—i.e. if there be no
  sufficient supply,—the general meaning being, that the desire for food
  is not only useful, but indispensable to the maintenance of life.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—Let us again mention, said I, how the democratic man arises
out of the oligarchic; and to me he appears to arise chiefly thus. How?
When a young man brought up, as we now mentioned, without proper
instruction, and in niggard fashion, comes to taste the drones’ honey,
and associates with those fiery, terrible creatures who can procure all
sorts and varieties of pleasures, and from every quarter;—then you may
conceive, he somehow begins to change the oligarchic for the democratic
character. It must be so, he observed. Well then, just as the state was
changed by the aid of another party from without to which it was
related, is not the youth so changed likewise, through the aid of one
species of desires from without, to others within him, which resemble
them and are allied thereto? By all means. And methinks, if any alliance
should come to counteract the oligarchic principle within him, either
through his father or other relatives, admonishing and upbraiding him,
then truly will arise sedition, opposition, and an internal struggle
against himself. Undoubtedly. And sometimes, indeed, I think the
democratic yields to the oligarchic principle, and some of the desires
are destroyed, while others retire, because a certain modesty is
engendered in the youth’s soul, and he is again restored to order. This
is sometimes the case, said he. And again, I suppose, when some desires
retire, others allied to them secretly grow up, which through neglect of
parental instruction, become both many and powerful. This is usually the
case, said he. They draw them then towards the same intimacies as
before, and through their connexions secretly generate a multitude? What
else? And in the end, I think, they seize the citadel of the youth’s
soul, because they find it empty, as regards virtuous pursuits and true
reasoning,—the best guardians and preservers of the rational part of men
dear to the gods. Just so, said he. And then, indeed false and arrogant
reasonings and opinions rush up in their stead, and take their place in
such people. Assuredly, said he. And does he not then come once more,
and dwell openly among those Lotophagi?[235]—And if any aid come from
intimate friends to strengthen the parsimonious principle within him,
these said arrogant reasonings, by shutting against it the gates of the
royal wall, neither permit the alliance itself, nor allow the
ambassadorial admonitions of individual old men, but struggle against
them and maintain themselves in power;—and as for modesty, they call it
stupidity, and thrust it out into disgraceful exile, while temperance
they call unmanliness, load it with abuse, and then expel it;—and as for
moderation and decent expense, they persuade themselves that they are
nothing else but rusticity and illiberality, and banish them from their
territories, with many other unprofitable desires. Assuredly, they do.
Having emptied and purified from all these desires, the soul, thus held
by them, and initiated in the great mysteries,[236] they next introduce
with encomiums and false eulogies, indolence and anarchy, extravagance
and shamelessness, shining with a great retinue, and wearing
crowns,—calling insolence, good-breeding,—anarchy, liberty,—luxury,
magnificence,—and impudence, manliness. Is it not, said I, somehow
thus,—that a youth, after being bred up with necessary desires falls
away into the license and dissoluteness induced by needless and
unprofitable pleasures? Yes, plainly so, he replied. Such an one, then,
methinks, thenceforth passes his life, spending his property, labour,
and time as much on necessary as unnecessary pleasures, but if he be
fortunate and not unusually excited by passion, he, as he advances in
years, and the sovereignty of the passions is subdued, re-admits part of
those expelled, and does not deliver himself wholly up to mere
intruders, but regulates his pleasures on the principle of equality, and
so lives, giving himself up to each incidental desire that happens to
rule him, till he is sated,—and then another, undervaluing none, but
indulging all alike. Quite so, of course. And yet such an one, said I,
will not listen to true reasoning, nor admit it into his
stronghold,—should he be told that some pleasures are attached to
honourable and virtuous desires, others to those that are depraved, and
that he should pursue and honour the former, but chastise and hold
captive the latter,—but in all these cases will dissent, and say that
they are all alike, and to be held in equal honour. Assuredly, said he,
one thus affected, does this. Well then, said I, thus does he daily
live, gratifying every incidental desire, sometimes getting drunk to the
sound of the flute, at others temperately drinking water,—at others,
again exercising gymnastics; sometimes indolent and wholly careless;
then again applying, as it were, to philosophy,—often too acting the
politician, saying and doing by skips and jumps whatever comes
first:—and if he would imitate any of the military tribe, thither he is
carried; if the mercantile, then again thither; nor is his life
regulated by any plan or law, but, deeming this particular life
pleasant, and free, and blessed, he follows it throughout. You have most
fully described, said he, the life of the man who places all laws on a
level. I at least am of opinion, said I, that he is multiform, and
filled with different habits; like the state, too, he is handsome and of
varied complexion, a man whose life many men and women would emulate,
because he contains within himself numerous patterns both of forms of
government and moral habits. He does, said he. What then? Have we then
so described and arranged such an one on the principles of democracy, as
that he may be truly called one of democratic character. We will allow
that it has, said he.

-----

Footnote 235:

  These Lotophagi are described by Homer, Odyss. ix. 94, &c.

Footnote 236:

  Allusion is here made to the Eleusinian mysteries, which after certain
  lustrations and sacrifices, were successively communicated to those in
  course of initiation,—first, the lesser mysteries (μικρὰ τέλη), and
  six months subsequently, the greater (τὰ μεγάλα τέλη).

-----

CHAP. XIV.[237]—It still remains, however, that we discuss, said I, that
most excellent form of government and that most excellent man,—tyranny
and the tyrant. Surely, said he. Come then, my dear fellow;—what is the
manner in which tyranny arises?—for it is almost plain, that it is a
change from democracy. Plain. Does not tyranny arise in the same manner
from democracy, as democracy does from oligarchy? How—as respects the
good then, which oligarchy proposed to itself, and according to which it
was constituted; was it not with a view of becoming extremely rich? Yes.
An insatiable desire then for riches, and a neglect of all besides,
through attention to the acquisition of wealth, destroys it. True, said
he. And with reference to what democracy denominates good, an insatiable
thirst for it destroys it likewise? But what say you, it denominates as
good? Liberty, said I:—for this, you are told, is best found in a state
under democratic rule, and hence any one naturally free would choose to
dwell in this alone. This word liberty, said he, is vastly much talked
about. Well then, observed I, as I was just going to say, does not the
insatiable desire for this, and the neglect of other things, change even
the form of government, and prepare it to need a tyrant? How? said he.
When a state, said I, is under democratic rule, thirsts after liberty,
and happens to have bad cupbearers appointed it, and gets immoderately
drunk with an unmixed draught thereof, it punishes even the governors,
unless they be quite tame-spirited, and allow them excessive liberty, by
accusing them of being corrupt and oligarchical. They do so, said he.
But such as obey the magistrates, said I, it abuses as willing and
good-for-nothing slaves; both publicly and in private they commending
and honouring magistrates who resemble subjects, and subjects who
resemble magistrates: must it not happen in such a state, that we must
necessarily arrive at the acme of liberty? Of course. And must it not
descend, too, my friend, said I, into private families, and at last
reach even the brutes? How, said he, can we assert aught like this? For
instance, said I, when a father gets used to become like his child, and
fears his sons, and the son [in like manner] his father, and has neither
respect nor fear of his parents, in order, forsooth, that he may be
free;—and thus a mere resident is placed on a level with a citizen, and
a resident with a stranger, and so likewise a foreigner. Just so, said
he. Aye, these indeed happen, said I, and other similar little things
also:—and in such cases a teacher fears and flatters his scholars, and
the scholars despise their teachers, and so also their tutors; and on
the whole the youths resemble those more advanced in years, and rival
them both in speech and action: while the old men sit down with the
young, and imitate them in their love of merriment and pleasantry, for
fear of appearing morose and despotic. Quite so, of course, replied he.
But as to this extreme liberty of the multitude, said I, what a height
it attains in a state like this, where purchased slaves, male or female,
are no less free than their purchasers, and how much equality and
liberty wives enjoy with their husbands, and husbands with their
wives,—this we have almost forgotten to mention. Are we not then to say,
according to Æschylus, he observed, whatever now comes into our mouth?
By all means, said I; and accordingly I thus speak:—with reference even
to brutes, such as are under the care of men, how much more free they
are in such a state; he who has no experience thereof will not easily
believe—for according to the proverb, even dogs resemble their
mistresses;[238] and horses and asses are used to run about at large,
surlily driving against whomsoever they meet, unless they get out of
their way; and many other such-like things happen, that indicate an
abundance of liberty. You are just telling me my dream, said he, for
this has often happened to me when going into the country. But do you
observe, said I, when all these things are collected together in a
whole, that they make the soul of the citizens so sensitive, that if
they were any how to be brought into slavery, they would be indignant
and not endure it;—for in the end, you know, they regard laws neither
written nor unwritten, and hence no one will by any means become their
master? I know it well, said he.

-----

Footnote 237:

  A large portion of this and the following chapter will be found
  rendered into Latin in Cicero de Republ. i. ch. 43, 44.

Footnote 238:

  The proverb here alluded to runs thus, according to the
  scholiast:—οἱάπερ ἡ δέσποινα, τοία χἁ κύων. The adage from Æschylus,
  somewhat above, is of an origin equally unknown.

-----

CHAP. XV.—This then, said I, my friend, I suppose, is that government so
beautiful and youthful, whence tyranny springs. Youthful, indeed, he
replied; but what then? The same malady, said I, that existed in an
oligarchy, destroys this form likewise; rising also to a higher pitch of
power, and enslaving the democracy by its very licentiousness; for, in
fact, the doing of anything to excess usually causes great change in an
opposite direction: and so it is in the seasons, as in vegetable and
animal bodies, and so also not least of all in forms of government.
Probably so, said he. Aye, for excessive liberty seems only to
degenerate into excessive slavery, either in private individuals or
states. It is probable, indeed. Probably then, said I, tyranny is
established out of no other form than democracy;—out of the highest
degree of liberty, methinks, the greatest and fiercest slavery. Yes, it
is reasonable, said he. This, however, methinks, said I, was not what
you asked:—but what is that same disease which arises in an oligarchy
and a democracy, and reduces each to slavery? Your remark is true,
replied he. I meant, said I, that there was a race of idle and profuse
men, the bravest of whom were the leaders, and the more cowardly their
followers, whom indeed we compared to drones; some to those with stings,
others to those without stings. Rightly too, said he. These two now,
said I, when they spring up in a government, disturb it, just like
phlegm and bile in a natural body,—and against these it is the duty of a
wise physician and lawgiver of a state, no less than of a wise
bee-master, to take much fore-caution,—first, that they never gain
admittance;—and if they should enter, that they be as soon as possible
cut off, with their cells as well. Yes, by Zeus, said he; altogether so.

CHAP. XVI.—Let us thus then conceive the matter, said I, that we may
more distinctly see what we want. How? Let us ideally divide a
democratic state into three parts, as it in fact is; for some such
classification is natural to it, owing to its liberty, no less than to
an oligarchy. It is so. Yet it is much more fierce at least in this than
in the former. How? In an oligarchy, from not being held in honour, but
excluded from the magisterial office, it is unexercised and gains no
strength;—but in a democracy it is, with a few exceptions, the presiding
party, the fiercest of them ever talking and agitating, while the rest
bustle about at the law-courts, and cannot endure any one else to speak
differently from itself; and thus all things, with only a few
exceptions, under such a government, are managed by a party. Very much
the case, said he. Some other party, then, is always separated from the
multitude. Which? While the general body are engaged in the pursuit of
gain, such as are naturally the most temperate generally become the
wealthiest. Very probably. And hence is it, methinks, that the greatest
quantity of honey, and what comes with the greatest ease, is pressed out
of these by the drones. Yes,—for how, said he, can any one press it from
those who have but little? Such wealthy people, I think, are called the
pasture of the drones. Nearly so, replied he. And the people will be a
sort of third species,—such as mind their own affairs, without meddling
with others, who have little property, but are yet the most numerous,
and most prevailing in a democracy, whenever it is densely populated. It
is so; but this it will not often consent to do without getting some
share of the honey. This class, of course, always obtains a share, said
I, as far as their leaders are able, by robbing those that have
property, and giving it to the people, in order that they may eat most
themselves. Aye, said he, that is the way in which these become sharers.
These, then, are obliged to defend themselves. Those thus despoiled are
compelled to defend themselves, saying and doing all they can among the
people. Of course. And though they have no inclination to introduce a
change of government, they are charged with forming plots and plans
against the common people, and being oligarchally disposed. What next?
After seeing that the people, not willingly, but through ignorance and
the impositions of these slanderers, attempt to injure them, do they not
then, indeed, even against their wills, become truly oligarchic?—though
not spontaneously, for this very mischief is generated by the drone that
stings them. Quite so. And so they lay informations, make lawsuits, and
have contests one with another. Very much so. And are not the people
always used to place some one in special presidency over themselves, and
to cherish him, and promote him to great power? They are. And this, said
I, is plain, that whenever a tyrant rises, it is from the fact of thus
presiding, and nothing else, that he flourishes. This is very clear.
How, then, begins the change from a president into a tyrant?—is it not
clearly when the president begins to do the same as is told in the
fable, about the temple of the Lycean Zeus, to whom the wolf was
dedicated in Arcadia? What is that? said he. That whoever tastes human
entrails mixed with those of other offerings, must necessarily become a
wolf:—have you not heard the story? I have. Well, then, supposing him to
be thus the president of the people, and having to deal with an
extremely compliant multitude, he should not refrain from shedding even
kindred blood, but by unjust charges, as usual, should bring men into
the law-courts and murder them, as if he set no value on human life,
and, tasting with unholy month and tongue even the blood of relations,
should banish men and slay them, proposing the abolition of debts and
fresh division of lands,—must not such an one of necessity, and by
destiny, be either destroyed by his enemies, or else act the tyrant, and
from a man, become a wolf? Of great necessity, said he. This then, is
he, said I—the same who rises in sedition against those who have
property. Yes. And when he has been banished and returns against the
will of his adversaries, he comes back, of course, an accomplished
tyrant. It is plain. And if they cannot expel him, or put him to death
on a state accusation, then they conspire to cut him off privately by a
violent death. It usually so happens, he observed. And besides this, all
who have advanced to this station invent _this_ much-vaunted tyrannical
demand, asking the people for certain body-guards, that the people’s aid
may be secured them. Of this, said he, they take special care. And
methinks they grant them this through fear of his safety, though secure
as to their own. Quite so. And when a man observes this, who has
property, and who, besides that, is further charged with hating the
people,—he then, my friend, according to the answer of the oracle to
Crœsus,

               ... To pebble-bedded Hermus flies,
               Nor waits the brand of cowardice;[239]...

because he would not, said he, be a second time in fear. But surely,
said I, he at least, methinks, that is caught, is put to death. Of
necessity so. It is plain, then, that this president of our state does
not like a noble person, nobly lie,[240] but, after hurling down many
others, sits in his chair of office, a consummate tyrant of the
state,—and not a president. Of course, he is likely to be so, rejoined
he.

-----

Footnote 239:

  The same oracular legend occurs in Herodotus, Clio, ch. 55.

Footnote 240:

  Comp. Hom. Il. xvi. 776; Odyss. xxiv. 39.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—Shall we then examine the happiness both of the man and the
state, in which such a mortal as this is engendered? Let us do so by all
means, said he. Does he not, then, said I, in the first days, and for a
brief season, smile and salute every one he meets, and asserting himself
to be no tyrant, and promise many things, both in public and private,
and liberate men from debts, and distribute land both to the public and
those about him, and affect to be mild and liberal towards all? He must,
replied he. But, methinks, when he becomes reconciled to some of his
foreign enemies, and has destroyed others, and there is quiet respecting
these, he first of all is ever exciting wars, that the people may be in
need of a leader. Aye, that is likely. Is it not also then, that, being
rendered poor by contributing to the public treasury, they may be
compelled to be anxious for daily sustenance, and so less readily
conspire against him? Plainly so. And methinks, if he suspects that any
of a free spirit will not allow him to govern,—in order that he may have
some pretext for destroying them, he exposes them to the enemy; for all
these reasons a tyrant must necessarily be always raising war.
Necessarily so. And, while he is doing these things, he will necessarily
become more hateful to the citizens. Of course. And, therefore, some of
those who have been promoted along with him and are in power, use great
plainness of speech, towards him and among themselves, finding fault
with what is done,—such at least, as are of a more manly spirit. Aye,
probably so. The tyrant, therefore, if he means to govern, must cut off
all these, till he leave no one, either friend or foe, worth anything.
It is plain. He must carefully notice them,—who is courageous, who is
magnanimous, who wise, who rich; and in this manner is he happy, that,
willing or unwilling, he is under a necessity of being an enemy to all
like these; and to form plots against them, till he has purged the
state. A fine purging indeed! said he. Yes, said I, the reverse of what
the physicians do with regard to animal bodies; for they take away the
worst and leave the best; but he does the contrary. Because it seems,
said he, if he is to govern, he must necessarily do so.

CHAP. XVIII.—By a blessed necessity, then truly, is he bound, said I;
which compels him either to live with a depraved multitude,—hated by
them too, or not live at all. In such necessity he is, he replied. And
the more he is hated by the citizens whilst he does these things, will
he not so much the more require a greater number of guards, and those
more faithful? It is impossible he should not. Who then are the
faithful, and whence shall he procure them? Many, said he, will come
flying to him of their own accord, if he give them pay. By the dog, said
I, you seem again to be talking of certain drones, both foreign and
multiform. Aye, you think right, replied he. But those of the state
itself,—would he not desire to have them also as guards? How? After he
has taken away the slaves from the citizens, would he not give them
their liberty, and make of them guards about his person? By all means,
said he; for these are the most faithful to him. What a blessed
possession of the tyrants, said I, is this which you mention, if he
employ such friends and faithful men, after having destroyed the former
ones! But at any rate, said he, such he surely does employ. And then his
companions, said I, admire him, and the young citizens flock around him:
but those that are respectable men both hate and fly from him. Of course
they would. It is not without reason, then, said I, that tragedy is
generally thought a wise thing, and that Euripides is thought to excel
in it. Why? Because he uttered this, the result of deep reflection, that
tyrants are wise, by intercourse with the wise;—and he plainly said,
those were wise with whom they hold converse. And he commends tyranny
too, said he, as some divine thing, and says a great deal else about it,
as do the other poets. Those composers then of tragedy, said I, as they
are wise, will forgive both ourselves and others who establish
governments analogous to our own, for not admitting them into our
republic, as being panegyrists of tyranny. Methinks, said he, such of
them, at least, as are well mannered, will forgive us. But they will go
about through other states, methinks, drawing together the crowds, and
put to sale their fine, magnificent, and persuasive words, and so draw
over governments to tyrannies and democracies. Just so. And do they not
further receive rewards and are specially honoured, first by tyrants, as
is natural, and next by a democracy; but the higher they advance in the
forms of government, the more does honour forsake them, disabled as it
were by an asthma from pursuing its progress. Entirely so.

CHAP. XIX.—Thus far, said I, have we digressed: and now let us go back
and talk about the army of the tyrant, beautiful as it is numerous,
multiform, and ever the same,—how it is to be maintained. It is plain,
said he, that whatever sacred things there be in the state, these they
will despoil, and make the sale-proceeds therefrom to be such from time
to time as to cause the commons to pay lighter taxes. But when these
fail, what will they do? It is plain, said he, that he and his
boon-companions, and associates, male and female, will be maintained out
of his paternal inheritance. I understand, said I:—the party that made
the tyrant is to maintain him and his companions. Surely it must be so,
replied he. How, say you? replied I:—if the people were to be enraged,
and say, that it is not just for a son arrived at mature age to be
maintained by the father, but on the contrary, the father by the son,
and that he did not beget and bring him up for this purpose, to be
himself a slave to his slaves after they have grown up, and to maintain
him and his slaves with the rest of the riotous crew,[241]—but rather
that under his auspices he might be liberated from the rich in the the
state, [who are also called the good and worthy]:—and now he orders him
and his companions to leave the state as a father drives from home his
son and his rackety boon-fellows. By Zeus, then, the people, said he,
such as they are, will know what sort of a creature they have begotten,
embraced, and nurtured, and that being themselves the weaker party, they
are still trying to drive out the stronger. How say you, replied I;—will
the tyrant dare to offer violence to his father, and actually strike him
if he will not yield? Yes, said he, for he has stripped him of his
armour. The tyrant, said I, you call a parricide and a hard-hearted
nourisher of old age; and this, as it seems, would be an acknowledged
tyranny; and, as the saying is,—the common people, flying from the smoke
of slavery among freemen, have fallen into the slavish fire of
despotism, and instead of excessive and unreasonable liberty, they
embrace the most rigorous and bitterest captivity of actual slaves.
Aye,—this is very much the case, rejoined he. What then, said I, may it
not be concluded with due consideration, that we have shown in
sufficient detail how tyranny arises out of democracy, and its nature
also, when it does arise? Quite sufficiently, of course, replied he.

-----

Footnote 241:

  Gr. ξυγκλύδων ἄλλων. The word ξύγκλυς means the vilest and most
  worthless scum of the people. Comp. Thucyd. vii. 5, where it is used
  in the same sense.

-----

                      THE END OF THE EIGHTH BOOK.


                                BOOK IX.

                               ARGUMENT.

In the _ninth book_ the discussion of tyranny is concluded with a view
    of its origin and nature in the individual man, who, when thus
    affected, is given up to all kinds of disordered passions that
    effectually exclude him from all chance of happiness. Hence is it,
    that, as good and healthy monarchical government is pre-eminently
    conducive to the highest happiness of the citizens,—so also tyranny
    is unfailingly productive of the most intense and general misery.
    This is proved also from an analysis of the mental faculties, and a
    pretty full account is here given of the desires, pleasures, and
    indulgences by which they are affected, and which must be kept in
    constant subjection by the dominance of reason.

CHAP. I.—We have yet, said I, to consider the tyrannical man himself,
how he arises out of the democratic,—and, when he does arise, what is
his nature, and what kind of life he leads, whether wretched or happy.
Yes, we have, said he. Know you, said I, what I still want? What? We do
not seem to have sufficiently distinguished as regards the desires; what
is their nature and amount; and how many; and while there is any defect
in this, the inquiry we make will not be very clear. Is it not good time
for that yet? I wish to know about them;—for it is this. Of pleasures
and desires that are not necessary, some seem to me contrary to
law,—which indeed seem engendered in all men:—though owing to the
correction of the laws, and of improved desires aided by reason, they
either forsake some men altogether, or are less numerous and feeble,
while in others they are more powerful and more numerous. Will you
inform me what these are? said he. Such, said I, as are excited in
sleep, when the rest of the soul—which is rational, mild, and its
governing principle, is asleep, and when that part which is savage and
rude, being sated with food and drink, frisks about, drives away sleep,
and seeks to go and accomplish its practices;—in such an one, you know,
it dares to do everything, because it is loosed and disengaged from all
modesty and prudence: for, if it pleases, it scruples not at the
embraces, even of a mother, or any one else, whether gods, men, or
beasts; nor to commit murder, nor abstain from any sort of meat,—and in
one word, it is wanting neither in folly nor shamelessness. You speak
most truly, replied he. But when a man is in good health, methinks, and
lives temperately, and goes to sleep, after exciting his reason, and
feasting it with noble reasonings and investigations, having thus
attained to an internal harmony, and given up the appetites neither to
want nor repletion, that they may be at rest, and not disturb that part
which is best, either by joy or grief, but suffer it by itself alone
without interruption to inquire and long to apprehend what it knows
not,—either something of what has existed, or now exists, or will exist
hereafter; and so also, having soothed the spirited part of the soul,
and not allowed it to be hurried into transports of anger, or to fall
asleep with agitated passion;—but after having quieted these two parts
of the soul, and roused to action that third part, in which wisdom
dwells, he will thus take his rest;—you know, that by such an one the
truth is best apprehended, and the visions of his dreams are then least
of all portrayed contrary to the law. I am quite of this opinion, said
he. We have digressed indeed a little too far in talking of these
things;—but what we want to be known is this, that in every one resides
a certain species of desires that are terrible, savage, and irregular,
even in some that we deem ever so moderate:—and this indeed becomes
manifest in sleep.—Now consider, if I seem to be speaking to the
purpose, and whether you agree with me. Aye, indeed, do.

CHAP. II.—As for the people’s man then, recollect how we described him,
as being brought up somehow from infancy under a parsimonious father,
who valued avaricious desires only; and despised all such as were
unnecessary, arising only out of a love of amusement and finery.[242]
Was he not? Yes. But getting acquainted with the more refined, who are
full of the desires just mentioned, running into all sorts of insolence,
and imbibing their manners through detestation of his father’s
parsimony;—and yet having a better natural temper than his corrupters,
and being drawn opposite ways, he at length settles down into a mode of
life equi-distant from either, and so in his opinion, participating
moderately of each, leads a life neither illiberal nor lawless, after
having thus become a democrat instead of an oligarchist. Yes,—this, said
he, was and is our opinion of such an one. Suppose now again, that, when
such an one has become old, he has a young son educated according to his
own habits. I suppose it. And suppose, too, that the same happens to him
as to his father;—that he is drawn into all lawlessness, which his
seducers call all freedom; and that his father and his domestics are
aiding those intermediate desires;—and that others also lend their
assistance (when these clever conjurers and tyrant-makers have no hopes
of otherwise keeping youth in their power), and so contrive to excite in
him a certain love which is to preside over the passive desires, which
distribute what may be at hand to all the rest,—a certain large-winged
drone;[243]—or what else think you, is that kind of love? For my part,
said he, I think, it is no other than this. Well,—when the rest of the
desires buzz about him, full of their odours and perfumes, and crowns
and wines, and the dissolute pleasures belonging to such
associations,—and at last by their increase and nurture, add to the
drone a sting of desire, then truly he is sentinelled by madness as a
life-guard, and this president of the soul becomes frenzied; and even
should he find in himself any opinions or desires which are deemed good
and modest, he kills them and pushes them from him, till he has ridded
himself of temperance and has become brimful of madness. You perfectly
describe, said he, the formation of a tyrannical man. Is it not for some
such reason as this, said I, that love has of old been said to be a
tyrant? It seems so, replied he. Well, my friend, said I, and is not a
drunken man likewise somewhat of a tyrannical spirit? He is indeed. And
besides that, he that is mad and disturbed in his mind, undertakes and
hopes to be able to govern not only men, but the gods as well. Entirely
so, said he. The tyrannical character then, happy man! becomes so in
full perfection, when either by temper or pursuits, or both, he becomes
drunken and given up to love and melancholy. Perfectly so, indeed.

-----

Footnote 242:

  This refers to the description of the δημοκρατικὸς in book viii. ch.
  12.

Footnote 243:

  Gr. προστάτην τῶν ἀργῶν καὶ τὰ ἕτοιμα διανεμομένων ἐπιθυμιῶν,
  ὑπόπτερον καὶ μέγαν κηφῆνά τινα. This is perhaps the best
  rendering;—but the passage is somewhat obscure.

-----

CHAP. III.—Such an one, it seems, then, is thus engendered,—but how does
he pass his life?—Just as they say in their games, replied he;—“this you
shall tell me too.” I will tell you then, said I;—for I think, that in
the next place, they have feastings and revellings and banquetings and
mistresses, and all such things as may be expected among those with whom
dwells the tyrant love, and governing all in the soul. Necessarily so,
said he. Will there not then, each day and night, blossom forth numerous
fierce desires, eagerly in want of many things? Many indeed. And if they
get any supplies [of their wishes,] these are soon spent? Of course. And
after this there are borrowings and forfeitures of property?[244] Of
course. And when everything fails them, must it not follow, that while
the numerous and powerful desires nestled in the mind, will on the one
hand raise a clamour, the men, on the other hand, who are driven and
goaded by the rest of the passions, but especially by love itself, which
commands all the others as its life-guards, will rage with phrensy, and
seek after people’s property, to see if they can plunder it either by
fraud or violence? Quite so, said he. Of necessity, then, they must
either plunder from all quarters, or else be hampered with great pain
and anguish. Necessarily so. And as in such a man his new pleasures are
greater than those he had before, and depreciate the value of the
others, will he not similarly deem it right for himself, however young,
to have more than his father and mother, and to take away from them,
when he has spent his own portion, applying to his own use what belongs
to his parents? Of course he will, replied he. And if they will not give
it up to him, will he not at first try to pilfer or defraud his parents?
By all means. And should he be unable to do this, he will next use
rapine and violence? I think so, replied he. But supposing, my fine
fellow, that the old man and woman fall out and fight, will he not be
very cautious and wary of doing what is tyrannical? I, for my part, said
he, am not quite sure about the safety of such a person’s parents. But
by Zeus, Adimantus, think you, that for the sake of a newly beloved and
unnecessary mistress, such a person would abandon his long loved and
closely connected mother; or for the sake of a youth newly loved and
with whom he has no ties, give up to stripes his withered but
time-honoured father, and the most ancient of all his friends, suffering
them to be the slaves of these others, by bringing them into the same
house? Yes, by Zeus, I do, said he. It seems indeed, said I, a vastly
blessed thing to be the father of a tyrannical son! Not at all so, said
he. But what, when the father and mother’s riches are beginning to fail
such an one, and when the great swarm of pleasures has been already
collected within him, will he not be the first to scale the wall of some
house, or strip some one of his coat late at night, and after that rifle
some temple?—And in all these acts, as respects the opinions which he
formerly held from boyhood, and which guided his decisions concerning
good and evil, the passions, that are newly loosed from slavery and
placed as the body-guards of Love, will prevail therewith;—and these
indeed had only just been loosed from their dreamy sleep, when he was
himself still under the law and governed by his father, as under a
democracy:—yet afterwards, when tyrannized over by love, such as he
rarely was when in his dreams, he will ever be when awake, nor will he
abstain from slaughter, however horrid, or food, or any deed
whatever:—but that tyrant love within him, living without restraint of
law or government, as if it were sole monarch, will lead on the man it
possesses, as it would a state, to every act of madness, whereby he can
support himself and the mob of passions about him, which partly entering
from without, through evil company, and partly through the manners of
the man and his associates, have been unchained and set at liberty: now
is not this the life of such an one? It is this truly, said he. And if,
said I, there be, only a few such in the state, and the rest of the
people are sober, they go out and serve as guards to other tyrants, or
assist them for hire in case of war: but remain at home during peace and
quiet, giving rise in the state to a great many minor evils. What mean
you? Such as these: they steal, break open houses, cut purses, strip
people of their clothes, rifle temples, make people slaves, and, where
they can speak, sometimes turn false informers, give false testimony,
and take bribes.[245] These then you call minor mischiefs, said he,—if
there be but a few such persons. What is small, said I, is small in
comparison to the great; and all these things with regard to the tyrant,
when compared with the wickedness and misery of the state, do not, as
the saying is, come near the mark; for when the state has many such, and
others for their companions, and when they perceive their own number,
then these are the persons who, led by the people’s folly, elevate to
the tyranny the man among them who has within his soul most of the
tyrant, and in the greatest strength. Probably so, indeed, said he; for
he will be most suited for a tyrant. Of course, if they voluntarily
submit to him:—but if the state will not allow him to use the violence
towards them, with which he formerly treated his father and mother, so
he will now again, if he can, chastise his country by bringing in his
youthful associates, and enslaving under them, as the Cretans say, his
once dear mother-land and father-land:—and this will of course be the
issue of such a man’s desire. Entirely so, said he. Do not these then
behave thus in private life, said I;—even before becoming rulers; first
with the company they keep, either associating with their own flatterers
and those who are ready to supply their every want; or if they ask one
for anything, falling down as suppliants, and deigning to assume the
disguise of friends; but after they have gained their own purposes,
acting as foes? Quite so. Throughout life then they live as real friends
to no one whatever, but always either as masters or slaves to
another;—because for liberty and true friendship the tyrant’s nature has
no relish whatever. Quite so. May we not rightly call these men
faithless? Of course. And as unjust, moreover, as they possibly can be,
if indeed we, in what we said before were rightly agreed as to the
nature of justice? Aye, we were quite right, said he. Let us then give a
summary account, said I, of this worst man of ours; he is the same kind
of person, awake perhaps, whom we just described as asleep. Entirely so.
And does not that man become such, who with a tyrannical nature holds
the sovereign sway, and the longer he lives in tyrant-life become so
more and more? Necessarily so, replied Glaucon, taking up the discourse.

-----

Footnote 244:

  Gr. δανεισμοὶ καὶ τῆς οὐσίας παραιρέσεις, lit. _the borrowing of money
  on usury, and the seizure of property for non-payment_.

Footnote 245:

  These grave crimes are almost similarly enumerated in the Gorgias, p.
  508 e, and also by Xenophon, Mem. i. ch. 2, s. 62.

-----

CHAP. IV.—And will not the man, said I, who appears the most wicked,
appear likewise the most wretched; and will not he who holds the tyranny
longest and exercises it most, be really such in the greatest measure
and for the longest time?—but many as are men, so many are their minds.
Of necessity, said he, these things must be so. And would not the tyrant
man, said I, as closely resemble a state under tyranny, as the
democratic man resembles the state under democracy, and so likewise as
respects the others? Of course. As state then is to state with regard to
virtue and happiness, so surely will man be to man likewise? Of course.
What then is the state governed by a tyrant as compared with one under a
kingly government,—such as we first described? The exact contrary, said
he; for the one is best, and the other the worst. I will not ask, said
I, which you mean, for that is plain; but do you judge is it thus or
otherwise, that you judge of their happiness and misery?—and let us not
be struck with admiration when considering the tyrant himself, or the
few about him; but let us, as we ought, enter into the whole state, and
declare our opinion, after going through and viewing every part. You
propose what is right, said he:—and it is clear to all that no state is
more wretched than one under tyranny, and none more happy than that
under regal power. Well then, said I, in proposing these same things
with respect to individual men, should I rightly propose, if I accounted
that man a suitable judge of them, who can by intellectual power
penetrate into and inspect a man’s disposition, and is not, as a child
looking at exteriors, astounded by the pomp, which tyrants exhibit to
those without, but has the power of looking properly through him? If
then I thought that we should all listen to the man, who from having
dwelt with him in the same house, and been joined in his family
transactions, is able to judge how he behaves to each of his domestics,
[in which most especially a man appears stripped of his actor’s finery,]
and so also in public dangers; and if when he has observed all this, I
were to bid him declare how the tyrant stands, as regards happiness and
misery, in comparison with others.[246] You would be quite right in
proposing this, observed he. Are you willing then, said I, that we
should set up to be of the number of those who are able to judge, and
who have already fallen in with such characters, so that we may have
some one to answer our questions? By all means.

-----

Footnote 246:

  Euripides, Jon. v. 621-4, has a similar sentiment beautifully
  expressed:—

                  τυραννίδος δὲ τῆς μάτην αἰνουμένης
                  τὸ μὲν πρόσωπον ἡδὺ τἀν δόμοισι δὲ
                  λυπηρά· τίς γὰρ μακάριος τίς εὐτυχής,
                  ὅστις δεδοικὼς καὶ περιβλέπων βίαν
                  αἰῶνα τείνει;

-----

CHAP. V.—Come then, said I, thus consider it:—call to mind the mutual
resemblance of the state and individual man; and thus, considering each
by turns, describe to us the passions of each. What passions? said he.
To begin first, said I, with the state;—do you call the one under
tyranny, free or enslaved? Enslaved, said he, in the greatest degree
possible. And moreover, you see in it some who are masters and freemen?
I see some indeed, said he, but exceedingly few:—but the greatest and
best part therein generally is shamefully and wretchedly enslaved. If
then, said I, the individual man resembles the state, will he not
necessarily be placed under like circumstances, and his soul be filled
with slavery and illiberality, and those parts of it too be enslaved
which were the most noble, and that small part of it too assume the
mastery, which is the most wicked and insane of all? Quite so, said he.
What then,—will you say, that such a soul is slavish or free? Slavish
perhaps, I say. But is not the state that is slavish, and governed by
tyranny, least of all able to do what it likes? Aye,—quite so. And
speaking of a soul generally, will it not, when governed by tyranny,
least of all do what it likes,—but being constantly hurried by some
stinging passion, be full of tumult and inconstancy? Of course it must
be so. But will the state governed by tyranny be necessarily rich or
poor? Poor. And must a soul under a tyranny then be ever penurious and
insatiable? Just so, said he. But what,—must not such a state and such
an individual be necessarily full of fear? It must be so. As for
lamentations, and groans, and weepings, and torments, think you that you
would find more in any other kind of state? By no means. And in a man,
think you that such things exist in any one to a greater extent than in
this tyrannical one who is maddened by his desires and lusts? How can
they? said he. It is with reference, I suppose, then to all these, and
other such like things, that you have deemed this the most wretched of
all states? Was I not right then in doing so? said he. Certainly, said
I. But what say you again as respects the tyrannical man, with regard to
these same things? That he is by far, said he, the most wretched of all
in the world. This, replied I, you are not quite correct in saying. How?
said he. He is not as yet, methinks, said I, as unhappy as he can be.
But who is so? The following person probably you will deem even yet more
miserable than the other. Which? That man, said I, who being naturally
tyrannical, remains not in private life, but is unfortunate enough to be
induced by his destiny to become a tyrant. From what has been formerly
observed, said he, I presume that what you say is true. Yes, said I;—but
we ought not merely to conjecture about matters so important as these,
but to sift them to the bottom, in the way we are now about to do;[247]
for most momentous is the inquiry about a good life and a bad one. Quite
right, said he. Consider, then, whether there be anything in what I say;
for, in considering this question, it is my opinion that we ought to
perceive it from what follows. From what? From every individual private
man, among such as are rich, and possess many slaves; for these have at
least this resemblance to tyrants, that they rule over many,—the
difference being in the multitude of the latter. Aye,—there is some
difference. Are you sure then that these live securely, without dread of
their domestics? Aye.—for what should they fear? Nothing, said I; but do
you understand the reason? Yes;—because the whole state assists each
particular individual. You say right, replied I:—but what,—if one of the
gods were to take a man who had fifty slaves or upwards out of the
state,—both himself, his wife, and children,—and set them down in a
desert with the rest of his property, and his domestics, where no
freemen would be likely to lend him aid,—what kind of fear, think you,
he would entertain about himself, his children, and his wife, of being
destroyed by the domestics? The greatest possible, methinks, replied he.
Would he not be obliged to flatter some of his very slaves and make them
many promises, and set them at liberty without need, and so appear to be
himself the flatterer of servants? He must of course be compelled to do
so, said he, or else be destroyed. But what, said I;—if the god were to
place round him many other neighbours who could not endure for any one
to pretend to lord it over another,—and, wherever they find such an one,
punished him with extreme rigour? Methinks, he would be still more
distressed, said he, when thus beset by a whole host of foes. And is not
the tyrant bound in such a prison-house, if he be of such disposition as
we have described,—full of many and all kinds of aversions and desires;
and whilst he is most eager in his soul, he alone of all in the state is
not allowed to go abroad, or to see what others love to see, but huddles
himself at home, and lives mostly as a woman, envying the other
citizens, whenever they travel abroad, and see what is good? Wholly so,
of course, replied he.

-----

Footnote 247:

  Gr. οὐκ οἴεσθαι χρὴ τὰ τοιαῦτα, ἀλλ’ εὖ μάλα τῷ τοιούτῳ λόγῳ σκοπεῖν;

-----

CHAP. VI.—Well, then, through such evils as these, does not the man reap
still more, who, being ill-governed within himself, [a person whom you
just now deemed to be the most of all wretched,] remains not in private
station, but through some fortune or other is obliged to act the tyrant,
and, though unable to control himself, attempts to govern others, as if
with a body diseased, and unable to support itself, one were compelled
to live not in a state of privacy, but in wrestling and fighting against
other bodies? What you say, Socrates, replied he, is altogether most
probable and true. Is not this condition, then, dear Glaucon, said I,
altogether wretched; and does not the tyrant live more wretchedly even
than the man that you conceive to live the most wretchedly of all? Quite
so, replied he. True is it, then, though one may fancy otherwise, that
the really tyrannical man is really a slave to the greatest flatteries
and slaveries, and a flatterer of the most abandoned men; and without
ever in the smallest degree satisfying his desires, he is of all men
most in want of most things, and poor indeed, if one could but look into
his whole soul, and full of fear throughout life, filled with terrors
and griefs,—if, indeed, he resembles the constitution of the state he
rules:—and he does resemble it; does he not? Extremely, said he.

And in addition to this, shall we not ascribe also to the tyrant-man
what we formerly mentioned that he must necessarily be, and by governing
become increasingly, envious, faithless, unjust, unfriendly,
impious,—the entertainer and encourager of all vice; and from all these
causes be specially happy himself, and render all about him happy
likewise? No one of understanding will, said he, contradict you. Come,
then, said I, as a judge who is examining the whole case; so tell
me,—who, in your opinion, is first in happiness, and who second, and the
rest in order, five in all; namely, the regal, the timocratic, the
oligarchal, the democratic, and the tyrannic. Easy, indeed, is this
decision, said he:—for as they came before us, I have judged of them as
public actors, by their virtue and vice,—happiness and its contrary.
Shall we then hire ourselves a herald? said I; or shall I myself
declare, that the son of Ariston has judged the best and justest man to
be the happiest, [and that this is the man who is fittest to be as king,
and as king too over himself;] and that the worst and the most unjust is
the most wretched; and that he is the most tyrannical, who in the
greatest degree tyrannizes over himself and the state? So let it be
pronounced by you, said he. Must I, then, state in addition, said I,
whether they be unknown to be such or not, to all men, and the gods too?
Pray do so, said he.

CHAP. VII.—Well then, said I;—-this would seem to be one of our proofs;
and this, if you please, must be the second. Which is this? Since the
soul, said I, of every individual is divided into three parts, just as
we divided our state, it will, in my opinion, admit of a second
illustration. What is that? It is this:—of the parts of the soul there
appear to me to be three pleasures, one peculiar to each, with desires
and governments in like manner. How say you? replied he. One part we
say, by which a man learns, another by which he is roused to spirit; but
as for the third, it is so multiform, that we cannot express it by any
one word peculiar to itself, but have named it from the greatest and
most impetuous part thereof; calling it the desiderative, from the
impetuosity of the desires for eating and drinking, and sexual
pleasures, and such-like enjoyments, and calling it money-loving also,
as it is through wealth most especially that such desires are
accomplished. And we said rightly, replied he. Well, then, if we are to
call it the pleasure and delight in gain, shall we not do best to reduce
it under one head in our discourse, so that we may have something quite
clear to ourselves, when we are speaking of this part of the soul? And
in calling it money-loving, and profit-loving, shall we not be giving it
its proper term? Yes, I think so, said he. But what; do not we say, that
the spirited principle ought to be wholly impelled to superiority,
victory, and applause? Especially so. If, then, we term it the
contentious and ambitious, shall we not accurately express it? Most
accurately. But [as regards that part of the soul] by which we gain
knowledge, it is clear to every one, that it is wholly intent on always
knowing the truth, wherever it may be; and as to wealth and glory, least
of all does it care for these. Just so. By terming it, then, the love of
learning, and philosophy, we shall be defining it correctly? Of course.
And in these people’s souls, said I, one governs in some, and the other
in others, as it happens? Just so, said he. This was why we said then,
that of men also there were three original species; the philosophic, the
ambitious, and the avaricious? Surely so. And likewise three species of
pleasures,—corresponding to each of the others? Yes, certainly. You
know, then, said I, that if you were to ask these three men, by turns,
which of these lives is the pleasantest, each would most commend his
own; and the money-maker would say, that, compared with the pleasures of
acquiring wealth, those arising from honour, or learning, are of no
value, unless they bring in money? True, said he. And what says the
ambitious man? said I: does not he deem the pleasure arising from
money-making a sort of burden;—and again, that which arises from
learning, unless it bring him honour, mere smoke and trifling? So it is,
said he. And as for the philosopher, said I, we may suppose that he
deems all other pleasures in comparison with that of knowing the nature
of truth as a mere nothing, and that, while constantly employed in
learning something of this kind, he is not far off from pleasure,—and
calls them really necessary, because he wanted none else, except when
compelled by necessity.[248] This, said he, you should well know.

-----

Footnote 248:

  The real _spiritual_ nature of this truth is beautifully expressed in
  the Phædo, p. 67 a:—καὶ ἐν ᾧ ἂν ζῶμεν, οὕτως—ἐγγυτάτω ἐσόμεθα τοῦ
  εἰδέναι, ἐὰν ὅτι μάλιστα μηδὲν ὁμιλῶμεν τῷ σώματι μηδὲ κοινωνῶμεν, ὅτι
  μὴ πᾶσα ἀνάγκη, μηδὲ ἀναπιμπλώμεθα τῆς τούτου φύσεως, ἀλλὰ καθαρεύωμεν
  ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ, ἕως ἂν ὁ Θεὸς αὐτὸς ἀπολύσῃ ἡμᾶς.

-----

CHAP. VIII.—When these several lives then, said I, and the pleasures
peculiar to each, are at variance with each other, not with reference to
a mode of life, worthier or more base, worse or better,—but merely with
reference to living more pleasantly or painfully;—how can we know which
of the two speaks most in accordance with truth? I am not, said he,
quite able to tell. But consider it thus:—by what criterion ought we to
judge about matters rightly presented for our judgment;—is it not by
experience, prudence, and reason,—or can we find any better criterion
than these? How can we? said he. Consider now;—of the three men, who is
the most experienced in all the pleasures?—Think you that the
money-loving man, by learning the real nature of truth, gains more
experience in the pleasure arising from knowledge, than the philosopher
has in that resulting from the acquisition of wealth? There is a great
difference, said he: for the philosopher must necessarily from early
childhood taste the other pleasures; but what it is to know real beings,
and how sweet is its pleasure, the money-getting man need not taste, or
become experienced therein;—nay, indeed, it is no easy matter, even
should he earnestly try to accomplish it. The philosopher then, said I,
far surpasses the money-getting man, at least in experience of both the
pleasures. Far indeed. But what as regards the ambitious man—has he any
more experience in the pleasure arising from honour, than the
philosopher in that which arises from the exercise of intellect? Honour,
indeed, said he, attends them all, if each obtains his object: for the
rich man is honoured by many, and so is the brave, and the wise; so all
of them have experience, as to the kind of pleasure attending honour,
but in the contemplation of being itself, as to the pleasure which it
gives, it is impossible for any other than the philosopher to have
tasted it. On the ground of experience then, said I, he of all men is
the best judge. By far. And surely, including prudence also, he alone
has experience. Of course. But the organ, by which these pleasures must
be judged, is not the organ of the money-getter, nor of the ambitious
man, but of the philosopher. Which is that? We said somewhere, that they
must be judged of by reason,—did we not? Yes. But reasoning is chiefly
the organ of the philosopher? Of course it is. If then the things to be
determined could be best determined by riches and gain, what the
money-getting man commended, or despised, would necessarily be most
agreeable to truth? Quite so. And if by honour, victory, and
courage,—must it not be as the ambitious and contentious man determined?
It is evident. But since it is by experience, prudence, and reason, it
follows of course, said he, that what is praised by the philosopher and
the lover of reason must be the most true.—Of the three pleasures, then,
that which belongs to that part of the soul by which we learn most is
the most pleasant, and that man in whom this part of us holds the chief
sway lives the pleasantest life. How can it be doubted? said he:—for the
wise man, who has the supreme right to commend, commends his own life.
But which life, said I, does our judge pronounce the second, and which
the second pleasure? Plainly, that of the warlike and ambitious man; for
this is nearer to his own than that of the money-getter. And that of the
covetous, as it appears, is last of all? Of course, said he.

CHAP. IX.—These things then will succeed one another in order; and the
just man will twice prevail over the unjust:—the third victory now, as
at the Olympic games, is sacred to Olympian Zeus, the Saviour; for you
must consider, that, with the exception of that of the wise man, the
pleasure of the others is by no means genuine nor pure, but somehow
shadowed over, as I think I have myself heard from one of the wise
men:—and this truly would be the greatest and most complete downfal.
Extremely so;—but how mean you? I will thus trace it out, said I, whilst
in searching you answer my questions. Ask then, said he. Tell me then,
said I, do we not say that pain is contrary to pleasure? Quite so. And
do we not say likewise, that to feel neither pleasure nor pain is
something? We say it is. And that the state between both of these is a
certain tranquillity of the soul with reference to them;—do you not so
understand it? Just so, he replied. Do you not remember, said I, the
speeches of the diseased, which they utter when they are sick? What are
they? That nothing is sweeter than health, but that it escaped their
notice before they became sick, that it was the sweetest. I remember it,
said he. And are you not wont to hear those who are under acute pain
say, that there is nothing sweeter than a cessation from pain? I do hear
them. And you may perceive the same thing in men, I think, when they are
in other but similar circumstances, where, if in pain, they extol a
freedom from pain and the tranquillity of such a state, as being most
sweet, though they do not extol that of feeling joy. Because perhaps the
latter, said he, becomes at that time sweet and desirable,—namely,
tranquillity. And when any one ceases, said I, from feeling joy, the
tranquillity of pleasure will be painful. Perhaps so, said he. This
tranquillity, then, which we just now said was between the two, will at
times become both pain and pleasure. It seems so. What,—is it possible,
that what is neither of the two should become both? I do not think so.
And moreover, when what is pleasant or painful is in the soul, both
sensations are a certain excitement; are they not? Yes. But did not that
which is neither painful nor pleasant appear just now to be
tranquillity, and between these two? It did appear so. How is it right,
then, to deem it sweet not to be in pain, or painful not to enjoy
pleasure? It is by no means right. In these cases, then, tranquillity is
not really so, said I; but it appears pleasant by comparison with the
painful, and painful compared with the pleasant; and there is nothing
genuine in these appearances as regards the truth of pleasure, but a
certain magical delusion. Aye,—just as our argument proves, he replied.
Consider the pleasures then, said I, which do not arise from the
cessation of pain, so as not frequently during our discussion to hold
the frequent notion that these two naturally thus subsist; viz., that
pleasure is the cessation of pain, and pain the cessation of pleasure.
How, said he, and to what pleasures do you allude? There are many
others, said I, particularly if you wish to consider the pleasures that
arise from smell; for these, without any preceding pain, are on a sudden
immensely great, and, when they cease, they leave no pain behind them.
Most true, said he. Let us not then be persuaded that pure pleasure is
the removal of pain, or pain the removal of pleasure. No, we will not.
But yet, said I, those which extend through the body to the soul, and
which are called pleasures, the greatest part of them almost, and the
most considerable, are of this species,—certain cessations from pain?
They are so. And are not the preconceptions of pleasure and pain, which
arise in the mind from their expectation, of the same kind? Of the same.

CHAP. X.—Do you know then, said I, of what class they are, and what they
chiefly resemble? What? said he. Do you conceive, said I, there is any
such thing in nature as this, the above, the below, and the middle? I
do. Do you think then that any one, when brought from the below to the
middle, imagines anything else than that he is brought to the above; and
when he stands in the middle, and looks down whence he was brought, will
he imagine that he is anywhere else than above, whilst yet he has not
seen the true above? By Zeus, said he, I do not think that such an one
will imagine otherwise. But if he should again, said I, be carried to
the below, he would conjecture he was carried to the below, and
conjecture rightly? He would of course. Would he not be thus affected
from his want of experience in what is really above, and in the middle,
and below? Plainly so. Would you wonder then, that while men are
inexperienced in the truth, they have unsound opinions about many other
things,—and that as to pleasure and pain, and what is between these,
they are likewise affected in the same manner; so that, even when they
are brought to what is painful, they conceive truly, and are really
pained; but when from pain they are brought to the middle, they strongly
imagine that they have arrived at the highest pitch of pleasure, in the
same manner as those, who along with the black colour look at the gray,
through inexperience of the white, and so are deceived? and just so
those who consider pain along with the freedom from pain, are deceived
through inexperience of pleasure. By Zeus, said he, I should not wonder,
but much rather if it were not so. Consider the matter thus, said I; are
not hunger and thirst, and such-like things, certain emptinesses in the
bodily habit? Of course. And are not ignorance and folly an emptiness in
the habit of the soul? Quite so. And is not the one filled when it
receives food, and the other when it acquires intelligence? Surely. But
which is the more real repletion, that of the less, or the more truly
real being? It is plain, that of the more real. Which species, then, do
you think, participate most of a purer essence; those which partake of
bread and drink, and meat, and all such sort of nourishment; or that
species which partakes of true opinion and science, and intelligence,
and, in short, of all virtue?—And judge of it thus:—That which is
connected with what is always similar, and immortal, and true, and is so
of itself, and arises in what is of the same character, think you that
it has more of the reality of being, than what is connected to what is
never similar and mortal, and is such itself, and is generated in a
thing of the same character? Aye, said he, this differs greatly from
that which is always similar. Does then the essence of that which is
always similar participate more of essence than of science? By no means.
But what as regards truth? Nor of this neither. If it participate less
of truth, does it not likewise do so of essence? Of necessity. In short,
then, do not those species which relate to the care of the body partake
less of truth and essence, than those relating to the care of the soul?
By far. And the body likewise less than the soul; do you not think so? I
do. Is not that which is filled with more real beings, and is itself a
more real being, in reality more truly filled than that which is filled
with less real beings, and is itself a less real being? Of course it is.
If then it be pleasant to be filled with what is suitable to nature,
that which is in reality filled, and with more real being, must be made
both more really and more truly to enjoy true pleasure; but that which
participates of less real being, must be less truly and solidly filled,
and participates of a more uncertain and less genuine pleasure. Most
necessarily, said he. Such then as are unacquainted with wisdom and
virtue, and are always conversant in feastings and things of that kind,
are carried, as it appears, to the below, and back again to the
middle;—and there they wander during life:—but as they never pass beyond
this, they do not look towards the true above, and are not carried to
it; nor are they ever really filled with real being; nor have they ever
tasted solid and pure pleasure; but, after the manner of brutes looking
always downwards, bowed towards earth and their tables, they live
feeding and coupling; and from a lust for such things, they kick and
push at one another as with iron horns and hoofs, and perish through
their own insatiety, just like those who are filling with unreal being
that which is no real being, nor friendly to themselves. You are
describing, Socrates, with quite oracular perfection, rejoined Glaucon,
what is the life of the multitude. Must they not then, of necessity be
conversant with pleasures mixed with pains, images of the true pleasure,
shadowed in outline, and coloured by their position beside each other;
so that both their pleasures and pains will appear vehement, and
engender their mad passions in the foolish? Hence also they must fight
about these things, as Stesichorus says those at Troy fought about the
image of Helen, through ignorance of the true one. Of necessity, said
he, something of this kind must take place.

CHAP. XI.—But what? must not the same things necessarily happen to the
irascible part of the soul, whenever any one gratifies it, either
through envy from ambition, or violence from contentiousness, or anger
from moroseness, pursuing a glut of honour, of conquest, and of anger,
both without reason, and without intelligence? Such things as these,
said he, must necessarily happen with relation to this part of the soul.
What then, said I;—can we confidently say concerning all the pleasures,
both as respects the avaricious and the ambitious part, that such of
them as obey science and reason, and, in conjunction therewith, pursue
and obtain the pleasures of which the prudent part of the soul is the
leader, that these will obtain the truest pleasures, as far as it is
possible for them to attain true pleasure, and in as much as they follow
truth, pleasures properly their own; if indeed what is best for each be
most properly his own? Aye, it surely is most properly his own, said he.
When then the whole soul is obedient to the philosophic part, and there
is no sedition in it, then every part in other respects performs its
proper business, and is just, and also reaps its own pleasures, and such
as are the best, and as far as is possible the most genuine. Certainly,
indeed. But when any of the others governs, it happens that it neither
attains its own pleasures, and it compels the other parts to pursue a
pleasure foreign to them, and not at all genuine. It does so, said he.
Will not then those parts, which are most remote from philosophy and
reason most especially effect such things? Very much so. And is not that
which is most remote from law and order, most remote likewise from
reason? It plainly is. And have not the amorous and the tyrannical
desires appeared to be most remote from law and order? Extremely so. And
the royal and the moderate ones, the least remote? Yes. The tyrant then,
I think, will be the most remote from true pleasure, and such as is most
properly his own, and the other will be the least. Of necessity. And the
tyrant, said I, will lead a life the most unpleasant, and the king the
most pleasant. Of great necessity. Do you know then, said I, how much
more unpleasant a life the tyrant leads than the king? If you tell me,
said he. As there are three pleasures, as it seems, one legitimate, and
two illegitimate; the tyrant in carrying the legitimate to extremity,
and flying from law and reason, dwells with slavish pleasures as his
life-guardians, and how far he is inferior cannot easily be told, unless
it be done in this manner. How? said he. The tyrant is somehow in the
third degree remote from the oligarchic character; for the democratic
was halfway between them. Yes. Will he not then dwell in the third
picture of pleasure, distant from him as regards truth, if our former
reasonings be true? Just so. But the oligarchic is the third again from
the royal, if we suppose the aristocratic and the royal the same? He is
the third. The tyrant then, said I, is remote from true pleasure, the
third from the third? So it seems. A plain surface then, said I, may be
the image of tyrannical pleasure, as to the computation of length.
Certainly. But as to power, and the third augment, it is manifest by how
great a distance it is remote. It is manifest, said he, to the computer
at least. If now, conversely, any one shall say the king is distant from
the tyrant as to truth of pleasure, as much as is the distance 9, and
20, and 700, shall he not, on completing the multiplication, find him
leading the more pleasant life, and the tyrant the more wretched one, by
this same distance?[249] You have heaped up, said he, a prodigious
account of the difference between these two men, the just and the
unjust, with reference to pleasure and pain. Yet the numbers are true,
said I, and corresponding to their lives, if indeed days, and nights,
and months, and years, correspond to them. But they do correspond, said
he. If then the good and just man surpasses so far the evil and unjust
man in pleasure, in what a prodigious degree further shall he surpass
him in decorum of life, in beauty, and in virtue! Prodigious, indeed, by
Zeus, he replied.

-----

Footnote 249:

  The following numbers are employed by Plato in this place. He
  considers the _Royal_ character as analogous to unity, the Oligarchic
  to the number 3, and the Tyrannic to the number 9. As 3 therefore is
  triple of unity, the Oligarchic is the third from the Royal character;
  and in a similar manner the Tyrant is distant from the Oligarchist by
  the triple in number; for 9 is the triple of 3, just as 3 is the
  triple of 1. But 9 is a plane number, the length of which is 3, and
  also its breadth. And a tyrannic, says Plato, is the last image of a
  royal life. He also calls 3 a _power_, because unity being multiplied
  by it, and itself by itself, and 9 by it, there will be produced 3, 9,
  27. But he calls the third augment 27, arising from the multiplication
  of the power 3, and producing depth or a solid number. Lastly, 27
  multiplied into itself produces 729, which may be considered as a
  perfect multiplication, this number being the 6th power of 3; and 6 as
  is well known is a perfect number. Hence, as the King is analogous to
  1, he is said, by Plato, to be 729 times distant from the Tyrant.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Well then, said I, since we have reached this part of our
argument, let us recapitulate what we first said, on account of which we
came hither: now it was said, if I mistake not, that it is advantageous
to one who is thoroughly unjust, but who has the character of being
just, to commit injustice. Was it not so said? It was indeed. Now then,
said I, let us settle this point, since we have now settled the other,
with reference to acting justly and unjustly, what power each of these
possesses in itself. How? said he. Let us ideally fashion an image of
the soul, that the man who said those things may know what he said. What
kind of image? said he. One of those creatures, said I, which are fabled
to have been of old, as that of Chimæra, of Scylla, of Cerberus; and
many others are spoken of, where many particular natures existed
together in one. They are spoken of indeed, said he. Let us form now the
figure of a creature, various, and many-headed,[250] having all around
heads of tame creatures, and of wild, and having power in itself of
changing all these heads, and of breeding them out of itself. This is
the work, said he, of a skilful modeller: however, as the formation is
easier in reasoning, than in wax and such-like, let it be formed. Let
there be now one other figure of a lion[251] and one of a man; but let
the first be by far the greatest, and the second be the second in bulk.
These are easy, said he, and they are formed. Unite now these three in
one, so that they may somehow coexist. They are united, said he. Form
now around them the external appearance of one of them, that of the man;
so that to one who is not able to see what is within, but who perceives
only the external covering, the man may appear one creature. It is
formed all round, said he. Let us now tell him who asserts that it is
profitable to this man to do injustice, but to do justice unprofitable,
that he asserts nothing else, than that it is profitable for him to
feast the multiform creature, and to make it strong; and likewise the
lion, and what respects the lion, whilst the man he kills with famine,
and renders weak, so as to be dragged whichever way either of those drag
him; and that he will also find it advantageous never to accustom the
one to live in harmony with the other, nor to make them friends, but
suffer them to bite one another, and to fight and devour each other. He,
said he, who commends the doing injustice, undoubtedly asserts these
things. And does not he again, who says it is advantageous to act
justly, say that he ought to do and to say such things by which the
inner man shall come to have the most entire command of the man, and, as
a tiller of the ground, shall take care of the many-headed creature,
cherishing the mild ones, and nourishing them, and hindering the wild
ones from growing up, taking the nature of the lion as his ally, and,
having a common care for all, make them friendly to one another, and to
himself, and so nourish them? He who commends justice undoubtedly says
such things as these. In all respects, then, he who commends justice
would seem to speak the truth, but he who commends injustice, to speak
what is false; for, as respects pleasure, applause, and profit, he who
commends justice speaks the truth, and he who discommends it speaks
nothing genuine; nor does he discommend with understanding what he
discommends. Not at all, said he, as appears to me at least. Let us then
in a mild manner persuade him (for it is not willingly he errs), asking
him, O blessed man! do not we say that the maxims of things beautiful
and base become so upon such accounts as these? Those are good which
make the brutal part of our nature most subject to the man, or rather
perhaps to that which is divine; while those are evil which enslave the
mild part of our nature to the brutal:—will he agree with us,—or how? He
will, if he be advised by me, said he. Is there then any one, said I,
whom it avails, from this reasoning, to take gold unjustly, supposing
something of this kind to happen, if, while taking the money, he at the
same time subjects the best part of himself to the worst? Or, if, taking
gold, he should enslave a son or daughter, and that even to savage and
wicked men, shall we not say this would not avail him, not though he
should receive for it a prodigious sum? But if he enslaves the most
divine part of himself to the most impious and most polluted part,
without any pity, is he not wretched? and does he not take a gift of
gold to his far more dreadful ruin, than Eriphyle did when she received
the necklace for her husband’s life? By far, said Glaucon; for I will
answer you for him.

-----

Footnote 250:

  By this many-headed beast, _desire_ is signified.

Footnote 251:

  The lion signifies _anger_, and the figure of a man _reason_; for the
  whole soul is divided into reason, anger, and desire.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—Do you not, then, think that intemperance has of old been
blamed on these accounts, because in such persons that terrible, great,
and multiform beast was indulged more than was decent? Plainly so, said
he. And are not arrogance and moroseness blamed, when the lion-like and
serpentine disposition increases and stretches beyond measure?
Certainly. And are not luxury and effeminacy blamed because of the
remissness and looseness of this disposition, when it engenders
cowardice in the man? What else? Are not flattery and illiberality
blamed, when any one makes this irascible part itself subject to the
brutal crew, and, for the sake of wealth and its insatiable lust,
accustoms the irascible to be affronted from its youth, and instead of a
lion to become an ape? Entirely so, said he. But why is it, do you
think, that mechanical arts and handicrafts bring disgrace? Shall we say
it is on any other account than this, that when a man has the form of
that which is best in his soul naturally weak, so as not to be able to
govern the creatures within himself, but ministers to them, he is able
only to learn what flatters them? It is likely, said he. In order then
that such an one may be governed in the same manner as the best man is,
do we not say that he must be the servant of one who is the best, and
who has within him the divine governing principle? not at all conceiving
that he should be governed to the hurt of the subject (as Thrasymachus
imagined), but, as it is best for every one to be governed, by one
divine and wise, most especially possessing it as his own within him, if
not subjecting himself to it externally; that as far as possible we may
all resemble one another and be friends, governed by one and the same?
Rightly, indeed, said he. And law at least, said I, plainly shows it
intends such a thing, being an ally to all in the city; as does likewise
the government of children, in not allowing them to be free till we
establish in them a proper government, as in a city; and having
cultivated that in them which is best, by that which is best in
ourselves, we establish a similar guardian and governor for youth, and
then at length we set it free. It shows it indeed, said he. In what way
then shall we say, Glaucon, and according to what reasoning, that it is
profitable to do injustice, to be intemperate, or to do anything base,
by which a man shall indeed become more wicked, but yet shall acquire
more wealth, or any kind of power? In no way, said he. But how shall we
say it is profitable for the unjust to be concealed, and not to suffer
punishment? or does he not indeed, who is concealed, still become more
wicked? but he who is not concealed, and is punished, has the brutal
part quieted, and made mild, and the mild part set at liberty. And the
whole soul being settled in the best temper, in possessing temperance
and justice, with wisdom, acquires a more valuable habit than the body
does, in acquiring vigour and beauty, with a sound constitution; in as
far as the soul is more valuable than the body. Entirely so, said he.
Will not everybody then, who possesses intellect, regulate his life,
first by extending hither the whole of his powers, honouring those
branches of science which will render his soul of this kind, and
despising all other things? It is plain, said he. And next, said I, with
regard to a good habit of body and its nourishment, he will spend his
life in attention to these, not that he may indulge the brutal and
irrational pleasure; nor yet with a view to health, nor principally with
reference to becoming strong, healthy, and beautiful, unless by these
means he is to become temperate likewise: but he always appears to
adjust the harmony of the body for the sake of the symphony which is in
the soul. By all means, said he, if indeed he is to be truly musical.
Will he not then, in acquiring wealth, maintain accord and symphony? nor
moved by the congratulations of the multitude will he increase the bulk
of his treasures to an infinite amount, occasioning thereby infinite
evils? I think not, said he. But looking, said I, to the government of
it himself, and taking care that nothing there be moved out of its
place, through the greatness or smallness of his property, thus
governing as far as he is able, he will add to his property, and spend
out of it. Entirely so, said he. He will regard honours, likewise, in
the same manner; of some he will willingly take a share, and taste of
those which he judges will render him a better man, but as for those
which he thinks would dissolve that habit of soul which subsists within
him, he will fly from both those privately and in public. He will not be
willing, then, said he, to act the politician, if he takes care of this.
Yes, truly, said I, in his own state, and greatly too; but not probably
in his country, unless some divine fortune befal him. I understand, said
he. You mean in the state we have now established, which exists only in
our reasoning, but I think has no existence on earth. But in heaven,
probably,—said I, there is a model of it, for any one who inclines to
contemplate it, and on contemplating to regulate himself accordingly;
and to him it matters not whether it does exist anywhere, or will ever
exist here:—for he would perform the duties of this city alone, and of
no other. It is reasonable, said he.


                       THE END OF THE NINTH BOOK.


                                BOOK X.

                               ARGUMENT.

The _concluding book_ of the Republic comprises two main subjects of
    inquiry. First, he explains more fully than he had done in the third
    book, the reason for excluding from his pattern state the
    accomplishment of poetry, so highly prized by the Athenians, but
    nevertheless he allows the admission of that chaste and harmless
    kind of it; such as hymns to the gods and odes in honour of
    celebrated men;—and, lastly, he treats of the rewards both present
    and to come, resulting from the practice of justice,—and of the
    punishments on the other which attend on injustice, which is totally
    opposed to state-happiness.

CHAP. I.—Moreover, remarked I, both in many other respects, I observe
that we have been rightly establishing our state, better indeed than all
others; and not least so do I say, as regards our sentiments concerning
poetry. What are they? said he. That no part of it which is imitative
should by any means be admitted;—for that it must not be admitted
appears now, methinks, exceedingly clear, since the several forms of the
soul have been distinguished apart from one another. How do you mean?
That I may tell it to you,—(for you will not denounce me to the
composers of tragedy, and the rest of the imitative class),—all such
things as these seem to be the ruin of the intellect of the
hearers,—that is, of such of them as have not a test to enable them to
discern their peculiar nature. What consideration, said he, leads you to
say this? It must be stated, said I; although a certain friendship, at
least, and reverence for Homer, which I have had from my childhood,
almost restrains me from telling it; for he seems truly both to have
been the first leader and teacher of all the good composers of tragedy;
but still the man must not be honoured in preference to truth. But what
I mean must be spoken. By all means, said he. Hear me then, or rather
answer me. Put your question then. Can you tell me perfectly, what is
the nature of imitation?—for I do not myself altogether understand its
meaning. Is it possible then, said he, that I shall any how understand
it? That would be no way strange, said I; since those who are
dim-sighted perceive many things sooner than those who see more clearly.
The case is so, said he; but while you are present, I would not venture
to tell, even though I had some inkling of it, but consider it yourself.
Do you wish then, that we hence begin our inquiry in our usual method?
for we used to suppose a certain idea relating to many individuals, to
which we give the same name;—do you not understand? I do understand. Let
us suppose now any one you please among the many, as for example, if you
will, there are many beds and tables. Of course. But the ideas, at least
respecting these pieces of furniture, are two, one of bed, and one of
table. Yes. And do we not usually say, that the workman of each of these
pieces of furniture, looking towards the idea, makes them thus—one of
them the beds, and the other the tables which we use;—and all other
things in like manner?—for surely not one of the artificers makes the
idea itself; for how can he? By no means. See now then, what kind of an
artificer do you call this? Which? He who makes all things which each
several artificer makes. You are alluding to some skilful and wonderful
person. Not yet, at least; but you will much more say so presently; for
this same mechanic is not only able to make all sorts of utensils, but
makes everything also which springs from the earth, and he makes all
sorts of animals, himself as well as others; and besides these things,
he makes the earth, the heaven and the gods, and all things in heaven,
and in Hades under the earth. You are speaking, said he, of a perfectly
wonderful sophist. Do you disbelieve me? said I; but tell me, do you not
think that there is such an artificer; or that in one respect, he is the
maker of all these things, and in another not so?—or do you not
perceive, that even you yourself might be able to make all these things,
in a certain manner at least? And what, said he, is this manner? It is
not difficult, said I, but is done in many ways, and quickly too; but in
the quickest way of all, if I mistake not, if you please to make a
mirror, and carry it round everywhere; for then you will very quickly
make the sun, and the heavenly bodies, the earth, yourself, and the
other animals and utensils and plants, and all that we have just now
mentioned. Yes, said he, the appearances, but not surely the realities.
You come in, said I, both well and seasonably, with your remark; for the
painter too, methinks, is an artificer of this kind;—is he not? He
cannot possibly be otherwise. You will say then, I suppose, that he does
not make what he makes real and true, although the painter too, in a
certain manner at least, makes a bed, does he not? Aye, said he; but he
too makes only the appearance.

CHAP. II.—But what as to the bed-maker?—did you not just now say, that
he does not make the idea which we say exists, and is a bed, but only a
particular bed? I did say so. If then he does not make that which really
exists, he does not make real being, but something resembling being,
though not being itself: but if any one should say that the work of the
bed-maker, or any other craftsman, were real being, it seems he would
not say what is true. He would not, said he, as it should seem to those
who are acquainted with such discussions. We must not then be surprised
if this likewise should seem somewhat obscure compared with the truth.
Certainly not. Are you willing then, said I, that as regards these very
things we inquire concerning the real nature of their imitator? If you
please, he replied. Are there not then these three sorts of beds:—one
existing in nature, and which we may say, I suppose, God made, or who
else? No one, I think. And another which the joiner makes? Yes, said he.
And a third which the painter makes:—is it not so? Granted. Now the
painter, the bed-maker, God, these three are the masters of three
species of beds? They are three indeed. But God, whether it were that he
was unwilling, or whether there was some necessity that he should only
make one bed in nature, made this one only, which is really a bed; while
two or more of such other species have never been produced, nor ever
will be produced by God. How so? said he. Because, said I, if he had
made but two, one again would have appeared, the idea of which both
these two would have possessed, and that idea would be that of a bed,
and not those two. Right, said he. God then, methinks, being aware of
these things, and willing to be the maker of a bed really, and having
real being, though of no one particular bed, and not to be any
particular bed-maker, produced but one in nature? It seems so. Are you
willing then that we should call him the producer of this, or of
something of a similar nature? It is just, said he, since he has in
their essential nature created this, as well as all other things. But
what as to the joiner?—is not he the maker of a bed? Yes. And is the
painter, too, the workman and maker of something similar? By no means.
But what will you say he has to do with a bed? This, as I think, we may
most reasonably call him, said he, an imitator of what the others
actually make and contrive. Be it so, said I; then him you call the
imitator who makes what is generated the third from nature? Quite so, he
replied. And this composer of tragedy will in like manner, as being an
imitator, rise as a sort of third from the king and the truth; and so
likewise all other imitators? Aye, so it seems. We have agreed, then, as
to the imitator?—but tell me this concerning the painter, whether you
think he undertakes to imitate each particular thing in nature, or the
works of artificers? The works of artificers, said he. Whether, such as
they really are, or such only as they appear? for this we must define
more correctly. How say you? said he. Thus; does a bed differ at all in
itself, whether a man view it obliquely or directly opposite, or in any
particular position?—or, is it not at all different, but only apparently
different, and so on as respects other things? Thus it appears, said he,
yet it does not really differ. Consider this too, with reference to
which of the two does painting work, in each particular work; whether
with reference to real being, to imitate it as it really is, or with
reference to what is apparent, as it appears; and whether is it the
imitation of appearance, or of truth? Only of appearance, said he. The
imitative art, then, is far from the truth: and on this account it
seems, he is able to make these things, because he is able to attain
only to some small part of each particular, and that but an image. Thus
we say that a painter will paint us a shoemaker, a joiner, and other
craftsmen, though having no acquaintance with any of these arts; yet he
will be able to deceive children and ignorant people, if he be a good
painter, when he paints a joiner, and shows him at a distance, so far as
to make them imagine he is a real joiner. Of course. But this, I think,
my friend, we must take into consideration in connexion with all these
things; that when any one tells us of any one, that he has met with a
man skilled in all kinds of workmanship, and everything else which each
particular artist understands, and that he knows everything whatever
more accurately than any one else, we ought to reply to such an one,
that he is a simpleton, and that it seems, he has been deceived by
falling in with some conjurer, or imitator, so as to seem to himself, to
know everything owing to his very incapacity of distinguishing between
science and ignorance and imitation. Most true, said he.

CHAP. III.—Ought we not then next, said I, to consider tragedy and its
leader, Homer?—Since from some we hear that these poets understand all
arts, and all human affairs, respecting virtue and vice, and likewise
all divine things; for a good poet must necessarily compose with
knowledge, if he means what he composes to compose well,—else he is not
able to compose. It is our business then to consider whether those who
have fallen in with these imitators have been deceived, and on viewing
their works have not perceived that they are the third distant from real
being, and their works such as can easily be made by one not knowing the
truth (for they make phantasms, and not real beings); or whether do they
say something to the purpose, and do the good poets really know the
things about which the multitude think they speak well. This, said he,
is by all means to be inquired into. Think you then, that if any one
could make both of these, that which is imitated, and likewise the
original idea, he would allow himself seriously to apply to the
workmanship of the images, and propose that to himself as the best thing
in life? I do not. But if he were really intelligent in these things
which he imitates, he would, I think, far more seriously study the
things themselves than the imitations, and would try to leave behind him
many and beautiful actions, as monuments of himself, and rather study to
be himself the person commended than the mere eulogist. I think so, said
he; for neither is the honour nor the profit equal. As to other things,
then, let us not call them to account,—asking Homer or any other of the
poets, whether they were skilled in medicine, and not mere imitators of
medical discourses;—for which of the ancient or more recent poets is
said to have restored any to health, as Æsculapius did? or what
disciples of medical science has any of them left behind, such as he
left his descendants?—Neither let us ask them about the other arts, but
leave them out of the question; and with reference to those greatest and
most beautiful things on which Homer tries to discourse,—about wars and
armies, and civic constitutions, and human education, it is just,
perhaps, to question and inquire of him: Friend Homer, if you be not the
third from the truth with regard to virtue, as being the artificer of an
image (for thus we have defined an imitator), but rather the second, and
can discern what pursuits render men better or worse, in private as well
as public, tell us which of the states has been better constituted by
you, as Lacedæmon was by Lycurgus, and great and small cities by many
others;—but as respects yourself, what state is it that acknowledges you
to have been a good lawgiver, and to have done them good service? Italy
and Sicily acknowledge Charondas, and we Solon; but who acknowledges
you? Will he be able to mention any one? I think not, said Glaucon. That
is not pretended even by the Homeridæ themselves. But what war in
Homer’s days is recorded to have been conducted by him as general, or
adviser? Not one. What then are his discoveries?—since among the works
of a wise man there are many discoveries and inventions mentioned, that
concern the arts, and other affairs; as of Thales the Milesian, and of
Anacharsis the Scythian. There is not any one such to be found. But if
not in a public manner, has Homer the repute of having lived as a
private instructor to any who delighted in his conversation, and to have
delivered down to posterity a certain Homeric manner of life,—just as
Pythagoras was remarkably beloved on this account, and, as even to this
day, such as denominate themselves Pythagoræans appear to be somehow
eminent beyond others in their manner of life? Neither, said he, is
there anything of this kind related about Homer:—for Creophilus,[252]
Socrates, the friend of Homer, may probably appear even still more
ridiculous in his education, than in his name, if what is said of Homer
be true:—for it is said that he was greatly neglected by him when he
lived.

-----

Footnote 252:

  According to the Greek scholiast, Creophilus was an epic poet of
  Chios. Homer, it is said, married his daughter, and dwelling in his
  house, had from him the poem of the Iliad. His name, to which Socrates
  alludes, signifies a lover of flesh.

-----

CHAP. IV.—It is said so indeed, I replied:—but think you, Glaucon, that
if Homer had really been able to educate men, and to make them better,
as being capable not only of imitating in these matters, but of
understanding them likewise, he would not then have won many intimate
friends, and have been loved and honoured by them? Whereas on the other
hand, Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and many others, have
the power of persuading the men of their day, by private conversation,
that they will neither be able to govern their family or the state,
unless they themselves direct their education; and for this wisdom of
theirs, they are so exceedingly beloved, that their friends almost carry
them about on their heads. Would then the men of Homer’s time have left
either him or Hesiod to go about singing their songs, if he could have
done men service in the way of virtue, and not rather have kept him with
offers of gold, and so obliged him to stay with them; or,—had they been
unable to prevail on him, would they not as disciples have followed him
everywhere, till they had gained a sufficient education? Assuredly,
Socrates, said he, you appear to me to say what is true. Shall we not
then establish this point,—that all the poets, beginning from Homer, are
imitators of the images of virtue, and of other things about which they
compose, but yet do not attain to the real truth; but, as we just now
said, a painter, who himself knows nothing about the making of shoes,
will draw a shoemaker, apparently real only to such as are not
intelligent, but look at him only as to colour and figures? Certainly.
In the same manner, I think, we shall say that the poet colours over
with his names and words certain colours of the several arts, without
understanding anything himself, but merely imitating, so that to others
such as himself who view things in his compositions, he has the
appearance of possessing knowledge: and if he says anything about
shoemaking in measure, rhythm, and harmony, he seems to speak perfectly
well, whether it be respecting the art of a general or any other
subject; so great is the enchantment which these things naturally have,
because you know, I think, in what manner poetry appears when stript of
the colour of music, and expressed apart,—for you have somewhere beheld
it. I have, said he. Do they not, said I, resemble the faces of people
who are in the prime of their life, but yet not beautiful, such as they
appear when their bloom forsakes them? Quite so, said he. Come then,
consider this:—the maker of the image, whom we call the imitator, knows
nothing of real being, but only of that which is apparent:—is it not so?
Yes. Let us not then leave it expressed by halves, but let us examine it
fully. Say on, replied he. A painter, we say, will paint reins and a
bridle. Yes. And the leather-cutter, and the smith, will make them.
Certainly. Does the painter then understand what kind of reins and
bridle there ought to be;—or not even he who makes them, the smith, nor
the leather-cutter, but he who knows how to use them, the horseman
alone? Most true. Shall we not say that this is the case in everything
else? How? That with reference to each particular thing there are these
three arts:—that which is to use it, that which is to make it, and that
which is to imitate it? Yes. Are then the virtue, and the beauty, and
the rectitude of every utensil, and animal, and action, for nothing else
but for the use for which each particular was made, or generated? Just
so. Very necessarily, then, must he who uses each particular, be the
most skilful, and most able to tell the maker what he makes good or bad,
with regard to the use in which he employs it: thus, for example, a
flute-player will tell the flute-maker concerning flutes, what things
are expedient for playing on the flute, and will give orders how he
ought to make them, but the latter will attend to his directions. Of
course. Will not the one then, being intelligent, pronounce concerning
good and bad flutes, and the other, believing him, make them
accordingly? Yes. With reference then to one and the same instrument,
the maker will form a correct opinion concerning its beauty or
deformity, while he is conversant with one who is intelligent, and is
obliged to hear from the intelligent; but he who uses it must have
science. Certainly. But will the imitator have science from using the
things he paints, whether handsome and correct, or otherwise? or will he
form a correct opinion from being necessarily conversant with the
intelligent, and from being ordered how he ought to paint? Neither of
the two. The imitator then will neither know nor form a correct opinion
about what he imitates with reference to beauty or deformity? It seems
not. The imitator then will be very skilful in his imitation, with
regard to wisdom, concerning what he paints? Not wholly so. Nevertheless
he will at least imitate, without knowing about each particular in what
respect it is bad or good; and he will probably imitate such as appears
to be beautiful to the multitude, and those who know nothing? Of course.
We have now, indeed, sufficiently, as it appears, at least, settled
these things;—that the imitator knows nothing worth mentioning in those
things which he imitates, but imitation is a sort of amusement, and no
serious business:—and likewise, that those who apply to tragic poetry in
iambics and epics, are all imitators in the highest degree? Certainly.

CHAP. V.—By Zeus, though, said I, this business of imitation is placed
somehow in the third degree from the truth:—is it not? Yes. To what part
then of man does it belong, having the power that it has? What part do
you speak of? Of such as this:—the same magnitude perceived by sight,
does not appear in the same manner, both near and at a distance. It does
not. And the same things appear crooked and straight, when we look at
them in water, and out of the water, and concave and convex, through
error of the sight, as to colours. All this disturbance is manifest in
the soul; and it is this infirmity of our nature which painting attacks,
leaving nothing of magical seduction unattempted, as well as the
wonder-working art, and many other such-like devices. True. And have not
the arts of measure, number, and weight been deemed in these matters
most ingenious helps, that so the apparent greater or less, the apparent
more or heavier, may not govern us, but that which numbers, measures,
and weighs? It must be so. But this again is, at least, the work of the
rational part in the soul. It is so, indeed. But while reason often
measures and pronounces some things to be greater or less than other
things, or equal, the contrary appears at the same time as regards these
things? Yes. But did not we say that it was impossible for the same
person to have contrary opinions about the same things at the same time?
Thus far indeed we said rightly. That part of the soul, then, which
judges contrary to the measure, would seem not to be the same with that
which judges according to the measure. It would not. But surely that, at
least, which trusts to measure and computation would seem to be the best
part of the soul? Of course. That then which opposes itself to this will
be one of our depraved parts. Necessarily so. It was this then I wished
should be agreed upon, when I said that painting, and imitation, in
general, being far from the truth, delights in its own work, conversing
with that part in us which is far from wisdom, and is its companion and
friend, to no sound nor genuine purpose. Entirely so, said he.
Imitation, then, being depraved in itself, and joining with that which
is depraved, generates depraved things. It seems so. Whether, said I, is
the case thus, with reference to the imitation which is by the sight
only, or is it likewise so with reference to that by hearing, which we
call poetry? Probably as to this also, said he. We shall not therefore,
said I, trust to the appearance in painting, but we shall proceed to the
consideration of the intellectual part with which the imitation through
poetry is conversant, and see whether it is depraved or worthy. It must
be done. Let us proceed then thus: Poetic imitation, we say, imitates
men acting either voluntarily or involuntarily; and imagining that in
their acting they have done either well or ill, and in all these cases
receiving either pain or pleasure: is the case any otherwise than this?
Not at all. In all these, now, does the man agree with himself? or, as
he disagreed with reference to sight, and had contrary opinions in
himself of the same things at one and the same time, does he, in the
same manner, disagree likewise in his actions, and fight with himself?
But I recollect that there is no occasion for us to settle this at
least; for, in our previous discussion, we sufficiently determined all
this,—that our soul is full of a thousand such internal contrarieties.
Right, said he. Right indeed, said I, but it appears to me necessary to
discuss now, what was then omitted. What is that? said he. We said
somewhere formerly, said I, that a good man, when he meets with such a
misfortune as the loss of a son, or of anything else which he values the
most, will bear it of all men the easiest. Certainly. But let us now
consider this further,—whether will he not grieve at all, or is this
indeed impossible, but will he moderate his grief? The truth, said he,
is rather this last. But tell me this now concerning him, whether do you
think that he will struggle more with grief and oppose it, when he is
observed by his equals, or when he is in solitude, alone by himself?
Much more, said he, when he is observed. But when alone, he will
venture, I think, to utter many things, which, if any one heard him, he
would be ashamed of, and he will do many things which he would not wish
any one saw him doing. Aye, such is the case, said he.

CHAP. VI.—Do not then reason and law command him to restrain his
grief,—while it is the passion itself that excites grief? True. As then
there is a twofold inducement for man’s conduct, with regard to the same
thing, at one and the same time, we must necessarily say that he has two
conductors. Of course. And shall we not say that one of them is ready to
obey the law wherever law leads him? How? Law in a manner says that it
is best to maintain the greatest possible tranquillity in misfortunes,
and not to bear them ill; since the good or evil of such things as these
is not manifest, and since no advantage follows the bearing these things
ill; and as nothing of human affairs deserves great interest; and,
besides this, their grief proves a hinderance to that within them which
we ought to have most at hand. What is it, said he, you here mean?
Deliberating on the event, said I; and, as on the throw of the dice,
regulating our affairs according to what turns up, in whatever way
reason shall dictate as best; and not as children, when they fall, to
lie still, and waste the time in crying; but always to accustom the soul
to apply in the speediest manner to heal and raise up what was fallen
and sick, putting an end to lamentation by medicine. One would thus,
said he, behave in the best manner in every condition. And did not we
say that the best part is willing to follow this which is rational?
Plainly so. And shall we not say that the part which leads to the
remembrance of affliction and to wailings, and is insatiably given to
these, is irrational, and idle, and a friend to cowardice? We shall,
indeed, say so. Is not the grieving part then that which admits of much
and various imitation? But the prudent and tranquil part, which is ever
uniform with itself, is neither easily imitated, nor, when imitated,
easily understood, especially by a popular assembly, where all sorts of
men are assembled together in a theatre. For surely it is the imitation
of a disposition which is foreign to them. Entirely so. It is plain,
then, that the imitative poet is not made for such a part of the soul as
this:—nor is his skill fitted to please it, if he means to gain the
applause of the multitude; but he applies to the passionate and the
multiform part, as it is easily imitated. It is plain. May we not then,
with justice, lay hold of the imitative poet, and place him in
correspondence with the painter? for he resembles him, both because, as
to truth, he effects but depraved things, and resembles him too in this
being conversant with a different part of the soul from that which is
best:—and thus we may, with justice, not admit him into our city which
is to be well regulated, because he excites and nurtures this part of
the soul, and, by strengthening this, destroys the rational:—and just as
he, who in a state gives power to the wicked, betrays the state, and
ruins the best men, we may in like manner say that the imitative poet
establishes a bad republic in the soul of each individual, gratifying
the foolish part of it, which neither discerns what is great, nor what
is little, but deems the same things sometimes great, and sometimes
small, forming little images in its own imagination, altogether remote
from the truth? Certainly.

CHAP. VII.—Still we have not yet brought the greatest accusation against
it: for that is, somehow, a very dreadful one, that it has the power of
corrupting even the good, except only a very few. It must, if it acts in
this manner. But hear now, and consider; for somehow, the best of us,
when we hear Homer, or any of the tragic writers, imitating some of the
heroes when in grief, pouring forth long speeches in their sorrow,
bewailing and beating their breasts, you know are delighted; and,
yielding ourselves, we follow along, and, sympathizing with them,
seriously commend him as an able poet whoever most affects us in this
manner. I know it, of course. But when any domestic grief befals any of
us, you perceive, on the other hand, that we value ourselves on the
opposite behaviour, if we can be quiet and endure, this being the part
of a man, but that of a woman, which in the other case we commended. I
perceive it, said he. Is this commendation proper, then, said I, when we
see such a man as one would not deign to be oneself, but would be
ashamed of, not to abominate but to delight in and commend him? No, by
Zeus, said he; it appears unreasonable. Certainly, said I, if you
consider the matter thus. How? If you reflect that the part of us, which
in our private misfortunes is forcibly restrained, and is kept from
weeping and bewailing to the full, being by nature of such a kind as
desires these, is the very part which by the poets is filled and
gratified; but that part in us, which is naturally the best, being not
sufficiently instructed, either by reason or habit, grows remiss in its
guardianship over the bewailing part, by attending to the sufferings of
others, and deems it no way disgraceful to itself, to commend and pity
one who grieves immoderately, whilst he professes to be a good man;—but
this it thinks it gains, even pleasure, which it would not choose to be
deprived of, by despising the whole of the poem:—for, methinks, it falls
to the share of few to be able to consider, that what we feel for
others’ misfortunes must necessarily be felt with respect to our
own,—because it is no easy matter for a man to bear up under his own
troubles, who strongly cherishes the bewailing disposition over those of
others. Most true, said he. And is not the reasoning the same with
reference to the ridiculous?—For when you hear, by comic imitation, or
in private conversation, what you would be ashamed to do yourself to
excite laughter, and are delighted with it, and imitate it, you do the
same thing here as in tragedy: for that part, which, when it wanted to
excite laughter, was formerly restrained by reason from a fear of
incurring the character of scurrility, by now letting loose, and
allowing there to grow vigorous, you are often imperceptibly brought to
be in your own conduct a buffoon. Extremely so, said he. And with
respect to venereal pleasures, and anger, and the whole of the passions,
as well the sorrowful as the joyful in the soul, which truly, we have
said, attend us in every action; the poetical imitation of these has the
same effect upon us; for it nurtures and irrigates them, whereas they
ought to be dried up, and makes them govern us, whereas they ought to be
governed, in order to our becoming better and happier, instead of being
worse and more miserable. I can say no otherwise, said he. When
therefore, Glaucon, said I, you find the eulogists of Homer saying that
this poet instructed Greece, and that he deserves to be taken as a
master to teach both the management and the knowledge of human affairs,
and that a man should regulate the whole of his life by the rules of
this poet, we should indeed love and embrace such people, as being as
good as they can be; and agree with them that Homer is a fine poet, and
the first of tragic writers:—yet they must know, that hymns to the gods,
and the praises of worthy actions, are alone to be admitted into our
state:—for if you were to admit the pleasurable muse likewise, in songs,
or verses, we should have pleasure and pain reigning in our state
instead of law, and that reason which always appears best to the
community. Most true, said he.

CHAP. VIII.—Let these things now, said I, be our apology, when we
recollect what we have said with reference to poetry, that we then very
properly dismissed it from our republic, since it is such as is now
described: for reason obliged us. And let us address it further, that it
may not accuse us of a certain roughness and rusticity, that there is an
ancient variance between philosophy and poetry; for such verses as
these,

           That brawling whelp, which at her mistress barks,

And

                He apes the great with empty eloquence,

And

           On trifles still they plod, because they’re poor;

and a thousand such-like, are marks of an ancient opposition between
them. Notwithstanding, however, it may be said, that if any one can
assign a reason why the poetry and the imitation which are calculated
for pleasure ought to be in a well-regulated city, we, for our part,
shall gladly admit them, as we are at least conscious to ourselves that
we are charmed by them. But to betray what appears to be truth, were an
unholy thing. For are not you yourself, my friend, charmed by this
imitation, and most especially when you see it performed by Homer? Very
much so. Is it not just, then, that we introduce it as speaking its own
defence, either in song, or in any other measure? By all means. And we
may at least grant, even to its defenders, such as are not poets, but
lovers of poetry, to speak in its behalf, without verse, and show that
it is not only pleasant, but profitable for states, and human life also;
for surely we shall derive some benefit if it shall be found to be not
only pleasant but profitable. How can we do otherwise than derive
benefit from it? said he. And if it happen otherwise, my friend, we
shall do as those who have been in love, when they deem their love
unprofitable,—they desist, though with violence; so we in like manner,
through this innate love of such poetry that prevails in our best forms
of government, shall be well pleased to see it appear to be the best and
truest; and we shall hear it till it is able to make no further apology.
But we shall take along with us this discourse which we have held, as a
counter-charm, and incantation, being afraid to fall back again into a
childish and vulgar love. We may perceive then that we are not to be
much in earnest about such poetry as this, as if it were a serious
affair, and approached to the truth; but the hearer is to beware of it,
and to be afraid for the republic within himself, and to entertain those
opinions of poetry which we mentioned. I entirely agree, said he. For
great is the contest, friend Glaucon, said I, great not such as it
appears, to become a good or a bad man: wherefore it is not right to be
moved, either by honour, or riches, or any magistracy whatever, or
poetry, so to neglect justice, and the other virtues. I agree with you,
from what we have argued, and so I think will any one else.

CHAP. IX.—However, we have not yet, said I, discussed the greatest prize
of virtue, and the rewards laid up for her. You speak of some prodigious
greatness, said he, if there be other greater than those mentioned. But
what is there, said I, can be great in a little time? for all this
period from infancy to old age is but little in respect of the whole.
Nothing at all indeed, said he. What then? Do you think an immortal
being ought to be much concerned about such a period, and not about the
whole of time? I think, said he, about the whole. But why do you mention
this? Have you not perceived, said I, that our soul is immortal, and
never perishes? On which he, looking at me, and wondering, said, By
Jupiter, not I indeed. But are you able to show this? I should otherwise
act unjustly, said I. And I think you yourself can show it, for it is
not at all difficult. To me at least, said he, it is difficult; but I
would willingly hear from you this which is not difficult. You shall
hear then, said I. Only speak, he replied. Is there not something, said
I, which you call good, and something which you call evil? I own it. Do
you conceive of them, then, just in the way that I do? How? That which
destroys and corrupts everything is the evil, and what preserves and
profits it is the good. I do, said he. But what? Do you say, that there
is something which is good, and something which is bad, to each
particular? as blindness to the eyes, and disease to every animal body,
blasting to corn, rottenness to wood, rust to brass and iron, and, as I
say almost every thing to its connate evil and disease? I do, he
replied. And when anything of this kind befals anything, does it not
render that which it befals base, and in the end dissolve and destroy
it? How should it not? Its own connate evil then and baseness destroys
each particular; or, if this does not destroy it, nothing else can ever
destroy it:—because that which is good can never destroy anything, nor
yet that which is neither good nor evil. How can they? said he. If then
we shall be able to find among beings, any one which has indeed some
evil which renders it base, but is not however able to dissolve and
destroy it, shall we not then know that a being thus constituted cannot
be destroyed at all? So it seems, replied he. What then? said I:—is
there not something which renders the soul evil? Certainly, he replied;
all these things which we have now mentioned,—injustice, intemperance,
cowardice, ignorance. But does any of these then dissolve and destroy
it?—And attend now, that we may not be imposed on, in thinking that an
unjust and foolish man, when detected acting unjustly, is then destroyed
through his injustice, which is the baseness of his soul: but consider
it thus:—As disease, which is the baseness of animal body, dissolves and
destroys body, and reduces it to be no longer that body; so all those
things we mentioned, being destroyed by their own proper evil adhering
to them and possessing them, are reduced to non-existence. Is it not so?
Yes. Consider now the soul in the same manner. Does injustice, and the
rest of vice, possessing it, by possessing, and adhering to it, corrupt
and deface it, till, bringing it to death, it separates it from the
body? By no means, said he. But it were absurd, said I, that anything
should be destroyed by the baseness of another, but not by its own.
Absurd. For you must reflect, Glaucon, said I, that neither by the
baseness of victuals, whether owing to mouldiness, or rottenness, or
whatever else, do we think our body can be destroyed; but if this
baseness in them create in the body a depravity of the body, we may
allege, that through their means, the body is destroyed by its own evil,
which is disease. But we will never allow that by the baseness of food,
which is one thing, the body, which is another thing, can ever by this
foreign evil, without creating in it its own peculiar evil, be at any
time destroyed. You speak most correctly, he replied.

CHAP. X.—According to the same reasoning, then, said I, unless the
baseness of the body create a baseness of the soul, let us never allow
that the soul can be destroyed by an evil which is foreign, without its
own peculiar evil, one thing by the evil of another. There is reason for
it, said he. Let us, then, either refute these things as not good
reasoning; or, so long as they are unrefuted, let us at no time say,
that the soul shall be ever in any degree the more destroyed, either by
burning fever, or by any other disease, or by slaughter, not even though
a man should cut the whole body into the smallest parts possible, till
some one show that, through these sufferings of the body, the soul
herself becomes more unjust and unholy. But we will never allow it to be
said, that when a foreign evil befals anything, whilst its own proper
evil is not within it, either the soul or anything else is destroyed.
But this, at least, said he, no one can ever show, that the souls of
those who die are by death rendered more unjust. But if any one, replied
I, shall dare to contend with us in reasoning; and, in order that he may
not be obliged to own that souls are immortal, should say, that when a
man dies he becomes more wicked and unjust, we shall surely require if
he who says this speaks truly, that injustice is deadly to the
possessor, as a disease; and that those who embrace it are destroyed by
it as by a disease destructive in its own nature,—those most speedily
who embrace it most, and those more slowly who embrace it less. And not
as at present, where the unjust die having this punishment inflicted on
them by others. By Jupiter, said he, injustice would not appear
perfectly dreadful, if it were deadly to him who practises it (for that
were a deliverance from evil); but I rather think it will appear to be
altogether the reverse, destroying others as far as it can, but
rendering the unjust extremely alive, and, in conjunction with being
alive, wakeful likewise; so far, as it seems, does it dwell from being
deadly. You say well, replied I; for, when a man’s own wickedness and
peculiar evil is not sufficient to kill and destroy the soul, that evil,
which aims at the destruction of another, can scarcely destroy a soul,
or anything else but that against which it is aimed. Hardly, indeed,
said he, as I think at least. Since, therefore, it is destroyed by no
one evil, neither peculiar nor foreign, is it not plain that, of
necessity, it always is? and, if it always is, it is immortal?
Necessarily so, he replied.

CHAP XI.—Let this then, said I, be so settled:—and if it be, you will
perceive that the same souls will always remain, for their number will
never become less, none being destroyed, nor will it become greater; for
if, anyhow, the number of immortals was made greater, you know it would
take from the mortal, and in the end all would be immortal. You say
true. But let us not, said I, think that this will be the case (for
reason will not allow of it), nor yet that the soul in its truest nature
is of such a kind as to be full of much variety, dissimilitude, and
difference considered in itself. How mean you? said he. That cannot
easily, said I, be eternal which is compounded of many things, and which
has not the most beautiful composition, as hath now appeared to us to be
the case with reference to the soul. It is not likely. That the soul
then is something immortal, both our present reasonings, and others too,
may oblige us to own: but in order to know what kind of being the soul
is, in truth, one ought not to contemplate it as it is damaged both by
its conjunction with the body and by other evils, as we now behold it,
but such as it is when become pure, such it must by reasoning be fully
contemplated; and he (who does this) will find it far more beautiful at
least, and will more plainly see through justice, and injustice, and
everything which we have now discussed. We are now telling the truth
concerning it, such as it appears at present. We have seen it, indeed,
in the same condition in which they see the marine Glaucus,[253] where
they cannot easily perceive his ancient nature, because the ancient
members of his body are partly broken off, and others are worn away; and
he is altogether damaged by the waves: and, besides this, other things
are grown to him, such as shellfish, seaweed, and stones: so that he in
every respect resembles a beast, rather than what he naturally was. In
such a condition do we behold the soul under a thousand evils. But we
ought to behold it there, Glaucon. Where? said he. In its philosophy;
and to observe to what it applies, and what intimacies it professes, as
being allied to that which is divine, immortal, and eternal; and what it
would become, if it wholly pursued a thing of this kind, and were by
this pursuit brought out of that sea in which it now is, and had the
stones and shellfish shaken off from it, which, at present, as it is fed
on earth, render its nature, to a great extent, earthy, stony, and
savage, through those aliments, which are said to procure felicity: and
then one might behold its true nature, whether multiform, or uniform,
and everything concerning it. But we have, I think, sufficiently
discussed its passions, and forms in human life. Assuredly, he replied.

-----

Footnote 253:

  According to the Greek Scholiast, Glaucus is said to have been the son
  of Sisyphus and Merope, and to have become a marine demon. For,
  meeting with an immortal fountain, and descending into it, he became
  immortal. Not being able, however, to point out this fountain to
  certain persons, he threw himself into the sea; and once every year
  coursed round all shores and islands in conjunction with whales.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Have we not now, said I, discussed everything else in our
reasonings, though we have not produced those rewards and honours of
justice (as you say Hesiod and Homer do)? but we find justice itself to
be the best reward to the soul; and that it ought to do what is just,
whether it have or have not Gyges’ ring, and, together with such a ring,
the helmet[254] likewise of Pluto. You say most true, said he. Will it
not now, then, Glaucon, said I, be attended with no envy, if, besides
these, we add those rewards to justice and the other virtues, which are
bestowed on the soul by men and gods, both whilst the man is alive, and
after he is dead? By all means, said he. Will you, then, restore me what
you borrowed in the reasoning? What, chiefly? I granted you, that the
just man should be deemed unjust, and the unjust be deemed to be just.
For you were of opinion, that though it were not possible that these
things should be concealed from gods and men, it should, however, be
granted, for the sake of the argument, that justice in itself might be
compared with injustice in itself; do you not remember it? I should,
indeed, be unjust, said he, if I did not.

-----

Footnote 254:

  The helmet of Pluto is said to be an immortal and invisible cloud,
  with which the gods are invested when they wish not to be known to
  each other. And it is applied as a proverb to those that do anything
  secretly.—Schol. Græc. in Plat. p. 197.

-----

Now after the judgment is over, I demand again, in behalf of justice,
that as you allow it to be indeed esteemed both by gods and men, you
likewise allow it to have the same good reputation, that it may also
receive those prizes of victory, which it acquires from the reputation
of justice, and bestows on those who possess it; since it has already
appeared to bestow those good things which arise from really being just,
and that it does not deceive those who truly embrace it. You demand what
is just, said he. Will you not, then, said I, in the first place,
restore me this? That it is not concealed from the gods, what kind of
man each of the two is. We will grant it, said he. And if they be not
concealed, one of them will be beloved of the gods, and one of them
hated,[255] as we agreed in the beginning. Such is the case. And shall
we not agree, that as to the man who is beloved of the gods, whatever
comes to him from the gods, will all be the best possible, unless he has
some necessary ill from former miscarriage? Certainly. We are then to
think thus of the just man. That if he happen to be in poverty, or in
diseases, or in any other of those seeming evils, these things to him
issue in something good, either whilst alive or dead. For never at any
time is he neglected by the gods, who inclines earnestly to endeavour to
become just, and practises virtue as far as it is possible for man to
resemble God. It is reasonable, replied he, that such an one should not
be neglected by him whom he resembles. And are we not to think the
reverse of these things concerning the unjust man? Certainly. Such,
then, would seem to be the prizes which the just man receives from the
gods. Such they are, indeed, in my opinion, said he. But what, said I,
do they receive from men? Is not the case thus (if we are to suppose the
truth)? Do not cunning and unjust men do the same thing as those racers,
who run well at the beginning, but not so at the end? for at the first
they briskly leap forward, but in the end they become ridiculous, and,
with their ears on their neck, they run off without any reward. But such
as are true racers, arriving at the end, both receive the prizes, and
are crowned. Does it not happen thus, for the most part, as to just men;
that at the end of every action and intercourse of life they are both
held in esteem, and receive rewards from men? Entirely so. You will then
suffer me to say of these what you yourself said of the unjust. For I
will aver now, that the just, when they are grown up, shall arrive at
power if they desire magistracies, they shall marry where they incline,
and shall settle their children in marriage agreeably to their wishes;
and everything else you mentioned concerning the others, I now say
concerning these. And on the other hand, I will say of the unjust, that
the most of them, though they may remain concealed while young, yet,
being caught at the end of the race, are ridiculous; and, when they
become old, are wretched and ridiculed, and shall be scourged both by
foreigners and citizens, and afterwards tortured and burnt; which you
said were terrible things;—and you spoke the truth. You may suppose that
you hear from me that they suffer all these things. But see if you will
admit what I say. Certainly, said he, for you say what is just.

-----

Footnote 255:

  That is to say, one of these through aptitude will receive the
  illuminations of divinity, and the other through inaptitude will
  subject himself to the power of avenging demons.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—These then, said I, are the prizes, the rewards and gifts,
which a just man receives during life, both from gods and men; besides
those good things which justice contains in itself. And they are
extremely beautiful, said he, and permanent. But these now, said I, are
nothing in number or magnitude, when compared with those which await
each of the two at death. And these things must likewise be heard, that
each of them may completely have what is their due in the reasoning. You
may say on, he replied, as to one who would not listen to many other
things with greater pleasure. But, however, I will not, said I, tell you
the apologue of Alcinous; but that, indeed, of a brave man, Er, the son
of Armenius, by descent a Pamphylian; who happening on a time to die in
battle, when the dead were on the tenth day carried off, already
corrupted, was taken up sound; and being carried home, as he was about
to be buried on the twelfth day, when laid on the funeral pile, revived;
and being revived, he told what he saw in the other state, and said,
that after his soul left the body, it went with many others, and that
they came to a certain mysterious, hallowed place, where there were two
chasms in the earth, near to each other, and two other openings in the
heavens opposite on them, and that the judges sat between these;—that
when they gave judgment, they commanded the just to go on the right
hand, and upwards through the heaven, having fitted marks on the front
of those that had been judged; but the unjust they commanded to the
left, and downwards, and these likewise had behind them marks of all
that they had done. But when he came before the judges, they said he
ought to be a messenger to men concerning things there, and they
commanded him to hear, and contemplate everything therein;—and that he
saw there, through two openings, one of the heaven, and one of the
earth, the souls departing, after they were there judged; and through
the other two openings he saw, rising through the one out of the earth,
souls full of squalidness and dust; and through the other, he saw other
souls descending pure from heaven; and that on their arrival from time
to time they seemed as if they came from a long journey, and that they
gladly went to rest themselves in the meadow, as in a public assembly,
and such as were acquainted saluted one another, and those who rose out
of the earth asked the others concerning the things above, and those
from heaven asked them concerning the things below, and that they told
one another: those wailing and weeping whilst they called to mind, what
and how many things they suffered and saw in their journey under the
earth (for it was a journey of a thousand years); and that these again
from heaven explained their enjoyments, and spectacles of amazing
beauty.—To narrate many of them, Glaucon, would occupy much time; but
this, he said, was the sum, that whatever unjust actions a man had
committed, and whatever injuries a man had committed, they were punished
for all these separately tenfold, and that it was in each, according to
the rate of a hundred years (the life of man being considered as so
long), that they might suffer tenfold punishment for the injustice they
had done;—so that if any had been the cause of many deaths, either by
betraying cities or armies, or bringing men into slavery, or being
confederates in any other wickedness, for each of all these they reaped
tenfold sufferings; and if, again, they had benefited any by good deeds,
and had been just and holy, they were rewarded according to their
deserts. Of those who died very young, and lived but a little time, he
related other things not worth mentioning;—but of impiety and piety
towards the gods and parents, and of suicide, he told the more
remarkable retributions; for he said he was present when one was asked
by another, where the great Aridæus was? This Aridæus had been tyrant in
a certain city of Pamphylia a thousand years before that time, and had
killed his aged father and elder brother, and had done many other
unhallowed deeds, as was reported: and he said, that the one who was
asked, replied: He neither comes, nor ever will come hither.

CHAP. XIV.—Well then we saw this likewise, among other dreadful
spectacles: When we were near the mouth of the opening, and were about
to ascend after having suffered everything else, we on a sudden beheld
both him, and others likewise, most of whom were tyrants, and there were
some private persons who had committed great iniquity, whom, when they
thought they were to ascend, the mouth of the opening did not admit, but
bellowed when any of those who were so polluted with wickedness, or who
had not been sufficiently punished, attempted to ascend. And then, said
he, fierce men, and fiery to look on, standing by, and perceiving the
bellowing, took some of them and led them apart, but Aridæus and the
rest, having bound their hands and feet, and head, they thrust down and
flayed, and then dragged them to an outer road, tearing them on thorns;
declaring always to those who passed by, on what accounts they suffered
these things, and that they were carrying them to be thrown into
Tartarus. And hence, he said, that amidst all their various terrors,
this terror surpassed, lest the mouth should bellow, and that when it
was silent every one most gladly ascended; and that the punishments and
torments were such as these, and their rewards were the reverse of
these. He also added, that every one arising thence, after they had been
seven days in the meadow, was required to depart on the eighth day, and
arrive at another place on the fourth day after, whence they perceived
from above through the whole heaven and earth, a light extended as a
pillar, mostly resembling the rainbow, but more splendid and pure; at
which they arrived in one day’s journey; and thence they perceived,
through the middle of the light from heaven, the extremities of its
ligatures extended; as this light was the belt of heaven, like the
transverse beams of ships keeping the whole circumference united;—that
from the extremities the distaff of Necessity is extended, by which all
the revolutions were turned round, whose spindle and point were both of
adamant, but its whirl commingled both with this and other things; and
that the nature of the whirl was of such a kind, as to its figure, as is
any one we see here. But you must conceive it, from what he said, to be
of such a kind as this: as if in some great hollow whirl, carved
throughout, there was such another, but lesser, within it, adapted to
it, like casks fitted one within another; and in the same manner a
third, and a fourth, and four others, for that the whirls were
eight[256] in all, as circles one within another, having their lips
appearing upwards, and forming round the spindle one united convexity of
one whirl; that the spindle was driven through the middle of the eight;
and that the first and outmost whirl had the widest circumference in the
lip, that the sixth had the second wide, and that of the fourth the
third wide, and the fourth that of the eighth, and the fifth that of the
seventh, the sixth that of the fifth, and the seventh that of the third,
and the eighth that of the second. Likewise that the circle of the
largest is variegated, that of the seventh is the brightest, and that of
the eighth has its colour from the shining of the seventh; those of the
second and fifth resemble each other, but are more yellow than the rest.
But the third is bright white, the fourth reddish, the second in
whiteness surpasses the sixth; and the distaff must turn round in a
circle with the whole that it carries; and while the whole is turning
round, the seven inner circles are gently turned round in a contrary
motion to the whole;—again, that of these, the eighth moves the
swiftest; and next to it, and equal to one another, the seventh, the
sixth, and the fifth; and that the third went in a motion which as
appeared to them completed its circle in the same way as the fourth. The
fourth in swiftness was the third, and the fifth was the second, and it
was turned round on the knees of Necessity;—and that on each of its
circles there was seated a Siren on the upper side, carried round, and
uttering one voice variegated by diverse modulations; but that the whole
of them, being eight, composed one harmony;—that there were other three
sitting round at equal distance one from another, each on a throne, the
daughters of Necessity, the Fates, clothed in white vestments, and
having crowns on their heads; Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos, singing to
the harmony of the Sirens; Lachesis singing the past, Clotho the
present, and Atropos the future. And that Clotho, at certain intervals,
with her right hand laid hold of the spindle, and along with her mother
turned about the outer circle;—and Atropos, in like manner, turned the
inner ones with her left hand,—and that Lachesis touched both of these,
severally, with either hand.

-----

Footnote 256:

  By the eight whirls, we must understand the eight starry spheres, viz.
  the sphere of the fixed stars, and the spheres of the seven planets.

-----

CHAP. XV.—After they arrive here, it is necessary for them to go
directly to Lachesis. That then a certain prophet first of all ranges
them in order, and afterwards taking the lots, and the models of lives,
from the knees of Lachesis, and ascending a lofty tribunal, he says:—The
speech of the virgin Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity: Souls of a
day! The beginning of another period of men of mortal race:—the demon
shall not receive you as his lot, but you shall choose the demon: he who
draws the first, let him first make choice of a life, to which he must
of necessity adhere: Virtue is independent, of which every one shall
partake, more or less, according as he honours or dishonours her: the
cause is in him who makes the choice, and the Deity is blameless;—that
when he had said these things, he threw the lots on all of them, and
that each took up the one which fell beside him, except himself, for he
was not permitted; and that when each had taken it, he knew what number
he had drawn;—that after this he placed on the ground before them the
models of lives, many more than those we see at present;—and that they
were all various,—for there were lives of all sorts of animals, and
human lives of every kind;—and that among these there were tyrannies
also, some of them perpetual, and others destroyed in the midst of their
greatness, and ending in poverty, banishment, and want. That there were
also lives of renowned men, some for their appearance as to beauty,
strength, and agility; and others for their descent, and the virtues of
their ancestors. There were the lives of renowned women in the same
manner. But that there was no disposition of soul among these models,
because of necessity, on choosing a different life, it becomes different
itself. As to other things, riches and poverty, sickness and health,
they were mixed with one another, and some were in a middle station
between these.

There then, as it seems, friend Glaucon, is the whole danger of man. And
hence this of all things is most to be attended to, how each of us,
omitting other studies, is to become an inquirer and learner in this
study, in order to be able to learn and find out who will make him
expert and intelligent to discern a good life, and a bad; and to choose
everywhere, and at all times the best of what is possible, considering
all that we have mentioned, both compounded and separated from one
another, what they are with respect to the virtue of life; and to
understand what good or evil beauty produces when mixed with poverty, or
riches, and with this or the other habit of soul; and what is effected
by noble and ignoble descent, by privacy, and by public station, by
strength and weakness, docility and indocility, and everything else of
the kind which naturally pertains to the soul, and likewise of what is
acquired, when blended one with another, so as to be able from all these
things to compute, and, having an eye to the nature of the soul, to
comprehend both the worse and the better life, pronouncing that to be
the worse which shall lead the soul to become more unjust, and that to
be the better life which shall lead it to become more just, and to
dismiss every other consideration:—for we have seen, that in life, and
in death, this is the best choice. It is necessary, therefore, that a
man should have this opinion firm as an adamant in him, when he departs
to Hades, that there also he may be unmoved by riches, or any such
evils, and may not, falling into tyrannies, and other such practices, do
many and incurable mischiefs, and himself suffer still greater: but may
know how to choose always the middle life, as to these things, and to
shun the extremes on either hand, both in this life as far as is
possible, and in the whole future. For thus man becomes happy.

CHAP. XVI.—At that time, therefore, the messenger from the other world
further told how that the prophet spoke thus: Even to him who comes
last, if he chooses with judgment, and lives consistently, there is
prepared a desirable life; not bad. Let neither him who is first be
negligent in his choice, not let him who is last despair. He said, that
when the prophet had spoken these things, the first who drew a lot ran
instantly and chose the greatest tyranny, but through folly and
insatiableness had not sufficiently examined all things on making his
choice, but was ignorant that in this life there was this destiny, the
devouring of his own children, and other evils; and that afterwards,
when he had considered it at leisure, he wailed and lamented his choice,
not having observed the admonitions of the prophet above
mentioned;—inasmuch as he did not accuse himself, as the author of his
misfortunes, but fortune and the demons, and everything rather than
himself. He added, that he was one of those who came from heaven, who
had in his former life lived in a regulated republic, and had been
virtuous by custom without philosophy; and that, in short, among these
there were not a few who came from heaven, as being unexercised in
trials; but most of those who came from earth, as they had endured
hardships themselves, and had seen others in hardships, did not
precipitately make their choice. And hence, and through the fortune of
the lot, to most souls there was an exchange of good and evil things.
Since, if one should always, whenever he comes into this life, soundly
philosophize, and the lot of election should not fall on him the very
last, it would seem, from what has been told us from thence, that he
shall be happy not only here, but when he goes hence, and his journey
hither back again shall not be earthy, and rugged, but smooth and
heavenly. This spectacle, he said, was worthy to behold, in what manner
the several souls made choice of their lives; for it was pitiful and
ridiculous and wonderful to behold, as each for the most part chose
according to the habit of his former life; for he alleged, that he saw
the soul which was formerly the soul of Orpheus making choice of the
life of a swan, through hatred of womankind, being unwilling to be born
of woman on account of the death he suffered from them. He saw likewise
the soul of Thamyris making choice of the life of a nightingale. And he
saw also a swan turning to the choice of human life; and other musical
animals in a similar manner, as is likely;—and he saw also one soul,
while making its choices, choosing the life of a lion; and it was the
soul of Telamonian Ajax, unwilling to become a man, because it
recollected the judgment given with reference to the armour;—that he
then saw the soul of Agamemnon, which, in hatred also of the human kind,
through his misfortunes, exchanged it for the life of an eagle: and that
the soul of Atalante, choosing her lot amidst the rest, and, having
attentively observed the great honours paid to an athletic man, was
unable to pass by this lot, but took it. Next to this, he saw the soul
of Epeus the Panopean going into the nature of a skilful workwoman; and
that far off, among the last, he saw the soul of the buffoon Thersites
assuming the ape. And that by chance he saw the soul of Ulysses, who had
drawn its lot last of all, going to make its choice: that in remembrance
of its former toils, and tired of ambition, it went about a long time
seeking the life of a private man of no business, and with difficulty
found it lying somewhere, neglected by the rest. And that on seeing this
life, it said, that it would have made the same choice even if it had
obtained the first lot,—and joyfully chose it. That in like manner the
souls of wild beasts went into men, and men again into beasts: the
unjust changing into wild beasts, and the just into tame; and that they
were blended by all sorts of mixtures. After, therefore, all the souls
had chosen their lives according as they drew their lots, they all went
in order to Lachesis, and that she gave to every one the demon he chose,
and sent him along with him to be the guardian of his life, and the
accomplisher of what he had chosen.—That, first of all, he conducts the
soul to Clotho, to ratify under her hand, and by the whirl of the vortex
of her spindle, the destiny it had chosen by lot: and, after being with
her, he leads it back again to the spinning of Atropos, who makes the
destinies irreversible. And that from hence they proceed directly under
the throne of Necessity; and that, after he had passed by it, as all the
others passed, they all of them marched into the plain of Lethe amidst
dreadful heat and scorching, for he said that it is void of trees and
everything that the earth produces;—that when night came on, they
encamped beside the river Amelete, whose water no vessel contains.—Of
this water all of them must necessarily drink a certain quantity, and
such as are not kept by prudence drink more than they ought, and that he
who from time to time drinks forgets everything.—And, after they were
laid asleep, and midnight was approaching, there was thunder, and an
earthquake, and they were thence on a sudden carried upwards, some one
way, and some another, approaching to generation like stars. And he
himself was forbidden to drink of the water. Where, however, and in what
manner, he came into his body, he was entirely ignorant; but, suddenly
looking up in the morning, he saw himself already laid on the funeral
pile. And this fable, Glaucon, has been preserved, and is not lost, and
it will preserve us, too, if we be persuaded thereby, for thus we shall
happily pass over the river Lethe, and shall not pollute our souls.

But if the company will be persuaded by me; considering the soul to be
immortal, and able to bear all evil and good, we shall always persevere
in the road which leads upwards, and shall by all means pursue justice
in unison with prudence, that so we may be friends both to ourselves and
the gods, both whilst we remain here, and when we afterwards receive its
rewards, like victors assembled together; and so, both here, and in that
journey of a thousand years, which we have described, we shall be happy.


          THE END OF THE TENTH AND LAST BOOK OF THE REPUBLIC.




                      INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS.

The following Dialogue, _which comprises the detailed evolution of the
physical or cosmological doctrines of Plato_, is supposed to have taken
place on the day following that on which Socrates had been discussing
with the same party the nature of an ideal or pattern Republic; and
there is so far an internal connexion between the two dialogues, that
both will be found to contain the same doctrines of the Ideas (εἴδη or
ἰδέαι) and the _Summum bonum_ (viz. τὸ ἕν in contradistinction to τὸ
γιγνόμενον. Comp. Tim. ch. ix.), though presented under different
aspects,—the former treating them in their relation to moral and
political perfection, the latter physically and cosmologically,
displaying the beauty, perfection, and benevolence of the Divine work in
the formation of the Universe and the organization of Man. The dialogue
opens with a lively conversation on the political notions set forth by
Socrates (or rather elicited by him from the rest) on the preceding day,
more especially with reference to their practicability in real life (ch.
i.-iii.):—and Critias, to gratify Socrates, introduces the narrative of
a long interview between Solon and some Egyptian priests, about the
relative antiquity of the Grecian and Egyptian annals, the object of
which is to prove, that the state of Athens, in very remote times,
corresponded mainly with the picture of a perfect republic, as exhibited
by Socrates (ch. iv.-vii.). The subject, however, is deemed worthy of
still further investigation by the different parties present; and the
first turn is unanimously conceded to Timæus, the Pythagorean, on
account of his profound knowledge of physics and astronomy, who
accordingly entertains them with a long and learned discourse on the
origin of the Universe and the formation of Man,—Critias following him
in the succeeding dialogue called by his name, wherein he tries to show
that the men here ideally created (τῷ λόγῳ γεγονότας) by Timæus, and
brought into civil training by Socrates in the Republic, actually
corresponded in character with the citizens of primitive Athens (ch.
vii., viii.).

It is necessary to premise, however, before we enter into any analysis
of Timæus’s discourse, that Plato, regarded as a _physical theorist_,
was not so much the propounder of new and original views, as a critic
and eclecticist, reviewing the various systems that had preceded him,
opposing what he deemed false or vicious, and adopting what he thought
good and solid in each. Now all the earlier philosophers, whether of
Ionia or Magna Græcia, had made it their first business to start
different theories, more or less visionary, on the origin of the
Universe. Thales held the primary element to be _water_, Anaximenes and
Diogenes _air_, Anaximander a vast _chaos_, and Heraclitus _fire_,—to
whom at length succeeded Anaxagoras, the first to recognise a _Supreme
Intelligence_ (νοῦς) as the principle of life and arranger of the
primitive chaotic atoms (and from whom Plato undoubtedly took some of
his leading notions). Widely differing from the above, Xenophanes
maintained _unity_ (τὸ ἕν)—_the Universe, to be God_,—a notion, which
elicited from Parmenides the atheistic dogma, that, as existence is
conceivable, and non-existence is not so, _creation is impossible_, as
it pre-supposes non-existence; and in this view he was followed by
Empedocles, who regarded all things as alike uncreated and
indestructible. When such notions were current, it can scarcely be
matter for surprise that Heraclitus should have put forth the doctrine
(equally atheistical) of _a perpetual flux_, and been followed by the
sophist Protagoras, who stated that _all knowledge is sensation_, and
that _man is the measure of all existing things whatever_. And lastly,
it was the notion of Pythagoras (with whose views Plato was beyond all
doubt deeply imbued), that _numbers_ and _music_ are the principles of
the entire universe, and that the world is regulated by _numerical
harmony_.[257] With all these conflicting views before him, and having
at the same time a strong internal conviction of one grand,
comprehensive, and intelligent Unity,—in other words, God,—Plato at once
boldly impugned the doctrine of the Eleatics, that the world around was
an eternal, immutable essence;—maintaining, on the other hand, that, as
it was sensible, it must have been produced, and was in fact the
necessary result of an effective cause,—_the work of a rational,
intelligent, and benevolent Architect_.

Timæus, therefore, in this dialogue,—after stating _in limine_ that
there are two classes of things, the one eternal, _constant_ (ταὐτόν),
and not subject to change; the other _mutable_ (θάτερον), generated, and
liable to decay: the former of which is comprehended by the intellect,
the latter by the senses,—broadly sets forth the grand doctrine of
Theism, that whatever is generated must proceed from some cause, namely
God, who formed the sensible universe, the most perfect of things
generated, according to an eternal pattern existing in the Divine Mind
(ch. ix.). The whole, indeed, was the work of the Creator’s goodness;
and the universe itself likewise was very good,—as it were, an ensouled,
rational, living being,—perfect in unity, and composed of four elements
indissolubly united,—earth and fire, air and water,—its shape being that
of a perfect sphere moving in a circular orbit, and its soul emanating
from its abode in the centre to all the other parts, including even the
external surface,—in fine, it came forth from its Maker deficient in no
single respect, “a blessed God” (ch. x.-xii.).

He next proceeds to unfold the nature and structure of the Universe in
its several parts. And first, he assumes it to consist of two parts,—one
eternal and fixed, because related to the world of intellect; the other
corporeal, mutable, and capable of division,—both of which are so united
on the principles of number and music, as to produce a happy and
well-settled harmony both in structure and motion. This universal soul,
moreover, pervades even the distant orbits of the fixed stars and
planets, all of which depend for their life and circular motion on the
eternal and constant principles of number and harmony,—the fixed stars
moving _westward_ on the eternal principle of sameness, the planets
_eastward_ on that of mutability and difference (ch. xii.). But in
connexion with this soul, the universe possesses also a material body,
whereby it becomes cognizant of material things,—the subjects of opinion
and persuasion, as well as of the abstract truths that form the
groundwork of reasoning and science (ch. xiii.).[258] Next came the
creation of _time_, which was effected by the formation of the sun,
moon, and five planets, whose motion, particularly that of the first,
creates, determines, and watches over, the several divisions of days and
nights, months and perfect years (ch. xiv.). The form and motions of the
world thus once arranged, the Creator proceeds to people it with living
beings,—first, the heavenly gods (_i. e._ the stars and other celestial
bodies); secondly, airy and winged creatures; thirdly, those living in
the water; and lastly, those moving on the earth. The stars, indeed, are
termed a race of heavenly gods, yet generated and visible, endowed with
fiery, spherical bodies, and called immortal, as not being subject to
dissolution or decay (ch. xv.); but whether the earth itself is, like
the other bodies, to be considered an ensouled, generated god, and
whether at rest or in motion, is not exactly certain.

Next follows a narrative, almost purely mythical, of the formation of
the mortal races of animals (ch. xvi.-xviii.), which the Supreme himself
does not deign personally to create, but commits that task to the lower
gods, reserving only the office of imparting to these new creatures
whatever was to be immortal in their constitution. A like number of
these perishable animals is assigned to each of the stars; and the first
birth being the same in all,—that of the human male; nor was it till
after a fixed period, that the female and all other animals,—beasts,
fishes, and birds,—issued from this mortal form. Of this being, Man,
consisting, like the universe, of body and soul mysteriously conjoined,
Timæus next gives a detailed description, beginning with the head, which
contains the leading organs of sense (ch. xix., xx.); and he then
diverges into a long investigation of the elements of earthly bodies,
particularly as respects their geometric forms, as well also, as of
their various affections, viz. motion or rest, heat or cold, heaviness
or lightness, smell, colour, &c., the discussion of which must
necessarily precede any satisfactory account of the intellectual and
physical man (ch. xxi.-xlii.). Man, he proceeds to observe, is composed
of a corruptible body enshrining an immortal soul; but besides this, he
possesses an inferior sort of soul, whereby he becomes cognizant of the
various passions and emotions, viz., pleasure and pain, hope, fear,
anger, desire, &c.; and all the parts of his body are composed with
wonderful skill, and yet kept in constant subjection to the dominance of
reason and intellect:—and he now parenthetically intimates the existence
of two sets of causes,—the _divine_ and _necessary_,—as constantly
operating together; of the former of which we can gain only a very
imperfect knowledge (though for our happiness’ sake we should ever
aspire thereto), while the latter we should investigate for the sake of
getting at the former (ch. xliii.).

Next succeed separate and particular (though somewhat fanciful)
descriptions of the heart, lungs, stomach, liver, spleen, intestines,
spinal marrow and brain, skull and bones, ligaments and tendons, muscles
and flesh, the nerves round the head, teeth, tongue, lips, hair, skin,
pores, &c. &c., all of which are kept in healthy action by the united
operation of the alimentary and respiratory systems (ch.
xliv.-lxii.),—the object of the whole of these speculations being to
show the existence of design and the adaptation of means to ends
throughout the work of creation. Now the regular, unimpeded, action of
all these organs and component parts constitutes bodily health; whereas
the disorders and decay of the component elements of life are either
productive of disease or else slowly bring on old age and bodily decay
(ch. lxii.). Then follow some curious details respecting the diseases of
the body, which are ascribed to many various causes, mostly
fanciful,—some few only real, formed on a knowledge of the human frame
(ch. lxiii.-lxviii.). Far more important, however, and far more severe,
are the diseases of the soul; and these are assigned to two
causes,—first, bodily infirmity, and secondly, improper training, it
being a vulgar error to suppose that any one is willingly evil. The
great, and indeed only disease of the soul, is madness, which assumes
two forms,—madness (μανία), and folly or idiocy (ἀμαθία), both caused by
the unhealthy predominance of the animal passions over the reason and
conscience. Great care must therefore be observed constantly to maintain
the _mens sana in corpore sano_, to attend diligently to both, without
neglecting either,—to form the body by constant and suitable exercise as
well as strict temperance, and to cultivate the soul by engaging the
intellect in the contemplation of divine things and eternal truth,
including those heavenly revolutions with which the human soul also has
a close relation and harmony (ch. lxix.-lxxi.).

The concluding chapters of the dialogue comprise some observations on
the origin of the lower animals, from which it appears that Plato
entertained the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of souls; for
he thinks it probable that those who have lived unrighteously and
effeminately will, at their second birth, be changed into women,—those
of both sexes who have lived innocently but frivolously, foolishly
believing that heavenly things could be seen by mortal eye, being
changed into birds of the air; those, thirdly, who have been totally
estranged from philosophy, into beasts of the earth; and those,
fourthly, who are to the last degree foolish and ignorant, becoming mere
fishes, creatures of the water, to whom the gods that formed them have
denied even the privilege of breathing a thin and pure atmosphere (ch.
lxxii., lxxiii., compared with ch. xvii., where he touches, though more
briefly, on the same philosophic dogma). Lastly, the whole dialogue
concludes with a brief, but elegant summary of the great doctrine, of
which the philosopher has exhibited throughout it so many satisfactory
proofs,—that “this world, which comprises and is filled with all kinds
of living beings, both mortal and immortal, thus becomes a visible
animal embracing visible natures,—an image of the great Intelligence,—a
sensible god,—the greatest and best, the fairest and most perfect,—this
the one and only begotten Universe.”

Such is a succinct account of the leading arguments of the Timæus,
which, both as respects language and deep philosophic matter, is by far
the most difficult of any of Plato’s dialogues,—there being many
passages in it, which still in fact puzzle even the most ingenious of
its commentators. The reader who would seek further information than can
be afforded within the limits of a translation, is referred to
Tiedemann’s Introductions to the Platonic Dialogues, to Stallbaum’s
Prolegomena and notes to his edition of the Timæus, to Ritter’s remarks
on the physical doctrines of Plato (vol. ii. pp. 338-384), and, above
all, to the valuable notes and dissertations in Martin’s _Etudes sur le
Timée de Platon_, 2 vols. 8vo. 1842.

-----

Footnote 257:

  The reader is referred for further information on the pre-Socratic
  theories of nature, to Stallbaum’s Prolegomena to the Timæus, pp.
  48-54; as well as to Introductions to the Protagoras and Theœtetus, in
  vol. i. of this translation.

Footnote 258:

  Plato, in ch. xxiii. designates _matter_ as the receptacle, and, as it
  were, the nurse (ὑποδοχὴν, οἷον τιθήνην) of all production; while God,
  on the other hand,—the sum of all ideas,—is the Father and fashioner
  of the Universe. In ch. xxvi. also, it is described as one and the
  same with space, which furnishes a place for all generated things.
  This principle of nature, therefore, is without form,—without _an
  idea_; and it is only in the productions of the creative energy and
  the all-susceptible nature,—that is, in the son of the father and
  mother,—that there is form and determinate idea. This is clearly laid
  down in ch. xxiv.; and Ritter accordingly very rightly
  observes:—“Matter is nothing more than the condition of all human
  existence, which, however, is a necessary condition, and so causes the
  _natural_ itself to appear as _necessary_; whereas the shape received
  from the good is that which under this condition comes into being and
  has its actual existence in nature.”—(Ritter, ii. p. 341, compared
  with ch. xliii. of this Dialogue.)

-----


                              THE TIMÆUS.

                                ———●———

                SOCRATES, TIMÆUS, CRITIAS, HERMOCRATES.


I.—SOC. One, two, three:—but where, dear Timæus, is that fourth of us
who yesterday were your guests, but are entertainers now?

TIM. Some illness has befallen him, Socrates; for he would not willingly
have missed such a meeting as the present.

SOC. It is your business, then, of yourself, and [that of] these
present, to fill up the place of the absent guest.

TIM. Quite so, Socrates; and, as far as we can, we will not fail to do
so: for it would be unjust for the rest of us, whom you yesterday so
handsomely entertained, not to treat you with readiness in return.

SOC. Do you recollect, then, the magnitude and nature of the things on
which I charged you to speak?

TIM. Some, indeed, we do recollect; but what we do not, you, who were
present, can recal to our memory: or rather, if it be not too much
trouble, once more briefly run over the whole from the beginning, that
it may be the more firmly established in our minds.

SOC. Be it so. The sum of yesterday’s discussion respecting a republic
was, what form I thought the best, and of what sort of men it should be
composed.

TIM. And indeed, Socrates, all that you said was quite according to our
mind.

SOC. Did we not in the first place separate the class of husbandmen, and
ever so many other artificers, from that of those who fight in defence
of the state?

TIM. Yes.

SOC. And when we had assigned to every one that single employment which
was suited to his own nature, and had prescribed to each his particular
art, we bade the military caste confine themselves to the simple duty of
protecting the state from the hostile incursions both of internal and
external foes;—mildly to administer justice to their subjects, as being
naturally friends, but fiercely to combat with such foes as might fall
in their way.

TIM. Quite so, of course.

SOC. We asserted, I think, that the souls of the guardians should be
naturally high-spirited, and at the same time remarkably philosophic, so
as to enable them towards either friends or foes respectively to be
gentle or severe.

TIM. You did so.

SOC. But what about their training? Did we not say that they ought to be
instructed in gymnastic exercises, music, and other suitable branches of
science?

TIM. Yes.

SOC. With respect at least to those thus trained, it was somehow said,
that they should regard neither gold nor silver nor any such property,
as their own private possession, but rather, like subordinates, should
receive the wages of their guardianship from those whom they defend and
preserve, their recompense being no more than sufficient for temperate
men, and that they should spend their income in common, with a view only
to mutual subsistence, bestowing their attention wholly on virtue, in
preference to every other pursuit.

TIM. This too was so stated.

II.--SOC. Respecting women, too, we asserted that their nature should be
aptly conformed to resemble that of men, and that they should all engage
in common with them, both in the duties of war and the other employments
of life.

TIM. This too you alleged.

SOC. But what about the procreation of children? This perhaps you easily
remember, on account of the novelty of the proposal; for we ordered that
marriage-unions and children should be in common to all persons
whatsoever, special care being taken also that no one should be able to
distinguish his own children individually, but all consider all as their
kindred; regarding those of an equal age, and in the prime of life, as
their brothers and sisters,—those prior to them, and yet further back,
as parents and grandsires,—and those below them, as their children and
grandchildren.[259]

TIM. Aye,—these things too, in the way you describe them, are easily
remembered.

SOC. That they might at once acquire then the best possible natural
disposition, I recollect that we decreed that the rulers, male and
female, whom we placed over the marriage contract, should secretly
contrive, through certain lots, that the worthy should assort only with
the worthy, the base with the base,—and that no discord might arise from
this connexion, we should refer all the blame of the union to fortune
alone.

TIM. This, too, we remember.

SOC. We ordered, moreover, that the children of the good should be
properly trained, but those of the bad secretly sent to the other part
of the state, while of those who are constantly arriving at manhood,
such as are found to be of a good disposition, should be recalled from
exile; those, among them, on the contrary, who have proved themselves
unworthy, being in their turn banished to the place occupied by those
just promoted.

TIM. Just so.

SOC. Have we, then, sufficiently summed up yesterday’s discussion; or do
we need anything further, friend Timæus, that has been omitted?

TIM. By no means, Socrates; for these were the very things discussed.

III.—SOC. You shall now hear some further details respecting the
republic that we have described, and how I feel towards it. The feeling,
then, seems to me somewhat similar to this,—as if some one, on beholding
beautiful animals, either wrought by the graver’s art, or really alive,
but in a state of perfect rest, were to entertain a desire to behold
them in motion, struggling, as it were, in those exercises which seem
best suited to their bodies. Just the same do I feel towards that form
of state which we have described; for I should gladly listen to any one
who recited the story of the contests that one state engages in with
others, when it ventures becomingly on war, and exhibits in the course
of it a conduct worthy of its nurture and training, as regards both
active encounters and verbal negotiations with individual states. On
these points, indeed, Critias and Hermocrates, I am conscious of my own
inability to praise the men and the state according to their desert; and
that I should be so incapable is no wonder, as I have formed the same
opinion respecting the poets both of the past and present age;—not that
I despise the poet-tribe, but still every one must see, that being an
imitative race, they most easily and in the best manner imitate those
things in which they have been trained; while, on the contrary, whatever
is unconnected with their training, is hard for them to imitate well
even in actions, and in words even yet more difficult. And as for the
tribe of Sophists, I deem them indeed mighty clever, both in multiplying
words and many other fine accomplishments; yet I fear, as they have no
settled abode, but wander through various cities, and dwell in no abode
of their own, they will form false conjectures respecting both
philosophers and politicians, as to the magnitude and nature both of the
actions which they achieve in war, and of the words they employ in their
mutual intercourse. The only people remaining, then, to whom I can
apply, are those of your character and habit, versed both by nature and
training in philosophy and political science. For Timæus here of Locris,
in Italy, which is governed by the best of laws,[260] being withal not
inferior to any of his fellow-citizens in wealth and nobility, has in
his own state attained to the highest official honours, and has likewise
in my opinion reached the summit of all philosophy. Critias, too, as we
all know, is not ignorant of the particulars that we are now
mentioning;—and respecting Hermocrates also, we have ample testimony for
the belief that he is both by nature and education well suited to all
these pursuits.[261] Hence, when I perceived yesterday your great
anxiety to discuss the formation of a republic, I was much pleased at
it, being well aware, that if you pleased, none could better unfold the
successive points for discussion;—inasmuch as, by properly adapting the
state for warlike purposes, you would be the only person in the present
age who could supply it with all things becoming its constitution.
Having spoken, then, in compliance with your request, I now require you,
in your turn, to comply with mine; and, as a matter of course, you have
agreed to carry on the discussion among yourselves in common and so
forthwith repay my hospitality with the feast of reasoning. Here,
therefore, am I arrayed for the purpose, and readiest of all to partake
of the promised banquet.

-----

Footnote 259:

  This subject is considered at some length in the third, fourth, and
  fifth books of the Republic, as well as in the Laws, v. 739, b.

Footnote 260:

  Its code was formed by Zaleucus, and it was said by the Syracusans to
  be the best governed of all the Greek cities of Italy. Comp. the Laws,
  i. 638.

Footnote 261:

  Critias was a man of a generous, vigorous-minded disposition, who was
  so fond of the company of philosophers, that he was said to be ἰδιώτης
  μὲν ἐν φιλοσόφοις, φιλόσοφος δὲ ἐν ἰδιώταις. He was afterwards one of
  the thirty tyrants, and Socrates’ most bitter enemy. Hermocrates was a
  celebrated Syracusan general, several times alluded to by Thucydides
  and Xenophon, and who made a vow to live by certain rules (κατὰ νόμον
  ζῆν ἐφιέμενος).

-----

IV.—HERM. Aye, truly, Socrates, as Timæus here just observed, neither
will we lack zeal in fulfilling your desire; nor will we offer any
excuse for neglecting it; since only yesterday, just after leaving this,
when we went to the lodging of Critias, where both there and before that
on the way thither, we discussed this very subject. He here then
unfolded to us a story from ancient tradition, which—prythee, Critias,
even now repeat to Socrates, that he may judge whether or not it
concerns his demand.

CRI. This we must surely do, if agreeable to Timæus, our third partner
in this discussion.

TIM. I, for my part, fully consent.

CRI. Listen now then, Socrates, to a story very strange indeed, yet in
every respect true, as it was once related by Solon, the wisest of the
seven [sages of Greece]. He was the kinsman and intimate friend of our
great-grandfather Dropides, as he himself often tells us in his poems;
and he (Dropides) informed our grandfather Critias (as the old man
himself in turn told us), that this state had formerly achieved great
and admirable actions, the knowledge of which nevertheless had been lost
through lapse of time and the decay of mankind,—one act in particular
being more illustrious than the rest,—in remembrance of which it were
fitting, that we should not only return you thanks, but also in full
assembly hymn forth to the goddess our true and just acclaim of praise.

SOC. Well observed:—but what is this achievement, which Critias
described as having been not only related by Solon, but really
accomplished by this state in days of yore?

CRI. I will acquaint you with that ancient story, which I indeed
received from no mere youth; for at that time Critias, as he himself
said, was almost ninety years old, and I myself about ten; and it
chanced then to be the time of the _Cureotis Apaturiorum_.[262] The boys
indeed were then going through the ceremonies customary with them at
this festival;—for our parents proposed prizes for singing verses; and
therefore a multitude of verses of many poets were recited, and many of
us especially sang the poems of Solon, as being at that time new. Then
one of our tribe, whether it was his real opinion or he wished to
gratify Critias, said he thought Solon not only the wisest of men in
matters generally, but as regards poetry the most noble of all poets. On
hearing this, the old man (for I well remember it) was exceedingly
pleased, and said, laughing—‘If Solon, oh Amynander, had not considered
poetry as a mere amusement, but made it, as others do, a serious
employment, and so completed the history which he had brought from
Egypt; and, had not been forced to relinquish it by the seditions and
numerous other troubles in which he found his country involved, I do not
think that either Hesiod, Homer, or any other poet, would have acquired
more distinguished renown.’ ‘And what was that story, Critias?’ asked
he. ‘One about an action,’ replied he, ‘the greatest and most
celebrated, which this state ever achieved; although, through lapse of
time and the death of those by whom it was undertaken, its fame has not
descended to our own day.’ ‘Tell it,’ said he, ‘from the beginning; and
say what that was, which Solon asserted as true, as well as how and from
whom he heard it.’

-----

Footnote 262:

  The _Apaturia_, according to Proclus and Suidas, were festivals in
  honour of Dionysus, publicly celebrated for the space of three days;
  and they were assigned this name, δι’ ἀπάτην, that is, on account of
  the deception through which Poseidon is reported to have vanquished
  Xanthus. The first day of these festivals was called δόρπεια, in
  which, as the name indicates, those of the same tribe feasted
  together; and hence (says Proclus) on this day εὐωχίαι καὶ δεῖπνα
  πολλά, splendid banquets and much feasting took place:—the second day
  was called ἀνάῥῥυσις, _a sacrifice_, because many victims were
  sacrificed in it; the victims being called ἀναῤῥύματα:—the third day,
  of which Plato speaks in this place, was called κουρεώτης, because on
  this day κοῦροι, that is, boys or girls, were collected to have their
  names registered in their tribes (φρατρίαι:)—to these some add a
  fourth day, which they call ἐπίβδα, or _the day after_.

-----

V.—‘In Egypt,’ said he, ‘in the Delta, about the summit of which the
streams of the Nile are divided, is the district (νομός) surnamed
Saitical; the chief city of which is Sais, whence also came the king
Amasis; and it had a presiding divinity, whose name is in the Egyptian
tongue _Neith_, which they say corresponds with the Greek _Athena_; and
the people profess to be great friends of the Athenians, and united with
them in a sort of close alliance. Solon said that on his arrival
thither, he was very honourably received; and, especially, on his
inquiring about ancient affairs of those priests who possessed superior
knowledge in such matters, he perceived that neither himself nor any one
of the Greeks (so to speak) had any antiquarian knowledge at all. And
once on a time desirous of inducing them to narrate their ancient
stories, he undertook to describe those events which had formerly
happened among us in days of yore,—those about the first Phoroneus and
Niobe, and again after the deluge of Deucalion and Pyrrha (as described
by the mythologists), together with their posterity, paying due
attention to the different ages in which these events are said to have
occurred:—on which one of their extremely ancient priests exclaimed,
“Solon, Solon, you Greeks are always children, and aged Greek there is
none.” Solon, on hearing this, replied, “How can you say this?” To whom
the priest, “You are all youths in intelligence; for you hold no ancient
opinions derived from remote tradition, nor any system of discipline
that can boast of a hoary old age:—and the cause of this is the
multitude and variety of destructions that have been and will be
undergone by the human race, the greater indeed arising from fire and
water, others of less importance from ten thousand other contingencies.
The story, for instance, that is current among you, that Phaeton, the
offspring of the Sun, once attempting to drive his father’s chariot, and
not being able to keep the track observed by his parent, burnt up the
surface of the earth, and perished himself, blasted by lightning, is
generally regarded as fabulous, but in point of fact it refers to a
declination (or parallax) of the heavenly bodies revolving round the
earth, and indicates that, at certain long intervals of time, the
earth’s surface is destroyed by mighty fires.[263] When this occurs,
then those who dwell either on mountains, or in lofty and dry places,
perish in greater numbers than those dwelling near rivers, or on the
sea-shore;—whereas to us the Nile is not only our safeguard from all
other troubles, but liberates and preserves us also from this in
particular;—and again when the gods, to purify the earth, deluge its
surface with water, then the herdsmen and shepherds on the mountains are
preserved in safety, while the inhabitants of your cities are hurried
away to the sea, by the impetuosity of the rivers. In this our country,
on the other hand, the waters neither then fell, nor ever have fallen
from above upon the plains, but on the contrary are naturally driven
upwards from the earth’s interior:—and to these causes it is owing, that
the most ancient things are said to be here preserved. The truth is,
however, that in all places where there is neither intense cold nor
immoderate heat, the race of man is always found to exist, sometimes in
less, sometimes in greater number. And all the noble, great, or
otherwise distinguished achievements, performed either by ourselves, or
by you, or elsewhere, of which we have heard the report,—all these have
been engraven in our temples in very remote times, and preserved to the
present day; while, on the contrary, with you and all other nations,
they are only just committed to writing, and all other modes of
transmission which states require,—when again, at the usual period, a
current from heaven rushes on them like a pestilence, and leaves the
survivors among you both destitute of literary attainments and
unacquainted with music;—and thus you become young again, as at first,
knowing nothing of the events of ancient times, either in our country or
yours. As for the transactions, indeed, Solon, which you have just
related from your antiquities, they differ but little from puerile
fables:—for in the first place you only mention one deluge of the earth,
whereas there had been many before; and in the next place you are
unacquainted with that most noble and excellent race of men, who once
inhabited your country, from whom you and your whole present state are
descended, though only a small remnant of this admirable people is now
remaining,—your ignorance in this matter resulting from the fact that
their posterity for many generations died without the power of speech
through the medium of letters;[264] for long before the chief deluge, a
city of Athenians existed, regulated by the best laws both in military
and all other matters, whose noble deeds and civil institutions are said
to have been the most excellent of all that we have heard to exist under
heaven.”

-----

Footnote 263:

  It was the opinion of Heraclitus and many of the old philosophers,
  that the earth would be periodically destroyed by fire or water. The
  notion was borrowed, perhaps, from the Egyptians. (Comp. Herod. ii.
  ch. 142.)

-----

VI.—‘Solon, on hearing this, expressed his admiration, and exhibited the
most ardent desire, entreating the priests to relate to him accurately
and in order the whole history of his ancient fellow-citizens. And then
one of the priests replied, “I have no objection, Solon; and for your
sake, and that of your city, I will relate the whole, and more
particularly on account of that goddess, to whom is assigned the
guardianship both of your state and ours, and by whom both have been
founded and fostered; yours indeed having a priority over ours of a
thousand years, from having received its origin from Hephæstus and the
Earth; and the annals even of our own city [Sais] have been preserved
eight thousand years in our sacred writings. I will briefly describe,
then, the laws and more illustrious actions of those states which have
existed nine thousand years; and when we are more at leisure, we will
take the sacred writings themselves, and recount an exact history of
every particular.

‘“Now, consider the laws of these people, as compared with those
prevailing here; for you will find here even at the present day many
examples of institutions that formerly existed in your city. First of
all, the priests passed their life separate from all the rest; and next,
the artificers so exercised their crafts, that each followed his own
employment without mingling with any other class of workmen. The same
method was likewise adopted with shepherds, hunters, and husbandmen. The
soldiers, too, you will find, were separated from other kinds of men,
and were enjoined by the laws to engage in nothing but war. The armour,
too, which each employed, such as shields and darts, resembled that
which we used first of all the Asiatics,—the goddess in those places, as
she did to you, first pointing out their use. Again, with respect to
wisdom, you may perceive what attention the law paid to it even from the
first, as likewise to all that respects the universe, including even
divination and medicine, that conduces to the preservation of health;
and from these, which are divine things, the inquiry proceeds to human
affairs and all other branches of learning therewith connected. Such
then was the principle of distribution and arrangement on which the
goddess first founded and established your state, choosing for that
purpose the place in which you were born; because she foresaw that from
its excellent temperature, the region would produce men of the most
consummate wisdom; and, the goddess, of course, being a lover both of
wisdom and war, selected a spot likely to produce men most resembling
herself; and fixed on this first as their settled abode. You proceeded
to settle, then, under the protection of such like laws, and what is
more, under good government, surpassing all men likewise in every
virtue, as becomes the descendants and disciples of the gods.

‘“Many and mighty deeds of your state, then, are here recorded in
writing [in our sacred records,] and call forth our admiration;
nevertheless there is one in particular, which in magnitude and valour
surpasses them all;—for these writings relate what a prodigious force
your city once overcame, when a mighty warlike power, rushing from the
Atlantic sea, spread itself with hostile fury over all Europe and Asia.
That sea indeed was then navigable, and had an island fronting that
mouth which you in your tongue call the Pillars of Hercules; and this
island was larger than Libya and Asia put together; and there was a
passage hence for travellers of that day to the rest of the islands, as
well as from those islands to the whole opposite continent that
surrounds that the real sea. For as respects what is within the mouth
here mentioned, it appears to be a bay with a kind of narrow entrance;
and that sea is indeed a true sea, and the land that entirely surrounds
it may truly and most correctly be called a continent. In this Atlantic
island, then, was formed a powerful league of kings, who subdued the
entire island, together with many others, and parts also of the
continent; besides which they subjected to their rule the inland parts
of Libya, as far as Egypt, and Europe also, as far as Tyrrhenia. The
whole of this force, then, being collected in a powerful league,
undertook at one blow to enslave both your country and ours, and all the
land besides that lies within the mouth. This was the period, Solon,
when the power of your state was universally celebrated for its virtue
and strength;—for, surpassing all others both in magnanimity and
military skill, sometimes taking the lead of the Greek nation, at others
left to itself by the defection of the rest, and brought into the most
extreme danger, it still prevailed, raised the trophy over its
assailants, kept from slavery those not as yet enslaved, insured
likewise the most ample liberty for all of us without exception who
dwell within the Pillars of Hercules. Subsequently, however, through
violent earthquakes and deluges which brought desolation in a single day
and night, the whole of your warlike race[265] was at once merged under
the earth; and the Atlantic island itself was plunged beneath the sea,
and entirely disappeared;—whence even now that sea is neither navigable
nor to be traced out, being blocked up by the great depth of mud[266]
which the subsiding island produced.’”[267]

-----

Footnote 264:

  Gr. γράμμασι τελευτᾶν ἀφώνους, which can only be paraphrastically
  rendered.

Footnote 265:

  τὸ παρ’ ὑμῖν μάχιμον. So reads Stallbaum, on the authority of several
  MSS., the old reading being παρ’ ὑμῶν, which is retained by Bekker.

Footnote 266:

  Gr. πηλοῦ κάρτα βαθέος ἐμποδὼν ὄντος. The old reading is καταβραχέος.
  We have here followed Bekker’s emendation.

Footnote 267:

  The whole of the story about the Atlantic isles, so much canvassed by
  the critics, is so improbable and so at variance with the geographical
  knowledge of the Greeks, even in Plato’s time, that it can only be
  considered as a mere myth. See Martin’s admirable remarks, _Études sur
  le Timée_.

-----

VII.—The above, O Socrates, is the sum of what the elder Critias
repeated from the narration of Solon:—and when yesterday you were
discoursing about a republic and the citizens composing it, I was
reminded to my surprise of what I have now mentioned; for I perceived
how divinely, as it were, by a kind of good luck, and without wandering
from the mark, you in most respects coincided with Solon’s statement.
Still I was unwilling to disclose these particulars immediately; since,
from the long lapse of time since I first heard them, I did not remember
them with sufficient accuracy [for repetition]. I considered, therefore,
that I ought, before relating it, first of all to rehearse the whole
diligently to myself. And this was why I yesterday speedily complied
with your demands, conceiving, as is most important in such matters,
that we ought not to lack ability to present a discourse suited to the
object in view. Hence was it, as Hermocrates here observed, that as soon
as we left here yesterday, I brought up the subject before my friends
here, in order to refresh my memory; and by afterwards meditating on it
at night, I acquired nearly a complete recollection of the whole story.
According to the proverb, indeed, what we learn in childhood takes a
wonderful hold on the memory:—for with respect to myself, for instance,
I am not certain that I could recall the whole of yesterday’s discourse,
though I should be very much astonished if anything that I had heard a
very long time ago were to escape my remembrance. What I then heard,
indeed, was listened to with great pleasure and delight; and the old man
very readily recounted it, even when I frequently asked for a
repetition; and thus the story became like the brands of indelible
writing fixed in my memory. Well then, as soon as it was day I repeated
the narrative to my friends, that they might aid me in fairly recounting
my story. Now, therefore, as respects the object of all that has been
said, Socrates, I am prepared to relate, not only the general heads, but
the particulars also of all that I heard. As for the citizens and state
which you described to us yesterday as in a fable, we will now convert
it into a reality, and consider the state established by you as no other
than this [of Athens,] and the citizens which you described as no other
than those real ancestors of ours, alluded to by the Egyptian priests.
Indeed they will harmonize in every respect; and we shall not be far
from the mark[268] in asserting that your citizens are the very people
who existed at that time. Each taking our share then in this discussion,
we will try our utmost to bestow suitable attention to the task that you
have assigned us. It is requisite therefore to consider, O Socrates,
whether this narrative answers our purpose,[269] or we should seek some
other in its stead.

SOC. And what other, O Critias, can we receive in preference to this,
which, from its affinity, is extremely suitable to the festival of the
goddess, and has the all-important merit of being not a cunningly
devised fable, but a true history? It is impossible, therefore, to say,
how and whence, if we abandon your narrative, we should find another
more suitable. We cannot; but must acknowledge that you have been happy
in your narration; and, as for me, after my discourse of yesterday, I
will now rest, and be in my turn a listener.

-----

Footnote 268:

  Gr. οὐκ ἀπᾳσόμεθα, _lit. we shall not sing out of tune_. The old
  reading is ἀπωσόμεθα, which is untranslatable.

Footnote 269:

  Gr. εἰ κατὰ νοῦν ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν οὗτος.

-----

VIII.—CRI. Consider then, Socrates, the arrangement of this banquet of
yours, how we settled it. For we think it right that Timæus, who is the
most astronomical of us all, and has bestowed much pains in acquainting
himself with the nature of the universe, should be the first to
discourse to us, beginning from the creation of the world, and ending
with the nature of men;—and also that I after him, receiving from him,
as it were, the men which have been ideally produced—and some of them,
too, excellently educated by you,—should introduce them among us here,
according to the word and law of Solon, as to proper judges, and make
them members of this city; as being really those very Athenians of
bygone days, which were described as unknown to us in the report of the
sacred writings;—and so, in future, we will treat them in our discourse
as citizens and Athenians.

SOC. I am now, it seems, to be plentifully and splendidly entertained in
my turn with a banquet of arguments:—it is for you, then, O Timæus, to
begin the discourse, having first of all invoked the gods according to
the usual custom.

TIM. Well, Socrates, this at any rate is true,—that those who have even
the least share of wisdom, always invoke the deity on entering every
undertaking, whether small or great; and so we likewise (unless we be in
every respect unwise) who are now about to speak concerning the
universe, whether it be generated or without generation, shall (if we be
not very unwise) make it our first duty to invoke the gods and
goddesses, and pray that what we speak may be first of all pleasing to
them, and also in consistence with ourselves. And as respects the
invocation of the gods, so have I acted for myself; while as respects
ourselves, we must lead you by that way which you may most easily
understand, and which will best enable me to explain my meaning about
the proposed subjects of discussion.

IX.—I think we ought, in the first place, to define what that is which
is _ever-existent_, and has no generation; and what that is which is _in
a state of generation_ or becoming, but never really _is_. The former of
these, indeed, which is apprehended by reflection united with reason,
always subsists according to _sameness_;[270]—while the latter is
perceived by opinion united with irrational perception; since it
subsists in a state of generation and corruption, and never really is.
And, again, whatever is generated is necessarily generated from a
certain cause; for it is wholly impossible that anything should be
generated without a cause. An artificer, therefore, of anything, if he
looks to that which always subsists according to sameness, and from this
as a sort of pattern, works out the form and nature of his work, he must
thus, necessarily, produce something wholly beautiful:—but where he
employs for his pattern only what is generated, it cannot be beautiful.

Let this universe then be called _heaven_, or _the world_, or by any
other name that it usually receives; and let us, in the first place,
consider respecting it, what ought to be investigated at the very outset
of our proposed inquiry about the universe,—whether it always existed,
having no beginning, or was generated, beginning from some certain
commencement. It is generated;—for this universe is palpable, and has a
body; and all such things are perceptible (_i. e._ are to be apprehended
by the senses); and things perceptible being apprehended by opinion, in
conjunction with perception, appear to be in a state of becoming, and
subject to generation. Again, with reference to what exists, it must
necessarily have arisen from some cause.

To discover then the _Creator_ and _Father_ of this universe, as well as
his work, is indeed difficult; and when discovered, it is impossible to
reveal him to mankind at large. And this too, we must consider
respecting him, according to which of two patterns he modelled the
world; whether with reference to one subsisting ever in a state of
sameness and similarly affected, or with reference to one that is only
generated. If this world then is beautiful and its artificer good, he
evidently looked to an eternal pattern; but if it be without beauty, and
what it is not lawful to mention, he must have looked to one that is
generated. It is evident, however, to every one that he looked to one
that was eternal;—for the universe is the most beautiful of generated
things, and its artificer the best of causes. Being thus generated,
then, it has been framed according to principles that can be
comprehended by reason and reflection, and ever abides in sameness of
being. This, then, being the case, this world must necessarily be the
resemblance of something;—although to describe its origin according to
nature is the greatest of all undertakings. We should distinguish
between an image and its pattern; just as words are connected with the
things of which they are the interpreters:—and so when we speak of that
which is stable and firm, and mentally intelligible, our language should
be in like manner stable and immutable, and as far as possible
unrefutable and immovable, having in this respect no deficiency;
whereas, in speaking concerning its image only, and as compared to it,
we should use probable arguments, that are in strict analogy thereto.
Moreover, precisely as essence (or true being) is to generation, so is
truth to faith (or mere conjecture). You must not wonder, then, O
Socrates, since different people differ so much in opinion about the
gods and the formation of the universe, if I should be unable to put
forth generally approved and scrupulously exact statements on so
difficult a subject; but even if we should only advance reasons not less
probable than those of others, you should still be content, remembering
that both I who am speaking, and you who are my judges, possess a common
human nature; and you must be satisfied therefore, if my assertions are
but probable statements, and should inquire no farther.

SOC. Capitally well said, Timæus; and we must proceed wholly as you
recommend. As regards the prelude then of your discourse, we wonderfully
approve of it: and now proceed to the strain (or main subject) itself.

X.—TIM. Let us declare then on what account the framing Artificer
settled the formation of this universe.[271] He was good; and in the
good, envy is never engendered about anything whatever. Hence, being
free from this (envy), he desired that all things should as much as
possible resemble himself. Any one, therefore, who receives this as the
leading principle of generation and the universe from intelligent men,
will receive it most correctly. For as the deity desired, as far as
possible, that all things should be good, and nothing evil,—he
accordingly took everything that was visible and not in a state of rest,
but in excessive agitation and disorder, and then reduced it from
disorder into order, conceiving the latter to be far better than the
former. It is not, indeed, and never was, lawful to do anything else but
what is most honourable; and accordingly, he found by reasoning that of
things naturally visible, nothing without intelligence could be more
beautiful than what is wholly endowed with intellect, and besides this,
that apart from the soul no one could possess intelligence.[272] In
pursuance of this reasoning, placing intellect in soul and soul in body,
he constructed the universe; that thus it might be a work naturally the
most beautiful and the best. Hence, therefore, we have a reasonable
motive for calling the world an animal with a soul, truly intellectual,
and created through the providence of the deity.

-----

Footnote 270:

  The terms ταὐτόν—θάτερον, ὅμοιον—ἀνόμοιον, so constantly met with in
  this dialogue, express _eternal constancy_, as contrasted with
  _mutability_; and they are found among the ten pairs of opposites
  which, according to the Pythagoreans, constituted the _elements_ of
  the universe.

Footnote 271:

  Gr. γένεσιν καὶ τὸ πᾶν τόδε.

Footnote 272:

  Plato seems, therefore, to regard the soul (ψυχή) as an intermediate
  agent and uniting bond between perishable bodies and the eternal and
  indestructible intellect, powerfully acting on matter; but yet, on the
  other hand, closely and necessarily connected with intellect; though
  not like the latter, naturally eternal and indestructible, but the
  best of things generated and constituted eternal by the divine
  decrees.

-----

XI.—This being the case, let us next consider, in the likeness of what
animals the composing artificer framed the universe. We must by no means
then think, that he would deign to fashion it like animals subsisting as
a part of anything (_i. e._ in an incomplete form): for nothing
resembling an imperfect animal can possibly be beautiful. But we may
consider it on the other hand, as most nearly of all resembling what
contains the other animals both separately and collectively as parts [of
a whole:]—for it (the universe) comprises within itself all intelligible
animals, just as this world contains us and all other visible
creatures.[273] The deity, indeed, desirous of making it in all respects
resemble the most beautiful and entirely perfect of intelligible
objects, formed it into one visible animal, _containing within itself
all the other_ animals with which it is naturally allied. Are we not,
then, right in concluding that there is but one heaven (or universe); or
is it more correct to assert that there are many and infinite? One only,
[I answer,] if it has been fabricated according to the original pattern.
For that which comprehends all intelligible animals whatever, can never
be second to any other:—for there would be need of another animal again
to comprise these two, of which they would both be parts; and it would
be more proper to assert that the universe resembles this comprehending
third, rather than the other two. In order, therefore, that the world
may in its substantive existence [κατὰ τὴν μόνωσιν] resemble the
all-perfect animal—on this account the framer of the worlds produced
neither two nor an infinite number; but this, the solely-begotten heaven
(or universe) having been generated, now exists and ever will exist.

Now, whatever has been generated, must necessarily have bodily shape,
and be visible as well as tangible. But nothing can be visible without
the aid of fire, and nothing tangible without something solid, and
nothing solid without earth,—owing to which, the deity at the beginning
of his constructive labour composed the body of the universe from fire
and earth. But it is not possible for two things alone to cohere,
without the intervention of a third; for a certain bond is necessary
between the two. And the best of all bonds is that, which, as nearly as
possible, unites into one both itself and the natures bound with it. But
proportion will naturally best show this effect;[274]—for whenever,
either in three numbers, or solids, or powers, the middle bears the same
ratio to the last, as the first to the middle—and again also, as the
last is to the middle, so is the middle to the first; then the middle
(or mean) term becoming both first and last, and the last and first
again each become means, they must thus all necessarily become the same
relatively to each other, and having become the same with each other,
will all be one. If then the body of the universe had been a superficies
only without thickness, one medium alone would have sufficed, both for
binding it and all that belongs to it;—but in the present case, as it
was doomed to be a solid—and solids are never one only, but always
jointed together by two media,—whence the deity placed water and air
between fire and earth;—and by thus placing them as far as possible in
proportion to each other, so that fire should be to air as air to water,
and as air to water so water to earth,—he thus bound and framed together
the world visible and tangible. On this account also, and from such
elements, which are four in number, the body of the universe was
confessedly generated by a certain proportion; and hence has resulted
such an intimacy, that all its parts aptly cohere, and are indissoluble
except by its uniting artificer.

Of these four elements, then, the composition of the world received one
_whole_ of each:[275]—for its composing artificer constituted it from
entire elements of fire, water, air, and earth; leaving no part of any
one of them, nor any extraneous power,—considering that it would thus be
a whole animal, in the highest degree perfect and of perfect parts; and
besides this, that it would be one, as nothing would be left, from which
any other such element could be produced; and lastly, that it would be
free from old age and disease,—and perceiving also that the principles
composing bodies, as heat and cold, and all possess vigorous powers,
when they surround bodies externally and interfere with them
unseasonably, dissolve their union, and bring on diseases and old age,
whereby they decay and perish. Owing to such causes and reasonings,
then, he framed this universe, as one whole, an united series of perfect
wholes, perfect, undecaying, and without disease. He gave it also a
figure becoming and allied to its nature;—and to the animal destined to
comprehend all others within itself, that figure as the most becoming,
which includes within itself every sort of figure whatever. Hence he
fashioned it in the shape of a sphere, perfectly round, having its
centre everywhere equally distant from the bounding extremities, as
being the most perfect of all figures, and most resembling himself;—and
he did this, considering the similar to be infinitely more beautiful
than the dissimilar.

Next, he most carefully polished the external circumference of this
sphere,—and this for many reasons. It needed, indeed, neither eyes,
nor ears, as there was nothing externally either visible or
audible:—neither was it surrounded with air, as if it required
respiration;—nor, again, did it require any organ, through which it
might receive its nutriment, and discharge it again when digested: for
nothing was either added to or taken from it, that being impossible.
Indeed the universe is artfully made to provide itself with nutriment
through its own decay, as well as to suffer and do all things in
itself, and by its own operations;—because, indeed, its creator
conceived that it would be much more excellent, if independent in
action, than if it required extraneous aid. And he did not think fit
to give it hands either, as it had nothing either to receive or
reject; nor yet of feet, or any other members suited to
locomotion:—for he assigned to it a motion peculiar to itself, being
that of all the seven kinds of motion,[276] which chiefly belongs to
intellect and reflection. Hence, making the world to turn constantly
on itself and on the same point, he gave it a circular motion, and
took from it all the other six, without giving it any power of
progression: and as this revolution required no feet, he created the
world without legs and feet.

-----

Footnote 273:

  Gr. οὗ δ’ ἔστι τἄλλα ζῶα καθ’ ἓν καὶ κατὰ γένη μόρια, τούτῳ πάντων
  ὁμοιότατον αὐτὸν εἶναι τιθῶμεν. The meaning is somewhat obscure: the
  above is Stallbaum’s interpretation. Compare also, ch. xv. at the
  beginning. It may be observed, as regards intelligible and sensible
  objects, that Empedocles had laid down that the universe is
  _νοητός_,—although the παράδειγμα ἀρχέτυπον κόσμου αἰσθητοῦ.

Footnote 274:

  So we have ventured to render,—τοῦτο δὲ πέφυκεν ἀναλογία κάλλιστα
  ἀποτελεῖν. On the whole subject, see Stallbaum’s long and satisfactory
  note.

Footnote 275:

  Gr. ἓν ὅλον ἑκάστου,—one whole, without deficiency or superfluity,—the
  τὸ τέλειον, alluded to by Aristotle, Metaph. iv. § 16.

Footnote 276:

  On these seven kinds of motions, comp. ch. xviii. of this dialogue, p.
  348.

-----

XII.—Thus was it, that the intelligence of the eternal Deity, after due
reflection, conceived the form of the god about to come into existence;
and he made it smooth, equable, and even from its centre in every
direction,—a body whole and perfect, wholly composed out of perfect
bodies. As for the soul, he fixed it in the middle, extended it
throughout the whole, and likewise surrounded with it its entire
surface:—and so, causing a circle to revolve in a circle, he established
the world as one substantive, solitary object, self-sufficient through
its own excellence, requiring nothing external, but sufficiently known
and friendly to itself. By this procedure, then, he produced the
Universe, a blessed god. The Deity, however, did not, as we now
undertake to say, form the soul posterior and junior to the body: for he
who conjoined these, would never have allowed the more ancient nature to
be governed by the younger:—and yet we, who are exposed to the blind
chances of fortune, are apt to speak somehow in this silly fashion;
whereas the Deity constituted the soul both in age and excellence prior
to and older than the body, as being the proper mistress and ruler of
its subject [the body;] and that, too, from the following sources, and
in the following manner.

From one essence indivisible, and always the same, and from another
again that is divisible and corporeal, he composed—by admixture from
both—a third form of _essence_ intermediate between the two; and again,
between what is indivisible and divisible as respects bodies, he placed
the nature of _same_ and _different_ (or mutable);—and taking these
three, he mingled them all into one idea, joining them together by
force, as the _different_ would not freely mingle with the _same_. And
after mingling them with _essence_, and producing one from the three, he
again distributed this whole into suitable parts; each composed of a
mixture of _same_, _different_, and _essence_. He next began to divide
as follows:—In the first place, he took away one part from the whole;
then he separated a second part, double of the first: and again, a
third, one-and-a-half times as much as the second, but triple of the
first; then a fourth, double of the second; in the next place a fifth,
triple of the third: a sixth, octuple of the first: and lastly a
seventh, twenty-seven times greater than the first. After this, he
filled up the double and triple intervals, still taking off parts
therefrom, and so placed them between the intervals, that there might be
two media between every interval; one of which might, in the same
degree, exceed one of the extremes, and be exceeded by the other, while
the other part might in an equal degree exceed one of the extremes, and
be exceeded by the other. But as by the intermediate links between the
above-mentioned spaces the sesquialter, sesquitertian, and sesquioctave
intervals were produced, he filled with a sesquioctave all the
sesquitertian intervals,[277] leaving a part of each, the interval
between which and the following would have to each other the same ratio
as the numbers 256 and 243; and in truth he thus exhausted the whole
mixture—from which these were separated. He split the whole of this
composition, then, along its entire length into two parts, joining them
mutually across like the letter X, afterwards bending them into a
circle, and connecting them both with themselves and each other, in such
a way that their extremities might meet directly opposite the point of
their mutual intersection, externally comprehending them in an uniform
motion around the same centre; besides which, he made one of the circles
external, the other internal.[278] The motion of the exterior circle he
proclaimed to be that of sameness, and that of the interior the motion
of difference. He caused also the circle of sameness to revolve
laterally towards the right, and that of difference diagonally towards
the left. And the superiority he gave to the circulation of same and
similar; for this alone he suffered to remain undivided;—while, as to
that within, after dividing into six parts, and forming therefrom seven
unequal circles, divided by double and triple intervals, three of each,
he bade these circles travel in contrary directions to each other,—three
of the seven to revolve at equal velocities, the remaining four with a
velocity unequal as respects either of the former three, yet in a
certain proportion as to their respective periods.

-----

Footnote 277:

  Gr. ἡμιολίων δὲ διαστασέων καὶ ἐπιτρίτων καὶ ἐπογδόων γενομένων ἐκ
  τούτων τῶν δεσμῶν ἐν ταῖς πρόσθε διαστάσεσι, τῷ τοῦ ἐπογδόου
  διαστήματι τὰ ἐπίτριτα πάντα ξυνεπληροῦντο, &c. The whole paragraph is
  very difficult, owing to the very scanty records left us respecting
  the nature of the ancient Harmonics.

Footnote 278:

  The whole of this Pythagorean-like speculation on Harmonics has been
  variously explained by Cousin, Stallbaum, and Martin (as well as
  Böckh, in many of his learned tracts). It may here simply be observed,
  that the two harmonic scales, thus split down their length and
  crossed, formed two circles or orbits, one (θάτερον) revolving within
  the other (ταὐτόν), but in an opposite direction. These, according to
  many commentators, correspond with the equatorial and zodiacal
  circles(?).

-----

XIII.—After, therefore, the whole composition of the [universal] soul
had been completed according to the intention of God who framed it, he
in the next place formed within it the whole of a corporeal nature; and
he aptly jointed them, by uniting centre to centre. The former (the
soul), being interwoven throughout from the middle to the very
extremities of space, and covering it even all around externally, though
at the same time herself revolving within herself, originated the divine
commencement of an unceasing and wise life throughout all time. And
indeed the body of the universe was generated in visible shape; while
the soul, though invisible, was made to partake of reason and harmony,
and rendered the best of created things by Him—the best of eternal
intelligences. The soul, then, being composed from the admixture of the
three parts, same, different, and essence, classified as well as bound
together in certain proportions, and itself revolving inwardly on
itself, whenever it comes in contact either with anything mutable or
indivisible, at once declares by its intrinsic energy with what anything
is identical, and from what it differs, and also with reference to what,
where, how, and when it happens, both as regards its own separate
essence and its external affections, either in things generated, or such
as possess an eternal sameness.[279] When our talk, then, is about
truth, and consistent with itself,—whether, on the one hand, it be about
things mutable or things constant, and is silently and noiselessly borne
onward by its own motion, or when it is concerned about things sensible,
and the circle of difference reports on its onward passage to every part
of the soul, then arise fixed and true opinions and persuasions:—but
when, on the other hand, it is concerned about the merely rational, and
the glibly-whirling circle of sameness makes its indications,—then
intellect and science are thus necessarily brought to full perfection.
And as respects the real essence in which these two qualities are
engendered, if any one asserts that it is any other than the soul, he
will assert everything rather than the truth.

-----

Footnote 279:

  Gr. καὶ ὁπότε συμβαίνει κατὰ τὰ γιγνόμενα τε πρὸς ἕκαστον ἕκαστα εἶναι
  καὶ πάσχειν καὶ πρὸς τὰ κατὰ ταὐτὰ ἔχοντα ἀεί. The whole sentence is
  difficult,—not so much from its obscureness, as its pregnancy of
  meaning, which all but defies translation. The same remark applies to
  the phrase—λόγος ὁ κατὰ ταὐτὸν ἀληθὴς γιγνόμενος—in the succeeding
  sentence. See Stallbaum and Martin _ad locum_.

-----

XIV.—When the parent Creator perceived that this created image of the
eternal gods had life and motion, he was delighted with his work, and by
this very delight he was led to consider how he might make it still more
to resemble its exemplar. Hence, as the _intelligible_ universe was an
eternal animal, he tried to make this [the _sensible_ universe], as far
as he could, similarly perfect. The nature indeed of the animal itself
was eternal, and this nature could not be entirely adopted into any
thing subject to generation;—hence God resolved to form a certain
moveable image of eternity; and thus, while he was disposing the parts
of the universe, he, out of that eternity which rests in unity, formed
an eternal image on the principle of numbers;—and to this we give the
appellation of _Time_. But besides this, he contrived the days and
nights, months and years, which had no existence prior to the universe,
but rose into being contemporaneously with its formation. All these are
but the parts of time; and the terms _it was_ and _it will be_ are
generated [_i. e._, varying and evanescent] forms of time, which we have
wrongly and unawares transferred to an eternal essence. For we say that
a thing was, is, and will be; while according to truth, the term _it
is_, is alone suitable,—_was_ and _will be_ being expressions only
suitable to generation, which proceeds through time,—both of them being
certain motions:—whereas, what exists eternally, the same and
immoveable, neither becomes at any time older or younger; neither has it
been generated in the past, nor will be in the future, nor is it subject
to those accidents which generation imposes on sensible objects,—all of
which are nothing more than forms of time imitating eternity, and moving
in a circle measured by number. And besides this, in making such
assertions as these,—that what has been generated is generated,—that
what is becoming, is in generation,—that what will be is to be,—and that
non-being is not;—in all this we state what is not accurately true. But
this is perhaps not the place for a minute discussion of these matters.

Time, then, was generated with the universe, in order that, being
produced together, they might together be dissolved, if their
dissolution should ever happen:—and it was formed on the model of an
eternal nature, that it might as far as possible resemble it; for this
model exists through all eternity, while the world, on the other hand,
has been generated, now exists, and will exist, throughout all time.
With this design, then, and after such reflection on the generation of
time, the Deity, in order that it might be produced in full operation,
created the sun, moon, and the five other stars, which are denominated
planets, to distinguish and guard over the numbers of time. And as soon
as he had produced the bodies of these stars, God placed them, seven in
number, in the seven orbits whose revolutions are according to
difference;[280]—the Moon, indeed, in the first orbit nearest about the
earth; the Sun in the second beyond the earth; then Lucifer (_i. e._
Venus), and the star sacred to Hermes (_i. e._ Mercury), revolving in
their orbits as swiftly as the sun, but on a different principle of
motion, owing to which these stars, the Sun, Lucifer, and Mercury,
mutually overtake and are overtaken by each other in their respective
courses. As respects the other stars, however, the labour of
investigating their revolutions, and the causes that gave them origin,
would surpass that of the discourse itself which caused their mention.
These subjects, then, may hereafter, perhaps, when we have leisure, meet
with the investigation they deserve.

-----

Footnote 280:

  Gr. ἔθηκεν εἰς τὰς περιφοράς, ἃς ἡ θατέρου περίοδος ἤειν, &c.

-----

When, therefore, each of the stars necessary for the constitution of
time had obtained a motion adapted to its condition, and their bodies,
bound by living chains, had become vital beings and learned their
prescribed duty, they pursued their course according to the movement of
difference, passing obliquely through the orbit of sameness, to which
the former is subordinate, one circle being larger and the other
smaller, one moving quicker and the other more slowly; those that
revolved the quickest on the principle of sameness appearing ever to
overtake and be overtaken by those that travelled at slower velocities.
And the revolutions of all these circles in their orbits with a spiral
motion,[281] proceeding at one and the same time in two contrary
directions, make it appear that the one moving at the slowest pace from
that which was the most swift is the nearest of all. And in order that
there might be a certain apparent measure of slowness and swiftness in
the relative velocities of these spheres, and an evident uniformity in
all the eight movements, the Deity enkindled a light, which we now
denominate the sun, in the second of these orbits, in order that it
might fully display all things in the universe, and that such animals as
required it might have their share in number,[282] becoming acquainted
therewith from the revolution of sameness and similarity. Thus, then,
and on these accounts, arose night and day; being the period of the one
and most skilfully-contrived movement.[283] The month, too, was
generated, when the moon had run through her orbit, and passed into
conjunction with the sun,—and the year, when the sun had completely
travelled through his own orbit. As to the periods of the other stars,
however, they are not understood, except by a very few; nor are they
distinguished by any peculiar name or relatively measured on the
principle of numbers:—and hence it may be said, they are ignorant that
these movements really constitute time, infinite as they are in number
and of wonderful variety. Still it is by no means impossible to
conceive, how the perfect number of time completes a perfect year, when
the courses of the eight orbits return at their completion to the same
place of commencement, and have their revolution measured on the
principle of sameness. In this manner, indeed, and for this purpose,
were formed such of the stars as moved circularly through the
universe,—that this (the visible animal, _i. e._ the universe) might
resemble as nearly as possible the most perfect intelligible animal, in
the imitation of an eternal nature.

-----

Footnote 281:

  Gr. πάντας γὰρ τοὺς κύκλους αὐτῶν στρέφουσα ἕλικα. On this
  construction, see Matth. Gr. Gr. § 408.

Footnote 282:

  The sun, he means, was provided with light that those animals, that
  required it, might gain a knowledge of number, _i. e._ of the
  principle on which the world is formed and now moves.

Footnote 283:

  In the Timæus Locrus it is said (p. 432 of Stallbaum, vol. vii.), that
  it is day, when the sun travels from east to west, and night when it
  travels from west to east;—and Plato must necessarily have thought
  this, as he held the earth to be immoveable, without any motion even
  round its own axis. Comp. Aristot. de Cœlo, II. ch. 13.

-----

XV.—The Creator constructed all the rest at the same time as the
generation of time,[284] according to the similitude of that which has
been portrayed; but still, as the universe did not yet comprise within
it the entire animal race, in this respect there was a dissimilarity.
This defect, therefore, [the Creator] supplied by impressing it with
forms corresponding with the nature of its pattern. Wherever, therefore,
the intellect beholds ideas of a certain quality, and quantity in that
which possesses life, such and so many he conceived that this (the
universe) should contain; and these are four:—One, the heavenly race of
gods; another, winged and air-wandering race; a third, that which dwells
in the water; and a fourth, that which has feet and walks on the ground.
The chief idea, indeed, of deity, he formed from fire, that it might be
as far as possible splendid and fair to behold; and in adapting it to
the universe, he rendered it circular; made it to consist in the
knowledge of that good which it is to follow, and distributed it round
the entire heavens, that it might be a true world, fully adorned with
that race in its every part. To each of the divine bodies, also, he
adapted two motions;—one of them taking place on the same spot and on
the principle of sameness, corresponding with that intelligence which
contemplates what is the same with itself; the other, a progressive
motion subordinate to the motion that is constantly the same and
similar:[285]—but as respects the other five motions, it was fixed
immoveable, that each of them might become as far as possible the best.
And for this reason also the fixed stars were formed, as being divine
and eternal animals, ever abiding and revolving in the same place and on
the principle of sameness; and the stars, which both revolve and have
the kind of motion above described, were formed on those
principles.[286] Next, he formed the earth our common nourisher, which,
being confined round the axis that extends through the universe, is the
guardian and artificer of night and day, as well as the first and most
ancient of the gods that have been generated within the universe. With
respect, however, to the dances [or rhythmical motions] of these
divinities, and the mutual intersection of their circles, as well as
their relative revolutions and progressive motions in their conjunctions
and oppositions, whether in progressive or retrograde motion, at what
times and in what manner they are in turn eclipsed, and afterwards
reappear to our view, causing terror and presaging future events to such
as are able to understand them;—to attempt an explanation of all this,
without having a plan of them before us, would be a labour in vain. But
of this enough; and this is all that we shall say concerning the nature
of the visible and generated gods.

-----

Footnote 284:

  Gr. τὰ μὲν ἄλλα ἤδη μέχρι χρόνου γενέσεως. The old edd. read εἴδη.

Footnote 285:

  Plato is here describing two motions of the universe,—one on the
  principle of ταὐτόν (which is that of intelligence) round its own
  axis, the other on that of θάτερον (that which the soul of the world
  is formed), progressive, the latter of which—viz. sensible creation,
  is wholly subordinate to the former.

Footnote 286:

  Gr. τὰ δὲ τρεπόμενα καὶ πλάνην τοιαύτην ἴσχοντα——κατ’ ἐκεῖνα γέγονε.

-----

XVI.—Again, to speak concerning the other gods (or dæmons), and to know
their generation, is more than we can perform; and we must trust to the
reports of those ancient men, who being, as they said, the descendants
of the gods, must have a clear knowledge of their parents. It is
impossible, therefore, to discredit the children of the gods; and even
though they should speak without probable and cogent proofs, yet as they
declare that they are relating matters with which they are familiarly
acquainted, we ought, in compliance with the law, to assent to their
tradition. In this manner, then, according to them, the generation of
these gods took place, and is described.

Ocean and Tethys were the progeny of Heaven and Earth; and from these
sprang Phorcys, Kronos, and Rhea, and ever so many more with them;—and
from Kronos and Rhea sprang Zeus, Hera (Jupiter, Juno), and all that we
know are called their brethren, together with others still who were
their progeny.[287] When therefore all such gods as visibly revolve, and
show themselves when they please, were generated, the Artificer of the
universe thus addressed them: “Gods of gods, of whom I am the creator
and father, all things formed by me are by my will indissoluble. Indeed,
what is bound is of course dissoluble; nevertheless, to desire to
dissolve what is beautifully harmonized and well disposed, is the mark
of an evil nature. Now, inasmuch as you have been generated, you are
hence not immortal, nor wholly indissoluble; yet you shall never be
dissolved, nor become subject to the fatality of death; because you have
got my will [that it shall be so,] which is a much greater and more
powerful bond than those by which you were bound when first created.
Learn, therefore, what I now say to you by way of information. Three
classes of mortals yet remain uncreated. Unless these be created, then,
the universe will be imperfect; for it will not contain within it every
kind of animal, though it ought, in order to be quite perfect. Yet if
these are generated, and partake of life through me, they will become
equal to the gods. In order, then, that mortal natures may subsist, and
the universe may be truly all, turn yourselves, according to your
nature, to the formation of animals, imitating the power which I
employed in the creation of yourselves. And so far as any part of these
is suited to have the same name as immortals to be called divine, and
destined to take the lead among those who willingly pursue justice, and
reverence you—of these I myself will deliver the seeds and beginnings;
and for the rest do you weave together the mortal and immortal nature,
constructing and generating animals, and promote their growth too by
supplying them with food, and receive them back again [into your bosom]
when fallen to decay.”[288]

-----

Footnote 287:

  A comparison of this statement with Hesiod’s will show that Plato was
  not much governed by the poet’s authority. Comp. Theog. v. 132-156;
  336-350; 453-460. Plato probably took his notion, as Proclus suggests,
  from the Orphic hymns.

Footnote 288:

  On this speech we must refer the reader to Stallbaum’s long and
  valuable notes.

-----

XVII.—Thus spoke the Creator; and again into the same bowl, in which
he had by mingling tempered the soul of the universe, he poured into
it likewise what was left of the former mixture, somewhat indeed after
the same manner, yet not equally pure as at first, but less so by two
or three degrees. And after having thus framed the universe, he
allotted to it souls equal in number to the stars, inserting each in
each; and then, as it were, placing them on a vehicle [whereon to
travel through the heavens,] he pointed out the nature of the
universe, and announced to them the laws of fate; showing them that
the first generation would be allotted in common to all, so that no
particular soul should have less than its due portion, and that after
they had been distributed through the several instruments of time
adapted to each,[289] there would then be produced that animal which
is of all the most suited for religious worship; and as human nature
was of two kinds, [male and female,] he showed them that the more
excellent was that which would afterwards be called _man_. As souls,
therefore, are from necessity engrafted in bodies that are constantly
gaining and losing their composing particles, he declared to them that
in the first place all persons must necessarily have one connate
[ξύμφυτον] sense produced by violent emotions,—secondly, love mingled
with pleasure and pain; and besides these, fear and anger, together
with all their consequences and natural opposites; and that such as
subdued these would live justly, those overcome by them unjustly. And
he declared also, that after living well for the time appointed to
him, each one should once more return to the habitation of his
associate star, and spend a blessed and suitable existence; but
failing in these points, he should be changed in his second generation
into the nature of a woman; and should he not cease from evil even
under these circumstances, whatever the shape his wickedness had
taken, so also the soul should be changed into the nature of some
brute corresponding thereto, and when changed never cease from labour,
until, following the revolution of sameness and difference peculiar to
itself, and having overcome by reason its turbulent and irrational
part, which is a mass, as it were, composed of fire, water, air, and
earth, it should at length return to the first and best disposition of
its nature.[290]

Having thus legislated for souls in all these particulars, in order that
he might be in no respect the cause of the future wickedness of each, he
planted some of them on the earth, others in the moon, and others in the
remaining different instruments of time; and after this planting, he
charged the junior gods with the duty of constructing mortal bodies, as
well as everything additional that was required for the human soul,
giving them dominion also over these and all things consequent thereon,
and bidding them rule over the mortal creature as nobly and honourably
as they could, that it might not become the cause of evil to itself.

-----

Footnote 289:

  Gr. εἰς τὰ προσήκοντα ἑκάστοις ἕκαστα ὄργανα χρόνων.

Footnote 290:

  This is a clear indication of the philosopher’s belief in the
  transmigration of souls;—and the same notion is developed towards the
  close of the dialogue. Some, however, suppose that they are the
  opinions of Timæus, not Plato. How can we separate them?

-----

XVIII.—The Creator, after arranging all these particulars, then retired
to his accustomed repose; and while he thus abode, his children
forthwith obeyed their father’s order, and, taking the immortal
principle of a mortal animal, they, in imitation of their own creator,
borrowed[291] from the world portions of fire and earth, water and air,
as things which they should one day restore; and firmly united them
together, not with the same indissoluble bonds by which they themselves
were held together, but fixing them with thickly-set nails, invisible
through their smallness, constructing from these different elements each
particular body, and placing the revolutions of the immortal soul in a
body subject both to renewal and decay. These, however,—merged, as it
were, in a deep river,—had no power of governing themselves, but
violently hurried forward both themselves and others, so that the whole
animal was moved—confusedly however, just as chance carried it forward,
and without any reason, according to the whole six kinds of
motion—backwards and forwards, to the right and left, upwards and
downwards, and so on, according to the six differences of place. And
great as was the advancing and retiring wave which furnished nutrition,
yet it was still more agitated by the impulses which it received from
without, when the body came into collision with external and foreign
fire, or the solidity of earth, liquid waterfalls, or whirling blasts of
air; from all which the various movements fell through the body on to
the soul; which on this account were afterwards, and are still, called
perceptions [_i. e._ general sensations]. And these, moreover, instantly
giving rise to an exceedingly great and powerful motion, by moving with
that constantly flowing stream, and vehemently disturbing the
revolutions of the soul; wholly stopped the revolution according to
sameness by their contrary current, hindering it either from commencing
or continuing its course;[292]—and even the movement according to
difference they so far disturbed, as to turn from their circular orbits
and throw into all possible disorder the three intervals of double and
triple, together with the mean terms and conjoining links of the
sesquitertian, sesquialter, and sesquioctave ratios, which cannot be
dissolved by any one but the artificer by whom they were bound;[293]—and
thus, though scarcely connected with each other, they are borne along,
though quite in disorder,—at one time straight forwards, at another
obliquely, and then again upside down, just as if one were to fix his
head on the earth and raise his feet on high, in which case, both to the
inverted person and the spectators, the parts on the right would seem to
be on the left, and the left on the right. These circles likewise
greatly disturbed in these and similar ways, when they fall in
externally with either sameness or difference, and call objects either
same or different, contrary to truth, become false and unreasonable; nor
is there any revolution among them which has a controlling and directing
power;—and if, again, any of the external sensations are hurried forward
and join in doing violence to the soul’s whole receptacle, they then
seem to prevail, though in reality they are still in subjection.

And it is owing to all these affections, that even now as in the
beginning, the soul, when first united to a mortal body, is without
intelligence; but when the stream of growth and nutrition flows along
with diminished speed, the circles of the soul, restored to
tranquillity, proceed in their proper path, gaining steadiness as time
goes on, and then the orbits of the circles are regulated in their
course agreeably to those that travel according to nature; and they call
both same and different by their proper appellations, assigning wisdom
to the person by whom they are possessed. If any one, therefore,
receives both proper food and education, he must become perfectly sound
and healthy, escaping every important disease; whereas he who neglects
his soul will pass lamely through life’s existence, and again pass into
Hades aimless and unserviceable.[294] Of these matters, however, more
hereafter. It is our business at present to treat more accurately of
what we before proposed,—namely, the generation of body in connexion
with soul, and owing to what causes and divine foresight it has taken
place, resting for our proofs chiefly on the argument of analogy.

-----

Footnote 291:

  Gr. δανειζόμενοι, &c., borrowing certain particles, which were to be
  paid back as a debt at some future time, namely, at the dissolution of
  the mortal body.

Footnote 292:

  The general meaning of this rather involved sentence is,—that as well
  by the natural bodily change as by the perceptions of the senses, a
  disturbance is caused in the equable and constant agitation or
  operation both of the intelligent and sensuous part of the soul.

Footnote 293:

  This celebrated passage most plainly shows what Plato meant by the
  harmonic and arithmetic ratios concerned in forming the universe,—viz.
  that they indicated a certain harmony and equability of the
  intellectual powers, clearly perceptible in their agitation and
  movements, so long as the power of body and sense is not such as to
  destroy and impair them:—but this of course must be the result of an
  union of body and soul.

Footnote 294:

  Gr. ἀτελὴς καὶ ἀνόνητος. Stephens proposed ἀνόητος on the authority of
  some MSS.:—but no change is needed.

-----

XIX.—First, then, the gods, in imitation of the spherical shape of the
universe, bound the two divine circles of the soul in a spherical
body,—that, namely, which we now call the head, which is man’s most
divine member, and the ruler of our whole composition. And to this the
gods who framed it gave the whole body for its service, conceiving that
it would thus partake of every possible motion; and moreover, lest the
head, in rolling over the various elevations and depressions, should be
unable to overcome the heights, or get out of the cavities, the gods
gave it the body to be its locomotive vehicle. Hence the body was endued
with length, and furnished by Divine contrivance with four members,
naturally capable of extension and flexion, to enable it to seize
objects, to give it a stable support, and to allow it to pass from place
to place; and above this body was placed the head, the abode of our most
divine and sacred portion. This was why we were furnished with legs and
hands;—and as the gods considered that the fore parts are more
honourable and fitter to rule than those behind, they gave us a motion
chiefly progressive.[295] Beside this, it was requisite, that man’s
front should be distinct and dissimilarly formed from the other side;
and on this account they first placed about the vessel of the head a
face provided with organs to express all the energies of the soul, and
assigned to this anterior part the natural government of man. And of
these organs, the first that they constructed were the light-bearing
eyes, fixing them in from some such cause as the following: The body of
these eyes they formed to consist of fire, not enough indeed to burn,
but to give a gentle light suitable to each day; for the pure fire
contained within us and related to it, they caused to flow smoothly
through the eyes, and in dense quantities throughout, but condensing it
more especially in the middle of the eyes, so as to conceal all the
grosser part within, and allow the pure only to filter through. When,
therefore, the light of day surrounds the stream of vision, then, by the
mutual falling of similar bodies on each other, one well-adapted body is
constituted, according to the direction of the eyes, wherever the light
proceeding from within resists that which falls on it from without. But
the whole becoming similarly affected through similitude, when it either
touches anything else or is itself touched by another, then the motion
thus produced, diffusing itself through the whole body even as far as
the soul, causes that sensation which we denominate sight. But when this
kindred fire [within us] departs into night, the sight is cut off; for
in this case, by proceeding into a dissimilar nature, it becomes
estranged, and is extinguished: since it has no longer any relation to
the proximate surrounding air, which is naturally destitute of fire.
Hence it ceases from seeing, and besides this, becomes the introducer of
sleep; for the gods constructed the eyelids to be a preservative of the
sight, and thus by their compression restrain the power of its inward
fire, and besides that, scatter and smooth over its internal motions;
and when they are thus calmed, rest ensues; which rest, when profound,
produces a sleep attended with few dreams;—but on the other hand, if
certain unusually vehement motions remain, then, according to their
nature and the places in which they occur, they will engender
corresponding phantasms within, which will come to our recollection as
soon as we wake. With respect, also, to the formation of images on
mirrors, and all lucid, smooth surfaces, there is nothing in these
difficult of solution; for all such phenomena necessarily result from
the mutual affinity of the external and internal fire, and again from
one in particular that subsists about smooth bodies individually, and is
many times reflected, because the fire around the face gradually becomes
united on the smooth and shining surface with the fire coming from the
eyes. The parts on the right, too, appear to be on the left, because
there is a mutual contact of the contrary parts of the sight with the
contrary parts of the object, different from their accustomed mode of
approach. On the contrary, the parts on the right appear on the right,
and the left on the left, when there is a reflexion of the light
composed of the mingled fires, both exterior and interior; and secondly,
the smoothness of the mirrors, which are convex, reflect that which is
to the right on the left, and the left to the right. But if the mirror
be concave, it presents an image wholly inverted, by sending the lower
part of the image upwards, and again the upper part downwards.[296] All
these phenomena, therefore, are only some of the concurring causes[297]
which the divinity brings to his aid in rendering the idea of that which
is best as far as possible complete,—whereas the multitude are of
opinion that these are not the concurring but the real causes of all
things,—such, namely, as those producing cold and heat, freezing and
thawing, and such like, but which are wholly incapable of exercising
reason and intellect; for the soul may be said to be the only one of all
beings that can acquire intellect; and this is invisible, whereas fire
and water, air and earth, are all visible bodies. As for the lover of
intellect and science, however, he should explore the first causes of
intellectual nature, and consider, respecting second causes, how many
arise from the motion of other bodies, and yet necessarily give motion
again to others. This, then, is what we ought to do: we should speak
concerning both kinds of causes, but separately of such as engage the
intellect in forming things fair and good; and of such, also, as,
abandoning wisdom, produce the things they form just as it may chance,
and without any regard to order.

-----

Footnote 295:

  ταύτῃ τὸ πολὺ τῆς πορείας ἡμῖν ἔδοσαν.

Footnote 296:

  This is a very obscure passage, but much light has been thrown upon it
  by Prof. T. H. Martin (_Études sur le Timée_, 2 vols. Paris, 1841),
  who conceives that Plato is here referring to convex and concave
  mirrors. Considerable light is thrown also on the meaning of the Greek
  words by a passage in Euclid’s Optics, p. 393.

Footnote 297:

  Gr. τῶν ξυναιτίων.

-----

XX.—Respecting the second causes of the eyes,[298] therefore, so far as
they possess the power which falls to their lot, let what has been
already said suffice; and we will next speak of their greatest and most
useful employment, for which, indeed, they were expressly bestowed on us
by the Deity. The sight, indeed, is in my opinion the cause of the
greatest benefit to man,—since even in our present discussion about the
universe, not one argument could ever have been adduced without
surveying the stars, the sun, and the heavens. Now, however, both day
and night, months and periods of years, have been seen and
arithmetically calculated; and they give us a conception of time, and
means of investigating the nature of the universe; from all which we
have gained that kind of learning termed philosophy, a better gift than
which never was nor ever will be conferred by the gods on our mortal
race. This, then, is what I call the greatest benefit of the eyes; and
as for the others that are of less consequence, why should I celebrate
them, to make those who are blind and unphilosophic mourn and regret
them in vain? This, however, we may assert, that God invented and
bestowed sight on us for this express purpose, that on surveying the
circles of intelligence in the heavens, we might properly employ those
of our own minds, which, though disturbed when compared with the others
that are uniform, are still allied to their circulations; and that
having thus learned and being naturally possessed of a correct reasoning
faculty, we might by imitating the uniform revolutions of divinity set
right our own silly wanderings and blunders.

As respects voice and hearing, we may say again, that they were bestowed
on us by the gods for the same objects and on the same account; for
speech was ordained for the very same purpose as the sight, which it
greatly aids in its office;—and it is with a view also to harmony that
the hearing has an aptitude for musical sounds. That harmony, moreover,
which consists in motions analogous to the revolutions of our soul, does
not seem advantageous to him who wisely devotes himself to the
Muses[299] on the mere ground of its being pleasurable without reason,
as it seems at present; but it was given us by the Muses to aid us in
reducing the disturbed circulation of our soul to mutual order and
accordance;—and again, they gave us rhythm for the same purpose, as the
means of reforming the irregular and ungracious habits that prevail in
the majority of our race.

-----

Footnote 298:

  Gr. τὰ μὲν οὖν τῶν ὀμμάτων ξυμμεταίτια.

Footnote 299:

  That is, philosophy, which likewise is signified by the term ἡ
  μουσική.

-----

XXI.—Thus far, with only a few exceptions, our past remarks have had
reference to the creations of intellect; and we ought to speak likewise
of things that come of necessity; for the generation of this world
results wholly from the co-operation of intellect and necessity.
Intellect, indeed, ruling over necessity, persuaded it to bring to the
highest perfection the majority of created things; and in this way, by
the persuasive power of wisdom over necessity, this universe was first
created. Now, correctly to explain in what way it was created, we must
refer in our explanation to the form of a variable cause,[300] as the
nature of the case requires. Let us then recall our steps, and take up
the subject afresh, going back to first principles, as we did before.
Let us investigate then the nature and affections of fire and water, air
and earth, prior to the generation of the heavens; for up to the present
time no one has yet unfolded their generation:—and yet we speak of fire
and other things as principles and elements of the universe, just as if
the nature of each was known;—whereas at the same time any one with the
least intelligence must be aware that they cannot be compared even to
letters or parts of which syllables are formed. As respects ourselves,
this is what we propose:—we will not speak of the principle or
principles, or whatever other denomination they may receive, of all
things;—and this for no other reason than the difficulty of stating what
are my sentiments according to our present method of discussion.[301] Do
not expect me then to speak thus, for I cannot persuade myself that I
have the ability to undertake so difficult a subject. Keeping,
therefore, to the line of argument laid down at the beginning, on the
force of probability,[302] I will endeavour to make statements not less
probable than those of others, and beginning the subject once more from
its commencement[303] to discourse on the matter both in detail and as a
whole. First, then, invoking the divinity who has now from the first
been the guardian of our discourse, to defend us from an absurd and
unusual exposition and lead us to a doctrine founded on probability—let
us again begin to speak.

-----

Footnote 300:

  Gr. τὸ τῆς πλανωμένης εἶδος αἰτίας.

-----

XXII.—This fresh commencement then, of our present discussion requires a
more ample division than the former. For then we distinguished only two
species; but we must now admit a third. In the former discussion two
were sufficient;—one set forth as a species of model, apprehensible by
the intellect, and always subsisting on the principle of sameness,—the
second an imitation of the model, generated and visible; and we did not
then distinguish a third, because we deemed these two sufficient. But
now the subject of discourse seems to compel me to introduce and explain
a new species which is both difficult and obscure.[304] Of what natural
power, then, are we to conceive it possessed? It is indeed in some sort
the special receptacle, and, as it were, the nurse of all generation.
Such indeed is the truth:—but we must speak more clearly concerning it.
And this will certainly be an arduous undertaking on many accounts, but
principally on account of the questions that must previously be settled
concerning fire and the rest of the elements,—why one should be called
water rather than fire, or air rather than earth, or why any one of them
should bear one name in particular rather than all the rest; thus
rendering it a difficult matter to use a language about it that is fixed
and stable. How then, and by what means, are we to arrive at a probable
conclusion in this dilemma?

In the first place, then, what we now denominate water, on becoming
condensed, seems to take the form of stones and earth,—and when melted
and dispersed, that of vapour and air;—air also, when burnt up, becomes
fire, while the latter again, on becoming condensed and extinct, resumes
the form of air; and again air, when collected and condensed, produces
mists and clouds, from which, when still more compressed, rain descends;
and from water again are formed earth and stones;—[the whole of them,]
as it seems, exchanging all round their mutual generation.[305]

-----

Footnote 301:

  Gr. κατὰ τὸν παρόντα τρόπον τῆς διεξόδου. Stallbaum considers this
  phrase as equivalent to κατὰ τὸ εἰκός. We have preferred giving a
  literal interpretation of the words themselves.

Footnote 302:

  Gr. τὸ δὲ κατ’ ἀρχὰς ῥηθὲν διαφυλάττων, τὴν τῶν εἰκότων λόγων δύναμιν,
  &c. He is here alluding to what he had said in his introduction of the
  subject, ch. ix.

Footnote 303:

  Gr. μᾶλλον δὲ καὶ ἔμπροσθεν ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς. Stallbaum suggests as an
  emendation, κατὰ τὰ ἔμπροσθεν, _according to the plan of our former
  discussion_:—but this is scarcely needed.

Footnote 304:

  On the nature of primitive matter and the distinction between matter
  finite and matter infinite, see Stallbaum’s long and learned note _ad
  locum_.

Footnote 305:

  Gr. κύκλον τε οὕτω διαδιδόντα εἰς ἄλληλα, ὡς φαίνεται, τὴν γένεσιν.

-----

XXIII.—As these, then, never maintain any constancy of existence, who
will have the assurance to maintain that any one of them is _this_
rather than _that_? No one:—and it would be far the safest plan to speak
about them as follows:—When we see anything constantly passing from one
state of existence to another, as fire for instance, we should not say
that it is fire absolutely, but something fiery,—and again, that what we
call water is not absolutely so, but something watery; without assigning
to them any names that would give the idea of stability, as we think
people do, when they express it by _this_ and _that_ (τόδε καὶ
τοῦτο);—for not being of an abiding nature, it cannot endure to have
applied to it such terms as, _this thing_, _of this nature_, _belonging
to this_; and any such others as would show it to have a substantive
existence. Hence we should not give any one of them an individual name,
but call it something such-like, but ever fluctuating; and especially
with respect to fire, [we should assert] that it is wholly such-like,
and similarly likewise, everything endued with generation. [That
receptacle,] however, in which each of these appears successively to
grow up and decay, that alone is entitled to be termed _this_ and
_that_;—whereas anything of any kind soever, as hot, white, or their
contraries, and all therefrom proceeding, cannot be so denominated. But
let us again try more clearly to explain our meaning. If any one, in
modelling all kinds of figures out of gold, were unceasingly to
transform them one by one into all the others, and some one present were
to point to one of them and inquire what it was, it would be by far the
safest and most correct to say that is gold; but as for its being a
triangle, or any other figure that might be given to it, not to speak of
them as being so in reality, inasmuch as they are in process of change,
even while we make such assertion; but to be content if it may safely be
denominated such-like, [or of such a nature]. The same remark applies to
that which receives all bodies;—and we should ever call it by the same
name, as it never abandons its own proper power, but perpetually
receives all things, and never anywhere or in any way assumes any of
those shapes that enter into it,—being in fact a natural receptacle for
everything,[306] receiving both motion and form from what enters
therein; and this is why it exhibits a different aspect at different
times. But as for the representations of the objects that enter and
depart hence, they are modelled after them in a manner wonderful and
difficult to describe, as we shall hereafter relate.

-----

Footnote 306:

  Gr. ἐκμαγεῖον γὰρ φύσει παντὶ κεῖται. This unusual meaning of
  ἐκμαγεῖον is well explained by a passage in the opening of the Timæus
  Locrus, p. 94, a.—τὰν δ’ ὕλαν ἐκμαγεῖον καὶ ματέρα τιθάναν τε καὶ
  γεννατικὰν εἶμεν τὰς τρίτας οὐσίας. The words χώρα and ἕδρα are
  sometimes used in this dialogue to express a similar notion; viz. the
  primitive matter of things created, infinite in extent but capable of
  receiving shapes.

-----

XXIV.—For the present, then, we must consider three things:—first, that
which is produced,—the second, that in which it is produced,—and the
third, that of which the thing produced is the natural resemblance. And
especially is it proper to compare that which receives to the mother
(_i. e._ which supplies the model), that from which it receives to the
father, and the nature intermediate between these to the child;[307] and
to consider, also, that as the image should present every possible
variety of forms, that in which the model is formed cannot well be
prepared for the purpose, unless those forms have been erased from it
which it used to receive from other quarters. Indeed, if it were like
any of the objects that enter into it, if aught were to present itself
of a nature contrary and wholly different, it would produce a bad
likeness thereof. And hence from presenting at the same time its own
image, that which is destined to receive within itself all the different
species possible, should itself be destitute of all form whatever;—just
as those preparing sweet-smelling unguents take all pains to render
wholly inodorous the liquids that are to receive the perfume,—and as
those also who wish to impress figures on a soft substance carefully
remove from it any previous impression, and make it, as far as they can,
exquisitely smooth and well-polished. In the same way, then, that which
is intended properly to receive through its entire extent the
resemblances of eternal beings, should be naturally without any form
whatever of its own. Hence, as to this mother and receptacle of things
created, which is visible and every way perceptible, we cannot term it
either earth, air, fire, or water,—nor again, any one of their
compounds, or any of the elements from which they were produced; but we
should not be at all wrong in calling it a certain invisible and
shapeless essence, which receives all things and has a certain share of
intelligence,—though how it has it, is a matter very obscure and
difficult of apprehension. So far, however, as it is possible to arrive
at its nature from what has been previously said, we may very correctly
say that fire appears to be something inflamed,[308] water something
moist,—and so in like manner, earth and air, so far as it receives the
images of these bodies.

-----

Footnote 307:

  This passage is alluded to by Aristotle, Metaph. I. ch. 6.

Footnote 308:

  Gr. πῦρ μὲν ἑκάστοτε αὐτοῦ τὸ πεπυρωμἐνον μέρος φαίνεσθαι.

-----

XXV.—Let us, then, be somewhat more minute in resolving the following
question,[309]—whether there is a certain fire subsisting in itself,—and
so also, as respects other things which we always say have a separate
existence in themselves, whether the objects alone that we see, and
which are perceived through the bodily organs, possess reality of being,
and nothing besides these has any existence at all,—or whether we are
wrong in asserting that each of them has its corresponding idea, when
after all it is nothing but idle talk. The present question, therefore,
we must not decide without much judicious examination; neither should we
add to our present discourse any great length of matter not strictly
belonging to the subject:—but if there should appear to be any limit, by
which it can be contained within a small compass, that would of all
things be the most opportune to our present design.

Thus, then, will I state my opinion. If intellect and true opinion are
two separate kinds of things, there must necessarily be self-existing
ideas not perceptible by the senses, and to be apprehended only by the
intellect; but if, as appears to some, true opinion differs in no
respect from intellect, everything perceived through the body should be
considered perfectly real. We must consider them, then, as two distinct
things, because they both have a separate origin and character, one of
them produced in us by learning, the other through persuasion,—one
always based on true reason, the other irrational,—the one not to be
moved by persuasion, the other subject to such mutation:—and lastly, of
true opinion every man has a share; but of intellect only the gods, and
some small portion of mankind.

-----

Footnote 309:

  The question now proposed is, whether the elementary bodies have a
  separate existence and eternal ideas, or whether those only are
  certain that are cognizable by the senses. On this point he says, that
  just as _science_ and _opinion_ widely differ, so also do the _ideas_
  of things and the _things_ submitted to the senses. Different,
  however, from both these is the χώρα or receptacle of that infinite
  matter, which can only be conceived by a bastard sort of reason;
  because the infinite is not the subject of mental intelligence, but
  is, as it were hypothetically, considered by an inferior reasoning
  faculty.

-----

XXVI.—Such being the case, we must acknowledge that there is an idea
which subsists according to sameness, unproduced and not subject to
decay; receiving nothing into itself from elsewhere, and itself never
entering into any other nature, but invisible and imperceptible by
senses, and to be apprehended only by pure intellect; while the second,
on the other hand, which is like it, and bears the same name, is
perceptible by the senses, the effect of production, ever in motion,
coming into being in a certain spot, and then again hastening to decay,
being apprehended by opinion united with perception. Again, there is a
third class of being,—that of eternal place; which is never destroyed,
but becomes a seat (or receptacle) for everything created, being
perceptible of itself without the interference of the senses, by a sort
of bastard reason, though scarcely to be relied on; and hence seeing it,
as in a dream, we assert that every being must necessarily be somewhere,
and in a certain place, and that nothing can exist which is neither on
earth or in the heavens. With regard to all these, and such like
opinions and the ideas which are entertained in a waking state and have
a positive existence, we cannot, owing to this dreaminess, clearly
distinguish the one from the other, and state what is the fact,—that the
image, which cannot claim as its own that even for which it is formed,
but is ever borne along as the spectre of something else, must
consequently be formed in something else, and somehow vindicate to
itself a separate essence, if it has any existence at all;—whereas, with
regard to real being, true and accurate reason aids it by affirming,
that as long as two things differ from each other, they cannot so exist
one in another, as to be at the same time two things and one only.[310]

-----

Footnote 310:

  This passage is somewhat difficult and involved; but Plato’s meaning
  seems to be, that the things falling under the senses are conformed
  according to the example of the ideas, and are, as it were,
  representations thereof, though different from the ideas
  themselves:—and hence there must necessarily be some matter in which
  they have been moulded, or else they can have no permanent existence;
  though nevertheless sound reason shows us that there is a wide
  difference between them and the ideas properly so called.

-----

XXVII.—This, then, is a summary of my opinion,—that there are three
distinct things which existed before the formation of the universe,
_being_, _place_, and _generation_;—that the nurse of generation,
moistened and inflamed, receiving the forms of earth and air, and
experiencing all the other accidents thereon consequent, appeared under
many various aspects; but as it was contained by powers neither similar
nor equally balanced, it could not possibly be balanced itself, and
through the want of such balance, became itself impelled by these
forces, to which it again in turn gave impulse;[311] while the parts in
motion were separately hurried along in different directions, like
things shaken and winnowed by sieves (πλοκάνων) and machines used for
the cleansing of corn, the dense and heavy particles in one direction,
those that are light settling in another quite different. Thus when
these four classes were agitated by their receptacle, which was itself
moved as by the shaking of the [above-mentioned] instrument, there was a
separation of the dissimilar parts, and a crowding together of those
most alike; in consequence of which these other things also occupied a
different position, before the universe was created and from such
materials reduced to order. Before this, indeed, they all subsisted
irrationally, and without measure;—but when the Creator undertook to
arrange the universe, he first gave shapes with forms and numbers to
fire and earth, water and air, which possessed indeed certain traces of
their true essence, though, nevertheless, wholly so situated, as
everything would probably be, in the absence of its god.[312] And let us
above all things hold, and ever hold, that the Deity made them as far as
possible the most beautiful and the best, when before they were in a
totally different condition. Now, then, I will try to show you the
distribution and generation of these things individually by a somewhat
unusual mode of proof; but yet, as you have trodden the paths of
mathematical learning, through which we must necessarily make our
demonstration, you will not fail to follow me.

-----

Footnote 311:

  On the full meaning of this passage, see Stallbaum’s long note _ad
  locum_.

Footnote 312:

  What Plato here means is, that the elements before the creation,
  although infinite, shapeless, and soulless, contained within them
  certain traces of their true essence, and were afterwards made finite
  and of fixed shape by being clothed, as it were, with forms and
  numbers.

-----

XXVIII.—First, then, that fire and earth, water and air, are bodies, is
evident surely to every one. But every species of body possesses
solidity; and every solid must necessarily be contained by planes.
Again, a base formed of a perfectly plane surface is composed from
triangles.[313] But all triangles are originally of two kinds, each of
them having one angle a right angle, and the two others acute:—and one
of these has an equal part of a right angle divided by the equal sides;
while in the other, two unequal parts of a right angle are divided by
the unequal sides. This, then, we lay down, according both to
probability and necessity, as the origin and principle of fire and all
other bodies;—but as for the heavenly principles thereof, these indeed
are known only to the Deity, and to those among men who enjoy God’s
favour.

We must relate, then, of what kind those four most beautiful bodies were
that thus came into being, and which, however unlike each other, may yet
be produced from each other by dissolution. By accomplishing this,
indeed, we shall ascertain the truth about the generation of earth and
fire, as well those elements (_i. e._ water and air) which in their just
proportion hold an intermediate position; for then we shall allow no one
to assert that there are visible bodies more beautiful than these, each
of which belongs to a separate class. It must be our endeavour,
therefore, to unite together these four kinds of bodies so excellent in
beauty, and so prove to you that we have sufficiently apprehended their
nature. Of the two triangles, indeed, the isosceles has but one form,
while the oblong or scalene admits of infinite variety. We must select,
therefore, the most beautiful among the infinites, if we would begin and
proceed in due order:—still if any one can prove that he has found any
form yet better and more suitable for the composition of these bodies,
he shall be treated not as an enemy but a friend, and his opinion shall
prevail. As for us, however, we fix on one only as the most beautiful of
all the many triangles, passing over all the rest;—that out of which is
formed a third, the equilateral triangle.[314] To explain the reason of
this would indeed require a somewhat lengthened proof:—nevertheless we
propose a handsome reward for him who by a diligent investigation finds
this not to be the case. We select, therefore, two triangles out of
many, from which the bodies of fire and the other elements have been
constructed,—one being an isosceles, the other one always having the
square of its longer side the triple of that of the shorter.

But what we formerly asserted rather obscurely, we must

now more accurately define. For all the four kinds [of elements] seemed
to be mutually generated among each other from not being correctly
represented; for there are generated from the triangles which we have
just chosen, four kinds [of solid figures]—three of them, indeed, from
one having unequal sides, and the fourth alone constructed from the
isosceles triangle.[315] All of them, therefore, cannot, by dissolution
into each other, produce from many small things a few that are
large,—this being effected only by three of them; for all things
whatever naturally arise from one only, and when the greater parts are
dissolved, many small parts will be formed out of them, receiving
figures suitable to each; and again, when the numerous small parts are
dispersed into triangles, a single number is formed, and the entire bulk
constitutes one separate body of large size.[316] Thus much then may
suffice concerning their mutual generation.

-----

Footnote 313:

  Gr. ἡ δὲ ὀρθὴ τῆς ἐπιπέδου βάσεως ἐκ τριγώνων ξυνέστηκε. These notions
  about triangles were decidedly Pythagorean, as we are informed by
  Proclus in Euclid, II. 46. οἱ δὲ Πυθαγόρειοι τὸ μὲν τρίγωνον ἁπλῶς
  ἀρχὴν γεννήσεως εἶναί φασιν καὶ τῆς τῶν γεννητῶν εἰδοποιΐας, &c. See
  also Martin’s note, 67, _Études sur le Timée_, ii. p. 236-8. Plato,
  however, could have been no mean geometrician himself, having studied
  under Theodorus.

Footnote 314:

  ἐξ οὗ τὸ ἰσόπλευρον τρίγωνον ἐκ τρίτου συνέστηκε. The sense of the
  whole passage is explained geometrically in Stallbaum’s note. We here
  give only what seems the correct rendering of the Greek.

Footnote 315:

  Namely, the _tetrahedron_ or pyramid, _octahedron_, and _icosahedron_,
  which are generated from six equal-sided triangles, and fourthly, the
  _cube_, generated from an equilateral triangle. See Stallbaum, _ad
  locum_.

Footnote 316:

  Gr. γενόμενος εἷς ἀριθμὸς ἑνὸς ὄγκου μέγα ἀποτελέσειεν ἂν ἄλλο εἶδος
  ἕν, lit. _one number being formed will complete one separate and large
  kind of single mass_.

-----

XXIX.—We must speak next in order concerning the quality of each class
individually, and show from what composition of numbers each was formed.
The first, then, indeed, is that composed from the smallest triangles,
its element being that which has its subtending side twice the length of
the shorter. Now, two of these triangles being mutually brought together
to form a diagonal diameter, and this being thrice repeated, so that the
diagonals and shorter sides shall meet in the same point, as in a
centre, the result will be one equilateral triangle composed of six
triangles. But four equilateral triangles form by the union of three
plane angles one solid angle, the size of which exceeds that of the most
obtuse plane angle; and thus by forming a figure that comprises four of
these angles, we constitute that first species of solid, [the
tetrahedron,] which divides into equal and similar parts the entire
sphere in which it is inscribed. The second species of solid, [the
octahedron,] is formed from the same triangles, which unite to form
eight equilateral triangles, and form one solid angle from four plane
angles, six solid angles being requisite to constitute this second class
of solids. The third, [the icosahedron,] is formed from the union of one
hundred and twenty elements, so united as to form twelve solid angles,
each formed by five plane equilateral triangles, and it has for its
bases (or faces) twenty equilateral triangles. These are the only solids
that can be formed from this element, [viz. the scalene triangle]. It
was the isosceles triangle, however, that produced the fourth elementary
figure,—four of them being so united with their right angles at the
centre, as to form one equilateral four-sided plane; and six of these
again united forming eight solid angles, each of which is formed by the
combination of three plane right angles;—the figure of the body thus
composed being cubical, having six plane quadrangular equilateral bases.
There was yet a certain fifth combination, [the regular dodecahedron;]
and this the Deity employed in tracing the plan of the universe.[317]

XXX.—Should any one then, after careful consideration of all these
points, be at a loss to determine whether the number of worlds is
infinite or finite,[318] let him consider that to admit an infinite
number thereof, would be the notion only of one who is ignorant of all
that he should best know. Still it may with much propriety be questioned
whether there is in reality only one world, or whether there are five.
According to our opinion, indeed, which is founded on probable
reasoning, there is but one world; though others perhaps, regarding the
question in another point of view, may be of a different opinion. Let us
now leave alone further speculations of this kind, and returning to the
elementary forms that have now been created in our discussion, let us
assign them respectively to fire, earth, water, and air. To earth,
indeed, let us assign a cubical form; for of all the four kinds earth is
the most immoveable, and is of all bodies the most easy to model,—such
being necessarily the case with that which has the most secure bases.
Among the triangles, then, that we originally mentioned, that which has
equal sides possesses firmer bases than one having unequal sides; and of
the two equilateral plane figures thus formed, the square has
necessarily a firmer base than the triangle, whether considered with
reference to its parts or the whole. On this account, in assigning this
figure to the earth, we still preserve probability;—and we shall do this
also by assigning to water that figure which is the least moveable of
the whole, to fire that which is most so, and to air that which is
intermediate between the two,—assigning also the smallest body to fire,
the greatest to water, and to air one of a size intermediate between
fire and water;—and again, the most subtile body to fire, the next in
this respect to air, and the third to water. Among all these then, that
body which possesses the fewest bases must necessarily be the most
easily moveable, as well as most penetrating, and in every way most
acute, being also exceedingly light, from being composed of the smallest
possible number of elements:—and so also the second has these properties
in a secondary degree, and the third in the third degree. Let it be
agreed then, that, according both to strict and probable reasoning, the
solid form of the pyramid is the element and germ of fire; that the
second form described is air; and the third water. All these elements
then, we must conceive to be so minutely small, that the individual
parts of each kind may from their smallness escape notice, and yet when
many of them are collected together, they become from their bulk the
objects of our perception.[319] Moreover, as respects their relative
proportions, numbers, motions, and other properties, the Deity, so far
as the nature of necessity has willingly and obediently given way, has
firmly established and united them together in just proportion.[320]

-----

Footnote 317:

  On these geometric forms or elementary particles, we must refer the
  reader to Martin’s _Études sur le Timée_, notes 66-69, ii. pp.
  234-250, where the whole subject is exceedingly well explained and
  illustrated.

Footnote 318:

  It was the opinion of Democritus that the worlds are infinite; and the
  same notion was afterwards entertained by Epicurus. Comp. Diog. Laert.
  ix. sect. 44, and Cic. Acad. Q. iv. 17.

Footnote 319:

  Gr. ξυνασθροισθέντων δὲ πολλῶν τοὺς ὄγκους αὐτῶν ὁρᾶσθαι.

Footnote 320:

  Gr. ταύτῃ πάντῃ δι’ ἀκριβείας ἀποτελεσθεισῶν ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ ξυνηρμόσθαι
  ταῦτα ἀνὰ λόγον. Here is an awkward anacoluthon from the introduction
  of the passive perfect ξυνηρμόσθαι, for which Stephens suggested, as
  an emendation, ξυναρμόσασθαι.

-----

XXXI.—From all then that we have before said about the nature of these
bodies, the following account seems to be the most probable:—Earth, when
it meets with fire, and is dissolved by its subtility, is borne along
hither and thither in a dissolved state either in the fire itself, or in
the air, or in the water,—till its parts, meeting together, and again
mutually harmonizing, once more become earth; for they can never take
any other form. But water, when divided by fire or air, may, by the
re-composition of its parts, become either one body of fire, or two
bodies of air;—and as for the air, when it is decomposed, one only of
its particles will produce two of fire. And again, likewise, when fire
receives into itself either air or water or earth, though in small
quantities relatively to the mass which contains it, if it be dragged
along by the movements of these bodies and overcome in spite of all
resistance, and at last be decomposed and broken in pieces, these two
bodies of fire will coalesce into one of air; and if again the air is
overcome and separated into parts, then from two wholes and a half there
will be formed one whole body of water. Again, let us consider this
matter as follows:—When any one of the other forms is enclosed by fire,
and is cut by the acuteness of its angles and sides, it escapes further
division by passing into the nature of fire:—for among bodies that are
uniform and similar to each other, no one by itself can cause any change
in one of the same class, or experience any itself, with respect to that
which it resembles; whereas, when one class of bodies is contained
within another, and the weak one contends with the stronger, it will not
fail to be destroyed. And again, when the smaller, being comprehended in
the greater, and the few by the many, are broken in pieces and
extinguished, if they be disposed to adopt the form of the prevailing
nature, they cease to be extinguished; and air becomes generated from
fire,—water from air:—but if they attack and fall into contention with
any of the rest that they may meet, the agitated parts continue to be
dissolved, till being every way repulsed and dissolved, they fly to
their kindred nature; or else, being overcome, and joined into one out
of many similar to the prevailing power, they abide there in familiar
union. And especially, as the result of these affections, all things
whatever are mutually changing their positions;—for the numerous
individuals of each class are distinguished according to their
respective places through the motion of their receptacle, while those
that are mutually dissimilar, but yet resemble others, are hurried on by
the concussion [of other bodies] to the place occupied by the bodies
they resemble. All unmixed and primary bodies then are generated from
such causes as these:—but that other classes of bodies are naturally
inherent in these forms, is owing to the composition of each rudimental
part (στοιχεῖον); which not only at first produces one triangle,
possessed of a certain magnitude, but others also, both greater and
smaller, equal in number to the various classes existing in the forms
themselves;—and hence, these being mingled with themselves and each
other, are infinite in their variety,—-a fact which every one should
consider, who means to argue with probability respecting the nature of
things.

XXXII.—Concerning motion, then, and position, unless a person can
clearly understand in what manner and in conjunction with what these two
take place, he will meet with many hindrances in the subsequent part of
this discourse. This matter indeed we have already partly discussed; but
besides this, we must still inquire whether it be true, that motion
never willingly resides in smoothness, inasmuch as it is difficult, or
rather impossible, to conceive the existence of anything moving without
a mover, or of a mover without something in motion;—motion being
impossible while these are away, and it being equally impossible that
these should be equable and smooth. Thus, then, we must assign a state
of rest to smoothness, and motion to that which is unequal and rough;
inequality indeed being the cause again of a rough uneven nature. Now,
as regards the generation of inequality, that we have already discussed;
but how the several bodies, when divided according to their classes, do
not cease from their mutual courses and motions, this we did not
explain:—and so we will once more make it the subject of inquiry. The
revolution of the universe, since it comprehends the various classes of
things, and is of circular shape and naturally desirous of uniting with
itself, compresses all things together, and suffers no place to remain
void. On this account is it, that fire most of all penetrates through
everything, and air, in the next degree, being second to the former in
subtility and tenuity;—and the rest in the same way [according to their
degree:]—for such as are composed of very large parts have a very large
vacuity in their composition,—those, on the contrary, that are very
small, a very small vacuity. The union, then, resulting from compression
drives together the small parts into the intervals of the larger; and
thus, the small parts being placed side by side with the large, the
smaller dividing the greater, while the latter compress the smaller,
they are all borne upwards and downwards to the places respectively
suitable to each;—for each, on changing its magnitude, changes its
position likewise: and so, from these causes the production of diversity
is constantly maintained, giving that perpetual motion to these bodies,
which both now subsists and ever will continue.

XXXIII.—In the next place, we must understand that there are many kinds
of fire;—as for instance, flame,—that which emanates from flame,[321]
which without burning furnishes light to the eyes,—and that which abides
in ignited bodies, even after the flame has been extinguished. In like
manner, with respect to air, one kind is of the greatest purity, that
denominated _æther_,—a second most turbulent, cloudy, and dark; and
besides these, there are other nameless kinds formed by the inequality
of the triangles. As respects water, again, it admits of a twofold
division, one kind being liquid, the other fusible. The liquid kind,
therefore, being composed of very small and unequal parts of water,
becomes moveable, both of itself and by other bodies, through the
inequality of its composition and peculiar shape of its figure; whereas
the fusible kind, which is composed of large and smooth parts, is more
stable than the former, as well as heavier and more compact, owing to
its smoothness;[322]—and when fire enters into and dissolves its
substance, it becomes more moveable, from losing its uniformity; and
when it is thus rendered easily moveable, and is repelled by the
surrounding air, and extended on the earth, it is said to be
_liquefied_, by way of expressing the division of its masses, and is
said to _flow_ also, in order to show its extension over the earth:—and
these two words express both the changes which it undergoes. Again, when
fire escapes from this body, it does not retire into a vacuum, but the
surrounding air repelled [by the fire] drives the easily-moveable mass
of moisture into the place before occupied by the fire, with which at
the same time it becomes mingled;—but when the mass by close compression
once more becomes equable and smooth, it then resumes its smoothness and
consistency, because fire, the artificer of inequality, has taken its
departure;—and this departure of fire we denominate _cooling_, while the
union that takes place without the presence of fire is termed a
_condensation_ [or hardening]. But among all those which we term fusible
fluids, there is one that becomes most dense, though formed from the
most subtile and equable parts, and is of an uniform character, and
partaking of a lustrous yellow colour:—it is that most highly prized
possession,—gold, which is produced by filtration through a rock. And a
node (ὄζος) of gold, rendered by its density very hard and turned black,
is called _adamant_. But that which consists of parts greatly resembling
gold, and has more than one species, which surpasses gold in density,
and that it may become the harder, contains but a small and
insignificant portion of earth, though at the same time it is lighter,
owing to the great intervals between its internal atoms;—this is a
separate kind of lustrous and dense fluids, termed _brass_. But an
earthy nature is therewith mingled, which, when through age the two
parts become separated soon becomes visible of itself, and is
denominated _rust_. All other such matters also, it would be no hard
task further to discuss by pursuing the plan of probable arguments;—and
any one, who by way of recreation interrupts for a while his reasonings
on eternal being, and enters into probable speculations about the
generation of material things, will by these means acquire a pleasure of
which he need not repent, and establish for himself a moderate and wise
recreation during life.

-----

Footnote 321:

  Gr. τό τε ἀπὸ τῆς φλογὸς ἀπιόν. The old editions read ἁπτόν.

Footnote 322:

  The distinction between τὸ ὑγρόν and τὸ χυτόν is not easily conveyed
  in translation. The former means an elastic fluid like water,—the
  latter, a mass of greater density and less elasticity, such as jelly,
  syrup, or oil. We have rendered it _fused_, because in the next page
  the term is used respecting metals.

-----

XXXIV.—Thus indulging ourselves, let us next recount certain probable
reasons concerning what next follows of the same subject. Water that is
mingled with fire, which being very thin and moist, takes its name[323]
(ὑγρὸν) from its motion and the manner in which it rolls on the earth,
and which is also called soft and yielding, because its bases are less
stable than those of earth,—this, when separated from fire and bereft of
air, acquires more uniformity, and through their departure (_i. e._ of
air and fire) is compressed into itself;—and when it is thus condensed
above the earth, it becomes hail, if on the earth, ice; but when there
is less of it and only half the amount of freezing, [the water so
condensed] above the earth becomes snow, and that on the earth, which is
formed from dew, is called hoar-frost. When again the numerous kinds of
water are mingled together, the entire liquid thus formed, which is
filtered from the earth through plants, takes the name of juices or
saps. Owing, however, to their mode of admixture, these individual
fluids present through their dissimilarity many different undescribed
varieties, although four of them, which are of a fiery character, and
particularly transparent, have obtained appropriate appellations;—that
which heats the soul as well as the body being called _wine_,—secondly,
that which is smooth, and dazzling to the sight,[324] and hence bright,
glittering, and apparently of an oily nature, such as pitch, the gum of
the kiki-plant,[325] oil, and other things having similar
properties;—again, that which possesses a power, as far as nature
permits, of diffusing the substances of nutrition over the palate, and
by this property presents the idea of sweetness, has obtained the
general name of _honey_;—and lastly, that frothy fluid, which dissolves
the flesh by burning, has been distinguished from all the other juices
by the name of _opium_ (ὀπός).

-----

Footnote 323:

  The Greek text is evidently corrupt. It stands as follows:—τὸ——ὕδωρ,
  ὅσον λεπτὸν ὑγρόν τε διὰ τὴν κίνησιν καὶ τὴν ὁδὸν ἣν κυλινδούμενον ἐπὶ
  γῆς ὑγρὸν λέγεται, &c. Stallbaum suggests the removal of the last
  ὑγρόν, and the insertion of ἐστί after κυλινδούμενον. This suggestion
  has been followed in our translation.

Footnote 324:

  Gr. διακριτικὸν ὄψεως, lit. _having the power of separating sight_.

Footnote 325:

  This is the same as the σιλλικύπριον or _Palma Christi_. Comp. Herod.
  ii. 94, and D. Turner’s note thereon.

-----

XXXV.—As respects the different kinds of earth, one of them, stone, is
produced by the filtration of water in the manner following. The
commingled water, when it loses its coherence, passes into the form of
air, but, on becoming air, rises to its appropriate place. As, however,
there is no vacuum, it presses on the surrounding air; and this, being
weighty, and impelled against the mass of earth that it surrounds,
violently compresses it, driving it into the vacant spaces whence the
new air had before ascended. The earth, also, by the compression of the
air into indissoluble union with water, is formed into stones; the more
beautiful sorts of which acquire a lustre from the equality and
smoothness of their parts, the opposite being the case with those that
are ugly and valueless. But when all the moisture is thrown off by the
violence of fire, and the body is thus unusually dried up, then is
formed the kind of earth that we call clay. Sometimes also, even without
losing its moisture, the earth is fused by the fire, and on cooling
becomes a stone of a black colour.[326] In the same manner, when this
earth is deprived of the water it holds in mixture, but yet has small
particles and is of a saline nature, it forms a half-solid body, still
capable of solution in water,—either nitre, which purifies both oil and
earth, or else salt, a substance so well adapted to give flavours
pleasing to the palate, and deemed by the law as agreeable to the gods.
The compounds of these two substances are not soluble by water, but yet
can be melted by fire, for the following reasons. Neither fire nor air
liquefies masses of earth; because, being naturally composed of elements
smaller than the interstices (or pores) of earth, they easily penetrate
through these capacious pores without subjecting it either to
dissolution or liquefaction. The parts of water, on the other hand, as
they are larger, strive to force a passage, and so dissolve and liquefy
the earthy mass:—and hence, when the earth has no strong consistency,
water alone will dissolve it, whereas if in a compact state, nothing
will affect it but fire, which is the only body that can find an
entrance. As for water, again, its strong cohesiveness of parts, [when
frozen], can be overcome only by fire, whereas, when the cohesion is
less strong, it can be equally decomposed by fire and air, the latter
entering its interstices and the former separating even its constituent
triangles. Nothing, however, can dissolve air strongly condensed,
without attacking its composing elements; though when it coheres less
strongly, it may be dissolved, though only by fire. Again, in bodies
composed of water and earth, while the water occupies all the
interstices in its state of compression, the particles of water from
without, not finding egress, flow round the entire mass without
suffering decomposition; whereas the particles of fire that enter into
the interstices of water, as water into those of earth, and have the
same effect on water that fire has on air, alone possess the power of
dissolving and liquefying the compound body. And among these, some
contain less water than earth; such as all kinds of glass, and such
stones as are termed fusible; while others, on the contrary, contain
more water, such as wax and aromatic substances.

-----

Footnote 326:

  Lindau conjectures this to be _basalt_. It is probably lava, or some
  similar volcanic product. The same commentator conceives the λίτρον
  mentioned in the succeeding sentence to be _potash_ or some alkali
  suitable for mingling with oil to form soap.

-----

XXXVI.—Having thus then enumerated the several figures and classes of
bodies variously formed by admixtures and mutual changes, we must now
try to explain the causes of the feelings with which they impress us.
First, then, the bodies here spoken of must be always perceptible. As
yet, however, we have not discoursed on the generation of flesh, and
what belongs to flesh, nor on that part of the soul which is mortal.
This nevertheless cannot be suitably explained without at the same time
explaining the sensations and impressions produced by external objects;
and although one subject cannot be unfolded without a knowledge of the
other, yet the two cannot be explained together. We must settle one
first, and then proceed to the other. In order, then, in speaking of
impressions, to observe the same order as in speaking of the bodies
producing them, let our first inquiry be into those that concern the
body and soul.

First, then, let us inquire why fire is called _hot_, the reason of
which we shall perceive by considering its penetrating and cutting power
about our bodies. Now, that this affection is a certain sharpness[327]
is nearly evident to all; and as regards the tenuity of its sides, the
sharpness of its angles, the smallness of its particles, and the
velocity of its motion, through all which it becomes violent,
penetrating and capable of instantly dividing whatever it meets; this we
should carefully consider, recalling to mind the generation of its
figure;—inasmuch as it is this, and no other nature, which separates and
parcels out our bodies into small portions, and produces in us that
affection which is very properly denominated _heat_. Now the contrary to
this is sufficiently manifest; but still we must not pass it without
explanation:—for in truth, among the humid particles surrounding the
body, those that have the largest elementary parts enter and drive out
the smaller; but being unable to occupy their places, they compress our
bodily humours, and from being uneven and in a state of agitation, fix
them and render them motionless through their evenness and
density;—whereas things brought into contact against nature are
naturally opposed and mutually repel each other. From this contest and
agitation then there resulted a certain trembling and numbness; and the
whole of this affection, as well as the cause that produces it, has the
name of cold. Again we call those bodies _hard_ to which our flesh
yields; and those _soft_, which yield to the pressure of our flesh;—thus
using the terms comparatively, with reference to each other. Bodies also
yield to pressure when placed on a small base, while those resting on
quadrangular bases are the least impressible, owing to their very firm
position, and because from their own extreme density they strongly
resist all opposing pressure.

-----

Footnote 327:

  Gr. ὀξύ τι τὸ πάθος,—meaning, that the affection resembles the
  impression formed by an acute angular body.

-----

XXXVII.—Again, the nature of heavy and light will become most evident,
if investigated with that of _up_ and _down_;—for it is by no means
right to assert that there are naturally two distinct places opposite
one to the other;—one termed _down_, to which all bodies tend that are
endued with bulk, but the other _up_, to which bodies ascend contrary to
their inclination. The whole universe, indeed, being spherical, all such
things as are at the extremities (or circumference) and equally distant
from the centre must all in like manner naturally belong to the
extremities, while the centre, being in the same proportion distant from
all these extremities, must be said to occupy quite an opposite
position. Such then being the nature of the world, would not any one who
reversed the position of the above-mentioned objects be fairly thought
to apply names to them that are quite unsuitable? For the middle place
in it cannot be fairly said to be either naturally down or up, but only
the centre itself; and the circumference is neither the middle, nor does
it contain within it any parts more distant than the rest either from
the centre, or any of the opposite extremities. But when all the parts
are naturally so similar, how can any one with propriety assign to them
contrary names?—For supposing there were any regular solid body in the
centre of the universe, it would never be carried to any of the
extremities, owing to their entire uniformity;—but on the other hand, if
any one were to move in a circle round this solid, he would often stand
with his feet opposite to where they before were, and so call the same
part of himself both the upside and down. Since the universe, therefore,
as we have just observed, is of a spherical figure, no prudent man
should assert that it has any part which is [absolutely] either up or
down;—yet, as regards the origin and usual application of these terms
which we thus transfer to the universe, this we agree to be a proper
subject of investigation. If, in that spot of the universe which
specially belongs to fire, and where the principal mass is collected
with which it has a tendency to unite, any one were to ascend thither
and being possessed of the requisite power, were to take up the
particles, place them in a balance, and raising the scale, were forcibly
to draw the fire towards the air, with which it has no affinity, it is
clear that in this case the smaller mass would be more easily impelled
than the larger. Indeed, when two things are simultaneously raised by
one and the same power, the smaller quantity must of course yield more
readily than the greater to the impulsive force by which they are
constrained; and hence, the one is called _heavy_ and gravitating
downwards, the other _light_ and tending upwards. The same thing also is
observable in what we ourselves do, who inhabit this place [the earth].
For when, in walking on the earth, we separate particles of an earthy
nature, and sometimes even portions of the earth itself, forcibly and
unnaturally drawing them towards the air which is dissimilar,—then that
which is smaller yielding more readily to our impulse is sooner
attracted towards the foreign element:—this then we call _light_ and the
place towards which it is drawn, _up_ (or _above_), giving to their
contraries the terms _heavy_ and _down_ (or _below_) respectively. Hence
these must mutually differ from each other, owing to the contrary
positions that the several elements occupy:—for that which is light in
one place is contrary to one corresponding with it in an opposite
position, and so also to a heavy body another that is heavy, and to
bodies placed above or below others, opposed to them in their respective
positions;—and they will all be found, whether in a state of becoming or
actually existing, to be contrary, transverse, and every way differing
from each other. This one thing, moreover, is to be understood
concerning all these matters, that the tendency of each towards a body
of similar nature gives to the body so attracted the name _heavy_, and
the place to which it tends, _down_ (or _below_); and thus to contrary
things are assigned contrary appellations. Such are the causes that we
assign to these phenomena. And again, as to the cause of the impression
of smoothness and roughness, every one who has investigated it will be
able to disclose it to others; for roughness comes from hardness joined
with unevenness, while smoothness is the united effect of uniformity and
density.

XXXVIII.—It remains for us now to consider what is most important in
those affections common to the whole body, which are the chief causes
of pleasure and pain, and to inquire how it is that certain
impressions excite through the parts of the body certain sensations
invariably attended by pleasure and pain. Thus then let us examine all
our impressions, whether sensible or not, calling to mind the
distinctions that we before made between bodies moved with ease and
those with difficulty;—for this is the way to arrive at the point that
we wish to determine. When a body by nature easily moveable has
received an impression ever so slight, the several parts communicate
it to the parts placed around them, producing on these parts the same
effect, until at length they reach the intellect itself, to which they
announce the power of the agents producing such impression;—whereas a
body, which on the contrary is firm and stable and has no circular
motion, is simply affected by itself without moving any of the
surrounding bodies; and hence, as their components do not mutually
communicate the first received impression, the entire animal remains
unmoved, and experiences no sensation. This is the case indeed as
respects the bones and hair, and such other parts of the body as are
chiefly of an earthy nature; whereas the phenomena above described
principally refer to the organs of sight and hearing, which contain an
abundance of fire and air. This is what we should hold then concerning
pleasure and pain:—an impression produced in us contrary to nature,
and with violence, causes pain,—one that is conformable to our nature,
however strong, pleasure;—whereas an impression that is gentle and
gradual is unperceived, while the contrary to these produces contrary
effects. An impression, again, the whole of which is easily produced,
is pre-eminently an object of sensation, but is not affected by
pleasure and pain:—and of this kind are the affections belonging to
the sight; which indeed, as we have above asserted, is a body of a
nature daily becoming allied to ourselves.[328] For in this way the
impressions caused by cuttings and burnings, and other similar
accidents, do not cause pain to the sight; nor again, does it
experience pleasure, from returning to its previous condition:—whereas
the sensations that are strongest and most clear do this, so far as
any one is affected by any object; and this is the reason why there is
no violence whatever either in its expansion or contraction. But
bodies composed from larger parts, which yield with difficulty to
impelling agents, and distribute their motion over the whole body, do
experience pleasure and pain; pain indeed, when they are often
alienated from their own nature, but pleasure when restored to their
former condition. Again, all bodies that admit of very gradual
withdrawals, and, as it were, emptyings of their own nature, and at
the same time receive supplies on a large scale, have no perception of
loss, though they have of what accrues to them; and hence, they do not
give pain to the mortal part of the soul, but on the contrary the
greatest delight:—and the truth of this is manifest from the sensation
of pleasant odours. But such bodies, on the other hand, as suffer
excessive variation, and can scarcely be restored even gradually to
their pristine condition, are affected in a manner quite the reverse
of those we have just described; the truth of which is manifest in the
case of burnings and wounds inflicted on the body.

-----

Footnote 328:

  Allusion is here made to ch. xix. p. 350 of this translation.

-----

XXXIX.—Having thus then pretty fully discussed the common affections of
the whole body, and the appellations assigned to their effective causes,
we must now endeavour to explain, as far as we can, the affections that
arise in particular parts of us, as well as the causes by which they are
induced. In the first place then, let us if possible complete the
explanation of what we before left unfinished about those of the
juices—namely, the particular affections subsisting about the
tongue.[329] And these, as well as most others, appear to be produced by
certain expansions and contractions, the impressions formed thereby
depending more on smoothness and roughness than all other circumstances;
because, whenever anything falls on the small veins round the tongue
(which are the arbiters, as it were, of the taste stretching to the
heart), in such a way as to penetrate the moist and delicate texture of
the flesh, which through its earthy nature is in a melting state, it
contracts and dries up the veins:—and where these penetrating substances
are rougher than usual, they have an acrid taste (στρυφνά), if less so,
only one of sourness (αὐστηρά). Those on the contrary which purge, and
wash away whatever adheres to the tongue, if they do this to such an
immoderate degree, as somewhat to liquefy its nature, as nitre does;—all
such as these are termed _bitter_; while substances of inferior power to
nitre, which purge only moderately, we conceive to be _salt_, without
that rough bitterness, and to be more friendly to our nature. Again,
things heated by the temperature of the mouth, and thereby
softened—which reciprocally heat and are heated by it—and which through
their lightness are elevated towards the senses of the head, dividing at
the same time whatever comes in their way;—all these, owing to such
properties, are termed _pungent_ (δριμέα). But when these same
particles, thinned by putrefaction, enter into the narrow veins, and
there come into contact with earthy and airy particles of a suitable
size, and by making them mutually revolve, so mix them together as to
cause a confusion of their elements, and thus by entering other veins
form interstices in which the liquid, sometimes earthy, sometimes quite
pure, forms, as it were, certain air-cavities enclosed by water, some of
which formed of pure liquid are transparent, and called _bubbles_, while
those composed of earthy liquid and in a state of agitation have
received the name of seething (or boiling), and yeast (or leven);—the
effective cause of all this being termed _acid_ (ὀξύ). And an affection
contrary to all that has been asserted about these, proceeds from a
contrary cause; for, when the liquid compounds that enter the mouth are
naturally suited to the quality of the tongue, they lubricate its
asperities, as well as contract or relax such parts as were before
unnaturally dilated or compressed, and restore them, as far as possible,
to their proper and natural habit. Hence all such substances are
pleasant and friendly to every one, become the remedies of violent
passions, and are denominated _sweet_. And thus much may suffice
concerning particulars of this kind.

-----

Footnote 329:

  Plato was not aware that the palate is the chief organ of taste, and
  that these sensations are transmitted to the sensorium by means of
  nerves (_i. e._ minute tubes filled with cerebral matter), all of
  which communicate either with the spinal marrow or the brain
  itself,—the centre of all sensation, as Herophilus and Erasistratus
  held long prior to Galen. Plato, on the contrary, maintained that
  these sensations were carried by certain small veins (or arteries,—for
  he makes no distinction between them), to the liver—regarded by him as
  the seat (comp. ch. xliv.) of the lower mortal soul. The heart was
  regarded by Aristotle as the centre of the sensations.

-----

XL.—As respects the faculty of the nostrils, it admits of no
classification: for all odours whatever are but half-begotten,—there
being no substances so proportioned, as to give forth any particular
smell. Besides, our veins surrounding the nose are too narrow to admit
the various kinds of earth and water, and too broad for those of fire
and air; and hence no one ever perceives an odour from any of
these,—odours being produced from bodies that are damp, putrefying,
liquid, or vaporous;—for odours are generated by the change of water
into air, or air into water; and all these are either smoke or vapour.
And of these, that which passes from air into water is _vapour_,—that
which is changed from water into air, _smoke_;—whence it comes to pass
that all odours are more subtile than water, and denser than air. And
these facts are clearly shown, when any one, owing to any obstruction of
the respiration, draws his breath inwards; for then no odour filters
through, but breath only—unattended by any odours. This is why these two
varieties of them are without a name, being formed neither from many nor
from a simple species, the only two distinct terms respecting them,
being _pleasant_ or _unpleasant_; the latter of which irritate and
violently disturb the whole cavity lying between the top of the head and
the navel, while the former soothe the same part, and kindly restore it
to its natural condition.

XLI.—Let us next speak of and investigate the third kind of sense,—the
hearing, and the causes giving rise to the affections peculiar thereto.
Now we may generally define _voice_ as a certain pulsation of the air,
penetrating through the ears, brain, and blood, as far as the soul; and
the motion hence arising, which commences from the head and ends in the
seat of the liver, _hearing_;—and that when this motion is swift, it
emits a sharp sound, when slow, a flat one,—the former being uniform and
smooth, the latter quite the reverse and rough:—likewise, that when the
motion is on a large scale it will produce a loud sound, and when on a
small scale only a low one. But respecting the harmony of these sounds
we must speak in the subsequent part of this discourse.

XLII.—The fourth kind of sense, which is still left for us to discuss,
comprises a very large variety of what we generally term _colours_,
which consist of a flame emanating from individual bodies, and having
parts proportioned to the sight for producing sensation. But we have
already considered the effective causes of sight.[330] Here then we
ought to speak of colours, and what seems to us the most probable theory
respecting them.

Among the particles that fall from other bodies on the sight, some are
greater, others less than, and others equal to, those of the visual
fire. Such as are equal, then, are imperceptible, and are termed
transparent; while, as for those that are larger or smaller, the former
contract, the latter dilate the sight, having a power resembling that of
heat and cold on the flesh, or of things acrid, heating and pungent, on
the tongue. Particles affecting the sight in this manner are called
black and white;—having the property, indeed, of producing the same
modifications in bodies, though, being produced in different parts of
the organ, they still appear to produce different impressions. It is
thus, then, that we ought to term them,—_white_, that which dilates the
sight; and that which is opposite in its effect, _black_;—whereas, when
a sharper motion, and that, too, from a foreign fire, falls on and
divides the sight even as far as the eyes themselves, and both separates
and moistens the openings of the eyes, so as to force from them that
united flow of fire and water that we call tears, and which are of a
fiery nature coming from without,—these two fires meeting together with
a force like that of lightning, and then saturated and extinguished by
moisture, produce a great variety of colours, the impressions from which
we term _flashings_ (μαρμαρυγάς), and the objects producing them
_bright_ and _lustrous_. Another kind of fire, intermediate between
those just mentioned, and which reaches the moisture of the eyes, and
mingles with it, though by no means lustrous, and in which the rays of
fire are mingled with moisture, and form a bloody colour; this we
denominate _red_. A bright hue mingled with red and white forms the
colour called _yellow_; but as regards the measure in which they mingle
respectively, even a wise and thinking person could not explain it, were
he ever so well informed on the matter, as he could not adduce
concerning them any satisfactory reason, either necessary or probable.
Again, red, when mingled with black and white, produces a _purple_
colour; and a very deep colour is the result of their being mingled and
burnt together, with a further addition of black. A _tawny red_ is
produced from the mixture of yellow and brown, and _brown_ from the
mixture of black and white; and a pale colour from the mingling of white
and yellow. A brilliant white, falling on a large quantity of black,
constitutes a _dark blue_ (κυανοῦν); a deep blue mingled with white, a
_grey_ colour; and a tawny red mingled with black forms a _green_. All
the other tints it will be easy to conjecture from the above examples,
if one only reasons fairly from analogy. Nevertheless, any one who would
prove them by the test of experiment evinces great ignorance of the
difference between a divine and human nature; for a god indeed may be
able to mingle many things into one, and again dissolve the one into
many, through his united power and intelligence; but no man living can
accomplish either of these tasks, nor will any one in time to come.

-----

Footnote 330:

  Comp. ch. xix. p. 350-352 of this volume.

-----

XLIII.—All these things which thus naturally subsist from necessity, the
artificer of what is most beautiful and best took for his elements of
creation, in producing a self-sufficient and most perfect god; employing
secondary causes indeed, but at the same time performing his work well
on all created beings. For this reason we must distinguish two species
of causes; the one necessary, the other divine. And in all things we
should inquire after the divine cause, with the view of obtaining a
blessed life in the highest degree of which our nature admits, for the
sake of which also we should investigate the necessary cause as
well,—convinced, that without these two classes of causes, we can
neither understand nor apprehend, nor otherwise engage in the several
objects of our anxious pursuit. Since, then, we have now before us the
various classes of causes, laid out like materials for our labour, and
which will serve as the matter from which we are to interweave the
remainder of our discourse, let us again briefly recur to our first
observations, and thence pass rapidly on to the place at which we are
now arrived; thus endeavouring to annex such an end and close to our
discourse, as may harmonize with its beginning.

XLIV. Just as we stated in the opening of our discourse,—when all
sensible things were in disorder, the Deity made each individually to
harmonize with itself and mutually with all the rest, so far as things
could possibly be brought into symmetry and proportion; because
formerly, nothing had any order except by accident, nor did anything
whatever deserve the names that things receive at present; such, for
instance, as fire, water, and the rest of the elements. All these,
however, the Creator put in order first of all, and then out of these
constructed the universe, as a single animal, containing within itself
different kinds of animals, mortal and immortal,[331]—he himself being
the artificer of Divine natures, but committing to his offspring (the
junior gods) the charge of producing those that are mortal. The latter,
in imitation of their father, receiving the immortal principle of the
soul, next fashioned[332] the mortal body, making it entirely to be a
vehicle thereto, and forming within it a separate mortal kind of soul,
possessed of certain dire and necessary passions: first, pleasure, the
chief lure to evil; next, pain, the desertion of what is good;—after
these again, temerity and fear, both mad advisers; anger, hard to be
appeased; hope, which is easily misled both by irrational sense, and
all-daring love. By mingling these together, they [the junior gods]
necessarily composed the mortal race. And on this account, fearing to
defile the Divine nature more than was absolutely necessary they lodged
man’s mortal portion separately from the Divine, in a different
receptacle of the body; forming the head and breast, and placing the
neck between, as an isthmus and limit to separate the two extremes.[333]

In the breast, indeed, and what is called the thorax [or trunk],[334]
they seated the mortal part of the soul. And as one part of it was
naturally better, and another worse, they formed the cavity of the
thorax into two divisions (resembling the separate dwellings of our men
and women), placing the midriff as a partition between them. That part
of the soul, therefore, which partakes of fortitude and spirit, and
loves contention, they seated nearer the head, between the midriff and
the neck; as it is the business of the reason to unite with it in
forcibly repressing the desires, whenever they will not obey the mandate
and word issuing from the citadel above.

-----

Footnote 331:

  Comp. ch. xi. p. 335 of this translation, and also the concluding
  sentence of the dialogue, p. 409.

Footnote 332:

  Gr. περιετόρνευσαν, lit. _turned in a lathe_.

Footnote 333:

  The _immortal_ soul Plato has already (ch. xix. xx.) placed in the
  head,—in which opinion Hippocrates and Galen both coincide;—and he
  composed it of two circles, and endowed it with three
  faculties—intelligence (νόησις), science (ἐπιστήμη), and true opinion
  (δόξα ἀληθής). Here, however, he speaks of the _mortal_ or sensuous
  soul, which he divides into two distinct parts,—the _male_ or
  spiritual portion (τὸ θυμικόν), and the _female_ or appetitive (τὸ
  ἐπιθυμητικόν). This seems to have been a notion of the Pythagoreans.
  Aristotle and Zeno placed the mortal soul in the heart only. On the
  three souls and their respective energies, comp. Martin’s admirable
  note, vol. ii. pp. 296-302, _Études, &c._

Footnote 334:

  Gr. θώρακι, a word used by Plato and Aristotle to mean not merely the
  upper part of the trunk, as by later writers, but the whole of it,
  from the collar-bone down to the pelvis. The word κοιλία in ch. xlvi.
  has a similar latitude of signification.

-----

XLV.—The heart, which is the head and principle[335] of the veins, as
well as the fountain of the blood that impetuously circulates through
all the members, they placed in a kind of sentry-house, that, in case of
any outburst of anger, being informed by the reason of any evil
committed in its members, owing either to some foreign cause, or else
internal passions, it (the heart) might transmit through all its
channels the threatenings and exhortations of reason, so as once more to
reduce the body to perfect obedience, and so permit what is the best
within us to maintain supreme command.

But as the gods foreknew, with respect to the palpitation of the heart
under the dread of danger and the excitements of passion, that all such
swellings of the inflamed spirit would be produced by fire, they formed
the lungs to be a sort of protection thereto; first, of all, soft and
bloodless,[336] and next, internally provided with cavities perforated
like a sponge, in order to cool the breath which they receive, and give
the heart easy respiration and repose in its excessive heat. On this
account then, they led the channels of the windpipe into the lungs,
which they placed like a soft cushion round the heart, in order that
when anger rises in it to an extreme height, it might fall on some
yielding substance, and so getting cool, yield cheerfully and with less
trouble to the authority of reason.

-----

Footnote 335:

  Gr. ἀρχὴν. This reading is introduced by Stallbaum (and followed by
  Cousin) from three of the best MSS. The old editions have ἅμα, which
  Stephens altered into ἅμμα (_a knot_ or ganglion), and Toup into νᾶμα,
  both on mere conjecture. Plato clearly thought that the heart was the
  source of the blood and the centre of union for the veins, which he
  regards as messengers transmitting to the whole body the orders coming
  from the male part of the mortal soul; but he runs into the error of
  attributing to them the function of nerves, as well of motion as
  sensation. We may remark further, that he considers the veins to have
  two centres—the heart and the liver, which are the two seats of the
  mortal soul, and makes no distinction whatever between veins and
  arteries. See Martin’s note, 140; ii. 301-304.

Footnote 336:

  Plato is quite wrong in stating this;—for all the blood passes through
  them, in order to be supplied with oxygen by the air contained in the
  cells. This, however, is not nearly so great an error as his statement
  in ch. lxxiii. (speaking of generation), that the fluids we drink pass
  through the lungs into the bladder!

-----

XLVI. That part of the soul next, which has a desire for meats, drinks,
and all else that is necessary for the natural supplies of the body,
they placed between the midriff and the region of the navel; forming, as
it were, in all this place a sort of manger for the nutriment of the
body; and then they bound it on to it, like some savage animal, annexed
as necessary to nourish the mortal race afterwards to be brought into
existence. This place of course the gods assigned it, in order that ever
feeding at its manger, and dwelling as far off as possible from the
deliberative part of the soul, it might make the least possible degree
of tumult and noise, and permit the best portion of our nature to
consult in quiet for the common benefit of the whole. Knowing also that
this part would not acquiesce with the reason, and, even if it had any
faculty of sense, yet would not regard the processes of reasoning, but
be chiefly lured away, both day and night, by images and
phantasms,—reflecting on this, the Deity formed the liver, assigning it
the place it occupies. And he made it compact and smooth, shiny and
sweet, and yet somewhat bitter,—in order that the multitude of thoughts
falling on it from the intellect as on a mirror that receives and
presents images to the view, might on the one side terrify it by
employing a bitterness akin to its nature; and proceeding to dreadful
threats, gradually mingle this bitterness with the whole liver so as to
present the dark hues of bile, and by contracting it, render it
throughout rough and wrinkled;—or on the other, partly by removing the
liver from its right place and contracting it, partly by obstructing and
closing its ventricles and gates, cause impressions of pain and
disgust:—whereas, on the contrary, when a gentle inspiration—the result
of intelligence—depicts on it images of quite an opposite character,
softens its bitterness by avoiding to agitate or touch anything contrary
to its own nature,—it then gives it a softness peculiarly its own, and
makes all its parts regular, polished, and free,—giving joy and peace to
that part of the soul which resides near the liver, and making it enjoy
a suitable repose at night, with the power of divination during sleep,
to make up for its want both of reason and wisdom.[337]

-----

Footnote 337:

  Plato, in this purely fanciful description of the liver and spleen,
  seems to have been ignorant of the great use of the bile in promoting
  the digestion of the food during its passage through the duodenum; for
  in ch. lxiv. he considers it wholly in the light of a vicious
  secretion, though he acknowledges its presence in the healthy body as
  exercising a great influence over dreams and divination. Aristotle,
  while refuting Plato, is not a whit more correct as to this question
  in the animal economy. Hist. Anim. iv. 2.

-----

XLVII. Those, forsooth, who created us, calling to mind their father’s
command, when he bid them make the mortal race as good as they possibly
could, formed even the inferior part of us to have some connexion with
truth, by establishing within it the faculty of divination. And a
sufficiently clear proof, that the Deity assigned prophetic power[338]
to human madness, is found in the fact that no one in his right senses
has any concern with divinely inspired and true prophecy, which takes
place only when the reasoning faculty is fettered by sleep, or alienated
by disease or enthusiasm; while, on the other hand, it requires a person
of considerable wisdom to understand the recorded sayings, whether
sleeping or waking, of a prophetic and divinely-inspired nature, and so
to distinguish all the phenomena it beholds as to be able to explain in
what way and to whom they portend any future, past, or present good or
evil; it being by no means the office of one who either has been, or is
still mad, to judge respecting things seen or spoken by himself:—and it
has been well observed by the ancients, that to transact and know one’s
own concerns and oneself is alone the province of a prudent man;—whence,
indeed, the law directs that the race of prophets (or interpreters)
should preside as judges over divine predictions,—whom some indeed call
diviners, through entire ignorance that they are only the representers
of enigmas and visions, and not at all entitled to be called
diviners,—being, strictly speaking, interpreters of prophecies.

The liver then was constructed for this purpose, and seated where we
have mentioned, for the sake of prediction. And besides, in every living
individual, this organ gives forth unusually clear indications; but in
those deprived of life, it becomes blind and delivers oracles too
obscure for their meaning to be made intelligible. The nature and
position of the intestines, again, which is next to it [the liver], is
on the left side, for the purpose of always, like a sponge,[339] keeping
it clean and bright, ready to reflect images; on which account,
therefore, when certain impurities are produced in the liver by bodily
disease, then the spleen, by its rarity, receives and purifies them all,
from being of a hollow and bloodless texture;—and hence, is it, that
when filled with unclean matter, it grows to a large size and becomes
wholly unsound. And again, when the body is purified, it subsides into
its natural condition, as before.

-----

Footnote 338:

  A distinction is to be observed between μάντεις and προφῆται,—the
  former referring to the _interpreters_, the latter to the _utterers_
  only of the divine oracles; but the words, as Plato observes, have
  often been confounded.

Footnote 339:

  Gr. ἐκμαγεῖον,—very wrongly rendered by some, _a mirror_,—the error of
  which was first shown by Barker in No. xlvi. of the Class. Journal, p.
  201.

-----

XLVIII. As respects the soul, then, including both its mortal and divine
portion, in what way it existed, and in what way and why it was
consigned to a separate habitation, the truth can be firmly established
only by the consent of the Deity:—still, that we have stated what is
near the truth, we will now, quite open to investigation, venture the
assertion; and here accordingly it is made.[340] And what next follows
we must treat in a similar manner; and this is no other, than how the
rest of the body was produced. It is, therefore, in the most eminent
degree becoming that they should be composed as follows:—Those who
formed our race were aware, that we should be intemperate in eating and
drinking, and that through madness we should use far more than is either
necessary or moderate. For fear then of rapid destruction induced by
disease, and lest our mortal race should perish without fulfilling its
end,—to provide against this, the gods formed for the reception of the
superfluous food a receptacle beneath, called _a belly_, and formed in
it the convolutions of the intestines to prevent the food from passing
so quickly as to require fresh and rapid supplies of nutriment for the
body, and so by insatiable gluttony making our whole race
unphilosophical and unmusical, insubordinate to the most godlike part of
our composition.[341]

-----

Footnote 340:

  Gr. τό γε μὴν εἰκὸς ἡμῖν εἰρῆσθαι καὶ νῦν καὶ ἔτι μᾶλλον ἀνασκοποῦσι
  διακινδυνευτέον τὸ φάναι, καὶ πεφάσθω.

Footnote 341:

  The intestines are not, as Plato seems to think, solely destined to
  receive the excess of food. It is in the stomach that digestion
  commences, and it ends in the intestines, from which the chyle
  produced from the food is sent to the lungs to form blood. Aristotle’s
  ideas on this point are more correct. Hist. Anim. iii. 14.

-----

XLIX. The nature of the bones and flesh, and other parts of this kind,
was constituted as follows:—The first principle of all these is the
generation of the marrow; for the life-bonds of the soul that united it
with the body being herein woven together, constitute the foundation of
the mortal race. The marrow itself, however, has a different origin; for
among the triangles, those of the first order, that are unbent and
smooth, were specially adapted by their accuracy for producing fire and
water, air and earth:[342]—these the Deity, separating each apart from
its own class, and mingling them together in fixed proportions, composed
by these means an all-varying mixture of seeds for the whole mortal
race, and from these produced the marrow;—and he afterwards implanted
this marrow, binding therein the various classes of souls; and as
respects the number of figures and what individual forms the marrow was
to receive, he divided it, both as regards the quality and quantity of
the particles, at the original distribution,—giving to that part of it
which was to be the field for containing the divine seed a completely
globular shape; and this he called the _brain_, because in every animal
that has arrived at its perfect form, the vessel containing this
substance is called the _head_.[343] But as respects the part destined
to contain the remaining and mortal part of the soul, to this he gave
both round and oblong shapes, giving to the whole the name of _marrow_;
and from these, as from anchors, casting the bonds of the entire soul,
he built around it our whole body, after first fixing round it a
complete covering of bones.

-----

Footnote 342:

  Respecting these triangles, see ch. xxviii., and further on at ch.
  lxii. They are in fact the primary atoms, of which the body is
  composed, and are of different classes, according to the parts or
  organs of which they are the components.

Footnote 343:

  There is a play here on the words κεφαλὴ and ἐγκέφαλον, which cannot
  be translated.

-----

L. The bones he composed as follows:—Having sifted pure and smooth
earth, he mingled and moistened it with marrow; and after this he placed
it in fire, then plunged it in water, once more placed it in fire, and
after this dipped it in water: and thus by frequent transfers of each,
he made it insoluble by either. With this bone, then, he fashioned a
sphere, as on a lathe, placing it round the brain, and only leaving a
narrow hole therein. At the same time also he formed of the same
substance certain vertebræ about the marrow of the neck and back,
extending them like hinges, from the head downwards through the whole
trunk;—and thus he preserved all its seed, by fortifying it round with a
stony covering,—forming in it joints also, for motion and flexion,
employing the power of difference in their formation, as being possessed
of a certain middle quality.[344] Then, considering that the bone would
have a tendency to become dry and inflexible, and that when heated and
again cooled, it would become carious, and quickly corrupt the seed it
contained, he on this account formed the sinews and flesh; that the
former, by binding all the parts of the body, and being stretched and
loosened about the vertebræ, might give the body a facility for either
flexion or extension, as occasion required; while the flesh would serve
as a covering from the heat and defence from the cold;—as likewise for a
protection against falls, in the same manner as cushions do it, by
gently and easily yielding to external bodies:[345] and he implanted in
it also a hot moisture, which perspires in summer, and gives forth an
external dew, to impart a coolness to the whole body,—and again in
winter, gently keeps out by its own fire the cold brought from without.

-----

Footnote 344:

  Gr. τῇ θατέρου προσχρώμενος ἐν αὐτοῖς, ὡς μέσῃ ἐνισταμένῃ δυνάμει.
  Comp. a similar passage in the succeeding chapter.

Footnote 345:

  Gr. ἔτι δὲ πτωμάτων οἷον τὰ πιλητὰ ἔσεσθαι κτήματα. A similar idea is
  nearly similarly expressed by Longinus, xxxii. sect. 5. τὴν σάρκα οἷον
  πιλήματα προθέμενοι.

-----

LI.—Our plastic Creator, reflecting on all this then, mingled and united
water, fire, and earth, gradually mixing therewith a ferment of acid and
salt;[346]—and thus he composed a pulpy, soft flesh:—And as for the
tendons, he formed them of a mixture of bone and unfermented flesh, so
as to have the properties of both, tinging them also with a yellow
colour. And on this account is it, that the tendons are firmer and more
viscous than the flesh, but softer and moister than the bones. With
these God bound together the bones and marrow, afterwards enshrouding
the whole of them with the covering of the flesh. Such of the bones,
then, as were most ensouled, he covered with the smallest quantity of
flesh,—such as were least so, with the most and the densest flesh. And
besides this, except where reason evinced the need of the contrary, he
placed only a small quantity of flesh on the joints of the bones; lest
they should make the body uneasy by impeding its flexions and motion; or
else, from being many and frequent, and strongly pressed together, cause
by their solidity a dulness of perception, imperfection of memory, and a
sort of intellectual blindness. On this account then, the bones of the
groin, legs, loins, the shoulders and the arms from the elbow to the
wrist, and such other parts of our bodies as have no joints, and such
inward bones as have no thought, owing to the scarcity of soul in the
marrow, are fully provided with flesh;—whereas those that have thought,
he covered with less, except the flesh were for perception, as in the
case of the tongue. In other respects, the case is as we have described.
For a being born and nurtured under necessity,[347] does not receive a
hard bone united with plenty of flesh, and with it also a quickness of
sensation. And yet the head would have been thus constructed, if the two
had exercised any will in thus coalescing; and the human race, having a
fleshy, tendinous, and robust head, would enjoy healthy and unmolested a
life twice as long as the present, or even yet longer than that: but the
artificers of our race, after thoroughly considering whether they had
better make it more lasting and of worse condition, or shorter but of a
more excellent character, were agreed that a shorter but better life was
wholly preferable to one longer, but inferior:—and this was why they
covered the head with a thin bone, and not with flesh and fibre,—because
it had no joints. On all these accounts, then, the body was provided
with a head, which was the more perceptive and reflecting, in proportion
as it was [physically] weaker than all the rest of man’s structure. From
these causes, then, and in this manner,[348] the Deity placing tendons
round the lower extremity of the head, glued them, as it were, round the
neck, and bound with them the lofty cheek-bones placed under the
forehead;—and as for all the rest, he scattered them through all the
members, connecting joint with joint.

-----

Footnote 346:

  Gr. ἐξ ὀξέος καὶ ἁλμυροῦ ξυνθεὶς ζύμωμα καὶ ὑπομίξας αὐτοῖς, σάρκα
  ἔγχυμον καὶ μαλακὴν ξυνέστησε. Plato here alludes, however, not only
  to the σάρκες or muscular fibre, but to the whole cellular tissue and
  integument that form a general covering and defence for the entire
  body. The word νεῦρον in the succeeding sentence refers not to the
  pulpy, delicate fibres now called by that name, but to the tendons and
  ligaments that hold an intermediate position between flesh and bone.

Footnote 347:

  Plato here alludes to the soul of man, which is said to be generated
  and composed by necessity in consequence of its union with the body.

Footnote 348:

  Gr. ἐπ’ ἐσχάτην τὴν κεφαλὴν περιστήσας κύκλῳ περὶ τὸν τράχηλον
  ἐκόλλησεν ὁμοιότητι, &c.

-----

LII.—We were next provided by those who formed us with the organs of the
mouth, teeth, tongue, and lips,—arranged as they now are for purposes
both necessary and the best; giving ingress for necessaries, and egress
to what is best,—everything, indeed, that enters to feed the body being
necessary—while the stream of words flowing outwards; if guided by
wisdom, is by far the fairest and best of all streams whatever.

LIII.—Again, it was not possible that the head could bear a mere
covering of thin bone, owing to the extremes of the different seasons;
nor again, could it be allowed to become clouded, blind, and
unperceptive, through the overcrowding of flesh. Hence a fleshy
membrane, not dried, was left separate from the rest,—that now termed
cuticle (or scalp). This, then, being brought into union with itself by
the moisture about the brain, grows around and circularly invests the
head. And it is the moisture flowing under the sutures that moistens
this membrane, and causes it to close at the crown, connecting it as in
a knot. But as for the ever-varying classes of sutures, these are
generated through the power of the periodic changes caused by nutriment
in the flesh;[349] the variety becoming greater, when they struggle with
each other more violently—less so, when less violently. All this
membrane the Divine Being pierced all round with fire:—and hence, as it
was wounded, and the moisture externally flowed through it, all that was
pure of the moisture and heat was carried off, while that which was
mixed, and of a nature allied to that of the membrane itself, being
raised by the motion, was stretched outwards to a great size, having
also a tenuity equal to the amount of puncture,—whereas, on the other
hand, when continually thrust back through the slowness of its motion by
the spirit surrounding it externally, it again revolves under the
membrane and there becomes firmly rooted. And owing to these affections
is it, that the hair springs up on the membrane of the head, being
naturally allied, and serving as a rein to this membrane, but at the
same time becoming harder and denser through the pressure of the cold,
which hardens each hair, as it proceeds beyond the skin.[350] Thus,
then, by the means above mentioned, did our Creator plant the head with
hairs, reflecting at the same time that instead of flesh a light
covering was needed to guard the brain, and give it shade and protection
from the extremes of heat and cold without hindering its acuteness of
sensation.

-----

Footnote 349:

  So we have ventured (taking it as a case of ἕν διὰ δυοῖν) to render
  the words διὰ τὴν περιόδων δύναμιν καὶ τῆς τροφῆς. These _periods_ are
  certain changes caused from time to time in the flesh by the motion of
  its particles, both solid and fluid,—and this owing to the constant
  supplies of food. A notion very much resembling it has been propounded
  by modern physiologists.

Footnote 350:

  The meaning of the sentence seems to be, that the whole _cutis_ or
  scalp of the head was perforated by fire, and through the holes thus
  formed, there issued certain delicate streams of fluid which were
  hardened into fibre, as they rose above the skin and encountered the
  pressure of the external atmosphere.

-----

LIV.—But the mass of tendon, skin, and bone that is interwoven about the
fingers, being a mixture of three substances, becomes, when dried, one
common hard membrane composed of all in common—fashioned indeed with
these as instrumental causes, but effectively produced by that
reflection which ever has an eye to the future:—for those who formed us
well knew, that women and other animals would some day be generated from
men, and that nails would be of the greatest use in several respects to
many of the animals:—and this was the reason, why they stamped in men
the pattern of the nails at their first birth. It was from these causes,
then, and with these intentions, that they implanted skin, hairs, and
nails at the extremities of the limbs.

LV.—As the parts and members of the mortal animal however were all
allied in nature, and their life necessarily resulted from fire and
spirit, the decay and exhaustion of which would cause it to perish
quickly, the gods provided for it the following remedy:—Intermingling a
nature resembling that of man with other forms and senses, they planted
as it were other animals,—such as kindly-disposed trees, plants, and
seeds, which are made useful to us by the nurture and training of
agriculture; though before there were only those of a rustic kind, which
are more ancient than those that are cultivated.[351] Everything indeed
that partakes of life we may justly and most correctly call an
animal;—but that in particular, of which we are now speaking, is
possessed of the third species of soul,[352] which we place between the
midriff and the navel: and which has no share either in opinion, reason,
or intellect, though possessing a sense of pleasure and pain, as well as
desire. It effects all things indeed by passion (or appetite); and it
does this by the evolution of its internal power and the employment of
its own motion to the exclusion of every other, as it has not been
formed with a nature capable of reasoning on its own concerns.[353] It
thus lives in no way different from an animal, except in being firmly
rooted in a fixed position and deprived of original motion.

-----

Footnote 351:

  The question, whether plants are a distinct kind of animals, which was
  held by all the Platonic philosophers, is touched on by Plutarch, De
  Plac. Philos. v. 26, sect. 10, and by Cicero, Tusc. i. 26, where he
  remarks:—“_tam naturæ putarem hominis vitam sustentari, quam vitis aut
  arboris:—hæc enim etiam dicimus vivere_.”

Footnote 352:

  _I. e._ τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν.

Footnote 353:

  What Plato here means, seems simply to be, that it is by turning in
  and about themselves; that is, by growth, without locomotion, that
  plants develop the perfection and beauty of their nature, without
  being in any way obliged for their origin or nature to the objects by
  which they are surrounded. The phrase στραφέντι αὐτῷ ἐν ἑαυτῷ περὶ
  ἑαυτό is somewhat difficult, but is explained by a sentence in the
  Theætetus (p. 181, c.), where ἀλλοίωσις is also used to express the
  contrary notion.

-----

LVI.—Now after the directing artificers of our structure had implanted
all these organs for giving nutriment to our inferior nature, they
directed various channels through our body, so as to water it like a
garden, by the constant accession of flowing moisture.[354] And first,
they cut two hidden channels beneath the juncture of the skin and flesh,
viz. two veins going down the back to correspond with the double figure
of the body, both on the right and left sides. These they placed close
to the back-bone, so as to receive between them the marrow, the growth
of which might be thus promoted, and that the flood supplied thence to
other parts, might give an equable irrigation;—and then, dividing the
veins about the head, and mutually interweaving them, they distributed
them in opposite directions,—inclining some from the right to the left
of the body, and some from the left to the right, that there might be a
chain formed by the skin to unite the head to the body, there being no
interlacing of tendons round the head,—and besides this, that the
affection of sensation might from each of these parts pass round and
through the body. It was in some such way as this, then, that they
prepared the channel, of which we speak; and its truth we shall easily
perceive by assenting to our previous position,—that all things composed
of greater parts may envelop such as are less, while those consisting of
less cannot envelop the greater. But fire is, of all classes of things,
composed of the smallest parts; and hence it penetrates through water,
earth, and air, and their several compounds,—and this to such an extent
that nothing can retain it. The same remark is true of our belly, which
is able to retain any food that has been introduced, but cannot hold
spirit and fire, because they consist of smaller particles than those
composing the belly.

LVII.—These channels therefore the Deity employed for the purpose of
distributing moisture from the belly into the veins, by weaving with
fire and air a network resembling basket-nets (or weeds), with two
curved passages of entrance,—one of which he again twisted and divided
into two branches, winding the continuations of these curved passages
like coils of rope in every direction as far as the ends of the net. Now
all the inner parts of the network he composed of fire, but the great
flexures and the receptacle itself of air;—and lastly, he took and
placed them in the new-formed animal, as follows. One of the curved
passages he placed in the mouth; but, as this part has two flexures, he
caused one (_i. e._ the trachea) to pass along the arteries into the
lungs, the other (_i. e._ the œsophagus) by the side of the arteries
into the belly. The other curved part he divided into two separate
passages, making them pass in common to the channels of the nose, so
that when the one does not reach the mouth, all the streams of the other
might still be filled from this. But as for the remaining part of the
hollow network, he made it extend all over the concavity of the body,
and the whole of it flow gently together into the curved passages, as
being of an airy texture, and at another time to flow through them
backwards. But the net, which is of a thin structure, he so disposed as
to make it penetrate through and again emerge.[355] Besides this, he
ordered that the interior rays of fire should follow in constant
succession, the air at the same time passing into each, and that this
should never cease to be the case, as long as the mortal animal’s life
continued. And as respects the name of this kind of motion, we call it
expiration and inspiration. Now this whole action and affection that it
produces in our nature, is caused by certain bodily moistenings and
coolings, alike conducive to our nutriment and life:—for as the breath
passes in and out, an interior fire attends it in its course; and when
it is diffused through the belly and meets with solid and liquid food,
it reduces them both to a state of moisture, and by dividing them into
very small parts, carries them along in its course; pouring them, as
from a fountain, into the veins, and so cutting channels through the
body as through an aqueduct.

-----

Footnote 354:

  This passage is well illustrated by Longinus, xxxii. sect. 5, where he
  is illustrating the power of metaphor:—τῆς δὲ τροφῆς ἕνεκα, φησί,
  διωχέτευσαν τὸ σῶμα, τέμνοντες ὥσπερ ἐν κήποις ὀχετούς, ὡς ἔκ τινος
  νάματος ἐπιόντος, ἀραιοῦ ὄντος αὐλῶνος τοῦ σώματος, τὰ τῶν φλεβῶν ῥέοι
  νάματα. A very similar passage occurs in the Timæus Locrus, p. 101,
  c., p. 437 of vol. vii. in Stallbaum’s edition of Plato’s works.

Footnote 355:

  The whole of this description refers to the œsophagus, which enters
  the upper part of the stomach, and runs side by side with the trachea,
  which divides to form the entrance to the two great cells of the
  lungs. This division is no doubt that of one of the ἐγκύρτια, which,
  it is said, God διέπλεξε δίκρουν, and then subdivided it into the
  numerous bronchial tubes that ramify in all directions over the
  surface of the lungs, _i. e._ διὰ παντὸς πρὸς τὰ ἔσχατα τοῦ πλέγματος.
  It may also be added that in the mouth are two passages leading up to
  the channels of the nose. The meaning is exceedingly obscure; but the
  reader is referred to Stallbaum and Martin for several long
  explanatory notes on this curious account.

-----

LVIII.—But again let us consider the affection of breathing, and
investigate the causes which gave it its present nature. We should
reason on it, therefore, as follows:—As there is no such thing in nature
as a vacuum into which a moving body can enter, and as breath passes
from us outwards, every one is aware that it cannot escape into void
space, but must thrust out whatever is nearest; again, that the body
must always repel that ever nearest, and that from a necessity of this
kind, everything impelled into the place vacated by the emitted breath
must, after entering and filling up this space, attend on the breath as
it travels. And all this must take place like the revolution of a wheel,
through the impossibility of a vacuum. Hence, the breast and lungs,
after dismissing the breath outwards, are again inflated by the entrance
of the air surrounding the body into and around the cavities of the
flesh. And when the air is again sent outwards and flows round the body,
it drives the breath inwards through the mouth and nostrils.

LIX.—And as regards the cause from which they derive their origin, we
may propose the following. In every animal in the universe those of its
internal parts are the hottest which surround the veins and blood, just
as if they contained a fountain of fire;[356] and this heat we compared
to a bow-net, extending through the middle of the body, and woven wholly
of fire; all outside of it being composed of air. Yet heat, it must be
agreed, naturally proceeds outward into a region with which it is
allied. But as there are two passages for the heat,—one through the body
outwards, the other again through the mouth and nostrils; hence, when
the breath is impelled towards the latter, it in turn repels that
latter. But that which is drawn into the fire becomes heated by so
falling, while what is exhaled becomes cooled;—and so, owing to the
change of temperature, they pass again into their former condition,
whether hot or cold, through the mutual repulsion of each other; and as
the same influence is constant and mutually operating, its circular
agitation gives birth to the expiration and inspiration of the breath.

-----

Footnote 356:

  Gr. πᾶν ζῶον αὑτοῦ τἄντος περὶ τὸ αἷμα καὶ τὰς φλεβάς θερμοτάτας ἔχει,
  οἷον ἐν αὑτῷ πηγήν τινα ἐνοῦσαν πυρός. The common reading has πάντως,
  instead of τἄντος, and θερμότητα for θερμοτάτας.

-----

LX.—To the same causes may we ascribe the impressions produced by
medical cupping-glasses, by swallowing drink, by the violent hurlings of
bodies, whether upwards or on the ground, together with such sounds as
appear swift or slow, sharp or flat,—and which at one time are
discordant, owing to the dissimilitude of the motion which they cause
within us, and at another harmonize, through the similitude of that
motion. For the slower sounds catch up those antecedent and swifter,
because the latter slacken their pace to one like their own; and by so
following the swifter, they still urge them onward,—though without
disturbing the motion by introducing another, but making their slower
rate to approach gradually to that of the swifter;—and this mixed
impression from the sharp and flat (_i. e._ the quick and slow) forms a
single note; whence results the pleasure felt even by the unwise, but
really entertained by the wise, which is owing to the imitation of
Divine harmony that exists in mortal motions.[357] And, indeed, with
respect to all the motions of water, the fallings of thunder, and the
wonderful circumstances observed in the attraction of amber, and the
Herculean stone,[358]—in all these, no real attraction takes place at
all; but as a vacuum can nowhere be found, the particles are mutually
impelled by each other; hence, as they all individually, both in a
separate and mingled state, have an attraction for their own proper
seats, it is by the mutual intermingling of these affections, that such
admirable effects present themselves to the view of the accurate
investigator.

-----

Footnote 357:

  Comp. ch. xviii. and xx. with Republ. vii. ch. 12, where the harmony
  of the soul is treated more at length. See also Martin, ii. p. 339.

Footnote 358:

  This is a very memorable passage, and clearly shows that Plato was not
  only well acquainted with the doctrine of attraction and repulsion,
  but was of opinion also that the law of repulsion depended on the
  congregation of similar elements throughout all nature. The whole
  matter, however, is largely treated by Plutarch in his sixth Platonic
  Dissertation, vol. ii. p. 1004, ed. Par.

-----

LXI.—It is specially owing to this cause, that respiration (whence our
discourse originated) is generated; and after the manner that we have
before shown;—namely, that as fire divides the food and rises internally
to attend on the breath, the veins from the belly become filled by this
joint elevation, in consequence of drawing thence the divided portions
of the food; so that by these means, through every animal body the
streams of nutriment are abundantly diffused. But the parts which are
recently cut apart and separated from their kindred natures,—some of
them fruits and others grasses, and produced by the Deity for bodily
food, acquire varieties of colour through their mutual admixture; though
for the most part the red predominates,[359] as its nature consists of
fire combined with a lump of moist mud. Hence also the colour of that
which flows about the body is just what it seems, and is also called
_blood_, being the nurturing principle of the flesh and whole body; and
so by everywhere diffusing its moisture, it copiously replenishes all
the exhausted parts.

-----

Footnote 359:

  Respecting the origin of the colour _red_, comp. ch. xlii. Galen thus
  speaks of this opinion about the blood (vii. ch. 159)—τὴν ἐρυθρὰν
  χρόαν γεννᾶσθαί φησι ἐν τῷ αἵματι διὰ τὴν τοῦ πυρὸς ἐξόμορξιν.

-----

As for the manner of impletion and depletion, it is produced in the same
way as the change of everything in the universe; viz. from the
circumstance of all kindred natures having a common attraction:—for the
natures with which we are clothed externally, are perpetually melting
and being distributed, each form of matter departing to that with which
it is allied. But the particles of blood which are contained in, and
distributed throughout our bodies, as is the case with every animal
created under heaven, necessarily imitate the motion of the universe.
Each, therefore, of the divided parts within us, being borne along to
its kindred nature, again replenishes what is void. But when the
decretions exceed the accessions, the whole animal falls into decay; but
in the contrary case, it acquires growth.

LXII.—The new composition therefore of every animal, as it has new
triangles, [_i. e._ elementary principles,] formed as it were from fresh
timbers, causes them to lock closely within each other,—the whole of its
bulk being of a delicate structure, formed of fresh marrow and fed on
milk. Those triangles, therefore, that compose the bodily aliment,
having entered it from without and been received into the animal, from
being older and weaker than the simple original triangles therewith
agreeing, are overpowered and destroyed by the new triangles; and the
animal grows to a large size, because it is supplied from a multitude of
similar parts. But when the root of these triangles is relaxed by
fatigue and dulness, brought on by the repulsion of many particles
during a long period of time, then the food received can no longer cut
into its own similitude; but they are themselves easily separated by the
bodies that enter from without. Overcome by this, the whole animal at
length decays; and this state is what we call old age:—and at last, when
the jointed chains of the triangles about the marrow can no longer hold,
but through long employment get unfastened and set free the bonds of the
soul,—the soul thus loosened naturally flies off with pleasure and
delight; for everything contrary to nature is painful, while the natural
is pleasant. Hence the death caused by wounds and disease is painful and
violent,—while that which follows old age, as the end agreeable to
nature, is of all deaths the least irksome, and attended rather by
pleasure than pain.[360]

-----

Footnote 360:

  It is this kind of death of which he speaks in the Georgics (p. 524)—ὁ
  θάνατος τυγχάνει ὢν οὐδὲν ἄλλο ἢ δυοῖν πραγμάτοιν διάλυσις, τῆς Ψυχῆς
  καὶ τοῦ σώματος ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων. Comp. also Plutarch, De Plac. Phil. v.
  sect. 24, where he records also the opinions of many others on the
  same topic.

-----

LXIII.—As to the origin of diseases, that must be obvious to every
one:—for as there are four component elements of the body, viz. earth,
fire, water, and air, the unnatural over-abundance or defect of these,
and their removal from their own to a different position,—those of fire,
we mean, and the other classes, for there are more than one,—these are
the causes why they do not each receive what suits their peculiar
nature, and they necessarily produce disturbances and diseases: for as
these are severally generated and transferred in a way contrary to
nature, such things as were formerly heated become cold, what were once
dry moist, the light heavy—all things, in short, undergo all possible
mutations. For we assert that it is only when the same thing approaches
to and departs from the same in the same manner and according to
analogy, that it will allow what is the same with itself to abide in
health and safety: and should any of them be in discordance, whether
approaching or departing, it will cause all varieties of alienations, as
well as unnumbered diseases and corruptions. But having now found the
second set of conditions suitable to nature, the second mode of
considering diseases also is now open to any one desirous of so
doing.[361] For as the marrow, bone, flesh, and sinew are composed of
those [elements,] as likewise the blood in another way, though from a
similar origin, so also most other diseases owe their severity to the
causes we have mentioned; though the greatest of them are to be traced
to the following cause:—When the generation of these various [bodily
substances] takes place inversely, then they become subject to
corruption:—for the flesh and sinews are naturally formed from
blood,—the sinews indeed from fibres, through the connexion between
these, but the flesh from its union with that which when in a separate
state becomes solid:—while the glutinous and fatty substance again which
is formed from sinews and flesh, at once unites[362] the flesh to the
bone, and itself feeds the growth of the bone itself, with which the
marrow is surrounded. And again, that which filters through the solid
part of the bones, being the purest kind of the triangles, as well as
most smooth and unctuous, moistens the marrow by falling drop by drop
from the bones.

-----

Footnote 361:

  He now proceeds to consider the second cause of diseases—from the
  deprivation of the compound substances of the body,—blood, bile,
  flesh, marrow, &c., which can easily be comprehended, says he, by
  those who have followed him in his speculations on the first.

Footnote 362:

  The old reading was πολλά: but the best MSS. have κολλᾷ.

-----

LXIV.—When these several things are the case, health mostly ensues; but
when the contrary happens—disease. For when the flesh becomes liquefied
and sends back what it loses into the veins, then the blood mingled with
spirit flows abundantly, and of all kinds, through the veins, with
different degrees of colours and bitterness;[363] and yet further, from
its acid and salt qualities, it generates all kinds of bile, lymph, and
phlegm;—for as they are all generated and corrupted in an opposite way,
they first of all destroy the blood itself;[364] and the fluids that can
no longer afford nutriment to the body, are borne along the veins
without any natural order of circulation; at variance, indeed, with each
other, because they derive no mutual advantages from the properties of
each, but [positively] hostile to the constitution of the body, and its
maintenance in health,—in short, destroying it and bringing it to
putrefaction.

Such, therefore, of the flesh as becomes liquefied by its great age,
being indisposed to putrefy, grows black from long burning; and from
having been entirely macerated it becomes bitter, and falls into
discontent with the other parts of the body not yet infected with
corruption. And then, indeed, instead of bitterness, the black part
assumes an acidity, if the bitter becomes more attenuated: but when the
bitterness is tinged with blood, it becomes still redder; and when mixed
with black, it assumes the nature of bile:—and yet further, to the
bitterness is added a yellow colour through the melting of new flesh on
the fire surrounding the flame. And this common name for all these some
of the physicians assigned them,—or at any rate some who were able to
consider many things dissimilar, and to detect in a single class a great
number of particulars all deserving a special name. But all else that
may be called kinds of bile, receive, according to colour, a name
peculiar to each. As for _lymph_ (ἴχωρ), the whey of the blood, it is
gentle and mild: while the sediment of black, acid bile, is fierce and
wild;—and when mingled by heat with anything of a saline quality, it is
called _acid phlegm_. Again, the moisture running from new and tender
flesh mingled with the air, which is afterwards inflated and enclosed by
moisture, produces bubbles, which separately are invisible, owing to
their small size, but when collected in a large bulk become visible, and
acquire a white colour from the generation of froth. And all this
liquefaction of delicate flesh, when woven together with spirit, we term
_white phlegm_,—the sediment of recent phlegm, _tears_ and _sweat_;
together with all such secretions that the body sends forth for its
purification.

-----

Footnote 363:

  Gr. πικρότητι. The old editions read πυκνότητι ποικιλούμενον.

Footnote 364:

  What he here means is—that the health of the body mainly depends on
  the state of the blood; and on this principle chiefly he explains the
  causes of diseases, which arise from the corruption of the humours
  caused by the disturbed state of the body, bringing also a taint on
  the blood;—and hence it must follow that the general health becomes
  impaired, because the blood runs through the veins, diffusing through
  the body its vital nutriment.

-----

LXV.—All these indeed become the instruments of disease, when the blood
is not supplied naturally from liquid and solid food, but gains bulk
from contraries in violation of the laws of nature. When any part of the
flesh therefore becomes separated by disease,[365] letting its first
principles remain, half the trouble is removed; for it admits of an easy
recovery. But when that which binds the flesh to the bones becomes
diseased, and the blood flowing from the fibres and sinews no longer
serves as food to the bones and a bond to the flesh, but, instead of
being fat, smooth and glutinous, becomes rough and salt from being
parched by bad diet; then, in consequence of suffering all this and
being separated from the bones, it is itself crumbled down[366] under
the flesh and sinews;—while the flesh falling at the same time from its
roots, leaves the sinews bare and saturated with salt; and thus,
entering once more the circulation of the blood, it increases the number
of the aforesaid maladies. And if these bodily ailments be severe, still
more afflicting and troublesome are those that precede them; when the
bone, owing to the density of the flesh, does not allow sufficient
respiration, but becoming heated through rottenness, falls into decay,
and will receive no nutriment, but on the contrary gradually crumble
away,—bone falling on flesh, and flesh again on blood, diseases being by
these means produced that are of a severer character than the former. By
far the worst of all maladies however is,—when the marrow becomes
diseased through some defect or excess;—because it is then productive of
the most vehement and fatal diseases, the whole nature of the body being
necessarily reversed and destroyed.

-----

Footnote 365:

  ὑπὸ νόσων, omitted in the old editions, has been restored on the
  authority of several of the best MSS.

Footnote 366:

  Gr. καταψήχεται. The old editions have καταψύχεται. The same
  observation applies to καταψηχόμενον, a few lines lower down.

-----

LXVI.—Again, as to the third species of diseases, we ought to consider
them as divided into three classes,—one produced by spirit, a second by
phlegm, and a third by bile. For when the lungs, the great guardian of
the breath, through being obstructed by defluxions,[367] will not allow
a free passage to the breath, which thus has no egress one way, and in
another enters in larger supplies than it ought, those parts which are
not cooled by it become putrid, while those that receive too much of it,
passing violently through the veins, distort them and become liquefied,
being shut out with the diaphragm in the middle of the body: and thus
ten thousand severe ailments hence arise, together with an abundance of
sweat. And frequently, when the flesh becomes separated within the body,
breath is produced, which not finding escape externally, causes the same
torments as the breath entering from without. The greatest pains that it
produces, however, are, when it surrounds and swells out the sinews and
neighbouring veins, stretching and distorting the tendons and sinews
continued from the back. Now these diseases, from their disposition to
extension, are termed tensions and contortions from behind,[368]—the
cure of which it is difficult to find; because fevers supervene and
generally bring them to a close. But the white phlegm, when it becomes
troublesome through the formation of air-bubbles, being shut out by
having breathing-vents outside the body, is of a milder kind, and
variegates the body with white spots, generating other diseases also of
a similar character. But when mingled with black bile, and dispersed
about the most divine circulations of the head, it acts as a disturbing
agent, though with less violence during sleep; but if it come to those
who are awake, it cannot be expelled without difficulty; and as this is
a disease of a sacred nature (or organ, _i. e._ the head), it is most
justly called sacred.[369] An acid and salt phlegm again is the source
of all those diseases which are produced by a defluxion of humours: and
because the places into which this phlegm flows are of infinite variety,
it produces all kinds of diseases. But whatever parts of the body are
said to be inflamed, all become so from being burnt and inflamed by
bile.

-----

Footnote 367:

  Gr. ὑπὸ ῥευμάτων φράχθεις, obstructed by discharges of phlegm.

Footnote 368:

  Gr. ἃ δὴ καὶ ἀπ’ αὐτοῦ τῆς ξυντονίας τοῦ παθήματος τὰ νοσήματα τέτανοί
  τε καὶ ὁπισθότονοι προσεῤῥήθησαν. Galen describes the τέτανος as a
  distension or convulsion extending equally over a considerable part of
  the body;—but it appears to be a generic term also, of which
  ὁπισθότονος and ἐμπροσθότονος are species,—one extending over the
  hinder, and the other over the forepart of the body. Celsus explains
  it as _nervorum rigor_;—and it seems, in fact, to be an involuntary
  retraction, in a contrary direction to the muscles.

Footnote 369:

  _Epilepsy_, however, was what the ancients usually termed the _sacred
  disease_, because it was supposed to be sent by the anger of the gods,
  and could only be assuaged or removed by incantations and other sacred
  ceremonies.

-----

LXVII. Now this bile, whenever it makes an expiration, boils and sends
up all kinds of tumours, and when inwardly restrained, generates many
inflammatory diseases,—but the greatest of all, when mingled with pure
blood it disturbs the order of the fibres, which are scattered in the
blood for this purpose,—namely, of giving it certain measures of tenuity
and density, and that it may neither through heat (as being moist) flow
from the thin body, nor from its density become unadapted to motion, and
so experience difficulty in flowing back in the veins. The just
temperament, then, of these things is under the natural guardianship of
the fibres; because if any one collects them together in the blood when
dead and in a state of coldness, all the remaining blood becomes
diffused; and when let out quickly, it coagulates in consequence of the
cold surrounding it. The fibres possessing this influence over the
blood, the bile, which is of the nature of ancient blood, and again
changed into it from flesh by liquefaction, first gradually falls in a
warm, moist state, and becomes coagulated through the power of the
fibres; though when coagulated and violently extinguished, it causes a
tempest and tremor within. When it flows with still greater force, it
overcomes the fibres by its own proper heat, and by its ebullition
drives them into disorder;[370] and if it retains its prevalence to the
end, it penetrates into the marrow, and burning the bonds of the soul,
as if they were the cables of a ship, dissolves their union, and sets it
wholly free; but, on the other hand, when it flows less abundantly, and
the body on becoming liquefied opposes its passage, it then, on finding
itself overcome, either escapes through the whole body, or being driven
through the veins into the upper or lower belly, escapes from the body
like a fugitive from a seditious city, and introduces defluxions,
dysenteries, or gripings of the intestines, and all diseases of a
similar kind. When the body, therefore, is unusually diseased by an
excess of fire, it then labours under _continued_ burnings and fever;
but when through excess of air, under _quotidian_ fevers: under
_tertian_ through water, because water is less active than fire and air;
and under _quartan_, through excess of earth;—for earth, being of all of
them the least active, becomes purified in quadruple periods of time,
and hence introduces quartan fevers, which are with difficulty
dispelled.[371]

-----

Footnote 370:

  Gr. εἰς ἀταξίαν ζέσασα διέσεισε. The old editions have διέσωσε, which
  makes against the context.

Footnote 371:

  Martin has taken great and successful pains to point out the
  surprising sagacity of Plato’s conjectures on the causes of disease.
  His notes on the subject are well worthy of on attentive perusal.

-----

LXVIII. In the above manner are the diseases of the body produced; but
the diseases of the soul, resulting from the habit of the body, are as
follows. We must admit that the disease of the soul is folly, or a
privation of intellect; and that there are two kinds of folly; the one
madness, the other ignorance. Whatever passion, therefore, a person
experiences that induces either of them, must be called a disease.
Excessive pleasures and pains, however, are what we should deem the
greatest diseases of the soul:—for when a man is over-elevated with joy
or unduly depressed with grief, and so hastens immoderately either to
retain the one or fly from the other, he can neither perceive nor hear
anything properly, but is agitated with fury, and very little capable of
exercising the reasoning power. But he who possesses a great quantity of
fluid-seed about the marrow, and is by nature like a tree over-laden
with fruit, such a one having many throes,[372] and also many pleasures
in his desires and their attendant offspring,—being maddened too during
most of his life by the greatest pleasures and pains, having a soul also
rendered morbid and unwise by the body, is wrongly deemed to be—not
diseased, but voluntarily bad.[373] In truth, however, sexual
intemperance generally becomes a disease of the soul, through a
particular state of fluidity and moisture caused by the tenuity of the
bones. And indeed it may almost be asserted, that all intemperance in
any kind of pleasure, and all disgraceful conduct, is not properly
blamed as the consequence of voluntary guilt. For _no one is voluntary
bad_: but he who is depraved becomes so through a certain bad habit of
body and an ill-governed education; and to every one these are inimical,
as they result in a certain evil. And again, in the matter of pain, the
soul suffers much depravity through the body. For where acid and salt
phlegm, and likewise bitter and bilious humours, wandering through the
body, get no external vent, but revolve inwardly, and mingle their
exhalations with the circulation of the soul; they in this case produce
within it an infinite variety of diseases, greater or less in
degree,—more or less in numbers. They are introduced, indeed, to three
seats of the soul; and according to the diversity of the place, each
begets every variety of difficulty and sorrow, rashness and timidity,
and still further of oblivion and indocility. Besides this also, the
vicious manners of cities, and discourses both private and public, often
contribute to increase this malady; nor are any branches of learning
taught in early life which tend to serve as remedies for such mighty
ills;—and thus all the vicious are vicious through two most involuntary
causes, which we should always ascribe rather to the planters than the
things planted, and to the trainers rather than those trained; but still
it should be our anxious endeavour, as far as we can, by education,
studies, and learning, to fly from vice, and acquire its
contrary—virtue. These particulars, however, require another mode of
argument.

-----

Footnote 372:

  The old editions read ὀδύνας, not ὠδῖνας.

Footnote 373:

  This is quite according to Plato’s well-known doctrine—_οὐδεὶς ἑκὼν
  κακός_, as he explains it below, and in the Republ. ix, p. 589, c.;
  Protagoras, p. 345, e.

-----

LXIX. Again, as respects the contrary of these, it is quite fit and
proper to explain concerning the cultivation both of the body and the
intellect, by what means each is to be healthfully preserved. For it is
more just to take account of good things, rather than of the evil. Now
every thing good is beautiful; and the beautiful is not without
measure:—an animal therefore destined to be such, must possess symmetry.
Of symmetries, however, we perceive and understand those which are
small; but as for the greatest and most important, of these we are quite
ignorant. For indeed, no symmetry or want of measure is of more
importance with respect to health and disease, virtue and vice, than
that of the soul towards the body:—and yet into these we make no
inquiry, nor do we reflect that when a weaker and inferior form is the
vehicle of a strong and every way mighty soul, and when on the contrary
these two pass into a state of compact union, then the animal is not
wholly beautiful; for it is without symmetry in the most important
points of symmetry, while an animal of opposite character is the fairest
of all sights that can be beheld. Just therefore, as a body has
immoderately long legs, or indeed any other superfluity of parts that
hinders its internal symmetry, it at once becomes base, in the
participation of labour suffers many afflictions and many convulsions,
and through suffering an aggregation of accidents, becomes the cause to
itself of innumerable ills. The same too must be understood concerning
that compound essence [of body and soul,] which we term an animal;—as,
for instance, when the soul in this compound is stronger than the body,
and greatly prevails over it, then [the soul,] agitating the whole of it
inwardly, fills it with diseases; and, by ardent application to learned
pursuits and investigations, causes it to waste away. Lastly, when the
soul employs itself in didactic pursuits and logomachies, publicly as
well as in private, through a certain ambitious strife, it then inflames
the body and dissolves its constitution, and by introducing
distillations of humours, deceives the great part of those who are
called physicians, inducing them to consider these effects as proceeding
from contrary causes.

Also, when a body that is large and superior to the soul in power is
joined with a small and weak intellect,—there being naturally two
classes of desires in man, one of aliment on account of the body, the
other of wisdom for the sake of our most divine part;—in this case, the
motions of the more powerful prevailing and enlarging what is their own,
but making the reflective part of the soul deaf, indocile, and
oblivious, thus induce ignorance—the greatest of all diseases. There is
one safety then for both—neither to move the soul without the body, nor
the body without the soul; in order that by mutually resisting each
other they may be equally balanced and in perfect health. The
mathematician then, or any one else who ardently devotes himself to any
intellectual pursuit, should at the same time engage the body in
gymnastic exercises;—and the man, again, who is careful in rightly
forming his body, should at the same time therewith unite the motions of
the soul in the exercises of music and all philosophy; if at least he
intends to be one, that may justly be called beautiful and at the same
time right good.

LXX.—In this very same manner we ought to attend even to the parts of
the body, that they may imitate the form of the whole:—for when the body
is inwardly burnt and cooled by the things that enter it, and again, is
moistened by things external, and suffers all the consequences of these
affections; then if any one gives up his body when quiescent to these
kinds of motions, he is overcome and perishes.[374] But if any one will
imitate what we called the tutor and nurse of the universe, and never
allow the body to be at rest, but perpetually move it and assist its
natural motions both within and without, by ever implanting in it
certain agitations, and also by moderate agitation bring into order
according to their mutual relations the wandering passions and parts of
the body, he will not, as we said in our former discourse about the
universe, place foe against foe, and suffer war and disease to be
produced in the body,—but, on the other hand, combining friend with
friend, will contrive to induce a state of sound health. Of all motions,
again, that is the best which takes place in itself from itself: for
this is particularly allied to intellect and the motion of the
universe,—that produced by another being inferior:—whereas that is the
worst of all motions, which, when the body is recumbent and at ease,
moves it by means of others and only partially. Hence, therefore, of all
modes of cleansing and giving consistence to the body, the best is that
effected by gymnastics,—the second is that caused by easy conveyance,
either in a ship or other suitable vehicle; but the third kind of
motion, however useful perhaps to one in extreme need, must on no
account be otherwise used by any one endued with intellect; and this is
that medical kind of motion produced by pharmaceutical purgation:—for
diseases, unless they are extremely dangerous, must not be irritated by
medicines. Indeed, every form of disease in some respect resembles the
nature of animals;—for the condition of the latter has allotted to it
stated periods of life, both as respects individuals and entire races,
and each animal separately of itself has its fated life apart from the
affection arising from necessity:—because the triangles, which from the
very first have power over each, are so composed, as to suffice only for
a certain time: beyond which period no animal can extend its life. The
same condition of things also takes place in the case of diseases; for
if any one destroys them by medicine before the fated time, he will only
produce great diseases out of small, and many out of few. On this
account we must discipline all such maladies by proper diet, according
as each has leisure, and not irritate by medicines an obstinate
complaint.—And thus much may suffice to have been said concerning the
common animal and its corporeal part,—how each governing himself and
governed by himself, may pursue a life regulated by reason.

-----

Footnote 374:

  Gr. ὅταν μέν τις ἡσυχίαν ἄγον τὸ σῶμα παραδιδῷ ταῖς κινήσεσι, κρατηθὲν
  διώλετο.

-----

LXXI.—That part, however, which is to have the government of the animal,
should, as far as possible, be better provided, and earlier also, with
the power of being the fairest and best in the art of ruling. To treat
accurately indeed of these matters, would require a separate work of
itself: but even pursuing it by way of mere by-work (ἐν παρέργῳ), in
accordance with what has preceded, we shall not be inconsistent, nor
fail in the end of our inquiries. We have often then before asserted
that there are three kinds of soul within us, in three parts of the
body, each having its peculiar motions; and so in the same way we must
now briefly affirm, that when any one of them is in a torpid state and
rests from its own proper motions, it must necessarily become extremely
weak, and only by constant exercise attains the highest degree of
strength:—we should be careful therefore that each may preserve its own
motions in symmetry with all the rest.

But with respect to the highest and most leading part of our soul, [_i.
e._ the human soul,] we should conceive as follows:—that the Deity
assigned this to each as a dæmon;—that, namely, which we say, and say
correctly too, resides at the summit of the body and raises us from
earth to our cognate place in heaven:—for we are plants, not of earth,
but heaven; and from the same source whence the soul first arose, a
divine nature, raising aloft our head and root, directs our whole
corporeal frame. In him, therefore, who has eagerly striven to satisfy
the cravings of desire and ambition, all the conceptions engendered in
his soul must necessarily be mortal; and he will necessarily, as much as
possible, become entirely mortal, omitting no effort to improve such a
nature. For one, however, who is sedulously employed in the acquisition
of knowledge and true wisdom, and is chiefly practised in this one
pursuit, it is altogether necessary, if he would touch on the truth,
that he should be endued with wisdom about immortal and divine concerns;
and as far as human nature is capable of immortality, he should leave no
part neglected; and thus, as he ever cultivates that which is divine,
and has a dæmon most excellently adorned residing within him, he will be
exceedingly happy. But the culture of all the parts is one only,—that of
assigning to each their proper nutriment and motion. But the motions
allied to the divine part of our nature, are the reflective energies and
circulations of the universe. These, then, each of us should pursue;
restoring the revolutions in our head that have been corrupted through
being employed on generation, by a diligent investigation of the
harmonies and circulations of the universe, with the view of
assimilating the reflective power to the object of reflection according
to its ancient nature;[375] for, by this assimilation, we shall obtain
the end of the best life proposed by the gods to men, both present and
future.

-----

Footnote 375:

  Gr. τῷ κατανοουμένῳ τὸ κατανοοῦν ἐξομοιῶσαι κατὰ τὴν ἀρχαίαν φύσιν,
  &c. The meaning is, that where the reflective powers are employed in
  meditating on the universe, they are necessarily brought into harmony
  with the only true objects of intellect,—and which existed indeed from
  the first creation.

-----

LXXII.—And now the discussion which we announced at the beginning
concerning the universe, as far at least as concerns the generation of
man, is very nearly completed; for as to the rest of the animals, how
they were generated, we will only briefly describe them, except where
necessity bids us enlarge: for a person may think that he is thus more
in measure as concerns such an inquiry. On this subject, then, let us
speak as follows:—Of the men that were born, such as are timid, and have
passed through life unjustly, are, we suppose, changed into women in
their second generation. At that time, then, and for that reason, the
gods devised the love of copulation; constructing an animated substance,
and placing one in us men, another in the women,—forming each in the
following manner:—That passage for the drink, by which these liquids run
through the lungs under the reins into the bladder, and which sends them
forth as it receives them, by the pressure of the breath,[376]—this [the
gods] made to pass into the condensed marrow, from the head, along the
neck, and through the back-bone; and this we called seed in a former
part of this discourse:—and this [the marrow], in consequence of being
animated and endued with respiration, produces in the part where it
respires a lively desire of emission,—thus perfecting in us the love of
procreation. On this account, the nature of men, as respects their
private parts, becoming insubordinate and imperious, like an animal not
obedient to reason, tries through raging desire to gain absolute sway.
The same is the case with the wombs, and other connected parts of
women,—so called, as forming an animal desirous of procreating children.
This, when it remains without fruit long beyond its proper time, becomes
discontented and indignant; and wandering every way through the body, it
obstructs the passage of the breath, and throws women into extreme
difficulties, causing all varieties of diseases, till at length the
desire and love of both parties [_i. e._ the man and woman] cause the
emission of seed, like fruit from a tree; by which emission, they sow in
the womb, as in a field, animals invisible from their minute size, and
yet unformed, which, as they become larger, they nourish within; and
lastly, by bringing them to light, perfect the generation of animals.

-----

Footnote 376:

  This very erroneous view has been before alluded to in a note on ch.
  xlv. speaking of the lungs. Plato had evidently no knowledge of the
  action of the kidneys.

-----

LXXIII. Such is the process of generation in women and every female.
Next succeeded the tribe of birds having feathers instead of hair, which
were fashioned from men without vice indeed, but light-minded and
curious about things on high, yet conceiving in their folly that the
strongest proofs of these things are received through the sight [_i. e._
the senses]. Again, the race of wild animals with feet was generated
from men, who made no use of philosophy, nor ever inquired into anything
that concerned the nature of the universe,—and this, because they no
longer employed the circulations in the head, but followed the guidance
of those parts of the soul that reside about the breast. Owing to these
pursuits, therefore, they fixed their fore-legs and head earthwards, as
suited their nature,—having also long and variously-shaped heads, where
the circulations of each were compressed by inactivity:—and hence their
race became quadruped and multiped, the Deity giving a greater number of
feet to those more than usually unwise, that they might be the more
drawn towards the earth. But as regards the most unwise of these, which
extend all their body along the ground, as if they had no longer any
need for feet, the gods formed them without feet to creep on the earth.
The fourth class is that living in the water, which was produced from
such men as were to the last degree unthinking and ignorant, and whom
those transformers of our nature did not think deserving of a pure
medium of respiration, because they possessed a soul rendered impure by
extreme transgression,—but drove them from the attenuated and pure
atmosphere into the turbid and deep breathing-medium of water:—and hence
arose the tribe of fishes and oysters, and all other aquatic animals,
which have received the most remote habitations, as a punishment of
their extreme ignorance. After this manner then, both formerly and now,
animals migrate into each other; experiencing their changes through
either the loss or acquisition of intellect and folly. We are now at
length to say, that our discourse about the universe has reached its
conclusion;—for not only containing, but full of mortal and immortal
animals, it has thus been formed _a visible animal embracing things
visible, a sensible god of the intelligible, the greatest, best, and
most perfect,—this one only-begotten_ UNIVERSE.


                         THE END OF THE TIMÆUS.

                      INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITIAS.

This Dialogue may be considered as an appendix to that preceding, and
the fulfilment of a promise which Critias had made in the opening of the
Timæus, to give some account of the primæval history of the Athenians,
whose early manners he supposed to correspond with those of the citizens
in Socrates’s ideal republic. The Athenians were a people so boastful of
their antiquity, as to arrogate to themselves the name of αὐτόχθονες;
and therefore any narrative or legend was likely to be agreeable to
their feelings, which assigned to them even a higher antiquity than they
really possessed. This may probably have been a leading motive with
Plato for constructing this amusing dialogue; more than half of which,
however, is taken up with the description of the Atlantic islands, its
kings and its inhabitants, who all existed in the time of the primitive
Athenians, though in Plato’s time they were extinct, and their islands
submerged in the sea. Many curious speculations have been put forth
respecting the geography of the Atlantic isles, and some have gone so
far as to conjecture them to have been a portion of the modern America.
The whole story, however, has so much the appearance of a myth, that it
seems useless to apply to it any of the laws of historical or
geographical criticism. The Dialogue, moreover, is so short as scarcely
to require any abbreviated account of its contents.




                              THE CRITIAS.

                                ———●———

                TIMÆUS, CRITIAS, SOCRATES, HERMOCRATES.


SECT. I.—TIM. I am just as pleased, Socrates, as one at rest after a
long journey, that I have now at length been happily released from my
protracted discourse![377] And now I implore that God [the universe,]
long, long ago created in fact, though only just recently in our
discussion, to establish in security what we have properly stated, but
as respects aught that we have even involuntarily stated that is not to
the purpose, to inflict on us a suitable punishment:—and the right
punishment for one out of tune is to make him play in tune.[378] In
order then, that for the future we may speak correctly respecting the
generation of the gods, we beseech him who is the best and most perfect
to give us a scientific knowledge of medicine; and having thus prayed,
we hand over to Critias, as we agreed, the succeeding discourse.

CRIT. Yes, Timæus, I receive it:—and as you acted at first, in
requesting indulgence as one about to speak on momentous matters, the
same also do I now entreat; and I think that I ought the more to obtain
it for what I am about to say. Yet I know full well that I am making a
very ambitious request, and of a more rustic kind than is proper; still
we must proceed. That what you have now said has not been well said, who
in his senses will pretend to say? I must try to show then, that what I
am about to say needs greater indulgence on account of its greater
difficulty:—for it is easier, Timæus, to speak and appear to speak
rightly about the gods to men, than about mortals to us [men]; inasmuch
as the inexperience and extraordinary ignorance of the hearers about
things of this nature, both furnish great facilities to one intending to
speak concerning them; but as respects the gods, we know how we are
situated. In order, however, that I may clearly show my meaning, follow
me in what I am about to say. What has been said by the whole of us was
necessarily only imitation and resemblance; and now, as regards the
representation by painters of divine and heavenly[379] objects, we see
with what facility or difficulty they contrive that they shall seem to
the spectators to be apt imitations; and we shall see also, that with
respect to earth, mountains, rivers, woods, and the whole of heaven, and
all therein, as well as what moves about it, we are satisfied if a
person is able to produce even a slight resemblance of them;—but beyond
this, as we have no accurate knowledge concerning such matters, we
neither examine nor find fault with the paintings, but use a mere
obscure and deceitful sketch of them. But when on the other hand any one
attempts to represent our bodies, we quickly perceive any omissions,
through our familiar apprehension of them, and become severe critics on
any one who does not perfectly exhibit their resemblances. The same also
we see, to be the case in arguments,—that we are content with even
slightly resembling statements about heavenly and divine things, while
we accurately examine things mortal and human. As regards then what we
are now immediately saying, if we cannot fully exhibit what is desired,
you ought to forgive us, because you must reflect that to form approved
resemblances of mortal things is no easy task, but very difficult. Now I
have said all this, Socrates, wishing to remind you of these things, and
asking not for less, but more indulgence respecting what is about to be
said. If then I seem to be fairly asking the favour, grant it with all
cheerfulness.

-----

Footnote 377:

  Gr. ἐκ τῆς τοῦ λόγου διαπορείας.

Footnote 378:

  Gr. δίκη δὲ ὀρθὴ τὸν πλημμελοῦντα ἐμμελῆ ποιεῖν.

Footnote 379:

  Gr. οὐράνια, which Stallbaum has adopted on Cornarius’s conjecture,
  Instead of the ἀνθρώπινα, the readings both of the editions and MSS.

-----

SECT. II.—SOCR. Why should we hesitate to grant it, Critias?—And
besides, we must grant this same indulgence to our third friend,
Hermocrates:—for it is evident, as we shall see presently, that when he
has to speak, he will make the same request as you. That he then may
furnish with a different commencement and not be compelled to say the
same, let him at once speak, as if this indulgence were granted him. I
must inform you, however, of the sense of the audience,[380] that the
former poet [Timæus] has obtained a wonderful deal of applause;—so that
you will need a vast quantity of indulgence if you intend to be an able
successor to him.

HERM. You are making the same announcement to me, Socrates, as to him.
Faint-hearted men, however, never yet erected a trophy, Critias:—so you
must proceed manfully to your discourse, and, invoking Pæan and the
Muses, exhibit and celebrate these primitive and best of citizens.

CRIT. Ah, friend Hermocrates, you are to speak afterwards[381] and have
another before you;—and so you are vastly courageous. What the nature of
the task is, however, the fact itself will speedily declare:—and we will
therefore be persuaded by your encouragement and exhortation, and in
addition to the gods that you have mentioned, will call on others
besides, and most of all on Memory: for all the most important points of
our discourse concern that goddess,—inasmuch as it is by suitably
calling to mind and relating the narratives of the [Egyptian] priests
brought hither by Solon, that I feel satisfied of our being thought by
this auditory to have fairly accomplished our part. This therefore we
must now do, and without further delay.

-----

Footnote 380:

  Gr. τὴν τοῦ θεάτρου διάνοιαν. The term θέατρον is frequently used to
  mean the _audience_ only. This was no doubt unknown to those critics,
  who very unnecessarily conjectured from the use of this term, that
  Critias had brought out scenic representations.

Footnote 381:

  The old editions read ὑστεραίας; but Bekker and Stallbaum have
  ὑστέρας, which is adopted here, as agreeing with τάξεως understood.

-----

SECT. III.—First of all then let us recollect, that it is about nine
thousand years, since war was proclaimed between those dwelling outside
the Pillars of Hercules and all those within them,—which war we must now
describe. Of the latter party, then, this city was the leader, and
conducted the whole war; and of the former the kings of the Atlantic
Island, which we said was once larger than Libya and Asia, but now, sunk
by earthquakes, a mass of impervious mud,[382] which hinders all those
sailing on the vast sea from effecting a passage hither;—and then our
story will, as it were, unfold [to your view] the many barbarous tribes,
and such of the Greek nations as then existed, as each may happen to
present itself:—but the wars of the then Athenians and their adversaries
we must first describe, as well as the power and government of each. Of
these [our own] people, however, we must be anxious first to speak.

-----

Footnote 382:

  Gr. νῦν δὲ ὑπὸ σεισμῶν δῦσαν ἄπορον πηλόν. The old editions read
  δυσανάπορον.

-----

SECT. IV.—To the gods was once locally allotted the whole earth, and
that, too, without contention;—for it would not be reasonable to suppose
that the gods are ignorant of what suits each of themselves, or that,
fully aware of what is rather the property of others, they would try to
get possession of it through strife. Obtaining then a country agreeable
to them by just allotment, they chose these regions for their
habitation; and, after settling, they like shepherds reared us, as their
possessions, flocks and herds,—not however by forcing body against body,
as shepherds in grazing drive their cattle with blows; but [they treated
us] as an easily-governed animal, and piloting, as it were, with
persuasions for a rudder, and working on the soul, they governed the
entire mortal by leading him according to their own mind. Different
gods, therefore, having received by lot different regions, proceeded to
cultivate (or set in order) those [that they had received;]—but
Hephæstus and Athéné having a common nature, not only related by
brotherhood from having the same father, but united also in philosophy
and love of art,[383] both received this one region as their common
allotment, as being naturally familiar with and well adapted to virtue
and wisdom; and after producing worthy men,—natives of the soil
(αὐτόχθονες), arranged to their mind the order of their government:—of
which men, indeed, the names are preserved; though their deeds have
become extinct through the death of those that handed them down and the
long lapse of time. The race, indeed, that survived, as it has been
before observed, were a set of unlettered mountaineers, who had heard
the names only of the ruling people in the land, and very little about
their deeds. The names they out of affection gave to their children,
though unacquainted with the virtues and laws of those before them,
except through certain dark rumours concerning them; and being
themselves and their children for many generations in want of
necessaries, with which, with all their wit, they were unprovided, they
bestowed their chief attention on this, to the neglect of events that
had taken place in times long gone by:—for mythology and the inquiry
into ancient affairs both visit states at a time of leisure, when they
see that the necessaries of life have been procured, but not before. In
this way, then, the names of the ancients have been preserved without
their deeds:—and I infer this to be the case, as Solon said, that the
priests in describing the war then waged gave those engaged in them many
names—such as Cecrops, Erectheus, Ericthonius, Erysichthon, and most of
the other names which are recorded prior to the time of Theseus;—and
they gave the names of women likewise. Besides, the figure and image of
the goddess shows that at that time both men and women entered in common
on the pursuits of war; as in compliance with that custom an armed
statue was dedicated to the goddess by the people of that day,—a proof
that all animals that consort together, females as well as males, have a
natural ability to pursue in common every suitable virtue.

-----

Footnote 383:

  Gr. φιλοτεχνίᾳ. The old editions have φιλοτεκνίᾳ, which is an evident
  error.

-----

SECT. V.—At that time, indeed, there dwelt in this country many other
tribes of citizens engaged in crafts and the culture of the soil; but
the warrior-tribe, being set apart from the first by divine men, lived
separately, having all the requisites for food and training, none of
them possessing anything in private, but considering all their
possessions as common, and not deigning to receive anything from the
rest of the citizens beyond a sufficiency of food, occupying themselves
moreover in all the pursuits that we yesterday described as those of
appointed state-guardians. Moreover, as respects this country of ours,
it was stated with probability and truth, that in early times it had
boundaries fixed at the Isthmus and on the side of the other continent
as far as the heights of Cithæron and Parnes, these boundaries coming
down, with Oropia on the right, and with the Asopus as a seaward limit
on the left:—and by the valour of this region it was said that the whole
earth was vanquished, because it was then able to support the numerous
army raised from the surrounding people. A great proof of their virtue
also was this,—that what now remains of it may vie with any other
whatever in the general productiveness of the soil, in the excellence of
its fruits, and in pastures suited to every kind of animals. Then,
however, it produced all these not only excellent in quality, but in the
greatest possible abundance. How then can we believe this;—and in what
way can it [the present country] rightly be termed a remnant of the
former land? The whole from the other continent [_i. e._ the western
side] extends seaward like a long promontory, and is wholly surrounded
by the steep-shored basin of the sea. As therefore many and extensive
deluges happened in that period of nine thousand years,—for so many
years have elapsed from that to the present time,—the earth, that was
loosened and fell from the heights at these times and under these
circumstances, did not, as elsewhere, aggregate to form any elevation
worth mentioning, but ever eddying round, at length vanished in the
deep; and the heights have been left, as is the case in small islands,
like the bones of a diseased body, compared with those of former times,
all the earth that was soft and fat being washed away, leaving only a
thin body of soil. At that time, however, being undisturbed, it
comprised mountains which are now only high hills; and the country, now
termed the plains of Phelleus, was then full of fat earth. The mountains
also abounded with woods, of which even now there are evident signs:—for
there are some of the mountains, which now furnish food for bees only,
though at no very distant period the houses were still standing, and in
good preservation, that were constructed of the timber cut from the
trees thereon, and suitable for the largest buildings. There were many
lofty trees also, raised by cultivation (ἥμερα), and an incalculable
amount of pasture for cattle. Prolific rain especially this land yearly
enjoyed, not, as now, losing it by its quick passage over the bare earth
down to the sea; but received an abundance of it, which it could keep
within itself to dispense over the clayey soil which holds it:—and thus
sending down the absorbed water from the heights into the hollows, it
diffused over all these regions abundant streams of springs and
rivers,—the truth of which is even now attested by the sacred remains
observable in the ancient fountains.[384]

-----

Footnote 384:

  This is an extremely involved and most probably a corrupt passage. We
  have nearly followed Stallbaum’s interpretation; though it was
  absolutely necessary, in order to make it readable, to divide the
  sentence into two clauses.

-----

SECT. VI.—Such was once the natural state of this country;—and it was
cultivated, as it was likely it would be, by real husbandmen, actually
practising their calling—lovers of honour and generous-minded, having a
most excellent soil, great abundance of water, and an admirably
attempered climate. It was at this time that the city was founded here
as follows:—The form of the Acropolis was not then, as it is now;—for in
later times [_lit._ now] a single rainy night softened it, and to a
great degree bared it of soil,—there being earthquakes at the same time,
and a fatal deluge—the third before that of Deucalion. Before this, in
primitive times, it extended in size to the Eridanus[385] and Ilissus,
and comprised the Pnyx, having the Lycabetus as its limit opposite the
Pnyx,—the whole being well covered with soil, except some level spots in
the higher part. Its outer parts down the flanks were inhabited by
craftsmen and husbandmen who tilled the neighbouring land,—the
warrior-classes living separately by themselves in the more elevated
parts around the temple of Athéné and Hephæstus, which they had formed,
as it were, into the garden of a single dwelling by encircling it with
one enclosure:—for on the northern side lived those, who erected public
buildings and common banquets for the winter, and whatever else was
suited to a common polity, buildings as well as temples being unadorned
with gold or silver; (for they never at any time used these metals, but
pursuing a middle course between extravagance and meanness, built neat
dwellings, in which both they and their children’s children grew old,
and then left them to others like themselves,)—while as regards the
south side, they removed thither their gardens, gymnasia, and common
rooms of entertainment, which they fixed here during the summer. There
was also one single fountain on the spot now occupied by the Acropolis,
since the extinction of which by earthquakes only a few small streams
have been left round it; although at that time it furnished to every
part an abundant supply of water, well attempered both for winter and
summer. Such was the way of life pursued by the guardians of their own
state, who also were leaders of the rest of the Greeks—such at least as
required them; and as to their number they paid special attention, that
they should always have the same number of men and women that might both
then and in future[386] be able to serve in war,—the whole being about
twenty thousand. These men then, being personally such as I have
described, and ever in some such way justly administering both their own
affairs and those of Greece, were the most noted and renowned of all the
people of that day over all Europe and Asia, both for the beauty of
their bodies and the general virtue of their souls.

-----

Footnote 385:

  The Eridanus here mentioned was in Attica:—it is not the Eridanus
  known by geographers in Ætolia and Acarnania.

Footnote 386:

  Gr. ἤδη καὶ τὸ ἔτι. Cornarius here conjectured κατὰ τὰ ἔτη as the true
  reading; but as the reading of the MSS. admits of translation, it
  seems unnecessary.

-----

SECT. VII.—In the next place then, as respects the adversaries of these
men, what was their character, and how they first arose, we will now
impart this in common to you our friends, if at least we have not lost
the recollection of what we heard in our childhood. Yet before we
narrate this, we must briefly warn you not to be surprised at hearing
Hellenic names given to barbarians:—and the cause of this you shall now
hear. Solon, intending to make use of this story in his poetry, made an
investigation into the power of names, and found that the early
Egyptians who committed these facts to writing transferred these names
into their own language; and he again receiving the meaning of each
name, introduced it by writing into our language. These very writings,
indeed, were in the possession of my grandfather, and are now in mine,
having been made the subject of much study during my boyhood. If
therefore you hear such names as these in this narrative, be not
surprised;—for you know the reason. Of a long story, then, let such be
the introduction.

SECT. VIII.—As we remarked at first concerning the allotment of the
gods, that they distributed the whole earth here into larger and there
into smaller portions,[387] procuring for themselves temples and public
sacrifices,—so, Poseidon in particular, taking as his lot the Atlantic
island, begot children by a mortal woman, and settled in some such spot
of the island as we are about to describe. Towards the sea, but in the
centre of the whole island, was a plain, which is said to have been the
fairest of all plains, and distinguished for the excellence [of its
soil]. Near this plain, and at its centre, about fifty stadia distant,
was a mountain with short acclivities on every side. On this dwelt one
of those men who in primitive times sprang from the earth, by name
Evenor, who lived with a wife, Leucippe; and they had an only daughter,
Clito. Now when this girl arrived at marriageable age, and her mother
and father were dead, Poseidon becoming enamoured, made her his
mistress, and circularly enclosed the hill on which she dwelt, forming
the sea and land into alternate zones, greater and less,—turning, as it
were, two out of land and three out of sea, from the centre of the
island, all equally distant, so as to be inaccessible to men:—for at
that time ships and navigation were not known. And he himself, with his
divine power, agreeably adorned the centre of the island, causing two
fountains of water to shoot upwards from beneath the earth, one cold and
the other hot, and making every variety of food to spring abundantly
from the earth. He also begat and brought up five twin-male children;
and after distributing all the Atlantic island into ten parts, he
bestowed on the first-born of the eldest pair his mother’s dwelling and
the allotment about it,—this being the largest and best; and he
appointed him king of all the rest, making the others governors, and
giving to each the dominion over many people and an extensive territory.
He likewise gave all of them names,—to the eldest, who was the king, the
name of _Atlas_, from whom, as the first sovereign, both the island and
sea were termed _Atlantic_;—and to the twin born after him, who had
received for his share the extreme parts of the island towards the
Pillars of Hercules, as far as the region which now in that country is
called _Gadeirica_, he gave the titular name, which we Greeks call
Eumelus, but which the people of that country term _Gadeirus_. Of the
second-born twins he called the first Ampheres, the second, Euæmon;—of
the third, he called the first-born, Musæus, and the second,
Autochthon;—of the fourth, the first, Elasippus, and the younger,
Mestor;—and among the fifth, to the former was given the name Azaes, and
to the latter, Diaprepes.

-----

Footnote 387:

  Gr. λήξεις. The old editions and several MSS. have μίξεις.

-----

SECT. IX.—All these, then, and their descendants, dwelt for many
generations, as rulers in the sea of islands, and as we before said, yet
further extended their empire to all the country as far as Egypt and
Tyrrhenia. By far the most distinguished, however, was the race of
Atlas; and among these the oldest king in succession always handed down
the power to his eldest son, all of them successively possessing wealth
in such abundance as never was before found among regal dynasties, nor
will easily be found hereafter; and all things were provided for them,
which in a city, or elsewhere, are worth such provision. Many
possessions, indeed, accrued to them through their power from foreign
countries; but the greatest part of what they stood in need was provided
for them by the island itself,—first, such ores as are dug out of mines
in a solid [_i. e._ virgin] state, or require smelting;—and especially
that metal _orichalcum_, which is now known only by name, but formerly
of high celebrity, was dug out of the earth in many parts of the island,
being considered the most valuable of all the metals then known, except
gold;—and it produced an abundance of wood for builders, and furnished
food also for tame and wild animals. Moreover, there were comprised
within it vast numbers of elephants:—for there were abundant means of
support for all animals that feed in marshes and lakes, on mountains and
plains, and so likewise for this animal, which by nature is the largest
and most voracious of all. Besides these, whatever odorous plants the
earth now bears, whether roots or grass, or woods or distilling gums, or
flowers or fruits,—these it bore and produced them to perfection. And
yet, further, it bore cultivated fruits, and dry edible fruits, such as
we use for food;—all these kinds of food we call vegetables,—together
with all that trees bear, as drinks, meats, and ointments; and those
also, whose fruits, such as acorns, being used in sport and pleasure,
are with difficulty hoarded up, together with certain dainty fruits for
dessert that might provoke the satiated palate, or please the sick;—all
these that once existing and warmly-acclimated island bore, sacred,
beautiful, wonderful, and infinite in quantity. Receiving all these,
then, from the earth, the inhabitants employed themselves also in
erecting temples, royal habitations, ports and docks over the whole
region, disposing them in the following manner:—

SECT. X.—First of all, those residing about that ancient metropolis
bridged over those zones of the sea [before mentioned], making a passage
both outwards and to the royal palace. And the palace they constructed
immediately from the first in this habitation of the god and their
ancestors; and each in turn receiving it from his predecessor, and
further embellishing the ornamental parts, continually surpassed the one
before him, until they made the building quite admirable to the sight
for the size and beauty of its works. They dug a trench indeed,
beginning from the sea, three plethra broad, a hundred feet deep, and
fifty stadia in length, as far as the outermost zone, and thus made a
passage thither from the sea, as into a harbour, by enlarging its mouth
sufficiently to admit the largest vessels. Besides this, they separated
by bridges those zones of land which separated those of the sea, so that
with one trireme a passage could be effected from one zone to another,
covering the zones above, so as to allow a water-way beneath them;—for
the banks of the zones of earth rose to a height considerably above the
sea. And the greatest of these zones into which the sea penetrated was
three stadia in breadth, and the zone of land next in order equal to the
first;—of the second pair, the watery circle was two stadia in breadth,
and that of earth again, equal to the preceding one of water; lastly,
the zone running round the centre of the island had the breadth only of
one stadium, and the island in which the king’s palace stood had a
diameter of five stadia. This island, as well as the zones, and the
bridge (which was a plethrum in breadth), they enclosed on both sides
with a stone wall, raising towers and gates at intervals on the bridges
at the places where the sea passes through them [_i. e._ the zones]. The
stone for it they quarried beneath the circuit of the island, both in
the centre and also within and without the zones, one kind of it white,
a second black, and a third red; and by thus quarrying they at the same
time made cavities that served for two docks, having likewise a covering
of rock. Of the buildings, some were of simple structure;—others they
put together in a variegated style, by mixing the different kinds of
stone by way of amusement, thus realizing a pleasure suitable to their
natures:—and they surrounded with brass the whole circuit of the wall
round the extreme outer zone, applying it like plaster; that of the next
inside they covered with melted tin, and the wall round the citadel
itself with orichalcum that has a fiery resplendence.

SECT. XI.—Next, the royal palace within the citadel was constructed as
follows:—In its centre was planted a temple, difficult of access, sacred
to Clito and Poseidon, surrounded with an enclosure of gold;—and it was
that, in which they first generated and produced the race of the ten
kings; where also, making annual collections from all the ten
allotments, they celebrated seasonable sacrifices to each. The temple of
Poseidon himself was a stadium in length, three plethra in breadth, and
of a height to correspond, having something of a barbaric appearance.
All the outside of the temple, except the pinnacles, they lined with
silver, but the pinnacles with gold:—and as to the interior, the roof
was formed wholly of ivory variegated with gold and orichalcum; and as
to all the parts—the walls, pillars, and pavements, they lined them with
orichalcum. They also placed in it golden statues, the god himself
[being represented] as standing on a chariot holding the reins of six
winged horses, of such size as to touch the roof with his head, and
round him a hundred nereids on dolphins;—for those of that day thought
that such was their number; and it contained also many other statues
dedicated to private individuals. Round the outside of the temple
likewise golden images were placed of all the men and women that were
descended from the ten kings, and many other large statues both of kings
and private people, both from the city itself, and the foreign countries
over which they had dominion. There was an altar, too, of corresponding
size and workmanship with these ornaments; and the excellence of the
palace was proportioned to the magnitude of the government and also to
the order observed in the sacred ceremonies.

SECT. XII.—Next, they used fountains both from the cold and hot springs,
of which there was a great abundance, either of which was wonderfully
well adapted for use from its sweetness and excellence;[388] and round
them they fixed their habitations and excellently-watered plantations,
together with their water-tanks, some open to the heaven, but others for
winter use roofed over for warm baths, the kings’ baths and those of
private persons being apart, with separate baths for women, and others
for horses and other draught-cattle, providing each with the requisite
means of cleanliness. The stream hence flowing they led to the grove of
Poseidon, where there were all varieties of trees, reaching a wonderful
height, owing to the excellence of the soil, and then conducted it by
channels over the bridges to the external circles. And here, indeed,
there had been constructed numerous temples dedicated to many different
gods, and many gardens and gymnasia, one for men, and others separately
for horses in either island of the zones;—and for the latter, in
particular, there was a race-course plotted out in the centre of the
largest island, a stadium in breadth, and extending in length through
the whole circumference for a contest of speed between the horses. And
around it on all sides were barracks for the household troops
corresponding with their number;—to the more faithful of whom were
assigned quarters in the smaller zone closer to the citadel, while those
who excelled all in loyal faithfulness had dwellings given them inside
the citadel near the kings themselves. The docks likewise were filled
with triremes and the fittings requisite for triremes; and they were all
satisfactorily provided. Such were the arrangements for the provision of
the kings’ dwelling:—but on crossing the three exterior harbours, one
was met by a wall which went completely round, beginning from the sea,
everywhere fifty stadia distant from the greatest [or outermost] zone
and harbour, and enclosed in one the entrance to the canal and the
entrance to the sea. The whole of this part indeed was covered with many
and densely-crowded dwellings;—and the canal and largest harbour were
full of vessels and merchants coming from all parts, causing from their
multitude all kinds of shouting, tumult, and din all day long and the
night through.

-----

Footnote 388:

  Gr. ταῖς δὲ δὴ κρήναις, τῇ τοῦ ψυχροῦ καὶ τῇ τοῦ θερμοῦ νάματος,
  πλῆθος μὲν ἄφθονον ἐχούσαις, ἡδονῇ δὲ καὶ ἀρετῇ τῶν ὑδάτων πρὸς
  ἑκατέρου τὴν χρῆσιν θαυμαστοῦ πεφυκότος, ἐχρῶντο, &c. This is a very
  difficult and involved sentence; but we have given its meaning as
  nearly as language will allow. Both Ast and Stallbaum consider the
  text imperfect from the dropping out of two or more words.

-----

SECT. XIII.—We have now related from memory a description of the city
and its ancient habitations; and now we must try to describe the nature
of the rest of the country, and its mode of employment. First, then, the
whole region was said to be exceedingly lofty and precipitous towards
the sea, and the plain about the city, which encircles it, is itself
surrounded by mountains sloping down to the sea, being level and smooth,
all much extended, three thousand stadia in one direction, and the
central part from the sea above two thousand. And this district of the
whole island was turned towards the south, in an opposite direction from
the north. The mountains around it, too, were at that time celebrated,
as exceeding in number, size, and beauty all those of the present
time,—having in them many hamlets enriched with villages, as well as
rivers, lakes, and marshes, furnishing ample supplies of food for all
cattle both tame and wild, with timber of various descriptions, and in
abundant quantity for every individual purpose. The plain then being
thus by nature, was improved as follows by many kings in a long course
of time. It was of square shape, mostly straight and oblong; and where
it ended, they bounded it by a trench dug round it,—the depth, breadth,
and length of which, for a work of man’s making, besides the other
connected undertakings, we can scarcely believe, though still we must
report what we heard. It was excavated to the depth of a plethrum, and
the breadth was a stadium in every part,—the whole excavation made round
the plain being ten thousand stadia in length. This, receiving the
streams coming down from the mountains, and conducted all round the
plain, approached the city in some parts, and in this way was allowed to
flow out to the sea. From above, likewise, straight canals were cut
about a hundred feet broad along the plain, back into the ditch near the
sea, distant from one another about one hundred stadia:—and it was by
this that they brought down the timber from the mountains to the city,
and carried on the rest of their shipping-traffic, cutting transverse
canals of communication into each other, and towards the city. Their
harvest, also, they gathered twice in the year; in winter availing
themselves of the rains, and in summer introducing on the land the
streams from the trenches.

SECT. XIV.—As to the quantity [of land,] it was ordered, that of the men
on the plain fit for service, each individual leader should have his
allotment, each allotment amounting in extent to a hundred stadia, and
the total of the lots being sixty thousand;—and of those from the
mountains and the rest of the country there was said to be an
incalculable number of men, to all of whom, according to their dwellings
and villages, were assigned certain lots by their respective leaders. To
each leader, likewise, the task was appointed of furnishing for war the
sixth portion of a war-chariot (to make up a total of ten thousand), two
riding horses, and a two-horse car without a driver’s seat, having a
mounted charioteer to direct the horses,[389] with another to dismount
and fight at the side,—also two heavy-armed soldiers, two archers, two
slingers, three each of light-armed men, stone-shooters and javelin-men,
with four sailors to make up a complement of one thousand two hundred
ships. Thus were the military affairs of this city arranged. And as
respects the nine others, there were different other arrangements, which
it would be tedious to narrate.

-----

Footnote 389:

  Gr. ἔτι δὲ ξυνωρίδα χωρὶς δίφρου καταβάτην τε σμικρασπίδα καὶ τὸν
  ἀμφοῖν μετ’ ἐπιβάτην τοῖν ἵπποιν ἡνίοχον ἔχουσαν. The old editions
  read καταβάτας.

-----

SECT. XV.—And as respects official situations and honours, the following
were the arrangements made from the commencement:—Of the ten kings, each
individually in his own district and over his own city ruled supreme
over the people and the laws, constraining and punishing whomever he
pleased:—and the government and commonwealth in each was regulated by
the injunctions of Poseidon, as the law handed them down; and
inscriptions were made by the first [kings] on a column of orichalcum,
which was deposited in the centre of the island in the temple of
Poseidon, where they assembled every fifth year, (which they afterwards
changed to every sixth year), taking an equal part both for the entire
state and its supernumeraries; and thus collected they consulted
concerning the common weal, and inquired what transgressions each had
committed, judging them accordingly. And when they were about to judge,
they previously gave each other pledges, according to the following
fashion:—As there were bulls grazing at liberty in the temple of
Poseidon, ten men only of the whole number, after invoking the god to
receive their sacrifice propitiously, went out to hunt swordless, with
staves and chains, and whichever of the bulls they took, they brought it
to the column and slaughtered it at its head under the inscriptions:—and
on the column, besides the laws, there was an oath written, invoking
curses on the disobedient. When, therefore, in compliance with their
laws, they sacrificed and burnt all the limbs of the bull, they filled a
goblet with clots of blood, and threw the rest into the fire, by way of
purifying the column:—and after this, dipping out of the goblet with
golden cups, they poured libations down on the fire, and swore to do
justice according to the laws on the column, to punish any one who had
previously transgressed them, and besides that, never afterwards
willingly to transgress the inscribed laws, nor ever to rule or obey any
ruler governing otherwise than according to his father’s laws. Then
after invoking these curses on themselves and their descendants, and
after drinking and depositing the cup in the temple of the God, and
abiding a necessary time at supper, as soon as it was dark, and the fire
round the sacrifice had been cooled, all of them dressed themselves in
beautiful dark-blue robes, and sitting on the ground near the embers of
the sacrifice on which they had sworn, extinguished during the night all
the fire about the temple, and then mutually judged each other as
respects any accusations of transgressing the laws;—and after their acts
of judgment were over, when day came, they inscribed their decisions on
a golden tablet and deposited them as memorials, together with their
dresses. There were many other individual laws also respecting the
privileges of the kings,—the chief being, that they should never wage
war on each other, and that all should lend their aid, in case that any
one in any of their cities should try to destroy the royal
race,—consulting in common, as their ancestors did before them, as to
the right course both in war and other concerns, and assigning the
empire to the Atlantic race. They did not allow the king, however, any
authority to put to death any of his kinsmen, unless approved of by more
than half of the ten.

SECT. XVI.—Such then, and so great being the power at that time in those
places, the Deity transferred it to these regions, as report goes, on
the following pretexts:—For many generations, as long as the natural
power of the god sufficed them, they remained obedient to the laws and
kindly affected towards the divine nature to which they were allied:—for
they possessed true and altogether lofty ideas, and practised mildness
united with wisdom, in reference to the casual occurrences of life and
towards each other. Hence, looking above everything except virtue, they
considered things present as of small importance, and contentedly bore,
as a burden, the mass of gold and other property; nor were they deceived
by the intoxication of luxury, or rendered intemperate through
wealth;—but on the other hand being sober, they acutely perceived that
all these things are increased through common friendship mingled with
virtue, and that by too anxiously pursuing and honouring them, these
goods themselves are corrupted, and with them [friendship] itself
likewise perishes. To such a mode of reasoning then, and the abiding of
such a nature, was it owing that they made all the progress that we
before described. But when the divine portion within them became extinct
through much and frequent admixture of the mortal nature, and the
manners of men began to hold sway, then, through inability to bear
present events, they began to exhibit unbecoming conduct and to the
intelligent beholder appeared base, destroying the fairest among their
most valuable possessions,—though all the while held by those who were
unable to see a true life of happiness based on truth, to be in the
highest degree worthy and blessed, though filled with avarice and unjust
power. Zeus, however, the god of gods, who rules according to the laws,
and is able to see into such things, perceiving an honourable race in a
condition of wretchedness, and wishing to inflict punishment on them,
that they might become more diligent in the practice of temperance,
collected all the gods into their own most ancient habitation, which
indeed, being situated in the centre of the whole world, beholds all
things that have had a share in generation:—and having assembled them,
he said,    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *


                        THE END OF THE CRITIAS.




                               APPENDIX.


                           (_See page 235._)

The difficulty of the passage here alluded to, which has baffled the
efforts of every critic, from Proclus and Iamblichus downwards, gave
rise in ancient times to the trite proverb—_Numeris Platonicis nihil
obscurius_.—nor has the ingenuity of modern speculators thrown much
light on its obscurity. Baroccius, however, a Venetian nobleman, in
1566, gave to the world with more pretence than merit, a wordy
dissertation professing to solve this knotty problem. The words of Plato
are—ἔστι δὲ θείῳ μὲν γεννητῷ περίοδος, ἣν ἀριθμὸς περιλαμβάνει τέλειος,
ἀνθρωπείῳ δὲ ἐν ᾧ πρώτῳ αὐξήσεις δυνάμεναί τε καὶ δυναστευόμεναι τρεῖς
ἀποστάσεις, τέτταρας δὲ ὅρους λαβοῦσαι ὁμοιούντων τε καὶ ἀνομοιούντων
καὶ αὐξόντων καὶ φθινόντων, πάντα προσήγορα καὶ ῥητὰ πρὸς ἄλληλα
ἀπέφηναν· ὧν ἐπίτριτος πυθμὴν πεμπάδι συζυγεὶς δύο ἁρμονίας παρέχεται
τρὶς αὐξηθείς, τὴν μὲν ἴσην ἰσάκις, ἑκατὸν τοσαυτάκις, τὴν δὲ ἰσομήκη
μὲν, τῇ προμήκει δέ, ἑκατὸν μὲν ἀριθμῶν ἀπὸ διαμέτρων ῥητῶν πεμπάδος
δεομένων ἑνὸς ἑκάστων, ἀῤῥητῶν δὲ δυεῖν, ἑκατὸν δὲ κύβων τριάδος· ξύμπας
δὲ οὗτος, ἀριθμὸς γεωμετρικός, τοιούτου κύριος, ἀμεινόνων τε καὶ
χειρόνων γενέσεων, &c. With reference to the former part, he says that
Plato is alluding to _ratios of greater or less inequality_,—to which
respectively belong multiples and submultiples, superparticulars and
subsuperparticulars, &c., following the language of the schoolmen. Then
again, as to the term ἐπίτριτος πυθμήν which had been variously rendered
by the Latin _radix_, _propago_, _fundus_, and _solidum_, he conceives
it to be a root or prime number, and fixes on the number _seven_ as its
representative (4 + 3 = 7). Further, by the two harmonics, he supposes
Plato to mean the connexion between the _square_ and the _cube_ of
TWELVE, which is itself made up of seven and five (ἐπίτριτος πυθμὴν
πεμπάδι συζυγείς),—_i. e._ 144 and 1728,—_twelve_ being a number often
mentioned by Plato, as not only _perfect_, but the type of
perfection,—the dodecahedron having given origin to the sphere, and
being the type of the world,—as he has expressly stated in the Timæus.
If this be granted, the geometric or mathematical—perfect or
fatal—number may be considered to be the cube of 12 = 1728. This
opinion, however, is strongly impugned by Schneider, who conceives it to
be 216, _i. e._ ∛6,—which is made up of three other cubes; 27, 64, and
125, _i. e._ ∛3, ∛4, and ∛5. Others again have considered the root to be
9,—the cube-root of 729. So much for the ἐπίτριτος πυθμήν.

As to the elucidation, however, of the principal difficulties herein
involved, we are still as far afield as ever;—nor has the united
learning of Schneider, Trendelenburg, Böckh, Schleiermacher, or Cousin,
removed any obstacle to their successful solution. To state their
theories at length would take up much space without any adequate
benefit;—and this must be our apology for substituting so short a notice
for what we intended to be a lengthened statement. Many details however
on this _vexata quæstio_ may be gathered by the patient reader from
Schneider’s preface to vol. iii. of his edition of Plato,—Cousin’s note
in his translation _ad locum_,—and his translation of Proclus, with
notes _ad locum_. It must be confessed, however, that the question still
remains open and unsolved—still, _dignus vindice nodus_.

                                THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                           Transcriber’s Note

The Greek word καὶ (“and”) was twice abbreviated to a single ligature
character (ϗ̀ ) (pp. xvii, xviii).

“Heraclitus” is twice spelled “Heracl_e_itus” (p. ii) / “Heracl_ei_tean”
(p. vi).

At xiii.24, a quotation from Constantin Ritter has no closing quotation
mark. This has been added after the first sentence, where the following
spacing seems suspiciously large, indicating a possible dropped ending
mark.

At 4.41, the phrase “_s. lubenter_ verò...” does not agree with the
version available at the Perseus repository “_ego_ vero istinc sicut a
domino agresti ac furioso profugi.” A note there offers “_libenter_
vero...” as an alternative.

At 37.22, the editor translates “ἐπ’ αὐτοφώρῳ λαβεῖν” as “to catch in
the _fact_”. This is usually rendered as _act_, though either might be
construed as correct.

173.37: The passage given at footnote 186 on p. 173 seems to confuse
feminine and neuter forms. This is the orininal passage: προβάλλοντά τε
ἀλλήλοις ἀεί, διατριβὴν τῆς πεττείας πολὺ _χαριεστέραν_ πρεσβυτῶν
διατρίβοντα, φιλονικεῖν ἐν _ταῖς_ τούτων ἀξίαισι σχολαῖς.

304.35: The Myth of Er is recounted here, however, the printer included
two characters (given as X here), which are blotted by hand. These were
removed, and a comma has been added, viz., “a brave man, Er[XX], the son
of Armenius....”

431.3: On p. 431 of the brief Appendix, the editor includes a
mathematical discussion which erroneous prints the cube of 3, 4, 5, and
6 as the cube _root_ of each: ∛3 ∛4, ∛5, ∛6. They should have appeared
as 3^3, 4^3, 5^3 and 6^3.

Errors deemed most likely to be the typesetter’s have been corrected,
and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the
original.

  vii.1    The most obvious arrangemen[t]                 Restored.

  ix.21    who taught entirely πρ[ο/ὸ]ς δόξαν             Replaced.

  xi.36    τὸ αὐτὸ καθ[’] αὑτὸ                            Added.

  xxi.17   ἐν αὑτῷ [μήδε/μηδὲ] πολυπραγμονεῖν             Replaced.

  xxi.8    (φρ[ονή/όνη]σις)                               Replaced.

  xxi.31   ἡ διαλεκτικ[η/ή]                               Replaced.

  xxi.3    ἐπίκουρον [ὄ/ὂ]ν τῷ λογιστικῷ φύσει            Replaced.

  xvi.26   are ever inferior to it.[’/”]                  Replaced.

  xxiii.1  παρ[α/ά]δειγμα                                 Replaced.

  xxv.12   (ἀριστοκρ[άτι/ατί]α)                           Replaced.

  xxv.39   liberality and magnanimity[.]                  Added.

  10.39    ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο Κλεπτοσύνῃ θ’, ὅρκ[ῴ/ῳ]  Replaced.

  22.37    διανοε[ι/ῖ] καταχεῖν μου τ[ω/ῶ]ν               Replaced.

  29.39    The term γραῶν [υ/ὕ]θλος or μῦθος              Replaced.

  42.34    Op. et Di. [ï/v]. 231                          Replaced.

  43.33    The  ἀγ[υ/ύ]ρται were a species                Replaced.

  45.38    θεοὺς οὐδαμ[ω/ῶ]ς νομίζου                      Replaced.

  45.40    ἀρίστων ε[ἷ/ἶ]ναι ποιητῶν                      Replaced.

  45.41    καὶ ἀλλων ἄλλων πολλακισμυρίων                 Replaced.

  45.43    πειρώμεθα[.]                                   Added.

  47.38    ὥς γ[’] ἐμο[ι/ὶ] δοκεῖ                         Added /
                                                          Replaced.

  63.41    Far from it[.]                                 Added.

  64.36    εἶναι ἐν [ᾦ/ᾧ] δεῖ                             Replaced.

  79.1     the husbandman is[ ]only a husbandman          Inserted.

  81.31    καὶ προ[ς/σ]ῳδίας                              Replaced.

  90.38    Πλουτοίη δ[ε/ὲ] Μίδεω                          Replaced.

  93.9     What are you speaking about? said  he[,/.]     Replaced.

  163.34   what we are to say to him[./,]—are we          Replaced.

  167.42   as it has form, mode, and reason of            Probable.
           existence,[)]

  168.34   νυκτ[έρι/ερί]δα ὁ εὐνοῦχος                     Replaced.

  169.33   ἴσχουσι πλαν[ω/ώ]μενοι                         Replaced.

  171.40   who has moderate desires[./,]                  Replaced.

  172.38   ἄρ’ ἂν ο[ἶ/ἷ]ός τ’ εἴη ἐπιστήμης               Replaced.

  178.43   τοῦτο οὔτε ξυγγένεια ο[ἴ/ἵ]α τε ἐμποιεῖν       Replaced.

  180.11   call this wisdom and[,] apply himself          Removed.

  183.39   ὑπὸ δ[ε/ὲ] τῶν τεχνῶν                          Replaced.

  183.40   καὶ ἀποτεθρυμμένοι[ διὰ] τὰς βαναυσίας         Restored.
           τυγχάνουσιν.

  187.40   an elegant phrase equivalent to χα[ιρεῖ/ίρει]ν Replaced.

  187.41   [ἑ/ἐ]ώντων                                     Replaced.

  206.38   τέχνας μ[ε/ὲ]ν μυρίας                          Replaced.

  219.35   τῶν δ[ε/ὲ] ἀληθινῶν πολὺ                       Replaced.

  231.31   it is now clear, p[a/e]rhaps,                  Replaced.

  240.31   the amount of their property[./,]              Replaced.

  245.4    must necessarily be neglected[.]               Added.

  246.40   ἐν μάχῃ πλουσίῳ ἐσ[τ/κ]ιατροφήκοτι             Replaced.

  266.8    a[t/s] the democratic man                      Replaced.

  266.41   πρόσωπον ἡδὺ τ[ἂ/ἀ]ν δόμοισι                   Replaced.

  266.42   λυπηρά[τίς·/· τίς] γὰρ                         Misplaced
                                                          colon.

  276.37   who are filling w[i]th unreal                  Inserted.

  293.36   is rather this last[.]                         Added.

  295.39   in our private misfortu[u/n]es                 Inverted.

  330.40   ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν ο[ὖ/ὗ]τος                         Replaced.

  336.30   and inter[e]fere with them unseasonably        Removed.

  322.35   it was said by the Syracusans to[ be] the best Probably.
           governed

  323.39   forth to the god[o/d]ess                       Replaced.

  329.41   _[E/É]tudes sur le Timée_                      Replaced.

  344.41   κατ’ [ἔκεινα/ἐκεῖνα] γέγονε.                   Replaced.

  356.35   φύσει[πάντι/παντὶ] κεῖται.                     Replaced.

  356.36   [ε/ἐ]κμαγεῖον                                  Replaced.

  356.38   τρίτας [ουσίας/οὐσίας]                         Replaced.

  357.35a  πῦρ μ[ἐ/ὲ]ν ἑκάστοτε                           Replaced.

  357.35b  ὸ πεπυρωμἐνον μ[ἐ/έ]ρος                        Replaced.

  362.39   [ὅ/ὄ]γκου μέγα ἀποτελέσειεν                    Replaced.

  381.33   The old editions have [ἄ/ἅ]μα                  Replaced.

  386.36   κεφ[άλη/αλὴ]                                   Replaced.

  391.39   ἕνεκ[ά/α], φησ[ι/ί]                            Replaced.

  415.35   τὴν τοῦ θεάτρου δι[ανοί/άνοι]ν                 Replaced.

  424.42   πρὸς [ἐ/ἑ]κατέρου τὴν χρῆσιν                   Replaced.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79398 ***