THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. — BOOK I. — BOOK II. — BOOK III. — BOOK IV. — BOOK V. — BOOK VI. — BOOK VII. — BOOK VIII. — BOOK IX. — BOOK X.
1
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,
2seemed 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
3of 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.
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,
4observing 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.
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
5these 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.
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,
6said 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
7what 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.
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
8friends:—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
9justice 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
10thief. 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;
11for 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.
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
12from 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
13our 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.
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,
14if 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.
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!
15you 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.
16This I am not sure of; but that is what we have to inquire.
Inquire then, said he.
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
17no 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].
18Chap. 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
19has 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
20and 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.
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.
21the 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.
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,
22would 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
23of 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.
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
24using 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
25from 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
26these 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
27so, 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?
28Not 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]
29Either, 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
30[brings] harmony and friendship. Does it not? Granted,
said he, that I may not differ from you.
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
31them 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.
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
32vice 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
33this, 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.
34
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
35than 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.
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.
36I 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.
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
37good, 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
38ground 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
39one 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.
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
40take 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.
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
41family 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.
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
42the 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].
43Chap. 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
44Homer 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.
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
45of 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.
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
46may 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.
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
47greatest 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.
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
48that 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....
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,
49said 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
50must 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
51it 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.
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
52is 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
53passing 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.
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
54in 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.
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
55player, 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.
56True, 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.
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.
57He, 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
58when 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
59injurious. 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.
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
60our 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.
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
61among 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
62such 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,—
63lest 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.
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.it.
64Or 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.
THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.
65
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
66ought 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
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.
67Chap. 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
68kind 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:
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]
69This 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,
70and 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.
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]
71Just 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,
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
72contempt both of gods and men. You say right, replied
he.
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
73the 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
74throughout 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.
75Chap. 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
76and 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.
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,
77whether 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.
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
78or 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;
79and that the husbandman is onlyis 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.
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,
80though 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
81instruction 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.
82Chap. 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
83of 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.
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
84in 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
85is 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
86virtue, 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
87all 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
88seem 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
89not, 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
90likewise? 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!
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
91things. 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
92quality; 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.
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
93what 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.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.
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
94positively 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
95pleasure. 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.
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
96throwing 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.
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.
97And 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.
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
98poets 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
99over 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.
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,
100instead 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
101really 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.
102
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
103road, 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
104the 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.
105Quite 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
106they 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.
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,
107should 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
108one 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.
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
109stand, 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
110to 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.
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
111for 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
112right, 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
113share 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
114according 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.
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
115not 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
116desires and prudence of the smaller and more moderate part?
I do, said he.
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,
117and 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
118dreadful, 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
119occupation 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?
120He 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.
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
121are 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
122from 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.
123If 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
124science 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
125irrational 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.
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;
126nor 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.
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
127in 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
128reason 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
129fitted 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
130and 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
131indeed 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.
132
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
133was 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.
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
134are 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
135acquitted 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.
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
136exercises, 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
137from 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,]
138and 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.
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
139anything, 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.
140Chap. 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
141in 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.
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
142and 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.
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,
143be 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
144of 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
145to 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
146grant 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.
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
147of 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.
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.
148But 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
149have 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
150a 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
151an 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.
Chap. XIV.—Does not this then, said I, still remain to
be discussed, whether it be possible that this community of
152habits 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
153the 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
154more 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.
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
155others 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.
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
156by 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
157of 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
158most 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,
159you 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.
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
160one 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
161both 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,
162this 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.
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
163manner 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,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
164does 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?
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
165same, 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
166it 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.
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
167what 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
168same 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.
THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK.
169
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
170define 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?
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.
171Consider 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,desires,
172and 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?
173Chap. 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.
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
174attend 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
175ships, 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
176downright wicked, and the very best useless; and I agreed
that you spoke correctly,—did I not? Yes.
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
177that 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.
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
178that 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
179meetings 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.
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
180consider 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 andand 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
181them advance a reason that was not quite ridiculous? No;—and
I think, said he, I never shall.
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
182evils 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.
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
183gladly 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.
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
184of 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.
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
185is 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
186towards 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
187character; 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
188condemn 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.
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
189in 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
190in 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.
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
191not 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
192found 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
193he, 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
194think 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,
195and 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?
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
196nature 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
197a 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.
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
198night, 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
199cognizable 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.
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,
200not 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,
201and 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.
202
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
203probably 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.
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,
204said 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
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
205way. 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.
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
206yet 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.
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
207sensible 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
208blessed? 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?
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,
209and 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
210this,—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
211arts? 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.
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
212not 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
213follow 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.
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,
214exciting 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
215skilled 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.
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
216general 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
217all 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.
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
218investigate 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
219and 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,
220Of 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.
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,
221notwithstanding 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
222we 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?
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
223admit 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
224in 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.
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:
225that 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
226making 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.
Chap. XVI.—Everything then relating to arithmetic and
227geometry 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
228war, 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.
229There 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.
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
230the 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
231divine 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, perhapsperhaps, 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.
232
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
233such 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.
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,
234indeed, 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
235if 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
236their 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.
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
237wise 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
238all 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
239they 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,
240said 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 propertyproperty 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
241necessarily 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
242true, 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
243bracelets, 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
244one 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.
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
245higher 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.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
246spectacles, 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.
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
247multitude 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,
248both equals and unequals. Aye, you say, he replied, what
is perfectly well known.
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
249actions 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.
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
250and 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
251such 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.
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
252desire 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
253extreme 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.
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
254of 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
255others, 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
256such 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.
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
257enemies, 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?
258How? 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.
259I 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.
THE END OF THE EIGHTH BOOK.
260
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
261such 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
262of 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
263then, 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.
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,
264Adimantus, 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
265bribes.[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.
266Chap. 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,
asas 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
267proposing 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.
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
268reference, 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
269himself 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.
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
270be, 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
271we 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.
272Chap. 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
273then 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
274from 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
275the 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,
276and, 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 withwith 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
277pains, 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,
278and 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]
279You 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.
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
280the 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
281of 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.
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
282shows 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
283as 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.
284
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,
285said 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,
286said 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
287the 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
288in 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,
289and 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.
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
290imitating 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
291image, 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
292it 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
293upon, 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.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,
294which, 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
295multiform 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 misfortunesmisfortunes 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
296very 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,
297and 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
298he. 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
299them, 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
300whatever 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,
301as 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
302perceive 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.
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
303gods 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.
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
304ears 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.
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,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
305many 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
306holy, 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
307perceived, 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
308side, 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.
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
309of 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,
310and 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
311of 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
312time 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.
THE TIMÆUS.
319
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.
320Soc. 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,
321and 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
322it 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
323anxiety 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.
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 goddessgoddess our true and just
acclaim of praise.
Soc. Well observed:—but what is this achievement,
which Critias described as having been not only related
324by 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,
325‘from the beginning; and say what that was, which Solon
asserted as true, as well as how and from whom he heard
it.’
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
326of 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
327of 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.”
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,
328with 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
329a 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]
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
330with 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
331of 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.
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
332that 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
333looked 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
334desired 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.
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,
335desirous 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
336become 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 interfereinterfere 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
337everywhere 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.
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,
338did 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
339and 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.
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,
340though 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.
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
341animal, 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
342planets, 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.
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
343the 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.
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
344it 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.
XVI.—Again, to speak concerning the other gods (or
345dæmons), 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
346to 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]
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
347him, 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.
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
348elements 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
349one 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.
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,
350lest 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
351proximate 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
352are 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.
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;
353and 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.
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
354the 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.
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
355were, 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]
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
356endued 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.
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
357present 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.
XXV.—Let us, then, be somewhat more minute in resolving
the following question,[309]—whether there is a certain
358fire 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.
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
359class 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]
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
360by 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.
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
361an 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
362now 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.
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
363angles 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
364sides 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]
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
365water,—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.
366All 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
367together 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,
368with 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.
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
369also 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).
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
370which 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
371of 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.
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;
372but 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.
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
373in 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
374each 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,
375but 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.
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
376to 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
377asserted 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.
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
378swift, 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
379mingles 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.
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,
380and 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]
381In 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.
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.
382But 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.
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
383threats, 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]
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
384of 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.
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
385who 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]
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
386animal 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.
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,
387and 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.
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.
388And 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.
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
389sutures, 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.
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
390be 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.
391LVI.—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
392basket-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
393state 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.
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
394each other; and as the same influence is constant and mutually
operating, its circular agitation gives birth to the expiration
and inspiration of the breath.
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.
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,
395the 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.
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
396supplied 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]
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
397is 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.
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
398of 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.
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
399remain, 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.
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
400escape 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.
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
401density, 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]
LXVIII. In the above manner are the diseases of the body
402produced; 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
403every 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.
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
404soul 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
405perpetually 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.
LXXI.—That part, however, which is to have the government
406of 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
407our 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.
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
408other 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.
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
409water:—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.
