The works of Plato (Vol. 2 of 6)
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Title: The works of Plato (Vol. 2 of 6)

A new and literal version chiefly from the text of Stallbaum

Author: Plato

Translator: George Burges

Release date: August 18, 2026 [eBook #79398]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Henry G. Bohn, 1849

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/79398

Credits: D Weeks, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

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Transcriber’s Note:

Footnotes have been collected at the end of the text, and are linked for ease of reference.

Minor errors, attributable to the printer, have been corrected. Please see the transcriber’s note at the end of this text for details regarding the handling of any textual issues encountered during its preparation.

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BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY.

THE WORKS OF PLATO,

LITERALLY TRANSLATED.

THE

WORKS OF PLATO.

A NEW AND LITERAL VERSION,

CHIEFLY FROM THE TEXT OF STALLBAUM.

VOL. II.

CONTAINING

THE REPUBLIC, TIMÆUS AND CRITIAS.

BY HENRY CARY, M.A.

AUTHOR OF “PROGRESSIVE EXERCISES IN LATIN COMPOSITION FOR THE

USE OF KING’S COLLEGE.“

LONDON:

HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

MDCCCXLIX.

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

CONTENTS.

———●———

Preface |
General Introduction | Page i
THE REPUBLIC (in Ten Books) | 1
Introduction to the Timæus | 313
TIMÆUS | 319
Introduction to the Critias | 411
CRITIAS | 413

PREFACE.

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

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

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

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

PART I.

ON THE PLATONIC PHILOSOPHY GENERALLY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PART II.

PLATO’S VIEWS ON ETHICS AND POLITICS.

GENERAL SKETCH OF THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF

THE REPUBLIC.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE
REPUBLIC OF PLATO.

BOOK I.

———●———

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hope, the solace of old age,

Is ever present,

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

With him to cheer his heart, the nurse of age,

Sweet hope abides, companion blest, that sways

With power supreme the changeful mind of man.[36]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK II.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reaping the hollow furrow of his mind,

Whence all his cherished councils blossom forth.

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

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

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

Acorns at top, and in the middle bees;

Their woolly sheep are laden thick with fleece;[64]

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

[Unrivalled, like the praise] of some great king,

Who o’er a numerous people and renown’d
Presiding like a deity, maintains
Justice and truth. The earth under his sway
Her produce yields abundantly; the trees

Fruit-laden bend; the lusty flocks bring forth;

The ocean teems with finny swarms beneath

His joint control, and all the land is blest.[65]

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

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

How vice at once and easily we choose;

The way so smooth, its dwelling too so nigh;

Toil before virtue, thus forewill’d the gods—[69]

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

... the gods
In virtue thy superiors, are themselves
Yet placable; and if a mortal man
Offend by transgression of their laws.
Libation, incense, sacrifice, and prayers

In meekness offer’d turn their wrath away.[70]

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

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

Shall I yon rampart, loftier far
Than justice, dare ascend,—or crooked fraud
Invite, to cheat the world, and thus

Myself live cased in guilt’s base panoply.[72]

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

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

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

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

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

Ariston’s sons! of sire renown’d afar,

That race divine....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast by the threshold of Jove’s courts are placed

Two casks; one stored with evil, one with good,

From which the God dispenses as he wills.
For whom the glorious Thund’rer mingles both,
He leads a life chequer’d with good and ill
Alternate; but to whom he gives unmix’d
The bitter cup, he makes that man a curse,
His name becomes a by-word of reproach,
His strength is hunger-bitten, and he walks

The blessed earth unblest, go where he may,—[89]

Nor, that Zeus—

Grants mortal man both happiness and woe.

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

Forthwith to mortals God invents a cause,

Whene’er he wills their dwellings to destroy;—

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

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

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

... in similitude of strangers oft

The gods, who can with ease all shapes assume,

Repair to populous cities....[90]

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

Those life-sustaining sons

Of Inachus, the Argive streams;—

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

Resembling various guests, in various forms,—

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

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. Or on account of the folly or madness of his friends? No, said he, none of the foolish and mad are beloved of God. There is no occasion at all, then, for a god to invent a falsehood? None. The divine and godlike nature, then, is altogether free from falsehood? Entirely so, said he. God, then, is quite simple and true, both in word and deed; neither is he changed himself, nor does he deceive others,—neither by visions, nor discourse, nor the pomp of signs, neither when we are awake nor when we sleep? So it appears to me, said he, just as you say. You agree then, said I, that this shall be the second principle which we are to lay down both in speaking and composing concerning the gods,[91]—namely, that they are neither sorcerers and change themselves, nor mislead us by falsehoods, either in word or deed? I agree. While, then, we commend many other things in Homer, this we shall not commend,—namely, the dream sent by Jupiter to Agamemnon; nor that in Æschylus, when he makes Thetis say that Apollo had sung at her marriage, that

... her happy lot should be

To bear an offspring fair, from ailment free,

And blest with lengthen’d days; and then the God,

Unfolding all, with pæans high proclaim’d
Thy heaven-blest fortunes, welcome to my soul
I hoped that all was true that Phœbus sang!
So sweetly tuned with high prophetic art;—
But he who at my nuptials joy foretold,
The same is he, who now hath slain my child.

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

THE END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

BOOK III.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

I had rather live
The servile hind for hire, and eat the bread
Of some man scantily, himself sustained,

Than sovereign empire hold o’er all the shades;[92]—

And this—

Lest Neptune o’er his head

Shattering the vaulted earth, should wide disclose

To mortal and immortal eyes his realm
Terrible, squalid, to the gods themselves
A dreaded spectacle;—

And—

Oh, then, ye gods! there doubtless are below,

The soul and semblance both, but empty forms;[93]—

And—

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

And—

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

And—

... His soul, like smoke, down to the shades

Fled howling....[96]

And—

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

Troop’d downward, gibbering all the dreary way.[97]

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

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

Now on his side he lay, now lay supine,

Now prone; then starting from his couch he roam’d

Forlorn the beach....[98]

Nor how—

... grasping with both hands the ashes,

Down he pour’d them burning on his head....[99]

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

... to all—kneel’d

In turn, then roll’d himself in dust, and each

By name solicited to give him way.[100]

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

Ah me, forlorn! ah me, parent in vain

Of an illustrious birth.[101]

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

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

And again,—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and what is in connexion therewith,—thus:

So moved the Greeks successive, ev’ry chief

His loud command proclaiming, while the rest,

As voice in all those thousands none had been,

Heard mute....[108]

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

Oh! charged with wine, in steadfastness of face.

Dog unabash’d, and yet at heart a deer,[109]—

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

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

... the steaming table’s spread

With plenteous viands, while the cups, with wine

From brimming beakers fill’d, pass brisk around,[110]—

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

... most miserable it is,

To die of famine and have adverse fate;[111]—

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

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

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

... Smiting on his breast, thus he reproved

The mutinous inhabitant within.[115]

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

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

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

Oh! of all the powers above,

To me most adverse, archer of the skies!

Thou hast beguiled me, leading me away ...

And hast defrauded me of great renown.

Ah! had I power, I would requite thee well,[118]—

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

Thy lock to great Patroclus I could give,

Who now is dead...[119]

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

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

They, on the top of Ida, have uprear’d

To parent Jupiter an altar;—

And,

Whose blood derived from gods is not extinct.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chap. IX.—Will he employ a narrative such as that we not long since described in the case of Homer’s poems; and will his language partake both of imitation and simple narrative, but have only a small portion of imitation inserted in a great quantity [of plain narrative?]—Do you think I speak to the purpose or not? Yes, certainly, replied he; that must needs be the type of such an orator. In that case, said I, will not such a man, the more he is depraved, the more readily narrate any matter whatever, thinking nothing unworthy of him,—so much so, indeed, that he will undertake to imitate everything zealously and in public, and such especially as we just mentioned, thunderings and noises of winds and tempests, and of axles and wheels, and of trumpets, pipes, whistles, and sounds of all kinds of instruments, and the cries of dogs likewise, and sheep, and birds?—and of course the whole expression of this is to be by imitation, both in voice and gestures, partaking but slightly of narrative. This too, said he, is a matter of course. These, said I, are what I termed the two kinds of diction. Yes, they are, replied he. Has not one of the two, then, very trifling variations; and to give the diction a becoming harmony and rhythm, he who would speak correctly must always speak in the same style, in one harmony,—for the variations are but trifling,—and of course in a rhythm closely corresponding?[125] It is so, clearly, replied he. But as to the other kind, does it not require the contrary,—all kinds of harmonies, and all kinds of rhythms, if, indeed, it is to be naturally expressed, on account of its having all sorts and shades of variation? That is precisely the case. Do not, then, all the poets, and writers of narrative generally,[126] use one or other of these models of diction, or a blending of the other two? They must, replied he. What are we to do then, said I:—shall we admit into our state all of these [models,] or only one of the unmixed, or the one compounded? If my opinion, replied he, is to prevail, [you should employ] that uncompounded one, which imitates only what is worthy. But surely, Adimantus, the mixed is at least pleasant:—the most pleasant of all, both to children and pedagogues, is the opposite of what you choose, and it is so to the crowd likewise. Yes, it is the most pleasant. But probably, said I, you will not deem it suited to our civil establishment, because with us no man can be engaged in two or more occupations, but each individual is employed in one only? Of course, it is not fit. Shall we not find then, that in such a state alone, a shoemaker is only a shoemaker, and not a pilot as well as a shoemaker; and that the husbandman is 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, though I have some inkling. You can, surely, said I, at any rate, fully state this much,—that melody has three constituents,—sentiment, harmony, and rhythm?[129] Yes, replied he, this much, at any rate. And as concerns the sentiment,—that differs in nothing from the sentiment which is not sung, inasmuch as it ought to be performed on the same models, as we just said, and after the same fashion. True, said he. Surely, then, the harmony and rhythm should correspond with the sentiment? Of course. But yet we said there was no need for wailings and lamentations in written compositions? None, certainly. Which then are the querulous harmonies?[130] Tell me,—for you are a musician. The mixed Lydian,[131] replied he, and the sharp Lydian, and some others of this kind. Are not these, then, said I, to be rejected, as being useless even to well-conducted women, not to speak of men? Certainly. Drunkenness, moreover, is highly unbecoming in our guardians, as well as effeminacy and idleness? Of course. Which then are the effeminate and convivial harmonies? The Ionic, replied he, and the Lydian, which are called relaxing. Can you use these, my friend, for military men? By no means, replied he; but it seems you have yet the Doric remaining, and the Phrygian. I am not learned, said I, in harmonies; but let us put out of the question that harmony, which would fitly imitate the voice and accents of a brave man, engaged in military action, and every sort of rough adventure, and, should he fail of success, rushing on wounds or death, or any other distress, all the while regularly and resolutely battling with fortune:—let us put out of the question, also, that kind of harmony which suits what is peaceable, where there is no violence, but everything is voluntary, where a man either persuades or beseeches any one, about anything,—either God by prayer, or man by instruction and admonition; or, on the other hand, where one submits to another’s entreaties, instructions, or persuasion, and in all these points acts in accordance with intellect, and does not behave haughtily, but demeans himself soberly and moderately, gladly embracing whatever may happen:—put out of the question, too, these two harmonies, the vehement and the voluntary,[132] which so capitally imitate the voice both of the unfortunate and fortunate,—the moderate and brave. Aye, you are anxious, replied he, to leave no others but those I now mentioned. We shall have no need, then, said I, in our songs and melodies, for many strings or instruments expressive of all the harmonies. We shall not, it seems, replied he. We are not to maintain, then, such craftsmen, as make harps and spinets, and instruments of many strings that produce a variety of harmony. We are not, it seems. But what,—will you admit into your city flute-makers or flute-players? for, are not those instruments which consist of the greatest number of strings,[133] and those that produce all kinds of harmony, imitations of the flute? Plainly so, replied he. There are still left you, then, said I, the lyre and the harp, as useful for your city; and, as respects the fields again, a reed or so for the shepherds? This is quite reasonable, said he. We are doing nothing new then, replied I, in preferring Apollo and Apollo’s instruments, to Marsyas[134] and his instruments. Truly not, it seems, replied he. By the dog, too, said I, we have been once more unconsciously cleansing our city, which, we just now said, had become luxurious. Aye; we were wise to do so, replied he.

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

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

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

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

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

... they sucked the wound, then spread it o’er

With drugs of balmy power;[137]—

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

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

Chap. XVII.—We must not then, said I, in such a man as this, look for a wise and good judge, but in the former one. Vice, indeed, can never know both itself and virtue; but virtue, where the moral temper is gradually instructed, will attain to a scientific knowledge both of itself and depravity also:—this man, then, and not the wicked one, is, as I think, wise. I, too, said he, am of the same opinion. You will establish, then, in your state a science of medicine such as we have described, and along with it a corresponding system of judicature, both of which together may carefully provide for such of your citizens as are naturally well disposed both in body and in mind; while, as regards the opposite, such as are diseased in their bodies, they should let die; but as for those who are thoroughly evil and incurable as to the soul, these they are themselves to put to death? It seems, at any rate, the best, said he, that can happen, both for those who are thus afflicted and for the state itself. As respects your youths, however, it is quite plain, said I, that they will be cautious in calling in the aid of judicial science, so long as they are employed on that simple music, which, we said, generates temperance. Of course, said he. Will not then, the musician who pursues gymnastics, on the very same principles as his own art, prefer doing so in such a way as not to want medicine except when absolutely necessary? I think so. His exercises too, and his labours, he will perform with reference more to the spirited portion[140] of his nature thus stirred into action, than to mere physical strength,—differently, indeed, from all other wrestlers, who take food and undergo toil with a view to the promotion of bodily strength? Most true, said he. In that case, said I, Glaucon, they who propose to teach music and gymnastics, propose them, not for what some imagine, namely, to cure the body by the one, and the soul by the other. If not, what is their motive? asked he. They seem to propose them both, said I, chiefly on the soul’s account. As how? Perceive you not, said I, how those persons have regulated their intellect itself, who have all their life been conversant with gymnastics, yet never studied music,—or how those are affected who have lived in a manner quite the reverse of this? What are you speaking about? said he.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 positively declines desisting, and becomes the victim of a kind of fascination,—after this, he is melted and dissolved, till his spirit is quite spent, and the nerves are, as it were, cut out from his soul, making him an effeminate warrior.[142] Quite so indeed, said he. Aye,—said I; if he had originally possessed a nature devoid of spirit, he would quickly have done thus; but, if [he possesses] one of high spirit, it makes the mind weak, and causes it to be quickly overbalanced, speedily either excited and overcome; and hence men become outrageous and ill-tempered, rather than high-spirited. Quite so, indeed. But what;—if a man labour much in gymnastics and live on extremely good diet, but pay no attention to music and philosophy; is he not first of all, from having his body in good condition, abundantly filled with prudence and spirit, and does he not become braver than he was before? Surely. But what;—supposing he does nothing else, and has no commerce with the Muses, not even if he had any love of learning in his soul, as neither having a taste for investigation, nor sharing in any inquiry or reasoning, or other musical pursuit whatever, does it not become feeble, deaf, and blind, as being neither awakened, nor nurtured, nor his perceptions purified? Just so. Such an one then becomes, I suppose, a hater of argument, and indisposed to music,—one who cannot at all be reasoned into anything, but conducts himself in all matters with violence and ferocity, like a wild beast; and thus he lives in ignorance and barbarity, out of measure, and unpolished? Quite so, said he. Corresponding then to these two tempers, it seems, I would say, that some deity has furnished men with two arts,—music and gymnastics,—relating respectively to the high-spirited and the philosophic nature,—not indeed, for the soul and body, otherwise than as a by-work and accessory, but with a view to those two tempers, that they may be mutually suitable to each other by being tightened and loosened at pleasure. Aye,—it seems so. Whoever then can most cleverly mingle gymnastics with music, and introduce them in justest measure into the soul, this person we may most properly call completely musical, and most harmoniously disposed,—far more, indeed, than the man who puts in tune the strings of an instrument. Very likely, Socrates, said he. Shall we not then, always need, Glaucon, such a president in our city, if its government is to be kept entire? It will indeed be quite needful, as far at least as we can.

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

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

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

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

BOOK IV.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

... Men most admire that song

Which most partakes of novelty,[151]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END OF THE FOURTH BOOK.

BOOK V.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chaste, holy, earthly spirits they become,

Expelling evil, guardians of mankind?[172]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END OF THE FIFTH BOOK.

BOOK VI.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chap. VII.—And yet, said I, we have not yet mentioned what is the greatest necessity of all. What is that? said he. What these, your teachers and sophists, add, by way of acts to their talk, when they cannot persuade:—know you not that they punish with disgraces and fines and deaths, the man whom they cannot persuade? I know that, said he, extremely well. What other sophist then, or what private reasonings, do you think, will counteract and overpower these? I know none, said he. Is it not besides, said I, great folly also even to attempt it?—For there neither is, nor was, nor can ever possibly be, any other system as regards virtue, to be compared with this education by the sophists,—I mean a human method, my friend; for a divine one, according to the proverb, we keep out of the question.[193]—Indeed, you must well know, with respect to whatever is preserved, and becomes what it ought in such a constitution of government, that you will not be far wrong in deeming it preserved by divine destiny.[194] Nor am I; said he, of a different opinion. But further now, besides this, said I, you must also be of this opinion. Of what? That each of these hired private teachers, whom these men call sophists and consider as rival artists, teach nothing else but those dogmas of the vulgar, which they approve in their assemblies, and term wisdom;—just as if a man were to learn the tempers and desires of a great and strong animal that he is training,—how it must be approached, how touched, and when it is most fierce or most mild,—and from what sorts it springs, and the sounds also which it is used occasionally to utter, and by what sounds when uttered by another, this beast is rendered either gentle or savage; and if, after learning all these things by long associating with this animal, he should call this wisdom 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 them 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 evils it would be easy for him to hearken? Far from it, he replied. But if, said I, through a good natural temper, and innate attachment to reasoning, he were to acquire penetration, and thus be bent and drawn towards philosophy,—what, think we, will those others do, when they reckon on losing his services and company:—will they not by every action, and every speech, say and do all to the man to prevent his being persuaded,—and as respects his adviser, take away all his influence, both by forming private plots and arraigning him at public trials? This, of course, must necessarily be the case, he replied. Is it likely then, that such an one as this will be a philosopher? Not at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOOK VII.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

As labourer, for some ignoble man

To work for hire,[213]—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BOOK VIII.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

or rather, shall we, according to our plan, establish the state first? Certainly, he replied. It would be an oligarchy then, methinks, that would succeed such a government as this. But what constitution is it, said he, that you call an oligarchy? That government, said I, which is founded on the estimate of men’s property;—in which the rich rule, and the poor have no share in the government. Aye,—I understand, said he. Should we not, first of all explain, how the change is made from a timocracy to an oligarchy? We should. And surely the way, in which this change is made, said I, is manifest even to the blind! How? That treasury, said I, which each one fills with gold destroys such a state; for, first of all, they discover for themselves modes of expense, for which they set aside the laws,—both themselves and their wives disobeying them. Very likely, said he, and afterwards, I think, when one observes another, and enters into rivalry, the people generally become of this character. It is likely. And thence then, said I, as they advance in the intensity of the desire for acquiring wealth, the more honourable they account this, the more dishonourable will they deem virtue;—for is not virtue so at variance with wealth, that, supposing each to be placed at the opposite end of a balance, they would always weigh the one against the other? Justly so, he replied. While wealth then and the wealthy are honoured in the state, both virtue and good men must necessarily be held in dishonour? It is plain. And what is honoured is always pursued, while what is dishonoured is neglected? Just so. Instead then of being contentious and ambitious men, they have at last become lovers of gain and wealth;—and the rich they praise and admire, elevating them to the magistracy, while the poor man they quite despise. Certainly. And do they not enact laws, marking out the boundary of the oligarchal constitution, and regulating the quantity of oligarchal power by the quantity of wealth,—allotting more to the more wealthy and less to those less so, intimating that he who has not the amount settled by law can have no share in the government;—and do they not settle these matters compulsorily, by force of arms, establishing such a state after previous intimidation?—Is it not thus? Aye, indeed. This then, so to speak, is its constitution? Yes, replied he. What then is the nature of the government, and what are the faults thereto ascribed? First of all, said I, of this very thing, the constitution itself, what think you?—for consider, if a person were thus to appoint pilots of ships, by the amount of their 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 necessarily two; one containing the poor, and the other the rich, dwelling in one place and always plotting against one another. By Zeus, said he, not a whit less;—and this besides is a fine thing,—the incapacity of waging war, through the necessity, either of employing the armed multitude, who are to be dreaded more than the enemy themselves, or else refusing to employ them at all, and so appearing quite oligarchical in battle,—being unwilling also to advance money for the public service, through a natural disposition to covetousness? This is not well. What then;—with reference to what we long ago condemned,—engaging in a variety of pursuits, the same persons in such a state giving their attendance all at once to agriculture, money-making, and military affairs; does this seem right? Not at all, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

... To pebble-bedded Hermus flies,

Nor waits the brand of cowardice;[239]...

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

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

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

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

THE END OF THE EIGHTH BOOK.

BOOK IX.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

Chap. IV.—And will not the man, said I, who appears the most wicked, appear likewise the most wretched; and will not he who holds the tyranny longest and exercises it most, be really such in the greatest measure and for the longest time?—but many as are men, so many are their minds. Of necessity, said he, these things must be so. And would not the tyrant man, said I, as closely resemble a state under tyranny, 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 proposing this, observed he. Are you willing then, said I, that we should set up to be of the number of those who are able to judge, and who have already fallen in with such characters, so that we may have some one to answer our questions? By all means.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE END OF THE NINTH BOOK.

BOOK X.

ARGUMENT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That brawling whelp, which at her mistress barks,

And

He apes the great with empty eloquence,

And

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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 many others, and that they came to a certain mysterious, hallowed place, where there were two chasms in the earth, near to each other, and two other openings in the heavens opposite on them, and that the judges sat between these;—that when they gave judgment, they commanded the just to go on the right hand, and upwards through the heaven, having fitted marks on the front of those that had been judged; but the unjust they commanded to the left, and downwards, and these likewise had behind them marks of all that they had done. But when he came before the judges, they said he ought to be a messenger to men concerning things there, and they commanded him to hear, and contemplate everything therein;—and that he saw there, through two openings, one of the heaven, and one of the earth, the souls departing, after they were there judged; and through the other two openings he saw, rising through the one out of the earth, souls full of squalidness and dust; and through the other, he saw other souls descending pure from heaven; and that on their arrival from time to time they seemed as if they came from a long journey, and that they gladly went to rest themselves in the meadow, as in a public assembly, and such as were acquainted saluted one another, and those who rose out of the earth asked the others concerning the things above, and those from heaven asked them concerning the things below, and that they told one another: those wailing and weeping whilst they called to mind, what and how many things they suffered and saw in their journey under the earth (for it was a journey of a thousand years); and that these again from heaven explained their enjoyments, and spectacles of amazing beauty.—To narrate many of them, Glaucon, would occupy much time; but this, he said, was the sum, that whatever unjust actions a man had committed, and whatever injuries a man had committed, they were punished for all these separately tenfold, and that it was in each, according to the rate of a hundred years (the life of man being considered as so long), that they might suffer tenfold punishment for the injustice they had done;—so that if any had been the cause of many deaths, either by betraying cities or armies, or bringing men into slavery, or being confederates in any other wickedness, for each of all these they reaped tenfold sufferings; and if, again, they had benefited any by good deeds, and had been just and holy, they were rewarded according to their deserts. Of those who died very young, and lived but a little time, he related other things not worth mentioning;—but of impiety and piety towards the gods and parents, and of suicide, he told the more remarkable retributions; for he said he was present when one was asked by another, where the great Aridæus was? This Aridæus had been tyrant in a certain city of Pamphylia a thousand years before that time, and had killed his aged father and elder brother, and had done many other unhallowed deeds, as was reported: and he said, that the one who was asked, replied: He neither comes, nor ever will come hither.

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

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

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

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

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

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

INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE TIMÆUS.

———●———

SOCRATES, TIMÆUS, CRITIAS, HERMOCRATES.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tim. Yes.

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

Tim. Quite so, of course.

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

Tim. You did so.

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

Tim. Yes.

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

Tim. This too was so stated.

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

Tim. This too you alleged.

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

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

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

Tim. This, too, we remember.

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

Tim. Just so.

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

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

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

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 by Solon, but really accomplished by this state in days of yore?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of these four elements, then, the composition of the world received one whole of each:[275]—for its composing artificer constituted it from entire elements of fire, water, air, and earth; leaving no part of any one of them, nor any extraneous power,—considering that it would thus be a whole animal, in the highest degree perfect and of perfect parts; and besides this, that it would be one, as nothing would be left, from which any other such element could be produced; and lastly, that it would be free from old age and disease,—and perceiving also that the principles composing bodies, as heat and cold, and all possess vigorous powers, when they surround bodies externally and 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 everywhere equally distant from the bounding extremities, as being the most perfect of all figures, and most resembling himself;—and he did this, considering the similar to be infinitely more beautiful than the dissimilar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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, the veins from the belly become filled by this joint elevation, in consequence of drawing thence the divided portions of the food; so that by these means, through every animal body the streams of nutriment are abundantly diffused. But the parts which are recently cut apart and separated from their kindred natures,—some of them fruits and others grasses, and produced by the Deity for bodily food, acquire varieties of colour through their mutual admixture; though for the most part the red predominates,[359] as its nature consists of fire combined with a lump of moist mud. Hence also the colour of that which flows about the body is just what it seems, and is also called blood, being the nurturing principle of the flesh and whole body; and so by everywhere diffusing its moisture, it copiously replenishes all the exhausted parts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LXXII.—And now the discussion which we announced at the beginning concerning the universe, as far at least as concerns the generation of man, is very nearly completed; for as to the rest of the animals, how they were generated, we will only briefly describe them, except where necessity bids us enlarge: for a person may think that he is thus more in measure as concerns such an inquiry. On this subject, then, let us speak as follows:—Of the men that were born, such as are timid, and have passed through life unjustly, are, we suppose, changed into women in their second generation. At that time, then, and for that reason, the gods devised the love of copulation; constructing an animated substance, and placing one in us men, another in the women,—forming each in the following manner:—That passage for the drink, by which these liquids run through the lungs under the reins into the bladder, and which sends them forth as it receives them, by the pressure of the breath,[376]—this [the gods] made to pass into the condensed marrow, from the head, along the neck, and through the back-bone; and this we called seed in a former part of this discourse:—and this [the marrow], in consequence of being animated and endued with respiration, produces in the part where it respires a lively desire of emission,—thus perfecting in us the love of procreation. On this account, the nature of men, as respects their private parts, becoming insubordinate and imperious, like an animal not obedient to reason, tries through raging desire to gain absolute sway. The same is the case with the wombs, and other connected parts of women,—so called, as forming an animal desirous of procreating children. This, when it remains without fruit long beyond its proper time, becomes discontented and indignant; and wandering every way through the body, it obstructs the passage of the breath, and throws women into extreme difficulties, causing all varieties of diseases, till at length the desire and love of both parties [i. e. the man and woman] cause the emission of seed, like fruit from a tree; by which emission, they sow in the womb, as in a field, animals invisible from their minute size, and yet unformed, which, as they become larger, they nourish within; and lastly, by bringing them to light, perfect the generation of animals.

LXXIII. Such is the process of generation in women and every female. Next succeeded the tribe of birds having feathers instead of hair, which were fashioned from men without vice indeed, but light-minded and curious about things on high, yet conceiving in their folly that the strongest proofs of these things are received through the sight [i. e. the senses]. Again, the race of wild animals with feet was generated from men, who made no use of philosophy, nor ever inquired into anything that concerned the nature of the universe,—and this, because they no longer employed the circulations in the head, but followed the guidance of those parts of the soul that reside about the breast. Owing to these pursuits, therefore, they fixed their fore-legs and head earthwards, as suited their nature,—having also long and variously-shaped heads, where the circulations of each were compressed by inactivity:—and hence their race became quadruped and multiped, the Deity giving a greater number of feet to those more than usually unwise, that they might be the more drawn towards the earth. But as regards the most unwise of these, which extend all their body along the ground, as if they had no longer any need for feet, the gods formed them without feet to creep on the earth. The fourth class is that living in the water, which was produced from such men as were to the last degree unthinking and ignorant, and whom those transformers of our nature did not think deserving of a pure medium of respiration, because they possessed a soul rendered impure by extreme transgression,—but drove them from the attenuated and pure atmosphere into the turbid and deep breathing-medium of water:—and hence arose the tribe of fishes and oysters, and all other aquatic animals, which have received the most remote habitations, as a punishment of their extreme ignorance. After this manner then, both formerly and now, animals migrate into each other; experiencing their changes through either the loss or acquisition of intellect and folly. We are now at length to say, that our discourse about the universe has reached its conclusion;—for not only containing, but full of mortal and immortal animals, it has thus been formed a visible animal embracing things visible, a sensible god of the intelligible, the greatest, best, and most perfect,—this one only-begotten UNIVERSE.

THE END OF THE TIMÆUS.

INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITIAS.

This Dialogue may be considered as an appendix to that preceding, and the fulfilment of a promise which Critias had made in the opening of the Timæus, to give some account of the primæval history of the Athenians, whose early manners he supposed to correspond with those of the citizens in Socrates’s ideal republic. The Athenians were a people so boastful of their antiquity, as to arrogate to themselves the name of αὐτόχθονες; and therefore any narrative or legend was likely to be agreeable to their feelings, which assigned to them even a higher antiquity than they really possessed. This may probably have been a leading motive with Plato for constructing this amusing dialogue; more than half of which, however, is taken up with the description of the Atlantic islands, its kings and its inhabitants, who all existed in the time of the primitive Athenians, though in Plato’s time they were extinct, and their islands submerged in the sea. Many curious speculations have been put forth respecting the geography of the Atlantic isles, and some have gone so far as to conjecture them to have been a portion of the modern America. The whole story, however, has so much the appearance of a myth, that it seems useless to apply to it any of the laws of historical or geographical criticism. The Dialogue, moreover, is so short as scarcely to require any abbreviated account of its contents.

THE CRITIAS.

———●———

TIMÆUS, CRITIAS, SOCRATES, HERMOCRATES.

Sect. I.—Tim. I am just as pleased, Socrates, as one at rest after a long journey, that I have now at length been happily released from my protracted discourse![377] And now I implore that God [the universe,] long, long ago created in fact, though only just recently in our discussion, to establish in security what we have properly stated, but as respects aught that we have even involuntarily stated that is not to the purpose, to inflict on us a suitable punishment:—and the right punishment for one out of tune is to make him play in tune.[378] In order then, that for the future we may speak correctly respecting the generation of the gods, we beseech him who is the best and most perfect to give us a scientific knowledge of medicine; and having thus prayed, we hand over to Critias, as we agreed, the succeeding discourse.

Crit. Yes, Timæus, I receive it:—and as you acted at first, in requesting indulgence as one about to speak on momentous matters, the same also do I now entreat; and I think that I ought the more to obtain it for what I am about to say. Yet I know full well that I am making a very ambitious request, and of a more rustic kind than is proper; still we must proceed. That what you have now said has not been well said, who in his senses will pretend to say? I must try to show then, that what I am about to say needs greater indulgence on account of its greater difficulty:—for it is easier, Timæus, to speak and appear to speak rightly about the gods to men, than about mortals to us [men]; inasmuch as the inexperience and extraordinary ignorance of the hearers about things of this nature, both furnish great facilities to one intending to speak concerning them; but as respects the gods, we know how we are situated. In order, however, that I may clearly show my meaning, follow me in what I am about to say. What has been said by the whole of us was necessarily only imitation and resemblance; and now, as regards the representation by painters of divine and heavenly[379] objects, we see with what facility or difficulty they contrive that they shall seem to the spectators to be apt imitations; and we shall see also, that with respect to earth, mountains, rivers, woods, and the whole of heaven, and all therein, as well as what moves about it, we are satisfied if a person is able to produce even a slight resemblance of them;—but beyond this, as we have no accurate knowledge concerning such matters, we neither examine nor find fault with the paintings, but use a mere obscure and deceitful sketch of them. But when on the other hand any one attempts to represent our bodies, we quickly perceive any omissions, through our familiar apprehension of them, and become severe critics on any one who does not perfectly exhibit their resemblances. The same also we see, to be the case in arguments,—that we are content with even slightly resembling statements about heavenly and divine things, while we accurately examine things mortal and human. As regards then what we are now immediately saying, if we cannot fully exhibit what is desired, you ought to forgive us, because you must reflect that to form approved resemblances of mortal things is no easy task, but very difficult. Now I have said all this, Socrates, wishing to remind you of these things, and asking not for less, but more indulgence respecting what is about to be said. If then I seem to be fairly asking the favour, grant it with all cheerfulness.

Sect. II.—Socr. Why should we hesitate to grant it, Critias?—And besides, we must grant this same indulgence to our third friend, Hermocrates:—for it is evident, as we shall see presently, that when he has to speak, he will make the same request as you. That he then may furnish with a different commencement and not be compelled to say the same, let him at once speak, as if this indulgence were granted him. I must inform you, however, of the sense of the audience,[380] that the former poet [Timæus] has obtained a wonderful deal of applause;—so that you will need a vast quantity of indulgence if you intend to be an able successor to him.

Herm. You are making the same announcement to me, Socrates, as to him. Faint-hearted men, however, never yet erected a trophy, Critias:—so you must proceed manfully to your discourse, and, invoking Pæan and the Muses, exhibit and celebrate these primitive and best of citizens.

Crit. Ah, friend Hermocrates, you are to speak afterwards[381] and have another before you;—and so you are vastly courageous. What the nature of the task is, however, the fact itself will speedily declare:—and we will therefore be persuaded by your encouragement and exhortation, and in addition to the gods that you have mentioned, will call on others besides, and most of all on Memory: for all the most important points of our discourse concern that goddess,—inasmuch as it is by suitably calling to mind and relating the narratives of the [Egyptian] priests brought hither by Solon, that I feel satisfied of our being thought by this auditory to have fairly accomplished our part. This therefore we must now do, and without further delay.

Sect. III.—First of all then let us recollect, that it is about nine thousand years, since war was proclaimed between those dwelling outside the Pillars of Hercules and all those within them,—which war we must now describe. Of the latter party, then, this city was the leader, and conducted the whole war; and of the former the kings of the Atlantic Island, which we said was once larger than Libya and Asia, but now, sunk by earthquakes, a mass of impervious mud,[382] which hinders all those sailing on the vast sea from effecting a passage hither;—and then our story will, as it were, unfold [to your view] the many barbarous tribes, and such of the Greek nations as then existed, as each may happen to present itself:—but the wars of the then Athenians and their adversaries we must first describe, as well as the power and government of each. Of these [our own] people, however, we must be anxious first to speak.

Sect. IV.—To the gods was once locally allotted the whole earth, and that, too, without contention;—for it would not be reasonable to suppose that the gods are ignorant of what suits each of themselves, or that, fully aware of what is rather the property of others, they would try to get possession of it through strife. Obtaining then a country agreeable to them by just allotment, they chose these regions for their habitation; and, after settling, they like shepherds reared us, as their possessions, flocks and herds,—not however by forcing body against body, as shepherds in grazing drive their cattle with blows; but [they treated us] as an easily-governed animal, and piloting, as it were, with persuasions for a rudder, and working on the soul, they governed the entire mortal by leading him according to their own mind. Different gods, therefore, having received by lot different regions, proceeded to cultivate (or set in order) those [that they had received;]—but Hephæstus and Athéné having a common nature, not only related by brotherhood from having the same father, but united also in philosophy and love of art,[383] both received this one region as their common allotment, as being naturally familiar with and well adapted to virtue and wisdom; and after producing worthy men,—natives of the soil (αὐτόχθονες), arranged to their mind the order of their government:—of which men, indeed, the names are preserved; though their deeds have become extinct through the death of those that handed them down and the long lapse of time. The race, indeed, that survived, as it has been before observed, were a set of unlettered mountaineers, who had heard the names only of the ruling people in the land, and very little about their deeds. The names they out of affection gave to their children, though unacquainted with the virtues and laws of those before them, except through certain dark rumours concerning them; and being themselves and their children for many generations in want of necessaries, with which, with all their wit, they were unprovided, they bestowed their chief attention on this, to the neglect of events that had taken place in times long gone by:—for mythology and the inquiry into ancient affairs both visit states at a time of leisure, when they see that the necessaries of life have been procured, but not before. In this way, then, the names of the ancients have been preserved without their deeds:—and I infer this to be the case, as Solon said, that the priests in describing the war then waged gave those engaged in them many names—such as Cecrops, Erectheus, Ericthonius, Erysichthon, and most of the other names which are recorded prior to the time of Theseus;—and they gave the names of women likewise. Besides, the figure and image of the goddess shows that at that time both men and women entered in common on the pursuits of war; as in compliance with that custom an armed statue was dedicated to the goddess by the people of that day,—a proof that all animals that consort together, females as well as males, have a natural ability to pursue in common every suitable virtue.

Sect. V.—At that time, indeed, there dwelt in this country many other tribes of citizens engaged in crafts and the culture of the soil; but the warrior-tribe, being set apart from the first by divine men, lived separately, having all the requisites for food and training, none of them possessing anything in private, but considering all their possessions as common, and not deigning to receive anything from the rest of the citizens beyond a sufficiency of food, occupying themselves moreover in all the pursuits that we yesterday described as those of appointed state-guardians. Moreover, as respects this country of ours, it was stated with probability and truth, that in early times it had boundaries fixed at the Isthmus and on the side of the other continent as far as the heights of Cithæron and Parnes, these boundaries coming down, with Oropia on the right, and with the Asopus as a seaward limit on the left:—and by the valour of this region it was said that the whole earth was vanquished, because it was then able to support the numerous army raised from the surrounding people. A great proof of their virtue also was this,—that what now remains of it may vie with any other whatever in the general productiveness of the soil, in the excellence of its fruits, and in pastures suited to every kind of animals. Then, however, it produced all these not only excellent in quality, but in the greatest possible abundance. How then can we believe this;—and in what way can it [the present country] rightly be termed a remnant of the former land? The whole from the other continent [i. e. the western side] extends seaward like a long promontory, and is wholly surrounded by the steep-shored basin of the sea. As therefore many and extensive deluges happened in that period of nine thousand years,—for so many years have elapsed from that to the present time,—the earth, that was loosened and fell from the heights at these times and under these circumstances, did not, as elsewhere, aggregate to form any elevation worth mentioning, but ever eddying round, at length vanished in the deep; and the heights have been left, as is the case in small islands, like the bones of a diseased body, compared with those of former times, all the earth that was soft and fat being washed away, leaving only a thin body of soil. At that time, however, being undisturbed, it comprised mountains which are now only high hills; and the country, now termed the plains of Phelleus, was then full of fat earth. The mountains also abounded with woods, of which even now there are evident signs:—for there are some of the mountains, which now furnish food for bees only, though at no very distant period the houses were still standing, and in good preservation, that were constructed of the timber cut from the trees thereon, and suitable for the largest buildings. There were many lofty trees also, raised by cultivation (ἥμερα), and an incalculable amount of pasture for cattle. Prolific rain especially this land yearly enjoyed, not, as now, losing it by its quick passage over the bare earth down to the sea; but received an abundance of it, which it could keep within itself to dispense over the clayey soil which holds it:—and thus sending down the absorbed water from the heights into the hollows, it diffused over all these regions abundant streams of springs and rivers,—the truth of which is even now attested by the sacred remains observable in the ancient fountains.[384]

Sect. VI.—Such was once the natural state of this country;—and it was cultivated, as it was likely it would be, by real husbandmen, actually practising their calling—lovers of honour and generous-minded, having a most excellent soil, great abundance of water, and an admirably attempered climate. It was at this time that the city was founded here as follows:—The form of the Acropolis was not then, as it is now;—for in later times [lit. now] a single rainy night softened it, and to a great degree bared it of soil,—there being earthquakes at the same time, and a fatal deluge—the third before that of Deucalion. Before this, in primitive times, it extended in size to the Eridanus[385] and Ilissus, and comprised the Pnyx, having the Lycabetus as its limit opposite the Pnyx,—the whole being well covered with soil, except some level spots in the higher part. Its outer parts down the flanks were inhabited by craftsmen and husbandmen who tilled the neighbouring land,—the warrior-classes living separately by themselves in the more elevated parts around the temple of Athéné and Hephæstus, which they had formed, as it were, into the garden of a single dwelling by encircling it with one enclosure:—for on the northern side lived those, who erected public buildings and common banquets for the winter, and whatever else was suited to a common polity, buildings as well as temples being unadorned with gold or silver; (for they never at any time used these metals, but pursuing a middle course between extravagance and meanness, built neat dwellings, in which both they and their children’s children grew old, and then left them to others like themselves,)—while as regards the south side, they removed thither their gardens, gymnasia, and common rooms of entertainment, which they fixed here during the summer. There was also one single fountain on the spot now occupied by the Acropolis, since the extinction of which by earthquakes only a few small streams have been left round it; although at that time it furnished to every part an abundant supply of water, well attempered both for winter and summer. Such was the way of life pursued by the guardians of their own state, who also were leaders of the rest of the Greeks—such at least as required them; and as to their number they paid special attention, that they should always have the same number of men and women that might both then and in future[386] be able to serve in war,—the whole being about twenty thousand. These men then, being personally such as I have described, and ever in some such way justly administering both their own affairs and those of Greece, were the most noted and renowned of all the people of that day over all Europe and Asia, both for the beauty of their bodies and the general virtue of their souls.

Sect. VII.—In the next place then, as respects the adversaries of these men, what was their character, and how they first arose, we will now impart this in common to you our friends, if at least we have not lost the recollection of what we heard in our childhood. Yet before we narrate this, we must briefly warn you not to be surprised at hearing Hellenic names given to barbarians:—and the cause of this you shall now hear. Solon, intending to make use of this story in his poetry, made an investigation into the power of names, and found that the early Egyptians who committed these facts to writing transferred these names into their own language; and he again receiving the meaning of each name, introduced it by writing into our language. These very writings, indeed, were in the possession of my grandfather, and are now in mine, having been made the subject of much study during my boyhood. If therefore you hear such names as these in this narrative, be not surprised;—for you know the reason. Of a long story, then, let such be the introduction.

Sect. VIII.—As we remarked at first concerning the allotment of the gods, that they distributed the whole earth here into larger and there into smaller portions,[387] procuring for themselves temples and public sacrifices,—so, Poseidon in particular, taking as his lot the Atlantic island, begot children by a mortal woman, and settled in some such spot of the island as we are about to describe. Towards the sea, but in the centre of the whole island, was a plain, which is said to have been the fairest of all plains, and distinguished for the excellence [of its soil]. Near this plain, and at its centre, about fifty stadia distant, was a mountain with short acclivities on every side. On this dwelt one of those men who in primitive times sprang from the earth, by name Evenor, who lived with a wife, Leucippe; and they had an only daughter, Clito. Now when this girl arrived at marriageable age, and her mother and father were dead, Poseidon becoming enamoured, made her his mistress, and circularly enclosed the hill on which she dwelt, forming the sea and land into alternate zones, greater and less,—turning, as it were, two out of land and three out of sea, from the centre of the island, all equally distant, so as to be inaccessible to men:—for at that time ships and navigation were not known. And he himself, with his divine power, agreeably adorned the centre of the island, causing two fountains of water to shoot upwards from beneath the earth, one cold and the other hot, and making every variety of food to spring abundantly from the earth. He also begat and brought up five twin-male children; and after distributing all the Atlantic island into ten parts, he bestowed on the first-born of the eldest pair his mother’s dwelling and the allotment about it,—this being the largest and best; and he appointed him king of all the rest, making the others governors, and giving to each the dominion over many people and an extensive territory. He likewise gave all of them names,—to the eldest, who was the king, the name of Atlas, from whom, as the first sovereign, both the island and sea were termed Atlantic;—and to the twin born after him, who had received for his share the extreme parts of the island towards the Pillars of Hercules, as far as the region which now in that country is called Gadeirica, he gave the titular name, which we Greeks call Eumelus, but which the people of that country term Gadeirus. Of the second-born twins he called the first Ampheres, the second, Euæmon;—of the third, he called the first-born, Musæus, and the second, Autochthon;—of the fourth, the first, Elasippus, and the younger, Mestor;—and among the fifth, to the former was given the name Azaes, and to the latter, Diaprepes.

Sect. IX.—All these, then, and their descendants, dwelt for many generations, as rulers in the sea of islands, and as we before said, yet further extended their empire to all the country as far as Egypt and Tyrrhenia. By far the most distinguished, however, was the race of Atlas; and among these the oldest king in succession always handed down the power to his eldest son, all of them successively possessing wealth in such abundance as never was before found among regal dynasties, nor will easily be found hereafter; and all things were provided for them, which in a city, or elsewhere, are worth such provision. Many possessions, indeed, accrued to them through their power from foreign countries; but the greatest part of what they stood in need was provided for them by the island itself,—first, such ores as are dug out of mines in a solid [i. e. virgin] state, or require smelting;—and especially that metal orichalcum, which is now known only by name, but formerly of high celebrity, was dug out of the earth in many parts of the island, being considered the most valuable of all the metals then known, except gold;—and it produced an abundance of wood for builders, and furnished food also for tame and wild animals. Moreover, there were comprised within it vast numbers of elephants:—for there were abundant means of support for all animals that feed in marshes and lakes, on mountains and plains, and so likewise for this animal, which by nature is the largest and most voracious of all. Besides these, whatever odorous plants the earth now bears, whether roots or grass, or woods or distilling gums, or flowers or fruits,—these it bore and produced them to perfection. And yet, further, it bore cultivated fruits, and dry edible fruits, such as we use for food;—all these kinds of food we call vegetables,—together with all that trees bear, as drinks, meats, and ointments; and those also, whose fruits, such as acorns, being used in sport and pleasure, are with difficulty hoarded up, together with certain dainty fruits for dessert that might provoke the satiated palate, or please the sick;—all these that once existing and warmly-acclimated island bore, sacred, beautiful, wonderful, and infinite in quantity. Receiving all these, then, from the earth, the inhabitants employed themselves also in erecting temples, royal habitations, ports and docks over the whole region, disposing them in the following manner:—

Sect. X.—First of all, those residing about that ancient metropolis bridged over those zones of the sea [before mentioned], making a passage both outwards and to the royal palace. And the palace they constructed immediately from the first in this habitation of the god and their ancestors; and each in turn receiving it from his predecessor, and further embellishing the ornamental parts, continually surpassed the one before him, until they made the building quite admirable to the sight for the size and beauty of its works. They dug a trench indeed, beginning from the sea, three plethra broad, a hundred feet deep, and fifty stadia in length, as far as the outermost zone, and thus made a passage thither from the sea, as into a harbour, by enlarging its mouth sufficiently to admit the largest vessels. Besides this, they separated by bridges those zones of land which separated those of the sea, so that with one trireme a passage could be effected from one zone to another, covering the zones above, so as to allow a water-way beneath them;—for the banks of the zones of earth rose to a height considerably above the sea. And the greatest of these zones into which the sea penetrated was three stadia in breadth, and the zone of land next in order equal to the first;—of the second pair, the watery circle was two stadia in breadth, and that of earth again, equal to the preceding one of water; lastly, the zone running round the centre of the island had the breadth only of one stadium, and the island in which the king’s palace stood had a diameter of five stadia. This island, as well as the zones, and the bridge (which was a plethrum in breadth), they enclosed on both sides with a stone wall, raising towers and gates at intervals on the bridges at the places where the sea passes through them [i. e. the zones]. The stone for it they quarried beneath the circuit of the island, both in the centre and also within and without the zones, one kind of it white, a second black, and a third red; and by thus quarrying they at the same time made cavities that served for two docks, having likewise a covering of rock. Of the buildings, some were of simple structure;—others they put together in a variegated style, by mixing the different kinds of stone by way of amusement, thus realizing a pleasure suitable to their natures:—and they surrounded with brass the whole circuit of the wall round the extreme outer zone, applying it like plaster; that of the next inside they covered with melted tin, and the wall round the citadel itself with orichalcum that has a fiery resplendence.

Sect. XI.—Next, the royal palace within the citadel was constructed as follows:—In its centre was planted a temple, difficult of access, sacred to Clito and Poseidon, surrounded with an enclosure of gold;—and it was that, in which they first generated and produced the race of the ten kings; where also, making annual collections from all the ten allotments, they celebrated seasonable sacrifices to each. The temple of Poseidon himself was a stadium in length, three plethra in breadth, and of a height to correspond, having something of a barbaric appearance. All the outside of the temple, except the pinnacles, they lined with silver, but the pinnacles with gold:—and as to the interior, the roof was formed wholly of ivory variegated with gold and orichalcum; and as to all the parts—the walls, pillars, and pavements, they lined them with orichalcum. They also placed in it golden statues, the god himself [being represented] as standing on a chariot holding the reins of six winged horses, of such size as to touch the roof with his head, and round him a hundred nereids on dolphins;—for those of that day thought that such was their number; and it contained also many other statues dedicated to private individuals. Round the outside of the temple likewise golden images were placed of all the men and women that were descended from the ten kings, and many other large statues both of kings and private people, both from the city itself, and the foreign countries over which they had dominion. There was an altar, too, of corresponding size and workmanship with these ornaments; and the excellence of the palace was proportioned to the magnitude of the government and also to the order observed in the sacred ceremonies.

Sect. XII.—Next, they used fountains both from the cold and hot springs, of which there was a great abundance, either of which was wonderfully well adapted for use from its sweetness and excellence;[388] and round them they fixed their habitations and excellently-watered plantations, together with their water-tanks, some open to the heaven, but others for winter use roofed over for warm baths, the kings’ baths and those of private persons being apart, with separate baths for women, and others for horses and other draught-cattle, providing each with the requisite means of cleanliness. The stream hence flowing they led to the grove of Poseidon, where there were all varieties of trees, reaching a wonderful height, owing to the excellence of the soil, and then conducted it by channels over the bridges to the external circles. And here, indeed, there had been constructed numerous temples dedicated to many different gods, and many gardens and gymnasia, one for men, and others separately for horses in either island of the zones;—and for the latter, in particular, there was a race-course plotted out in the centre of the largest island, a stadium in breadth, and extending in length through the whole circumference for a contest of speed between the horses. And around it on all sides were barracks for the household troops corresponding with their number;—to the more faithful of whom were assigned quarters in the smaller zone closer to the citadel, while those who excelled all in loyal faithfulness had dwellings given them inside the citadel near the kings themselves. The docks likewise were filled with triremes and the fittings requisite for triremes; and they were all satisfactorily provided. Such were the arrangements for the provision of the kings’ dwelling:—but on crossing the three exterior harbours, one was met by a wall which went completely round, beginning from the sea, everywhere fifty stadia distant from the greatest [or outermost] zone and harbour, and enclosed in one the entrance to the canal and the entrance to the sea. The whole of this part indeed was covered with many and densely-crowded dwellings;—and the canal and largest harbour were full of vessels and merchants coming from all parts, causing from their multitude all kinds of shouting, tumult, and din all day long and the night through.

Sect. XIII.—We have now related from memory a description of the city and its ancient habitations; and now we must try to describe the nature of the rest of the country, and its mode of employment. First, then, the whole region was said to be exceedingly lofty and precipitous towards the sea, and the plain about the city, which encircles it, is itself surrounded by mountains sloping down to the sea, being level and smooth, all much extended, three thousand stadia in one direction, and the central part from the sea above two thousand. And this district of the whole island was turned towards the south, in an opposite direction from the north. The mountains around it, too, were at that time celebrated, as exceeding in number, size, and beauty all those of the present time,—having in them many hamlets enriched with villages, as well as rivers, lakes, and marshes, furnishing ample supplies of food for all cattle both tame and wild, with timber of various descriptions, and in abundant quantity for every individual purpose. The plain then being thus by nature, was improved as follows by many kings in a long course of time. It was of square shape, mostly straight and oblong; and where it ended, they bounded it by a trench dug round it,—the depth, breadth, and length of which, for a work of man’s making, besides the other connected undertakings, we can scarcely believe, though still we must report what we heard. It was excavated to the depth of a plethrum, and the breadth was a stadium in every part,—the whole excavation made round the plain being ten thousand stadia in length. This, receiving the streams coming down from the mountains, and conducted all round the plain, approached the city in some parts, and in this way was allowed to flow out to the sea. From above, likewise, straight canals were cut about a hundred feet broad along the plain, back into the ditch near the sea, distant from one another about one hundred stadia:—and it was by this that they brought down the timber from the mountains to the city, and carried on the rest of their shipping-traffic, cutting transverse canals of communication into each other, and towards the city. Their harvest, also, they gathered twice in the year; in winter availing themselves of the rains, and in summer introducing on the land the streams from the trenches.

Sect. XIV.—As to the quantity [of land,] it was ordered, that of the men on the plain fit for service, each individual leader should have his allotment, each allotment amounting in extent to a hundred stadia, and the total of the lots being sixty thousand;—and of those from the mountains and the rest of the country there was said to be an incalculable number of men, to all of whom, according to their dwellings and villages, were assigned certain lots by their respective leaders. To each leader, likewise, the task was appointed of furnishing for war the sixth portion of a war-chariot (to make up a total of ten thousand), two riding horses, and a two-horse car without a driver’s seat, having a mounted charioteer to direct the horses,[389] with another to dismount and fight at the side,—also two heavy-armed soldiers, two archers, two slingers, three each of light-armed men, stone-shooters and javelin-men, with four sailors to make up a complement of one thousand two hundred ships. Thus were the military affairs of this city arranged. And as respects the nine others, there were different other arrangements, which it would be tedious to narrate.

Sect. XV.—And as respects official situations and honours, the following were the arrangements made from the commencement:—Of the ten kings, each individually in his own district and over his own city ruled supreme over the people and the laws, constraining and punishing whomever he pleased:—and the government and commonwealth in each was regulated by the injunctions of Poseidon, as the law handed them down; and inscriptions were made by the first [kings] on a column of orichalcum, which was deposited in the centre of the island in the temple of Poseidon, where they assembled every fifth year, (which they afterwards changed to every sixth year), taking an equal part both for the entire state and its supernumeraries; and thus collected they consulted concerning the common weal, and inquired what transgressions each had committed, judging them accordingly. And when they were about to judge, they previously gave each other pledges, according to the following fashion:—As there were bulls grazing at liberty in the temple of Poseidon, ten men only of the whole number, after invoking the god to receive their sacrifice propitiously, went out to hunt swordless, with staves and chains, and whichever of the bulls they took, they brought it to the column and slaughtered it at its head under the inscriptions:—and on the column, besides the laws, there was an oath written, invoking curses on the disobedient. When, therefore, in compliance with their laws, they sacrificed and burnt all the limbs of the bull, they filled a goblet with clots of blood, and threw the rest into the fire, by way of purifying the column:—and after this, dipping out of the goblet with golden cups, they poured libations down on the fire, and swore to do justice according to the laws on the column, to punish any one who had previously transgressed them, and besides that, never afterwards willingly to transgress the inscribed laws, nor ever to rule or obey any ruler governing otherwise than according to his father’s laws. Then after invoking these curses on themselves and their descendants, and after drinking and depositing the cup in the temple of the God, and abiding a necessary time at supper, as soon as it was dark, and the fire round the sacrifice had been cooled, all of them dressed themselves in beautiful dark-blue robes, and sitting on the ground near the embers of the sacrifice on which they had sworn, extinguished during the night all the fire about the temple, and then mutually judged each other as respects any accusations of transgressing the laws;—and after their acts of judgment were over, when day came, they inscribed their decisions on a golden tablet and deposited them as memorials, together with their dresses. There were many other individual laws also respecting the privileges of the kings,—the chief being, that they should never wage war on each other, and that all should lend their aid, in case that any one in any of their cities should try to destroy the royal race,—consulting in common, as their ancestors did before them, as to the right course both in war and other concerns, and assigning the empire to the Atlantic race. They did not allow the king, however, any authority to put to death any of his kinsmen, unless approved of by more than half of the ten.

Sect. XVI.—Such then, and so great being the power at that time in those places, the Deity transferred it to these regions, as report goes, on the following pretexts:—For many generations, as long as the natural power of the god sufficed them, they remained obedient to the laws and kindly affected towards the divine nature to which they were allied:—for they possessed true and altogether lofty ideas, and practised mildness united with wisdom, in reference to the casual occurrences of life and towards each other. Hence, looking above everything except virtue, they considered things present as of small importance, and contentedly bore, as a burden, the mass of gold and other property; nor were they deceived by the intoxication of luxury, or rendered intemperate through wealth;—but on the other hand being sober, they acutely perceived that all these things are increased through common friendship mingled with virtue, and that by too anxiously pursuing and honouring them, these goods themselves are corrupted, and with them [friendship] itself likewise perishes. To such a mode of reasoning then, and the abiding of such a nature, was it owing that they made all the progress that we before described. But when the divine portion within them became extinct through much and frequent admixture of the mortal nature, and the manners of men began to hold sway, then, through inability to bear present events, they began to exhibit unbecoming conduct and to the intelligent beholder appeared base, destroying the fairest among their most valuable possessions,—though all the while held by those who were unable to see a true life of happiness based on truth, to be in the highest degree worthy and blessed, though filled with avarice and unjust power. Zeus, however, the god of gods, who rules according to the laws, and is able to see into such things, perceiving an honourable race in a condition of wretchedness, and wishing to inflict punishment on them, that they might become more diligent in the practice of temperance, collected all the gods into their own most ancient habitation, which indeed, being situated in the centre of the whole world, beholds all things that have had a share in generation:—and having assembled them, he said,    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

THE END OF THE CRITIAS.

APPENDIX.

(See page 235.)

The difficulty of the passage here alluded to, which has baffled the efforts of every critic, from Proclus and Iamblichus downwards, gave rise in ancient times to the trite proverb—Numeris Platonicis nihil obscurius.—nor has the ingenuity of modern speculators thrown much light on its obscurity. Baroccius, however, a Venetian nobleman, in 1566, gave to the world with more pretence than merit, a wordy dissertation professing to solve this knotty problem. The words of Plato are—ἔστι δὲ θείῳ μὲν γεννητῷ περίοδος, ἣν ἀριθμὸς περιλαμβάνει τέλειος, ἀνθρωπείῳ δὲ ἐν ᾧ πρώτῳ αὐξήσεις δυνάμεναί τε καὶ δυναστευόμεναι τρεῖς ἀποστάσεις, τέτταρας δὲ ὅρους λαβοῦσαι ὁμοιούντων τε καὶ ἀνομοιούντων καὶ αὐξόντων καὶ φθινόντων, πάντα προσήγορα καὶ ῥητὰ πρὸς ἄλληλα ἀπέφηναν· ὧν ἐπίτριτος πυθμὴν πεμπάδι συζυγεὶς δύο ἁρμονίας παρέχεται τρὶς αὐξηθείς, τὴν μὲν ἴσην ἰσάκις, ἑκατὸν τοσαυτάκις, τὴν δὲ ἰσομήκη μὲν, τῇ προμήκει δέ, ἑκατὸν μὲν ἀριθμῶν ἀπὸ διαμέτρων ῥητῶν πεμπάδος δεομένων ἑνὸς ἑκάστων, ἀῤῥητῶν δὲ δυεῖν, ἑκατὸν δὲ κύβων τριάδος· ξύμπας δὲ οὗτος, ἀριθμὸς γεωμετρικός, τοιούτου κύριος, ἀμεινόνων τε καὶ χειρόνων γενέσεων, &c. With reference to the former part, he says that Plato is alluding to ratios of greater or less inequality,—to which respectively belong multiples and submultiples, superparticulars and subsuperparticulars, &c., following the language of the schoolmen. Then again, as to the term ἐπίτριτος πυθμήν which had been variously rendered by the Latin radix, propago, fundus, and solidum, he conceives it to be a root or prime number, and fixes on the number seven as its representative (4 + 3 = 7). Further, by the two harmonics, he supposes Plato to mean the connexion between the square and the cube of TWELVE, which is itself made up of seven and five (ἐπίτριτος πυθμὴν πεμπάδι συζυγείς),—i. e. 144 and 1728,—twelve being a number often mentioned by Plato, as not only perfect, but the type of perfection,—the dodecahedron having given origin to the sphere, and being the type of the world,—as he has expressly stated in the Timæus. If this be granted, the geometric or mathematical—perfect or fatal—number may be considered to be the cube of 12 = 1728. This opinion, however, is strongly impugned by Schneider, who conceives it to be 216, i. e. ∛6,—which is made up of three other cubes; 27, 64, and 125, i. e. ∛3, ∛4, and ∛5. Others again have considered the root to be 9,—the cube-root of 729. So much for the ἐπίτριτος πυθμήν.

As to the elucidation, however, of the principal difficulties herein involved, we are still as far afield as ever;—nor has the united learning of Schneider, Trendelenburg, Böckh, Schleiermacher, or Cousin, removed any obstacle to their successful solution. To state their theories at length would take up much space without any adequate benefit;—and this must be our apology for substituting so short a notice for what we intended to be a lengthened statement. Many details however on this vexata quæstio may be gathered by the patient reader from Schneider’s preface to vol. iii. of his edition of Plato,—Cousin’s note in his translation ad locum,—and his translation of Proclus, with notes ad locum. It must be confessed, however, that the question still remains open and unsolved—still, dignus vindice nodus.

THE END.

Footnotes:

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

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

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

4. Gorg. p. 506. e.

5. Republ. i. p. 353. d.

6. Republ. ix. p. 591. d.

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

8. Ritter, ii. p. 363.

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

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

11. Republ. iv. p. 441. a.

12. Ib. iv. 429. b. c.

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

14. Republ. iv. 443. e.

15. Ib. iv. 444. e.

16. Ib. ix. 591. e.

17. Republ. ix. 583. b.

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

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

20. Republ. ii. 376. c.

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

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

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

24. See the opening of the Timæus.

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

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

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

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

Inque brevi spatio mutantur sæcla animantum,

Et quasi cursores vitaï lampada tradunt.

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

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

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

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

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

34. From Seriphus, one of the Cyclades.

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

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

37. Comp. Cicero de Off. iii. 25.

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

39. .sp 1

Μητρὸς ἑῆς πατέρ’ ἐσθλὸν, ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο

Κλεπτοσύνῃ θ’, ὅρκῳὅρκῳτε.—Odyss. xix. 395.

His mother’s noble sire, who all mankind

In furtive arts and fraudful oaths excelled.—Cowper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

47. A proverb, meaning—To undertake any thing above one’s power. There is a similar one in Latin.

48. Gr. κορυζῶντα, having a cold or rheum in the nose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

57. ἐπ’ αὐτοφώρῳ λαβεῖν, lit. to catch in the factfact.

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

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

To honour justice, and to love the right,

Which friends to friends and state to state unite,

Be ours. We honour equal aims and ends;
But still the greater with the less contends,
And evil times begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

65. Hom. Odyss. xix. 109-113.

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

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

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

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

70. Il. ix. 493.

71. Gr. τελετάς.

72. See Boeckh, Pindari Fragm. ccxxxii. p. 671.

73. Simonidis Fragm. cxxiii. ed. Gaisford, i. p. 394.

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

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

76. φορτικῶς, ὥς γ’ ἐμοὶγ’ ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

90. Odyss. xvii. v. 485, 6.

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

92. Odyss. xi. v. 488-91.

93. Il. xxiii. v. 103.

94. Il. xxii. v. 265.

95. Il. xvi. v. 856.

96. Il. xxii. v. 100.

97. Odyss. xxiv. v. 6.

98. Il. xxiv. v. 10.

99. Il. xviii. v. 23, 24.

100. Il. xxii. v. 414.

101. Il. xviii. v. 54.

102. Il. xxii. v. 168.

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

104. Comp. B. ii. ch. 21.

105. Hom. Od. xvii. v. 383.

106. Gr. ἐάνπερ ἐπί γε λόγῳ ἔργα τελῆται.

107. Il. iv. v. 412.

108. Il. iv. v. 431.

109. Il. i. v. 225.

110. Od. ix. v. 8.

111. Od. xi. v. 342.

112. Il. xiv. v. 291.

113. Od. viii. v. 266.

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

115. Od. xx. v. 17.

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

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

118. Il. xxii. v. 15, 16.

119. Il. xxiii. v. 151.

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

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

122. Gr. ὥστ’ εἶναι ἐλλόγιμος.

123. Gr. εἰς ἀμικρότερα κατακεκερματίσθαι.

124. Gr. ἵνα μὴ ἐκ τῆς μιμήσεως τοῦ εἶναι ἀπολαύσωσιν.

125. Gr. καὶ δὴ ἐν ῥυθμῷ ὡσαύτως παραπλησίῳ τινί.

126. Gr. καὶ οἵ τι λέγοντες.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

136. Viz. Machaon and Podalirius.

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

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

Οὐδ’ εἰ Τιθωνοῖο φύην χαριέστερος εἴη

Πλουτοίη δὲδὲ Μίδεω καὶ κινύρῳ βάθιον.

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

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

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

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

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

What chiefs of all the Grecians shall henceforth

Fear Hector, who from Menelaus shrinks

Once deemed effeminate.      Cowper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

171. Comp. here Aristot. Pol. ii. 2.

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

173. Gr. στραγγευομένῳ, which is Bekker’s emendation, the old reading being στρατευομένῳ. The verb means—to be wearied, to delay, trifle, play the coward.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

182. Gr. ἐν πολλοῖς καὶ παντοίως ἴσχουσι πλανώμενοιπλανώμενοι, &c.

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

184. ἄρ’ ἂν οἷόςοἷός τ’ εἴη ἐπιστήμης μὴ κενὸς εἶναι;—lit. can he be otherwise than void of science?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

197. Gr. ὀλίγης καὶ ἄλλως γινομένης, ὡς ἡμεῖς φαμέν.

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

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

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

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

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

203. Gr. πόῤῥωθεν ἀσπαζομένων, an elegant phrase equivalent to χαίρεινχαίρειν ἐώντωνἐώντων, bidding farewell to. Perhaps Plato had in memory the line of Euripides, Hippolyt. v. 101, where Hippolytus accosts Aphrodite—

πρόσωθεν αὐτὴν ἁγνὸς ὢν ἀσπάζομαι.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

213. Comp. Hom. Odyss. x. 428.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

220. Gr. ὡς πράττοντές τε καὶ πραξέως ἕνεκα.

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

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

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

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

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

226. Gr. γενναίους τε καὶ βλοσυροὺς τὰ ἤθη. The word βλοσυρός usually means stern, scowling, fierce; but also grave, serious, as here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

250. By this many-headed beast, desire is signified.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

268. Gr. οὐκ ἀπᾳσόμεθα, lit. we shall not sing out of tune. The old reading is ἀπωσόμεθα, which is untranslatable.

269. Gr. εἰ κατὰ νοῦν ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν οὗτοςοὗτος.

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

271. Gr. γένεσιν καὶ τὸ πᾶν τόδε.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

289. Gr. εἰς τὰ προσήκοντα ἑκάστοις ἕκαστα ὄργανα χρόνων.

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

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

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

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

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

295. ταύτῃ τὸ πολὺ τῆς πορείας ἡμῖν ἔδοσαν.

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

297. Gr. τῶν ξυναιτίων.

298. Gr. τὰ μὲν οὖν τῶν ὀμμάτων ξυμμεταίτια.

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

300. Gr. τὸ τῆς πλανωμένης εἶδος αἰτίας.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

308. Gr. πῦρ μὲνμὲν ἑκάστοτε αὐτοῦ τὸ πεπυρωμἐνον μέροςμέρος φαίνεσθαι.

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

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

311. On the full meaning of this passage, see Stallbaum’s long note ad locum.

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

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

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

315. Namely, the tetrahedron or pyramid, octahedron, and icosahedron, which are generated from six equal-sided triangles, and fourthly, the cube, generated from an equilateral triangle. See Stallbaum, ad locum.

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

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

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

319. Gr. ξυνασθροισθέντων δὲ πολλῶν τοὺς ὄγκους αὐτῶν ὁρᾶσθαι.

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

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

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

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

324. Gr. διακριτικὸν ὄψεως, lit. having the power of separating sight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

332. Gr. περιετόρνευσαν, lit. turned in a lathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

352. I. e. τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

363. Gr. πικρότητι. The old editions read πυκνότητι ποικιλούμενον.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

372. The old editions read ὀδύνας, not ὠδῖνας.

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

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

375. Gr. τῷ κατανοουμένῳ τὸ κατανοοῦν ἐξομοιῶσαι κατὰ τὴν ἀρχαίαν φύσιν, &c. The meaning is, that where the reflective powers are employed in meditating on the universe, they are necessarily brought into harmony with the only true objects of intellect,—and which existed indeed from the first creation.

376. This very erroneous view has been before alluded to in a note on ch. xlv. speaking of the lungs. Plato had evidently no knowledge of the action of the kidneys.

377. Gr. ἐκ τῆς τοῦ λόγου διαπορείας.

378. Gr. δίκη δὲ ὀρθὴ τὸν πλημμελοῦντα ἐμμελῆ ποιεῖν.

379. Gr. οὐράνια, which Stallbaum has adopted on Cornarius’s conjecture, Instead of the ἀνθρώπινα, the readings both of the editions and MSS.

380. Gr. τὴν τοῦ θεάτρου διάνοιανδιάνοιαν. The term θέατρον is frequently used to mean the audience only. This was no doubt unknown to those critics, who very unnecessarily conjectured from the use of this term, that Critias had brought out scenic representations.

381. The old editions read ὑστεραίας; but Bekker and Stallbaum have ὑστέρας, which is adopted here, as agreeing with τάξεως understood.

382. Gr. νῦν δὲ ὑπὸ σεισμῶν δῦσαν ἄπορον πηλόν. The old editions read δυσανάπορον.

383. Gr. φιλοτεχνίᾳ. The old editions have φιλοτεκνίᾳ, which is an evident error.

384. This is an extremely involved and most probably a corrupt passage. We have nearly followed Stallbaum’s interpretation; though it was absolutely necessary, in order to make it readable, to divide the sentence into two clauses.

385. The Eridanus here mentioned was in Attica:—it is not the Eridanus known by geographers in Ætolia and Acarnania.

386. Gr. ἤδη καὶ τὸ ἔτι. Cornarius here conjectured κατὰ τὰ ἔτη as the true reading; but as the reading of the MSS. admits of translation, it seems unnecessary.

387. Gr. λήξεις. The old editions and several MSS. have μίξεις.

388. Gr. ταῖς δὲ δὴ κρήναις, τῇ τοῦ ψυχροῦ καὶ τῇ τοῦ θερμοῦ νάματος, πλῆθος μὲν ἄφθονον ἐχούσαις, ἡδονῇ δὲ καὶ ἀρετῇ τῶν ὑδάτων πρὸς ἑκατέρουἑκατέρου τὴν χρῆσιν θαυμαστοῦ πεφυκότος, ἐχρῶντο, &c. This is a very difficult and involved sentence; but we have given its meaning as nearly as language will allow. Both Ast and Stallbaum consider the text imperfect from the dropping out of two or more words.

389. Gr. ἔτι δὲ ξυνωρίδα χωρὶς δίφρου καταβάτην τε σμικρασπίδα καὶ τὸν ἀμφοῖν μετ’ ἐπιβάτην τοῖν ἵπποιν ἡνίοχον ἔχουσαν. The old editions read καταβάτας.

Transcriber’s Note

The Greek word καὶ (“and”) was twice abbreviated to a single ligature character (ϗ̀ ) (pp. xvii, xviii).

“Heraclitus” is twice spelled “Heracleitus” (p. ii) / “Heracleitean” (p. vi).

At xiii.24, a quotation from Constantin Ritter has no closing quotation mark. This has been added after the first sentence, where the following spacing seems suspiciously large, indicating a possible dropped ending mark.

At 4.41, the phrase “s. lubenter verò...” does not agree with the version available at the Perseus repository “ego vero istinc sicut a domino agresti ac furioso profugi.” A note there offers “libenter vero...” as an alternative.

At 37.22, the editor translates “ἐπ’ αὐτοφώρῳ λαβεῖν” as “to catch in the fact”. This is usually rendered as act, though either might be construed as correct.

173.37: The passage given at footnote 186 on p. 173 seems to confuse feminine and neuter forms. This is the orininal passage: προβάλλοντά τε ἀλλήλοις ἀεί, διατριβὴν τῆς πεττείας πολὺ χαριεστέραν πρεσβυτῶν διατρίβοντα, φιλονικεῖν ἐν ταῖς τούτων ἀξίαισι σχολαῖς.

304.35: The Myth of Er is recounted here, however, the printer included two characters (given as X here), which are blotted by hand. These were removed, and a comma has been added, viz., “a brave man, Er[XX], the son of Armenius....”

431.3: On p. 431 of the brief Appendix, the editor includes a mathematical discussion which erroneous prints the cube of 3, 4, 5, and 6 as the cube root of each: ∛3 ∛4, ∛5, ∛6. They should have appeared as 3^3, 4^3, 5^3 and 6^3.

Errors deemed most likely to be the typesetter’s have been corrected, and are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.

vii.1 | The most obvious arrangemen[t] | Restored.
ix.21 | who taught entirely πρ[ο/ὸ]ς δόξαν | Replaced.
xi.36 | τὸ αὐτὸ καθ[’] αὑτὸ | Added.
xxi.17 | ἐν αὑτῷ [μήδε/μηδὲ] πολυπραγμονεῖν | Replaced.
xxi.8 | (φρ[ονή/όνη]σις) | Replaced.
xxi.31 | ἡ διαλεκτικ[η/ή] | Replaced.
xxi.3 | ἐπίκουρον [ὄ/ὂ]ν τῷ λογιστικῷ φύσει | Replaced.
xvi.26 | are ever inferior to it.[’/”] | Replaced.
xxiii.1 | παρ[α/ά]δειγμα | Replaced.
xxv.12 | (ἀριστοκρ[άτι/ατί]α) | Replaced.
xxv.39 | liberality and magnanimity[.] | Added.
10.39 | ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο Κλεπτοσύνῃ θ’, ὅρκ[ῴ/ῳ] | Replaced.
22.37 | διανοε[ι/ῖ] καταχεῖν μου τ[ω/ῶ]ν | Replaced.
29.39 | The term γραῶν [υ/ὕ]θλος or μῦθος | Replaced.
42.34 | Op. et Di. [ï/v]. 231 | Replaced.
43.33 | The ἀγ[υ/ύ]ρται were a species | Replaced.
45.38 | θεοὺς οὐδαμ[ω/ῶ]ς νομίζου | Replaced.
45.40 | ἀρίστων ε[ἷ/ἶ]ναι ποιητῶν | Replaced.
45.41 | καὶ ἀλλων ἄλλων πολλακισμυρίων | Replaced.
45.43 | πειρώμεθα[.] | Added.
47.38 | ὥς γ[’] ἐμο[ι/ὶ] δοκεῖ | Added / Replaced.
63.41 | Far from it[.] | Added.
64.36 | εἶναι ἐν [ᾦ/ᾧ] δεῖ | Replaced.
79.1 | the husbandman is[ ]only a husbandman | Inserted.
81.31 | καὶ προ[ς/σ]ῳδίας | Replaced.
90.38 | Πλουτοίη δ[ε/ὲ] Μίδεω | Replaced.
93.9 | What are you speaking about? said he[,/.] | Replaced.
163.34 | what we are to say to him[./,]—are we | Replaced.
167.42 | as it has form, mode, and reason of existence,[)] | Probable.
168.34 | νυκτ[έρι/ερί]δα ὁ εὐνοῦχος | Replaced.
169.33 | ἴσχουσι πλαν[ω/ώ]μενοι | Replaced.
171.40 | who has moderate desires[./,] | Replaced.
172.38 | ἄρ’ ἂν ο[ἶ/ἷ]ός τ’ εἴη ἐπιστήμης | Replaced.
178.43 | τοῦτο οὔτε ξυγγένεια ο[ἴ/ἵ]α τε ἐμποιεῖν | Replaced.
180.11 | call this wisdom and[,] apply himself | Removed.
183.39 | ὑπὸ δ[ε/ὲ] τῶν τεχνῶν | Replaced.
183.40 | καὶ ἀποτεθρυμμένοι[ διὰ] τὰς βαναυσίας τυγχάνουσιν. | Restored.
187.40 | an elegant phrase equivalent to χα[ιρεῖ/ίρει]ν | Replaced.
187.41 | [ἑ/ἐ]ώντων | Replaced.
206.38 | τέχνας μ[ε/ὲ]ν μυρίας | Replaced.
219.35 | τῶν δ[ε/ὲ] ἀληθινῶν πολὺ | Replaced.
231.31 | it is now clear, p[a/e]rhaps, | Replaced.
240.31 | the amount of their property[./,] | Replaced.
245.4 | must necessarily be neglected[.] | Added.
246.40 | ἐν μάχῃ πλουσίῳ ἐσ[τ/κ]ιατροφήκοτι | Replaced.
266.8 | a[t/s] the democratic man | Replaced.
266.41 | πρόσωπον ἡδὺ τ[ἂ/ἀ]ν δόμοισι | Replaced.
266.42 | λυπηρά[τίς·/· τίς] γὰρ | Misplaced colon.
276.37 | who are filling w[i]th unreal | Inserted.
293.36 | is rather this last[.] | Added.
295.39 | in our private misfortu[u/n]es | Inverted.
330.40 | ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν ο[ὖ/ὗ]τος | Replaced.
336.30 | and inter[e]fere with them unseasonably | Removed.
322.35 | it was said by the Syracusans to[ be] the best governed | Probably.
323.39 | forth to the god[o/d]ess | Replaced.
329.41 | [E/É]tudes sur le Timée | Replaced.
344.41 | κατ’ [ἔκεινα/ἐκεῖνα] γέγονε. | Replaced.
356.35 | φύσει[πάντι/παντὶ] κεῖται. | Replaced.
356.36 | [ε/ἐ]κμαγεῖον | Replaced.
356.38 | τρίτας [ουσίας/οὐσίας] | Replaced.
357.35a | πῦρ μ[ἐ/ὲ]ν ἑκάστοτε | Replaced.
357.35b | ὸ πεπυρωμἐνον μ[ἐ/έ]ρος | Replaced.
362.39 | [ὅ/ὄ]γκου μέγα ἀποτελέσειεν | Replaced.
381.33 | The old editions have [ἄ/ἅ]μα | Replaced.
386.36 | κεφ[άλη/αλὴ] | Replaced.
391.39 | ἕνεκ[ά/α], φησ[ι/ί] | Replaced.
415.35 | τὴν τοῦ θεάτρου δι[ανοί/άνοι]ν | Replaced.
424.42 | πρὸς [ἐ/ἑ]κατέρου τὴν χρῆσιν | Replaced.

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Table of Contents

- The Works of Plato: Vol. II

- CONTENTS.

- PREFACE.

- GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

- PART I. ON THE PLATONIC PHILOSOPHY GENERALLY.

- PART II.

- THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO.

- BOOK I.

- BOOK II.

- BOOK III.

- BOOK IV.

- BOOK V.

- BOOK VI.

- BOOK VII.

- BOOK VIII.

- BOOK IX.

- BOOK X.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS.

- THE TIMÆUS.

- INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITIAS.

- THE CRITIAS.

- APPENDIX.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE