Bot-S: The Complete Works of Aristotle

A thing, then, will be affected by time, just as we are accustomed to say that time wastes things away, and
that all things grow old through time, and that there is oblivion owing to the lapse of time, but we do not say
the same of getting to know or of becoming young or fair. For time is by its nature the cause rather of decay,
since it is the number of change, and change removes what is.

Hence, plainly, things which are always are not, as such, in time, for they are not contained time, nor is their
being measured by time. A proof of this is that none of them is affected by time, which indicates that they are
not in time.

Since time is the measure of motion, it will be the measure of rest too-indirectly. For all rest is in time. For it
does not follow that what is in time is moved, though what is in motion is necessarily moved. For time is not
motion, but 'number of motion': and what is at rest, also, can be in the number of motion. Not everything that
is not in motion can be said to be 'at rest' -but only that which can be moved, though it actually is not moved,
as was said above.

'To be in number' means that there is a number of the thing, and that its being is measured by the number in
which it is. Hence if a thing is 'in time' it will be measured by time. But time will measure what is moved and
what is at rest, the one qua moved, the other qua at rest; for it will measure their motion and rest respectively.

Hence what is moved will not be measurable by the time simply in so far as it has quantity, but in so far as its
motion has quantity. Thus none of the things which are neither moved nor at rest are in time: for 'to be in
time' is 'to be measured by time', while time is the measure of motion and rest.

Plainly, then, neither will everything that does not exist be in time, i.e. those non-existent things that cannot
exist, as the diagonal cannot be commensurate with the side.

Generally, if time is directly the measure of motion and indirectly of other things, it is clear that a thing
whose existence is measured by it will have its existence in rest or motion. Those things therefore which are
subject to perishing and becoming-generally, those which at one time exist, at another do not-are necessarily
in time: for there is a greater time which will extend both beyond their existence and beyond the time which
measures their existence. Of things which do not exist but are contained by time some were, e.g. Homer once
was, some will be, e.g. a future event; this depends on the direction in which time contains them; if on both,
they have both modes of existence. As to such things as it does not contain in any way, they neither were nor
are nor will be. These are those nonexistents whose opposites always are, as the incommensurability of the
diagonal always is-and this will not be in time. Nor will the commensurability, therefore; hence this eternally
is not, because it is contrary to what eternally is. A thing whose contrary is not eternal can be and not be, and
it is of such things that there is coming to be and passing away.

The 'now' is the link of time, as has been said (for it connects past and future time), and it is a limit of time
(for it is the beginning of the one and the end of the other). But this is not obvious as it is with the point,

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which is fixed. It divides potentially, and in so far as it is dividing the 'now' is always different, but in so far
as it connects it is always the same, as it is with mathematical lines. For the intellect it is not always one and
the same point, since it is other and other when one divides the line; but in so far as it is one, it is the same in
every respect.

So the 'now' also is in one way a potential dividing of time, in another the termination of both parts, and their
unity. And the dividing and the uniting are the same thing and in the same reference, but in essence they are
not the same.

So one kind of 'now' is described in this way: another is when the time is near this kind of 'now'. 'He will
come now' because he will come to-day; 'he has come now' because he came to-day. But the things in the
Iliad have not happened 'now', nor is the flood 'now'-not that the time from now to them is not continuous,
but because they are not near.

'At some time' means a time determined in relation to the first of the two types of 'now', e.g. 'at some time'
Troy was taken, and 'at some time' there will be a flood; for it must be determined with reference to the 'now'.
There will thus be a determinate time from this 'now' to that, and there was such in reference to the past
event. But if there be no time which is not 'sometime', every time will be determined.

Will time then fail? Surely not, if motion always exists. Is time then always different or does the same time
recur? Clearly time is, in the same way as motion is. For if one and the same motion sometimes recurs, it will
be one and the same time, and if not, not.

Since the 'now' is an end and a beginning of time, not of the same time however, but the end of that which is
past and the beginning of that which is to come, it follows that, as the circle has its convexity and its
concavity, in a sense, in the same thing, so time is always at a beginning and at an end. And for this reason it
seems to be always different; for the 'now' is not the beginning and the end of the same thing; if it were, it
would be at the same time and in the same respect two opposites. And time will not fail; for it is always at a
beginning.

'Presently' or 'just' refers to the part of future time which is near the indivisible present 'now' ('When do you
walk? 'Presently', because the time in which he is going to do so is near), and to the part of past time which is
not far from the 'now' ('When do you walk?' 'I have just been walking'). But to say that Troy has just been
taken-we do not say that, because it is too far from the 'now'. 'Lately', too, refers to the part of past time
which is near the present 'now'. 'When did you go?' 'Lately', if the time is near the existing now. 'Long ago'
refers to the distant past.

'Suddenly' refers to what has departed from its former condition in a time imperceptible because of its
smallness; but it is the nature of all change to alter things from their former condition. In time all things come
into being and pass away; for which reason some called it the wisest of all things, but the Pythagorean Paron
called it the most stupid, because in it we also forget; and his was the truer view. It is clear then that it must
be in itself, as we said before, the condition of destruction rather than of coming into being (for change, in
itself, makes things depart from their former condition), and only incidentally of coming into being, and of
being. A sufficient evidence of this is that nothing comes into being without itself moving somehow and
acting, but a thing can be destroyed even if it does not move at all. And this is what, as a rule, we chiefly
mean by a thing's being destroyed by time. Still, time does not work even this change; even this sort of
change takes place incidentally in time.

We have stated, then, that time exists and what it is, and in how many senses we speak of the 'now', and what
'at some time', 'lately', 'presently' or just', 'long ago', and 'suddenly' mean.

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14

These distinctions having been drawn, it is evident that every change and everything that moves is in time;
for the distinction of faster and slower exists in reference to all change, since it is found in every instance. In
the phrase 'moving faster' I refer to that which changes before another into the condition in question, when it
moves over the same interval and with a regular movement; e.g. in the case of locomotion, if both things
move along the circumference of a circle, or both along a straight line; and similarly in all other cases. But
what is before is in time; for we say 'before' and 'after' with reference to the distance from the 'now', and the
'now' is the boundary of the past and the future; so that since 'nows' are in time, the before and the after will
be in time too; for in that in which the 'now' is, the distance from the 'now' will also be. But 'before' is used
contrariwise with reference to past and to future time; for in the past we call 'before' what is farther from the
'now', and 'after' what is nearer, but in the future we call the nearer 'before' and the farther 'after'. So that since
the 'before' is in time, and every movement involves a 'before', evidently every change and every movement
is in time.

It is also worth considering how time can be related to the soul; and why time is thought to be in everything,
both in earth and in sea and in heaven. Is because it is an attribute, or state, or movement (since it is the
number of movement) and all these things are movable (for they are all in place), and time and movement are
together, both in respect of potentiality and in respect of actuality?

Whether if soul did not exist time would exist or not, is a question that may fairly be asked; for if there
cannot be some one to count there cannot be anything that can be counted, so that evidently there cannot be
number; for number is either what has been, or what can be, counted. But if nothing but soul, or in soul
reason, is qualified to count, there would not be time unless there were soul, but only that of which time is an
attribute, i.e. if movement can exist without soul, and the before and after are attributes of movement, and
time is these qua numerable.

One might also raise the question what sort of movement time is the number of. Must we not say 'of any
kind'? For things both come into being in time and pass away, and grow, and are altered in time, and are
moved locally; thus it is of each movement qua movement that time is the number. And so it is simply the
number of continuous movement, not of any particular kind of it.

But other things as well may have been moved now, and there would be a number of each of the two
movements. Is there another time, then, and will there be two equal times at once? Surely not. For a time that
is both equal and simultaneous is one and the same time, and even those that are not simultaneous are one in
kind; for if there were dogs, and horses, and seven of each, it would be the same number. So, too, movements
that have simultaneous limits have the same time, yet the one may in fact be fast and the other not, and one
may be locomotion and the other alteration; still the time of the two changes is the same if their number also
is equal and simultaneous; and for this reason, while the movements are different and separate, the time is
everywhere the same, because the number of equal and simultaneous movements is everywhere one and the
same.

Now there is such a thing as locomotion, and in locomotion there is included circular movement, and
everything is measured by some one thing homogeneous with it, units by a unit, horses by a horse, and
similarly times by some definite time, and, as we said, time is measured by motion as well as motion by time
(this being so because by a motion definite in time the quantity both of the motion and of the time is
measured): if, then, what is first is the measure of everything homogeneous with it, regular circular motion is
above all else the measure, because the number of this is the best known. Now neither alteration nor increase
nor coming into being can be regular, but locomotion can be. This also is why time is thought to be the
movement of the sphere, viz. because the other movements are measured by this, and time by this movement.

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This also explains the common saying that human affairs form a circle, and that there is a circle in all other
things that have a natural movement and coming into being and passing away. This is because all other things
are discriminated by time, and end and begin as though conforming to a cycle; for even time itself is thought
to be a circle. And this opinion again is held because time is the measure of this kind of locomotion and is
itself measured by such. So that to say that the things that come into being form a circle is to say that there is
a circle of time; and this is to say that it is measured by the circular movement; for apart from the measure
nothing else to be measured is observed; the whole is just a plurality of measures.

It is said rightly, too, that the number of the sheep and of the dogs is the same number if the two numbers are
equal, but not the same decad or the same ten; just as the equilateral and the scalene are not the same triangle,
yet they are the same figure, because they are both triangles. For things are called the same so-and-so if they
do not differ by a differentia of that thing, but not if they do; e.g. triangle differs from triangle by a differentia
of triangle, therefore they are different triangles; but they do not differ by a differentia of figure, but are in
one and the same division of it. For a figure of the one kind is a circle and a figure of another kind of triangle,
and a triangle of one kind is equilateral and a triangle of another kind scalene. They are the same figure, then,
that, triangle, but not the same triangle. Therefore the number of two groups also-is the same number (for
their number does not differ by a differentia of number), but it is not the same decad; for the things of which
it is asserted differ; one group are dogs, and the other horses.

We have now discussed time-both time itself and the matters appropriate to the consideration of it.

BookV

EVERYTHING which changes does so in one of three senses. It may change (1) accidentally, as for instance
when we say that something musical walks, that which walks being something in which aptitude for music is
an accident. Again (2) a thing is said without qualification to change because something belonging to it
changes, i.e. in statements which refer to part of the thing in question: thus the body is restored to health
because the eye or the chest, that is to say a part of the whole body, is restored to health. And above all there
is (3) the case of a thing which is in motion neither accidentally nor in respect of something else belonging to
it, but in virtue of being itself directly in motion. Here we have a thing which is essentially movable: and that
which is so is a different thing according to the particular variety of motion: for instance it may be a thing
capable of alteration: and within the sphere of alteration it is again a different thing according as it is capable
of being restored to health or capable of being heated. And there are the same distinctions in the case of the
mover: (1) one thing causes motion accidentally, (2) another partially (because something belonging to it
causes motion), (3) another of itself directly, as, for instance, the physician heals, the hand strikes. We have,
then, the following factors: (a) on the one hand that which directly causes motion, and (b) on the other hand
that which is in motion: further, we have (c) that in which motion takes place, namely time, and (distinct from
these three) (d) that from which and (e) that to which it proceeds: for every motion proceeds from something
and to something, that which is directly in motion being distinct from that to which it is in motion and that
from which it is in motion: for instance, we may take the three things 'wood', 'hot', and 'cold', of which the
first is that which is in motion, the second is that to which the motion proceeds, and the third is that from
which it proceeds. This being so, it is clear that the motion is in the wood, not in its form: for the motion is
neither caused nor experienced by the form or the place or the quantity. So we are left with a mover, a
moved, and a goal of motion. I do not include the starting-point of motion: for it is the goal rather than the
starting-point of motion that gives its name to a particular process of change. Thus 'perishing' is change to
not-being, though it is also true that that that which perishes changes from being: and 'becoming' is change to
being, though it is also change from not-being.

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Now a definition of motion has been given above, from which it will be seen that every goal of motion,
whether it be a form, an affection, or a place, is immovable, as, for instance, knowledge and heat. Here,
however, a difficulty may be raised. Affections, it may be said, are motions, and whiteness is an affection:
thus there may be change to a motion. To this we may reply that it is not whiteness but whitening that is a
motion. Here also the same distinctions are to be observed: a goal of motion may be so accidentally, or
partially and with reference to something other than itself, or directly and with no reference to anything else:
for instance, a thing which is becoming white changes accidentally to an object of thought, the colour being
only accidentally the object of thought; it changes to colour, because white is a part of colour, or to Europe,
because Athens is a part of Europe; but it changes essentially to white colour. It is now clear in what sense a
thing is in motion essentially, accidentally, or in respect of something other than itself, and in what sense the
phrase 'itself directly' is used in the case both of the mover and of the moved: and it is also clear that the
motion is not in the form but in that which is in motion, that is to say 'the movable in activity'. Now
accidental change we may leave out of account: for it is to be found in everything, at any time, and in any
respect. Change which is not accidental on the other hand is not to be found in everything, but only in
contraries, in things intermediate contraries, and in contradictories, as may be proved by induction. An
intermediate may be a starting-point of change, since for the purposes of the change it serves as contrary to
either of two contraries: for the intermediate is in a sense the extremes. Hence we speak of the intermediate as
in a sense a contrary relatively to the extremes and of either extreme as a contrary relatively to the
intermediate: for instance, the central note is low relatively-to the highest and high relatively to the lowest,
and grey is light relatively to black and dark relatively to white.

And since every change is from something to something-as the word itself (metabole) indicates, implying
something 'after' (meta) something else, that is to say something earlier and something later-that which
changes must change in one of four ways: from subject to subject, from subject to nonsubject, from
non-subject to subject, or from non-subject to non-subject, where by 'subject' I mean what is affirmatively
expressed. So it follows necessarily from what has been said above that there are only three kinds of change,
that from subject to subject, that from subject to non-subject, and that from non-subject to subject: for the
fourth conceivable kind, that from non-subject to nonsubject, is not change, as in that case there is no
opposition either of contraries or of contradictories.

Now change from non-subject to subject, the relation being that of contradiction, is 'coming to
be'-'unqualified coming to be' when the change takes place in an unqualified way, 'particular coming to be'
when the change is change in a particular character: for instance, a change from not-white to white is a
coming to be of the particular thing, white, while change from unqualified not-being to being is coming to be
in an unqualified way, in respect of which we say that a thing 'comes to be' without qualification, not that it
'comes to be' some particular thing. Change from subject to non-subject is 'perishing'-'unqualified perishing'
when the change is from being to not-being, 'particular perishing' when the change is to the opposite
negation, the distinction being the same as that made in the case of coming to be.

Now the expression 'not-being' is used in several senses: and there can be motion neither of that which 'is
not' in respect of the affirmation or negation of a predicate, nor of that which 'is not' in the sense that it only
potentially 'is', that is to say the opposite of that which actually 'is' in an unqualified sense: for although that
which is 'not-white' or 'not-good' may nevertheless he in motion accidentally (for example that which is
'not-white' might be a man), yet that which is without qualification 'not-so-and-so' cannot in any sense be in
motion: therefore it is impossible for that which is not to be in motion. This being so, it follows that
'becoming' cannot be a motion: for it is that which 'is not' that 'becomes'. For however true it may be that it
accidentally 'becomes', it is nevertheless correct to say that it is that which 'is not' that in an unqualified sense
'becomes'. And similarly it is impossible for that which 'is not' to be at rest.

There are these difficulties, then, in the way of the assumption that that which 'is not' can be in motion: and it
may be further objected that, whereas everything which is in motion is in space, that which 'is not' is not in

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space: for then it would be somewhere.

So, too, 'perishing' is not a motion: for a motion has for its contrary either another motion or rest, whereas
'perishing' is the contrary of 'becoming'.

Since, then, every motion is a kind of change, and there are only the three kinds of change mentioned above,
and since of these three those which take the form of 'becoming' and 'perishing', that is to say those which
imply a relation of contradiction, are not motions: it necessarily follows that only change from subject to
subject is motion. And every such subject is either a contrary or an intermediate (for a privation may be
allowed to rank as a contrary) and can be affirmatively expressed, as naked, toothless, or black. If, then, the
categories are severally distinguished as Being, Quality, Place, Time, Relation, Quantity, and Activity or
Passivity, it necessarily follows that there are three kinds of motion-qualitative, quantitative, and local.

In respect of Substance there is no motion, because Substance has no contrary among things that are. Nor is
there motion in respect of Relation: for it may happen that when one correlative changes, the other, although
this does not itself change, is no longer applicable, so that in these cases the motion is accidental. Nor is there
motion in respect of Agent and Patient-in fact there can never be motion of mover and moved, because there
cannot be motion of motion or becoming of becoming or in general change of change.

For in the first place there are two senses in which motion of motion is conceivable. (1) The motion of which
there is motion might be conceived as subject; e.g. a man is in motion because he changes from fair to dark.
Can it be that in this sense motion grows hot or cold, or changes place, or increases or decreases? Impossible:
for change is not a subject. Or (2) can there be motion of motion in the sense that some other subject changes
from a change to another mode of being, as e.g. a man changes from falling ill to getting well? Even this is
possible only in an accidental sense. For, whatever the subject may be, movement is change from one form to
another. (And the same holds good of becoming and perishing, except that in these processes we have a
change to a particular kind of opposite, while the other, motion, is a change to a different kind.) So, if there is
to be motion of motion, that which is changing from health to sickness must simultaneously be changing
from this very change to another. It is clear, then, that by the time that it has become sick, it must also have
changed to whatever may be the other change concerned (for that it should be at rest, though logically
possible, is excluded by the theory). Moreover this other can never be any casual change, but must be a
change from something definite to some other definite thing. So in this case it must be the opposite change,
viz. convalescence. It is only accidentally that there can be change of change, e.g. there is a change from
remembering to forgetting only because the subject of this change changes at one time to knowledge, at
another to ignorance.

In the second place, if there is to be change of change and becoming of becoming, we shall have an infinite
regress. Thus if one of a series of changes is to be a change of change, the preceding change must also be so:
e.g. if simple becoming was ever in process of becoming, then that which was becoming simple becoming
was also in process of becoming, so that we should not yet have arrived at what was in process of simple
becoming but only at what was already in process of becoming in process of becoming. And this again was
sometime in process of becoming, so that even then we should not have arrived at what was in process of
simple becoming. And since in an infinite series there is no first term, here there will be no first stage and
therefore no following stage either. On this hypothesis, then, nothing can become or be moved or change.

Thirdly, if a thing is capable of any particular motion, it is also capable of the corresponding contrary motion
or the corresponding coming to rest, and a thing that is capable of becoming is also capable of perishing:
consequently, if there be becoming of becoming, that which is in process of becoming is in process of

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perishing at the very moment when it has reached the stage of becoming: since it cannot be in process of
perishing when it is just beginning to become or after it has ceased to become: for that which is in process of
perishing must be in existence.

Fourthly, there must be a substrate underlying all processes of becoming and changing. What can this be in
the present case? It is either the body or the soul that undergoes alteration: what is it that correspondingly
becomes motion or becoming? And again what is the goal of their motion? It must be the motion or
becoming of something from something to something else. But in what sense can this be so? For the
becoming of learning cannot be learning: so neither can the becoming of becoming be becoming, nor can the
becoming of any process be that process.

Finally, since there are three kinds of motion, the substratum and the goal of motion must be one or other of
these, e.g. locomotion will have to be altered or to be locally moved.

To sum up, then, since everything that is moved is moved in one of three ways, either accidentally, or
partially, or essentially, change can change only accidentally, as e.g. when a man who is being restored to
health runs or learns: and accidental change we have long ago decided to leave out of account.

Since, then, motion can belong neither to Being nor to Relation nor to Agent and Patient, it remains that there
can be motion only in respect of Quality, Quantity, and Place: for with each of these we have a pair of
contraries. Motion in respect of Quality let us call alteration, a general designation that is used to include both
contraries: and by Quality I do not here mean a property of substance (in that sense that which constitutes a
specific distinction is a quality) but a passive quality in virtue of which a thing is said to be acted on or to be
incapable of being acted on. Motion in respect of Quantity has no name that includes both contraries, but it is
called increase or decrease according as one or the other is designated: that is to say motion in the direction of
complete magnitude is increase, motion in the contrary direction is decrease. Motion in respect of Place has
no name either general or particular: but we may designate it by the general name of locomotion, though
strictly the term 'locomotion' is applicable to things that change their place only when they have not the
power to come to a stand, and to things that do not move themselves locally.

Change within the same kind from a lesser to a greater or from a greater to a lesser degree is alteration: for it
is motion either from a contrary or to a contrary, whether in an unqualified or in a qualified sense: for change
to a lesser degree of a quality will be called change to the contrary of that quality, and change to a greater
degree of a quality will be regarded as change from the contrary of that quality to the quality itself. It makes
no difference whether the change be qualified or unqualified, except that in the former case the contraries will
have to be contrary to one another only in a qualified sense: and a thing's possessing a quality in a greater or
in a lesser degree means the presence or absence in it of more or less of the opposite quality. It is now clear,
then, that there are only these three kinds of motion.

The term 'immovable' we apply in the first place to that which is absolutely incapable of being moved (just as
we correspondingly apply the term invisible to sound); in the second place to that which is moved with
difficulty after a long time or whose movement is slow at the start-in fact, what we describe as hard to move;
and in the third place to that which is naturally designed for and capable of motion, but is not in motion
when, where, and as it naturally would be so. This last is the only kind of immovable thing of which I use the
term 'being at rest': for rest is contrary to motion, so that rest will be negation of motion in that which is
capable of admitting motion.

The foregoing remarks are sufficient to explain the essential nature of motion and rest, the number of kinds of
change, and the different varieties of motion.

PHYSICS

Let us now proceed to define the terms 'together' and 'apart', 'in contact', 'between', 'in succession',
'contiguous', and 'continuous', and to show in what circumstances each of these terms is naturally applicable.

Things are said to be together in place when they are in one place (in the strictest sense of the word 'place')
and to be apart when they are in different places.

Things are said to be in contact when their extremities are together.

That which a changing thing, if it changes continuously in a natural manner, naturally reaches before it
reaches that to which it changes last, is between. Thus 'between' implies the presence of at least three things:
for in a process of change it is the contrary that is 'last': and a thing is moved continuously if it leaves no gap
or only the smallest possible gap in the material-not in the time (for a gap in the time does not prevent things
having a 'between', while, on the other hand, there is nothing to prevent the highest note sounding
immediately after the lowest) but in the material in which the motion takes place. This is manifestly true not
only in local changes but in every other kind as well. (Now every change implies a pair of opposites, and
opposites may be either contraries or contradictories; since then contradiction admits of no mean term, it is
obvious that 'between' must imply a pair of contraries) That is locally contrary which is most distant in a
straight line: for the shortest line is definitely limited, and that which is definitely limited constitutes a
measure.

A thing is 'in succession' when it is after the beginning in position or in form or in some other respect in
which it is definitely so regarded, and when further there is nothing of the same kind as itself between it and
that to which it is in succession, e.g. a line or lines if it is a line, a unit or units if it is a unit, a house if it is a
house (there is nothing to prevent something of a different kind being between). For that which is in
succession is in succession to a particular thing, and is something posterior: for one is not 'in succession' to
two, nor is the first day of the month to be second: in each case the latter is 'in succession' to the former.

A thing that is in succession and touches is 'contiguous'. The 'continuous' is a subdivision of the contiguous:
things are called continuous when the touching limits of each become one and the same and are, as the word
implies, contained in each other: continuity is impossible if these extremities are two. This definition makes it
plain that continuity belongs to things that naturally in virtue of their mutual contact form a unity. And in
whatever way that which holds them together is one, so too will the whole be one, e.g. by a rivet or glue or
contact or organic union.

It is obvious that of these terms 'in succession' is first in order of analysis: for that which touches is
necessarily in succession, but not everything that is in succession touches: and so succession is a property of
things prior in definition, e.g. numbers, while contact is not. And if there is continuity there is necessarily
contact, but if there is contact, that alone does not imply continuity: for the extremities of things may be
'together' without necessarily being one: but they cannot be one without being necessarily together. So natural
junction is last in coming to be: for the extremities must necessarily come into contact if they are to be
naturally joined: but things that are in contact are not all naturally joined, while there is no contact clearly
there is no natural junction either. Hence, if as some say 'point' and 'unit' have an independent existence of
their own, it is impossible for the two to be identical: for points can touch while units can only be in
succession. Moreover, there can always be something between points (for all lines are intermediate between
points), whereas it is not necessary that there should possibly be anything between units: for there can be
nothing between the numbers one and two.

We have now defined what is meant by 'together' and 'apart', 'contact', 'between' and 'in succession',
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'contiguous' and 'continuous': and we have shown in what circumstances each of these terms is applicable.

There are many senses in which motion is said to be 'one': for we use the term 'one' in many senses.

Motion is one generically according to the different categories to which it may be assigned: thus any
locomotion is one generically with any other locomotion, whereas alteration is different generically from
locomotion.

Motion is one specifically when besides being one generically it also takes place in a species incapable of
subdivision: e.g. colour has specific differences: therefore blackening and whitening differ specifically; but at
all events every whitening will be specifically the same with every other whitening and every blackening
with every other blackening. But white is not further subdivided by specific differences: hence any whitening
is specifically one with any other whitening. Where it happens that the genus is at the same time a species, it
is clear that the motion will then in a sense be one specifically though not in an unqualified sense: learning is
an example of this, knowledge being on the one hand a species of apprehension and on the other hand a genus
including the various knowledges. A difficulty, however, may be raised as to whether a motion is specifically
one when the same thing changes from the same to the same, e.g. when one point changes again and again
from a particular place to a particular place: if this motion is specifically one, circular motion will be the
same as rectilinear motion, and rolling the same as walking. But is not this difficulty removed by the
principle already laid down that if that in which the motion takes place is specifically different (as in the
present instance the circular path is specifically different from the straight) the motion itself is also different?
We have explained, then, what is meant by saying that motion is one generically or one specifically.

Motion is one in an unqualified sense when it is one essentially or numerically: and the following distinctions
will make clear what this kind of motion is. There are three classes of things in connexion with which we
speak of motion, the 'that which', the 'that in which', and the 'that during which'. I mean that there must he
something that is in motion, e.g. a man or gold, and it must be in motion in something, e.g. a place or an
affection, and during something, for all motion takes place during a time. Of these three it is the thing in
which the motion takes place that makes it one generically or specifically, it is the thing moved that makes
the motion one in subject, and it is the time that makes it consecutive: but it is the three together that make it
one without qualification: to effect this, that in which the motion takes place (the species) must be one and
incapable of subdivision, that during which it takes place (the time) must be one and unintermittent, and that
which is in motion must be one-not in an accidental sense (i.e. it must be one as the white that blackens is
one or Coriscus who walks is one, not in the accidental sense in which Coriscus and white may be one), nor
merely in virtue of community of nature (for there might be a case of two men being restored to health at the
same time in the same way, e.g. from inflammation of the eye, yet this motion is not really one, but only
specifically one).

Suppose, however, that Socrates undergoes an alteration specifically the same but at one time and again at
another: in this case if it is possible for that which ceased to be again to come into being and remain
numerically the same, then this motion too will be one: otherwise it will be the same but not one. And akin to
this difficulty there is another; viz. is health one? and generally are the states and affections in bodies
severally one in essence although (as is clear) the things that contain them are obviously in motion and in
flux? Thus if a person's health at daybreak and at the present moment is one and the same, why should not
this health be numerically one with that which he recovers after an interval? The same argument applies in
each case. There is, however, we may answer, this difference: that if the states are two then it follows simply
from this fact that the activities must also in point of number be two (for only that which is numerically one
can give rise to an activity that is numerically one), but if the state is one, this is not in itself enough to make

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us regard the activity also as one: for when a man ceases walking, the walking no longer is, but it will again
be if he begins to walk again. But, be this as it may, if in the above instance the health is one and the same,
then it must be possible for that which is one and the same to come to be and to cease to be many times.
However, these difficulties lie outside our present inquiry.

Since every motion is continuous, a motion that is one in an unqualified sense must (since every motion is
divisible) be continuous, and a continuous motion must be one. There will not be continuity between any
motion and any other indiscriminately any more than there is between any two things chosen at random in
any other sphere: there can be continuity only when the extremities of the two things are one. Now some
things have no extremities at all: and the extremities of others differ specifically although we give them the
same name of 'end': how should e.g. the 'end' of a line and the 'end' of walking touch or come to be one?
Motions that are not the same either specifically or generically may, it is true, be consecutive (e.g. a man may
run and then at once fall ill of a fever), and again, in the torch-race we have consecutive but not continuous
locomotion: for according to our definition there can be continuity only when the ends of the two things are
one. Hence motions may be consecutive or successive in virtue of the time being continuous, but there can be
continuity only in virtue of the motions themselves being continuous, that is when the end of each is one with
the end of the other. Motion, therefore, that is in an unqualified sense continuous and one must be specifically
the same, of one thing, and in one time. Unity is required in respect of time in order that there may be no
interval of immobility, for where there is intermission of motion there must be rest, and a motion that
includes intervals of rest will be not one but many, so that a motion that is interrupted by stationariness is not
one or continuous, and it is so interrupted if there is an interval of time. And though of a motion that is not
specifically one (even if the time is unintermittent) the time is one, the motion is specifically different, and so
cannot really be one, for motion that is one must be specifically one, though motion that is specifically one is
not necessarily one in an unqualified sense. We have now explained what we mean when we call a motion
one without qualification.

Further, a motion is also said to be one generically, specifically, or essentially when it is complete, just as in
other cases completeness and wholeness are characteristics of what is one: and sometimes a motion even if
incomplete is said to be one, provided only that it is continuous.

And besides the cases already mentioned there is another in which a motion is said to be one, viz. when it is
regular: for in a sense a motion that is irregular is not regarded as one, that title belonging rather to that which
is regular, as a straight line is regular, the irregular being as such divisible. But the difference would seem to
be one of degree. In every kind of motion we may have regularity or irregularity: thus there may be regular
alteration, and locomotion in a regular path, e.g. in a circle or on a straight line, and it is the same with regard
to increase and decrease. The difference that makes a motion irregular is sometimes to be found in its path:
thus a motion cannot be regular if its path is an irregular magnitude, e.g. a broken line, a spiral, or any other
magnitude that is not such that any part of it taken at random fits on to any other that may be chosen.
Sometimes it is found neither in the place nor in the time nor in the goal but in the manner of the motion: for
in some cases the motion is differentiated by quickness and slowness: thus if its velocity is uniform a motion
is regular, if not it is irregular. So quickness and slowness are not species of motion nor do they constitute
specific differences of motion, because this distinction occurs in connexion with all the distinct species of
motion. The same is true of heaviness and lightness when they refer to the same thing: e.g. they do not
specifically distinguish earth from itself or fire from itself. Irregular motion, therefore, while in virtue of
being continuous it is one, is so in a lesser degree, as is the case with locomotion in a broken line: and a lesser
degree of something always means an admixture of its contrary. And since every motion that is one can be
both regular and irregular, motions that are consecutive but not specifically the same cannot be one and
continuous: for how should a motion composed of alteration and locomotion be regular? If a motion is to be
regular its parts ought to fit one another.

PHYSICS

We have further to determine what motions are contrary to each other, and to determine similarly how it is
with rest. And we have first to decide whether contrary motions are motions respectively from and to the
same thing, e.g. a motion from health and a motion to health (where the opposition, it would seem, is of the
same kind as that between coming to be and ceasing to be); or motions respectively from contraries, e.g. a
motion from health and a motion from disease; or motions respectively to contraries, e.g. a motion to health
and a motion to disease; or motions respectively from a contrary and to the opposite contrary, e.g. a motion
from health and a motion to disease; or motions respectively from a contrary to the opposite contrary and
from the latter to the former, e.g. a motion from health to disease and a motion from disease to health: for
motions must be contrary to one another in one or more of these ways, as there is no other way in which they
can be opposed.

Now motions respectively from a contrary and to the opposite contrary, e.g. a motion from health and a
motion to disease, are not contrary motions: for they are one and the same. (Yet their essence is not the same,
just as changing from health is different from changing to disease.) Nor are motion respectively from a
contrary and from the opposite contrary contrary motions, for a motion from a contrary is at the same time a
motion to a contrary or to an intermediate (of this, however, we shall speak later), but changing to a contrary
rather than changing from a contrary would seem to be the cause of the contrariety of motions, the latter
being the loss, the former the gain, of contrariness. Moreover, each several motion takes its name rather from
the goal than from the starting-point of change, e.g. motion to health we call convalescence, motion to
disease sickening. Thus we are left with motions respectively to contraries, and motions respectively to
contraries from the opposite contraries. Now it would seem that motions to contraries are at the same time
motions from contraries (though their essence may not be the same; 'to health' is distinct, I mean, from 'from
disease', and 'from health' from 'to disease').

Since then change differs from motion (motion being change from a particular subject to a particular subject),
it follows that contrary motions are motions respectively from a contrary to the opposite contrary and from
the latter to the former, e.g. a motion from health to disease and a motion from disease to health. Moreover,
the consideration of particular examples will also show what kinds of processes are generally recognized as
contrary: thus falling ill is regarded as contrary to recovering one's health, these processes having contrary
goals, and being taught as contrary to being led into error by another, it being possible to acquire error, like
knowledge, either by one's own agency or by that of another. Similarly we have upward locomotion and
downward locomotion, which are contrary lengthwise, locomotion to the right and locomotion to the left,
which are contrary breadthwise, and forward locomotion and backward locomotion, which too are contraries.
On the other hand, a process simply to a contrary, e.g. that denoted by the expression 'becoming white', where
no starting-point is specified, is a change but not a motion. And in all cases of a thing that has no contrary we
have as contraries change from and change to the same thing. Thus coming to be is contrary to ceasing to be,
and losing to gaining. But these are changes and not motions. And wherever a pair of contraries admit of an
intermediate, motions to that intermediate must be held to be in a sense motions to one or other of the
contraries: for the intermediate serves as a contrary for the purposes of the motion, in whichever direction the
change may be, e.g. grey in a motion from grey to white takes the place of black as starting-point, in a
motion from white to grey it takes the place of black as goal, and in a motion from black to grey it takes the
place of white as goal: for the middle is opposed in a sense to either of the extremes, as has been said above.
Thus we see that two motions are contrary to each other only when one is a motion from a contrary to the
opposite contrary and the other is a motion from the latter to the former.

PHYSICS

But since a motion appears to have contrary to it not only another motion but also a state of rest, we must
determine how this is so. A motion has for its contrary in the strict sense of the term another motion, but it
also has for an opposite a state of rest (for rest is the privation of motion and the privation of anything may be
called its contrary), and motion of one kind has for its opposite rest of that kind, e.g. local motion has local
rest. This statement, however, needs further qualification: there remains the question, is the opposite of
remaining at a particular place motion from or motion to that place? It is surely clear that since there are two
subjects between which motion takes place, motion from one of these (A) to its contrary (B) has for its
opposite remaining in A while the reverse motion has for its opposite remaining in B. At the same time these
two are also contrary to each other: for it would be absurd to suppose that there are contrary motions and not
opposite states of rest. States of rest in contraries are opposed. To take an example, a state of rest in health is
(1) contrary to a state of rest in disease, and (2) the motion to which it is contrary is that from health to
disease. For (2) it would be absurd that its contrary motion should be that from disease to health, since
motion to that in which a thing is at rest is rather a coming to rest, the coming to rest being found to come
into being simultaneously with the motion; and one of these two motions it must be. And (1) rest in whiteness
is of course not contrary to rest in health.

Of all things that have no contraries there are opposite changes (viz. change from the thing and change to the
thing, e.g. change from being and change to being), but no motion. So, too, of such things there is no
remaining though there is absence of change. Should there be a particular subject, absence of change in its
being will be contrary to absence of change in its not-being. And here a difficulty may be raised: if
not-being is not a particular something, what is it, it may be asked, that is contrary to absence of change in a
thing's being? and is this absence of change a state of rest? If it is, then either it is not true that every state of
rest is contrary to a motion or else coming to be and ceasing to be are motion. It is clear then that, since we
exclude these from among motions, we must not say that this absence of change is a state of rest: we must say
that it is similar to a state of rest and call it absence of change. And it will have for its contrary either nothing
or absence of change in the thing's not-being, or the ceasing to be of the thing: for such ceasing to be is
change from it and the thing's coming to be is change to it.

Again, a further difficulty may be raised. How is it, it may be asked, that whereas in local change both
remaining and moving may be natural or unnatural, in the other changes this is not so? e.g. alteration is not
now natural and now unnatural, for convalescence is no more natural or unnatural than falling ill, whitening
no more natural or unnatural than blackening; so, too, with increase and decrease: these are not contrary to
each other in the sense that either of them is natural while the other is unnatural, nor is one increase contrary
to another in this sense; and the same account may be given of becoming and perishing: it is not true that
becoming is natural and perishing unnatural (for growing old is natural), nor do we observe one becoming to
be natural and another unnatural. We answer that if what happens under violence is unnatural, then violent
perishing is unnatural and as such contrary to natural perishing. Are there then also some becomings that are
violent and not the result of natural necessity, and are therefore contrary to natural becomings, and violent
increases and decreases, e.g. the rapid growth to maturity of profligates and the rapid ripening of seeds even
when not packed close in the earth? And how is it with alterations? Surely just the same: we may say that
some alterations are violent while others are natural, e.g. patients alter naturally or unnaturally according as
they throw off fevers on the critical days or not. But, it may be objected, then we shall have perishings
contrary to one another, not to becoming. Certainly: and why should not this in a sense be so? Thus it is so if
one perishing is pleasant and another painful: and so one perishing will be contrary to another not in an
unqualified sense, but in so far as one has this quality and the other that.

Now motions and states of rest universally exhibit contrariety in the manner described above, e.g. upward
motion and rest above are respectively contrary to downward motion and rest below, these being instances of

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local contrariety; and upward locomotion belongs naturally to fire and downward to earth, i.e. the
locomotions of the two are contrary to each other. And again, fire moves up naturally and down unnaturally:
and its natural motion is certainly contrary to its unnatural motion. Similarly with remaining: remaining
above is contrary to motion from above downwards, and to earth this remaining comes unnaturally, this
motion naturally. So the unnatural remaining of a thing is contrary to its natural motion, just as we find a
similar contrariety in the motion of the same thing: one of its motions, the upward or the downward, will be
natural, the other unnatural.

Here, however, the question arises, has every state of rest that is not permanent a becoming, and is this
becoming a coming to a standstill? If so, there must be a becoming of that which is at rest unnaturally, e.g. of
earth at rest above: and therefore this earth during the time that it was being carried violently upward was
coming to a standstill. But whereas the velocity of that which comes to a standstill seems always to increase,
the velocity of that which is carried violently seems always to decrease: so it will he in a state of rest without
having become so. Moreover 'coming to a standstill' is generally recognized to be identical or at least
concomitant with the locomotion of a thing to its proper place.

There is also another difficulty involved in the view that remaining in a particular place is contrary to motion
from that place. For when a thing is moving from or discarding something, it still appears to have that which
is being discarded, so that if a state of rest is itself contrary to the motion from the state of rest to its contrary,
the contraries rest and motion will be simultaneously predicable of the same thing. May we not say, however,
that in so far as the thing is still stationary it is in a state of rest in a qualified sense? For, in fact, whenever a
thing is in motion, part of it is at the starting-point while part is at the goal to which it is changing: and
consequently a motion finds its true contrary rather in another motion than in a state of rest.

With regard to motion and rest, then, we have now explained in what sense each of them is one and under
what conditions they exhibit contrariety.

[With regard to coming to a standstill the question may be raised whether there is an opposite state of rest to
unnatural as well as to natural motions. It would be absurd if this were not the case: for a thing may remain
still merely under violence: thus we shall have a thing being in a non-permanent state of rest without having
become so. But it is clear that it must be the case: for just as there is unnatural motion, so, too, a thing may be
in an unnatural state of rest. Further, some things have a natural and an unnatural motion, e.g. fire has a
natural upward motion and an unnatural downward motion: is it, then, this unnatural downward motion or is
it the natural downward motion of earth that is contrary to the natural upward motion? Surely it is clear that
both are contrary to it though not in the same sense: the natural motion of earth is contrary inasmuch as the
motion of fire is also natural, whereas the upward motion of fire as being natural is contrary to the downward
motion of fire as being unnatural. The same is true of the corresponding cases of remaining. But there would
seem to be a sense in which a state of rest and a motion are opposites.]

Book VI

Now if the terms 'continuous', 'in contact', and 'in succession' are understood as defined above things being
'continuous' if their extremities are one, 'in contact' if their extremities are together, and 'in succession' if there
is nothing of their own kind intermediate between them-nothing that is continuous can be composed 'of
indivisibles': e.g. a line cannot be composed of points, the line being continuous and the point indivisible. For
the extremities of two points can neither be one (since of an indivisible there can be no extremity as distinct
from some other part) nor together (since that which has no parts can have no extremity, the extremity and
the thing of which it is the extremity being distinct).

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Moreover, if that which is continuous is composed of points, these points must be either continuous or in
contact with one another: and the same reasoning applies in the case of all indivisibles. Now for the reason
given above they cannot be continuous: and one thing can be in contact with another only if whole is in
contact with whole or part with part or part with whole. But since indivisibles have no parts, they must be in
contact with one another as whole with whole. And if they are in contact with one another as whole with
whole, they will not be continuous: for that which is continuous has distinct parts: and these parts into which
it is divisible are different in this way, i.e. spatially separate.

Nor, again, can a point be in succession to a point or a moment to a moment in such a way that length can be
composed of points or time of moments: for things are in succession if there is nothing of their own kind
intermediate between them, whereas that which is intermediate between points is always a line and that which
is intermediate between moments is always a period of time.

Again, if length and time could thus be composed of indivisibles, they could be divided into indivisibles,
since each is divisible into the parts of which it is composed. But, as we saw, no continuous thing is divisible
into things without parts. Nor can there be anything of any other kind intermediate between the parts or
between the moments: for if there could be any such thing it is clear that it must be either indivisible or
divisible, and if it is divisible, it must be divisible either into indivisibles or into divisibles that are infinitely
divisible, in which case it is continuous.

Moreover, it is plain that everything continuous is divisible into divisibles that are infinitely divisible: for if it
were divisible into indivisibles, we should have an indivisible in contact with an indivisible, since the
extremities of things that are continuous with one another are one and are in contact.

The same reasoning applies equally to magnitude, to time, and to motion: either all of these are composed of
indivisibles and are divisible into indivisibles, or none. This may be made clear as follows. If a magnitude is
composed of indivisibles, the motion over that magnitude must be composed of corresponding indivisible
motions: e.g. if the magnitude ABG is composed of the indivisibles A, B, G, each corresponding part of the
motion DEZ of O over ABG is indivisible. Therefore, since where there is motion there must be something
that is in motion, and where there is something in motion there must be motion, therefore the being-moved
will also be composed of indivisibles. So O traversed A when its motion was D, B when its motion was E,
and G similarly when its motion was Z. Now a thing that is in motion from one place to another cannot at the
moment when it was in motion both be in motion and at the same time have completed its motion at the place
to which it was in motion: e.g. if a man is walking to Thebes, he cannot be walking to Thebes and at the same
time have completed his walk to Thebes: and, as we saw, O traverses a the partless section A in virtue of the
presence of the motion D. Consequently, if O actually passed through A after being in process of passing
through, the motion must be divisible: for at the time when O was passing through, it neither was at rest nor
had completed its passage but was in an intermediate state: while if it is passing through and has completed
its passage at the same moment, then that which is walking will at the moment when it is walking have
completed its walk and will be in the place to which it is walking; that is to say, it will have completed its
motion at the place to which it is in motion. And if a thing is in motion over the whole KBG and its motion is
the three D, E, and Z, and if it is not in motion at all over the partless section A but has completed its motion
over it, then the motion will consist not of motions but of starts, and will take place by a thing's having
completed a motion without being in motion: for on this assumption it has completed its passage through A
without passing through it. So it will be possible for a thing to have completed a walk without ever walking:
for on this assumption it has completed a walk over a particular distance without walking over that distance.
Since, then, everything must be either at rest or in motion, and O is therefore at rest in each of the sections A,
B, and G, it follows that a thing can be continuously at rest and at the same time in motion: for, as we saw, O
is in motion over the whole ABG and at rest in any part (and consequently in the whole) of it. Moreover, if
the indivisibles composing DEZ are motions, it would be possible for a thing in spite of the presence in it of
motion to be not in motion but at rest, while if they are not motions, it would be possible for motion to be

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composed of something other than motions.

And if length and motion are thus indivisible, it is neither more nor less necessary that time also be similarly
indivisible, that is to say be composed of indivisible moments: for if the whole distance is divisible and an
equal velocity will cause a thing to pass through less of it in less time, the time must also be divisible, and
conversely, if the time in which a thing is carried over the section A is divisible, this section A must also be
divisible.

And since every magnitude is divisible into magnitudes-for we have shown that it is impossible for anything
continuous to be composed of indivisible parts, and every magnitude is continuous-it necessarily follows that
the quicker of two things traverses a greater magnitude in an equal time, an equal magnitude in less time, and
a greater magnitude in less time, in conformity with the definition sometimes given of 'the quicker'. Suppose
that A is quicker than B. Now since of two things that which changes sooner is quicker, in the time ZH, in
which A has changed from G to D, B will not yet have arrived at D but will be short of it: so that in an equal
time the quicker will pass over a greater magnitude. More than this, it will pass over a greater magnitude in
less time: for in the time in which A has arrived at D, B being the slower has arrived, let us say, at E. Then
since A has occupied the whole time ZH in arriving at D, will have arrived at O in less time than this, say ZK.
Now the magnitude GO that A has passed over is greater than the magnitude GE, and the time ZK is less than
the whole time ZH: so that the quicker will pass over a greater magnitude in less time. And from this it is also
clear that the quicker will pass over an equal magnitude in less time than the slower. For since it passes over
the greater magnitude in less time than the slower, and (regarded by itself) passes over LM the greater in
more time than LX the lesser, the time PRh in which it passes over LM will be more than the time PS, which
it passes over LX: so that, the time PRh being less than the time PCh in which the slower passes over LX, the
time PS will also be less than the time PX: for it is less than the time PRh, and that which is less than
something else that is less than a thing is also itself less than that thing. Hence it follows that the quicker will
traverse an equal magnitude in less time than the slower. Again, since the motion of anything must always
occupy either an equal time or less or more time in comparison with that of another thing, and since, whereas
a thing is slower if its motion occupies more time and of equal velocity if its motion occupies an equal time,
the quicker is neither of equal velocity nor slower, it follows that the motion of the quicker can occupy
neither an equal time nor more time. It can only be, then, that it occupies less time, and thus we get the
necessary consequence that the quicker will pass over an equal magnitude (as well as a greater) in less time
than the slower.

And since every motion is in time and a motion may occupy any time, and the motion of everything that is in
motion may be either quicker or slower, both quicker motion and slower motion may occupy any time: and
this being so, it necessarily follows that time also is continuous. By continuous I mean that which is divisible
into divisibles that are infinitely divisible: and if we take this as the definition of continuous, it follows
necessarily that time is continuous. For since it has been shown that the quicker will pass over an equal
magnitude in less time than the slower, suppose that A is quicker and B slower, and that the slower has
traversed the magnitude GD in the time ZH. Now it is clear that the quicker will traverse the same magnitude
in less time than this: let us say in the time ZO. Again, since the quicker has passed over the whole D in the
time ZO, the slower will in the same time pass over GK, say, which is less than GD. And since B, the slower,
has passed over GK in the time ZO, the quicker will pass over it in less time: so that the time ZO will again
be divided. And if this is divided the magnitude GK will also be divided just as GD was: and again, if the
magnitude is divided, the time will also be divided. And we can carry on this process for ever, taking the
slower after the quicker and the quicker after the slower alternately, and using what has been demonstrated at
each stage as a new point of departure: for the quicker will divide the time and the slower will divide the
length. If, then, this alternation always holds good, and at every turn involves a division, it is evident that all

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time must be continuous. And at the same time it is clear that all magnitude is also continuous; for the
divisions of which time and magnitude respectively are susceptible are the same and equal.

Moreover, the current popular arguments make it plain that, if time is continuous, magnitude is continuous
also, inasmuch as a thing asses over half a given magnitude in half the time taken to cover the whole: in fact
without qualification it passes over a less magnitude in less time; for the divisions of time and of magnitude
will be the same. And if either is infinite, so is the other, and the one is so in the same way as the other; i.e. if
time is infinite in respect of its extremities, length is also infinite in respect of its extremities: if time is
infinite in respect of divisibility, length is also infinite in respect of divisibility: and if time is infinite in both
respects, magnitude is also infinite in both respects.

Hence Zeno's argument makes a false assumption in asserting that it is impossible for a thing to pass over or
severally to come in contact with infinite things in a finite time. For there are two senses in which length and
time and generally anything continuous are called 'infinite': they are called so either in respect of divisibility
or in respect of their extremities. So while a thing in a finite time cannot come in contact with things
quantitatively infinite, it can come in contact with things infinite in respect of divisibility: for in this sense the
time itself is also infinite: and so we find that the time occupied by the passage over the infinite is not a finite
but an infinite time, and the contact with the infinites is made by means of moments not finite but infinite in
number.

The passage over the infinite, then, cannot occupy a finite time, and the passage over the finite cannot occupy
an infinite time: if the time is infinite the magnitude must be infinite also, and if the magnitude is infinite, so
also is the time. This may be shown as follows. Let AB be a finite magnitude, and let us suppose that it is
traversed in infinite time G, and let a finite period GD of the time be taken. Now in this period the thing in
motion will pass over a certain segment of the magnitude: let BE be the segment that it has thus passed over.
(This will be either an exact measure of AB or less or greater than an exact measure: it makes no difference
which it is.) Then, since a magnitude equal to BE will always be passed over in an equal time, and BE
measures the whole magnitude, the whole time occupied in passing over AB will be finite: for it will be
divisible into periods equal in number to the segments into which the magnitude is divisible. Moreover, if it is
the case that infinite time is not occupied in passing over every magnitude, but it is possible to ass over some
magnitude, say BE, in a finite time, and if this BE measures the whole of which it is a part, and if an equal
magnitude is passed over in an equal time, then it follows that the time like the magnitude is finite. That
infinite time will not be occupied in passing over BE is evident if the time be taken as limited in one
direction: for as the part will be passed over in less time than the whole, the time occupied in traversing this
part must be finite, the limit in one direction being given. The same reasoning will also show the falsity of the
assumption that infinite length can be traversed in a finite time. It is evident, then, from what has been said
that neither a line nor a surface nor in fact anything continuous can be indivisible.

This conclusion follows not only from the present argument but from the consideration that the opposite
assumption implies the divisibility of the indivisible. For since the distinction of quicker and slower may
apply to motions occupying any period of time and in an equal time the quicker passes over a greater length,
it may happen that it will pass over a length twice, or one and a half times, as great as that passed over by the
slower: for their respective velocities may stand to one another in this proportion. Suppose, then, that the
quicker has in the same time been carried over a length one and a half times as great as that traversed by the
slower, and that the respective magnitudes are divided, that of the quicker, the magnitude ABGD, into three
indivisibles, and that of the slower into the two indivisibles EZ, ZH. Then the time may also be divided into
three indivisibles, for an equal magnitude will be passed over in an equal time. Suppose then that it is thus
divided into KL, LM, MN. Again, since in the same time the slower has been carried over EZ, ZH, the time
may also be similarly divided into two. Thus the indivisible will be divisible, and that which has no parts will
be passed over not in an indivisible but in a greater time. It is evident, therefore, that nothing continuous is
without parts.

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The present also is necessarily indivisible-the present, that is, not in the sense in which the word is applied to
one thing in virtue of another, but in its proper and primary sense; in which sense it is inherent in all time. For
the present is something that is an extremity of the past (no part of the future being on this side of it) and also
of the future (no part of the past being on the other side of it): it is, as we have said, a limit of both. And if it
is once shown that it is essentially of this character and one and the same, it will at once be evident also that it
is indivisible.

Now the present that is the extremity of both times must be one and the same: for if each extremity were
different, the one could not be in succession to the other, because nothing continuous can be composed of
things having no parts: and if the one is apart from the other, there will be time intermediate between them,
because everything continuous is such that there is something intermediate between its limits and described
by the same name as itself. But if the intermediate thing is time, it will be divisible: for all time has been
shown to be divisible. Thus on this assumption the present is divisible. But if the present is divisible, there
will be part of the past in the future and part of the future in the past: for past time will be marked off from
future time at the actual point of division. Also the present will be a present not in the proper sense but in
virtue of something else: for the division which yields it will not be a division proper. Furthermore, there will
be a part of the present that is past and a part that is future, and it will not always be the same part that is past
or future: in fact one and the same present will not be simultaneous: for the time may be divided at many
points. If, therefore, the present cannot possibly have these characteristics, it follows that it must be the same
present that belongs to each of the two times. But if this is so it is evident that the present is also indivisible:
for if it is divisible it will be involved in the same implications as before. It is clear, then, from what has been
said that time contains something indivisible, and this is what we call a present.

We will now show that nothing can be in motion in a present. For if this is possible, there can be both quicker
and slower motion in the present. Suppose then that in the present N the quicker has traversed the distance
AB. That being so, the slower will in the same present traverse a distance less than AB, say AG. But since the
slower will have occupied the whole present in traversing AG, the quicker will occupy less than this in
traversing it. Thus we shall have a division of the present, whereas we found it to be indivisible. It is
impossible, therefore, for anything to be in motion in a present.

Nor can anything be at rest in a present: for, as we were saying, only can be at rest which is naturally
designed to be in motion but is not in motion when, where, or as it would naturally be so: since, therefore,
nothing is naturally designed to be in motion in a present, it is clear that nothing can be at rest in a present
either.

Moreover, inasmuch as it is the same present that belongs to both the times, and it is possible for a thing to be
in motion throughout one time and to be at rest throughout the other, and that which is in motion or at rest for
the whole of a time will be in motion or at rest as the case may be in any part of it in which it is naturally
designed to be in motion or at rest: this being so, the assumption that there can be motion or rest in a present
will carry with it the implication that the same thing can at the same time be at rest and in motion: for both
the times have the same extremity, viz. the present.

Again, when we say that a thing is at rest, we imply that its condition in whole and in part is at the time of
speaking uniform with what it was previously: but the present contains no 'previously': consequently, there
can be no rest in it.

It follows then that the motion of that which is in motion and the rest of that which is at rest must occupy
time.

PHYSICS

Further, everything that changes must be divisible. For since every change is from something to something,
and when a thing is at the goal of its change it is no longer changing, and when both it itself and all its parts
are at the starting-point of its change it is not changing (for that which is in whole and in part in an unvarying
condition is not in a state of change); it follows, therefore, that part of that which is changing must be at the
starting-point and part at the goal: for as a whole it cannot be in both or in neither. (Here by 'goal of change' I
mean that which comes first in the process of change: e.g. in a process of change from white the goal in
question will be grey, not black: for it is not necessary that that that which is changing should be at either of
the extremes.) It is evident, therefore, that everything that changes must be divisible.

Now motion is divisible in two senses. In the first place it is divisible in virtue of the time that it occupies. In
the second place it is divisible according to the motions of the several parts of that which is in motion: e.g. if
the whole AG is in motion, there will be a motion of AB and a motion of BG. That being so, let DE be the
motion of the part AB and EZ the motion of the part BG. Then the whole DZ must be the motion of AG: for
DZ must constitute the motion of AG inasmuch as DE and EZ severally constitute the motions of each of its
parts. But the motion of a thing can never be constituted by the motion of something else: consequently the
whole motion is the motion of the whole magnitude.

Again, since every motion is a motion of something, and the whole motion DZ is not the motion of either of
the parts (for each of the parts DE, EZ is the motion of one of the parts AB, BG) or of anything else (for, the
whole motion being the motion of a whole, the parts of the motion are the motions of the parts of that whole:
and the parts of DZ are the motions of AB, BG and of nothing else: for, as we saw, a motion that is one
cannot be the motion of more things than one): since this is so, the whole motion will be the motion of the
magnitude ABG.

Again, if there is a motion of the whole other than DZ, say the the of each of the arts may be subtracted from
it: and these motions will be equal to DE, EZ respectively: for the motion of that which is one must be one.
So if the whole motion 01 may be divided into the motions of the parts, 01 will be equal to DZ: if on the
other hand there is any remainder, say KI, this will be a motion of nothing: for it can be the motion neither of
the whole nor of the parts (as the motion of that which is one must be one) nor of anything else: for a motion
that is continuous must be the motion of things that are continuous. And the same result follows if the
division of 01 reveals a surplus on the side of the motions of the parts. Consequently, if this is impossible, the
whole motion must be the same as and equal to DZ.

This then is what is meant by the division of motion according to the motions of the parts: and it must be
applicable to everything that is divisible into parts.

Motion is also susceptible of another kind of division, that according to time. For since all motion is in time
and all time is divisible, and in less time the motion is less, it follows that every motion must be divisible
according to time. And since everything that is in motion is in motion in a certain sphere and for a certain
time and has a motion belonging to it, it follows that the time, the motion, the being-in-motion, the thing that
is in motion, and the sphere of the motion must all be susceptible of the same divisions (though spheres of
motion are not all divisible in a like manner: thus quantity is essentially, quality accidentally divisible). For
suppose that A is the time occupied by the motion B. Then if all the time has been occupied by the whole
motion, it will take less of the motion to occupy half the time, less again to occupy a further subdivision of
the time, and so on to infinity. Again, the time will be divisible similarly to the motion: for if the whole
motion occupies all the time half the motion will occupy half the time, and less of the motion again will
occupy less of the time.

PHYSICS

In the same way the being-in-motion will also be divisible. For let G be the whole being-in-motion. Then
the being-in-motion that corresponds to half the motion will be less than the whole being-in-motion, that
which corresponds to a quarter of the motion will be less again, and so on to infinity. Moreover by setting out
successively the being-in-motion corresponding to each of the two motions DG (say) and GE, we may argue
that the whole being-in-motion will correspond to the whole motion (for if it were some other
being-in-motion that corresponded to the whole motion, there would be more than one being-in motion
corresponding to the same motion), the argument being the same as that whereby we showed that the motion
of a thing is divisible into the motions of the parts of the thing: for if we take separately the being-in motion
corresponding to each of the two motions, we shall see that the whole being-in motion is continuous.

The same reasoning will show the divisibility of the length, and in fact of everything that forms a sphere of
change (though some of these are only accidentally divisible because that which changes is so): for the
division of one term will involve the division of all. So, too, in the matter of their being finite or infinite, they
will all alike be either the one or the other. And we now see that in most cases the fact that all the terms are
divisible or infinite is a direct consequence of the fact that the thing that changes is divisible or infinite: for
the attributes 'divisible' and 'infinite' belong in the first instance to the thing that changes. That divisibility
does so we have already shown: that infinity does so will be made clear in what follows?

Since everything that changes changes from something to something, that which has changed must at the
moment when it has first changed be in that to which it has changed. For that which changes retires from or
leaves that from which it changes: and leaving, if not identical with changing, is at any rate a consequence of
it. And if leaving is a consequence of changing, having left is a consequence of having changed: for there is a
like relation between the two in each case.

One kind of change, then, being change in a relation of contradiction, where a thing has changed from
not-being to being it has left not-being. Therefore it will be in being: for everything must either be or not be.
It is evident, then, that in contradictory change that which has changed must be in that to which it has
changed. And if this is true in this kind of change, it will be true in all other kinds as well: for in this matter
what holds good in the case of one will hold good likewise in the case of the rest.

Moreover, if we take each kind of change separately, the truth of our conclusion will be equally evident, on
the ground that that that which has changed must be somewhere or in something. For, since it has left that
from which it has changed and must be somewhere, it must be either in that to which it has changed or in
something else. If, then, that which has changed to B is in something other than B, say G, it must again be
changing from G to B: for it cannot be assumed that there is no interval between G and B, since change is
continuous. Thus we have the result that the thing that has changed, at the moment when it has changed, is
changing to that to which it has changed, which is impossible: that which has changed, therefore, must be in
that to which it has changed. So it is evident likewise that that that which has come to be, at the moment
when it has come to be, will be, and that which has ceased to be will not-be: for what we have said applies
universally to every kind of change, and its truth is most obvious in the case of contradictory change. It is
clear, then, that that which has changed, at the moment when it has first changed, is in that to which it has
changed.

We will now show that the 'primary when' in which that which has changed effected the completion of its
change must be indivisible, where by 'primary' I mean possessing the characteristics in question of itself and
not in virtue of the possession of them by something else belonging to it. For let AG be divisible, and let it be
divided at B. If then the completion of change has been effected in AB or again in BG, AG cannot be the
primary thing in which the completion of change has been effected. If, on the other hand, it has been

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changing in both AB and BG (for it must either have changed or be changing in each of them), it must have
been changing in the whole AG: but our assumption was that AG contains only the completion of the change.
It is equally impossible to suppose that one part of AG contains the process and the other the completion of
the change: for then we shall have something prior to what is primary. So that in which the completion of
change has been effected must be indivisible. It is also evident, therefore, that that that in which that which
has ceased to be has ceased to be and that in which that which has come to be has come to be are indivisible.

But there are two senses of the expression 'the primary when in which something has changed'. On the one
hand it may mean the primary when containing the completion of the process of change- the moment when it
is correct to say 'it has changed': on the other hand it may mean the primary when containing the beginning of
the process of change. Now the primary when that has reference to the end of the change is something really
existent: for a change may really be completed, and there is such a thing as an end of change, which we have
in fact shown to be indivisible because it is a limit. But that which has reference to the beginning is not
existent at all: for there is no such thing as a beginning of a process of change, and the time occupied by the
change does not contain any primary when in which the change began. For suppose that AD is such a primary
when. Then it cannot be indivisible: for, if it were, the moment immediately preceding the change and the
moment in which the change begins would be consecutive (and moments cannot be consecutive). Again, if
the changing thing is at rest in the whole preceding time GA (for we may suppose that it is at rest), it is at rest
in A also: so if AD is without parts, it will simultaneously be at rest and have changed: for it is at rest in A
and has changed in D. Since then AD is not without parts, it must be divisible, and the changing thing must
have changed in every part of it (for if it has changed in neither of the two parts into which AD is divided, it
has not changed in the whole either: if, on the other hand, it is in process of change in both parts, it is likewise
in process of change in the whole: and if, again, it has changed in one of the two parts, the whole is not the
primary when in which it has changed: it must therefore have changed in every part). It is evident, then, that
with reference to the beginning of change there is no primary when in which change has been effected: for
the divisions are infinite.

So, too, of that which has changed there is no primary part that has changed. For suppose that of AE the
primary part that has changed is AZ (everything that changes having been shown to be divisible): and let 01
be the time in which DZ has changed. If, then, in the whole time DZ has changed, in half the time there will
be a part that has changed, less than and therefore prior to DZ: and again there will be another part prior to
this, and yet another, and so on to infinity. Thus of that which changes there cannot be any primary part that
has changed. It is evident, then, from what has been said, that neither of that which changes nor of the time in
which it changes is there any primary part.

With regard, however, to the actual subject of change-that is to say that in respect of which a thing
changes-there is a difference to be observed. For in a process of change we may distinguish three terms-that
which changes, that in which it changes, and the actual subject of change, e.g. the man, the time, and the fair
complexion. Of these the man and the time are divisible: but with the fair complexion it is otherwise (though
they are all divisible accidentally, for that in which the fair complexion or any other quality is an accident is
divisible). For of actual subjects of change it will be seen that those which are classed as essentially, not
accidentally, divisible have no primary part. Take the case of magnitudes: let AB be a magnitude, and
suppose that it has moved from B to a primary 'where' G. Then if BG is taken to be indivisible, two things
without parts will have to be contiguous (which is impossible): if on the other hand it is taken to be divisible,
there will be something prior to G to which the magnitude has changed, and something else again prior to
that, and so on to infinity, because the process of division may be continued without end. Thus there can be
no primary 'where' to which a thing has changed. And if we take the case of quantitative change, we shall get
a like result, for here too the change is in something continuous. It is evident, then, that only in qualitative
motion can there be anything essentially indivisible.

PHYSICS

Now everything that changes changes time, and that in two senses: for the time in which a thing is said to
change may be the primary time, or on the other hand it may have an extended reference, as e.g. when we say
that a thing changes in a particular year because it changes in a particular day. That being so, that which
changes must be changing in any part of the primary time in which it changes. This is clear from our
definition of 'primary', in which the word is said to express just this: it may also, however, be made evident
by the following argument. Let ChRh be the primary time in which that which is in motion is in motion: and
(as all time is divisible) let it be divided at K. Now in the time ChK it either is in motion or is not in motion,
and the same is likewise true of the time KRh. Then if it is in motion in neither of the two parts, it will be at
rest in the whole: for it is impossible that it should be in motion in a time in no part of which it is in motion.
If on the other hand it is in motion in only one of the two parts of the time, ChRh cannot be the primary time
in which it is in motion: for its motion will have reference to a time other than ChRh. It must, then, have been
in motion in any part of ChRh.

And now that this has been proved, it is evident that everything that is in motion must have been in motion
before. For if that which is in motion has traversed the distance KL in the primary time ChRh, in half the time
a thing that is in motion with equal velocity and began its motion at the same time will have traversed half the
distance. But if this second thing whose velocity is equal has traversed a certain distance in a certain time, the
original thing that is in motion must have traversed the same distance in the same time. Hence that which is
in motion must have been in motion before.

Again, if by taking the extreme moment of the time-for it is the moment that defines the time, and time is
that which is intermediate between moments-we are enabled to say that motion has taken place in the whole
time ChRh or in fact in any period of it, motion may likewise be said to have taken place in every other such
period. But half the time finds an extreme in the point of division. Therefore motion will have taken place in
half the time and in fact in any part of it: for as soon as any division is made there is always a time defined by
moments. If, then, all time is divisible, and that which is intermediate between moments is time, everything
that is changing must have completed an infinite number of changes.

Again, since a thing that changes continuously and has not perished or ceased from its change must either be
changing or have changed in any part of the time of its change, and since it cannot be changing in a moment,
it follows that it must have changed at every moment in the time: consequently, since the moments are
infinite in number, everything that is changing must have completed an infinite number of changes.

And not only must that which is changing have changed, but that which has changed must also previously
have been changing, since everything that has changed from something to something has changed in a period
of time. For suppose that a thing has changed from A to B in a moment. Now the moment in which it has
changed cannot be the same as that in which it is at A (since in that case it would be in A and B at once): for
we have shown above that that that which has changed, when it has changed, is not in that from which it has
changed. If, on the other hand, it is a different moment, there will be a period of time intermediate between
the two: for, as we saw, moments are not consecutive. Since, then, it has changed in a period of time, and all
time is divisible, in half the time it will have completed another change, in a quarter another, and so on to
infinity: consequently when it has changed, it must have previously been changing.

Moreover, the truth of what has been said is more evident in the case of magnitude, because the magnitude
over which what is changing changes is continuous. For suppose that a thing has changed from G to D. Then
if GD is indivisible, two things without parts will be consecutive. But since this is impossible, that which is
intermediate between them must be a magnitude and divisible into an infinite number of segments:
consequently, before the change is completed, the thing changes to those segments. Everything that has

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changed, therefore, must previously have been changing: for the same proof also holds good of change with
respect to what is not continuous, changes, that is to say, between contraries and between contradictories. In
such cases we have only to take the time in which a thing has changed and again apply the same reasoning.
So that which has changed must have been changing and that which is changing must have changed, and a
process of change is preceded by a completion of change and a completion by a process: and we can never
take any stage and say that it is absolutely the first. The reason of this is that no two things without parts can
be contiguous, and therefore in change the process of division is infinite, just as lines may be infinitely
divided so that one part is continually increasing and the other continually decreasing.

So it is evident also that that that which has become must previously have been in process of becoming, and
that which is in process of becoming must previously have become, everything (that is) that is divisible and
continuous: though it is not always the actual thing that is in process of becoming of which this is true:
sometimes it is something else, that is to say, some part of the thing in question, e.g. the foundation-stone of
a house. So, too, in the case of that which is perishing and that which has perished: for that which becomes
and that which perishes must contain an element of infiniteness as an immediate consequence of the fact that
they are continuous things: and so a thing cannot be in process of becoming without having become or have
become without having been in process of becoming. So, too, in the case of perishing and having perished:
perishing must be preceded by having perished, and having perished must be preceded by perishing. It is
evident, then, that that which has become must previously have been in process of becoming, and that which
is in process of becoming must previously have become: for all magnitudes and all periods of time are
infinitely divisible.

Consequently no absolutely first stage of change can be represented by any particular part of space or time
which the changing thing may occupy.

Now since the motion of everything that is in motion occupies a period of time, and a greater magnitude is
traversed in a longer time, it is impossible that a thing should undergo a finite motion in an infinite time, if
this is understood to mean not that the same motion or a part of it is continually repeated, but that the whole
infinite time is occupied by the whole finite motion. In all cases where a thing is in motion with uniform
velocity it is clear that the finite magnitude is traversed in a finite time. For if we take a part of the motion
which shall be a measure of the whole, the whole motion is completed in as many equal periods of the time as
there are parts of the motion. Consequently, since these parts are finite, both in size individually and in
number collectively, the whole time must also be finite: for it will be a multiple of the portion, equal to the
time occupied in completing the aforesaid part multiplied by the number of the parts.

But it makes no difference even if the velocity is not uniform. For let us suppose that the line AB represents a
finite stretch over which a thing has been moved in the given time, and let GD be the infinite time. Now if
one part of the stretch must have been traversed before another part (this is clear, that in the earlier and in the
later part of the time a different part of the stretch has been traversed: for as the time lengthens a different part
of the motion will always be completed in it, whether the thing in motion changes with uniform velocity or
not: and whether the rate of motion increases or diminishes or remains stationary this is none the less so), let
us then take AE a part of the whole stretch of motion AB which shall be a measure of AB. Now this part of
the motion occupies a certain period of the infinite time: it cannot itself occupy an infinite time, for we are
assuming that that is occupied by the whole AB. And if again I take another part equal to AE, that also must
occupy a finite time in consequence of the same assumption. And if I go on taking parts in this way, on the
one hand there is no part which will be a measure of the infinite time (for the infinite cannot be composed of
finite parts whether equal or unequal, because there must be some unity which will be a measure of things
finite in multitude or in magnitude, which, whether they are equal or unequal, are none the less limited in

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magnitude); while on the other hand the finite stretch of motion AB is a certain multiple of AE: consequently
the motion AB must be accomplished in a finite time. Moreover it is the same with coming to rest as with
motion. And so it is impossible for one and the same thing to be infinitely in process of becoming or of
perishing. The reasoning he will prove that in a finite time there cannot be an infinite extent of motion or of
coming to rest, whether the motion is regular or irregular. For if we take a part which shall be a measure of
the whole time, in this part a certain fraction, not the whole, of the magnitude will be traversed, because we
assume that the traversing of the whole occupies all the time. Again, in another equal part of the time another
part of the magnitude will be traversed: and similarly in each part of the time that we take, whether equal or
unequal to the part originally taken. It makes no difference whether the parts are equal or not, if only each is
finite: for it is clear that while the time is exhausted by the subtraction of its parts, the infinite magnitude will
not be thus exhausted, since the process of subtraction is finite both in respect of the quantity subtracted and
of the number of times a subtraction is made. Consequently the infinite magnitude will not be traversed in
finite time: and it makes no difference whether the magnitude is infinite in only one direction or in both: for
the same reasoning will hold good.

This having been proved, it is evident that neither can a finite magnitude traverse an infinite magnitude in a
finite time, the reason being the same as that given above: in part of the time it will traverse a finite
magnitude and in each several part likewise, so that in the whole time it will traverse a finite magnitude.

And since a finite magnitude will not traverse an infinite in a finite time, it is clear that neither will an infinite
traverse a finite in a finite time. For if the infinite could traverse the finite, the finite could traverse the
infinite; for it makes no difference which of the two is the thing in motion; either case involves the traversing
of the infinite by the finite. For when the infinite magnitude A is in motion a part of it, say GD, will occupy
the finite and then another, and then another, and so on to infinity. Thus the two results will coincide: the
infinite will have completed a motion over the finite and the finite will have traversed the infinite: for it
would seem to be impossible for the motion of the infinite over the finite to occur in any way other than by
the finite traversing the infinite either by locomotion over it or by measuring it. Therefore, since this is
impossible, the infinite cannot traverse the finite.

Nor again will the infinite traverse the infinite in a finite time. Otherwise it would also traverse the finite, for
the infinite includes the finite. We can further prove this in the same way by taking the time as our
starting-point.

Since, then, it is established that in a finite time neither will the finite traverse the infinite, nor the infinite the
finite, nor the infinite the infinite, it is evident also that in a finite time there cannot be infinite motion: for
what difference does it make whether we take the motion or the magnitude to be infinite? If either of the two
is infinite, the other must be so likewise: for all locomotion is in space.

Since everything to which motion or rest is natural is in motion or at rest in the natural time, place, and
manner, that which is coming to a stand, when it is coming to a stand, must be in motion: for if it is not in
motion it must be at rest: but that which is at rest cannot be coming to rest. From this it evidently follows that
coming to a stand must occupy a period of time: for the motion of that which is in motion occupies a period
of time, and that which is coming to a stand has been shown to be in motion: consequently coming to a stand
must occupy a period of time.

Again, since the terms 'quicker' and 'slower' are used only of that which occupies a period of time, and the
process of coming to a stand may be quicker or slower, the same conclusion follows.

PHYSICS

And that which is coming to a stand must be coming to a stand in any part of the primary time in which it is
coming to a stand. For if it is coming to a stand in neither of two parts into which the time may be divided, it
cannot be coming to a stand in the whole time, with the result that that that which is coming to a stand will
not be coming to a stand. If on the other hand it is coming to a stand in only one of the two parts of the time,
the whole cannot be the primary time in which it is coming to a stand: for it is coming to a stand in the whole
time not primarily but in virtue of something distinct from itself, the argument being the same as that which
we used above about things in motion.

And just as there is no primary time in which that which is in motion is in motion, so too there is no primary
time in which that which is coming to a stand is coming to a stand, there being no primary stage either of
being in motion or of coming to a stand. For let AB be the primary time in which a thing is coming to a stand.
Now AB cannot be without parts: for there cannot be motion in that which is without parts, because the
moving thing would necessarily have been already moved for part of the time of its movement: and that
which is coming to a stand has been shown to be in motion. But since AB is therefore divisible, the thing is
coming to a stand in every one of the parts of AB: for we have shown above that it is coming to a stand in
every one of the parts in which it is primarily coming to a stand. Since then, that in which primarily a thing is
coming to a stand must be a period of time and not something indivisible, and since all time is infinitely
divisible, there cannot be anything in which primarily it is coming to a stand.

Nor again can there be a primary time at which the being at rest of that which is at rest occurred: for it cannot
have occurred in that which has no parts, because there cannot be motion in that which is indivisible, and that
in which rest takes place is the same as that in which motion takes place: for we defined a state of rest to be
the state of a thing to which motion is natural but which is not in motion when (that is to say in that in which)
motion would be natural to it. Again, our use of the phrase 'being at rest' also implies that the previous state
of a thing is still unaltered, not one point only but two at least being thus needed to determine its presence:
consequently that in which a thing is at rest cannot be without parts. Since, then it is divisible, it must be a
period of time, and the thing must be at rest in every one of its parts, as may be shown by the same method as
that used above in similar demonstrations.

So there can be no primary part of the time: and the reason is that rest and motion are always in a period of
time, and a period of time has no primary part any more than a magnitude or in fact anything continuous: for
everything continuous is divisible into an infinite number of parts.

And since everything that is in motion is in motion in a period of time and changes from something to
something, when its motion is comprised within a particular period of time essentially-that is to say when it
fills the whole and not merely a part of the time in question-it is impossible that in that time that which is in
motion should be over against some particular thing primarily. For if a thing-itself and each of its
parts-occupies the same space for a definite period of time, it is at rest: for it is in just these circumstances
that we use the term 'being at rest' -when at one moment after another it can be said with truth that a thing,
itself and its parts, occupies the same space. So if this is being at rest it is impossible for that which is
changing to be as a whole, at the time when it is primarily changing, over against any particular thing (for the
whole period of time is divisible), so that in one part of it after another it will be true to say that the thing,
itself and its parts, occupies the same space. If this is not so and the aforesaid proposition is true only at a
single moment, then the thing will be over against a particular thing not for any period of time but only at a
moment that limits the time. It is true that at any moment it is always over against something stationary: but it
is not at rest: for at a moment it is not possible for anything to be either in motion or at rest. So while it is true
to say that that which is in motion is at a moment not in motion and is opposite some particular thing, it
cannot in a period of time be over against that which is at rest: for that would involve the conclusion that that
which is in locomotion is at rest.

PHYSICS

Zeno's reasoning, however, is fallacious, when he says that if everything when it occupies an equal space is at
rest, and if that which is in locomotion is always occupying such a space at any moment, the flying arrow is
therefore motionless. This is false, for time is not composed of indivisible moments any more than any other
magnitude is composed of indivisibles.

Zeno's arguments about motion, which cause so much disquietude to those who try to solve the problems that
they present, are four in number. The first asserts the non-existence of motion on the ground that that which
is in locomotion must arrive at the half-way stage before it arrives at the goal. This we have discussed above.

The second is the so-called 'Achilles', and it amounts to this, that in a race the quickest runner can never
overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point whence the pursued started, so that the
slower must always hold a lead. This argument is the same in principle as that which depends on bisection,
though it differs from it in that the spaces with which we successively have to deal are not divided into
halves. The result of the argument is that the slower is not overtaken: but it proceeds along the same lines as
the bisection-argument (for in both a division of the space in a certain way leads to the result that the goal is
not reached, though the 'Achilles' goes further in that it affirms that even the quickest runner in legendary
tradition must fail in his pursuit of the slowest), so that the solution must be the same. And the axiom that that
which holds a lead is never overtaken is false: it is not overtaken, it is true, while it holds a lead: but it is
overtaken nevertheless if it is granted that it traverses the finite distance prescribed. These then are two of his
arguments.

The third is that already given above, to the effect that the flying arrow is at rest, which result follows from
the assumption that time is composed of moments: if this assumption is not granted, the conclusion will not
follow.

The fourth argument is that concerning the two rows of bodies, each row being composed of an equal number
of bodies of equal size, passing each other on a race-course as they proceed with equal velocity in opposite
directions, the one row originally occupying the space between the goal and the middle point of the course
and the other that between the middle point and the starting-post. This, he thinks, involves the conclusion
that half a given time is equal to double that time. The fallacy of the reasoning lies in the assumption that a
body occupies an equal time in passing with equal velocity a body that is in motion and a body of equal size
that is at rest; which is false. For instance (so runs the argument), let A, A.. .be the stationary bodies of equal
size, B, B... the bodies, equal in number and in size to A, A..., originally occupying the half of the course from
the starting-post to the middle of the A's, and G, G.. .those originally occupying the other half from the goal
to the middle of the A's, equal in number, size, and velocity to B, B... .Then three consequences follow:

First, as the B's and the G's pass one another, the first B reaches the last G at the same moment as the first G
reaches the last B. Secondly at this moment the first G has passed all the A's, whereas the first B has passed
only half the A's, and has consequently occupied only half the time occupied by the first G, since each of the
two occupies an equal time in passing each A. Thirdly, at the same moment all the B's have passed all the
G's: for the first G and the first B will simultaneously reach the opposite ends of the course, since (so says
Zeno) the time occupied by the first G in passing each of the B's is equal to that occupied by it in passing
each of the A's, because an equal time is occupied by both the first B and the first G in passing all the A's.
This is the argument, but it presupposed the aforesaid fallacious assumption.

Nor in reference to contradictory change shall we find anything unanswerable in the argument that if a thing
is changing from not-white, say, to white, and is in neither condition, then it will be neither white nor
not-white: for the fact that it is not wholly in either condition will not preclude us from calling it white or

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not-white. We call a thing white or not-white not necessarily because it is be one or the other, but cause
most of its parts or the most essential parts of it are so: not being in a certain condition is different from not
being wholly in that condition. So, too, in the case of being and not-being and all other conditions which
stand in a contradictory relation: while the changing thing must of necessity be in one of the two opposites, it
is never wholly in either.

Again, in the case of circles and spheres and everything whose motion is confined within the space that it
occupies, it is not true to say the motion can be nothing but rest, on the ground that such things in motion,
themselves and their parts, will occupy the same position for a period of time, and that therefore they will be
at once at rest and in motion. For in the first place the parts do not occupy the same position for any period of
time: and in the second place the whole also is always changing to a different position: for if we take the orbit
as described from a point A on a circumference, it will not be the same as the orbit as described from B or G
or any other point on the same circumference except in an accidental sense, the sense that is to say in which a
musical man is the same as a man. Thus one orbit is always changing into another, and the thing will never be
at rest. And it is the same with the sphere and everything else whose motion is confined within the space that
it occupies.

Our next point is that that which is without parts cannot be in motion except accidentally: i.e. it can be in
motion only in so far as the body or the magnitude is in motion and the partless is in motion by inclusion
therein, just as that which is in a boat may be in motion in consequence of the locomotion of the boat, or a
part may be in motion in virtue of the motion of the whole. (It must be remembered, however, that by 'that
which is without parts' I mean that which is quantitatively indivisible (and that the case of the motion of a
part is not exactly parallel): for parts have motions belonging essentially and severally to themselves distinct
from the motion of the whole. The distinction may be seen most clearly in the case of a revolving sphere, in
which the velocities of the parts near the centre and of those on the surface are different from one another and
from that of the whole; this implies that there is not one motion but many). As we have said, then, that which
is without parts can be in motion in the sense in which a man sitting in a boat is in motion when the boat is
travelling, but it cannot be in motion of itself. For suppose that it is changing from AB to BG-either from one
magnitude to another, or from one form to another, or from some state to its contradictory-and let D be the
primary time in which it undergoes the change. Then in the time in which it is changing it must be either in
AB or in BG or partly in one and partly in the other: for this, as we saw, is true of everything that is changing.
Now it cannot be partly in each of the two: for then it would be divisible into parts. Nor again can it be in
BG: for then it will have completed the change, whereas the assumption is that the change is in process. It
remains, then, that in the time in which it is changing, it is in AB. That being so, it will be at rest: for, as we
saw, to be in the same condition for a period of time is to be at rest. So it is not possible for that which has no
parts to be in motion or to change in any way: for only one condition could have made it possible for it to
have motion, viz. that time should be composed of moments, in which case at any moment it would have
completed a motion or a change, so that it would never be in motion, but would always have been in motion.
But this we have already shown above to be impossible: time is not composed of moments, just as a line is
not composed of points, and motion is not composed of starts: for this theory simply makes motion consist of
indivisibles in exactly the same way as time is made to consist of moments or a length of points.

Again, it may be shown in the following way that there can be no motion of a point or of any other
indivisible. That which is in motion can never traverse a space greater than itself without first traversing a
space equal to or less than itself. That being so, it is evident that the point also must first traverse a space
equal to or less than itself. But since it is indivisible, there can be no space less than itself for it to traverse
first: so it will have to traverse a distance equal to itself. Thus the line will be composed of points, for the
point, as it continually traverses a distance equal to itself, will be a measure of the whole line. But since this

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is impossible, it is likewise impossible for the indivisible to be in motion.

Again, since motion is always in a period of time and never in a moment, and all time is divisible, for
everything that is in motion there must be a time less than that in which it traverses a distance as great as
itself. For that in which it is in motion will be a time, because all motion is in a period of time; and all time
has been shown above to be divisible. Therefore, if a point is in motion, there must be a time less than that in
which it has itself traversed any distance. But this is impossible, for in less time it must traverse less distance,
and thus the indivisible will be divisible into something less than itself, just as the time is so divisible: the fact
being that the only condition under which that which is without parts and indivisible could be in motion
would have been the possibility of the infinitely small being in motion in a moment: for in the two
questions-that of motion in a moment and that of motion of something indivisible-the same principle is
involved.

Our next point is that no process of change is infinite: for every change, whether between contradictories or
between contraries, is a change from something to something. Thus in contradictory changes the positive or
the negative, as the case may be, is the limit, e.g. being is the limit of coming to be and not-being is the limit
of ceasing to be: and in contrary changes the particular contraries are the limits, since these are the extreme
points of any such process of change, and consequently of every process of alteration: for alteration is always
dependent upon some contraries. Similarly contraries are the extreme points of processes of increase and
decrease: the limit of increase is to be found in the complete magnitude proper to the peculiar nature of the
thing that is increasing, while the limit of decrease is the complete loss of such magnitude. Locomotion, it is
true, we cannot show to be finite in this way, since it is not always between contraries. But since that which
cannot be cut (in the sense that it is inconceivable that it should be cut, the term 'cannot' being used in several
senses)-since it is inconceivable that that which in this sense cannot be cut should be in process of being cut,
and generally that that which cannot come to be should be in process of coming to be, it follows that it is
inconceivable that that which cannot complete a change should be in process of changing to that to which it
cannot complete a change. If, then, it is to be assumed that that which is in locomotion is in process of
changing, it must be capable of completing the change. Consequently its motion is not infinite, and it will not
be in locomotion over an infinite distance, for it cannot traverse such a distance.

It is evident, then, that a process of change cannot be infinite in the sense that it is not defined by limits. But it
remains to be considered whether it is possible in the sense that one and the same process of change may be
infinite in respect of the time which it occupies. If it is not one process, it would seem that there is nothing to
prevent its being infinite in this sense; e.g. if a process of locomotion be succeeded by a process of alteration
and that by a process of increase and that again by a process of coming to be: in this way there may be motion
for ever so far as the time is concerned, but it will not be one motion, because all these motions do not
compose one. If it is to be one process, no motion can be infinite in respect of the time that it occupies, with
the single exception of rotatory locomotion.

Book VII

EVERYTHING that is in motion must be moved by something. For if it has not the source of its motion in
itself it is evident that it is moved by something other than itself, for there must be something else that moves
it. If on the other hand it has the source of its motion in itself, let AB be taken to represent that which is in
motion essentially of itself and not in virtue of the fact that something belonging to it is in motion. Now in the
first place to assume that AB, because it is in motion as a whole and is not moved by anything external to
itself, is therefore moved by itself-this is just as if, supposing that KL is moving LM and is also itself in
motion, we were to deny that KM is moved by anything on the ground that it is not evident which is the part

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that is moving it and which the part that is moved. In the second place that which is in motion without being
moved by anything does not necessarily cease from its motion because something else is at rest, but a thing
must be moved by something if the fact of something else having ceased from its motion causes it to be at
rest. Thus, if this is accepted, everything that is in motion must be moved by something. For AB, which has
been taken to represent that which is in motion, must be divisible since everything that is in motion is
divisible. Let it be divided, then, at G. Now if GB is not in motion, then AB will not be in motion: for if it is,
it is clear that AG would be in motion while BG is at rest, and thus AB cannot be in motion essentially and
primarily. But ex hypothesi AB is in motion essentially and primarily. Therefore if GB is not in motion AB
will be at rest. But we have agreed that that which is at rest if something else is not in motion must be moved
by something. Consequently, everything that is in motion must be moved by something: for that which is in
motion will always be divisible, and if a part of it is not in motion the whole must be at rest.

Since everything that is in motion must be moved by something, let us take the case in which a thing is in
locomotion and is moved by something that is itself in motion, and that again is moved by something else
that is in motion, and that by something else, and so on continually: then the series cannot go on to infinity,
but there must be some first movent. For let us suppose that this is not so and take the series to be infinite. Let
A then be moved by B, B by G, G by D, and so on, each member of the series being moved by that which
comes next to it. Then since ex hypothesi the movent while causing motion is also itself in motion, and the
motion of the moved and the motion of the movent must proceed simultaneously (for the movent is causing
motion and the moved is being moved simultaneously) it is evident that the respective motions of A, B, G,
and each of the other moved movents are simultaneous. Let us take the motion of each separately and let E be
the motion of A, Z of B, and H and O respectively the motions of G and D: for though they are all moved
severally one by another, yet we may still take the motion of each as numerically one, since every motion is
from something to something and is not infinite in respect of its extreme points. By a motion that is
numerically one I mean a motion that proceeds from something numerically one and the same to something
numerically one and the same in a period of time numerically one and the same: for a motion may be the
same generically, specifically, or numerically: it is generically the same if it belongs to the same category,
e.g. substance or quality: it is specifically the same if it proceeds from something specifically the same to
something specifically the same, e.g. from white to black or from good to bad, which is not of a kind
specifically distinct: it is numerically the same if it proceeds from something numerically one to something
numerically one in the same period of time, e.g. from a particular white to a particular black, or from a
particular place to a particular place, in a particular period of time: for if the period of time were not one and
the same, the motion would no longer be numerically one though it would still be specifically one.

We have dealt with this question above. Now let us further take the time in which A has completed its
motion, and let it be represented by K. Then since the motion of A is finite the time will also be finite. But
since the movents and the things moved are infinite, the motion EZHO, i.e. the motion that is composed of all
the individual motions, must be infinite. For the motions of A, B, and the others may be equal, or the motions
of the others may be greater: but assuming what is conceivable, we find that whether they are equal or some
are greater, in both cases the whole motion is infinite. And since the motion of A and that of each of the
others are simultaneous, the whole motion must occupy the same time as the motion of A: but the time
occupied by the motion of A is finite: consequently the motion will be infinite in a finite time, which is
impossible.

It might be thought that what we set out to prove has thus been shown, but our argument so far does not
prove it, because it does not yet prove that anything impossible results from the contrary supposition: for in a
finite time there may be an infinite motion, though not of one thing, but of many: and in the case that we are
considering this is so: for each thing accomplishes its own motion, and there is no impossibility in many
things being in motion simultaneously. But if (as we see to be universally the case) that which primarily is
moved locally and corporeally must be either in contact with or continuous with that which moves it, the
things moved and the movents must be continuous or in contact with one another, so that together they all

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form a single unity: whether this unity is finite or infinite makes no difference to our present argument; for in
any case since the things in motion are infinite in number the whole motion will be infinite, if, as is
theoretically possible, each motion is either equal to or greater than that which follows it in the series: for we
shall take as actual that which is theoretically possible. If, then, A, B, G, D form an infinite magnitude that
passes through the motion EZHO in the finite time K, this involves the conclusion that an infinite motion is
passed through in a finite time: and whether the magnitude in question is finite or infinite this is in either case
impossible. Therefore the series must come to an end, and there must be a first movent and a first moved: for
the fact that this impossibility results only from the assumption of a particular case is immaterial, since the
case assumed is theoretically possible, and the assumption of a theoretically possible case ought not to give
rise to any impossible result.

That which is the first movement of a thing-in the sense that it supplies not 'that for the sake of which' but the
source of the motion-is always together with that which is moved by it by 'together' I mean that there is
nothing intermediate between them). This is universally true wherever one thing is moved by another. And
since there are three kinds of motion, local, qualitative, and quantitative, there must also be three kinds of
movent, that which causes locomotion, that which causes alteration, and that which causes increase or
decrease.

Let us begin with locomotion, for this is the primary motion. Everything that is in locomotion is moved either
by itself or by something else. In the case of things that are moved by themselves it is evident that the moved
and the movent are together: for they contain within themselves their first movent, so that there is nothing in
between. The motion of things that are moved by something else must proceed in one of four ways: for there
are four kinds of locomotion caused by something other than that which is in motion, viz. pulling, pushing,
carrying, and twirling. All forms of locomotion are reducible to these. Thus pushing on is a form of pushing
in which that which is causing motion away from itself follows up that which it pushes and continues to push
it: pushing off occurs when the movent does not follow up the thing that it has moved: throwing when the
movent causes a motion away from itself more violent than the natural locomotion of the thing moved, which
continues its course so long as it is controlled by the motion imparted to it. Again, pushing apart and pushing
together are forms respectively of pushing off and pulling: pushing apart is pushing off, which may be a
motion either away from the pusher or away from something else, while pushing together is pulling, which
may be a motion towards something else as well as the puller. We may similarly classify all the varieties of
these last two, e.g. packing and combing: the former is a form of pushing together, the latter a form of
pushing apart. The same is true of the other processes of combination and separation (they will all be found to
be forms of pushing apart or of pushing together), except such as are involved in the processes of becoming
and perishing. (At same time it is evident that there is no other kind of motion but combination and
separation: for they may all be apportioned to one or other of those already mentioned.) Again, inhaling is a
form of pulling, exhaling a form of pushing: and the same is true of spitting and of all other motions that
proceed through the body, whether secretive or assimilative, the assimilative being forms of pulling, the
secretive of pushing off. All other kinds of locomotion must be similarly reduced, for they all fall under one
or other of our four heads. And again, of these four, carrying and twirling are to pulling and pushing. For
carrying always follows one of the other three methods, for that which is carried is in motion accidentally,
because it is in or upon something that is in motion, and that which carries it is in doing so being either pulled
or pushed or twirled; thus carrying belongs to all the other three kinds of motion in common. And twirling is
a compound of pulling and pushing, for that which is twirling a thing must be pulling one part of the thing
and pushing another part, since it impels one part away from itself and another part towards itself. If,
therefore, it can be shown that that which is pushing and that which is pushing and pulling are adjacent
respectively to that which is being pushed and that which is being pulled, it will be evident that in all
locomotion there is nothing intermediate between moved and movent. But the former fact is clear even from

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the definitions of pushing and pulling, for pushing is motion to something else from oneself or from
something else, and pulling is motion from something else to oneself or to something else, when the motion
of that which is pulling is quicker than the motion that would separate from one another the two things that
are continuous: for it is this that causes one thing to be pulled on along with the other. (It might indeed be
thought that there is a form of pulling that arises in another way: that wood, e.g. pulls fire in a manner
different from that described above. But it makes no difference whether that which pulls is in motion or is
stationary when it is pulling: in the latter case it pulls to the place where it is, while in the former it pulls to
the place where it was.) Now it is impossible to move anything either from oneself to something else or
something else to oneself without being in contact with it: it is evident, therefore, that in all locomotion there
is nothing intermediate between moved and movent.

Nor again is there anything intermediate between that which undergoes and that which causes alteration: this
can be proved by induction: for in every case we find that the respective extremities of that which causes and
that which undergoes alteration are adjacent. For our assumption is that things that are undergoing alteration
are altered in virtue of their being affected in respect of their so-called affective qualities, since that which is
of a certain quality is altered in so far as it is sensible, and the characteristics in which bodies differ from one
another are sensible characteristics: for every body differs from another in possessing a greater or lesser
number of sensible characteristics or in possessing the same sensible characteristics in a greater or lesser
degree. But the alteration of that which undergoes alteration is also caused by the above-mentioned
characteristics, which are affections of some particular underlying quality. Thus we say that a thing is altered
by becoming hot or sweet or thick or dry or white: and we make these assertions alike of what is inanimate
and of what is animate, and further, where animate things are in question, we make them both of the parts that
have no power of sense-perception and of the senses themselves. For in a way even the senses undergo
alteration, since the active sense is a motion through the body in the course of which the sense is affected in a
certain way. We see, then, that the animate is capable of every kind of alteration of which the inanimate is
capable: but the inanimate is not capable of every kind of alteration of which the animate is capable, since it
is not capable of alteration in respect of the senses: moreover the inanimate is unconscious of being affected
by alteration, whereas the animate is conscious of it, though there is nothing to prevent the animate also being
unconscious of it when the process of the alteration does not concern the senses. Since, then, the alteration of
that which undergoes alteration is caused by sensible things, in every case of such alteration it is evident that
the respective extremities of that which causes and that which undergoes alteration are adjacent. Thus the air
is continuous with that which causes the alteration, and the body that undergoes alteration is continuous with
the air. Again, the colour is continuous with the light and the light with the sight. And the same is true of
hearing and smelling: for the primary movent in respect to the moved is the air. Similarly, in the case of
tasting, the flavour is adjacent to the sense of taste. And it is just the same in the case of things that are
inanimate and incapable of sense-perception. Thus there can be nothing intermediate between that which
undergoes and that which causes alteration.

Nor, again, can there be anything intermediate between that which suffers and that which causes increase: for
the part of the latter that starts the increase does so by becoming attached in such a way to the former that the
whole becomes one. Again, the decrease of that which suffers decrease is caused by a part of the thing
becoming detached. So that which causes increase and that which causes decrease must be continuous with
that which suffers increase and that which suffers decrease respectively: and if two things are continuous with
one another there can be nothing intermediate between them.

It is evident, therefore, that between the extremities of the moved and the movent that are respectively first
and last in reference to the moved there is nothing intermediate.

PHYSICS

Everything, we say, that undergoes alteration is altered by sensible causes, and there is alteration only in
things that are said to be essentially affected by sensible things. The truth of this is to be seen from the
following considerations. Of all other things it would be most natural to suppose that there is alteration in
figures and shapes, and in acquired states and in the processes of acquiring and losing these: but as a matter
of fact in neither of these two classes of things is there alteration.

In the first place, when a particular formation of a thing is completed, we do not call it by the name of its
material: e.g. we do not call the statue 'bronze' or the pyramid 'wax' or the bed 'wood', but we use a derived
expression and call them 'of bronze', 'waxen', and 'wooden' respectively. But when a thing has been affected
and altered in any way we still call it by the original name: thus we speak of the bronze or the wax being dry
or fluid or hard or hot.

And not only so: we also speak of the particular fluid or hot substance as being bronze, giving the material
the same name as that which we use to describe the affection.

Since, therefore, having regard to the figure or shape of a thing we no longer call that which has become of a
certain figure by the name of the material that exhibits the figure, whereas having regard to a thing's
affections or alterations we still call it by the name of its material, it is evident that becomings of the former
kind cannot be alterations.

Moreover it would seem absurd even to speak in this way, to speak, that is to say, of a man or house or
anything else that has come into existence as having been altered. Though it may be true that every such
becoming is necessarily the result of something's being altered, the result, e.g. of the material's being
condensed or rarefied or heated or cooled, nevertheless it is not the things that are coming into existence that
are altered, and their becoming is not an alteration.

Again, acquired states, whether of the body or of the soul, are not alterations. For some are excellences and
others are defects, and neither excellence nor defect is an alteration: excellence is a perfection (for when
anything acquires its proper excellence we call it perfect, since it is then if ever that we have a thing in its
natural state: e.g. we have a perfect circle when we have one as good as possible), while defect is a perishing
of or departure from this condition. So as when speaking of a house we do not call its arrival at perfection an
alteration (for it would be absurd to suppose that the coping or the tiling is an alteration or that in receiving its
coping or its tiling a house is altered and not perfected), the same also holds good in the case of excellences
and defects and of the persons or things that possess or acquire them: for excellences are perfections of a
thing's nature and defects are departures from it: consequently they are not alterations.

Further, we say that all excellences depend upon particular relations. Thus bodily excellences such as health
and a good state of body we regard as consisting in a blending of hot and cold elements within the body in
due proportion, in relation either to one another or to the surrounding atmosphere: and in like manner we
regard beauty, strength, and all the other bodily excellences and defects. Each of them exists in virtue of a
particular relation and puts that which possesses it in a good or bad condition with regard to its proper
affections, where by 'proper' affections I mean those influences that from the natural constitution of a thing
tend to promote or destroy its existence. Since then, relatives are neither themselves alterations nor the
subjects of alteration or of becoming or in fact of any change whatever, it is evident that neither states nor the
processes of losing and acquiring states are alterations, though it may be true that their becoming or perishing
is necessarily, like the becoming or perishing of a specific character or form, the result of the alteration of
certain other things, e.g. hot and cold or dry and wet elements or the elements, whatever they may be, on
which the states primarily depend. For each several bodily defect or excellence involves a relation with those

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things from which the possessor of the defect or excellence is naturally subject to alteration: thus excellence
disposes its possessor to be unaffected by these influences or to be affected by those of them that ought to be
admitted, while defect disposes its possessor to be affected by them or to be unaffected by those of them that
ought to be admitted.

And the case is similar in regard to the states of the soul, all of which (like those of body) exist in virtue of
particular relations, the excellences being perfections of nature and the defects departures from it: moreover,
excellence puts its possessor in good condition, while defect puts its possessor in a bad condition, to meet his
proper affections. Consequently these cannot any more than the bodily states be alterations, nor can the
processes of losing and acquiring them be so, though their becoming is necessarily the result of an alteration
of the sensitive part of the soul, and this is altered by sensible objects: for all moral excellence is concerned
with bodily pleasures and pains, which again depend either upon acting or upon remembering or upon
anticipating. Now those that depend upon action are determined by sense-perception, i.e. they are stimulated
by something sensible: and those that depend upon memory or anticipation are likewise to be traced to
sense-perception, for in these cases pleasure is felt either in remembering what one has experienced or in
anticipating what one is going to experience. Thus all pleasure of this kind must be produced by sensible
things: and since the presence in any one of moral defect or excellence involves the presence in him of
pleasure or pain (with which moral excellence and defect are always concerned), and these pleasures and
pains are alterations of the sensitive part, it is evident that the loss and acquisition of these states no less than
the loss and acquisition of the states of the body must be the result of the alteration of something else.
Consequently, though their becoming is accompanied by an alteration, they are not themselves alterations.

Again, the states of the intellectual part of the soul are not alterations, nor is there any becoming of them. In
the first place it is much more true of the possession of knowledge that it depends upon a particular relation.
And further, it is evident that there is no becoming of these states. For that which is potentially possessed of
knowledge becomes actually possessed of it not by being set in motion at all itself but by reason of the
presence of something else: i.e. it is when it meets with the particular object that it knows in a manner the
particular through its knowledge of the universal. (Again, there is no becoming of the actual use and activity
of these states, unless it is thought that there is a becoming of vision and touching and that the activity in
question is similar to these.) And the original acquisition of knowledge is not a becoming or an alteration: for
the terms 'knowing' and 'understanding' imply that the intellect has reached a state of rest and come to a
standstill, and there is no becoming that leads to a state of rest, since, as we have said above, change at all can
have a becoming. Moreover, just as to say, when any one has passed from a state of intoxication or sleep or
disease to the contrary state, that he has become possessed of knowledge again is incorrect in spite of the fact
that he was previously incapable of using his knowledge, so, too, when any one originally acquires the state,
it is incorrect to say that he becomes possessed of knowledge: for the possession of understanding and
knowledge is produced by the soul's settling down out of the restlessness natural to it. Hence, too, in learning
and in forming judgements on matters relating to their sense-perceptions children are inferior to adults owing
to the great amount of restlessness and motion in their souls. Nature itself causes the soul to settle down and
come to a state of rest for the performance of some of its functions, while for the performance of others other
things do so: but in either case the result is brought about through the alteration of something in the body, as
we see in the case of the use and activity of the intellect arising from a man's becoming sober or being
awakened. It is evident, then, from the preceding argument that alteration and being altered occur in sensible
things and in the sensitive part of the soul, and, except accidentally, in nothing else.

A difficulty may be raised as to whether every motion is commensurable with every other or not. Now if they
are all commensurable and if two things to have the same velocity must accomplish an equal motion in an
equal time, then we may have a circumference equal to a straight line, or, of course, the one may be greater or

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less than the other. Further, if one thing alters and another accomplishes a locomotion in an equal time, we
may have an alteration and a locomotion equal to one another: thus an affection will be equal to a length,
which is impossible. But is it not only when an equal motion is accomplished by two things in an equal time
that the velocities of the two are equal? Now an affection cannot be equal to a length. Therefore there cannot
be an alteration equal to or less than a locomotion: and consequently it is not the case that every motion is
commensurable with every other.

But how will our conclusion work out in the case of the circle and the straight line? It would be absurd to
suppose that the motion of one in a circle and of another in a straight line cannot be similar, but that the one
must inevitably move more quickly or more slowly than the other, just as if the course of one were downhill
and of the other uphill. Moreover it does not as a matter of fact make any difference to the argument to say
that the one motion must inevitably be quicker or slower than the other: for then the circumference can be
greater or less than the straight line; and if so it is possible for the two to be equal. For if in the time A the
quicker (B) passes over the distance B' and the slower (G) passes over the distance G', B' will be greater than
G: for this is what we took 'quicker' to mean: and so quicker motion also implies that one thing traverses an
equal distance in less time than another: consequently there will be a part of A in which B will pass over a
part of the circle equal to G', while G will occupy the whole of A in passing over G'. None the less, if the two
motions are commensurable, we are confronted with the consequence stated above, viz. that there may be a
straight line equal to a circle. But these are not commensurable: and so the corresponding motions are not
commensurable either.

But may we say that things are always commensurable if the same terms are applied to them without
equivocation? e.g. a pen, a wine, and the highest note in a scale are not commensurable: we cannot say
whether any one of them is sharper than any other: and why is this? they are incommensurable because it is
only equivocally that the same term 'sharp' is applied to them: whereas the highest note in a scale is
commensurable with the leading-note, because the term 'sharp' has the same meaning as applied to both. Can
it be, then, that the term 'quick' has not the same meaning as applied to straight motion and to circular motion
respectively? If so, far less will it have the same meaning as applied to alteration and to locomotion.

Or shall we in the first place deny that things are always commensurable if the same terms are applied to
them without equivocation? For the term 'much' has the same meaning whether applied to water or to air, yet
water and air are not commensurable in respect of it: or, if this illustration is not considered satisfactory,
'double' at any rate would seem to have the same meaning as applied to each (denoting in each case the
proportion of two to one), yet water and air are not commensurable in respect of it. But here again may we
not take up the same position and say that the term 'much' is equivocal? In fact there are some terms of which
even the definitions are equivocal; e.g. if 'much were defined as 'so much and more', 'so much' would mean
something different in different cases: 'equal' is similarly equivocal; and 'one' again is perhaps inevitably an
equivocal term; and if 'one' is equivocal, so is 'two'. Otherwise why is it that some things are commensurable
while others are not, if the nature of the attribute in the two cases is really one and the same?

Can it be that the incommensurability of two things in respect of any attribute is due to a difference in that
which is primarily capable of carrying the attribute? Thus horse and dog are so commensurable that we may
say which is the whiter, since that which primarily contains the whiteness is the same in both, viz. the
surface: and similarly they are commensurable in respect of size. But water and speech are not
commensurable in respect of clearness, since that which primarily contains the attribute is different in the two
cases. It would seem, however that we must reject this solution, since clearly we could thus make all
equivocal attributes univocal and say merely that that contains each of them is different in different cases:
thus 'equality', 'sweetness', and 'whiteness' will severally always be the same, though that which contains
them is different in different cases. Moreover, it is not any casual thing that is capable of carrying any
attribute: each single attribute can be carried primarily only by one single thing.

PHYSICS

Must we then say that, if two things are to be commensurable in respect of any attribute, not only must the
attribute in question be applicable to both without equivocation, but there must also be no specific differences
either in the attribute itself or in that which contains the attribute-that these, I mean, must not be divisible in
the way in which colour is divided into kinds? Thus in this respect one thing will not be commensurable with
another, i.e. we cannot say that one is more coloured than the other where only colour in general and not any
particular colour is meant; but they are commensurable in respect of whiteness.

Similarly in the case of motion: two things are of the same velocity if they occupy an equal time in
accomplishing a certain equal amount of motion. Suppose, then, that in a certain time an alteration is
undergone by one half of a body's length and a locomotion is accomplished the other half: can be say that in
this case the alteration is equal to the locomotion and of the same velocity? That would be absurd, and the
reason is that there are different species of motion. And if in consequence of this we must say that two things
are of equal velocity if they accomplish locomotion over an equal distance in an equal time, we have to admit
the equality of a straight line and a circumference. What, then, is the reason of this? Is it that locomotion is a
genus or that line is a genus? (We may leave the time out of account, since that is one and the same.) If the
lines are specifically different, the locomotions also differ specifically from one another: for locomotion is
specifically differentiated according to the specific differentiation of that over which it takes place. (It is also
similarly differentiated, it would seem, accordingly as the instrument of the locomotion is different: thus if
feet are the instrument, it is walking, if wings it is flying; but perhaps we should rather say that this is not so,
and that in this case the differences in the locomotion are merely differences of posture in that which is in
motion.) We may say, therefore, that things are of equal velocity in an equal time they traverse the same
magnitude: and when I call it 'the same' I mean that it contains no specific difference and therefore no
difference in the motion that takes place over it. So we have now to consider how motion is differentiated:
and this discussion serves to show that the genus is not a unity but contains a plurality latent in it and distinct
from it, and that in the case of equivocal terms sometimes the different senses in which they are used are far
removed from one another, while sometimes there is a certain likeness between them, and sometimes again
they are nearly related either generically or analogically, with the result that they seem not to be equivocal
though they really are.

When, then, is there a difference of species? Is an attribute specifically different if the subject is different
while the attribute is the same, or must the attribute itself be different as well? And how are we to define the
limits of a species? What will enable us to decide that particular instances of whiteness or sweetness are the
same or different? Is it enough that it appears different in one subject from what appears in another? Or must
there be no sameness at all? And further, where alteration is in question, how is one alteration to be of equal
velocity with another? One person may be cured quickly and another slowly, and cures may also be
simultaneous: so that, recovery of health being an alteration, we have here alterations of equal velocity, since
each alteration occupies an equal time. But what alteration? We cannot here speak of an 'equal' alteration:
what corresponds in the category of quality to equality in the category of quantity is 'likeness'. However, let
us say that there is equal velocity where the same change is accomplished in an equal time. Are we, then, to
find the commensurability in the subject of the affection or in the affection itself? In the case that we have
just been considering it is the fact that health is one and the same that enables us to arrive at the conclusion
that the one alteration is neither more nor less than the other, but that both are alike. If on the other hand the
affection is different in the two cases, e.g. when the alterations take the form of becoming white and
becoming healthy respectively, here there is no sameness or equality or likeness inasmuch as the difference in
the affections at once makes the alterations specifically different, and there is no unity of alteration any more
than there would be unity of locomotion under like conditions. So we must find out how many species there
are of alteration and of locomotion respectively. Now if the things that are in motion-that is to say, the things
to which the motions belong essentially and not accidentally-differ specifically, then their respective motions
will also differ specifically: if on the other hand they differ generically or numerically, the motions also will
differ generically or numerically as the case may be. But there still remains the question whether, supposing
that two alterations are of equal velocity, we ought to look for this equality in the sameness (or likeness) of

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the affections, or in the things altered, to see e.g. whether a certain quantity of each has become white. Or
ought we not rather to look for it in both? That is to say, the alterations are the same or different according as
the affections are the same or different, while they are equal or unequal according as the things altered are
equal or unequal.

And now we must consider the same question in the case of becoming and perishing: how is one becoming of
equal velocity with another? They are of equal velocity if in an equal time there are produced two things that
are the same and specifically inseparable, e.g. two men (not merely generically inseparable as e.g. two
animals). Similarly one is quicker than the other if in an equal time the product is different in the two cases. I
state it thus because we have no pair of terms that will convey this 'difference' in the way in which unlikeness
is conveyed. If we adopt the theory that it is number that constitutes being, we may indeed speak of a 'greater
number' and a 'lesser number' within the same species, but there is no common term that will include both
relations, nor are there terms to express each of them separately in the same way as we indicate a higher
degree or preponderance of an affection by 'more', of a quantity by 'greater.'

Now since wherever there is a movent, its motion always acts upon something, is always in something, and
always extends to something (by 'is always in something' I mean that it occupies a time: and by 'extends to
something' I mean that it involves the traversing of a certain amount of distance: for at any moment when a
thing is causing motion, it also has caused motion, so that there must always be a certain amount of distance
that has been traversed and a certain amount of time that has been occupied), then, A the movement have
moved B a distance G in a time D, then in the same time the same force A will move 1/2B twice the distance
G, and in 1/2D it will move 1/2B the whole distance for G: thus the rules of proportion will be observed.
Again if a given force move a given weight a certain distance in a certain time and half the distance in half
the time, half the motive power will move half the weight the same distance in the same time. Let E represent
half the motive power A and Z half the weight B : then the ratio between the motive power and the weight in
the one case is similar and proportionate to the ratio in the other, so that each force will cause the same
distance to be traversed in the same time. But if E move Z a distance G in a time D, it does not necessarily
follow that E can move twice Z half the distance G in the same time. If, then, A move B a distance G in a
time D, it does not follow that E, being half of A, will in the time D or in any fraction of it cause B to traverse
a part of G the ratio between which and the whole of G is proportionate to that between A and E (whatever
fraction of AE may be): in fact it might well be that it will cause no motion at all; for it does not follow that,
if a given motive power causes a certain amount of motion, half that power will cause motion either of any
particular amount or in any length of time: otherwise one man might move a ship, since both the motive
power of the ship-haulers and the distance that they all cause the ship to traverse are divisible into as many
parts as there are men. Hence Zeno's reasoning is false when he argues that there is no part of the millet that
does not make a sound: for there is no reason why any such part should not in any length of time fail to move
the air that the whole bushel moves in falling. In fact it does not of itself move even such a quantity of the air
as it would move if this part were by itself: for no part even exists otherwise than potentially.

If on the other hand we have two forces each of which separately moves one of two weights a given distance
in a given time, then the forces in combination will move the combined weights an equal distance in an equal
time: for in this case the rules of proportion apply.

Then does this hold good of alteration and of increase also? Surely it does, for in any given case we have a
definite thing that cause increase and a definite thing that suffers increase, and the one causes and the other
suffers a certain amount of increase in a certain amount of time. Similarly we have a definite thing that causes
alteration and a definite thing that undergoes alteration, and a certain amount, or rather degree, of alteration is
completed in a certain amount of time: thus in twice as much time twice as much alteration will be completed

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and conversely twice as much alteration will occupy twice as much time: and the alteration of half of its
object will occupy half as much time and in half as much time half of the object will be altered: or again, in
the same amount of time it will be altered twice as much.

On the other hand if that which causes alteration or increase causes a certain amount of increase or alteration
respectively in a certain amount of time, it does not necessarily follow that half the force will occupy twice
the time in altering or increasing the object, or that in twice the time the alteration or increase will be
completed by it: it may happen that there will be no alteration or increase at all, the case being the same as
with the weight.

Book VIM

IT remains to consider the following question. Was there ever a becoming of motion before which it had no
being, and is it perishing again so as to leave nothing in motion? Or are we to say that it never had any
becoming and is not perishing, but always was and always will be? Is it in fact an immortal never-failing
property of things that are, a sort of life as it were to all naturally constituted things?

Now the existence of motion is asserted by all who have anything to say about nature, because they all
concern themselves with the construction of the world and study the question of becoming and perishing,
which processes could not come about without the existence of motion. But those who say that there is an
infinite number of worlds, some of which are in process of becoming while others are in process of perishing,
assert that there is always motion (for these processes of becoming and perishing of the worlds necessarily
involve motion), whereas those who hold that there is only one world, whether everlasting or not, make
corresponding assumptions in regard to motion. If then it is possible that at any time nothing should be in
motion, this must come about in one of two ways: either in the manner described by Anaxagoras, who says
that all things were together and at rest for an infinite period of time, and that then Mind introduced motion
and separated them; or in the manner described by Empedocles, according to whom the universe is alternately
in motion and at rest-in motion, when Love is making the one out of many, or Strife is making many out of
one, and at rest in the intermediate periods of time-his account being as follows:

'Since One hath learned to spring from Manifold,
And One disjoined makes manifold arise,
Thus they Become, nor stable is their life:
But since their motion must alternate be,
Thus have they ever Rest upon their round':

for we must suppose that he means by this that they alternate from the one motion to the other. We must
consider, then, how this matter stands, for the discovery of the truth about it is of importance, not only for the
study of nature, but also for the investigation of the First Principle.

Let us take our start from what we have already laid down in our course on Physics. Motion, we say, is the
fulfilment of the movable in so far as it is movable. Each kind of motion, therefore, necessarily involves the
presence of the things that are capable of that motion. In fact, even apart from the definition of motion, every
one would admit that in each kind of motion it is that which is capable of that motion that is in motion: thus it
is that which is capable of alteration that is altered, and that which is capable of local change that is in
locomotion: and so there must be something capable of being burned before there can be a process of being
burned, and something capable of burning before there can be a process of burning. Moreover, these things
also must either have a beginning before which they had no being, or they must be eternal. Now if there was a

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becoming of every movable thing, it follows that before the motion in question another change or motion
must have taken place in which that which was capable of being moved or of causing motion had its
becoming. To suppose, on the other hand, that these things were in being throughout all previous time
without there being any motion appears unreasonable on a moment's thought, and still more unreasonable, we
shall find, on further consideration. For if we are to say that, while there are on the one hand things that are
movable, and on the other hand things that are motive, there is a time when there is a first movent and a first
moved, and another time when there is no such thing but only something that is at rest, then this thing that is
at rest must previously have been in process of change: for there must have been some cause of its rest, rest
being the privation of motion. Therefore, before this first change there will be a previous change. For some
things cause motion in only one way, while others can produce either of two contrary motions: thus fire
causes heating but not cooling, whereas it would seem that knowledge may be directed to two contrary ends
while remaining one and the same. Even in the former class, however, there seems to be something similar,
for a cold thing in a sense causes heating by turning away and retiring, just as one possessed of knowledge
voluntarily makes an error when he uses his knowledge in the reverse way. But at any rate all things that are
capable respectively of affecting and being affected, or of causing motion and being moved, are capable of it
not under all conditions, but only when they are in a particular condition and approach one another: so it is on
the approach of one thing to another that the one causes motion and the other is moved, and when they are
present under such conditions as rendered the one motive and the other movable. So if the motion was not
always in process, it is clear that they must have been in a condition not such as to render them capable
respectively of being moved and of causing motion, and one or other of them must have been in process of
change: for in what is relative this is a necessary consequence: e.g. if one thing is double another when before
it was not so, one or other of them, if not both, must have been in process of change. It follows then, that
there will be a process of change previous to the first.

(Further, how can there be any 'before' and 'after' without the existence of time? Or how can there be any time
without the existence of motion? If, then, time is the number of motion or itself a kind of motion, it follows
that, if there is always time, motion must also be eternal. But so far as time is concerned we see that all with
one exception are in agreement in saying that it is uncreated: in fact, it is just this that enables Democritus to
show that all things cannot have had a becoming: for time, he says, is uncreated. Plato alone asserts the
creation of time, saying that it had a becoming together with the universe, the universe according to him
having had a becoming. Now since time cannot exist and is unthinkable apart from the moment, and the
moment a kind of middle-point, uniting as it does in itself both a beginning and an end, a beginning of future
time and an end of past time, it follows that there must always be time: for the extremity of the last period of
time that we take must be found in some moment, since time contains no point of contact for us except the
moment. Therefore, since the moment is both a beginning and an end, there must always be time on both
sides of it. But if this is true of time, it is evident that it must also be true of motion, time being a kind of
affection of motion.)

The same reasoning will also serve to show the imperishability of motion: just as a becoming of motion
would involve, as we saw, the existence of a process of change previous to the first, in the same way a
perishing of motion would involve the existence of a process of change subsequent to the last: for when a
thing ceases to be moved, it does not therefore at the same time cease to be movable-e.g. the cessation of the
process of being burned does not involve the cessation of the capacity of being burned, since a thing may be
capable of being burned without being in process of being burned-nor, when a thing ceases to be movent,
does it therefore at the same time cease to a be motive. Again, the destructive agent will have to be destroyed,
after what it destroys has been destroyed, and then that which has the capacity of destroying it will have to be
destroyed afterwards, (so that there will be a process of change subsequent to the last,) for being destroyed
also is a kind of change. If, then, view which we are criticizing involves these impossible consequences, it is
clear that motion is eternal and cannot have existed at one time and not at another: in fact such a view can
hardly be described as anythling else than fantastic.

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And much the same may be said of the view that such is the ordinance of nature and that this must be
regarded as a principle, as would seem to be the view of Empedocles when he says that the constitution of the
world is of necessity such that Love and Strife alternately predominate and cause motion, while in the
intermediate period of time there is a state of rest. Probably also those who like like Anaxagoras, assert a
single principle (of motion) would hold this view. But that which is produced or directed by nature can never
be anything disorderly: for nature is everywhere the cause of order. Moreover, there is no ratio in the relation
of the infinite to the infinite, whereas order always means ratio. But if we say that there is first a state of rest
for an infinite time, and then motion is started at some moment, and that the fact that it is this rather than a
previous moment is of no importance, and involves no order, then we can no longer say that it is nature's
work: for if anything is of a certain character naturally, it either is so invariably and is not sometimes of this
and sometimes of another character (e.g. fire, which travels upwards naturally, does not sometimes do so and
sometimes not) or there is a ratio in the variation. It would be better, therefore, to say with Empedocles and
any one else who may have maintained such a theory as his that the universe is alternately at rest and in
motion: for in a system of this kind we have at once a certain order. But even here the holder of the theory
ought not only to assert the fact: he ought to explain the cause of it: i.e. he should not make any mere
assumption or lay down any gratuitous axiom, but should employ either inductive or demonstrative
reasoning. The Love and Strife postulated by Empedocles are not in themselves causes of the fact in question,
nor is it of the essence of either that it should be so, the essential function of the former being to unite, of the
latter to separate. If he is to go on to explain this alternate predominance, he should adduce cases where such
a state of things exists, as he points to the fact that among mankind we have something that unites men,
namely Love, while on the other hand enemies avoid one another: thus from the observed fact that this occurs
in certain cases comes the assumption that it occurs also in the universe. Then, again, some argument is
needed to explain why the predominance of each of the two forces lasts for an equal period of time. But it is a
wrong assumption to suppose universally that we have an adequate first principle in virtue of the fact that
something always is so or always happens so. Thus Democritus reduces the causes that explain nature to the
fact that things happened in the past in the same way as they happen now: but he does not think fit to seek for
a first principle to explain this 'always': so, while his theory is right in so far as it is applied to certain
individual cases, he is wrong in making it of universal application. Thus, a triangle always has its angles
equal to two right angles, but there is nevertheless an ulterior cause of the eternity of this truth, whereas first
principles are eternal and have no ulterior cause. Let this conclude what we have to say in support of our
contention that there never was a time when there was not motion, and never will be a time when there will
not be motion.

The arguments that may be advanced against this position are not difficult to dispose of. The chief
considerations that might be thought to indicate that motion may exist though at one time it had not existed at
all are the following:

First, it may be said that no process of change is eternal: for the nature of all change is such that it proceeds
from something to something, so that every process of change must be bounded by the contraries that mark
its course, and no motion can go on to infinity.

Secondly, we see that a thing that neither is in motion nor contains any motion within itself can be set in
motion; e.g. inanimate things that are (whether the whole or some part is in question) not in motion but at
rest, are at some moment set in motion: whereas, if motion cannot have a becoming before which it had no
being, these things ought to be either always or never in motion.

Thirdly, the fact is evident above all in the case of animate beings: for it sometimes happens that there is no
motion in us and we are quite still, and that nevertheless we are then at some moment set in motion, that is to

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say it sometimes happens that we produce a beginning of motion in ourselves spontaneously without
anything having set us in motion from without. We see nothing like this in the case of inanimate things,
which are always set in motion by something else from without: the animal, on the other hand, we say, moves
itself: therefore, if an animal is ever in a state of absolute rest, we have a motionless thing in which motion
can be produced from the thing itself, and not from without. Now if this can occur in an animal, why should
not the same be true also of the universe as a whole? If it can occur in a small world it could also occur in a
great one: and if it can occur in the world, it could also occur in the infinite; that is, if the infinite could as a
whole possibly be in motion or at rest.

Of these objections, then, the first-mentioned motion to opposites is not always the same and numerically
one a correct statement; in fact, this may be said to be a necessary conclusion, provided that it is possible for
the motion of that which is one and the same to be not always one and the same. (I mean that e.g. we may
question whether the note given by a single string is one and the same, or is different each time the string is
struck, although the string is in the same condition and is moved in the same way.) But still, however this
may be, there is nothing to prevent there being a motion that is the same in virtue of being continuous and
eternal: we shall have something to say later that will make this point clearer.

As regards the second objection, no absurdity is involved in the fact that something not in motion may be set
in motion, that which caused the motion from without being at one time present, and at another absent.
Nevertheless, how this can be so remains matter for inquiry; how it comes about, I mean, that the same
motive force at one time causes a thing to be in motion, and at another does not do so: for the difficulty raised
by our objector really amounts to this-why is it that some things are not always at rest, and the rest always in
motion?

The third objection may be thought to present more difficulty than the others, namely, that which alleges that
motion arises in things in which it did not exist before, and adduces in proof the case of animate things: thus
an animal is first at rest and afterwards walks, not having been set in motion apparently by anything from
without. This, however, is false: for we observe that there is always some part of the animal's organism in
motion, and the cause of the motion of this part is not the animal itself, but, it may be, its environment.
Moreover, we say that the animal itself originates not all of its motions but its locomotion. So it may well be
the case-or rather we may perhaps say that it must necessarily be the case-that many motions are produced
in the body by its environment, and some of these set in motion the intellect or the appetite, and this again
then sets the whole animal in motion: this is what happens when animals are asleep: though there is then no
perceptive motion in them, there is some motion that causes them to wake up again. But we will leave this
point also to be elucidated at a later stage in our discussion.

Our enquiry will resolve itself at the outset into a consideration of the above-mentioned problem- what can
be the reason why some things in the world at one time are in motion and at another are at rest again? Now
one of three things must be true: either all things are always at rest, or all things are always in motion, or
some things are in motion and others at rest: and in this last case again either the things that are in motion are
always in motion and the things that are at rest are always at rest, or they are all constituted so as to be
capable alike of motion and of rest; or there is yet a third possibility remaining-it may be that some things in
the world are always motionless, others always in motion, while others again admit of both conditions. This
last is the account of the matter that we must give: for herein lies the solution of all the difficulties raised and
the conclusion of the investigation upon which we are engaged.

To maintain that all things are at rest, and to disregard sense-perception in an attempt to show the theory to
be reasonable, would be an instance of intellectual weakness: it would call in question a whole system, not a

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particular detail: moreover, it would be an attack not only on the physicist but on almost all sciences and all
received opinions, since motion plays a part in all of them. Further, just as in arguments about mathematics
objections that involve first principles do not affect the mathematician-and the other sciences are in similar
case-so, too, objections involving the point that we have just raised do not affect the physicist: for it is a
fundamental assumption with him that motion is ultimately referable to nature herself.

The assertion that all things are in motion we may fairly regard as equally false, though it is less subversive of
physical science: for though in our course on physics it was laid down that rest no less than motion is
ultimately referable to nature herself, nevertheless motion is the characteristic fact of nature: moreover, the
view is actually held by some that not merely some things but all things in the world are in motion and
always in motion, though we cannot apprehend the fact by sense-perception. Although the supporters of this
theory do not state clearly what kind of motion they mean, or whether they mean all kinds, it is no hard
matter to reply to them: thus we may point out that there cannot be a continuous process either of increase or
of decrease: that which comes between the two has to be included. The theory resembles that about the stone
being worn away by the drop of water or split by plants growing out of it: if so much has been extruded or
removed by the drop, it does not follow that half the amount has previously been extruded or removed in half
the time: the case of the hauled ship is exactly comparable: here we have so many drops setting so much in
motion, but a part of them will not set as much in motion in any period of time. The amount removed is, it is
true, divisible into a number of parts, but no one of these was set in motion separately: they were all set in
motion together. It is evident, then, that from the fact that the decrease is divisible into an infinite number of
parts it does not follow that some part must always be passing away: it all passes away at a particular
moment. Similarly, too, in the case of any alteration whatever if that which suffers alteration is infinitely
divisible it does not follow from this that the same is true of the alteration itself, which often occurs all at
once, as in freezing. Again, when any one has fallen ill, there must follow a period of time in which his
restoration to health is in the future: the process of change cannot take place in an instant: yet the change
cannot be a change to anything else but health. The assertion, therefore, that alteration is continuous is an
extravagant calling into question of the obvious: for alteration is a change from one contrary to another.
Moreover, we notice that a stone becomes neither harder nor softer. Again, in the matter of locomotion, it
would be a strange thing if a stone could be falling or resting on the ground without our being able to
perceive the fact. Further, it is a law of nature that earth and all other bodies should remain in their proper
places and be moved from them only by violence: from the fact then that some of them are in their proper
places it follows that in respect of place also all things cannot be in motion. These and other similar
arguments, then, should convince us that it is impossible either that all things are always in motion or that all
things are always at rest.

Nor again can it be that some things are always at rest, others always in motion, and nothing sometimes at
rest and sometimes in motion. This theory must be pronounced impossible on the same grounds as those
previously mentioned: viz. that we see the above-mentioned changes occurring in the case of the same
things. We may further point out that the defender of this position is fighting against the obvious, for on this
theory there can be no such thing as increase: nor can there be any such thing as compulsory motion, if it is
impossible that a thing can be at rest before being set in motion unnaturally. This theory, then, does away
with becoming and perishing. Moreover, motion, it would seem, is generally thought to be a sort of becoming
and perishing, for that to which a thing changes comes to be, or occupancy of it comes to be, and that from
which a thing changes ceases to be, or there ceases to be occupancy of it. It is clear, therefore, that there are
cases of occasional motion and occasional rest.

We have now to take the assertion that all things are sometimes at rest and sometimes in motion and to
confront it with the arguments previously advanced. We must take our start as before from the possibilities
that we distinguished just above. Either all things are at rest, or all things are in motion, or some things are at
rest and others in motion. And if some things are at rest and others in motion, then it must be that either all
things are sometimes at rest and sometimes in motion, or some things are always at rest and the remainder

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always in motion, or some of the things are always at rest and others always in motion while others again are
sometimes at rest and sometimes in motion. Now we have said before that it is impossible that all things
should be at rest: nevertheless we may now repeat that assertion. We may point out that, even if it is really the
case, as certain persons assert, that the existent is infinite and motionless, it certainly does not appear to be so
if we follow sense-perception: many things that exist appear to be in motion. Now if there is such a thing as
false opinion or opinion at all, there is also motion; and similarly if there is such a thing as imagination, or if
it is the case that anything seems to be different at different times: for imagination and opinion are thought to
be motions of a kind. But to investigate this question at all-to seek a reasoned justification of a belief with
regard to which we are too well off to require reasoned justification-implies bad judgement of what is better
and what is worse, what commends itself to belief and what does not, what is ultimate and what is not. It is
likewise impossible that all things should be in motion or that some things should be always in motion and
the remainder always at rest. We have sufficient ground for rejecting all these theories in the single fact that
we see some things that are sometimes in motion and sometimes at rest. It is evident, therefore, that it is no
less impossible that some things should be always in motion and the remainder always at rest than that all
things should be at rest or that all things should be in motion continuously. It remains, then, to consider
whether all things are so constituted as to be capable both of being in motion and of being at rest, or whether,
while some things are so constituted, some are always at rest and some are always in motion: for it is this last
view that we have to show to be true.

Now of things that cause motion or suffer motion, to some the motion is accidental, to others essential: thus it
is accidental to what merely belongs to or contains as a part a thing that causes motion or suffers motion,
essential to a thing that causes motion or suffers motion not merely by belonging to such a thing or
containing it as a part.

Of things to which the motion is essential some derive their motion from themselves, others from something
else: and in some cases their motion is natural, in others violent and unnatural. Thus in things that derive their
motion from themselves, e.g. all animals, the motion is natural (for when an animal is in motion its motion is
derived from itself): and whenever the source of the motion of a thing is in the thing itself we say that the
motion of that thing is natural. Therefore the animal as a whole moves itself naturally: but the body of the
animal may be in motion unnaturally as well as naturally: it depends upon the kind of motion that it may
chance to be suffering and the kind of element of which it is composed. And the motion of things that derive
their motion from something else is in some cases natural, in other unnatural: e.g. upward motion of earthy
things and downward motion of fire are unnatural. Moreover the parts of animals are often in motion in an
unnatural way, their positions and the character of the motion being abnormal. The fact that a thing that is in
motion derives its motion from something is most evident in things that are in motion unnaturally, because in
such cases it is clear that the motion is derived from something other than the thing itself. Next to things that
are in motion unnaturally those whose motion while natural is derived from themselves-e.g. animals-make
this fact clear: for here the uncertainty is not as to whether the motion is derived from something but as to
how we ought to distinguish in the thing between the movent and the moved. It would seem that in animals,
just as in ships and things not naturally organized, that which causes motion is separate from that which
suffers motion, and that it is only in this sense that the animal as a whole causes its own motion.

The greatest difficulty, however, is presented by the remaining case of those that we last distinguished.
Where things derive their motion from something else we distinguished the cases in which the motion is
unnatural: we are left with those that are to be contrasted with the others by reason of the fact that the motion
is natural. It is in these cases that difficulty would be experienced in deciding whence the motion is derived,
e.g. in the case of light and heavy things. When these things are in motion to positions the reverse of those
they would properly occupy, their motion is violent: when they are in motion to their proper positions-the

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light thing up and the heavy thing down-their motion is natural; but in this latter case it is no longer evident,
as it is when the motion is unnatural, whence their motion is derived. It is impossible to say that their motion
is derived from themselves: this is a characteristic of life and peculiar to living things. Further, if it were, it
would have been in their power to stop themselves (I mean that if e.g. a thing can cause itself to walk it can
also cause itself not to walk), and so, since on this supposition fire itself possesses the power of upward
locomotion, it is clear that it should also possess the power of downward locomotion. Moreover if things
move themselves, it would be unreasonable to suppose that in only one kind of motion is their motion derived
from themselves. Again, how can anything of continuous and naturally connected substance move itself? In
so far as a thing is one and continuous not merely in virtue of contact, it is impassive: it is only in so far as a
thing is divided that one part of it is by nature active and another passive. Therefore none of the things that
we are now considering move themselves (for they are of naturally connected substance), nor does anything
else that is continuous: in each case the movent must be separate from the moved, as we see to be the case
with inanimate things when an animate thing moves them. It is the fact that these things also always derive
their motion from something: what it is would become evident if we were to distinguish the different kinds of
cause.

The above-mentioned distinctions can also be made in the case of things that cause motion: some of them are
capable of causing motion unnaturally (e.g. the lever is not naturally capable of moving the weight), others
naturally (e.g. what is actually hot is naturally capable of moving what is potentially hot): and similarly in the
case of all other things of this kind.

In the same way, too, what is potentially of a certain quality or of a certain quantity in a certain place is
naturally movable when it contains the corresponding principle in itself and not accidentally (for the same
thing may be both of a certain quality and of a certain quantity, but the one is an accidental, not an essential
property of the other). So when fire or earth is moved by something the motion is violent when it is unnatural,
and natural when it brings to actuality the proper activities that they potentially possess. But the fact that the
term 'potentially' is used in more than one sense is the reason why it is not evident whence such motions as
the upward motion of fire and the downward motion of earth are derived. One who is learning a science
potentially knows it in a different sense from one who while already possessing the knowledge is not actually
exercising it. Wherever we have something capable of acting and something capable of being
correspondingly acted on, in the event of any such pair being in contact what is potential becomes at times
actual: e.g. the learner becomes from one potential something another potential something: for one who
possesses knowledge of a science but is not actually exercising it knows the science potentially in a sense,
though not in the same sense as he knew it potentially before he learnt it. And when he is in this condition, if
something does not prevent him, he actively exercises his knowledge: otherwise he would be in the
contradictory state of not knowing. In regard to natural bodies also the case is similar. Thus what is cold is
potentially hot: then a change takes place and it is fire, and it burns, unless something prevents and hinders it.
So, too, with heavy and light: light is generated from heavy, e.g. air from water (for water is the first thing
that is potentially light), and air is actually light, and will at once realize its proper activity as such unless
something prevents it. The activity of lightness consists in the light thing being in a certain situation, namely
high up: when it is in the contrary situation, it is being prevented from rising. The case is similar also in
regard to quantity and quality. But, be it noted, this is the question we are trying to answer-how can we
account for the motion of light things and heavy things to their proper situations? The reason for it is that they
have a natural tendency respectively towards a certain position: and this constitutes the essence of lightness
and heaviness, the former being determined by an upward, the latter by a downward, tendency. As we have
said, a thing may be potentially light or heavy in more senses than one. Thus not only when a thing is water is
it in a sense potentially light, but when it has become air it may be still potentially light: for it may be that
through some hindrance it does not occupy an upper position, whereas, if what hinders it is removed, it
realizes its activity and continues to rise higher. The process whereby what is of a certain quality changes to a
condition of active existence is similar: thus the exercise of knowledge follows at once upon the possession of
it unless something prevents it. So, too, what is of a certain quantity extends itself over a certain space unless

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something prevents it. The thing in a sense is and in a sense is not moved by one who moves what is
obstructing and preventing its motion (e.g. one who pulls away a pillar from under a roof or one who removes
a stone from a wineskin in the water is the accidental cause of motion): and in the same way the real cause of
the motion of a ball rebounding from a wall is not the wall but the thrower. So it is clear that in all these cases
the thing does not move itself, but it contains within itself the source of motion-not of moving something or
of causing motion, but of suffering it.

If then the motion of all things that are in motion is either natural or unnatural and violent, and all things
whose motion is violent and unnatural are moved by something, and something other than themselves, and
again all things whose motion is natural are moved by something-both those that are moved by themselves
and those that are not moved by themselves (e.g. light things and heavy things, which are moved either by
that which brought the thing into existence as such and made it light and heavy, or by that which released
what was hindering and preventing it); then all things that are in motion must be moved by something.

Now this may come about in either of two ways. Either the movent is not itself responsible for the motion,
which is to be referred to something else which moves the movent, or the movent is itself responsible for the
motion. Further, in the latter case, either the movent immediately precedes the last thing in the series, or there
may be one or more intermediate links: e.g. the stick moves the stone and is moved by the hand, which again
is moved by the man: in the man, however, we have reached a movent that is not so in virtue of being moved
by something else. Now we say that the thing is moved both by the last and by the first movent in the series,
but more strictly by the first, since the first movent moves the last, whereas the last does not move the first,
and the first will move the thing without the last, but the last will not move it without the first: e.g. the stick
will not move anything unless it is itself moved by the man. If then everything that is in motion must be
moved by something, and the movent must either itself be moved by something else or not, and in the former
case there must be some first movent that is not itself moved by anything else, while in the case of the
immediate movent being of this kind there is no need of an intermediate movent that is also moved (for it is
impossible that there should be an infinite series of movents, each of which is itself moved by something else,
since in an infinite series there is no first term)-if then everything that is in motion is moved by something,
and the first movent is moved but not by anything else, it much be moved by itself.

This same argument may also be stated in another way as follows. Every movent moves something and
moves it with something, either with itself or with something else: e.g. a man moves a thing either himself or
with a stick, and a thing is knocked down either by the wind itself or by a stone propelled by the wind. But it
is impossible for that with which a thing is moved to move it without being moved by that which imparts
motion by its own agency: on the other hand, if a thing imparts motion by its own agency, it is not necessary
that there should be anything else with which it imparts motion, whereas if there is a different thing with
which it imparts motion, there must be something that imparts motion not with something else but with itself,
or else there will be an infinite series. If, then, anything is a movent while being itself moved, the series must
stop somewhere and not be infinite. Thus, if the stick moves something in virtue of being moved by the hand,
the hand moves the stick: and if something else moves with the hand, the hand also is moved by something
different from itself. So when motion by means of an instrument is at each stage caused by something
different from the instrument, this must always be preceded by something else which imparts motion with
itself. Therefore, if this last movent is in motion and there is nothing else that moves it, it must move itself.
So this reasoning also shows that when a thing is moved, if it is not moved immediately by something that
moves itself, the series brings us at some time or other to a movent of this kind.

And if we consider the matter in yet a third wa Ly we shall get this same result as follows. If everything that
is in motion is moved by something that is in motion, ether this being in motion is an accidental attribute of

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the movents in question, so that each of them moves something while being itself in motion, but not always
because it is itself in motion, or it is not accidental but an essential attribute. Let us consider the former
alternative. If then it is an accidental attribute, it is not necessary that that is in motion should be in motion:
and if this is so it is clear that there may be a time when nothing that exists is in motion, since the accidental
is not necessary but contingent. Now if we assume the existence of a possibility, any conclusion that we
thereby reach will not be an impossibility though it may be contrary to fact. But the nonexistence of motion is
an impossibility: for we have shown above that there must always be motion.

Moreover, the conclusion to which we have been led is a reasonable one. For there must be three things-the
moved, the movent, and the instrument of motion. Now the moved must be in motion, but it need not move
anything else: the instrument of motion must both move something else and be itself in motion (for it changes
together with the moved, with which it is in contact and continuous, as is clear in the case of things that move
other things locally, in which case the two things must up to a certain point be in contact): and the
movent-that is to say, that which causes motion in such a manner that it is not merely the instrument of
motion-must be unmoved. Now we have visual experience of the last term in this series, namely that which
has the capacity of being in motion, but does not contain a motive principle, and also of that which is in
motion but is moved by itself and not by anything else: it is reasonable, therefore, not to say necessary, to
suppose the existence of the third term also, that which causes motion but is itself unmoved. So, too,
Anaxagoras is right when he says that Mind is impassive and unmixed, since he makes it the principle of
motion: for it could cause motion in this sense only by being itself unmoved, and have supreme control only
by being unmixed.

We will now take the second alternative. If the movement is not accidentally but necessarily in motion-so
that, if it were not in motion, it would not move anything-then the movent, in so far as it is in motion, must
be in motion in one of two ways: it is moved either as that is which is moved with the same kind of motion,
or with a different kind-either that which is heating, I mean, is itself in process of becoming hot, that which
is making healthy in process of becoming healthy, and that which is causing locomotion in process of
locomotion, or else that which is making healthy is, let us say, in process of locomotion, and that which is
causing locomotion in process of, say, increase. But it is evident that this is impossible. For if we adopt the
first assumption we have to make it apply within each of the very lowest species into which motion can be
divided: e.g. we must say that if some one is teaching some lesson in geometry, he is also in process of being
taught that same lesson in geometry, and that if he is throwing he is in process of being thrown in just the
same manner. Or if we reject this assumption we must say that one kind of motion is derived from another;
e.g. that that which is causing locomotion is in process of increase, that which is causing this increase is in
process of being altered by something else, and that which is causing this alteration is in process of suffering
some different kind of motion. But the series must stop somewhere, since the kinds of motion are limited; and
if we say that the process is reversible, and that that which is causing alteration is in process of locomotion,
we do no more than if we had said at the outset that that which is causing locomotion is in process of
locomotion, and that one who is teaching is in process of being taught: for it is clear that everything that is
moved is moved by the movent that is further back in the series as well as by that which immediately moves
it: in fact the earlier movent is that which more strictly moves it. But this is of course impossible: for it
involves the consequence that one who is teaching is in process of learning what he is teaching, whereas
teaching necessarily implies possessing knowledge, and learning not possessing it. Still more unreasonable is
the consequence involved that, since everything that is moved is moved by something that is itself moved by
something else, everything that has a capacity for causing motion has as such a corresponding capacity for
being moved: i.e. it will have a capacity for being moved in the sense in which one might say that everything
that has a capacity for making healthy, and exercises that capacity, has as such a capacity for being made
healthy, and that which has a capacity for building has as such a capacity for being built. It will have the
capacity for being thus moved either immediately or through one or more links (as it will if, while everything
that has a capacity for causing motion has as such a capacity for being moved by something else, the motion
that it has the capacity for suffering is not that with which it affects what is next to it, but a motion of a

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different kind; e.g. that which has a capacity for making healthy might as such have a capacity for learn, the
series, however, could be traced back, as we said before, until at some time or other we arrived at the same
kind of motion). Now the first alternative is impossible, and the second is fantastic: it is absurd that that
which has a capacity for causing alteration should as such necessarily have a capacity, let us say, for increase.
It is not necessary, therefore, that that which is moved should always be moved by something else that is
itself moved by something else: so there will be an end to the series. Consequently the first thing that is in
motion will derive its motion either from something that is at rest or from itself. But if there were any need to
consider which of the two, that which moves itself or that which is moved by something else, is the cause and
principle of motion, every one would decide the former: for that which is itself independently a cause is
always prior as a cause to that which is so only in virtue of being itself dependent upon something else that
makes it so.

We must therefore make a fresh start and consider the question; if a thing moves itself, in what sense and in
what manner does it do so? Now everything that is in motion must be infinitely divisible, for it has been
shown already in our general course on Physics, that everything that is essentially in motion is continuous.
Now it is impossible that that which moves itself should in its entirety move itself: for then, while being
specifically one and indivisible, it would as a Whole both undergo and cause the same locomotion or
alteration: thus it would at the same time be both teaching and being taught (the same thing), or both restoring
to and being restored to the same health. Moreover, we have established the fact that it is the movable that is
moved; and this is potentially, not actually, in motion, but the potential is in process to actuality, and motion
is an incomplete actuality of the movable. The movent on the other hand is already in activity: e.g. it is that
which is hot that produces heat: in fact, that which produces the form is always something that possesses it.
Consequently (if a thing can move itself as a whole), the same thing in respect of the same thing may be at
the same time both hot and not hot. So, too, in every other case where the movent must be described by the
same name in the same sense as the moved. Therefore when a thing moves itself it is one part of it that is the
movent and another part that is moved. But it is not self-moving in the sense that each of the two parts is
moved by the other part: the following considerations make this evident. In the first place, if each of the two
parts is to move the other, there will be no first movent. If a thing is moved by a series of movents, that which
is earlier in the series is more the cause of its being moved than that which comes next, and will be more truly
the movent: for we found that there are two kinds of movent, that which is itself moved by something else
and that which derives its motion from itself: and that which is further from the thing that is moved is nearer
to the principle of motion than that which is intermediate. In the second place, there is no necessity for the
movent part to be moved by anything but itself: so it can only be accidentally that the other part moves it in
return. I take then the possible case of its not moving it: then there will be a part that is moved and a part that
is an unmoved movent. In the third place, there is no necessity for the movent to be moved in return: on the
contrary the necessity that there should always be motion makes it necessary that there should be some
movent that is either unmoved or moved by itself. In the fourth place we should then have a thing undergoing
the same motion that it is causing-that which is producing heat, therefore, being heated. But as a matter of
fact that which primarily moves itself cannot contain either a single part that moves itself or a number of parts
each of which moves itself. For, if the whole is moved by itself, it must be moved either by some part of itself
or as a whole by itself as a whole. If, then, it is moved in virtue of some part of it being moved by that part
itself, it is this part that will be the primary self-movent, since, if this part is separated from the whole, the
part will still move itself, but the whole will do so no longer. If on the other hand the whole is moved by itself
as a whole, it must be accidentally that the parts move themselves: and therefore, their self-motion not being
necessary, we may take the case of their not being moved by themselves. Therefore in the whole of the thing
we may distinguish that which imparts motion without itself being moved and that which is moved: for only
in this way is it possible for a thing to be self-moved. Further, if the whole moves itself we may distinguish
in it that which imparts the motion and that which is moved: so while we say that AB is moved by itself, we
may also say that it is moved by A. And since that which imparts motion may be either a thing that is moved
by something else or a thing that is unmoved, and that which is moved may be either a thing that imparts
motion to something else or a thing that does not, that which moves itself must be composed of something

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that is unmoved but imparts motion and also of something that is moved but does not necessarily impart
motion but may or may not do so. Thus let A be something that imparts motion but is unmoved, B something
that is moved by A and moves G, G something that is moved by B but moves nothing (granted that we
eventually arrive at G we may take it that there is only one intermediate term, though there may be more).
Then the whole ABG moves itself. But if I take away G, AB will move itself, A imparting motion and B
being moved, whereas G will not move itself or in fact be moved at all. Nor again will BG move itself apart
from A: for B imparts motion only through being moved by something else, not through being moved by any
part of itself. So only AB moves itself. That which moves itself, therefore, must comprise something that
imparts motion but is unmoved and something that is moved but does not necessarily move anything else:
and each of these two things, or at any rate one of them, must be in contact with the other. If, then, that which
imparts motion is a continuous substance-that which is moved must of course be so-it is clear that it is not
through some part of the whole being of such a nature as to be capable of moving itself that the whole moves
itself: it moves itself as a whole, both being moved and imparting motion through containing a part that
imparts motion and a part that is moved. It does not impart motion as a whole nor is it moved as a whole: it is
A alone that imparts motion and B alone that is moved. It is not true, further, that G is moved by A, which is
impossible.

Here a difficulty arises: if something is taken away from A (supposing that that which imparts motion but is
unmoved is a continuous substance), or from B the part that is moved, will the remainder of A continue to
impart motion or the remainder of B continue to be moved? If so, it will not be AB primarily that is moved
by itself, since, when something is taken away from AB, the remainder of AB will still continue to move
itself. Perhaps we may state the case thus: there is nothing to prevent each of the two parts, or at any rate one
of them, that which is moved, being divisible though actually undivided, so that if it is divided it will not
continue in the possession of the same capacity: and so there is nothing to prevent self-motion residing
primarily in things that are potentially divisible.

From what has been said, then, it is evident that that which primarily imparts motion is unmoved: for,
whether the series is closed at once by that which is in motion but moved by something else deriving its
motion directly from the first unmoved, or whether the motion is derived from what is in motion but moves
itself and stops its own motion, on both suppositions we have the result that in all cases of things being in
motion that which primarily imparts motion is unmoved.

Since there must always be motion without intermission, there must necessarily be something, one thing or it
may be a plurality, that first imparts motion, and this first movent must be unmoved. Now the question
whether each of the things that are unmoved but impart motion is eternal is irrelevant to our present
argument: but the following considerations will make it clear that there must necessarily be some such thing,
which, while it has the capacity of moving something else, is itself unmoved and exempt from all change,
which can affect it neither in an unqualified nor in an accidental sense. Let us suppose, if any one likes, that
in the case of certain things it is possible for them at different times to be and not to be, without any process
of becoming and perishing (in fact it would seem to be necessary, if a thing that has not parts at one time is
and at another time is not, that any such thing should without undergoing any process of change at one time
be and at another time not be). And let us further suppose it possible that some principles that are unmoved
but capable of imparting motion at one time are and at another time are not. Even so, this cannot be true of all
such principles, since there must clearly be something that causes things that move themselves at one time to
be and at another not to be. For, since nothing that has not parts can be in motion, that which moves itself
must as a whole have magnitude, though nothing that we have said makes this necessarily true of every
movent. So the fact that some things become and others perish, and that this is so continuously, cannot be
caused by any one of those things that, though they are unmoved, do not always exist: nor again can it be

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caused by any of those which move certain particular things, while others move other things. The eternity and
continuity of the process cannot be caused either by any one of them singly or by the sum of them, because
this causal relation must be eternal and necessary, whereas the sum of these movents is infinite and they do
not all exist together. It is clear, then, that though there may be countless instances of the perishing of some
principles that are unmoved but impart motion, and though many things that move themselves perish and are
succeeded by others that come into being, and though one thing that is unmoved moves one thing while
another moves another, nevertheless there is something that comprehends them all, and that as something
apart from each one of them, and this it is that is the cause of the fact that some things are and others are not
and of the continuous process of change: and this causes the motion of the other movents, while they are the
causes of the motion of other things. Motion, then, being eternal, the first movent, if there is but one, will be
eternal also: if there are more than one, there will be a plurality of such eternal movents. We ought, however,
to suppose that there is one rather than many, and a finite rather than an infinite number. When the
consequences of either assumption are the same, we should always assume that things are finite rather than
infinite in number, since in things constituted by nature that which is finite and that which is better ought, if
possible, to be present rather than the reverse: and here it is sufficient to assume only one movent, the first of
unmoved things, which being eternal will be the principle of motion to everything else.

The following argument also makes it evident that the first movent must be something that is one and eternal.
We have shown that there must always be motion. That being so, motion must also be continuous, because
what is always is continuous, whereas what is merely in succession is not continuous. But further, if motion
is continuous, it is one: and it is one only if the movent and the moved that constitute it are each of them one,
since in the event of a thing's being moved now by one thing and now by another the whole motion will not
be continuous but successive.

Moreover a conviction that there is a first unmoved something may be reached not only from the foregoing
arguments, but also by considering again the principles operative in movents. Now it is evident that among
existing things there are some that are sometimes in motion and sometimes at rest. This fact has served above
to make it clear that it is not true either that all things are in motion or that all things are at rest or that some
things are always at rest and the remainder always in motion: on this matter proof is supplied by things that
fluctuate between the two and have the capacity of being sometimes in motion and sometimes at rest. The
existence of things of this kind is clear to all: but we wish to explain also the nature of each of the other two
kinds and show that there are some things that are always unmoved and some things that are always in
motion. In the course of our argument directed to this end we established the fact that everything that is in
motion is moved by something, and that the movent is either unmoved or in motion, and that, if it is in
motion, it is moved either by itself or by something else and so on throughout the series: and so we proceeded
to the position that the first principle that directly causes things that are in motion to be moved is that which
moves itself, and the first principle of the whole series is the unmoved. Further it is evident from actual
observation that there are things that have the characteristic of moving themselves, e.g. the animal kingdom
and the whole class of living things. This being so, then, the view was suggested that perhaps it may be
possible for motion to come to be in a thing without having been in existence at all before, because we see
this actually occurring in animals: they are unmoved at one time and then again they are in motion, as it
seems. We must grasp the fact, therefore, that animals move themselves only with one kind of motion, and
that this is not strictly originated by them. The cause of it is not derived from the animal itself: it is connected
with other natural motions in animals, which they do not experience through their own instrumentality, e.g.
increase, decrease, and respiration: these are experienced by every animal while it is at rest and not in motion
in respect of the motion set up by its own agency: here the motion is caused by the atmosphere and by many
things that enter into the animal: thus in some cases the cause is nourishment: when it is being digested
animals sleep, and when it is being distributed through the system they awake and move themselves, the first
principle of this motion being thus originally derived from outside. Therefore animals are not always in
continuous motion by their own agency: it is something else that moves them, itself being in motion and
changing as it comes into relation with each several thing that moves itself. (Moreover in all these

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self-moving things the first movent and cause of their self-motion is itself moved by itself, though in an
accidental sense: that is to say, the body changes its place, so that that which is in the body changes its place
also and is a self-movent through its exercise of leverage.) Hence we may confidently conclude that if a
thing belongs to the class of unmoved movents that are also themselves moved accidentally, it is impossible
that it should cause continuous motion. So the necessity that there should be motion continuously requires
that there should be a first movent that is unmoved even accidentally, if, as we have said, there is to be in the
world of things an unceasing and undying motion, and the world is to remain permanently self-contained and
within the same limits: for if the first principle is permanent, the universe must also be permanent, since it is
continuous with the first principle. (We must distinguish, however, between accidental motion of a thing by
itself and such motion by something else, the former being confined to perishable things, whereas the latter
belongs also to certain first principles of heavenly bodies, of all those, that is to say, that experience more
than one locomotion.)

And further, if there is always something of this nature, a movent that is itself unmoved and eternal, then that
which is first moved by it must be eternal. Indeed this is clear also from the consideration that there would
otherwise be no becoming and perishing and no change of any kind in other things, which require something
that is in motion to move them: for the motion imparted by the unmoved will always be imparted in the same
way and be one and the same, since the unmoved does not itself change in relation to that which is moved by
it. But that which is moved by something that, though it is in motion, is moved directly by the unmoved
stands in varying relations to the things that it moves, so that the motion that it causes will not be always the
same: by reason of the fact that it occupies contrary positions or assumes contrary forms at different times it
will produce contrary motions in each several thing that it moves and will cause it to be at one time at rest
and at another time in motion.

The foregoing argument, then, has served to clear up the point about which we raised a difficulty at the
outset-why is it that instead of all things being either in motion or at rest, or some things being always in
motion and the remainder always at rest, there are things that are sometimes in motion and sometimes not?
The cause of this is now plain: it is because, while some things are moved by an eternal unmoved movent and
are therefore always in motion, other things are moved by a movent that is in motion and changing, so that
they too must change. But the unmoved movent, as has been said, since it remains permanently simple and
unvarying and in the same state, will cause motion that is one and simple.

This matter will be made clearer, however, if we start afresh from another point. We must consider whether it
is or is not possible that there should be a continuous motion, and, if it is possible, which this motion is, and
which is the primary motion: for it is plain that if there must always be motion, and a particular motion is
primary and continuous, then it is this motion that is imparted by the first movent, and so it is necessarily one
and the same and continuous and primary.

Now of the three kinds of motion that there are-motion in respect of magnitude, motion in respect of
affection, and motion in respect of place-it is this last, which we call locomotion, that must be primary. This
may be shown as follows. It is impossible that there should be increase without the previous occurrence of
alteration: for that which is increased, although in a sense it is increased by what is like itself, is in a sense
increased by what is unlike itself: thus it is said that contrary is nourishment to contrary: but growth is
effected only by things becoming like to like. There must be alteration, then, in that there is this change from
contrary to contrary. But the fact that a thing is altered requires that there should be something that alters it,
something e.g. that makes the potentially hot into the actually hot: so it is plain that the movent does not
maintain a uniform relation to it but is at one time nearer to and at another farther from that which is altered:
and we cannot have this without locomotion. If, therefore, there must always be motion, there must also

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always be locomotion as the primary motion, and, if there is a primary as distinguished from a secondary
form of locomotion, it must be the primary form. Again, all affections have their origin in condensation and
rarefaction: thus heavy and light, soft and hard, hot and cold, are considered to be forms of density and rarity.
But condensation and rarefaction are nothing more than combination and separation, processes in accordance
with which substances are said to become and perish: and in being combined and separated things must
change in respect of place. And further, when a thing is increased or decreased its magnitude changes in
respect of place.

Again, there is another point of view from which it will be clearly seen that locomotion is primary. As in the
case of other things so too in the case of motion the word 'primary' may be used in several senses. A thing is
said to be prior to other things when, if it does not exist, the others will not exist, whereas it can exist without
the others: and there is also priority in time and priority in perfection of existence. Let us begin, then, with the
first sense. Now there must be motion continuously, and there may be continuously either continuous motion
or successive motion, the former, however, in a higher degree than the latter: moreover it is better that it
should be continuous rather than successive motion, and we always assume the presence in nature of the
better, if it be possible: since, then, continuous motion is possible (this will be proved later: for the present let
us take it for granted), and no other motion can be continuous except locomotion, locomotion must be
primary. For there is no necessity for the subject of locomotion to be the subject either of increase or of
alteration, nor need it become or perish: on the other hand there cannot be any one of these processes without
the existence of the continuous motion imparted by the first movent.

Secondly, locomotion must be primary in time: for this is the only motion possible for things. It is true indeed
that, in the case of any individual thing that has a becoming, locomotion must be the last of its motions: for
after its becoming it first experiences alteration and increase, and locomotion is a motion that belongs to such
things only when they are perfected. But there must previously be something else that is in process of
locomotion to be the cause even of the becoming of things that become, without itself being in process of
becoming, as e.g. the begotten is preceded by what begot it: otherwise becoming might be thought to be the
primary motion on the ground that the thing must first become. But though this is so in the case of any
individual thing that becomes, nevertheless before anything becomes, something else must be in motion, not
itself becoming but being, and before this there must again be something else. And since becoming cannot be
primary-for, if it were, everything that is in motion would be perishable-it is plain that no one of the motions
next in order can be prior to locomotion. By the motions next in order I mean increase and then alteration,
decrease, and perishing. All these are posterior to becoming: consequently, if not even becoming is prior to
locomotion, then no one of the other processes of change is so either.

Thirdly, that which is in process of becoming appears universally as something imperfect and proceeding to a
first principle: and so what is posterior in the order of becoming is prior in the order of nature. Now all things
that go through the process of becoming acquire locomotion last. It is this that accounts for the fact that some
living things, e.g. plants and many kinds of animals, owing to lack of the requisite organ, are entirely without
motion, whereas others acquire it in the course of their being perfected. Therefore, if the degree in which
things possess locomotion corresponds to the degree in which they have realized their natural development,
then this motion must be prior to all others in respect of perfection of existence: and not only for this reason
but also because a thing that is in motion loses its essential character less in the process of locomotion than in
any other kind of motion: it is the only motion that does not involve a change of being in the sense in which
there is a change in quality when a thing is altered and a change in quantity when a thing is increased or
decreased. Above all it is plain that this motion, motion in respect of place, is what is in the strictest sense
produced by that which moves itself; but it is the self-movent that we declare to be the first principle of
things that are moved and impart motion and the primary source to which things that are in motion are to be
referred.

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It is clear, then, from the foregoing arguments that locomotion is the primary motion. We have now to show
which kind of locomotion is primary. The same process of reasoning will also make clear at the same time
the truth of the assumption we have made both now and at a previous stage that it is possible that there should
be a motion that is continuous and eternal. Now it is clear from the following considerations that no other
than locomotion can be continuous. Every other motion and change is from an opposite to an opposite: thus
for the processes of becoming and perishing the limits are the existent and the non-existent, for alteration the
various pairs of contrary affections, and for increase and decrease either greatness and smallness or perfection
and imperfection of magnitude: and changes to the respective contraries are contrary changes. Now a thing
that is undergoing any particular kind of motion, but though previously existent has not always undergone it,
must previously have been at rest so far as that motion is concerned. It is clear, then, that for the changing
thing the contraries will be states of rest. And we have a similar result in the case of changes that are not
motions: for becoming and perishing, whether regarded simply as such without qualification or as affecting
something in particular, are opposites: therefore provided it is impossible for a thing to undergo opposite
changes at the same time, the change will not be continuous, but a period of time will intervene between the
opposite processes. The question whether these contradictory changes are contraries or not makes no
difference, provided only it is impossible for them both to be present to the same thing at the same time: the
point is of no importance to the argument. Nor does it matter if the thing need not rest in the contradictory
state, or if there is no state of rest as a contrary to the process of change: it may be true that the non-existent
is not at rest, and that perishing is a process to the non-existent. All that matters is the intervention of a time:
it is this that prevents the change from being continuous: so, too, in our previous instances the important thing
was not the relation of contrariety but the impossibility of the two processes being present to a thing at the
same time. And there is no need to be disturbed by the fact that on this showing there may be more than one
contrary to the same thing, that a particular motion will be contrary both to rest and to motion in the contrary
direction. We have only to grasp the fact that a particular motion is in a sense the opposite both of a state of
rest and of the contrary motion, in the same way as that which is of equal or standard measure is the opposite
both of that which surpasses it and of that which it surpasses, and that it is impossible for the opposite
motions or changes to be present to a thing at the same time. Furthermore, in the case of becoming and
perishing it would seem to be an utterly absurd thing if as soon as anything has become it must necessarily
perish and cannot continue to exist for any time: and, if this is true of becoming and perishing, we have fair
grounds for inferring the same to be true of the other kinds of change, since it would be in the natural order of
things that they should be uniform in this respect.

Let us now proceed to maintain that it is possible that there should be an infinite motion that is single and
continuous, and that this motion is rotatory motion. The motion of everything that is in process of locomotion
is either rotatory or rectilinear or a compound of the two: consequently, if one of the former two is not
continuous, that which is composed of them both cannot be continuous either. Now it is plain that if the
locomotion of a thing is rectilinear and finite it is not continuous locomotion: for the thing must turn back,
and that which turns back in a straight line undergoes two contrary locomotions, since, so far as motion in
respect of place is concerned, upward motion is the contrary of downward motion, forward motion of
backward motion, and motion to the left of motion to the right, these being the pairs of contraries in the
sphere of place. But we have already defined single and continuous motion to be motion of a single thing in a
single period of time and operating within a sphere admitting of no further specific differentiation (for we
have three things to consider, first that which is in motion, e.g. a man or a god, secondly the 'when' of the
motion, that is to say, the time, and thirdly the sphere within which it operates, which may be either place or
affection or essential form or magnitude): and contraries are specifically not one and the same but distinct:
and within the sphere of place we have the above-mentioned distinctions. Moreover we have an indication
that motion from A to B is the contrary of motion from B to A in the fact that, if they occur at the same time,
they arrest and stop each other. And the same is true in the case of a circle: the motion from A towards B is

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the contrary of the motion from A towards G: for even if they are continuous and there is no turning back
they arrest each other, because contraries annihilate or obstruct one another. On the other hand lateral motion
is not the contrary of upward motion. But what shows most clearly that rectilinear motion cannot be
continuous is the fact that turning back necessarily implies coming to a stand, not only when it is a straight
line that is traversed, but also in the case of locomotion in a circle (which is not the same thing as rotatory
locomotion: for, when a thing merely traverses a circle, it may either proceed on its course without a break or
turn back again when it has reached the same point from which it started). We may assure ourselves of the
necessity of this coming to a stand not only on the strength of observation, but also on theoretical grounds.
We may start as follows: we have three points, starting-point, middle-point, and finishing-point, of which
the middle-point in virtue of the relations in which it stands severally to the other two is both a starting-point
and a finishing-point, and though numerically one is theoretically two. We have further the distinction
between the potential and the actual. So in the straight line in question any one of the points lying between
the two extremes is potentially a middle-point: but it is not actually so unless that which is in motion divides
the line by coming to a stand at that point and beginning its motion again: thus the middle-point becomes
both a starting-point and a goal, the starting-point of the latter part and the finishing-point of the first part of
the motion. This is the case e.g. when A in the course of its locomotion comes to a stand at B and starts again
towards G: but when its motion is continuous A cannot either have come to be or have ceased to be at the
point B: it can only have been there at the moment of passing, its passage not being contained within any
period of time except the whole of which the particular moment is a dividing-point. To maintain that it has
come to be and ceased to be there will involve the consequence that A in the course of its locomotion will
always be coming to a stand: for it is impossible that A should simultaneously have come to be at B and
ceased to be there, so that the two things must have happened at different points of time, and therefore there
will be the intervening period of time: consequently A will be in a state of rest at B, and similarly at all other
points, since the same reasoning holds good in every case. When to A, that which is in process of locomotion,
B, the middle-point, serves both as a finishing-point and as a starting-point for its motion, A must come to a
stand at B, because it makes it two just as one might do in thought. However, the point A is the real
starting-point at which the moving body has ceased to be, and it is at G that it has really come to be when its
course is finished and it comes to a stand. So this is how we must meet the difficulty that then arises, which is
as follows. Suppose the line E is equal to the line Z, that A proceeds in continuous locomotion from the
extreme point of E to G, and that, at the moment when A is at the point B, D is proceeding in uniform
locomotion and with the same velocity as A from the extremity of Z to H: then, says the argument, D will
have reached H before A has reached G for that which makes an earlier start and departure must make an
earlier arrival: the reason, then, for the late arrival of A is that it has not simultaneously come to be and
ceased to be at B : otherwise it will not arrive later: for this to happen it will be necessary that it should come
to a stand there. Therefore we must not hold that there was a moment when A came to be at B and that at the
same moment D was in motion from the extremity of Z: for the fact of A's having come to be at B will
involve the fact of its also ceasing to be there, and the two events will not be simultaneous, whereas the truth
is that A is at B at a sectional point of time and does not occupy time there. In this case, therefore, where the
motion of a thing is continuous, it is impossible to use this form of expression. On the other hand in the case
of a thing that turns back in its course we must do so. For suppose H in the course of its locomotion proceeds
to D and then turns back and proceeds downwards again: then the extreme point D has served as
finishing-point and as starting-point for it, one point thus serving as two: therefore H must have come to a
stand there: it cannot have come to be at D and departed from D simultaneously, for in that case it would
simultaneously be there and not be there at the same moment. And here we cannot apply the argument used
to solve the difficulty stated above: we cannot argue that H is at D at a sectional point of time and has not
come to be or ceased to be there. For here the goal that is reached is necessarily one that is actually, not
potentially, existent. Now the point in the middle is potential: but this one is actual, and regarded from below
it is a finishing-point, while regarded from above it is a starting-point, so that it stands in these same two
respective relations to the two motions. Therefore that which turns back in traversing a rectilinear course
must in so doing come to a stand. Consequently there cannot be a continuous rectilinear motion that is
eternal.

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The same method should also be adopted in replying to those who ask, in the terms of Zeno's argument,
whether we admit that before any distance can be traversed half the distance must be traversed, that these
half-distances are infinite in number, and that it is impossible to traverse distances infinite in number-or
some on the lines of this same argument put the questions in another form, and would have us grant that in
the time during which a motion is in progress it should be possible to reckon a half-motion before the whole
for every half-distance that we get, so that we have the result that when the whole distance is traversed we
have reckoned an infinite number, which is admittedly impossible. Now when we first discussed the question
of motion we put forward a solution of this difficulty turning on the fact that the period of time occupied in
traversing the distance contains within itself an infinite number of units: there is no absurdity, we said, in
supposing the traversing of infinite distances in infinite time, and the element of infinity is present in the time
no less than in the distance. But, although this solution is adequate as a reply to the questioner (the question
asked being whether it is possible in a finite time to traverse or reckon an infinite number of units),
nevertheless as an account of the fact and explanation of its true nature it is inadequate. For suppose the
distance to be left out of account and the question asked to be no longer whether it is possible in a finite time
to traverse an infinite number of distances, and suppose that the inquiry is made to refer to the time taken by
itself (for the time contains an infinite number of divisions): then this solution will no longer be adequate, and
we must apply the truth that we enunciated in our recent discussion, stating it in the following way. In the act
of dividing the continuous distance into two halves one point is treated as two, since we make it a
starting-point and a finishing-point: and this same result is also produced by the act of reckoning halves as
well as by the act of dividing into halves. But if divisions are made in this way, neither the distance nor the
motion will be continuous: for motion if it is to be continuous must relate to what is continuous: and though
what is continuous contains an infinite number of halves, they are not actual but potential halves. If the halves
are made actual, we shall get not a continuous but an intermittent motion. In the case of reckoning the halves,
it is clear that this result follows: for then one point must be reckoned as two: it will be the finishing-point of
the one half and the starting-point of the other, if we reckon not the one continuous whole but the two halves.
Therefore to the question whether it is possible to pass through an infinite number of units either of time or of
distance we must reply that in a sense it is and in a sense it is not. If the units are actual, it is not possible: if
they are potential, it is possible. For in the course of a continuous motion the traveller has traversed an
infinite number of units in an accidental sense but not in an unqualified sense: for though it is an accidental
characteristic of the distance to be an infinite number of half-distances, this is not its real and essential
character. It is also plain that unless we hold that the point of time that divides earlier from later always
belongs only to the later so far as the thing is concerned, we shall be involved in the consequence that the
same thing is at the same moment existent and not existent, and that a thing is not existent at the moment
when it has become. It is true that the point is common to both times, the earlier as well as the later, and that,
while numerically one and the same, it is theoretically not so, being the finishing-point of the one and the
starting-point of the other: but so far as the thing is concerned it belongs to the later stage of what happens to
it. Let us suppose a time ABG and a thing D, D being white in the time A and not-white in the time B. Then
D is at the moment G white and not-white: for if we were right in saying that it is white during the whole
time A, it is true to call it white at any moment of A, and not-white in B, and G is in both A and B. We must
not allow, therefore, that it is white in the whole of A, but must say that it is so in all of it except the last
moment G. G belongs already to the later period, and if in the whole of A not-white was in process of
becoming and white of perishing, at G the process is complete. And so G is the first moment at which it is
true to call the thing white or not white respectively. Otherwise a thing may be non-existent at the moment
when it has become and existent at the moment when it has perished: or else it must be possible for a thing at
the same time to be white and not white and in fact to be existent and non-existent. Further, if anything that
exists after having been previously non-existent must become existent and does not exist when it is
becoming, time cannot be divisible into time-atoms. For suppose that D was becoming white in the time A
and that at another time B, a time- atom consecutive with the last atom of A, D has already become white and
so is white at that moment: then, inasmuch as in the time A it was becoming white and so was not white and
at the moment B it is white, there must have been a becoming between A and B and therefore also a time in
which the becoming took place. On the other hand, those who deny atoms of time (as we do) are not affected

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by this argument: according to them D has become and so is white at the last point of the actual time in which
it was becoming white: and this point has no other point consecutive with or in succession to it, whereas
time-atoms are conceived as successive. Moreover it is clear that if D was becoming white in the whole time
A, the time occupied by it in having become white in addition to having been in process of becoming white is
no more than all that it occupied in the mere process of becoming white.

These and such-like, then, are the arguments for our conclusion that derive cogency from the fact that they
have a special bearing on the point at issue. If we look at the question from the point of view of general
theory, the same result would also appear to be indicated by the following arguments. Everything whose
motion is continuous must, on arriving at any point in the course of its locomotion, have been previously also
in process of locomotion to that point, if it is not forced out of its path by anything: e.g. on arriving at B a
thing must also have been in process of locomotion to B, and that not merely when it was near to B, but from
the moment of its starting on its course, since there can be, no reason for its being so at any particular stage
rather than at an earlier one. So, too, in the case of the other kinds of motion. Now we are to suppose that a
thing proceeds in locomotion from A to G and that at the moment of its arrival at G the continuity of its
motion is unbroken and will remain so until it has arrived back at A. Then when it is undergoing locomotion
from A to G it is at the same time undergoing also its locomotion to A from G: consequently it is
simultaneously undergoing two contrary motions, since the two motions that follow the same straight line are
contrary to each other. With this consequence there also follows another: we have a thing that is in process of
change from a position in which it has not yet been: so, inasmuch as this is impossible, the thing must come
to a stand at G. Therefore the motion is not a single motion, since motion that is interrupted by stationariness
is not single.

Further, the following argument will serve better to make this point clear universally in respect of every kind
of motion. If the motion undergone by that which is in motion is always one of those already enumerated, and
the state of rest that it undergoes is one of those that are the opposites of the motions (for we found that there
could be no other besides these), and moreover that which is undergoing but does not always undergo a
particular motion (by this I mean one of the various specifically distinct motions, not some particular part of
the whole motion) must have been previously undergoing the state of rest that is the opposite of the motion,
the state of rest being privation of motion; then, inasmuch as the two motions that follow the same straight
line are contrary motions, and it is impossible for a thing to undergo simultaneously two contrary motions,
that which is undergoing locomotion from A to G cannot also simultaneously be undergoing locomotion from
G to A: and since the latter locomotion is not simultaneous with the former but is still to be undergone, before
it is undergone there must occur a state of rest at G: for this, as we found, is the state of rest that is the
opposite of the motion from G. The foregoing argument, then, makes it plain that the motion in question is
not continuous.

Our next argument has a more special bearing than the foregoing on the point at issue. We will suppose that
there has occurred in something simultaneously a perishing of not-white and a becoming of white. Then if
the alteration to white and from white is a continuous process and the white does not remain any time, there
must have occurred simultaneously a perishing of not-white, a becoming of white, and a becoming of
not-white: for the time of the three will be the same.

Again, from the continuity of the time in which the motion takes place we cannot infer continuity in the
motion, but only successiveness: in fact, how could contraries, e.g. whiteness and blackness, meet in the same
extreme point?

On the other hand, in motion on a circular line we shall find singleness and continuity: for here we are met by
no impossible consequence: that which is in motion from A will in virtue of the same direction of energy be
simultaneously in motion to A (since it is in motion to the point at which it will finally arrive), and yet will
not be undergoing two contrary or opposite motions: for a motion to a point and a motion from that point are

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not always contraries or opposites: they are contraries only if they are on the same straight line (for then they
are contrary to one another in respect of place, as e.g. the two motions along the diameter of the circle, since
the ends of this are at the greatest possible distance from one another), and they are opposites only if they are
along the same line. Therefore in the case we are now considering there is nothing to prevent the motion
being continuous and free from all intermission: for rotatory motion is motion of a thing from its place to its
place, whereas rectilinear motion is motion from its place to another place.

Moreover the progress of rotatory motion is never localized within certain fixed limits, whereas that of
rectilinear motion repeatedly is so. Now a motion that is always shifting its ground from moment to moment
can be continuous: but a motion that is repeatedly localized within certain fixed limits cannot be so, since
then the same thing would have to undergo simultaneously two opposite motions. So, too, there cannot be
continuous motion in a semicircle or in any other arc of a circle, since here also the same ground must be
traversed repeatedly and two contrary processes of change must occur. The reason is that in these motions the
starting-point and the termination do not coincide, whereas in motion over a circle they do coincide, and so
this is the only perfect motion.

This differentiation also provides another means of showing that the other kinds of motion cannot be
continuous either: for in all of them we find that there is the same ground to be traversed repeatedly; thus in
alteration there are the intermediate stages of the process, and in quantitative change there are the intervening
degrees of magnitude: and in becoming and perishing the same thing is true. It makes no difference whether
we take the intermediate stages of the process to be few or many, or whether we add or subtract one: for in
either case we find that there is still the same ground to be traversed repeatedly. Moreover it is plain from
what has been said that those physicists who assert that all sensible things are always in motion are wrong:
for their motion must be one or other of the motions just mentioned: in fact they mostly conceive it as
alteration (things are always in flux and decay, they say), and they go so far as to speak even of becoming and
perishing as a process of alteration. On the other hand, our argument has enabled us to assert the fact,
applying universally to all motions, that no motion admits of continuity except rotatory motion: consequently
neither alteration nor increase admits of continuity. We need now say no more in support of the position that
there is no process of change that admits of infinity or continuity except rotatory locomotion.

It can now be shown plainly that rotation is the primary locomotion. Every locomotion, as we said before, is
either rotatory or rectilinear or a compound of the two: and the two former must be prior to the last, since
they are the elements of which the latter consists. Moreover rotatory locomotion is prior to rectilinear
locomotion, because it is more simple and complete, which may be shown as follows. The straight line
traversed in rectilinear motion cannot be infinite: for there is no such thing as an infinite straight line; and
even if there were, it would not be traversed by anything in motion: for the impossible does not happen and it
is impossible to traverse an infinite distance. On the other hand rectilinear motion on a finite straight line is if
it turns back a composite motion, in fact two motions, while if it does not turn back it is incomplete and
perishable: and in the order of nature, of definition, and of time alike the complete is prior to the incomplete
and the imperishable to the perishable. Again, amotion that admits of being eternal is prior to one that does
not. Now rotatory motion can be eternal: but no other motion, whether locomotion or motion of any other
kind, can be so, since in all of them rest must occur and with the occurrence of rest the motion has perished.
Moreover the result at which we have arrived, that rotatory motion is single and continuous, and rectilinear
motion is not, is a reasonable one. In rectilinear motion we have a definite starting-point, finishing-point,
middle-point, which all have their place in it in such a way that there is a point from which that which is in
motion can be said to start and a point at which it can be said to finish its course (for when anything is at the
limits of its course, whether at the starting-point or at the finishing-point, it must be in a state of rest). On the
other hand in circular motion there are no such definite points: for why should any one point on the line be a

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limit rather than any other? Any one point as much as any other is alike starting-point, middle-point, and
finishing-point, so that we can say of certain things both that they are always and that they never are at a
starting-point and at a finishing-point (so that a revolving sphere, while it is in motion, is also in a sense at
rest, for it continues to occupy the same place). The reason of this is that in this case all these characteristics
belong to the centre: that is to say, the centre is alike starting-point, middle-point, and finishing-point of the
space traversed; consequently since this point is not a point on the circular line, there is no point at which that
which is in process of locomotion can be in a state of rest as having traversed its course, because in its
locomotion it is proceeding always about a central point and not to an extreme point: therefore it remains
still, and the whole is in a sense always at rest as well as continuously in motion. Our next point gives a
convertible result: on the one hand, because rotation is the measure of motions it must be the primary motion
(for all things are measured by what is primary): on the other hand, because rotation is the primary motion it
is the measure of all other motions. Again, rotatory motion is also the only motion that admits of being
regular. In rectilinear locomotion the motion of things in leaving the starting-point is not uniform with their
motion in approaching the finishing-point, since the velocity of a thing always increases proportionately as it
removes itself farther from its position of rest: on the other hand rotatory motion is the only motion whose
course is naturally such that it has no starting-point or finishing-point in itself but is determined from
elsewhere.

As to locomotion being the primary motion, this is a truth that is attested by all who have ever made mention
of motion in their theories: they all assign their first principles of motion to things that impart motion of this
kind. Thus 'separation' and 'combination' are motions in respect of place, and the motion imparted by 'Love'
and 'Strife' takes these forms, the latter 'separating' and the former 'combining'. Anaxagoras, too, says that
'Mind', his first movent, 'separates'. Similarly those who assert no cause of this kind but say that 'void'
accounts for motion-they also hold that the motion of natural substance is motion in respect of place: for
their motion that is accounted for by 'void' is locomotion, and its sphere of operation may be said to be place.
Moreover they are of opinion that the primary substances are not subject to any of the other motions, though
the things that are compounds of these substances are so subject: the processes of increase and decrease and
alteration, they say, are effects of the 'combination' and 'separation' of atoms. It is the same, too, with those
who make out that the becoming or perishing of a thing is accounted for by 'density' or 'rarity': for it is by
'combination' and 'separation' that the place of these things in their systems is determined. Moreover to these
we may add those who make Soul the cause of motion: for they say that things that undergo motion have as
their first principle 'that which moves itself: and when animals and all living things move themselves, the
motion is motion in respect of place. Finally it is to be noted that we say that a thing 'is in motion' in the strict
sense of the term only when its motion is motion in respect of place: if a thing is in process of increase or
decrease or is undergoing some alteration while remaining at rest in the same place, we say that it is in
motion in some particular respect: we do not say that it 'is in motion' without qualification.

Our present position, then, is this: We have argued that there always was motion and always will be motion
throughout all time, and we have explained what is the first principle of this eternal motion: we have
explained further which is the primary motion and which is the only motion that can be eternal: and we have
pronounced the first movent to be unmoved.

We have now to assert that the first movent must be without parts and without magnitude, beginning with the
establishment of the premisses on which this conclusion depends.

One of these premisses is that nothing finite can cause motion during an infinite time. We have three things,
the movent, the moved, and thirdly that in which the motion takes place, namely the time: and these are either
all infinite or all finite or partly-that is to say two of them or one of them-finite and partly infinite. Let A be

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the movement, B the moved, and G the infinite time. Now let us suppose that D moves E, a part of B. Then
the time occupied by this motion cannot be equal to G: for the greater the amount moved, the longer the time
occupied. It follows that the time Z is not infinite. Now we see that by continuing to add to D, I shall use up
A and by continuing to add to E, I shall use up B : but I shall not use up the time by continually subtracting a
corresponding amount from it, because it is infinite. Consequently the duration of the part of G which is
occupied by all A in moving the whole of B, will be finite. Therefore a finite thing cannot impart to anything
an infinite motion. It is clear, then, that it is impossible for the finite to cause motion during an infinite time.

It has now to be shown that in no case is it possible for an infinite force to reside in a finite magnitude. This
can be shown as follows: we take it for granted that the greater force is always that which in less time than
another does an equal amount of work when engaged in any activity-in heating, for example, or sweetening
or throwing; in fact, in causing any kind of motion. Then that on which the forces act must be affected to
some extent by our supposed finite magnitude possessing an infinite force as well as by anything else, in fact
to a greater extent than by anything else, since the infinite force is greater than any other. But then there
cannot be any time in which its action could take place. Suppose that A is the time occupied by the infinite
power in the performance of an act of heating or pushing, and that AB is the time occupied by a finite power
in the performance of the same act: then by adding to the latter another finite power and continually
increasing the magnitude of the power so added I shall at some time or other reach a point at which the finite
power has completed the motive act in the time A: for by continual addition to a finite magnitude I must
arrive at a magnitude that exceeds any assigned limit, and in the same way by continual subtraction I must
arrive at one that falls short of any assigned limit. So we get the result that the finite force will occupy the
same amount of time in performing the motive act as the infinite force. But this is impossible. Therefore
nothing finite can possess an infinite force. So it is also impossible for a finite force to reside in an infinite
magnitude. It is true that a greater force can reside in a lesser magnitude: but the superiority of any such
greater force can be still greater if the magnitude in which it resides is greater. Now let AB be an infinite
magnitude. Then BG possesses a certain force that occupies a certain time, let us say the time Z in moving D.
Now if I take a magnitude twice as great at BG, the time occupied by this magnitude in moving D will be half
of EZ (assuming this to be the proportion): so we may call this time ZH. That being so, by continually taking
a greater magnitude in this way I shall never arrive at the full AB, whereas I shall always be getting a lesser
fraction of the time given. Therefore the force must be infinite, since it exceeds any finite force. Moreover the
time occupied by the action of any finite force must also be finite: for if a given force moves something in a
certain time, a greater force will do so in a lesser time, but still a definite time, in inverse proportion. But a
force must always be infinite-just as a number or a magnitude is-if it exceeds all definite limits. This point
may also be proved in another way-by taking a finite magnitude in which there resides a force the same in
kind as that which resides in the infinite magnitude, so that this force will be a measure of the finite force
residing in the infinite magnitude.

It is plain, then, from the foregoing arguments that it is impossible for an infinite force to reside in a finite
magnitude or for a finite force to reside in an infinite magnitude. But before proceeding to our conclusion it
will be well to discuss a difficulty that arises in connexion with locomotion. If everything that is in motion
with the exception of things that move themselves is moved by something else, how is it that some things,
e.g. things thrown, continue to be in motion when their movent is no longer in contact with them? If we say
that the movent in such cases moves something else at the same time, that the thrower e.g. also moves the air,
and that this in being moved is also a movent, then it would be no more possible for this second thing than for
the original thing to be in motion when the original movent is not in contact with it or moving it: all the
things moved would have to be in motion simultaneously and also to have ceased simultaneously to be in
motion when the original movent ceases to move them, even if, like the magnet, it makes that which it has
moved capable of being a movent. Therefore, while we must accept this explanation to the extent of saying
that the original movent gives the power of being a movent either to air or to water or to something else of the
kind, naturally adapted for imparting and undergoing motion, we must say further that this thing does not
cease simultaneously to impart motion and to undergo motion: it ceases to be in motion at the moment when

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its movent ceases to move it, but it still remains a movent, and so it causes something else consecutive with it
to be in motion, and of this again the same may be said. The motion begins to cease when the motive force
produced in one member of the consecutive series is at each stage less than that possessed by the preceding
member, and it finally ceases when one member no longer causes the next member to be a movent but only
causes it to be in motion. The motion of these last two-of the one as movent and of the other as moved-must
cease simultaneously, and with this the whole motion ceases. Now the things in which this motion is
produced are things that admit of being sometimes in motion and sometimes at rest, and the motion is not
continuous but only appears so: for it is motion of things that are either successive or in contact, there being
not one movent but a number of movents consecutive with one another: and so motion of this kind takes
place in air and water. Some say that it is 'mutual replacement': but we must recognize that the difficulty
raised cannot be solved otherwise than in the way we have described. So far as they are affected by 'mutual
replacement', all the members of the series are moved and impart motion simultaneously, so that their
motions also cease simultaneously: but our present problem concerns the appearance of continuous motion in
a single thing, and therefore, since it cannot be moved throughout its motion by the same movent, the
question is, what moves it?

Resuming our main argument, we proceed from the positions that there must be continuous motion in the
world of things, that this is a single motion, that a single motion must be a motion of a magnitude (for that
which is without magnitude cannot be in motion), and that the magnitude must be a single magnitude moved
by a single movent (for otherwise there will not be continuous motion but a consecutive series of separate
motions), and that if the movement is a single thing, it is either itself in motion or itself unmoved: if, then, it
is in motion, it will have to be subject to the same conditions as that which it moves, that is to say it will itself
be in process of change and in being so will also have to be moved by something: so we have a series that
must come to an end, and a point will be reached at which motion is imparted by something that is unmoved.
Thus we have a movent that has no need to change along with that which it moves but will be able to cause
motion always (for the causing of motion under these conditions involves no effort): and this motion alone is
regular, or at least it is so in a higher degree than any other, since the movent is never subject to any change.
So, too, in order that the motion may continue to be of the same character, the moved must not be subject to
change in respect of its relation to the movent. Moreover the movent must occupy either the centre or the
circumference, since these are the first principles from which a sphere is derived. But the things nearest the
movent are those whose motion is quickest, and in this case it is the motion of the circumference that is the
quickest: therefore the movent occupies the circumference.

There is a further difficulty in supposing it to be possible for anything that is in motion to cause motion
continuously and not merely in the way in which it is caused by something repeatedly pushing (in which case
the continuity amounts to no more than successiveness). Such a movent must either itself continue to push or
pull or perform both these actions, or else the action must be taken up by something else and be passed on
from one movent to another (the process that we described before as occurring in the case of things thrown,
since the air or the water, being divisible, is a movent only in virtue of the fact that different parts of the air
are moved one after another): and in either case the motion cannot be a single motion, but only a consecutive
series of motions. The only continuous motion, then, is that which is caused by the unmoved movent: and this
motion is continuous because the movent remains always invariable, so that its relation to that which it moves
remains also invariable and continuous.

Now that these points are settled, it is clear that the first unmoved movent cannot have any magnitude. For if
it has magnitude, this must be either a finite or an infinite magnitude. Now we have already'proved in our
course on Physics that there cannot be an infinite magnitude: and we have now proved that it is impossible
for a finite magnitude to have an infinite force, and also that it is impossible for a thing to be moved by a
finite magnitude during an infinite time. But the first movent causes a motion that is eternal and does cause it
during an infinite time. It is clear, therefore, that the first movent is indivisible and is without parts and
without magnitude.

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-THE END-

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Aristotle

Poetics

Table of Contents

Poetics 1

Aristotle 1

Poetics

Aristotle

Translated by S. H. Butcher

III

VII

VIII

XII

XIII

XIV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

I PROPOSE to treat of Poetry in itself and of its various kinds, noting the essential quality of each, to inquire
into the structure of the plot as requisite to a good poem; into the number and nature of the parts of which a
poem is composed; and similarly into whatever else falls within the same inquiry. Following, then, the order
of nature, let us begin with the principles which come first.

Epic poetry and Tragedy, Comedy also and Dithyrambic poetry, and the music of the flute and of the lyre in
most of their forms, are all in their general conception modes of imitation. They differ, however, from one
another in three respects- the medium, the objects, the manner or mode of imitation, being in each case
distinct.

For as there are persons who, by conscious art or mere habit, imitate and represent various objects through
the medium of color and form, or again by the voice; so in the arts above mentioned, taken as a whole, the
imitation is produced by rhythm, language, or 'harmony,' either singly or combined.

Poetics

Thus in the music of the flute and of the lyre, 'harmony' and rhythm alone are employed; also in other arts,
such as that of the shepherd's pipe, which are essentially similar to these. In dancing, rhythm alone is used
without 'harmony'; for even dancing imitates character, emotion, and action, by rhythmical movement.

There is another art which imitates by means of language alone, and that either in prose or verse- which
verse, again, may either combine different meters or consist of but one kind- but this has hitherto been
without a name. For there is no common term we could apply to the mimes of Sophron and Xenarchus and
the Socratic dialogues on the one hand; and, on the other, to poetic imitations in iambic, elegiac, or any
similar meter. People do, indeed, add the word 'maker' or 'poet' to the name of the meter, and speak of elegiac
poets, or epic (that is, hexameter) poets, as if it were not the imitation that makes the poet, but the verse that
entitles them all to the name. Even when a treatise on medicine or natural science is brought out in verse, the
name of poet is by custom given to the author; and yet Homer and Empedocles have nothing in common but
the meter, so that it would be right to call the one poet, the other physicist rather than poet. On the same
principle, even if a writer in his poetic imitation were to combine all meters, as Chaeremon did in his
Centaur, which is a medley composed of meters of all kinds, we should bring him too under the general term
poet.

So much then for these distinctions.

There are, again, some arts which employ all the means above mentioned- namely, rhythm, tune, and meter.
Such are Dithyrambic and Nomic poetry, and also Tragedy and Comedy; but between them originally the
difference is, that in the first two cases these means are all employed in combination, in the latter, now one
means is employed, now another.

Such, then, are the differences of the arts with respect to the medium of imitation

Since the objects of imitation are men in action, and these men must be either of a higher or a lower type (for
moral character mainly answers to these divisions, goodness and badness being the distinguishing marks of
moral differences), it follows that we must represent men either as better than in real life, or as worse, or as
they are. It is the same in painting. Polygnotus depicted men as nobler than they are, Pauson as less noble,
Dionysius drew them true to life.

Now it is evident that each of the modes of imitation above mentioned will exhibit these differences, and
become a distinct kind in imitating objects that are thus distinct. Such diversities may be found even in
dancing, flute-playing, and lyre-playing. So again in language, whether prose or verse unaccompanied by
music. Homer, for example, makes men better than they are; Cleophon as they are; Hegemon the Thasian, the
inventor of parodies, and Nicochares, the author of the Deiliad, worse than they are. The same thing holds
good of Dithyrambs and Nomes; here too one may portray different types, as Timotheus and Philoxenus
differed in representing their Cyclopes. The same distinction marks off Tragedy from Comedy; for Comedy
aims at representing men as worse, Tragedy as better than in actual life.

///

There is still a third difference- the manner in which each of these objects may be imitated. For the medium
being the same, and the objects the same, the poet may imitate by narration- in which case he can either take
another personality as Homer does, or speak in his own person, unchanged- or he may present all his
characters as living and moving before us.

Poetics

These, then, as we said at the beginning, are the three differences which distinguish artistic imitation- the
medium, the objects, and the manner. So that from one point of view, Sophocles is an imitator of the same
kind as Homer- for both imitate higher types of character; from another point of view, of the same kind as
Aristophanes- for both imitate persons acting and doing. Hence, some say, the name of 'drama' is given to
such poems, as representing action. For the same reason the Dorians claim the invention both of Tragedy and
Comedy. The claim to Comedy is put forward by the Megarians- not only by those of Greece proper, who
allege that it originated under their democracy, but also by the Megarians of Sicily, for the poet Epicharmus,
who is much earlier than Chionides and Magnes, belonged to that country. Tragedy too is claimed by certain
Dorians of the Peloponnese. In each case they appeal to the evidence of language. The outlying villages, they
say, are by them called komai, by the Athenians demoi: and they assume that comedians were so named not
from komazein, 'to revel,' but because they wandered from village to village (kata komas), being excluded
contemptuously from the city. They add also that the Dorian word for 'doing' is dran, and the Athenian,
prattein.

This may suffice as to the number and nature of the various modes of imitation.

Poetry in general seems to have sprung from two causes, each of them lying deep in our nature. First, the
instinct of imitation is implanted in man from childhood, one difference between him and other animals being
that he is the most imitative of living creatures, and through imitation learns his earliest lessons; and no less
universal is the pleasure felt in things imitated. We have evidence of this in the facts of experience. Objects
which in themselves we view with pain, we delight to contemplate when reproduced with minute fidelity:
such as the forms of the most ignoble animals and of dead bodies. The cause of this again is, that to learn
gives the liveliest pleasure, not only to philosophers but to men in general; whose capacity, however, of
learning is more limited. Thus the reason why men enjoy seeing a likeness is, that in contemplating it they
find themselves learning or inferring, and saying perhaps, Ah, that is he.' For if you happen not to have seen
the original, the pleasure will be due not to the imitation as such, but to the execution, the coloring, or some
such other cause.

Imitation, then, is one instinct of our nature. Next, there is the instinct for 'harmony' and rhythm, meters being
manifestly sections of rhythm. Persons, therefore, starting with this natural gift developed by degrees their
special aptitudes, till their rude improvisations gave birth to Poetry.

Poetry now diverged in two directions, according to the individual character of the writers. The graver spirits
imitated noble actions, and the actions of good men. The more trivial sort imitated the actions of meaner
persons, at first composing satires, as the former did hymns to the gods and the praises of famous men. A
poem of the satirical kind cannot indeed be put down to any author earlier than Homer; though many such
writers probably there were. But from Homer onward, instances can be cited- his own Margites, for example,
and other similar compositions. The appropriate meter was also here introduced; hence the measure is still
called the iambic or lampooning measure, being that in which people lampooned one another. Thus the older
poets were distinguished as writers of heroic or of lampooning verse.

As, in the serious style, Homer is pre-eminent among poets, for he alone combined dramatic form with
excellence of imitation so he too first laid down the main lines of comedy, by dramatizing the ludicrous
instead of writing personal satire. His Margites bears the same relation to comedy that the Iliad and Odyssey
do to tragedy. But when Tragedy and Comedy came to light, the two classes of poets still followed their
natural bent: the lampooners became writers of Comedy, and the Epic poets were succeeded by Tragedians,
since the drama was a larger and higher form of art.

Poetics

Whether Tragedy has as yet perfected its proper types or not; and whether it is to be judged in itself, or in
relation also to the audience- this raises another question. Be that as it may, Tragedy- as also Comedy- was
at first mere improvisation. The one originated with the authors of the Dithyramb, the other with those of the
phallic songs, which are still in use in many of our cities. Tragedy advanced by slow degrees; each new
element that showed itself was in turn developed. Having passed through many changes, it found its natural
form, and there it stopped.

Aeschylus first introduced a second actor; he diminished the importance of the Chorus, and assigned the
leading part to the dialogue. Sophocles raised the number of actors to three, and added scene-painting.
Moreover, it was not till late that the short plot was discarded for one of greater compass, and the grotesque
diction of the earlier satyric form for the stately manner of Tragedy. The iambic measure then replaced the
trochaic tetrameter, which was originally employed when the poetry was of the satyric order, and had greater
with dancing. Once dialogue had come in, Nature herself discovered the appropriate measure. For the iambic
is, of all measures, the most colloquial we see it in the fact that conversational speech runs into iambic lines
more frequently than into any other kind of verse; rarely into hexameters, and only when we drop the
colloquial intonation. The additions to the number of 'episodes' or acts, and the other accessories of which
tradition tells, must be taken as already described; for to discuss them in detail would, doubtless, be a large
undertaking.

Comedy is, as we have said, an imitation of characters of a lower type- not, however, in the full sense of the
word bad, the ludicrous being merely a subdivision of the ugly. It consists in some defect or ugliness which is
not painful or destructive. To take an obvious example, the comic mask is ugly and distorted, but does not
imply pain.

The successive changes through which Tragedy passed, and the authors of these changes, are well known,
whereas Comedy has had no history, because it was not at first treated seriously. It was late before the
Archon granted a comic chorus to a poet; the performers were till then voluntary. Comedy had already taken
definite shape when comic poets, distinctively so called, are heard of. Who furnished it with masks, or
prologues, or increased the number of actors- these and other similar details remain unknown. As for the
plot, it came originally from Sicily; but of Athenian writers Crates was the first who abandoning the 'iambic'
or lampooning form, generalized his themes and plots.

Epic poetry agrees with Tragedy in so far as it is an imitation in verse of characters of a higher type. They
differ in that Epic poetry admits but one kind of meter and is narrative in form. They differ, again, in their
length: for Tragedy endeavors, as far as possible, to confine itself to a single revolution of the sun, or but
slightly to exceed this limit, whereas the Epic action has no limits of time. This, then, is a second point of
difference; though at first the same freedom was admitted in Tragedy as in Epic poetry.

Of their constituent parts some are common to both, some peculiar to Tragedy: whoever, therefore knows
what is good or bad Tragedy, knows also about Epic poetry. All the elements of an Epic poem are found in
Tragedy, but the elements of a Tragedy are not all found in the Epic poem.

Of the poetry which imitates in hexameter verse, and of Comedy, we will speak hereafter. Let us now discuss
Tragedy, resuming its formal definition, as resulting from what has been already said.

Tragedy, then, is an imitation of an action that is serious, complete, and of a certain magnitude; in language
embellished with each kind of artistic ornament, the several kinds being found in separate parts of the play; in

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the form of action, not of narrative; through pity and fear effecting the proper purgation of these emotions. By
'language embellished,' I mean language into which rhythm, 'harmony' and song enter. By 'the several kinds
in separate parts,' I mean, that some parts are rendered through the medium of verse alone, others again with
the aid of song.

Now as tragic imitation implies persons acting, it necessarily follows in the first place, that Spectacular
equipment will be a part of Tragedy. Next, Song and Diction, for these are the media of imitation. By
'Diction' I mean the mere metrical arrangement of the words: as for 'Song,' it is a term whose sense every one
understands.

Again, Tragedy is the imitation of an action; and an action implies personal agents, who necessarily possess
certain distinctive qualities both of character and thought; for it is by these that we qualify actions
themselves, and these- thought and character- are the two natural causes from which actions spring, and on
actions again all success or failure depends. Hence, the Plot is the imitation of the action- for by plot I here
mean the arrangement of the incidents. By Character I mean that in virtue of which we ascribe certain
qualities to the agents. Thought is required wherever a statement is proved, or, it may be, a general truth
enunciated. Every Tragedy, therefore, must have six parts, which parts determine its quality- namely, Plot,
Character, Diction, Thought, Spectacle, Song. Two of the parts constitute the medium of imitation, one the
manner, and three the objects of imitation. And these complete the fist. These elements have been employed,
we may say, by the poets to a man; in fact, every play contains Spectacular elements as well as Character,
Plot, Diction, Song, and Thought.

But most important of all is the structure of the incidents. For Tragedy is an imitation, not of men, but of an
action and of life, and life consists in action, and its end is a mode of action, not a quality. Now character
determines men's qualities, but it is by their actions that they are happy or the reverse. Dramatic action,
therefore, is not with a view to the representation of character: character comes in as subsidiary to the actions.
Hence the incidents and the plot are the end of a tragedy; and the end is the chief thing of all. Again, without
action there cannot be a tragedy; there may be without character. The tragedies of most of our modern poets
fail in the rendering of character; and of poets in general this is often true. It is the same in painting; and here
lies the difference between Zeuxis and Polygnotus. Polygnotus delineates character well; the style of Zeuxis
is devoid of ethical quality. Again, if you string together a set of speeches expressive of character, and well
finished in point of diction and thought, you will not produce the essential tragic effect nearly so well as with
a play which, however deficient in these respects, yet has a plot and artistically constructed incidents. Besides
which, the most powerful elements of emotional interest in Tragedy- Peripeteia or Reversal of the Situation,
and Recognition scenes- are parts of the plot. A further proof is, that novices in the art attain to finish of
diction and precision of portraiture before they can construct the plot. It is the same with almost all the early
poets.

The plot, then, is the first principle, and, as it were, the soul of a tragedy; Character holds the second place. A
similar fact is seen in painting. The most beautiful colors, laid on confusedly, will not give as much pleasure
as the chalk outline of a portrait. Thus Tragedy is the imitation of an action, and of the agents mainly with a
view to the action.

Third in order is Thought- that is, the faculty of saying what is possible and pertinent in given circumstances.
In the case of oratory, this is the function of the political art and of the art of rhetoric: and so indeed the older
poets make their characters speak the language of civic life; the poets of our time, the language of the
rhetoricians. Character is that which reveals moral purpose, showing what kind of things a man chooses or
avoids. Speeches, therefore, which do not make this manifest, or in which the speaker does not choose or
avoid anything whatever, are not expressive of character. Thought, on the other hand, is found where
something is proved to be or not to be, or a general maxim is enunciated.

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Fourth among the elements enumerated comes Diction; by which I mean, as has been already said, the
expression of the meaning in words; and its essence is the same both in verse and prose.

Of the remaining elements Song holds the chief place among the embellishments

The Spectacle has, indeed, an emotional attraction of its own, but, of all the parts, it is the least artistic, and
connected least with the art of poetry. For the power of Tragedy, we may be sure, is felt even apart from
representation and actors. Besides, the production of spectacular effects depends more on the art of the stage
machinist than on that of the poet.

VII

These principles being established, let us now discuss the proper structure of the Plot, since this is the first
and most important thing in Tragedy.

Now, according to our definition Tragedy is an imitation of an action that is complete, and whole, and of a
certain magnitude; for there may be a whole that is wanting in magnitude. A whole is that which has a
beginning, a middle, and an end. A beginning is that which does not itself follow anything by causal
necessity, but after which something naturally is or comes to be. An end, on the contrary, is that which itself
naturally follows some other thing, either by necessity, or as a rule, but has nothing following it. A middle is
that which follows something as some other thing follows it. A well constructed plot, therefore, must neither
begin nor end at haphazard, but conform to these principles.

Again, a beautiful object, whether it be a living organism or any whole composed of parts, must not only
have an orderly arrangement of parts, but must also be of a certain magnitude; for beauty depends on
magnitude and order. Hence a very small animal organism cannot be beautiful; for the view of it is confused,
the object being seen in an almost imperceptible moment of time. Nor, again, can one of vast size be
beautiful; for as the eye cannot take it all in at once, the unity and sense of the whole is lost for the spectator;
as for instance if there were one a thousand miles long. As, therefore, in the case of animate bodies and
organisms a certain magnitude is necessary, and a magnitude which may be easily embraced in one view; so
in the plot, a certain length is necessary, and a length which can be easily embraced by the memory. The limit
of length in relation to dramatic competition and sensuous presentment is no part of artistic theory. For had it
been the rule for a hundred tragedies to compete together, the performance would have been regulated by the
water-clock- as indeed we are told was formerly done. But the limit as fixed by the nature of the drama itself
is this: the greater the length, the more beautiful will the piece be by reason of its size, provided that the
whole be perspicuous. And to define the matter roughly, we may say that the proper magnitude is comprised
within such limits, that the sequence of events, according to the law of probability or necessity, will admit of
a change from bad fortune to good, or from good fortune to bad.

VIII

Unity of plot does not, as some persons think, consist in the unity of the hero. For infinitely various are the
incidents in one man's life which cannot be reduced to unity; and so, too, there are many actions of one man
out of which we cannot make one action. Hence the error, as it appears, of all poets who have composed a
Heracleid, a Theseid, or other poems of the kind. They imagine that as Heracles was one man, the story of
Heracles must also be a unity. But Homer, as in all else he is of surpassing merit, here too- whether from art
or natural genius- seems to have happily discerned the truth. In composing the Odyssey he did not include all
the adventures of Odysseus- such as his wound on Parnassus, or his feigned madness at the mustering of the
host- incidents between which there was no necessary or probable connection: but he made the Odyssey, and
likewise the Iliad, to center round an action that in our sense of the word is one. As therefore, in the other
imitative arts, the imitation is one when the object imitated is one, so the plot, being an imitation of an action,

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must imitate one action and that a whole, the structural union of the parts being such that, if any one of them
is displaced or removed, the whole will be disjointed and disturbed. For a thing whose presence or absence
makes no visible difference, is not an organic part of the whole.

It is, moreover, evident from what has been said, that it is not the function of the poet to relate what has
happened, but what may happen- what is possible according to the law of probability or necessity. The poet
and the historian differ not by writing in verse or in prose. The work of Herodotus might be put into verse,
and it would still be a species of history, with meter no less than without it. The true difference is that one
relates what has happened, the other what may happen. Poetry, therefore, is a more philosophical and a higher
thing than history: for poetry tends to express the universal, history the particular. By the universal I mean
how a person of a certain type on occasion speak or act, according to the law of probability or necessity; and
it is this universality at which poetry aims in the names she attaches to the personages. The particular is- for
example- what Alcibiades did or suffered. In Comedy this is already apparent: for here the poet first
constructs the plot on the lines of probability, and then inserts characteristic names- unlike the lampooners
who write about particular individuals. But tragedians still keep to real names, the reason being that what is
possible is credible: what has not happened we do not at once feel sure to be possible; but what has happened
is manifestly possible: otherwise it would not have happened. Still there are even some tragedies in which
there are only one or two well-known names, the rest being fictitious. In others, none are well known- as in
Agathon's Antheus, where incidents and names alike are fictitious, and yet they give none the less pleasure.
We must not, therefore, at all costs keep to the received legends, which are the usual subjects of Tragedy.
Indeed, it would be absurd to attempt it; for even subjects that are known are known only to a few, and yet
give pleasure to all. It clearly follows that the poet or 'maker' should be the maker of plots rather than of
verses; since he is a poet because he imitates, and what he imitates are actions. And even if he chances to take
a historical subject, he is none the less a poet; for there is no reason why some events that have actually
happened should not conform to the law of the probable and possible, and in virtue of that quality in them he
is their poet or maker.

Of all plots and actions the episodic are the worst. I call a plot 'episodic' in which the episodes or acts succeed
one another without probable or necessary sequence. Bad poets compose such pieces by their own fault, good
poets, to please the players; for, as they write show pieces for competition, they stretch the plot beyond its
capacity, and are often forced to break the natural continuity.

But again, Tragedy is an imitation not only of a complete action, but of events inspiring fear or pity. Such an
effect is best produced when the events come on us by surprise; and the effect is heightened when, at the
same time, they follows as cause and effect. The tragic wonder will then be greater than if they happened of
themselves or by accident; for even coincidences are most striking when they have an air of design. We may
instance the statue of Mitys at Argos, which fell upon his murderer while he was a spectator at a festival, and
killed him. Such events seem not to be due to mere chance. Plots, therefore, constructed on these principles
are necessarily the best.

Plots are either Simple or Complex, for the actions in real life, of which the plots are an imitation, obviously
show a similar distinction. An action which is one and continuous in the sense above defined, I call Simple,
when the change of fortune takes place without Reversal of the Situation and without Recognition

A Complex action is one in which the change is accompanied by such Reversal, or by Recognition, or by
both. These last should arise from the internal structure of the plot, so that what follows should be the
necessary or probable result of the preceding action. It makes all the difference whether any given event is a

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case of propter hoc or post hoc.

Reversal of the Situation is a change by which the action veers round to its opposite, subject always to our
rule of probability or necessity. Thus in the Oedipus, the messenger comes to cheer Oedipus and free him
from his alarms about his mother, but by revealing who he is, he produces the opposite effect. Again in the
Lynceus, Lynceus is being led away to his death, and Danaus goes with him, meaning to slay him; but the
outcome of the preceding incidents is that Danaus is killed and Lynceus saved.

Recognition, as the name indicates, is a change from ignorance to knowledge, producing love or hate between
the persons destined by the poet for good or bad fortune. The best form of recognition is coincident with a
Reversal of the Situation, as in the Oedipus. There are indeed other forms. Even inanimate things of the most
trivial kind may in a sense be objects of recognition. Again, we may recognize or discover whether a person
has done a thing or not. But the recognition which is most intimately connected with the plot and action is, as
we have said, the recognition of persons. This recognition, combined with Reversal, will produce either pity
or fear; and actions producing these effects are those which, by our definition, Tragedy represents. Moreover,
it is upon such situations that the issues of good or bad fortune will depend. Recognition, then, being between
persons, it may happen that one person only is recognized by the other- when the latter is already known- or
it may be necessary that the recognition should be on both sides. Thus Iphigenia is revealed to Orestes by the
sending of the letter; but another act of recognition is required to make Orestes known to Iphigenia.

Two parts, then, of the Plot- Reversal of the Situation and Recognition- turn upon surprises. A third part is
the Scene of Suffering. The Scene of Suffering is a destructive or painful action, such as death on the stage,
bodily agony, wounds, and the like.

XII

The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have been already mentioned. We now
come to the quantitative parts- the separate parts into which Tragedy is divided- namely, Prologue, Episode,
Exode, Choric song; this last being divided into Parode and Stasimon. These are common to all plays:
peculiar to some are the songs of actors from the stage and the Commoi.

The Prologue is that entire part of a tragedy which precedes the Parode of the Chorus. The Episode is that
entire part of a tragedy which is between complete choric songs. The Exode is that entire part of a tragedy
which has no choric song after it. Of the Choric part the Parode is the first undivided utterance of the Chorus:
the Stasimon is a Choric ode without anapaests or trochaic tetrameters: the Commos is a joint lamentation of
Chorus and actors. The parts of Tragedy which must be treated as elements of the whole have been already
mentioned. The quantitative parts- the separate parts into which it is divided- are here enumerated.

XIII

As the sequel to what has already been said, we must proceed to consider what the poet should aim at, and
what he should avoid, in constructing his plots; and by what means the specific effect of Tragedy will be
produced.

A perfect tragedy should, as we have seen, be arranged not on the simple but on the complex plan. It should,
moreover, imitate actions which excite pity and fear, this being the distinctive mark of tragic imitation. It
follows plainly, in the first place, that the change of fortune presented must not be the spectacle of a virtuous
man brought from prosperity to adversity: for this moves neither pity nor fear; it merely shocks us. Nor,
again, that of a bad man passing from adversity to prosperity: for nothing can be more alien to the spirit of

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Tragedy; it possesses no single tragic quality; it neither satisfies the moral sense nor calls forth pity or fear.
Nor, again, should the downfall of the utter villain be exhibited. A plot of this kind would, doubtless, satisfy
the moral sense, but it would inspire neither pity nor fear; for pity is aroused by unmerited misfortune, fear by
the misfortune of a man like ourselves. Such an event, therefore, will be neither pitiful nor terrible. There
remains, then, the character between these two extremes- that of a man who is not eminently good and just,
yet whose misfortune is brought about not by vice or depravity, but by some error or frailty. He must be one
who is highly renowned and prosperous- a personage like Oedipus, Thyestes, or other illustrious men of such
families.

A well-constructed plot should, therefore, be single in its issue, rather than double as some maintain. The
change of fortune should be not from bad to good, but, reversely, from good to bad. It should come about as
the result not of vice, but of some great error or frailty, in a character either such as we have described, or
better rather than worse. The practice of the stage bears out our view. At first the poets recounted any legend
that came in their way. Now, the best tragedies are founded on the story of a few houses- on the fortunes of
Alcmaeon, Oedipus, Orestes, Meleager, Thyestes, Telephus, and those others who have done or suffered
something terrible. A tragedy, then, to be perfect according to the rules of art should be of this construction.
Hence they are in error who censure Euripides just because he follows this principle in his plays, many of
which end unhappily. It is, as we have said, the right ending. The best proof is that on the stage and in
dramatic competition, such plays, if well worked out, are the most tragic in effect; and Euripides, faulty
though he may be in the general management of his subject, yet is felt to be the most tragic of the poets.

In the second rank comes the kind of tragedy which some place first. Like the Odyssey, it has a double thread
of plot, and also an opposite catastrophe for the good and for the bad. It is accounted the best because of the
weakness of the spectators; for the poet is guided in what he writes by the wishes of his audience. The
pleasure, however, thence derived is not the true tragic pleasure. It is proper rather to Comedy, where those
who, in the piece, are the deadliest enemies- like Orestes and Aegisthus- quit the stage as friends at the
close, and no one slays or is slain.

XIV

Fear and pity may be aroused by spectacular means; but they may also result from the inner structure of the
piece, which is the better way, and indicates a superior poet. For the plot ought to be so constructed that, even
without the aid of the eye, he who hears the tale told will thrill with horror and melt to pity at what takes
Place. This is the impression we should receive from hearing the story of the Oedipus. But to produce this
effect by the mere spectacle is a less artistic method, and dependent on extraneous aids. Those who employ
spectacular means to create a sense not of the terrible but only of the monstrous, are strangers to the purpose
of Tragedy; for we must not demand of Tragedy any and every kind of pleasure, but only that which is proper
to it. And since the pleasure which the poet should afford is that which comes from pity and fear through
imitation, it is evident that this quality must be impressed upon the incidents.

Let us then determine what are the circumstances which strike us as terrible or pitiful.

Actions capable of this effect must happen between persons who are either friends or enemies or indifferent
to one another. If an enemy kills an enemy, there is nothing to excite pity either in the act or the intention-
except so far as the suffering in itself is pitiful. So again with indifferent persons. But when the tragic incident
occurs between those who are near or dear to one another- if, for example, a brother kills, or intends to kill, a
brother, a son his father, a mother her son, a son his mother, or any other deed of the kind is done- these are
the situations to be looked for by the poet. He may not indeed destroy the framework of the received
legends- the fact, for instance, that Clytemnestra was slain by Orestes and Eriphyle by Alcmaeon- but he
ought to show of his own, and skilfully handle the traditional, material. Let us explain more clearly what is
meant by skilful handling.

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The action may be done consciously and with knowledge of the persons, in the manner of the older poets. It
is thus too that Euripides makes Medea slay her children. Or, again, the deed of horror may be done, but done
in ignorance, and the tie of kinship or friendship be discovered afterwards. The Oedipus of Sophocles is an
example. Here, indeed, the incident is outside the drama proper; but cases occur where it falls within the
action of the play: one may cite the Alcmaeon of Astydamas, or Telegonus in the Wounded Odysseus. Again,
there is a third case- [to be about to act with knowledge of the persons and then not to act. The fourth case] is
when some one is about to do an irreparable deed through ignorance, and makes the discovery before it is
done. These are the only possible ways. For the deed must either be done or not done- and that wittingly or
unwittingly. But of all these ways, to be about to act knowing the persons, and then not to act, is the worst. It
is shocking without being tragic, for no disaster follows It is, therefore, never, or very rarely, found in poetry.
One instance, however, is in the Antigone, where Haemon threatens to kill Creon. The next and better way is
that the deed should be perpetrated. Still better, that it should be perpetrated in ignorance, and the discovery
made afterwards. There is then nothing to shock us, while the discovery produces a startling effect. The last
case is the best, as when in the Cresphontes Merope is about to slay her son, but, recognizing who he is,
spares his life. So in the Iphigenia, the sister recognizes the brother just in time. Again in the Helle, the son
recognizes the mother when on the point of giving her up. This, then, is why a few families only, as has been
already observed, furnish the subjects of tragedy. It was not art, but happy chance, that led the poets in search
of subjects to impress the tragic quality upon their plots. They are compelled, therefore, to have recourse to
those houses whose history contains moving incidents like these.

Enough has now been said concerning the structure of the incidents, and the right kind of plot.

In respect of Character there are four things to be aimed at. First, and most important, it must be good. Now
any speech or action that manifests moral purpose of any kind will be expressive of character: the character
will be good if the purpose is good. This rule is relative to each class. Even a woman may be good, and also a
slave; though the woman may be said to be an inferior being, and the slave quite worthless. The second thing
to aim at is propriety. There is a type of manly valor; but valor in a woman, or unscrupulous cleverness is
inappropriate. Thirdly, character must be true to life: for this is a distinct thing from goodness and propriety,
as here described. The fourth point is consistency: for though the subject of the imitation, who suggested the
type, be inconsistent, still he must be consistently inconsistent. As an example of motiveless degradation of
character, we have Menelaus in the Orestes; of character indecorous and inappropriate, the lament of
Odysseus in the Scylla, and the speech of Melanippe; of inconsistency, the Iphigenia at Aulis- for Iphigenia
the suppliant in no way resembles her later self.

As in the structure of the plot, so too in the portraiture of character, the poet should always aim either at the
necessary or the probable. Thus a person of a given character should speak or act in a given way, by the rule
either of necessity or of probability; just as this event should follow that by necessary or probable sequence. It
is therefore evident that the unraveling of the plot, no less than the complication, must arise out of the plot
itself, it must not be brought about by the Deus ex Machina- as in the Medea, or in the return of the Greeks
in the Iliad. The Deus ex Machina should be employed only for events external to the drama- for antecedent
or subsequent events, which lie beyond the range of human knowledge, and which require to be reported or
foretold; for to the gods we ascribe the power of seeing all things. Within the action there must be nothing
irrational. If the irrational cannot be excluded, it should be outside the scope of the tragedy. Such is the
irrational element the Oedipus of Sophocles.

Again, since Tragedy is an imitation of persons who are above the common level, the example of good
portrait painters should be followed. They, while reproducing the distinctive form of the original, make a
likeness which is true to life and yet more beautiful. So too the poet, in representing men who are irascible or
indolent, or have other defects of character, should preserve the type and yet ennoble it. In this way Achilles

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is portrayed by Agathon and Homer.

These then are rules the poet should observe. Nor should he neglect those appeals to the senses, which,
though not among the essentials, are the concomitants of poetry; for here too there is much room for error.
But of this enough has been said in our published treatises.

XVI

What Recognition is has been already explained. We will now enumerate its kinds.

First, the least artistic form, which, from poverty of wit, is most commonly employed- recognition by signs.
Of these some are congenital- such as 'the spear which the earth-born race bear on their bodies,' or the stars
introduced by Carcinus in his Thyestes. Others are acquired after birth; and of these some are bodily marks,
as scars; some external tokens, as necklaces, or the little ark in the Tyro by which the discovery is effected.
Even these admit of more or less skilful treatment. Thus in the recognition of Odysseus by his scar, the
discovery is made in one way by the nurse, in another by the swineherds. The use of tokens for the express
purpose of proof- and, indeed, any formal proof with or without tokens- is a less artistic mode of
recognition. A better kind is that which comes about by a turn of incident, as in the Bath Scene in the
Odyssey.

Next come the recognitions invented at will by the poet, and on that account wanting in art. For example,
Orestes in the Iphigenia reveals the fact that he is Orestes. She, indeed, makes herself known by the letter; but
he, by speaking himself, and saying what the poet, not what the plot requires. This, therefore, is nearly allied
to the fault above mentioned- for Orestes might as well have brought tokens with him. Another similar
instance is the 'voice of the shuttle' in the Tereus of Sophocles.

The third kind depends on memory when the sight of some object awakens a feeling: as in the Cyprians of
Dicaeogenes, where the hero breaks into tears on seeing the picture; or again in the Lay of Alcinous, where
Odysseus, hearing the minstrel play the lyre, recalls the past and weeps; and hence the recognition.

The fourth kind is by process of reasoning. Thus in the Choephori: 'Some one resembling me has come: no
one resembles me but Orestes: therefore Orestes has come.' Such too is the discovery made by Iphigenia in
the play of Polyidus the Sophist. It was a natural reflection for Orestes to make, 'So I too must die at the altar
like my sister.' So, again, in the Tydeus of Theodectes, the father says, 'I came to find my son, and I lose my
own life.' So too in the Phineidae: the women, on seeing the place, inferred their fate- 'Here we are doomed
to die, for here we were cast forth.' Again, there is a composite kind of recognition involving false inference
on the part of one of the characters, as in the Odysseus Disguised as a Messenger. A said [that no one else
was able to bend the bow; ... hence B (the disguised Odysseus) imagined that A would] recognize the bow
which, in fact, he had not seen; and to bring about a recognition by this means- the expectation that A would
recognize the bow- is false inference.

But, of all recognitions, the best is that which arises from the incidents themselves, where the startling
discovery is made by natural means. Such is that in the Oedipus of Sophocles, and in the Iphigenia; for it was
natural that Iphigenia should wish to dispatch a letter. These recognitions alone dispense with the artificial aid
of tokens or amulets. Next come the recognitions by process of reasoning.

XVII

In constructing the plot and working it out with the proper diction, the poet should place the scene, as far as
possible, before his eyes. In this way, seeing everything with the utmost vividness, as if he were a spectator of
the action, he will discover what is in keeping with it, and be most unlikely to overlook inconsistencies. The

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need of such a rule is shown by the fault found in Carcinus. Amphiaraus was on his way from the temple.
This fact escaped the observation of one who did not see the situation. On the stage, however, the Piece
failed, the audience being offended at the oversight.

Again, the poet should work out his play, to the best of his power, with appropriate gestures; for those who
feel emotion are most convincing through natural sympathy with the characters they represent; and one who
is agitated storms, one who is angry rages, with the most lifelike reality. Hence poetry implies either a happy
gift of nature or a strain of madness. In the one case a man can take the mould of any character; in the other,
he is lifted out of his proper self.

As for the story, whether the poet takes it ready made or constructs it for himself, he should first sketch its
general outline, and then fill in the episodes and amplify in detail. The general plan may be illustrated by the
Iphigenia. A young girl is sacrificed; she disappears mysteriously from the eyes of those who sacrificed her;
she is transported to another country, where the custom is to offer up an strangers to the goddess. To this
ministry she is appointed. Some time later her own brother chances to arrive. The fact that the oracle for some
reason ordered him to go there, is outside the general plan of the play. The purpose, again, of his coming is
outside the action proper. However, he comes, he is seized, and, when on the point of being sacrificed,
reveals who he is. The mode of recognition may be either that of Euripides or of Polyidus, in whose play he
exclaims very naturally: 'So it was not my sister only, but I too, who was doomed to be sacrificed'; and by
that remark he is saved.

After this, the names being once given, it remains to fill in the episodes. We must see that they are relevant to
the action. In the case of Orestes, for example, there is the madness which led to his capture, and his
deliverance by means of the purificatory rite. In the drama, the episodes are short, but it is these that give
extension to Epic poetry. Thus the story of the Odyssey can be stated briefly. A certain man is absent from
home for many years; he is jealously watched by Poseidon, and left desolate. Meanwhile his home is in a
wretched plight- suitors are wasting his substance and plotting against his son. At length, tempest-tost, he
himself arrives; he makes certain persons acquainted with him; he attacks the suitors with his own hand, and
is himself preserved while he destroys them. This is the essence of the plot; the rest is episode.

XVIII

Every tragedy falls into two parts- Complication and Unraveling or Denouement. Incidents extraneous to the
action are frequently combined with a portion of the action proper, to form the Complication; the rest is the
Unraveling. By the Complication I mean all that extends from the beginning of the action to the part which
marks the turning-point to good or bad fortune. The Unraveling is that which extends from the beginning of
the change to the end. Thus, in the Lynceus of Theodectes, the Complication consists of the incidents
presupposed in the drama, the seizure of the child, and then again ... [the Unraveling] extends from the
accusation of murder to the end.

There are four kinds of Tragedy: the Complex, depending entirely on Reversal of the Situation and
Recognition; the Pathetic (where the motive is passion)- such as the tragedies on Ajax and Ixion; the Ethical
(where the motives are ethical)- such as the Phthiotides and the Peleus. The fourth kind is the Simple. [We
here exclude the purely spectacular element], exemplified by the Phorcides, the Prometheus, and scenes laid
in Hades. The poet should endeavor, if possible, to combine all poetic elements; or failing that, the greatest
number and those the most important; the more so, in face of the caviling criticism of the day. For whereas
there have hitherto been good poets, each in his own branch, the critics now expect one man to surpass all
others in their several lines of excellence.

In speaking of a tragedy as the same or different, the best test to take is the plot. Identity exists where the
Complication and Unraveling are the same. Many poets tie the knot well, but unravel it Both arts, however,

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should always be mastered.

Again, the poet should remember what has been often said, and not make an Epic structure into a tragedy- by
an Epic structure I mean one with a multiplicity of plots- as if, for instance, you were to make a tragedy out
of the entire story of the Iliad. In the Epic poem, owing to its length, each part assumes its proper magnitude.
In the drama the result is far from answering to the poet's expectation. The proof is that the poets who have
dramatized the whole story of the Fall of Troy, instead of selecting portions, like Euripides; or who have
taken the whole tale of Niobe, and not a part of her story, like Aeschylus, either fail utterly or meet with poor
success on the stage. Even Agathon has been known to fail from this one defect. In his Reversals of the
Situation, however, he shows a marvelous skill in the effort to hit the popular taste- to produce a tragic effect
that satisfies the moral sense. This effect is produced when the clever rogue, like Sisyphus, is outwitted, or
the brave villain defeated. Such an event is probable in Agathon's sense of the word: 'is probable,' he says,
'that many things should happen contrary to probability.'

The Chorus too should be regarded as one of the actors; it should be an integral part of the whole, and share
in the action, in the manner not of Euripides but of Sophocles. As for the later poets, their choral songs
pertain as little to the subject of the piece as to that of any other tragedy. They are, therefore, sung as mere
interludes- a practice first begun by Agathon. Yet what difference is there between introducing such choral
interludes, and transferring a speech, or even a whole act, from one play to another.

XIX

It remains to speak of Diction and Thought, the other parts of Tragedy having been already discussed,
concerning Thought, we may assume what is said in the Rhetoric, to which inquiry the subject more strictly
belongs. Under Thought is included every effect which has to be produced by speech, the subdivisions being:
proof and refutation; the excitation of the feelings, such as pity, fear, anger, and the like; the suggestion of
importance or its opposite. Now, it is evident that the dramatic incidents must be treated from the same points
of view as the dramatic speeches, when the object is to evoke the sense of pity, fear, importance, or
probability. The only difference is that the incidents should speak for themselves without verbal exposition;
while effects aimed at in should be produced by the speaker, and as a result of the speech. For what were the
business of a speaker, if the Thought were revealed quite apart from what he says?

Next, as regards Diction. One branch of the inquiry treats of the Modes of Utterance. But this province of
knowledge belongs to the art of Delivery and to the masters of that science. It includes, for instance- what is
a command, a prayer, a statement, a threat, a question, an answer, and so forth. To know or not to know these
things involves no serious censure upon the poet's art. For who can admit the fault imputed to Homer by
Protagoras- that in the words, 'Sing, goddess, of the wrath, he gives a command under the idea that he utters
a prayer? For to tell some one to do a thing or not to do it is, he says, a command. We may, therefore, pass
this over as an inquiry that belongs to another art, not to poetry.

Language in general includes the following parts: Letter, Syllable, Connecting Word, Noun, Verb, Inflection
or Case, Sentence or Phrase.

A Letter is an indivisible sound, yet not every such sound, but only one which can form part of a group of
sounds. For even brutes utter indivisible sounds, none of which I call a letter. The sound I mean may be either
a vowel, a semivowel, or a mute. A vowel is that which without impact of tongue or lip has an audible sound.
A semivowel that which with such impact has an audible sound, as S and R. A mute, that which with such
impact has by itself no sound, but joined to a vowel sound becomes audible, as G and D. These are
distinguished according to the form assumed by the mouth and the place where they are produced; according

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as they are aspirated or smooth, long or short; as they are acute, grave, or of an intermediate tone; which
inquiry belongs in detail to the writers on meter.

A Syllable is a nonsignificant sound, composed of a mute and a vowel: for GR without A is a syllable, as also
with A- GRA. But the investigation of these differences belongs also to metrical science.

A Connecting Word is a nonsignificant sound, which neither causes nor hinders the union of many sounds
into one significant sound; it may be placed at either end or in the middle of a sentence. Or, a nonsignificant
sound, which out of several sounds, each of them significant, is capable of forming one significant sound- as
amphi, peri, and the like. Or, a nonsignificant sound, which marks the beginning, end, or division of a
sentence; such, however, that it cannot correctly stand by itself at the beginning of a sentence- as men, etoi,
de.

A Noun is a composite significant sound, not marking time, of which no part is in itself significant: for in
double or compound words we do not employ the separate parts as if each were in itself significant. Thus in
Theodorus, 'god-given,' the doron or 'gift' is not in itself significant.

A Verb is a composite significant sound, marking time, in which, as in the noun, no part is in itself
significant. For 'man' or 'white' does not express the idea of 'when'; but 'he walks' or 'he has walked' does
connote time, present or past.

Inflection belongs both to the noun and verb, and expresses either the relation 'of,' 'to,' or the like; or that of
number, whether one or many, as 'man' or 'men'; or the modes or tones in actual delivery, e.g., a question or a
command. 'Did he go?' and 'go' are verbal inflections of this kind.

A Sentence or Phrase is a composite significant sound, some at least of whose parts are in themselves
significant; for not every such group of words consists of verbs and nouns- 'the definition of man,' for
example- but it may dispense even with the verb. Still it will always have some significant part, as 'in
walking,' or 'Cleon son of Cleon.' A sentence or phrase may form a unity in two ways- either as signifying
one thing, or as consisting of several parts linked together. Thus the Iliad is one by the linking together of
parts, the definition of man by the unity of the thing signified.

XXI

Words are of two kinds, simple and double. By simple I mean those composed of nonsignificant elements,
such as ge, 'earth.' By double or compound, those composed either of a significant and nonsignificant element
(though within the whole word no element is significant), or of elements that are both significant. A word
may likewise be triple, quadruple, or multiple in form, like so many Massilian expressions, e.g.,
'Hermo-caico-xanthus [who prayed to Father Zeus].'

Every word is either current, or strange, or metaphorical, or ornamental, or newly-coined, or lengthened, or
contracted, or altered.

By a current or proper word I mean one which is in general use among a people; by a strange word, one
which is in use in another country. Plainly, therefore, the same word may be at once strange and current, but
not in relation to the same people. The word sigynon, 'lance,' is to the Cyprians a current term but to us a
strange one.

Metaphor is the application of an alien name by transference either from genus to species, or from species to
genus, or from species to species, or by analogy, that is, proportion. Thus from genus to species, as: There
lies my ship'; for lying at anchor is a species of lying. From species to genus, as: 'Verily ten thousand noble

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deeds hath Odysseus wrought'; for ten thousand is a species of large number, and is here used for a large
number generally. From species to species, as: 'With blade of bronze drew away the life,' and 'Cleft the water
with the vessel of unyielding bronze.' Here arusai, 'to draw away' is used for tamein, 'to cleave,' and tamein,
again for arusai- each being a species of taking away. Analogy or proportion is when the second term is to
the first as the fourth to the third. We may then use the fourth for the second, or the second for the fourth.
Sometimes too we qualify the metaphor by adding the term to which the proper word is relative. Thus the cup
is to Dionysus as the shield to Ares. The cup may, therefore, be called 'the shield of Dionysus,' and the shield
'the cup of Ares.' Or, again, as old age is to life, so is evening to day. Evening may therefore be called, 'the
old age of the day,' and old age, 'the evening of life,' or, in the phrase of Empedocles, 'life's setting sun.' For
some of the terms of the proportion there is at times no word in existence; still the metaphor may be used. For
instance, to scatter seed is called sowing: but the action of the sun in scattering his rays is nameless. Still this
process bears to the sun the same relation as sowing to the seed. Hence the expression of the poet 'sowing the
god-created light.' There is another way in which this kind of metaphor may be employed. We may apply an
alien term, and then deny of that term one of its proper attributes; as if we were to call the shield, not 'the cup
of Ares,' but 'the wineless cup'.

A newly-coined word is one which has never been even in local use, but is adopted by the poet himself.
Some such words there appear to be: as ernyges, 'sprouters,' for kerata, 'horns'; and areter, 'supplicator', for
hiereus, 'priest.'

A word is lengthened when its own vowel is exchanged for a longer one, or when a syllable is inserted. A
word is contracted when some part of it is removed. Instances of lengthening are: poleos for poleos,
Peleiadeo for Peleidou; of contraction: kri, do, and ops, as in mia ginetai amphoteron ops, 'the appearance of
both is one.'

An altered word is one in which part of the ordinary form is left unchanged, and part is recast: as in dexiteron
kata mazon, 'on the right breast,' dexiteron is for dexion.

Nouns in themselves are either masculine, feminine, or neuter. Masculine are such as end in N, R, S, or in
some letter compounded with S- these being two, PS and X. Feminine, such as end in vowels that are always
long, namely E and O, and- of vowels that admit of lengthening- those in A. Thus the number of letters in
which nouns masculine and feminine end is the same; for PS and X are equivalent to endings in S. No noun
ends in a mute or a vowel short by nature. Three only end in I- meli, 'honey'; kommi, 'gum'; peperi, 'pepper';
five end in U. Neuter nouns end in these two latter vowels; also in N and S.

XXII

The perfection of style is to be clear without being mean. The clearest style is that which uses only current or
proper words; at the same time it is mean- witness the poetry of Cleophon and of Sthenelus. That diction, on
the other hand, is lofty and raised above the commonplace which employs unusual words. By unusual, I mean
strange (or rare) words, metaphorical, lengthened- anything, in short, that differs from the normal idiom. Yet
a style wholly composed of such words is either a riddle or a jargon; a riddle, if it consists of metaphors; a
jargon, if it consists of strange (or rare) words. For the essence of a riddle is to express true facts under
impossible combinations. Now this cannot be done by any arrangement of ordinary words, but by the use of
metaphor it can. Such is the riddle: A man I saw who on another man had glued the bronze by aid of fire,'
and others of the same kind. A diction that is made up of strange (or rare) terms is a jargon. A certain
infusion, therefore, of these elements is necessary to style; for the strange (or rare) word, the metaphorical,
the ornamental, and the other kinds above mentioned, will raise it above the commonplace and mean, while
the use of proper words will make it perspicuous. But nothing contributes more to produce a cleanness of
diction that is remote from commonness than the lengthening, contraction, and alteration of words. For by
deviating in exceptional cases from the normal idiom, the language will gain distinction; while, at the same

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time, the partial conformity with usage will give perspicuity. The critics, therefore, are in error who censure
these licenses of speech, and hold the author up to ridicule. Thus Eucleides, the elder, declared that it would
be an easy matter to be a poet if you might lengthen syllables at will. He caricatured the practice in the very
form of his diction, as in the verse:

Epicharen eidon Marathonade badizonta,

I saw Epichares walking to Marathon,

or,

ouk an g'eramenos ton ekeinou elleboron.

Not if you desire his hellebore. To employ such license at all obtrusively is, no doubt, grotesque; but in any
mode of poetic diction there must be moderation. Even metaphors, strange (or rare) words, or any similar
forms of speech, would produce the like effect if used without propriety and with the express purpose of
being ludicrous. How great a difference is made by the appropriate use of lengthening, may be seen in Epic
poetry by the insertion of ordinary forms in the verse. So, again, if we take a strange (or rare) word, a
metaphor, or any similar mode of expression, and replace it by the current or proper term, the truth of our
observation will be manifest. For example, Aeschylus and Euripides each composed the same iambic line.
But the alteration of a single word by Euripides, who employed the rarer term instead of the ordinary one,
makes one verse appear beautiful and the other trivial. Aeschylus in his Philoctetes says:

phagedaina d'he mou sarkas esthiei podos.

The tumor which is eating the flesh of my foot.

Euripides substitutes thoinatai, 'feasts on,' for esthiei, 'feeds on.' Again, in the line,

nun de m'eon oligos te kai outidanos kai aeikes,

Yet a small man, worthless and unseemly,

the difference will be felt if we substitute the common words,

nun de m'eon mikros te kai asthenikos kai aeides.

Yet a little fellow, weak and ugly. Or, if for the line,

diphron aeikelion katatheis oligen te trapezan,

Setting an unseemly couch and a meager table,

we read,

diphron mochtheron katatheis mikran te trapezan.

Setting a wretched couch and a puny table. Or, for eiones booosin, 'the sea shores roar,' eiones krazousin, 'the
sea shores screech.'

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Again, Ariphrades ridiculed the tragedians for using phrases which no one would employ in ordinary speech:
for example, domaton apo, 'from the house away,' instead of apo domaton, 'away from the house;' sethen, ego
de nin, 'to thee, and I to him;' Achilleos peri, Achilles about,' instead of peri Achilleos, 'about Achilles;' and
the like. It is precisely because such phrases are not part of the current idiom that they give distinction to the
style. This, however, he failed to see.

It is a great matter to observe propriety in these several modes of expression, as also in compound words,
strange (or rare) words, and so forth. But the greatest thing by far is to have a command of metaphor. This
alone cannot be imparted by another; it is the mark of genius, for to make good metaphors implies an eye for
resemblances.

Of the various kinds of words, the compound are best adapted to dithyrambs, rare words to heroic poetry,
metaphors to iambic. In heroic poetry, indeed, all these varieties are serviceable. But in iambic verse, which
reproduces, as far as may be, familiar speech, the most appropriate words are those which are found even in
prose. These are the current or proper, the metaphorical, the ornamental.

Concerning Tragedy and imitation by means of action this may suffice.

XXIII

As to that poetic imitation which is narrative in form and employs a single meter, the plot manifestly ought,
as in a tragedy, to be constructed on dramatic principles. It should have for its subject a single action, whole
and complete, with a beginning, a middle, and an end. It will thus resemble a living organism in all its unity,
and produce the pleasure proper to it. It will differ in structure from historical compositions, which of
necessity present not a single action, but a single period, and all that happened within that period to one
person or to many, little connected together as the events may be. For as the sea-fight at Salamis and the
battle with the Carthaginians in Sicily took place at the same time, but did not tend to any one result, so in the
sequence of events, one thing sometimes follows another, and yet no single result is thereby produced. Such
is the practice, we may say, of most poets. Here again, then, as has been already observed, the transcendent
excellence of Homer is manifest. He never attempts to make the whole war of Troy the subject of his poem,
though that war had a beginning and an end. It would have been too vast a theme, and not easily embraced in
a single view. If, again, he had kept it within moderate limits, it must have been over-complicated by the
variety of the incidents. As it is, he detaches a single portion, and admits as episodes many events from the
general story of the war- such as the Catalogue of the ships and others- thus diversifying the poem. All other
poets take a single hero, a single period, or an action single indeed, but with a multiplicity of parts. Thus did
the author of the Cypria and of the Little Iliad. For this reason the Iliad and the Odyssey each furnish the
subject of one tragedy, or, at most, of two; while the Cypria supplies materials for many, and the Little Iliad
for eight- the Award of the Arms, the Philoctetes, the Neoptolemus, the Eurypylus, the Mendicant Odysseus,
the Laconian Women, the Fall of Ilium, the Departure of the Fleet.

XXIV

Again, Epic poetry must have as many kinds as Tragedy: it must be simple, or complex, or 'ethical,'or
'pathetic' The parts also, with the exception of song and spectacle, are the same; for it requires Reversals of
the Situation, Recognitions, and Scenes of Suffering. Moreover, the thoughts and the diction must be artistic.
In all these respects Homer is our earliest and sufficient model. Indeed each of his poems has a twofold
character. The Iliad is at once simple and 'pathetic,' and the Odyssey complex (for Recognition scenes run
through it), and at the same time 'ethical.' Moreover, in diction and thought they are supreme.

Epic poetry differs from Tragedy in the scale on which it is constructed, and in its meter. As regards scale or
length, we have already laid down an adequate limit: the beginning and the end must be capable of being

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brought within a single view. This condition will be satisfied by poems on a smaller scale than the old epics,
and answering in length to the group of tragedies presented at a single sitting.

Epic poetry has, however, a great- a special- capacity for enlarging its dimensions, and we can see the
reason. In Tragedy we cannot imitate several lines of actions carried on at one and the same time; we must
confine ourselves to the action on the stage and the part taken by the players. But in Epic poetry, owing to the
narrative form, many events simultaneously transacted can be presented; and these, if relevant to the subject,
add mass and dignity to the poem. The Epic has here an advantage, and one that conduces to grandeur of
effect, to diverting the mind of the hearer, and relieving the story with varying episodes. For sameness of
incident soon produces satiety, and makes tragedies fail on the stage.

As for the meter, the heroic measure has proved its fitness by hexameter test of experience. If a narrative
poem in any other meter or in many meters were now composed, it would be found incongruous. For of all
measures the heroic is the stateliest and the most massive; and hence it most readily admits rare words and
metaphors, which is another point in which the narrative form of imitation stands alone. On the other hand,
the iambic and the trochaic tetrameter are stirring measures, the latter being akin to dancing, the former
expressive of action. Still more absurd would it be to mix together different meters, as was done by
Chaeremon. Hence no one has ever composed a poem on a great scale in any other than heroic verse. Nature
herself, as we have said, teaches the choice of the proper measure.

Homer, admirable in all respects, has the special merit of being the only poet who rightly appreciates the part
he should take himself. The poet should speak as little as possible in his own person, for it is not this that
makes him an imitator. Other poets appear themselves upon the scene throughout, and imitate but little and
rarely. Homer, after a few prefatory words, at once brings in a man, or woman, or other personage; none of
them wanting in characteristic qualities, but each with a character of his own.

The element of the wonderful is required in Tragedy. The irrational, on which the wonderful depends for its
chief effects, has wider scope in Epic poetry, because there the person acting is not seen. Thus, the pursuit of
Hector would be ludicrous if placed upon the stage- the Greeks standing still and not joining in the pursuit,
and Achilles waving them back. But in the Epic poem the absurdity passes unnoticed. Now the wonderful is
pleasing, as may be inferred from the fact that every one tells a story with some addition of his knowing that
his hearers like it. It is Homer who has chiefly taught other poets the art of telling lies skilfully. The secret of
it lies in a fallacy For, assuming that if one thing is or becomes, a second is or becomes, men imagine that, if
the second is, the first likewise is or becomes. But this is a false inference. Hence, where the first thing is
untrue, it is quite unnecessary, provided the second be true, to add that the first is or has become. For the
mind, knowing the second to be true, falsely infers the truth of the first. There is an example of this in the
Bath Scene of the Odyssey.

Accordingly, the poet should prefer probable impossibilities to improbable possibilities. The tragic plot must
not be composed of irrational parts. Everything irrational should, if possible, be excluded; or, at all events, it
should lie outside the action of the play (as, in the Oedipus, the hero's ignorance as to the manner of Laius'
death); not within the drama- as in the Electra, the messenger's account of the Pythian games; or, as in the
Mysians, the man who has come from Tegea to Mysia and is still speechless. The plea that otherwise the plot
would have been ruined, is ridiculous; such a plot should not in the first instance be constructed. But once the
irrational has been introduced and an air of likelihood imparted to it, we must accept it in spite of the
absurdity. Take even the irrational incidents in the Odyssey, where Odysseus is left upon the shore of Ithaca.
How intolerable even these might have been would be apparent if an inferior poet were to treat the subject.
As it is, the absurdity is veiled by the poetic charm with which the poet invests it.

The diction should be elaborated in the pauses of the action, where there is no expression of character or
thought. For, conversely, character and thought are merely obscured by a diction that is over-brilliant

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XXV

With respect to critical difficulties and their solutions, the number and nature of the sources from which they
may be drawn may be thus exhibited.

The poet being an imitator, like a painter or any other artist, must of necessity imitate one of three objects-
things as they were or are, things as they are said or thought to be, or things as they ought to be. The vehicle
of expression is language- either current terms or, it may be, rare words or metaphors. There are also many
modifications of language, which we concede to the poets. Add to this, that the standard of correctness is not
the same in poetry and politics, any more than in poetry and any other art. Within the art of poetry itself there
are two kinds of faults- those which touch its essence, and those which are accidental. If a poet has chosen to
imitate something, [but has imitated it incorrectly] through want of capacity, the error is inherent in the
poetry. But if the failure is due to a wrong choice- if he has represented a horse as throwing out both his off
legs at once, or introduced technical inaccuracies in medicine, for example, or in any other art- the error is
not essential to the poetry. These are the points of view from which we should consider and answer the
objections raised by the critics.

First as to matters which concern the poet's own art. If he describes the impossible, he is guilty of an error;
but the error may be justified, if the end of the art be thereby attained (the end being that already mentioned)-
if, that is, the effect of this or any other part of the poem is thus rendered more striking. A case in point is the
pursuit of Hector, if, however, the end might have been as well, or better, attained without violating the
special rules of the poetic art, the error is not justified: for every kind of error should, if possible, be avoided.

Again, does the error touch the essentials of the poetic art, or some accident of it? For example, not to know
that a hind has no horns is a less serious matter than to paint it inartistically.

Further, if it be objected that the description is not true to fact, the poet may perhaps reply, 'But the objects
are as they ought to be'; just as Sophocles said that he drew men as they ought to be; Euripides, as they are. In
this way the objection may be met. If, however, the representation be of neither kind, the poet may answer,
'This is how men say the thing is.' applies to tales about the gods. It may well be that these stories are not
higher than fact nor yet true to fact: they are, very possibly, what Xenophanes says of them. But anyhow, 'this
is what is said.' Again, a description may be no better than the fact: 'Still, it was the fact'; as in the passage
about the arms: 'Upright upon their butt-ends stood the spears.' This was the custom then, as it now is among
the Illyrians.

Again, in examining whether what has been said or done by some one is poetically right or not, we must not
look merely to the particular act or saying, and ask whether it is poetically good or bad. We must also
consider by whom it is said or done, to whom, when, by what means, or for what end; whether, for instance,
it be to secure a greater good, or avert a greater evil.

Other difficulties may be resolved by due regard to the usage of language. We may note a rare word, as in
oureas men proton, 'the mules first [he killed],' where the poet perhaps employs oureas not in the sense of
mules, but of sentinels. So, again, of Dolon: 'ill-favored indeed he was to look upon.' It is not meant that his
body was ill-shaped but that his face was ugly; for the Cretans use the word eueides, 'well-flavored' to
denote a fair face. Again, zoroteron de keraie, 'mix the drink livelier' does not mean 'mix it stronger' as for
hard drinkers, but 'mix it quicker.'

Sometimes an expression is metaphorical, as 'Now all gods and men were sleeping through the night,' while
at the same time the poet says: 'Often indeed as he turned his gaze to the Trojan plain, he marveled at the
sound of flutes and pipes.' All' is here used metaphorically for 'many,' all being a species of many. So in the
verse, 'alone she hath no part... , oie, 'alone' is metaphorical; for the best known may be called the only one.

Poetics 19

Poetics

Again, the solution may depend upon accent or breathing. Thus Hippias of Thasos solved the difficulties in
the lines, didomen (didomen) de hoi, and to men hou (ou) kataputhetai ombro.

Or again, the question may be solved by punctuation, as in Empedocles: 'Of a sudden things became mortal
that before had learnt to be immortal, and things unmixed before mixed.'

Or again, by ambiguity of meaning, as parocheken de pleo nux, where the word pleo is ambiguous.

Or by the usage of language. Thus any mixed drink is called oinos, 'wine'. Hence Ganymede is said 'to pour
the wine to Zeus,' though the gods do not drink wine. So too workers in iron are called chalkeas, or 'workers
in bronze.' This, however, may also be taken as a metaphor.

Again, when a word seems to involve some inconsistency of meaning, we should consider how many senses
it may bear in the particular passage. For example: 'there was stayed the spear of bronze'- we should ask in
how many ways we may take 'being checked there.' The true mode of interpretation is the precise opposite of
what Glaucon mentions. Critics, he says, jump at certain groundless conclusions; they pass adverse
judgement and then proceed to reason on it; and, assuming that the poet has said whatever they happen to
think, find fault if a thing is inconsistent with their own fancy.

The question about Icarius has been treated in this fashion. The critics imagine he was a Lacedaemonian.
They think it strange, therefore, that Telemachus should not have met him when he went to Lacedaemon. But
the Cephallenian story may perhaps be the true one. They allege that Odysseus took a wife from among
themselves, and that her father was Icadius, not Icarius. It is merely a mistake, then, that gives plausibility to
the objection.

In general, the impossible must be justified by reference to artistic requirements, or to the higher reality, or to
received opinion. With respect to the requirements of art, a probable impossibility is to be preferred to a thing
improbable and yet possible. Again, it may be impossible that there should be men such as Zeuxis painted.
'Yes,' we say, 'but the impossible is the higher thing; for the ideal type must surpass the realty.' To justify the
irrational, we appeal to what is commonly said to be. In addition to which, we urge that the irrational
sometimes does not violate reason; just as 'it is probable that a thing may happen contrary to probability.'

Things that sound contradictory should be examined by the same rules as in dialectical refutation- whether
the same thing is meant, in the same relation, and in the same sense. We should therefore solve the question
by reference to what the poet says himself, or to what is tacitly assumed by a person of intelligence.

The element of the irrational, and, similarly, depravity of character, are justly censured when there is no inner
necessity for introducing them. Such is the irrational element in the introduction of Aegeus by Euripides and
the badness of Menelaus in the Orestes.

Thus, there are five sources from which critical objections are drawn. Things are censured either as
impossible, or irrational, or morally hurtful, or contradictory, or contrary to artistic correctness. The answers
should be sought under the twelve heads above mentioned.

XXVI

The question may be raised whether the Epic or Tragic mode of imitation is the higher. If the more refined art
is the higher, and the more refined in every case is that which appeals to the better sort of audience, the art
which imitates anything and everything is manifestly most unrefined. The audience is supposed to be too dull
to comprehend unless something of their own is thrown by the performers, who therefore indulge in restless
movements. Bad flute-players twist and twirl, if they have to represent 'the quoit-throw,' or hustle the

Poetics 20

Poetics

coryphaeus when they perform the Scylla. Tragedy, it is said, has this same defect. We may compare the
opinion that the older actors entertained of their successors. Mynniscus used to call Callippides 'ape' on
account of the extravagance of his action, and the same view was held of Pindarus. Tragic art, then, as a
whole, stands to Epic in the same relation as the younger to the elder actors. So we are told that Epic poetry is
addressed to a cultivated audience, who do not need gesture; Tragedy, to an inferior public. Being then
unrefined, it is evidently the lower of the two.

Now, in the first place, this censure attaches not to the poetic but to the histrionic art; for gesticulation may be
equally overdone in epic recitation, as by Sosistratus, or in lyrical competition, as by Mnasitheus the
Opuntian. Next, all action is not to be condemned- any more than all dancing- but only that of bad
performers. Such was the fault found in Callippides, as also in others of our own day, who are censured for
representing degraded women. Again, Tragedy like Epic poetry produces its effect even without action; it
reveals its power by mere reading. If, then, in all other respects it is superior, this fault, we say, is not inherent
in it.

And superior it is, because it has an the epic elements- it may even use the epic meter- with the music and
spectacular effects as important accessories; and these produce the most vivid of pleasures. Further, it has
vividness of impression in reading as well as in representation. Moreover, the art attains its end within
narrower limits for the concentrated effect is more pleasurable than one which is spread over a long time and
so diluted. What, for example, would be the effect of the Oedipus of Sophocles, if it were cast into a form as
long as the Iliad? Once more, the Epic imitation has less unity; as is shown by this, that any Epic poem will
furnish subjects for several tragedies. Thus if the story adopted by the poet has a strict unity, it must either be
concisely told and appear truncated; or, if it conforms to the Epic canon of length, it must seem weak and
watery. [Such length implies some loss of unity,] if, I mean, the poem is constructed out of several actions,
like the Iliad and the Odyssey, which have many such parts, each with a certain magnitude of its own. Yet
these poems are as perfect as possible in structure; each is, in the highest degree attainable, an imitation of a
single action.

If, then, tragedy is superior to epic poetry in all these respects, and, moreover, fulfills its specific function
better as an art- for each art ought to produce, not any chance pleasure, but the pleasure proper to it, as
already stated- it plainly follows that tragedy is the higher art, as attaining its end more perfectly.

Thus much may suffice concerning Tragic and Epic poetry in general; their several kinds and parts, with the
number of each and their differences; the causes that make a poem good or bad; the objections of the critics
and the answers to these objections....

Poetics 21

POLITICS

by Aristotle

POLITICS

Table of Contents

POLITICS 1

by Aristotle 1

BOOK ONE 3

i 3

il 4

ill 5

TV. 5

V 6

VL 7

VII 8

VIII 8

LX 9

X 11

XL 11

XII 12

XIII 13

BOOK TWO. 14

i 14

il 14

ill 15

IV. 16

V IV

VL 19

VII 20

VIII 22

LX 24

X 27

M- 28

XII 29

BOOK THREE 31

i 31

il 32

ill 32

iV. 33

X 34

_VL 35

VII 36

VIII 36

iX 37

X 38

M- 39

XII 40

XIII 41

XIV 42

XV 44

XVI 45

XVII 46

XVIII 47

POLITICS

Table of Contents

BOOK FOUR 47

i 47

il 48

ill 49

XV. 49

V 52

VL 52

VII 53

VIII 53

JX. 54

X 55

M 55

XII 57

XIII 57

XIV 58

XV 60

XVI 62

BOOK FIVE 62

1 63

JI 64

ill 64

JV.. 66

V 67

VL 68

VII 69

VIII 70

JX. 72

X 74

M- 77

XII 79

BOOK SIX 81

1 81

il 82

ill 82

TV. 83

X 84

_VL 85

VII 86

VIII 86

BOOK SEVEN 88

i 88

il 89

ill 90

iV. 91

V 92

_VL 92

VII 93

VIII 94

POLITICS

Table of Contents

DC 95

X 95

XL 96

XII 97

XIII 98

XIV 99

XV 101

XVI 102

XVIL 103

BOOK EIGHT . 104

1 104

n 104

ill 105

TV. 106

V 107

VI. 108

VII 109

POLITICS

by Aristotle

Translated by Benjamin Jowett

• BOOK ONE

• I

•U
• m

• IV

•Y

• VI

• VII

• VIII

• IX

•x
•xi

• XII

• XIII

• BOOK TWO

IV
V

VII
VIII
IX
X

M
XII

• BOOK THREE
I
II

IV
V

VII

VIII

POLITICS

• XII

• XIII

• XIV

• XV

• XVI

• XVII

• XVIII

• BOOK FOUR

• I

•II

• III

• IV
•Y

• VI

• VII

• VIII

• IX

•x

•XI

• XII

• XIII

• XIV

• XV

• XVI

• BOOK FIVE

• I

•II

• m

• IV

•Y

• VI

• VII

• VIII

• IX

•x
•XI

• XII

» BOOK SIX

• I
•II

• m

• IV

•Y

• VI

• VII

• VIII

• BOOK SEVEN

• I

•II
• III

• IV
POLITICS

POLITICS

•Y

• VI

• VII

• VIII

• IX

•x
•xi

• XII

• XIII

• XIV

• XV

• XVI

• XVII

• BOOK EIGHT

• I

•II
• III

• IV
•Y

• VI

• VII

BOOK ONE

EVERY STATE is a community of some kind, and every community is established with a view to some
good; for mankind always act in order to obtain that which they think good. But, if all communities aim at
some good, the state or political community, which is the highest of all, and which embraces all the rest, aims
at good in a greater degree than any other, and at the highest good.

Some people think that the qualifications of a statesman, king, householder, and master are the same, and that
they differ, not in kind, but only in the number of their subjects. For example, the ruler over a few is called a
master; over more, the manager of a household; over a still larger number, a statesman or king, as if there
were no difference between a great household and a small state. The distinction which is made between the
king and the statesman is as follows: When the government is personal, the ruler is a king; when, according to
the rules of the political science, the citizens rule and are ruled in turn, then he is called a statesman.

But all this is a mistake; for governments differ in kind, as will be evident to any one who considers the
matter according to the method which has hitherto guided us. As in other departments of science, so in
politics, the compound should always be resolved into the simple elements or least parts of the whole. We
must therefore look at the elements of which the state is composed, in order that we may see in what the
different kinds of rule differ from one another, and whether any scientific result can be attained about each
one of them.

BOOK ONE

POLITICS

He who thus considers things in their first growth and origin, whether a state or anything else, will obtain the
clearest view of them. In the first place there must be a union of those who cannot exist without each other;
namely, of male and female, that the race may continue (and this is a union which is formed, not of deliberate
purpose, but because, in common with other animals and with plants, mankind have a natural desire to leave
behind them an image of themselves), and of natural ruler and subject, that both may be preserved. For that
which can foresee by the exercise of mind is by nature intended to be lord and master, and that which can
with its body give effect to such foresight is a subject, and by nature a slave; hence master and slave have the
same interest. Now nature has distinguished between the female and the slave. For she is not niggardly, like
the smith who fashions the Delphian knife for many uses; she makes each thing for a single use, and every
instrument is best made when intended for one and not for many uses. But among barbarians no distinction is
made between women and slaves, because there is no natural ruler among them: they are a community of
slaves, male and female. Wherefore the poets say,

It is meet that Hellenes should rule over barbarians; as if they thought that the barbarian and the slave were
by nature one.

Out of these two relationships between man and woman, master and slave, the first thing to arise is the
family, and Hesiod is right when he says,

First house and wife and an ox for the plough, for the ox is the poor man's slave. The family is the association
established by nature for the supply of men's everyday wants, and the members of it are called by Charondas
'companions of the cupboard,' and by Epimenides the Cretan, 'companions of the manger.' But when several
families are united, and the association aims at something more than the supply of daily needs, the first
society to be formed is the village. And the most natural form of the village appears to be that of a colony
from the family, composed of the children and grandchildren, who are said to be suckled 'with the same milk.'
And this is the reason why Hellenic states were originally governed by kings; because the Hellenes were
under royal rule before they came together, as the barbarians still are. Every family is ruled by the eldest, and
therefore in the colonies of the family the kingly form of government prevailed because they were of the
same blood. As Homer says:

Each one gives law to his children and to his wives. For they lived dispersedly, as was the manner in ancient
times. Wherefore men say that the Gods have a king, because they themselves either are or were in ancient
times under the rule of a king. For they imagine, not only the forms of the Gods, but their ways of life to be
like their own.

When several villages are united in a single complete community, large enough to be nearly or quite
self-sufficing, the state comes into existence, originating in the bare needs of life, and continuing in existence
for the sake of a good life. And therefore, if the earlier forms of society are natural, so is the state, for it is the
end of them, and the nature of a thing is its end. For what each thing is when fully developed, we call its
nature, whether we are speaking of a man, a horse, or a family. Besides, the final cause and end of a thing is
the best, and to be self-sufficing is the end and the best.

Hence it is evident that the state is a creation of nature, and that man is by nature a political animal. And he
who by nature and not by mere accident is without a state, is either a bad man or above humanity; he is like
the

Tribeless, lawless, heartiness one, whom Homer denounces- the natural outcast is forthwith a lover of war;
he may be compared to an isolated piece at draughts.

POLITICS

Now, that man is more of a political animal than bees or any other gregarious animals is evident. Nature, as
we often say, makes nothing in vain, and man is the only animal whom she has endowed with the gift of
speech. And whereas mere voice is but an indication of pleasure or pain, and is therefore found in other
animals (for their nature attains to the perception of pleasure and pain and the intimation of them to one
another, and no further), the power of speech is intended to set forth the expedient and inexpedient, and
therefore likewise the just and the unjust. And it is a characteristic of man that he alone has any sense of good
and evil, of just and unjust, and the like, and the association of living beings who have this sense makes a
family and a state.

Further, the state is by nature clearly prior to the family and to the individual, since the whole is of necessity
prior to the part; for example, if the whole body be destroyed, there will be no foot or hand, except in an
equivocal sense, as we might speak of a stone hand; for when destroyed the hand will be no better than that.
But things are defined by their working and power; and we ought not to say that they are the same when they
no longer have their proper quality, but only that they have the same name. The proof that the state is a
creation of nature and prior to the individual is that the individual, when isolated, is not self-sufficing; and
therefore he is like a part in relation to the whole. But he who is unable to live in society, or who has no need
because he is sufficient for himself, must be either a beast or a god: he is no part of a state. A social instinct is
implanted in all men by nature, and yet he who first founded the state was the greatest of benefactors. For
man, when perfected, is the best of animals, but, when separated from law and justice, he is the worst of all;
since armed injustice is the more dangerous, and he is equipped at birth with arms, meant to be used by
intelligence and virtue, which he may use for the worst ends. Wherefore, if he have not virtue, he is the most
unholy and the most savage of animals, and the most full of lust and gluttony. But justice is the bond of men
in states, for the administration of justice, which is the determination of what is just, is the principle of order
in political society.

Seeing then that the state is made up of households, before speaking of the state we must speak of the
management of the household. The parts of household management correspond to the persons who compose
the household, and a complete household consists of slaves and freemen. Now we should begin by examining
everything in its fewest possible elements; and the first and fewest possible parts of a family are master and
slave, husband and wife, father and children. We have therefore to consider what each of these three relations
is and ought to be: I mean the relation of master and servant, the marriage relation (the conjunction of man
and wife has no name of its own), and thirdly, the procreative relation (this also has no proper name). And
there is another element of a household, the so-called art of getting wealth, which, according to some, is
identical with household management, according to others, a principal part of it; the nature of this art will
also have to be considered by us.

Let us first speak of master and slave, looking to the needs of practical life and also seeking to attain some
better theory of their relation than exists at present. For some are of opinion that the rule of a master is a
science, and that the management of a household, and the mastership of slaves, and the political and royal
rule, as I was saying at the outset, are all the same. Others affirm that the rule of a master over slaves is
contrary to nature, and that the distinction between slave and freeman exists by law only, and not by nature;
and being an interference with nature is therefore unjust.

Property is a part of the household, and the art of acquiring property is a part of the art of managing the
household; for no man can live well, or indeed live at all, unless he be provided with necessaries. And as in
the arts which have a definite sphere the workers must have their own proper instruments for the

POLITICS

accomplishment of their work, so it is in the management of a household. Now instruments are of various
sorts; some are living, others lifeless; in the rudder, the pilot of a ship has a lifeless, in the look-out man, a
living instrument; for in the arts the servant is a kind of instrument. Thus, too, a possession is an instrument
for maintaining life. And so, in the arrangement of the family, a slave is a living possession, and property a
number of such instruments; and the servant is himself an instrument which takes precedence of all other
instruments. For if every instrument could accomplish its own work, obeying or anticipating the will of
others, like the statues of Daedalus, or the tripods of Hephaestus, which, says the poet,

of their own accord entered the assembly of the Gods; if, in like manner, the shuttle would weave and the
plectrum touch the lyre without a hand to guide them, chief workmen would not want servants, nor masters
slaves. Here, however, another distinction must be drawn; the instruments commonly so called are
instruments of production, whilst a possession is an instrument of action. The shuttle, for example, is not only
of use; but something else is made by it, whereas of a garment or of a bed there is only the use. Further, as
production and action are different in kind, and both require instruments, the instruments which they employ
must likewise differ in kind. But life is action and not production, and therefore the slave is the minister of
action. Again, a possession is spoken of as a part is spoken of; for the part is not only a part of something
else, but wholly belongs to it; and this is also true of a possession. The master is only the master of the slave;
he does not belong to him, whereas the slave is not only the slave of his master, but wholly belongs to him.
Hence we see what is the nature and office of a slave; he who is by nature not his own but another's man, is
by nature a slave; and he may be said to be another's man who, being a human being, is also a possession.
And a possession may be defined as an instrument of action, separable from the possessor.

But is there any one thus intended by nature to be a slave, and for whom such a condition is expedient and
right, or rather is not all slavery a violation of nature?

There is no difficulty in answering this question, on grounds both of reason and of fact. For that some should
rule and others be ruled is a thing not only necessary, but expedient; from the hour of their birth, some are
marked out for subjection, others for rule.

And there are many kinds both of rulers and subjects (and that rule is the better which is exercised over better
subjects- for example, to rule over men is better than to rule over wild beasts; for the work is better which is
executed by better workmen, and where one man rules and another is ruled, they may be said to have a
work); for in all things which form a composite whole and which are made up of parts, whether continuous or
discrete, a distinction between the ruling and the subject element comes to fight. Such a duality exists in
living creatures, but not in them only; it originates in the constitution of the universe; even in things which
have no life there is a ruling principle, as in a musical mode. But we are wandering from the subject. We will
therefore restrict ourselves to the living creature, which, in the first place, consists of soul and body: and of
these two, the one is by nature the ruler, and the other the subject. But then we must look for the intentions of
nature in things which retain their nature, and not in things which are corrupted. And therefore we must study
the man who is in the most perfect state both of body and soul, for in him we shall see the true relation of the
two; although in bad or corrupted natures the body will often appear to rule over the soul, because they are in
an evil and unnatural condition. At all events we may firstly observe in living creatures both a despotical and
a constitutional rule; for the soul rules the body with a despotical rule, whereas the intellect rules the appetites
with a constitutional and royal rule. And it is clear that the rule of the soul over the body, and of the mind and
the rational element over the passionate, is natural and expedient; whereas the equality of the two or the rule
of the inferior is always hurtful. The same holds good of animals in relation to men; for tame animals have a
better nature than wild, and all tame animals are better off when they are ruled by man; for then they are
preserved. Again, the male is by nature superior, and the female inferior; and the one rules, and the other is

V 6

POLITICS

ruled; this principle, of necessity, extends to all mankind.

Where then there is such a difference as that between soul and body, or between men and animals (as in the
case of those whose business is to use their body, and who can do nothing better), the lower sort are by nature
slaves, and it is better for them as for all inferiors that they should be under the rule of a master. For he who
can be, and therefore is, another's and he who participates in rational principle enough to apprehend, but not
to have, such a principle, is a slave by nature. Whereas the lower animals cannot even apprehend a principle;
they obey their instincts. And indeed the use made of slaves and of tame animals is not very different; for
both with their bodies minister to the needs of life. Nature would like to distinguish between the bodies of
freemen and slaves, making the one strong for servile labor, the other upright, and although useless for such
services, useful for political life in the arts both of war and peace. But the opposite often happens- that some
have the souls and others have the bodies of freemen. And doubtless if men differed from one another in the
mere forms of their bodies as much as the statues of the Gods do from men, all would acknowledge that the
inferior class should be slaves of the superior. And if this is true of the body, how much more just that a
similar distinction should exist in the soul? but the beauty of the body is seen, whereas the beauty of the soul
is not seen. It is clear, then, that some men are by nature free, and others slaves, and that for these latter
slavery is both expedient and right.

But that those who take the opposite view have in a certain way right on their side, may be easily seen. For
the words slavery and slave are used in two senses. There is a slave or slavery by law as well as by nature.
The law of which I speak is a sort of convention- the law by which whatever is taken in war is supposed to
belong to the victors. But this right many jurists impeach, as they would an orator who brought forward an
unconstitutional measure: they detest the notion that, because one man has the power of doing violence and is
superior in brute strength, another shall be his slave and subject. Even among philosophers there is a
difference of opinion. The origin of the dispute, and what makes the views invade each other's territory, is as
follows: in some sense virtue, when furnished with means, has actually the greatest power of exercising
force; and as superior power is only found where there is superior excellence of some kind, power seems to
imply virtue, and the dispute to be simply one about justice (for it is due to one party identifying justice with
goodwill while the other identifies it with the mere rule of the stronger). If these views are thus set out
separately, the other views have no force or plausibility against the view that the superior in virtue ought to
rule, or be master. Others, clinging, as they think, simply to a principle of justice (for law and custom are a
sort of justice), assume that slavery in accordance with the custom of war is justified by law, but at the same
moment they deny this. For what if the cause of the war be unjust? And again, no one would ever say he is a
slave who is unworthy to be a slave. Were this the case, men of the highest rank would be slaves and the
children of slaves if they or their parents chance to have been taken captive and sold. Wherefore Hellenes do
not like to call Hellenes slaves, but confine the term to barbarians. Yet, in using this language, they really
mean the natural slave of whom we spoke at first; for it must be admitted that some are slaves everywhere,
others nowhere. The same principle applies to nobility. Hellenes regard themselves as noble everywhere, and
not only in their own country, but they deem the barbarians noble only when at home, thereby implying that
there are two sorts of nobility and freedom, the one absolute, the other relative. The Helen of Theodectes
says:

Who would presume to call me servant who am on both sides sprung from the stem of the Gods? What does
this mean but that they distinguish freedom and slavery, noble and humble birth, by the two principles of
good and evil? They think that as men and animals beget men and animals, so from good men a good man
springs. But this is what nature, though she may intend it, cannot always accomplish.

We see then that there is some foundation for this difference of opinion, and that all are not either slaves by
VI 7

POLITICS

nature or freemen by nature, and also that there is in some cases a marked distinction between the two
classes, rendering it expedient and right for the one to be slaves and the others to be masters: the one
practicing obedience, the others exercising the authority and lordship which nature intended them to have.
The abuse of this authority is injurious to both; for the interests of part and whole, of body and soul, are the
same, and the slave is a part of the master, a living but separated part of his bodily frame. Hence, where the
relation of master and slave between them is natural they are friends and have a common interest, but where
it rests merely on law and force the reverse is true.

VII

The previous remarks are quite enough to show that the rule of a master is not a constitutional rule, and that
all the different kinds of rule are not, as some affirm, the same with each other. For there is one rule exercised
over subjects who are by nature free, another over subjects who are by nature slaves. The rule of a household
is a monarchy, for every house is under one head: whereas constitutional rule is a government of freemen and
equals. The master is not called a master because he has science, but because he is of a certain character, and
the same remark applies to the slave and the freeman. Still there may be a science for the master and science
for the slave. The science of the slave would be such as the man of Syracuse taught, who made money by
instructing slaves in their ordinary duties. And such a knowledge may be carried further, so as to include
cookery and similar menial arts. For some duties are of the more necessary, others of the more honorable
sort; as the proverb says, 'slave before slave, master before master.' But all such branches of knowledge are
servile. There is likewise a science of the master, which teaches the use of slaves; for the master as such is
concerned, not with the acquisition, but with the use of them. Yet this so-called science is not anything great
or wonderful; for the master need only know how to order that which the slave must know how to execute.
Hence those who are in a position which places them above toil have stewards who attend to their households
while they occupy themselves with philosophy or with politics. But the art of acquiring slaves, I mean of
justly acquiring them, differs both from the art of the master and the art of the slave, being a species of
hunting or war. Enough of the distinction between master and slave.

VIM

Let us now inquire into property generally, and into the art of getting wealth, in accordance with our usual
method, for a slave has been shown to be a part of property. The first question is whether the art of getting
wealth is the same with the art of managing a household or a part of it, or instrumental to it; and if the last,
whether in the way that the art of making shuttles is instrumental to the art of weaving, or in the way that the
casting of bronze is instrumental to the art of the statuary, for they are not instrumental in the same way, but
the one provides tools and the other material; and by material I mean the substratum out of which any work is
made; thus wool is the material of the weaver, bronze of the statuary. Now it is easy to see that the art of
household management is not identical with the art of getting wealth, for the one uses the material which the
other provides. For the art which uses household stores can be no other than the art of household
management. There is, however, a doubt whether the art of getting wealth is a part of household management
or a distinct art. If the getter of wealth has to consider whence wealth and property can be procured, but there
are many sorts of property and riches, then are husbandry, and the care and provision of food in general, parts
of the wealth-getting art or distinct arts? Again, there are many sorts of food, and therefore there are many
kinds of lives both of animals and men; they must all have food, and the differences in their food have made
differences in their ways of life. For of beasts, some are gregarious, others are solitary; they live in the way
which is best adapted to sustain them, accordingly as they are carnivorous or herbivorous or omnivorous: and
their habits are determined for them by nature in such a manner that they may obtain with greater facility the
food of their choice. But, as different species have different tastes, the same things are not naturally pleasant
to all of them; and therefore the lives of carnivorous or herbivorous animals further differ among themselves.
In the lives of men too there is a great difference. The laziest are shepherds, who lead an idle life, and get

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their subsistence without trouble from tame animals; their flocks having to wander from place to place in
search of pasture, they are compelled to follow them, cultivating a sort of living farm. Others support
themselves by hunting, which is of different kinds. Some, for example, are brigands, others, who dwell near
lakes or marshes or rivers or a sea in which there are fish, are fishermen, and others live by the pursuit of
birds or wild beasts. The greater number obtain a living from the cultivated fruits of the soil. Such are the
modes of subsistence which prevail among those whose industry springs up of itself, and whose food is not
acquired by exchange and retail trade- there is the shepherd, the husbandman, the brigand, the fisherman, the
hunter. Some gain a comfortable maintenance out of two employments, eking out the deficiencies of one of
them by another: thus the life of a shepherd may be combined with that of a brigand, the life of a farmer with
that of a hunter. Other modes of life are similarly combined in any way which the needs of men may require.
Property, in the sense of a bare livelihood, seems to be given by nature herself to all, both when they are first
born, and when they are grown up. For some animals bring forth, together with their offspring, so much food
as will last until they are able to supply themselves; of this the vermiparous or oviparous animals are an
instance; and the viviparous animals have up to a certain time a supply of food for their young in themselves,
which is called milk. In like manner we may infer that, after the birth of animals, plants exist for their sake,
and that the other animals exist for the sake of man, the tame for use and food, the wild, if not all at least the
greater part of them, for food, and for the provision of clothing and various instruments. Now if nature makes
nothing incomplete, and nothing in vain, the inference must be that she has made all animals for the sake of
man. And so, in one point of view, the art of war is a natural art of acquisition, for the art of acquisition
includes hunting, an art which we ought to practice against wild beasts, and against men who, though
intended by nature to be governed, will not submit; for war of such a kind is naturally just.

Of the art of acquisition then there is one kind which by nature is a part of the management of a household, in
so far as the art of household management must either find ready to hand, or itself provide, such things
necessary to life, and useful for the community of the family or state, as can be stored. They are the elements
of true riches; for the amount of property which is needed for a good life is not unlimited, although Solon in
one of his poems says that

No bound to riches has been fixed for man. But there is a boundary fixed, just as there is in the other arts; for
the instruments of any art are never unlimited, either in number or size, and riches may be defined as a
number of instruments to be used in a household or in a state. And so we see that there is a natural art of
acquisition which is practiced by managers of households and by statesmen, and what is the reason of this.

There is another variety of the art of acquisition which is commonly and rightly called an art of
wealth-getting, and has in fact suggested the notion that riches and property have no limit. Being nearly
connected with the preceding, it is often identified with it. But though they are not very different, neither are
they the same. The kind already described is given by nature, the other is gained by experience and art.

Let us begin our discussion of the question with the following considerations:

Of everything which we possess there are two uses: both belong to the thing as such, but not in the same
manner, for one is the proper, and the other the improper or secondary use of it. For example, a shoe is used
for wear, and is used for exchange; both are uses of the shoe. He who gives a shoe in exchange for money or
food to him who wants one, does indeed use the shoe as a shoe, but this is not its proper or primary purpose,
for a shoe is not made to be an object of barter. The same may be said of all possessions, for the art of
exchange extends to all of them, and it arises at first from what is natural, from the circumstance that some
have too little, others too much. Hence we may infer that retail trade is not a natural part of the art of getting
wealth; had it been so, men would have ceased to exchange when they had enough. In the first community,

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indeed, which is the family, this art is obviously of no use, but it begins to be useful when the society
increases. For the members of the family originally had all things in common; later, when the family divided
into parts, the parts shared in many things, and different parts in different things, which they had to give in
exchange for what they wanted, a kind of barter which is still practiced among barbarous nations who
exchange with one another the necessaries of life and nothing more; giving and receiving wine, for example,
in exchange for coin, and the like. This sort of barter is not part of the wealth-getting art and is not contrary
to nature, but is needed for the satisfaction of men's natural wants. The other or more complex form of
exchange grew, as might have been inferred, out of the simpler. When the inhabitants of one country became
more dependent on those of another, and they imported what they needed, and exported what they had too
much of, money necessarily came into use. For the various necessaries of life are not easily carried about, and
hence men agreed to employ in their dealings with each other something which was intrinsically useful and
easily applicable to the purposes of life, for example, iron, silver, and the like. Of this the value was at first
measured simply by size and weight, but in process of time they put a stamp upon it, to save the trouble of
weighing and to mark the value.

When the use of coin had once been discovered, out of the barter of necessary articles arose the other art of
wealth getting, namely, retail trade; which was at first probably a simple matter, but became more
complicated as soon as men learned by experience whence and by what exchanges the greatest profit might
be made. Originating in the use of coin, the art of getting wealth is generally thought to be chiefly concerned
with it, and to be the art which produces riches and wealth; having to consider how they may be accumulated.
Indeed, riches is assumed by many to be only a quantity of coin, because the arts of getting wealth and retail
trade are concerned with coin. Others maintain that coined money is a mere sham, a thing not natural, but
conventional only, because, if the users substitute another commodity for it, it is worthless, and because it is
not useful as a means to any of the necessities of life, and, indeed, he who is rich in coin may often be in want
of necessary food. But how can that be wealth of which a man may have a great abundance and yet perish
with hunger, like Midas in the fable, whose insatiable prayer turned everything that was set before him into
gold?

Hence men seek after a better notion of riches and of the art of getting wealth than the mere acquisition of
coin, and they are right. For natural riches and the natural art of wealth-getting are a different thing; in their
true form they are part of the management of a household; whereas retail trade is the art of producing wealth,
not in every way, but by exchange. And it is thought to be concerned with coin; for coin is the unit of
exchange and the measure or limit of it. And there is no bound to the riches which spring from this art of
wealth getting. As in the art of medicine there is no limit to the pursuit of health, and as in the other arts there
is no limit to the pursuit of their several ends, for they aim at accomplishing their ends to the uttermost (but of
the means there is a limit, for the end is always the limit), so, too, in this art of wealth-getting there is no
limit of the end, which is riches of the spurious kind, and the acquisition of wealth. But the art of
wealth-getting which consists in household management, on the other hand, has a limit; the unlimited
acquisition of wealth is not its business. And, therefore, in one point of view, all riches must have a limit;
nevertheless, as a matter of fact, we find the opposite to be the case; for all getters of wealth increase their
hoard of coin without limit. The source of the confusion is the near connection between the two kinds of
wealth-getting; in either, the instrument is the same, although the use is different, and so they pass into one
another; for each is a use of the same property, but with a difference: accumulation is the end in the one case,
but there is a further end in the other. Hence some persons are led to believe that getting wealth is the object
of household management, and the whole idea of their lives is that they ought either to increase their money
without limit, or at any rate not to lose it. The origin of this disposition in men is that they are intent upon
living only, and not upon living well; and, as their desires are unlimited they also desire that the means of
gratifying them should be without limit. Those who do aim at a good life seek the means of obtaining bodily
pleasures; and, since the enjoyment of these appears to depend on property, they are absorbed in getting
wealth: and so there arises the second species of wealth-getting. For, as their enjoyment is in excess, they
seek an art which produces the excess of enjoyment; and, if they are not able to supply their pleasures by the

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art of getting wealth, they try other arts, using in turn every faculty in a manner contrary to nature. The
quality of courage, for example, is not intended to make wealth, but to inspire confidence; neither is this the
aim of the general's or of the physician's art; but the one aims at victory and the other at health. Nevertheless,
some men turn every quality or art into a means of getting wealth; this they conceive to be the end, and to the
promotion of the end they think all things must contribute.

Thus, then, we have considered the art of wealth-getting which is unnecessary, and why men want it; and
also the necessary art of wealth-getting, which we have seen to be different from the other, and to be a
natural part of the art of managing a household, concerned with the provision of food, not, however, like the
former kind, unlimited, but having a limit.

And we have found the answer to our original question, Whether the art of getting wealth is the business of
the manager of a household and of the statesman or not their business? viz., that wealth is presupposed by
them. For as political science does not make men, but takes them from nature and uses them, so too nature
provides them with earth or sea or the like as a source of food. At this stage begins the duty of the manager of
a household, who has to order the things which nature supplies; he may be compared to the weaver who has
not to make but to use wool, and to know, too, what sort of wool is good and serviceable or bad and
unserviceable. Were this otherwise, it would be difficult to see why the art of getting wealth is a part of the
management of a household and the art of medicine not; for surely the members of a household must have
health just as they must have life or any other necessary. The answer is that as from one point of view the
master of the house and the ruler of the state have to consider about health, from another point of view not
they but the physician; so in one way the art of household management, in another way the subordinate art,
has to consider about wealth. But, strictly speaking, as I have already said, the means of life must be provided
beforehand by nature; for the business of nature is to furnish food to that which is born, and the food of the
offspring is always what remains over of that from which it is produced. Wherefore the art of getting wealth
out of fruits and animals is always natural.

There are two sorts of wealth-getting, as I have said; one is a part of household management, the other is
retail trade: the former necessary and honorable, while that which consists in exchange is justly censured; for
it is unnatural, and a mode by which men gain from one another. The most hated sort, and with the greatest
reason, is usury, which makes a gain out of money itself, and not from the natural object of it. For money was
intended to be used in exchange, but not to increase at interest. And this term interest, which means the birth
of money from money, is applied to the breeding of money because the offspring resembles the parent.
Wherefore of an modes of getting wealth this is the most unnatural.

Enough has been said about the theory of wealth-getting; we will now proceed to the practical part. The
discussion of such matters is not unworthy of philosophy, but to be engaged in them practically is illiberal
and irksome. The useful parts of wealth-getting are, first, the knowledge of livestock- which are most
profitable, and where, and how- as, for example, what sort of horses or sheep or oxen or any other animals
are most likely to give a return. A man ought to know which of these pay better than others, and which pay
best in particular places, for some do better in one place and some in another. Secondly, husbandry, which
may be either tillage or planting, and the keeping of bees and of fish, or fowl, or of any animals which may be
useful to man. These are the divisions of the true or proper art of wealth-getting and come first. Of the other,
which consists in exchange, the first and most important division is commerce (of which there are three
kinds- the provision of a ship, the conveyance of goods, exposure for sale- these again differing as they are
safer or more profitable), the second is usury, the third, service for hire- of this, one kind is employed in the

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mechanical arts, the other in unskilled and bodily labor. There is still a third sort of wealth getting
intermediate between this and the first or natural mode which is partly natural, but is also concerned with
exchange, viz., the industries that make their profit from the earth, and from things growing from the earth
which, although they bear no fruit, are nevertheless profitable; for example, the cutting of timber and all
mining. The art of mining, by which minerals are obtained, itself has many branches, for there are various
kinds of things dug out of the earth. Of the several divisions of wealth-getting I now speak generally; a
minute consideration of them might be useful in practice, but it would be tiresome to dwell upon them at
greater length now.

Those occupations are most truly arts in which there is the least element of chance; they are the meanest in
which the body is most deteriorated, the most servile in which there is the greatest use of the body, and the
most illiberal in which there is the least need of excellence.

Works have been written upon these subjects by various persons; for example, by Chares the Parian, and
Apollodorus the Lemnian, who have treated of Tillage and Planting, while others have treated of other
branches; any one who cares for such matters may refer to their writings. It would be well also to collect the
scattered stories of the ways in which individuals have succeeded in amassing a fortune; for all this is useful
to persons who value the art of getting wealth. There is the anecdote of Thales the Milesian and his financial
device, which involves a principle of universal application, but is attributed to him on account of his
reputation for wisdom. He was reproached for his poverty, which was supposed to show that philosophy was
of no use. According to the story, he knew by his skill in the stars while it was yet winter that there would be
a great harvest of olives in the coming year; so, having a little money, he gave deposits for the use of all the
olive-presses in Chios and Miletus, which he hired at a low price because no one bid against him. When the
harvest-time came, and many were wanted all at once and of a sudden, he let them out at any rate which he
pleased, and made a quantity of money. Thus he showed the world that philosophers can easily be rich if they
like, but that their ambition is of another sort. He is supposed to have given a striking proof of his wisdom,
but, as I was saying, his device for getting wealth is of universal application, and is nothing but the creation
of a monopoly. It is an art often practiced by cities when they are want of money; they make a monopoly of
provisions.

There was a man of Sicily, who, having money deposited with him, bought up an the iron from the iron
mines; afterwards, when the merchants from their various markets came to buy, he was the only seller, and
without much increasing the price he gained 200 per cent. Which when Dionysius heard, he told him that he
might take away his money, but that he must not remain at Syracuse, for he thought that the man had
discovered a way of making money which was injurious to his own interests. He made the same discovery as
Thales; they both contrived to create a monopoly for themselves. And statesmen as well ought to know these
things; for a state is often as much in want of money and of such devices for obtaining it as a household, or
even more so; hence some public men devote themselves entirely to finance.

XII

Of household management we have seen that there are three parts- one is the rule of a master over slaves,
which has been discussed already, another of a father, and the third of a husband. A husband and father, we
saw, rules over wife and children, both free, but the rule differs, the rule over his children being a royal, over
his wife a constitutional rule. For although there may be exceptions to the order of nature, the male is by
nature fitter for command than the female, just as the elder and full-grown is superior to the younger and
more immature. But in most constitutional states the citizens rule and are ruled by turns, for the idea of a
constitutional state implies that the natures of the citizens are equal, and do not differ at all. Nevertheless,
when one rules and the other is ruled we endeavor to create a difference of outward forms and names and
titles of respect, which may be illustrated by the saying of Amasis about his foot-pan. The relation of the

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male to the female is of this kind, but there the inequality is permanent. The rule of a father over his children
is royal, for he rules by virtue both of love and of the respect due to age, exercising a kind of royal power.
And therefore Homer has appropriately called Zeus 'father of Gods and men,' because he is the king of them
all. For a king is the natural superior of his subjects, but he should be of the same kin or kind with them, and
such is the relation of elder and younger, of father and son.

XIII

Thus it is clear that household management attends more to men than to the acquisition of inanimate things,
and to human excellence more than to the excellence of property which we call wealth, and to the virtue of
freemen more than to the virtue of slaves. A question may indeed be raised, whether there is any excellence at
all in a slave beyond and higher than merely instrumental and ministerial qualities- whether he can have the
virtues of temperance, courage, justice, and the like; or whether slaves possess only bodily and ministerial
qualities. And, whichever way we answer the question, a difficulty arises; for, if they have virtue, in what will
they differ from freemen? On the other hand, since they are men and share in rational principle, it seems
absurd to say that they have no virtue. A similar question may be raised about women and children, whether
they too have virtues: ought a woman to be temperate and brave and just, and is a child to be called
temperate, and intemperate, or note So in general we may ask about the natural ruler, and the natural subject,
whether they have the same or different virtues. For if a noble nature is equally required in both, why should
one of them always rule, and the other always be ruled? Nor can we say that this is a question of degree, for
the difference between ruler and subject is a difference of kind, which the difference of more and less never
is. Yet how strange is the supposition that the one ought, and that the other ought not, to have virtue! For if
the ruler is intemperate and unjust, how can he rule well? If the subject, how can he obey well? If he be
licentious and cowardly, he will certainly not do his duty. It is evident, therefore, that both of them must have
a share of virtue, but varying as natural subjects also vary among themselves. Here the very constitution of
the soul has shown us the way; in it one part naturally rules, and the other is subject, and the virtue of the
ruler we in maintain to be different from that of the subject; the one being the virtue of the rational, and the
other of the irrational part. Now, it is obvious that the same principle applies generally, and therefore almost
all things rule and are ruled according to nature. But the kind of rule differs; the freeman rules over the slave
after another manner from that in which the male rules over the female, or the man over the child; although
the parts of the soul are present in an of them, they are present in different degrees. For the slave has no
deliberative faculty at all; the woman has, but it is without authority, and the child has, but it is immature. So
it must necessarily be supposed to be with the moral virtues also; all should partake of them, but only in such
manner and degree as is required by each for the fulfillment of his duty. Hence the ruler ought to have moral
virtue in perfection, for his function, taken absolutely, demands a master artificer, and rational principle is
such an artificer; the subjects, oil the other hand, require only that measure of virtue which is proper to each
of them. Clearly, then, moral virtue belongs to all of them; but the temperance of a man and of a woman, or
the courage and justice of a man and of a woman, are not, as Socrates maintained, the same; the courage of a
man is shown in commanding, of a woman in obeying. And this holds of all other virtues, as will be more
clearly seen if we look at them in detail, for those who say generally that virtue consists in a good disposition
of the soul, or in doing rightly, or the like, only deceive themselves. Far better than such definitions is their
mode of speaking, who, like Gorgias, enumerate the virtues. All classes must be deemed to have their special
attributes; as the poet says of women,

Silence is a woman's glory, but this is not equally the glory of man. The child is imperfect, and therefore
obviously his virtue is not relative to himself alone, but to the perfect man and to his teacher, and in like
manner the virtue of the slave is relative to a master. Now we determined that a slave is useful for the wants
of life, and therefore he will obviously require only so much virtue as will prevent him from failing in his
duty through cowardice or lack of self-control. Some one will ask whether, if what we are saying is true,
virtue will not be required also in the artisans, for they often fail in their work through the lack of self

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control? But is there not a great difference in the two cases? For the slave shares in his master's life; the
artisan is less closely connected with him, and only attains excellence in proportion as he becomes a slave.
The meaner sort of mechanic has a special and separate slavery; and whereas the slave exists by nature, not
so the shoemaker or other artisan. It is manifest, then, that the master ought to be the source of such
excellence in the slave, and not a mere possessor of the art of mastership which trains the slave in his duties.
Wherefore they are mistaken who forbid us to converse with slaves and say that we should employ command
only, for slaves stand even more in need of admonition than children.

So much for this subject; the relations of husband and wife, parent and child, their several virtues, what in
their intercourse with one another is good, and what is evil, and how we may pursue the good and good and
escape the evil, will have to be discussed when we speak of the different forms of government. For, inasmuch
as every family is a part of a state, and these relationships are the parts of a family, and the virtue of the part
must have regard to the virtue of the whole, women and children must be trained by education with an eye to
the constitution, if the virtues of either of them are supposed to make any difference in the virtues of the state.
And they must make a difference: for the children grow up to be citizens, and half the free persons in a state
are women.

Of these matters, enough has been said; of what remains, let us speak at another time. Regarding, then, our
present inquiry as complete, we will make a new beginning. And, first, let us examine the various theories of
a perfect state.

BOOK TWO

OUR PURPOSE is to consider what form of political community is best of all for those who are most able to
realize their ideal of life. We must therefore examine not only this but other constitutions, both such as
actually exist in well-governed states, and any theoretical forms which are held in esteem; that what is good
and useful may be brought to light. And let no one suppose that in seeking for something beyond them we are
anxious to make a sophistical display at any cost; we only undertake this inquiry because all the constitutions
with which we are acquainted are faulty.

We will begin with the natural beginning of the subject. Three alternatives are conceivable: The members of
a state must either have (1) all things or (2) nothing in common, or (3) some things in common and some not.
That they should have nothing in common is clearly impossible, for the constitution is a community, and
must at any rate have a common place- one city will be in one place, and the citizens are those who share in
that one city. But should a well ordered state have all things, as far as may be, in common, or some only and
not others? For the citizens might conceivably have wives and children and property in common, as Socrates
proposes in the Republic of Plato. Which is better, our present condition, or the proposed new order of
society.

There are many difficulties in the community of women. And the principle on which Socrates rests the
necessity of such an institution evidently is not established by his arguments. Further, as a means to the end
which he ascribes to the state, the scheme, taken literally is impracticable, and how we are to interpret it is
nowhere precisely stated. I am speaking of the premise from which the argument of Socrates proceeds, 'that
the greater the unity of the state the better.' Is it not obvious that a state may at length attain such a degree of
unity as to be no longer a state? since the nature of a state is to be a plurality, and in tending to greater unity,
from being a state, it becomes a family, and from being a family, an individual; for the family may be said to

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be more than the state, and the individual than the family. So that we ought not to attain this greatest unity
even if we could, for it would be the destruction of the state. Again, a state is not made up only of so many
men, but of different kinds of men; for similars do not constitute a state. It is not like a military alliance The
usefulness of the latter depends upon its quantity even where there is no difference in quality (for mutual
protection is the end aimed at), just as a greater weight of anything is more useful than a less (in like manner,
a state differs from a nation, when the nation has not its population organized in villages, but lives an
Arcadian sort of life); but the elements out of which a unity is to be formed differ in kind. Wherefore the
principle of compensation, as I have already remarked in the Ethics, is the salvation of states. Even among
freemen and equals this is a principle which must be maintained, for they cannot an rule together, but must
change at the end of a year or some other period of time or in some order of succession. The result is that
upon this plan they all govern; just as if shoemakers and carpenters were to exchange their occupations, and
the same persons did not always continue shoemakers and carpenters. And since it is better that this should be
so in politics as well, it is clear that while there should be continuance of the same persons in power where
this is possible, yet where this is not possible by reason of the natural equality of the citizens, and at the same
time it is just that an should share in the government (whether to govern be a good thing or a bad), an
approximation to this is that equals should in turn retire from office and should, apart from official position,
be treated alike. Thus the one party rule and the others are ruled in turn, as if they were no longer the same
persons. In like manner when they hold office there is a variety in the offices held. Hence it is evident that a
city is not by nature one in that sense which some persons affirm; and that what is said to be the greatest good
of cities is in reality their destruction; but surely the good of things must be that which preserves them.
Again, in another point of view, this extreme unification of the state is clearly not good; for a family is more
self-sufficing than an individual, and a city than a family, and a city only comes into being when the
community is large enough to be self-sufficing. If then self-sufficiency is to be desired, the lesser degree of
unity is more desirable than the greater.

But, even supposing that it were best for the community to have the greatest degree of unity, this unity is by
no means proved to follow from the fact 'of all men saying "mine" and "not mine" at the same instant of
time,' which, according to Socrates, is the sign of perfect unity in a state. For the word 'all' is ambiguous. If
the meaning be that every individual says 'mine' and 'not mine' at the same time, then perhaps the result at
which Socrates aims may be in some degree accomplished; each man will call the same person his own son
and the same person his wife, and so of his property and of all that falls to his lot. This, however, is not the
way in which people would speak who had their had their wives and children in common; they would say 'all'
but not 'each.' In like manner their property would be described as belonging to them, not severally but
collectively. There is an obvious fallacy in the term 'all': like some other words, 'both,' 'odd,' 'even,' it is
ambiguous, and even in abstract argument becomes a source of logical puzzles. That all persons call the same
thing mine in the sense in which each does so may be a fine thing, but it is impracticable; or if the words are
taken in the other sense, such a unity in no way conduces to harmony. And there is another objection to the
proposal. For that which is common to the greatest number has the least care bestowed upon it. Every one
thinks chiefly of his own, hardly at all of the common interest; and only when he is himself concerned as an
individual. For besides other considerations, everybody is more inclined to neglect the duty which he expects
another to fulfill; as in families many attendants are often less useful than a few. Each citizen will have a
thousand sons who will not be his sons individually but anybody will be equally the son of anybody, and will
therefore be neglected by all alike. Further, upon this principle, every one will use the word 'mine' of one who
is prospering or the reverse, however small a fraction he may himself be of the whole number; the same boy
will be 'so and so's son,' the son of each of the thousand, or whatever be the number of the citizens; and even
about this he will not be positive; for it is impossible to know who chanced to have a child, or whether, if one
came into existence, it has survived. But which is better- for each to say 'mine' in this way, making a man the
same relation to two thousand or ten thousand citizens, or to use the word 'mine' in the ordinary and more

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restricted sense? For usually the same person is called by one man his own son whom another calls his own
brother or cousin or kinsman- blood relation or connection by marriage either of himself or of some relation
of his, and yet another his clansman or tribesman; and how much better is it to be the real cousin of
somebody than to be a son after Plato's fashion! Nor is there any way of preventing brothers and children and
fathers and mothers from sometimes recognizing one another; for children are born like their parents, and
they will necessarily be finding indications of their relationship to one another. Geographers declare such to
be the fact; they say that in part of Upper Libya, where the women are common, nevertheless the children
who are born are assigned to their respective fathers on the ground of their likeness. And some women, like
the females of other animals- for example, mares and cows- have a strong tendency to produce offspring
resembling their parents, as was the case with the Pharsalian mare called Honest.

Other evils, against which it is not easy for the authors of such a community to guard, will be assaults and
homicides, voluntary as well as involuntary, quarrels and slanders, all which are most unholy acts when
committed against fathers and mothers and near relations, but not equally unholy when there is no
relationship. Moreover, they are much more likely to occur if the relationship is unknown, and, when they
have occurred, the customary expiations of them cannot be made. Again, how strange it is that Socrates, after
having made the children common, should hinder lovers from carnal intercourse only, but should permit love
and familiarities between father and son or between brother and brother, than which nothing can be more
unseemly, since even without them love of this sort is improper. How strange, too, to forbid intercourse for
no other reason than the violence of the pleasure, as though the relationship of father and son or of brothers
with one another made no difference.

This community of wives and children seems better suited to the husbandmen than to the guardians, for if
they have wives and children in common, they will be bound to one another by weaker ties, as a subject class
should be, and they will remain obedient and not rebel. In a word, the result of such a law would be just the
opposite of which good laws ought to have, and the intention of Socrates in making these regulations about
women and children would defeat itself. For friendship we believe to be the greatest good of states and the
preservative of them against revolutions; neither is there anything which Socrates so greatly lauds as the unity
of the state which he and all the world declare to be created by friendship. But the unity which he commends
would be like that of the lovers in the Symposium, who, as Aristophanes says, desire to grow together in the
excess of their affection, and from being two to become one, in which case one or both would certainly
perish. Whereas in a state having women and children common, love will be watery; and the father will
certainly not say 'my son,' or the son 'my father.' As a little sweet wine mingled with a great deal of water is
imperceptible in the mixture, so, in this sort of community, the idea of relationship which is based upon these
names will be lost; there is no reason why the so-called father should care about the son, or the son about the
father, or brothers about one another. Of the two qualities which chiefly inspire regard and affection- that a
thing is your own and that it is your only one-neither can exist in such a state as this.

Again, the transfer of children as soon as they are born from the rank of husbandmen or of artisans to that of
guardians, and from the rank of guardians into a lower rank, will be very difficult to arrange; the givers or
transferrers cannot but know whom they are giving and transferring, and to whom. And the previously
mentioned evils, such as assaults, unlawful loves, homicides, will happen more often amongst those who are
transferred to the lower classes, or who have a place assigned to them among the guardians; for they will no
longer call the members of the class they have left brothers, and children, and fathers, and mothers, and will
not, therefore, be afraid of committing any crimes by reason of consanguinity. Touching the community of
wives and children, let this be our conclusion.

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Next let us consider what should be our arrangements about property: should the citizens of the perfect state
have their possessions in common or not? This question may be discussed separately from the enactments
about women and children. Even supposing that the women and children belong to individuals, according to
the custom which is at present universal, may there not be an advantage in having and using possessions in
common? Three cases are possible: (1) the soil may be appropriated, but the produce may be thrown for
consumption into the common stock; and this is the practice of some nations. Or (2), the soil may be
common, and may be cultivated in common, but the produce divided among individuals for their private use;
this is a form of common property which is said to exist among certain barbarians. Or (3), the soil and the
produce may be alike common.

When the husbandmen are not the owners, the case will be different and easier to deal with; but when they till
the ground for themselves the question of ownership will give a world of trouble. If they do not share equally
enjoyments and toils, those who labor much and get little will necessarily complain of those who labor little
and receive or consume much. But indeed there is always a difficulty in men living together and having all
human relations in common, but especially in their having common property. The partnerships of
fellow-travelers are an example to the point; for they generally fall out over everyday matters and quarrel
about any trifle which turns up. So with servants: we are most able to take offense at those with whom we
most we most frequently come into contact in daily life.

These are only some of the disadvantages which attend the community of property; the present arrangement,
if improved as it might be by good customs and laws, would be far better, and would have the advantages of
both systems. Property should be in a certain sense common, but, as a general rule, private; for, when
everyone has a distinct interest, men will not complain of one another, and they will make more progress,
because every one will be attending to his own business. And yet by reason of goodness, and in respect of
use, 'Friends,' as the proverb says, 'will have all things common.' Even now there are traces of such a
principle, showing that it is not impracticable, but, in well-ordered states, exists already to a certain extent
and may be carried further. For, although every man has his own property, some things he will place at the
disposal of his friends, while of others he shares the use with them. The Lacedaemonians, for example, use
one another's slaves, and horses, and dogs, as if they were their own; and when they lack provisions on a
journey, they appropriate what they find in the fields throughout the country. It is clearly better that property
should be private, but the use of it common; and the special business of the legislator is to create in men this
benevolent disposition. Again, how immeasurably greater is the pleasure, when a man feels a thing to be his
own; for surely the love of self is a feeling implanted by nature and not given in vain, although selfishness is
rightly censured; this, however, is not the mere love of self, but the love of self in excess, like the miser's love
of money; for all, or almost all, men love money and other such objects in a measure. And further, there is the
greatest pleasure in doing a kindness or service to friends or guests or companions, which can only be
rendered when a man has private property. These advantages are lost by excessive unification of the state.
The exhibition of two virtues, besides, is visibly annihilated in such a state: first, temperance towards women
(for it is an honorable action to abstain from another's wife for temperance' sake); secondly, liberality in the
matter of property. No one, when men have all things in common, will any longer set an example of liberality
or do any liberal action; for liberality consists in the use which is made of property.

Such legislation may have a specious appearance of benevolence; men readily listen to it, and are easily
induced to believe that in some wonderful manner everybody will become everybody's friend, especially
when some one is heard denouncing the evils now existing in states, suits about contracts, convictions for
perjury, flatteries of rich men and the like, which are said to arise out of the possession of private property.
These evils, however, are due to a very different cause- the wickedness of human nature. Indeed, we see that
there is much more quarrelling among those who have all things in common, though there are not many of

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them when compared with the vast numbers who have private property.

Again, we ought to reckon, not only the evils from which the citizens will be saved, but also the advantages
which they will lose. The life which they are to lead appears to be quite impracticable. The error of Socrates
must be attributed to the false notion of unity from which he starts. Unity there should be, both of the family
and of the state, but in some respects only. For there is a point at which a state may attain such a degree of
unity as to be no longer a state, or at which, without actually ceasing to exist, it will become an inferior state,
like harmony passing into unison, or rhythm which has been reduced to a single foot. The state, as I was
saying, is a plurality which should be united and made into a community by education; and it is strange that
the author of a system of education which he thinks will make the state virtuous, should expect to improve his
citizens by regulations of this sort, and not by philosophy or by customs and laws, like those which prevail at
Sparta and Crete respecting common meals, whereby the legislator has made property common. Let us
remember that we should not disregard the experience of ages; in the multitude of years these things, if they
were good, would certainly not have been unknown; for almost everything has been found out, although
sometimes they are not put together; in other cases men do not use the knowledge which they have. Great
light would be thrown on this subject if we could see such a form of government in the actual process of
construction; for the legislator could not form a state at all without distributing and dividing its constituents
into associations for common meals, and into phratries and tribes. But all this legislation ends only in
forbidding agriculture to the guardians, a prohibition which the Lacedaemonians try to enforce already.

But, indeed, Socrates has not said, nor is it easy to decide, what in such a community will be the general form
of the state. The citizens who are not guardians are the majority, and about them nothing has been
determined: are the husbandmen, too, to have their property in common? Or is each individual to have his
own? And are the wives and children to be individual or common. If, like the guardians, they are to have all
things in common, what do they differ from them, or what will they gain by submitting to their government?
Or, upon what principle would they submit, unless indeed the governing class adopt the ingenious policy of
the Cretans, who give their slaves the same institutions as their own, but forbid them gymnastic exercises and
the possession of arms. If, on the other hand, the inferior classes are to be like other cities in respect of
marriage and property, what will be the form of the community? Must it not contain two states in one, each
hostile to the other He makes the guardians into a mere occupying garrison, while the husbandmen and
artisans and the rest are the real citizens. But if so the suits and quarrels, and all the evils which Socrates
affirms to exist in other states, will exist equally among them. He says indeed that, having so good an
education, the citizens will not need many laws, for example laws about the city or about the markets; but
then he confines his education to the guardians. Again, he makes the husbandmen owners of the property
upon condition of their paying a tribute. But in that case they are likely to be much more unmanageable and
conceited than the Helots, or Penestae, or slaves in general. And whether community of wives and property
be necessary for the lower equally with the higher class or not, and the questions akin to this, what will be the
education, form of government, laws of the lower class, Socrates has nowhere determined: neither is it easy
to discover this, nor is their character of small importance if the common life of the guardians is to be
maintained.

Again, if Socrates makes the women common, and retains private property, the men will see to the fields, but
who will see to the house? And who will do so if the agricultural class have both their property and their
wives in common? Once more: it is absurd to argue, from the analogy of the animals, that men and women
should follow the same pursuits, for animals have not to manage a household. The government, too, as
constituted by Socrates, contains elements of danger; for he makes the same persons always rule. And if this
is often a cause of disturbance among the meaner sort, how much more among high-spirited warriors? But
that the persons whom he makes rulers must be the same is evident; for the gold which the God mingles in
the souls of men is not at one time given to one, at another time to another, but always to the same: as he
says, 'God mingles gold in some, and silver in others, from their very birth; but brass and iron in those who
are meant to be artisans and husbandmen.' Again, he deprives the guardians even of happiness, and says that

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the legislator ought to make the whole state happy. But the whole cannot be happy unless most, or all, or
some of its parts enjoy happiness. In this respect happiness is not like the even principle in numbers, which
may exist only in the whole, but in neither of the parts; not so happiness. And if the guardians are not happy,
who are? Surely not the artisans, or the common people. The Republic of which Socrates discourses has all
these difficulties, and others quite as great.

The same, or nearly the same, objections apply to Plato's later work, the Laws, and therefore we had better
examine briefly the constitution which is therein described. In the Republic, Socrates has definitely settled in
all a few questions only; such as the community of women and children, the community of property, and the
constitution of the state. The population is divided into two classes- one of husbandmen, and the other of
warriors; from this latter is taken a third class of counselors and rulers of the state. But Socrates has not
determined whether the husbandmen and artisans are to have a share in the government, and whether they,
too, are to carry arms and share in military service, or not. He certainly thinks that the women ought to share
in the education of the guardians, and to fight by their side. The remainder of the work is filled up with
digressions foreign to the main subject, and with discussions about the education of the guardians. In the
Laws there is hardly anything but laws; not much is said about the constitution. This, which he had intended
to make more of the ordinary type, he gradually brings round to the other or ideal form. For with the
exception of the community of women and property, he supposes everything to be the same in both states;
there is to be the same education; the citizens of both are to live free from servile occupations, and there are
to be common meals in both. The only difference is that in the Laws, the common meals are extended to
women, and the warriors number 5000, but in the Republic only 1000.

The discourses of Socrates are never commonplace; they always exhibit grace and originality and thought;
but perfection in everything can hardly be expected. We must not overlook the fact that the number of 5000
citizens, just now mentioned, will require a territory as large as Babylon, or some other huge site, if so many
persons are to be supported in idleness, together with their women and attendants, who will be a multitude
many times as great. In framing an ideal we may assume what we wish, but should avoid impossibilities.

It is said that the legislator ought to have his eye directed to two points- the people and the country. But
neighboring countries also must not be forgotten by him, firstly because the state for which he legislates is to
have a political and not an isolated life. For a state must have such a military force as will be serviceable
against her neighbors, and not merely useful at home. Even if the life of action is not admitted to be the best,
either for individuals or states, still a city should be formidable to enemies, whether invading or retreating.

There is another point: Should not the amount of property be defined in some way which differs from this by
being clearer? For Socrates says that a man should have so much property as will enable him to live
temperately, which is only a way of saying 'to live well'; this is too general a conception. Further, a man may
live temperately and yet miserably. A better definition would be that a man must have so much property as
will enable him to live not only temperately but liberally; if the two are parted, liberally will combine with
luxury; temperance will be associated with toil. For liberality and temperance are the only eligible qualities
which have to do with the use of property. A man cannot use property with mildness or courage, but
temperately and liberally he may; and therefore the practice of these virtues is inseparable from property.
There is an inconsistency, too, in too, in equalizing the property and not regulating the number of the citizens;
the population is to remain unlimited, and he thinks that it will be sufficiently equalized by a certain number
of marriages being unfruitful, however many are born to others, because he finds this to be the case in
existing states. But greater care will be required than now; for among ourselves, whatever may be the number
of citizens, the property is always distributed among them, and therefore no one is in want; but, if the
property were incapable of division as in the Laws, the supernumeraries, whether few or many, would get

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nothing. One would have thought that it was even more necessary to limit population than property; and that
the limit should be fixed by calculating the chances of mortality in the children, and of sterility in married
persons. The neglect of this subject, which in existing states is so common, is a never-failing cause of
poverty among the citizens; and poverty is the parent of revolution and crime. Pheidon the Corinthian, who
was one of the most ardent legislators, thought that the families and the number of citizens ought to remain
the same, although originally all the lots may have been of different sizes: but in the Laws the opposite
principle is maintained. What in our opinion is the right arrangement will have to be explained hereafter.

There is another omission in the Laws: Socrates does not tell us how the rulers differ from their subjects; he
only says that they should be related as the warp and the woof, which are made out of different wools. He
allows that a man's whole property may be increased fivefold, but why should not his land also increase to a
certain extent? Again, will the good management of a household be promoted by his arrangement of
homesteads? For he assigns to each individual two homesteads in separate places, and it is difficult to live in
two houses.

The whole system of government tends to be neither democracy nor oligarchy, but something in a mean
between them, which is usually called a polity, and is composed of the heavy-armed soldiers. Now, if he
intended to frame a constitution which would suit the greatest number of states, he was very likely right, but
not if he meant to say that this constitutional form came nearest to his first or ideal state; for many would
prefer the Lacedaemonian, or, possibly, some other more aristocratic government. Some, indeed, say that the
best constitution is a combination of all existing forms, and they praise the Lacedaemonian because it is made
up of oligarchy, monarchy, and democracy, the king forming the monarchy, and the council of elders the
oligarchy while the democratic element is represented by the Ephors; for the Ephors are selected from the
people. Others, however, declare the Ephoralty to be a tyranny, and find the element of democracy in the
common meals and in the habits of daily life. In the Laws it is maintained that the best constitution is made
up of democracy and tyranny, which are either not constitutions at all, or are the worst of all. But they are
nearer the truth who combine many forms; for the constitution is better which is made up of more numerous
elements. The constitution proposed in the Laws has no element of monarchy at all; it is nothing but
oligarchy and democracy, leaning rather to oligarchy. This is seen in the mode of appointing magistrates; for
although the appointment of them by lot from among those who have been already selected combines both
elements, the way in which the rich are compelled by law to attend the assembly and vote for magistrates or
discharge other political duties, while the rest may do as they like, and the endeavor to have the greater
number of the magistrates appointed out of the richer classes and the highest officers selected from those who
have the greatest incomes, both these are oligarchical features. The oligarchical principle prevails also in the
choice of the council, for all are compelled to choose, but the compulsion extends only to the choice out of
the first class, and of an equal number out of the second class and out of the third class, but not in this latter
case to all the voters but to those of the first three classes; and the selection of candidates out of the fourth
class is only compulsory on the first and second. Then, from the persons so chosen, he says that there ought
to be an equal number of each class selected. Thus a preponderance will be given to the better sort of people,
who have the larger incomes, because many of the lower classes, not being compelled will not vote. These
considerations, and others which will be adduced when the time comes for examining similar polities, tend to
show that states like Plato's should not be composed of democracy and monarchy. There is also a danger in
electing the magistrates out of a body who are themselves elected; for, if but a small number choose to
combine, the elections will always go as they desire. Such is the constitution which is described in the Laws.

VII

Other constitutions have been proposed; some by private persons, others by philosophers and statesmen,
which all come nearer to established or existing ones than either of Plato's. No one else has introduced such
novelties as the community of women and children, or public tables for women: other legislators begin with

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what is necessary. In the opinion of some, the regulation of property is the chief point of all, that being the
question upon which all revolutions turn. This danger was recognized by Phaleas of Chalcedon, who was the
first to affirm that the citizens of a state ought to have equal possessions. He thought that in a new colony the
equalization might be accomplished without difficulty, not so easily when a state was already established;
and that then the shortest way of compassing the desired end would be for the rich to give and not to receive
marriage portions, and for the poor not to give but to receive them.

Plato in the Laws was of opinion that, to a certain extent, accumulation should be allowed, forbidding, as I
have already observed, any citizen to possess more than five times the minimum qualification But those who
make such laws should remember what they are apt to forget- that the legislator who fixes the amount of
property should also fix the number of children; for, if the children are too many for the property, the law
must be broken. And, besides the violation of the law, it is a bad thing that many from being rich should
become poor; for men of ruined fortunes are sure to stir up revolutions. That the equalization of property
exercises an influence on political society was clearly understood even by some of the old legislators. Laws
were made by Solon and others prohibiting an individual from possessing as much land as he pleased; and
there are other laws in states which forbid the sale of property: among the Locrians, for example, there is a
law that a man is not to sell his property unless he can prove unmistakably that some misfortune has befallen
him. Again, there have been laws which enjoin the preservation of the original lots. Such a law existed in the
island of Leucas, and the abrogation of it made the constitution too democratic, for the rulers no longer had
the prescribed qualification. Again, where there is equality of property, the amount may be either too large or
too small, and the possessor may be living either in luxury or penury. Clearly, then, the legislator ought not
only to aim at the equalization of properties, but at moderation in their amount. Further, if he prescribe this
moderate amount equally to all, he will be no nearer the mark; for it is not the possessions but the desires of
mankind which require to be equalized, and this is impossible, unless a sufficient education is provided by
the laws. But Phaleas will probably reply that this is precisely what he means; and that, in his opinion, there
ought to be in states, not only equal property, but equal education. Still he should tell precisely what he
means; and that, in his opinion, there ought to be in be in having one and the same for all, if it is of a sort that
predisposes men to avarice, or ambition, or both. Moreover, civil troubles arise, not only out of the inequality
of property, but out of the inequality of honor, though in opposite ways. For the common people quarrel
about the inequality of property, the higher class about the equality of honor; as the poet says,

The bad and good alike in honor share.

There are crimes of which the motive is want; and for these Phaleas expects to find a cure in the equalization
of property, which will take away from a man the temptation to be a highwayman, because he is hungry or
cold. But want is not the sole incentive to crime; men also wish to enjoy themselves and not to be in a state of
desire- they wish to cure some desire, going beyond the necessities of life, which preys upon them; nay, this
is not the only reason- they may desire superfluities in order to enjoy pleasures unaccompanied with pain,
and therefore they commit crimes.

Now what is the cure of these three disorders? Of the first, moderate possessions and occupation; of the
second, habits of temperance; as to the third, if any desire pleasures which depend on themselves, they will
find the satisfaction of their desires nowhere but in philosophy; for all other pleasures we are dependent on
others. The fact is that the greatest crimes are caused by excess and not by necessity. Men do not become
tyrants in order that they may not suffer cold; and hence great is the honor bestowed, not on him who kills a
thief, but on him who kills a tyrant. Thus we see that the institutions of Phaleas avail only against petty
crimes.

There is another objection to them. They are chiefly designed to promote the internal welfare of the state. But
the legislator should consider also its relation to neighboring nations, and to all who are outside of it. The
government must be organized with a view to military strength; and of this he has said not a word. And so

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with respect to property: there should not only be enough to supply the internal wants of the state, but also to
meet dangers coming from without. The property of the state should not be so large that more powerful
neighbors may be tempted by it, while the owners are unable to repel the invaders; nor yet so small that the
state is unable to maintain a war even against states of equal power, and of the same character. Phaleas has
not laid down any rule; but we should bear in mind that abundance of wealth is an advantage. The best limit
will probably be, that a more powerful neighbor must have no inducement to go to war with you by reason of
the excess of your wealth, but only such as he would have had if you had possessed less. There is a story that
Eubulus, when Autophradates was going to besiege Atarneus, told him to consider how long the operation
would take, and then reckon up the cost which would be incurred in the time. 'For,' said he, 'I am willing for a
smaller sum than that to leave Atarneus at once.' These words of Eubulus made an impression on
Autophradates, and he desisted from the siege.

The equalization of property is one of the things that tend to prevent the citizens from quarrelling. Not that
the gain in this direction is very great. For the nobles will be dissatisfied because they think themselves
worthy of more than an equal share of honors; and this is often found to be a cause of sedition and revolution.
And the avarice of mankind is insatiable; at one time two obols was pay enough; but now, when this sum has
become customary, men always want more and more without end; for it is of the nature of desire not to be
satisfied, and most men live only for the gratification of it. The beginning of reform is not so much to
equalize property as to train the nobler sort of natures not to desire more, and to prevent the lower from
getting more; that is to say, they must be kept down, but not ill-treated. Besides, the equalization proposed by
Phaleas is imperfect; for he only equalizes land, whereas a man may be rich also in slaves, and cattle, and
money, and in the abundance of what are called his movables. Now either all these things must be equalized,
or some limit must be imposed on them, or they must an be let alone. It would appear that Phaleas is
legislating for a small city only, if, as he supposes, all the artisans are to be public slaves and not to form a
supplementary part of the body of citizens. But if there is a law that artisans are to be public slaves, it should
only apply to those engaged on public works, as at Epidamnus, or at Athens on the plan which Diophantus
once introduced.

From these observations any one may judge how far Phaleas was wrong or right in his ideas.

VIM

Hippodamus, the son of Euryphon, a native of Miletus, the same who invented the art of planning cities, and
who also laid out the Piraeus- a strange man, whose fondness for distinction led him into a general
eccentricity of life, which made some think him affected (for he would wear flowing hair and expensive
ornaments; but these were worn on a cheap but warm garment both in winter and summer); he, besides
aspiring to be an adept in the knowledge of nature, was the first person not a statesman who made inquiries
about the best form of government.

The city of Hippodamus was composed of 10,000 citizens divided into three parts- one of artisans, one of
husbandmen, and a third of armed defenders of the state. He also divided the land into three parts, one sacred,
one public, the third private: the first was set apart to maintain the customary worship of the Gods, the second
was to support the warriors, the third was the property of the husbandmen. He also divided laws into three
classes, and no more, for he maintained that there are three subjects of lawsuits- insult, injury, and homicide.
He likewise instituted a single final court of appeal, to which all causes seeming to have been improperly
decided might be referred; this court he formed of elders chosen for the purpose. He was further of opinion
that the decisions of the courts ought not to be given by the use of a voting pebble, but that every one should
have a tablet on which he might not only write a simple condemnation, or leave the tablet blank for a simple
acquittal; but, if he partly acquitted and partly condemned, he was to distinguish accordingly. To the existing
law he objected that it obliged the judges to be guilty of perjury, whichever way they voted. He also enacted

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that those who discovered anything for the good of the state should be honored; and he provided that the
children of citizens who died in battle should be maintained at the public expense, as if such an enactment
had never been heard of before, yet it actually exists at Athens and in other places. As to the magistrates, he
would have them all elected by the people, that is, by the three classes already mentioned, and those who
were elected were to watch over the interests of the public, of strangers, and of orphans. These are the most
striking points in the constitution of Hippodamus. There is not much else.

The first of these proposals to which objection may be taken is the threefold division of the citizens. The
artisans, and the husbandmen, and the warriors, all have a share in the government. But the husbandmen have
no arms, and the artisans neither arms nor land, and therefore they become all but slaves of the warrior class.
That they should share in all the offices is an impossibility; for generals and guardians of the citizens, and
nearly all the principal magistrates, must be taken from the class of those who carry arms. Yet, if the two
other classes have no share in the government, how can they be loyal citizens? It may be said that those who
have arms must necessarily be masters of both the other classes, but this is not so easily accomplished unless
they are numerous; and if they are, why should the other classes share in the government at all, or have power
to appoint magistrates? Further, what use are farmers to the city? Artisans there must be, for these are wanted
in every city, and they can live by their craft, as elsewhere; and the husbandmen too, if they really provided
the warriors with food, might fairly have a share in the government. But in the republic of Hippodamus they
are supposed to have land of their own, which they cultivate for their private benefit. Again, as to this
common land out of which the soldiers are maintained, if they are themselves to be the cultivators of it, the
warrior class will be identical with the husbandmen, although the legislator intended to make a distinction
between them. If, again, there are to be other cultivators distinct both from the husbandmen, who have land of
their own, and from the warriors, they will make a fourth class, which has no place in the state and no share
in anything. Or, if the same persons are to cultivate their own lands, and those of the public as well, they will
have difficulty in supplying the quantity of produce which will maintain two households: and why, in this
case, should there be any division, for they might find food themselves and give to the warriors from the
same land and the same lots? There is surely a great confusion in all this.

Neither is the law to commended which says that the judges, when a simple issue is laid before them, should
distinguish in their judgement; for the judge is thus converted into an arbitrator. Now, in an arbitration,
although the arbitrators are many, they confer with one another about the decision, and therefore they can
distinguish; but in courts of law this is impossible, and, indeed, most legislators take pains to prevent the
judges from holding any communication with one another. Again, will there not be confusion if the judge
thinks that damages should be given, but not so much as the suitor demands? He asks, say, for twenty minae,
and the judge allows him ten minae (or in general the suitor asks for more and the judge allows less), while
another judge allows five, another four minae. In this way they will go on splitting up the damages, and some
will grant the whole and others nothing: how is the final reckoning to be taken? Again, no one contends that
he who votes for a simple acquittal or condemnation perjures himself, if the indictment has been laid in an
unqualified form; and this is just, for the judge who acquits does not decide that the defendant owes nothing,
but that he does not owe the twenty minae. He only is guilty of perjury who thinks that the defendant ought
not to pay twenty minae, and yet condemns him.

To honor those who discover anything which is useful to the state is a proposal which has a specious sound,
but cannot safely be enacted by law, for it may encourage informers, and perhaps even lead to political
commotions. This question involves another. It has been doubted whether it is or is not expedient to make
any changes in the laws of a country, even if another law be better. Now, if an changes are inexpedient, we
can hardly assent to the proposal of Hippodamus; for, under pretense of doing a public service, a man may
introduce measures which are really destructive to the laws or to the constitution. But, since we have touched
upon this subject, perhaps we had better go a little into detail, for, as I was saying, there is a difference of
opinion, and it may sometimes seem desirable to make changes. Such changes in the other arts and sciences
have certainly been beneficial; medicine, for example, and gymnastic, and every other art and craft have

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departed from traditional usage. And, if politics be an art, change must be necessary in this as in any other art.
That improvement has occurred is shown by the fact that old customs are exceedingly simple and barbarous.
For the ancient Hellenes went about armed and bought their brides of each other. The remains of ancient laws
which have come down to us are quite absurd; for example, at Cumae there is a law about murder, to the
effect that if the accuser produce a certain number of witnesses from among his own kinsmen, the accused
shall be held guilty. Again, men in general desire the good, and not merely what their fathers had. But the
primeval inhabitants, whether they were born of the earth or were the survivors of some destruction, may be
supposed to have been no better than ordinary or even foolish people among ourselves (such is certainly the
tradition concerning the earth-born men); and it would be ridiculous to rest contented with their notions.
Even when laws have been written down, they ought not always to remain unaltered. As in other sciences, so
in politics, it is impossible that all things should be precisely set down in writing; for enactments must be
universal, but actions are concerned with particulars. Hence we infer that sometimes and in certain cases laws
may be changed; but when we look at the matter from another point of view, great caution would seem to be
required. For the habit of lightly changing the laws is an evil, and, when the advantage is small, some errors
both of lawgivers and rulers had better be left; the citizen will not gain so much by making the change as he
will lose by the habit of disobedience. The analogy of the arts is false; a change in a law is a very different
thing from a change in an art. For the law has no power to command obedience except that of habit, which
can only be given by time, so that a readiness to change from old to new laws enfeebles the power of the law.
Even if we admit that the laws are to be changed, are they all to be changed, and in every state? And are they
to be changed by anybody who likes, or only by certain persons? These are very important questions; and
therefore we had better reserve the discussion of them to a more suitable occasion.

In the governments of Lacedaemon and Crete, and indeed in all governments, two points have to be
considered: first, whether any particular law is good or bad, when compared with the perfect state; secondly,
whether it is or is not consistent with the idea and character which the lawgiver has set before his citizens.
That in a well-ordered state the citizens should have leisure and not have to provide for their daily wants is
generally acknowledged, but there is a difficulty in seeing how this leisure is to be attained. The Thessalian
Penestae have often risen against their masters, and the Helots in like manner against the Lacedaemonians,
for whose misfortunes they are always lying in wait. Nothing, however, of this kind has as yet happened to
the Cretans; the reason probably is that the neighboring cities, even when at war with one another, never form
an alliance with rebellious serfs, rebellions not being for their interest, since they themselves have a
dependent population. Whereas all the neighbors of the Lacedaemonians, whether Argives, Messenians, or
Arcadians, were their enemies. In Thessaly, again, the original revolt of the slaves occurred because the
Thessalians were still at war with the neighboring Achaeans, Perrhaebians, and Magnesians. Besides, if there
were no other difficulty, the treatment or management of slaves is a troublesome affair; for, if not kept in
hand, they are insolent, and think that they are as good as their masters, and, if harshly treated, they hate and
conspire against them. Now it is clear that when these are the results the citizens of a state have not found out
the secret of managing their subject population.

Again, the license of the Lacedaemonian women defeats the intention of the Spartan constitution, and is
adverse to the happiness of the state. For, a husband and wife being each a part of every family, the state may
be considered as about equally divided into men and women; and, therefore, in those states in which the
condition of the women is bad, half the city may be regarded as having no laws. And this is what has actually
happened at Sparta; the legislator wanted to make the whole state hardy and temperate, and he has carried out
his intention in the case of the men, but he has neglected the women, who live in every sort of intemperance
and luxury. The consequence is that in such a state wealth is too highly valued, especially if the citizen fall
under the dominion of their wives, after the manner of most warlike races, except the Celts and a few others
who openly approve of male loves. The old mythologer would seem to have been right in uniting Ares and

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Aphrodite, for all warlike races are prone to the love either of men or of women. This was exemplified among
the Spartans in the days of their greatness; many things were managed by their women. But what difference
does it make whether women rule, or the rulers are ruled by women? The result is the same. Even in regard to
courage, which is of no use in daily life, and is needed only in war, the influence of the Lacedaemonian
women has been most mischievous. The evil showed itself in the Theban invasion, when, unlike the women
other cities, they were utterly useless and caused more confusion than the enemy. This license of the
Lacedaemonian women existed from the earliest times, and was only what might be expected. For, during the
wars of the Lacedaemonians, first against the Argives, and afterwards against the Arcadians and Messenians,
the men were long away from home, and, on the return of peace, they gave themselves into the legislator's
hand, already prepared by the discipline of a soldier's life (in which there are many elements of virtue), to
receive his enactments. But, when Lycurgus, as tradition says, wanted to bring the women under his laws,
they resisted, and he gave up the attempt. These then are the causes of what then happened, and this defect in
the constitution is clearly to be attributed to them. We are not, however, considering what is or is not to be
excused, but what is right or wrong, and the disorder of the women, as I have already said, not only gives an
air of indecorum to the constitution considered in itself, but tends in a measure to foster avarice.

The mention of avarice naturally suggests a criticism on the inequality of property. While some of the
Spartan citizen have quite small properties, others have very large ones; hence the land has passed into the
hands of a few. And this is due also to faulty laws; for, although the legislator rightly holds up to shame the
sale or purchase of an inheritance, he allows anybody who likes to give or bequeath it. Yet both practices lead
to the same result. And nearly two-fifths of the whole country are held by women; this is owing to the
number of heiresses and to the large dowries which are customary. It would surely have been better to have
given no dowries at all, or, if any, but small or moderate ones. As the law now stands, a man may bestow his
heiress on any one whom he pleases, and, if he die intestate, the privilege of giving her away descends to his
heir. Hence, although the country is able to maintain 1500 cavalry and 30,000 hoplites, the whole number of
Spartan citizens fell below 1000. The result proves the faulty nature of their laws respecting property; for the
city sank under a single defeat; the want of men was their ruin. There is a tradition that, in the days of their
ancient kings, they were in the habit of giving the rights of citizenship to strangers, and therefore, in spite of
their long wars, no lack of population was experienced by them; indeed, at one time Sparta is said to have
numbered not less than 10,000 citizens Whether this statement is true or not, it would certainly have been
better to have maintained their numbers by the equalization of property. Again, the law which relates to the
procreation of children is adverse to the correction of this inequality. For the legislator, wanting to have as
many Spartans as he could, encouraged the citizens to have large families; and there is a law at Sparta that the
father of three sons shall be exempt from military service, and he who has four from all the burdens of the
state. Yet it is obvious that, if there were many children, the land being distributed as it is, many of them must
necessarily fall into poverty.

The Lacedaemonian constitution is defective in another point; I mean the Ephoralty. This magistracy has
authority in the highest matters, but the Ephors are chosen from the whole people, and so the office is apt to
fall into the hands of very poor men, who, being badly off, are open to bribes. There have been many
examples at Sparta of this evil in former times; and quite recently, in the matter of the Andrians, certain of the
Ephors who were bribed did their best to ruin the state. And so great and tyrannical is their power, that even
the kings have been compelled to court them, so that, in this way as well together with the royal office, the
whole constitution has deteriorated, and from being an aristocracy has turned into a democracy. The
Ephoralty certainly does keep the state together; for the people are contented when they have a share in the
highest office, and the result, whether due to the legislator or to chance, has been advantageous. For if a
constitution is to be permanent, all the parts of the state must wish that it should exist and the same
arrangements be maintained. This is the case at Sparta, where the kings desire its permanence because they
have due honor in their own persons; the nobles because they are represented in the council of elders (for the
office of elder is a reward of virtue); and the people, because all are eligible to the Ephoralty. The election of
Ephors out of the whole people is perfectly right, but ought not to be carried on in the present fashion, which

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is too childish. Again, they have the decision of great causes, although they are quite ordinary men, and
therefore they should not determine them merely on their own judgment, but according to written rules, and
to the laws. Their way of life, too, is not in accordance with the spirit of the constitution- they have a deal too
much license; whereas, in the case of the other citizens, the excess of strictness is so intolerable that they run
away from the law into the secret indulgence of sensual pleasures.

Again, the council of elders is not free from defects. It may be said that the elders are good men and well
trained in manly virtue; and that, therefore, there is an advantage to the state in having them. But that judges
of important causes should hold office for life is a disputable thing, for the mind grows old as well as the
body. And when men have been educated in such a manner that even the legislator himself cannot trust them,
there is real danger. Many of the elders are well known to have taken bribes and to have been guilty of
partiality in public affairs. And therefore they ought not to be irresponsible; yet at Sparta they are so. But (it
may be replied), All magistracies are accountable to the Ephors.' Yes, but this prerogative is too great for
them, and we maintain that the control should be exercised in some other manner. Further, the mode in which
the Spartans elect their elders is childish; and it is improper that the person to be elected should canvass for
the office; the worthiest should be appointed, whether he chooses or not. And here the legislator clearly
indicates the same intention which appears in other parts of his constitution; he would have his citizens
ambitious, and he has reckoned upon this quality in the election of the elders; for no one would ask to be
elected if he were not. Yet ambition and avarice, almost more than any other passions, are the motives of
crime.

Whether kings are or are not an advantage to states, I will consider at another time; they should at any rate be
chosen, not as they are now, but with regard to their personal life and conduct. The legislator himself
obviously did not suppose that he could make them really good men; at least he shows a great distrust of their
virtue. For this reason the Spartans used to join enemies with them in the same embassy, and the quarrels
between the kings were held to be conservative of the state.

Neither did the first introducer of the common meals, called 'phiditia,' regulate them well. The entertainment
ought to have been provided at the public cost, as in Crete; but among the Lacedaemonians every one is
expected to contribute, and some of them are too poor to afford the expense; thus the intention of the
legislator is frustrated. The common meals were meant to be a popular institution, but the existing manner of
regulating them is the reverse of popular. For the very poor can scarcely take part in them; and, according to
ancient custom, those who cannot contribute are not allowed to retain their rights of citizenship.

The law about the Spartan admirals has often been censured, and with justice; it is a source of dissension, for
the kings are perpetual generals, and this office of admiral is but the setting up of another king.

The charge which Plato brings, in the Laws, against the intention of the legislator, is likewise justified; the
whole constitution has regard to one part of virtue only- the virtue of the soldier, which gives victory in war.
So long as they were at war, therefore, their power was preserved, but when they had attained empire they
fell for of the arts of peace they knew nothing, and had never engaged in any employment higher than war.
There is another error, equally great, into which they have fallen. Although they truly think that the goods for
which men contend are to be acquired by virtue rather than by vice, they err in supposing that these goods are
to be preferred to the virtue which gains them.

Once more: the revenues of the state are ill-managed; there is no money in the treasury, although they are
obliged to carry on great wars, and they are unwilling to pay taxes. The greater part of the land being in the
hands of the Spartans, they do not look closely into one another's contributions. The result which the
legislator has produced is the reverse of beneficial; for he has made his city poor, and his citizens greedy.

Enough respecting the Spartan constitution, of which these are the principal defects.

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The Cretan constitution nearly resembles the Spartan, and in some few points is quite as good; but for the
most part less perfect in form. The older constitutions are generally less elaborate than the later, and the
Lacedaemonian is said to be, and probably is, in a very great measure, a copy of the Cretan. According to
tradition, Lycurgus, when he ceased to be the guardian of King Charillus, went abroad and spent most of his
time in Crete. For the two countries are nearly connected; the Lyctians are a colony of the Lacedaemonians,
and the colonists, when they came to Crete, adopted the constitution which they found existing among the
inhabitants. Even to this day the Perioeci, or subject population of Crete, are governed by the original laws
which Minos is supposed to have enacted. The island seems to be intended by nature for dominion in Hellas,
and to be well situated; it extends right across the sea, around which nearly all the Hellenes are settled; and
while one end is not far from the Peloponnese, the other almost reaches to the region of Asia about Triopium
and Rhodes. Hence Minos acquired the empire of the sea, subduing some of the islands and colonizing
others; at last he invaded Sicily, where he died near Camicus.

The Cretan institutions resemble the Lacedaemonian. The Helots are the husbandmen of the one, the Perioeci
of the other, and both Cretans and Lacedaemonians have common meals, which were anciently called by the
Lacedaemonians not 'phiditia' but 'andria'; and the Cretans have the same word, the use of which proves that
the common meals originally came from Crete. Further, the two constitutions are similar; for the office of the
Ephors is the same as that of the Cretan Cosmi, the only difference being that whereas the Ephors are five,
the Cosmi are ten in number. The elders, too, answer to the elders in Crete, who are termed by the Cretans the
council. And the kingly office once existed in Crete, but was abolished, and the Cosmi have now the duty of
leading them in war. All classes share in the ecclesia, but it can only ratify the decrees of the elders and the
Cosmi.

The common meals of Crete are certainly better managed than the Lacedaemonian; for in Lacedaemon every
one pays so much per head, or, if he fails, the law, as I have already explained, forbids him to exercise the
rights of citizenship. But in Crete they are of a more popular character. There, of all the fruits of the earth and
cattle raised on the public lands, and of the tribute which is paid by the Perioeci, one portion is assigned to
the Gods and to the service of the state, and another to the common meals, so that men, women, and children
are all supported out of a common stock. The legislator has many ingenious ways of securing moderation in
eating, which he conceives to be a gain; he likewise encourages the separation of men from women, lest they
should have too many children, and the companionship of men with one another- whether this is a good or
bad thing I shall have an opportunity of considering at another time. But that the Cretan common meals are
better ordered than the Lacedaemonian there can be no doubt.

On the other hand, the Cosmi are even a worse institution than the Ephors, of which they have all the evils
without the good. Like the Ephors, they are any chance persons, but in Crete this is not counterbalanced by a
corresponding political advantage. At Sparta every one is eligible, and the body of the people, having a share
in the highest office, want the constitution to be permanent. But in Crete the Cosmi are elected out of certain
families, and not out of the whole people, and the elders out of those who have been Cosmi.

The same criticism may be made about the Cretan, which has been already made about the Lacedaemonian
elders. Their irresponsibility and life tenure is too great a privilege, and their arbitrary power of acting upon
their own judgment, and dispensing with written law, is dangerous. It is no proof of the goodness of the
institution that the people are not discontented at being excluded from it. For there is no profit to be made out
of the office as out of the Ephoralty, since, unlike the Ephors, the Cosmi, being in an island, are removed
from temptation.

The remedy by which they correct the evil of this institution is an extraordinary one, suited rather to a close
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oligarchy than to a constitutional state. For the Cosmi are often expelled by a conspiracy of their own
colleagues, or of private individuals; and they are allowed also to resign before their term of office has
expired. Surely all matters of this kind are better regulated by law than by the will of man, which is a very
unsafe rule. Worst of all is the suspension of the office of Cosmi, a device to which the nobles often have
recourse when they will not submit to justice. This shows that the Cretan government, although possessing
some of the characteristics of a constitutional state, is really a close oligarchy.

The nobles have a habit, too, of setting up a chief; they get together a party among the common people and
their own friends and then quarrel and fight with one another. What is this but the temporary destruction of
the state and dissolution of society? A city is in a dangerous condition when those who are willing are also
able to attack her. But, as I have already said, the island of Crete is saved by her situation; distance has the
same effect as the Lacedaemonian prohibition of strangers; and the Cretans have no foreign dominions. This
is the reason why the Perioeci are contented in Crete, whereas the Helots are perpetually revolting. But when
lately foreign invaders found their way into the island, the weakness of the Cretan constitution was revealed.
Enough of the government of Crete.

The Carthaginians are also considered to have an excellent form of government, which differs from that of
any other state in several respects, though it is in some very like the Lacedaemonian. Indeed, all three states-
the Lacedaemonian, the Cretan, and the Carthaginian- nearly resemble one another, and are very different
from any others. Many of the Carthaginian institutions are excellent The superiority of their constitution is
proved by the fact that the common people remain loyal to the constitution the Carthaginians have never had
any rebellion worth speaking of, and have never been under the rule of a tyrant.

Among the points in which the Carthaginian constitution resembles the Lacedaemonian are the following:
The common tables of the clubs answer to the Spartan phiditia, and their magistracy of the 104 to the Ephors;
but, whereas the Ephors are any chance persons, the magistrates of the Carthaginians are elected according to
merit- this is an improvement. They have also their kings and their gerusia, or council of elders, who
correspond to the kings and elders of Sparta. Their kings, unlike the Spartan, are not always of the same
family, nor that an ordinary one, but if there is some distinguished family they are selected out of it and not
appointed by senority- this is far better. Such officers have great power, and therefore, if they are persons of
little worth, do a great deal of harm, and they have already done harm at Lacedaemon.

Most of the defects or deviations from the perfect state, for which the Carthaginian constitution would be
censured, apply equally to all the forms of government which we have mentioned. But of the deflections from
aristocracy and constitutional government, some incline more to democracy and some to oligarchy. The kings
and elders, if unanimous, may determine whether they will or will not bring a matter before the people, but
when they are not unanimous, the people decide on such matters as well. And whatever the kings and elders
bring before the people is not only heard but also determined by them, and any one who likes may oppose it;
now this is not permitted in Sparta and Crete. That the magistrates of five who have under them many
important matters should be co-opted, that they should choose the supreme council of 100, and should hold
office longer than other magistrates (for they are virtually rulers both before and after they hold office)- these
are oligarchical features; their being without salary and not elected by lot, and any similar points, such as the
practice of having all suits tried by the magistrates, and not some by one class of judges or jurors and some
by another, as at Lacedaemon, are characteristic of aristocracy. The Carthaginian constitution deviates from
aristocracy and inclines to oligarchy, chiefly on a point where popular opinion is on their side. For men in
general think that magistrates should be chosen not only for their merit, but for their wealth: a man, they say,
who is poor cannot rule well- he has not the leisure. If, then, election of magistrates for their wealth be
characteristic of oligarchy, and election for merit of aristocracy, there will be a third form under which the

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constitution of Carthage is comprehended; for the Carthaginians choose their magistrates, and particularly the
highest of them- their kings and generals- with an eye both to merit and to wealth.

But we must acknowledge that, in thus deviating from aristocracy, the legislator has committed an error.
Nothing is more absolutely necessary than to provide that the highest class, not only when in office, but when
out of office, should have leisure and not disgrace themselves in any way; and to this his attention should be
first directed. Even if you must have regard to wealth, in order to secure leisure, yet it is surely a bad thing
that the greatest offices, such as those of kings and generals, should be bought. The law which allows this
abuse makes wealth of more account than virtue, and the whole state becomes avaricious. For, whenever the
chiefs of the state deem anything honorable, the other citizens are sure to follow their example; and, where
virtue has not the first place, their aristocracy cannot be firmly established. Those who have been at the
expense of purchasing their places will be in the habit of repaying themselves; and it is absurd to suppose that
a poor and honest man will be wanting to make gains, and that a lower stamp of man who has incurred a great
expense will not. Wherefore they should rule who are able to rule best. And even if the legislator does not
care to protect the good from poverty, he should at any rate secure leisure for them when in office.

It would seem also to be a bad principle that the same person should hold many offices, which is a favorite
practice among the Carthaginians, for one business is better done by one man. The legislator should see to
this and should not appoint the same person to be a flute-player and a shoemaker. Hence, where the state is
large, it is more in accordance both with constitutional and with democratic principles that the offices of state
should be distributed among many persons. For, as I said, this arrangement is fairer to all, and any action
familiarized by repetition is better and sooner performed. We have a proof in military and naval matters; the
duties of command and of obedience in both these services extend to all.

The government of the Carthaginians is oligarchical, but they successfully escape the evils of oligarchy by
enriching one portion of the people after another by sending them to their colonies. This is their panacea and
the means by which they give stability to the state. Accident favors them, but the legislator should be able to
provide against revolution without trusting to accidents. As things are, if any misfortune occurred, and the
bulk of the subjects revolted, there would be no way of restoring peace by legal methods.

Such is the character of the Lacedaemonian, Cretan, and Carthaginian constitutions, which are justly
celebrated.

XII

Of those who have treated of governments, some have never taken any part at all in public affairs, but have
passed their lives in a private station; about most of them, what was worth telling has been already told.
Others have been lawgivers, either in their own or in foreign cities, whose affairs they have administered; and
of these some have only made laws, others have framed constitutions; for example, Lycurgus and Solon did
both. Of the Lacedaemonian constitution I have already spoken. As to Solon, he is thought by some to have
been a good legislator, who put an end to the exclusiveness of the oligarchy, emancipated the people,
established the ancient Athenian democracy, and harmonized the different elements of the state. According to
their view, the council of Areopagus was an oligarchical element, the elected magistracy, aristocratic al, and
the courts of law, democratical. The truth seems to be that the council and the elected magistracy existed
before the time of Solon, and were retained by him, but that he formed the courts of law out of an the citizens,
thus creating the democracy, which is the very reason why he is sometimes blamed. For in giving the
supreme power to the law courts, which are elected by lot, he is thought to have destroyed the
non-democratic element. When the law courts grew powerful, to please the people who were now playing
the tyrant the old constitution was changed into the existing democracy. Ephialtes and Pericles curtailed the
power of the Areopagus; Pericles also instituted the payment of the juries, and thus every demagogue in turn

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increased the power of the democracy until it became what we now see. All this is true; it seems, however, to
be the result of circumstances, and not to have been intended by Solon. For the people, having been
instrumental in gaining the empire of the sea in the Persian War, began to get a notion of itself, and followed
worthless demagogues, whom the better class opposed. Solon, himself, appears to have given the Athenians
only that power of electing to offices and calling to account the magistrates which was absolutely necessary;
for without it they would have been in a state of slavery and enmity to the government. All the magistrates he
appointed from the notables and the men of wealth, that is to say, from the pentacosio-medimni, or from the
class called zeugitae, or from a third class of so-called knights or cavalry. The fourth class were laborers who
had no share in any magistracy.

Mere legislators were Zaleucus, who gave laws to the Epizephyrian Locrians, and Charondas, who legislated
for his own city of Catana, and for the other Chalcidian cities in Italy and Sicily. Some people attempt to
make out that Onomacritus was the first person who had any special skill in legislation, and that he, although
a Locrian by birth, was trained in Crete, where he lived in the exercise of his prophetic art; that Thales was
his companion, and that Lycurgus and Zaleucus were disciples of Thales, as Charondas was of Zaleucus. But
their account is quite inconsistent with chronology.

There was also Philolaus, the Corinthian, who gave laws to the Thebans. This Philolaus was one of the family
of the Bacchiadae, and a lover of Diodes, the Olympic victor, who left Corinth in horror of the incestuous
passion which his mother Halcyone had conceived for him, and retired to Thebes, where the two friends
together ended their days. The inhabitants still point out their tombs, which are in full view of one another,
but one is visible from the Corinthian territory, the other not. Tradition says the two friends arranged them
thus, Diodes out of horror at his misfortunes, so that the land of Corinth might not be visible from his tomb;
Philolaus that it might. This is the reason why they settled at Thebes, and so Philolaus legislated for the
Thebans, and, besides some other enactments, gave them laws about the procreation of children, which they
call the 'Laws of Adoption.' These laws were peculiar to him, and were intended to preserve the number of
the lots.

In the legislation of Charondas there is nothing remarkable, except the suits against false witnesses. He is the
first who instituted denunciation for perjury. His laws are more exact and more precisely expressed than even
those of our modern legislators.

(Characteristic of Phaleas is the equalization of property; of Plato, the community of women, children, and
property, the common meals of women, and the law about drinking, that the sober shall be masters of the
feast; also the training of soldiers to acquire by practice equal skill with both hands, so that one should be as
useful as the other.)

Draco has left laws, but he adapted them to a constitution which already existed, and there is no peculiarity in
them which is worth mentioning, except the greatness and severity of the punishments.

Pittacus, too, was only a lawgiver, and not the author of a constitution; he has a law which is peculiar to him,
that, if a drunken man do something wrong, he shall be more heavily punished than if he were sober; he
looked not to the excuse which might be offered for the drunkard, but only to expediency, for drunken more
often than sober people commit acts of violence.

Androdamas of Rhegium gave laws to the Chalcidians of Thrace. Some of them relate to homicide, and to
heiresses; but there is nothing remarkable in them.

And here let us conclude our inquiry into the various constitutions which either actually exist, or have been
devised by theorists.

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BOOK THREE

HE who would inquire into the essence and attributes of various kinds of governments must first of all
determine 'What is a state?' At present this is a disputed question. Some say that the state has done a certain
act; others, no, not the state, but the oligarchy or the tyrant. And the legislator or statesman is concerned
entirely with the state; a constitution or government being an arrangement of the inhabitants of a state. But a
state is composite, like any other whole made up of many parts; these are the citizens, who compose it. It is
evident, therefore, that we must begin by asking, Who is the citizen, and what is the meaning of the term? For
here again there may be a difference of opinion. He who is a citizen in a democracy will often not be a citizen
in an oligarchy. Leaving out of consideration those who have been made citizens, or who have obtained the
name of citizen any other accidental manner, we may say, first, that a citizen is not a citizen because he lives
in a certain place, for resident aliens and slaves share in the place; nor is he a citizen who has no legal right
except that of suing and being sued; for this right may be enjoyed under the provisions of a treaty. Nay,
resident aliens in many places do not possess even such rights completely, for they are obliged to have a
patron, so that they do but imperfectly participate in citizenship, and we call them citizens only in a qualified
sense, as we might apply the term to children who are too young to be on the register, or to old men who have
been relieved from state duties. Of these we do not say quite simply that they are citizens, but add in the one
case that they are not of age, and in the other, that they are past the age, or something of that sort; the precise
expression is immaterial, for our meaning is clear. Similar difficulties to those which I have mentioned may
be raised and answered about deprived citizens and about exiles. But the citizen whom we are seeking to
define is a citizen in the strictest sense, against whom no such exception can be taken, and his special
characteristic is that he shares in the administration of justice, and in offices. Now of offices some are
discontinuous, and the same persons are not allowed to hold them twice, or can only hold them after a fixed
interval; others have no limit of time- for example, the office of a dicast or ecclesiast. It may, indeed, be
argued that these are not magistrates at all, and that their functions give them no share in the government. But
surely it is ridiculous to say that those who have the power do not govern. Let us not dwell further upon this,
which is a purely verbal question; what we want is a common term including both dicast and ecclesiast. Let
us, for the sake of distinction, call it 'indefinite office,' and we will assume that those who share in such office
are citizens. This is the most comprehensive definition of a citizen, and best suits all those who are generally
so called.

But we must not forget that things of which the underlying principles differ in kind, one of them being first,
another second, another third, have, when regarded in this relation, nothing, or hardly anything, worth
mentioning in common. Now we see that governments differ in kind, and that some of them are prior and that
others are posterior; those which are faulty or perverted are necessarily posterior to those which are perfect.
(What we mean by perversion will be hereafter explained.) The citizen then of necessity differs under each
form of government; and our definition is best adapted to the citizen of a democracy; but not necessarily to
other states. For in some states the people are not acknowledged, nor have they any regular assembly, but
only extraordinary ones; and suits are distributed by sections among the magistrates. At Lacedaemon, for
instance, the Ephors determine suits about contracts, which they distribute among themselves, while the
elders are judges of homicide, and other causes are decided by other magistrates. A similar principle prevails
at Carthage; there certain magistrates decide all causes. We may, indeed, modify our definition of the citizen
so as to include these states. In them it is the holder of a definite, not of an indefinite office, who legislates
and judges, and to some or all such holders of definite offices is reserved the right of deliberating or judging
about some things or about all things. The conception of the citizen now begins to clear up.

He who has the power to take part in the deliberative or judicial administration of any state is said by us to be
a citizens of that state; and, speaking generally, a state is a body of citizens sufficing for the purposes of life.

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But in practice a citizen is defined to be one of whom both the parents are citizens; others insist on going
further back; say to two or three or more ancestors. This is a short and practical definition but there are some
who raise the further question: How this third or fourth ancestor came to be a citizen? Gorgias of Leontini,
partly because he was in a difficulty, partly in irony, said- 'Mortars are what is made by the mortar-makers,
and the citizens of Larissa are those who are made by the magistrates; for it is their trade to make
Larissaeans.' Yet the question is really simple, for, if according to the definition just given they shared in the
government, they were citizens. This is a better definition than the other. For the words, 'born of a father or
mother who is a citizen,' cannot possibly apply to the first inhabitants or founders of a state.

There is a greater difficulty in the case of those who have been made citizens after a revolution, as by
Cleisthenes at Athens after the expulsion of the tyrants, for he enrolled in tribes many metics, both strangers
and slaves. The doubt in these cases is, not who is, but whether he who is ought to be a citizen; and there will
still be a furthering the state, whether a certain act is or is not an act of the state; for what ought not to be is
what is false. Now, there are some who hold office, and yet ought not to hold office, whom we describe as
ruling, but ruling unjustly. And the citizen was defined by the fact of his holding some kind of rule or office-
he who holds a judicial or legislative office fulfills our definition of a citizen. It is evident, therefore, that the
citizens about whom the doubt has arisen must be called citizens.

Whether they ought to be so or not is a question which is bound up with the previous inquiry. For a parallel
question is raised respecting the state, whether a certain act is or is not an act of the state; for example, in the
transition from an oligarchy or a tyranny to a democracy. In such cases persons refuse to fulfill their contracts
or any other obligations, on the ground that the tyrant, and not the state, contracted them; they argue that
some constitutions are established by force, and not for the sake of the common good. But this would apply
equally to democracies, for they too may be founded on violence, and then the acts of the democracy will be
neither more nor less acts of the state in question than those of an oligarchy or of a tyranny. This question
runs up into another: on what principle shall we ever say that the state is the same, or different? It would be a
very superficial view which considered only the place and the inhabitants (for the soil and the population may
be separated, and some of the inhabitants may live in one place and some in another). This, however, is not a
very serious difficulty; we need only remark that the word 'state' is ambiguous.

It is further asked: When are men, living in the same place, to be regarded as a single city- what is the limit?
Certainly not the wall of the city, for you might surround all Peloponnesus with a wall. Like this, we may say,
is Babylon, and every city that has the compass of a nation rather than a city; Babylon, they say, had been
taken for three days before some part of the inhabitants became aware of the fact. This difficulty may,
however, with advantage be deferred to another occasion; the statesman has to consider the size of the state,
and whether it should consist of more than one nation or not.

Again, shall we say that while the race of inhabitants, as well as their place of abode, remain the same, the
city is also the same, although the citizens are always dying and being born, as we call rivers and fountains
the same, although the water is always flowing away and coming again Or shall we say that the generations
of men, like the rivers, are the same, but that the state changes? For, since the state is a partnership, and is a
partnership of citizens in a constitution, when the form of government changes, and becomes different, then it
may be supposed that the state is no longer the same, just as a tragic differs from a comic chorus, although the
members of both may be identical. And in this manner we speak of every union or composition of elements
as different when the form of their composition alters; for example, a scale containing the same sounds is said
to be different, accordingly as the Dorian or the Phrygian mode is employed. And if this is true it is evident

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that the sameness of the state consists chiefly in the sameness of the constitution, and it may be called or not
called by the same name, whether the inhabitants are the same or entirely different. It is quite another
question, whether a state ought or ought not to fulfill engagements when the form of government changes.

There is a point nearly allied to the preceding: Whether the virtue of a good man and a good citizen is the
same or not. But, before entering on this discussion, we must certainly first obtain some general notion of the
virtue of the citizen. Like the sailor, the citizen is a member of a community. Now, sailors have different
functions, for one of them is a rower, another a pilot, and a third a look-out man, a fourth is described by
some similar term; and while the precise definition of each individual's virtue applies exclusively to him,
there is, at the same time, a common definition applicable to them all. For they have all of them a common
object, which is safety in navigation. Similarly, one citizen differs from another, but the salvation of the
community is the common business of them all. This community is the constitution; the virtue of the citizen
must therefore be relative to the constitution of which he is a member. If, then, there are many forms of
government, it is evident that there is not one single virtue of the good citizen which is perfect virtue. But we
say that the good man is he who has one single virtue which is perfect virtue. Hence it is evident that the good
citizen need not of necessity possess the virtue which makes a good man.

The same question may also be approached by another road, from a consideration of the best constitution. If
the state cannot be entirely composed of good men, and yet each citizen is expected to do his own business
well, and must therefore have virtue, still inasmuch as all the citizens cannot be alike, the virtue of the citizen
and of the good man cannot coincide. All must have the virtue of the good citizen- thus, and thus only, can
the state be perfect; but they will not have the virtue of a good man, unless we assume that in the good state
all the citizens must be good.

Again, the state, as composed of unlikes, may be compared to the living being: as the first elements into
which a living being is resolved are soul and body, as soul is made up of rational principle and appetite, the
family of husband and wife, property of master and slave, so of all these, as well as other dissimilar elements,
the state is composed; and, therefore, the virtue of all the citizens cannot possibly be the same, any more than
the excellence of the leader of a chorus is the same as that of the performer who stands by his side. I have
said enough to show why the two kinds of virtue cannot be absolutely and always the same.

But will there then be no case in which the virtue of the good citizen and the virtue of the good man coincide?
To this we answer that the good ruler is a good and wise man, and that he who would be a statesman must be
a wise man. And some persons say that even the education of the ruler should be of a special kind; for are not
the children of kings instructed in riding and military exercises? As Euripides says:

No subtle arts for me, but what the state requires. As though there were a special education needed by a ruler.
If then the virtue of a good ruler is the same as that of a good man, and we assume further that the subject is a
citizen as well as the ruler, the virtue of the good citizen and the virtue of the good man cannot be absolutely
the same, although in some cases they may; for the virtue of a ruler differs from that of a citizen. It was the
sense of this difference which made Jason say that 'he felt hungry when he was not a tyrant,' meaning that he
could not endure to live in a private station. But, on the other hand, it may be argued that men are praised for
knowing both how to rule and how to obey, and he is said to be a citizen of approved virtue who is able to do
both. Now if we suppose the virtue of a good man to be that which rules, and the virtue of the citizen to
include ruling and obeying, it cannot be said that they are equally worthy of praise. Since, then, it is
sometimes thought that the ruler and the ruled must learn different things and not the same, but that the
citizen must know and share in them both, the inference is obvious. There is, indeed, the rule of a master,
which is concerned with menial offices- the master need not know how to perform these, but may employ

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others in the execution of them: the other would be degrading; and by the other I mean the power actually to
do menial duties, which vary much in character and are executed by various classes of slaves, such, for
example, as handicraftsmen, who, as their name signifies, live by the labor of their hands: under these the
mechanic is included. Hence in ancient times, and among some nations, the working classes had no share in
the government- a privilege which they only acquired under the extreme democracy. Certainly the good man
and the statesman and the good citizen ought not to learn the crafts of inferiors except for their own
occasional use; if they habitually practice them, there will cease to be a distinction between master and slave.

This is not the rule of which we are speaking; but there is a rule of another kind, which is exercised over
freemen and equals by birth -a constitutional rule, which the ruler must learn by obeying, as he would learn
the duties of a general of cavalry by being under the orders of a general of cavalry, or the duties of a general
of infantry by being under the orders of a general of infantry, and by having had the command of a regiment
and of a company. It has been well said that 'he who has never learned to obey cannot be a good commander.'
The two are not the same, but the good citizen ought to be capable of both; he should know how to govern
like a freeman, and how to obey like a freeman- these are the virtues of a citizen. And, although the
temperance and justice of a ruler are distinct from those of a subject, the virtue of a good man will include
both; for the virtue of the good man who is free and also a subject, e.g., his justice, will not be one but will
comprise distinct kinds, the one qualifying him to rule, the other to obey, and differing as the temperance and
courage of men and women differ. For a man would be thought a coward if he had no more courage than a
courageous woman, and a woman would be thought loquacious if she imposed no more restraint on her
conversation than the good man; and indeed their part in the management of the household is different, for
the duty of the one is to acquire, and of the other to preserve. Practical wisdom only is characteristic of the
ruler: it would seem that all other virtues must equally belong to ruler and subject. The virtue of the subject is
certainly not wisdom, but only true opinion; he may be compared to the maker of the flute, while his master
is like the flute-player or user of the flute.

From these considerations may be gathered the answer to the question, whether the virtue of the good man is
the same as that of the good citizen, or different, and how far the same, and how far different.

There still remains one more question about the citizen: Is he only a true citizen who has a share of office, or
is the mechanic to be included? If they who hold no office are to be deemed citizens, not every citizen can
have this virtue of ruling and obeying; for this man is a citizen And if none of the lower class are citizens, in
which part of the state are they to be placed? For they are not resident aliens, and they are not foreigners. May
we not reply, that as far as this objection goes there is no more absurdity in excluding them than in excluding
slaves and freedmen from any of the above-mentioned classes? It must be admitted that we cannot consider
all those to be citizens who are necessary to the existence of the state; for example, children are not citizen
equally with grown-up men, who are citizens absolutely, but children, not being grown up, are only citizens
on a certain assumption. Nay, in ancient times, and among some nations the artisan class were slaves or
foreigners, and therefore the majority of them are so now. The best form of state will not admit them to
citizenship; but if they are admitted, then our definition of the virtue of a citizen will not apply to every
citizen nor to every free man as such, but only to those who are freed from necessary services. The necessary
people are either slaves who minister to the wants of individuals, or mechanics and laborers who are the
servants of the community. These reflections carried a little further will explain their position; and indeed
what has been said already is of itself, when understood, explanation enough.

Since there are many forms of government there must be many varieties of citizen and especially of citizens
who are subjects; so that under some governments the mechanic and the laborer will be citizens, but not in
others, as, for example, in aristocracy or the so-called government of the best (if there be such an one), in

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which honors are given according to virtue and merit; for no man can practice virtue who is living the life of
a mechanic or laborer. In oligarchies the qualification for office is high, and therefore no laborer can ever be a
citizen; but a mechanic may, for an actual majority of them are rich. At Thebes there was a law that no man
could hold office who had not retired from business for ten years. But in many states the law goes to the
length of admitting aliens; for in some democracies a man is a citizen though his mother only be a citizen;
and a similar principle is applied to illegitimate children; the law is relaxed when there is a dearth of
population. But when the number of citizens increases, first the children of a male or a female slave are
excluded; then those whose mothers only are citizens; and at last the right of citizenship is confined to those
whose fathers and mothers are both citizens.

Hence, as is evident, there are different kinds of citizens; and he is a citizen in the highest sense who shares in
the honors of the state. Compare Homer's words, 'like some dishonored stranger'; he who is excluded from
the honors of the state is no better than an alien. But when his exclusion is concealed, then the object is that
the privileged class may deceive their fellow inhabitants.

As to the question whether the virtue of the good man is the same as that of the good citizen, the
considerations already adduced prove that in some states the good man and the good citizen are the same, and
in others different. When they are the same it is not every citizen who is a good man, but only the statesman
and those who have or may have, alone or in conjunction with others, the conduct of public affairs.

Having determined these questions, we have next to consider whether there is only one form of government
or many, and if many, what they are, and how many, and what are the differences between them.

A constitution is the arrangement of magistracies in a state, especially of the highest of all. The government is
everywhere sovereign in the state, and the constitution is in fact the government. For example, in democracies
the people are supreme, but in oligarchies, the few; and, therefore, we say that these two forms of government
also are different: and so in other cases.

First, let us consider what is the purpose of a state, and how many forms of government there are by which
human society is regulated. We have already said, in the first part of this treatise, when discussing household
management and the rule of a master, that man is by nature a political animal. And therefore, men, even when
they do not require one another's help, desire to live together; not but that they are also brought together by
their common interests in proportion as they severally attain to any measure of well-being. This is certainly
the chief end, both of individuals and of states. And also for the sake of mere life (in which there is possibly
some noble element so long as the evils of existence do not greatly overbalance the good) mankind meet
together and maintain the political community. And we all see that men cling to life even at the cost of
enduring great misfortune, seeming to find in life a natural sweetness and happiness.

There is no difficulty in distinguishing the various kinds of authority; they have been often defined already in
discussions outside the school. The rule of a master, although the slave by nature and the master by nature
have in reality the same interests, is nevertheless exercised primarily with a view to the interest of the master,
but accidentally considers the slave, since, if the slave perish, the rule of the master perishes with him. On the
other hand, the government of a wife and children and of a household, which we have called household
management, is exercised in the first instance for the good of the governed or for the common good of both
parties, but essentially for the good of the governed, as we see to be the case in medicine, gymnastic, and the
arts in general, which are only accidentally concerned with the good of the artists themselves. For there is no
reason why the trainer may not sometimes practice gymnastics, and the helmsman is always one of the crew.
The trainer or the helmsman considers the good of those committed to his care. But, when he is one of the

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persons taken care of, he accidentally participates in the advantage, for the helmsman is also a sailor, and the
trainer becomes one of those in training. And so in politics: when the state is framed upon the principle of
equality and likeness, the citizens think that they ought to hold office by turns. Formerly, as is natural, every
one would take his turn of service; and then again, somebody else would look after his interest, just as he,
while in office, had looked after theirs. But nowadays, for the sake of the advantage which is to be gained
from the public revenues and from office, men want to be always in office. One might imagine that the rulers,
being sickly, were only kept in health while they continued in office; in that case we may be sure that they
would be hunting after places. The conclusion is evident: that governments which have a regard to the
common interest are constituted in accordance with strict principles of justice, and are therefore true forms;
but those which regard only the interest of the rulers are all defective and perverted forms, for they are
despotic, whereas a state is a community of freemen.

VII

Having determined these points, we have next to consider how many forms of government there are, and
what they are; and in the first place what are the true forms, for when they are determined the perversions of
them will at once be apparent. The words constitution and government have the same meaning, and the
government, which is the supreme authority in states, must be in the hands of one, or of a few, or of the
many. The true forms of government, therefore, are those in which the one, or the few, or the many, govern
with a view to the common interest; but governments which rule with a view to the private interest, whether
of the one or of the few, or of the many, are perversions. For the members of a state, if they are truly citizens,
ought to participate in its advantages. Of forms of government in which one rules, we call that which regards
the common interests, kingship or royalty; that in which more than one, but not many, rule, aristocracy; and it
is so called, either because the rulers are the best men, or because they have at heart the best interests of the
state and of the citizens. But when the citizens at large administer the state for the common interest, the
government is called by the generic name- a constitution. And there is a reason for this use of language. One
man or a few may excel in virtue; but as the number increases it becomes more difficult for them to attain
perfection in every kind of virtue, though they may in military virtue, for this is found in the masses. Hence
in a constitutional government the fighting-men have the supreme power, and those who possess arms are
the citizens.

Of the above-mentioned forms, the perversions are as follows: of royalty, tyranny; of aristocracy, oligarchy;
of constitutional government, democracy. For tyranny is a kind of monarchy which has in view the interest of
the monarch only; oligarchy has in view the interest of the wealthy; democracy, of the needy: none of them
the common good of all.

VIM

But there are difficulties about these forms of government, and it will therefore be necessary to state a little
more at length the nature of each of them. For he who would make a philosophical study of the various
sciences, and does not regard practice only, ought not to overlook or omit anything, but to set forth the truth
in every particular. Tyranny, as I was saying, is monarchy exercising the rule of a master over the political
society; oligarchy is when men of property have the government in their hands; democracy, the opposite,
when the indigent, and not the men of property, are the rulers. And here arises the first of our difficulties, and
it relates to the distinction drawn. For democracy is said to be the government of the many. But what if the
many are men of property and have the power in their hands? In like manner oligarchy is said to be the
government of the few; but what if the poor are fewer than the rich, and have the power in their hands
because they are stronger? In these cases the distinction which we have drawn between these different forms
of government would no longer hold good.

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Suppose, once more, that we add wealth to the few and poverty to the many, and name the governments
accordingly- an oligarchy is said to be that in which the few and the wealthy, and a democracy that in which
the many and the poor are the rulers- there will still be a difficulty. For, if the only forms of government are
the ones already mentioned, how shall we describe those other governments also just mentioned by us, in
which the rich are the more numerous and the poor are the fewer, and both govern in their respective states?

The argument seems to show that, whether in oligarchies or in democracies, the number of the governing
body, whether the greater number, as in a democracy, or the smaller number, as in an oligarchy, is an
accident due to the fact that the rich everywhere are few, and the poor numerous. But if so, there is a
misapprehension of the causes of the difference between them. For the real difference between democracy
and oligarchy is poverty and wealth. Wherever men rule by reason of their wealth, whether they be few or
many, that is an oligarchy, and where the poor rule, that is a democracy. But as a fact the rich are few and the
poor many; for few are well-to-do, whereas freedom is enjoyed by an, and wealth and freedom are the
grounds on which the oligarchical and democratical parties respectively claim power in the state.

Let us begin by considering the common definitions of oligarchy and democracy, and what is justice
oligarchical and democratical. For all men cling to justice of some kind, but their conceptions are imperfect
and they do not express the whole idea. For example, justice is thought by them to be, and is, equality, not.
however, for however, for but only for equals. And inequality is thought to be, and is, justice; neither is this
for all, but only for unequals. When the persons are omitted, then men judge erroneously. The reason is that
they are passing judgment on themselves, and most people are bad judges in their own case. And whereas
justice implies a relation to persons as well as to things, and a just distribution, as I have already said in the
Ethics, implies the same ratio between the persons and between the things, they agree about the equality of
the things, but dispute about the equality of the persons, chiefly for the reason which I have just given-
because they are bad judges in their own affairs; and secondly, because both the parties to the argument are
speaking of a limited and partial justice, but imagine themselves to be speaking of absolute justice. For the
one party, if they are unequal in one respect, for example wealth, consider themselves to be unequal in all;
and the other party, if they are equal in one respect, for example free birth, consider themselves to be equal in
all. But they leave out the capital point. For if men met and associated out of regard to wealth only, their
share in the state would be proportioned to their property, and the oligarchical doctrine would then seem to
carry the day. It would not be just that he who paid one mina should have the same share of a hundred minae,
whether of the principal or of the profits, as he who paid the remaining ninety-nine. But a state exists for the
sake of a good life, and not for the sake of life only: if life only were the object, slaves and brute animals
might form a state, but they cannot, for they have no share in happiness or in a life of free choice. Nor does a
state exist for the sake of alliance and security from injustice, nor yet for the sake of exchange and mutual
intercourse; for then the Tyrrhenians and the Carthaginians, and all who have commercial treaties with one
another, would be the citizens of one state. True, they have agreements about imports, and engagements that
they will do no wrong to one another, and written articles of alliance. But there are no magistrates common to
the contracting parties who will enforce their engagements; different states have each their own magistracies.
Nor does one state take care that the citizens of the other are such as they ought to be, nor see that those who
come under the terms of the treaty do no wrong or wickedness at an, but only that they do no injustice to one
another. Whereas, those who care for good government take into consideration virtue and vice in states.
Whence it may be further inferred that virtue must be the care of a state which is truly so called, and not
merely enjoys the name: for without this end the community becomes a mere alliance which differs only in
place from alliances of which the members live apart; and law is only a convention, 'a surety to one another
of justice,' as the sophist Lycophron says, and has no real power to make the citizens

This is obvious; for suppose distinct places, such as Corinth and Megara, to be brought together so that their
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walls touched, still they would not be one city, not even if the citizens had the right to intermarry, which is
one of the rights peculiarly characteristic of states. Again, if men dwelt at a distance from one another, but
not so far off as to have no intercourse, and there were laws among them that they should not wrong each
other in their exchanges, neither would this be a state. Let us suppose that one man is a carpenter, another a
husbandman, another a shoemaker, and so on, and that their number is ten thousand: nevertheless, if they
have nothing in common but exchange, alliance, and the like, that would not constitute a state. Why is this?
Surely not because they are at a distance from one another: for even supposing that such a community were to
meet in one place, but that each man had a house of his own, which was in a manner his state, and that they
made alliance with one another, but only against evil-doers; still an accurate thinker would not deem this to
be a state, if their intercourse with one another was of the same character after as before their union. It is clear
then that a state is not a mere society, having a common place, established for the prevention of mutual crime
and for the sake of exchange. These are conditions without which a state cannot exist; but all of them together
do not constitute a state, which is a community of families and aggregations of families in well-being, for the
sake of a perfect and self-sufficing life. Such a community can only be established among those who live in
the same place and intermarry. Hence arise in cities family connections, brotherhoods, common sacrifices,
amusements which draw men together. But these are created by friendship, for the will to live together is
friendship. The end of the state is the good life, and these are the means towards it. And the state is the union
of families and villages in a perfect and self-sufficing life, by which we mean a happy and honorable life.

Our conclusion, then, is that political society exists for the sake of noble actions, and not of mere
companionship. Hence they who contribute most to such a society have a greater share in it than those who
have the same or a greater freedom or nobility of birth but are inferior to them in political virtue; or than
those who exceed them in wealth but are surpassed by them in virtue.

From what has been said it will be clearly seen that all the partisans of different forms of government speak
of a part of justice only.

There is also a doubt as to what is to be the supreme power in the state: Is it the multitude? Or the wealthy?
Or the good? Or the one best man? Or a tyrant? Any of these alternatives seems to involve disagreeable
consequences. If the poor, for example, because they are more in number, divide among themselves the
property of the rich- is not this unjust? No, by heaven (will be the reply), for the supreme authority justly
willed it. But if this is not injustice, pray what is? Again, when in the first division all has been taken, and the
majority divide anew the property of the minority, is it not evident, if this goes on, that they will ruin the
state? Yet surely, virtue is not the ruin of those who possess her, nor is justice destructive of a state; and
therefore this law of confiscation clearly cannot be just. If it were, all the acts of a tyrant must of necessity be
just; for he only coerces other men by superior power, just as the multitude coerce the rich. But is it just then
that the few and the wealthy should be the rulers? And what if they, in like manner, rob and plunder the
people- is this just? if so, the other case will likewise be just. But there can be no doubt that all these things
are wrong and unjust.

Then ought the good to rule and have supreme power? But in that case everybody else, being excluded from
power, will be dishonored. For the offices of a state are posts of honor; and if one set of men always holds
them, the rest must be deprived of them. Then will it be well that the one best man should rule? Nay, that is
still more oligarchical, for the number of those who are dishonored is thereby increased. Some one may say
that it is bad in any case for a man, subject as he is to all the accidents of human passion, to have the supreme
power, rather than the law. But what if the law itself be democratical or oligarchical, how will that help us out
of our difficulties? Not at all; the same consequences will follow.

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Most of these questions may be reserved for another occasion. The principle that the multitude ought to be
supreme rather than the few best is one that is maintained, and, though not free from difficulty, yet seems to
contain an element of truth. For the many, of whom each individual is but an ordinary person, when they
meet together may very likely be better than the few good, if regarded not individually but collectively, just
as a feast to which many contribute is better than a dinner provided out of a single purse. For each individual
among the many has a share of virtue and prudence, and when they meet together, they become in a manner
one man, who has many feet, and hands, and senses; that is a figure of their mind and disposition. Hence the
many are better judges than a single man of music and poetry; for some understand one part, and some
another, and among them they understand the whole. There is a similar combination of qualities in good men,
who differ from any individual of the many, as the beautiful are said to differ from those who are not
beautiful, and works of art from realities, because in them the scattered elements are combined, although, if
taken separately, the eye of one person or some other feature in another person would be fairer than in the
picture. Whether this principle can apply to every democracy, and to all bodies of men, is not clear. Or rather,
by heaven, in some cases it is impossible of application; for the argument would equally hold about brutes;
and wherein, it will be asked, do some men differ from brutes? But there may be bodies of men about whom
our statement is nevertheless true. And if so, the difficulty which has been already raised, and also another
which is akin to it -viz., what power should be assigned to the mass of freemen and citizens, who are not rich
and have no personal merit- are both solved. There is still a danger in allowing them to share the great
offices of state, for their folly will lead them into error, and their dishonesty into crime. But there is a danger
also in not letting them share, for a state in which many poor men are excluded from office will necessarily
be full of enemies. The only way of escape is to assign to them some deliberative and judicial functions. For
this reason Solon and certain other legislators give them the power of electing to offices, and of calling the
magistrates to account, but they do not allow them to hold office singly. When they meet together their
perceptions are quite good enough, and combined with the better class they are useful to the state (just as
impure food when mixed with what is pure sometimes makes the entire mass more wholesome than a small
quantity of the pure would be), but each individual, left to himself, forms an imperfect judgment. On the
other hand, the popular form of government involves certain difficulties. In the first place, it might be
objected that he who can judge of the healing of a sick man would be one who could himself heal his disease,
and make him whole- that is, in other words, the physician; and so in all professions and arts. As, then, the
physician ought to be called to account by physicians, so ought men in general to be called to account by their
peers. But physicians are of three kinds: there is the ordinary practitioner, and there is the physician of the
higher class, and thirdly the intelligent man who has studied the art: in all arts there is such a class; and we
attribute the power of judging to them quite as much as to professors of the art. Secondly, does not the same
principle apply to elections? For a right election can only be made by those who have knowledge; those who
know geometry, for example, will choose a geometrician rightly, and those who know how to steer, a pilot;
and, even if there be some occupations and arts in which private persons share in the ability to choose, they
certainly cannot choose better than those who know. So that, according to this argument, neither the election
of magistrates, nor the calling of them to account, should be entrusted to the many. Yet possibly these
objections are to a great extent met by our old answer, that if the people are not utterly degraded, although
individually they may be worse judges than those who have special knowledge- as a body they are as good
or better. Moreover, there are some arts whose products are not judged of solely, or best, by the artists
themselves, namely those arts whose products are recognized even by those who do not possess the art; for
example, the knowledge of the house is not limited to the builder only; the user, or, in other words, the
master, of the house will be even a better judge than the builder, just as the pilot will judge better of a rudder
than the carpenter, and the guest will judge better of a feast than the cook.

This difficulty seems now to be sufficiently answered, but there is another akin to it. That inferior persons
should have authority in greater matters than the good would appear to be a strange thing, yet the election and

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calling to account of the magistrates is the greatest of all. And these, as I was saying, are functions which in
some states are assigned to the people, for the assembly is supreme in all such matters. Yet persons of any
age, and having but a small property qualification, sit in the assembly and deliberate and judge, although for
the great officers of state, such as treasurers and generals, a high qualification is required. This difficulty may
be solved in the same manner as the preceding, and the present practice of democracies may be really
defensible. For the power does not reside in the dicast, or senator, or ecclesiast, but in the court, and the
senate, and the assembly, of which individual senators, or ecclesiasts, or dicasts, are only parts or members.
And for this reason the many may claim to have a higher authority than the few; for the people, and the
senate, and the courts consist of many persons, and their property collectively is greater than the property of
one or of a few individuals holding great offices. But enough of this.

The discussion of the first question shows nothing so clearly as that laws, when good, should be supreme; and
that the magistrate or magistrates should regulate those matters only on which the laws are unable to speak
with precision owing to the difficulty of any general principle embracing all particulars. But what are good
laws has not yet been clearly explained; the old difficulty remains. The goodness or badness, justice or
injustice, of laws varies of necessity with the constitutions of states. This, however, is clear, that the laws
must be adapted to the constitutions. But if so, true forms of government will of necessity have just laws, and
perverted forms of government will have unjust laws.

XII

In all sciences and arts the end is a good, and the greatest good and in the highest degree a good in the most
authoritative of all- this is the political science of which the good is justice, in other words, the common
interest. All men think justice to be a sort of equality; and to a certain extent they agree in the philosophical
distinctions which have been laid down by us about Ethics. For they admit that justice is a thing and has a
relation to persons, and that equals ought to have equality. But there still remains a question: equality or
inequality of what? Here is a difficulty which calls for political speculation. For very likely some persons will
say that offices of state ought to be unequally distributed according to superior excellence, in whatever
respect, of the citizen, although there is no other difference between him and the rest of the community; for
that those who differ in any one respect have different rights and claims. But, surely, if this is true, the
complexion or height of a man, or any other advantage, will be a reason for his obtaining a greater share of
political rights. The error here lies upon the surface, and may be illustrated from the other arts and sciences.
When a number of flute players are equal in their art, there is no reason why those of them who are better
born should have better flutes given to them; for they will not play any better on the flute, and the superior
instrument should be reserved for him who is the superior artist. If what I am saying is still obscure, it will be
made clearer as we proceed. For if there were a superior flute-player who was far inferior in birth and beauty,
although either of these may be a greater good than the art of flute-playing, and may excel flute-playing in a
greater ratio than he excels the others in his art, still he ought to have the best flutes given to him, unless the
advantages of wealth and birth contribute to excellence in flute-playing, which they do not. Moreover, upon
this principle any good may be compared with any other. For if a given height may be measured wealth and
against freedom, height in general may be so measured. Thus if A excels in height more than B in virtue,
even if virtue in general excels height still more, all goods will be commensurable; for if a certain amount is
better than some other, it is clear that some other will be equal. But since no such comparison can be made, it
is evident that there is good reason why in politics men do not ground their claim to office on every sort of
inequality any more than in the arts. For if some be slow, and others swift, that is no reason why the one
should have little and the others much; it is in gymnastics contests that such excellence is rewarded. Whereas
the rival claims of candidates for office can only be based on the possession of elements which enter into the
composition of a state. And therefore the noble, or free-born, or rich, may with good reason claim office; for
holders of offices must be freemen and taxpayers: a state can be no more composed entirely of poor men than
entirely of slaves. But if wealth and freedom are necessary elements, justice and valor are equally so; for

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without the former qualities a state cannot exist at all, without the latter not well.

XIII

If the existence of the state is alone to be considered, then it would seem that all, or some at least, of these
claims are just; but, if we take into account a good life, then, as I have already said, education and virtue have
superior claims. As, however, those who are equal in one thing ought not to have an equal share in all, nor
those who are unequal in one thing to have an unequal share in all, it is certain that all forms of government
which rest on either of these principles are perversions. All men have a claim in a certain sense, as I have
already admitted, but all have not an absolute claim. The rich claim because they have a greater share in the
land, and land is the common element of the state; also they are generally more trustworthy in contracts. The
free claim under the same tide as the noble; for they are nearly akin. For the noble are citizens in a truer sense
than the ignoble, and good birth is always valued in a man's own home and country. Another reason is, that
those who are sprung from better ancestors are likely to be better men, for nobility is excellence of race.
Virtue, too, may be truly said to have a claim, for justice has been acknowledged by us to be a social virtue,
and it implies all others. Again, the many may urge their claim against the few; for, when taken collectively,
and compared with the few, they are stronger and richer and better. But, what if the good, the rich, the noble,
and the other classes who make up a state, are all living together in the same city, Will there, or will there not,
be any doubt who shall rule? No doubt at all in determining who ought to rule in each of the
above-mentioned forms of government. For states are characterized by differences in their governing
bodies-one of them has a government of the rich, another of the virtuous, and so on. But a difficulty arises
when all these elements co-exist. How are we to decide? Suppose the virtuous to be very few in number:
may we consider their numbers in relation to their duties, and ask whether they are enough to administer the
state, or so many as will make up a state? Objections may be urged against all the aspirants to political power.
For those who found their claims on wealth or family might be thought to have no basis of justice; on this
principle, if any one person were richer than all the rest, it is clear that he ought to be ruler of them. In like
manner he who is very distinguished by his birth ought to have the superiority over all those who claim on
the ground that they are freeborn. In an aristocracy, or government of the best, a like difficulty occurs about
virtue; for if one citizen be better than the other members of the government, however good they may be, he
too, upon the same principle of justice, should rule over them. And if the people are to be supreme because
they are stronger than the few, then if one man, or more than one, but not a majority, is stronger than the
many, they ought to rule, and not the many.

All these considerations appear to show that none of the principles on which men claim to rule and to hold all
other men in subjection to them are strictly right. To those who claim to be masters of the government on the
ground of their virtue or their wealth, the many might fairly answer that they themselves are often better and
richer than the few- I do not say individually, but collectively. And another ingenious objection which is
sometimes put forward may be met in a similar manner. Some persons doubt whether the legislator who
desires to make the justest laws ought to legislate with a view to the good of the higher classes or of the
many, when the case which we have mentioned occurs. Now what is just or right is to be interpreted in the
sense of 'what is equal'; and that which is right in the sense of being equal is to be considered with reference
to the advantage of the state, and the common good of the citizens. And a citizen is one who shares in
governing and being governed. He differs under different forms of government, but in the best state he is one
who is able and willing to be governed and to govern with a view to the life of virtue.

If, however, there be some one person, or more than one, although not enough to make up the full
complement of a state, whose virtue is so pre-eminent that the virtues or the political capacity of all the rest
admit of no comparison with his or theirs, he or they can be no longer regarded as part of a state; for justice
will not be done to the superior, if he is reckoned only as the equal of those who are so far inferior to him in
virtue and in political capacity. Such an one may truly be deemed a God among men. Hence we see that

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legislation is necessarily concerned only with those who are equal in birth and in capacity; and that for men
of pre-eminent virtue there is no law- they are themselves a law. Any would be ridiculous who attempted to
make laws for them: they would probably retort what, in the fable of Antisthenes, the lions said to the hares,
when in the council of the beasts the latter began haranguing and claiming equality for all. And for this
reason democratic states have instituted ostracism; equality is above all things their aim, and therefore they
ostracized and banished from the city for a time those who seemed to predominate too much through their
wealth, or the number of their friends, or through any other political influence. Mythology tells us that the
Argonauts left Heracles behind for a similar reason; the ship Argo would not take him because she feared that
he would have been too much for the rest of the crew. Wherefore those who denounce tyranny and blame the
counsel which Periander gave to Thrasybulus cannot be held altogether just in their censure. The story is that
Periander, when the herald was sent to ask counsel of him, said nothing, but only cut off the tallest ears of
corn till he had brought the field to a level. The herald did not know the meaning of the action, but came and
reported what he had seen to Thrasybulus, who understood that he was to cut off the principal men in the
state; and this is a policy not only expedient for tyrants or in practice confined to them, but equally necessary
in oligarchies and democracies. Ostracism is a measure of the same kind, which acts by disabling and
banishing the most prominent citizens. Great powers do the same to whole cities and nations, as the
Athenians did to the Samians, Chians, and Lesbians; no sooner had they obtained a firm grasp of the empire,
than they humbled their allies contrary to treaty; and the Persian king has repeatedly crushed the Medes,
Babylonians, and other nations, when their spirit has been stirred by the recollection of their former greatness.

The problem is a universal one, and equally concerns all forms of government, true as well as false; for,
although perverted forms with a view to their own interests may adopt this policy, those which seek the
common interest do so likewise. The same thing may be observed in the arts and sciences; for the painter will
not allow the figure to have a foot which, however beautiful, is not in proportion, nor will the shipbuilder
allow the stem or any other part of the vessel to be unduly large, any more than the chorus-master will allow
any one who sings louder or better than all the rest to sing in the choir. Monarchs, too, may practice
compulsion and still live in harmony with their cities, if their own government is for the interest of the state.
Hence where there is an acknowledged superiority the argument in favor of ostracism is based upon a kind of
political justice. It would certainly be better that the legislator should from the first so order his state as to
have no need of such a remedy. But if the need arises, the next best thing is that he should endeavor to correct
the evil by this or some similar measure. The principle, however, has not been fairly applied in states; for,
instead of looking to the good of their own constitution, they have used ostracism for factious purposes. It is
true that under perverted forms of government, and from their special point of view, such a measure is just
and expedient, but it is also clear that it is not absolutely just. In the perfect state there would be great doubts
about the use of it, not when applied to excess in strength, wealth, popularity, or the like, but when used
against some one who is pre-eminent in virtue- what is to be done with him? Mankind will not say that such
an one is to be expelled and exiled; on the other hand, he ought not to be a subject- that would be as if
mankind should claim to rule over Zeus, dividing his offices among them. The only alternative is that all
should joyfully obey such a ruler, according to what seems to be the order of nature, and that men like him
should be kings in their state for life.

XIV

The preceding discussion, by a natural transition, leads to the consideration of royalty, which we admit to be
one of the true forms of government. Let us see whether in order to be well governed a state or country
should be under the rule of a king or under some other form of government; and whether monarchy, although
good for some, may not be bad for others. But first we must determine whether there is one species of royalty
or many. It is easy to see that there are many, and that the manner of government is not the same in all of
them.

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Of royalties according to law, (1) the Lacedaemonian is thought to answer best to the true pattern; but there
the royal power is not absolute, except when the kings go on an expedition, and then they take the command.
Matters of religion are likewise committed to them. The kingly office is in truth a kind of generalship,
irresponsible and perpetual. The king has not the power of life and death, except in a specified case, as for
instance, in ancient times, he had it when upon a campaign, by right of force. This custom is described in
Homer. For Agamemnon is patient when he is attacked in the assembly, but when the army goes out to battle
he has the power even of life and death. Does he not say- 'When I find a man skulking apart from the battle,
nothing shall save him from the dogs and vultures, for in my hands is death'?

This, then, is one form of royalty-a generalship for life: and of such royalties some are hereditary and others
elective.

(2) There is another sort of monarchy not uncommon among the barbarians, which nearly resembles tyranny.
But this is both legal and hereditary. For barbarians, being more servile in character than Hellenes, and
Asiadics than Europeans, do not rebel against a despotic government. Such royalties have the nature of
tyrannies because the people are by nature slaves; but there is no danger of their being overthrown, for they
are hereditary and legal. Wherefore also their guards are such as a king and not such as a tyrant would
employ, that is to say, they are composed of citizens, whereas the guards of tyrants are mercenaries. For kings
rule according to law over voluntary subjects, but tyrants over involuntary; and the one are guarded by their
fellow-citizens the others are guarded against them.

These are two forms of monarchy, and there was a third (3) which existed in ancient Hellas, called an
Aesymnetia or dictatorship. This may be defined generally as an elective tyranny, which, like the barbarian
monarchy, is legal, but differs from it in not being hereditary. Sometimes the office was held for life,
sometimes for a term of years, or until certain duties had been performed. For example, the Mytilenaeans
elected Pittacus leader against the exiles, who were headed by Antimenides and Alcaeus the poet. And
Alcaeus himself shows in one of his banquet odes that they chose Pittacus tyrant, for he reproaches his
fellow-citizens for 'having made the low-born Pittacus tyrant of the spiritless and ill-fated city, with one
voice shouting his praises.'

These forms of government have always had the character of tyrannies, because they possess despotic power;
but inasmuch as they are elective and acquiesced in by their subjects, they are kingly.

(4) There is a fourth species of kingly rule- that of the heroic times- which was hereditary and legal, and was
exercised over willing subjects. For the first chiefs were benefactors of the people in arts or arms; they either
gathered them into a community, or procured land for them; and thus they became kings of voluntary
subjects, and their power was inherited by their descendants. They took the command in war and presided
over the sacrifices, except those which required a priest. They also decided causes either with or without an
oath; and when they swore, the form of the oath was the stretching out of their sceptre. In ancient times their
power extended continuously to all things whatsoever, in city and country, as well as in foreign parts; but at a
later date they relinquished several of these privileges, and others the people took from them, until in some
states nothing was left to them but the sacrifices; and where they retained more of the reality they had only
the right of leadership in war beyond the border.

These, then, are the four kinds of royalty. First the monarchy of the heroic ages; this was exercised over
voluntary subjects, but limited to certain functions; the king was a general and a judge, and had the control of
religion The second is that of the barbarians, which is a hereditary despotic government in accordance with
law. A third is the power of the so-called Aesynmete or Dictator; this is an elective tyranny. The fourth is the
Lacedaemonian, which is in fact a generalship, hereditary and perpetual. These four forms differ from one
another in the manner which I have described.

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(5) There is a fifth form of kingly rule in which one has the disposal of all, just as each nation or each state
has the disposal of public matters; this form corresponds to the control of a household. For as household
management is the kingly rule of a house, so kingly rule is the household management of a city, or of a
nation, or of many nations.

Of these forms we need only consider two, the Lacedaemonian and the absolute royalty; for most of the
others he in a region between them, having less power than the last, and more than the first. Thus the inquiry
is reduced to two points: first, is it advantageous to the state that there should be a perpetual general, and if
so, should the office be confined to one family, or open to the citizens in turn? Secondly, is it well that a
single man should have the supreme power in all things? The first question falls under the head of laws rather
than of constitutions; for perpetual generalship might equally exist under any form of government, so that this
matter may be dismissed for the present. The other kind of royalty is a sort of constitution; this we have now
to consider, and briefly to run over the difficulties involved in it. We will begin by inquiring whether it is
more advantageous to be ruled by the best man or by the best laws.

The advocates of royalty maintain that the laws speak only in general terms, and cannot provide for
circumstances; and that for any science to abide by written rules is absurd. In Egypt the physician is allowed
to alter his treatment after the fourth day, but if sooner, he takes the risk. Hence it is clear that a government
acting according to written laws is plainly not the best. Yet surely the ruler cannot dispense with the general
principle which exists in law; and this is a better ruler which is free from passion than that in which it is
innate. Whereas the law is passionless, passion must ever sway the heart of man. Yes, it may be replied, but
then on the other hand an individual will be better able to deliberate in particular cases.

The best man, then, must legislate, and laws must be passed, but these laws will have no authority when they
miss the mark, though in all other cases retaining their authority. But when the law cannot determine a point
at all, or not well, should the one best man or should all decide? According to our present practice assemblies
meet, sit in judgment, deliberate, and decide, and their judgments an relate to individual cases. Now any
member of the assembly, taken separately, is certainly inferior to the wise man. But the state is made up of
many individuals. And as a feast to which all the guests contribute is better than a banquet furnished by a
single man, so a multitude is a better judge of many things than any individual.

Again, the many are more incorruptible than the few; they are like the greater quantity of water which is less
easily corrupted than a little. The individual is liable to be overcome by anger or by some other passion, and
then his judgment is necessarily perverted; but it is hardly to be supposed that a great number of persons
would all get into a passion and go wrong at the same moment. Let us assume that they are the freemen, and
that they never act in violation of the law, but fill up the gaps which the law is obliged to leave. Or, if such
virtue is scarcely attainable by the multitude, we need only suppose that the majority are good men and good
citizens, and ask which will be the more incorruptible, the one good ruler, or the many who are all good? Will
not the many? But, you will say, there may be parties among them, whereas the one man is not divided
against himself. To which we may answer that their character is as good as his. If we call the rule of many
men, who are all of them good, aristocracy, and the rule of one man royalty, then aristocracy will be better for
states than royalty, whether the government is supported by force or not, provided only that a number of men
equal in virtue can be found.

The first governments were kingships, probably for this reason, because of old, when cities were small, men
of eminent virtue were few. Further, they were made kings because they were benefactors, and benefits can
only be bestowed by good men. But when many persons equal in merit arose, no longer enduring the
pre-eminence of one, they desired to have a commonwealth, and set up a constitution. The ruling class soon

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deteriorated and enriched themselves out of the public treasury; riches became the path to honor, and so
oligarchies naturally grew up. These passed into tyrannies and tyrannies into democracies; for love of gain in
the ruling classes was always tending to diminish their number, and so to strengthen the masses, who in the
end set upon their masters and established democracies. Since cities have increased in size, no other form of
government appears to be any longer even easy to establish.

Even supposing the principle to be maintained that kingly power is the best thing for states, how about the
family of the king? Are his children to succeed him? If they are no better than anybody else, that will be
mischievous. But, says the lover of royalty, the king, though he might, will not hand on his power to his
children. That, however, is hardly to be expected, and is too much to ask of human nature. There is also a
difficulty about the force which he is to employ; should a king have guards about him by whose aid he may
be able to coerce the refractory? If not, how will he administer his kingdom? Even if he be the lawful
sovereign who does nothing arbitrarily or contrary to law, still he must have some force wherewith to
maintain the law. In the case of a limited monarchy there is not much difficulty in answering this question;
the king must have such force as will be more than a match for one or more individuals, but not so great as
that of the people. The ancients observe this principle when they have guards to any one whom they
appointed dictator or tyrant. Thus, when Dionysius asked the Syracusans to allow him guards, somebody
advised that they should give him only such a number.

XVI

At this place in the discussion there impends the inquiry respecting the king who acts solely according to his
own will he has now to be considered. The so-called limited monarchy, or kingship according to law, as I
have already remarked, is not a distinct form of government, for under all governments, as, for example, in a
democracy or aristocracy, there may be a general holding office for life, and one person is often made
supreme over the administration of a state. A magistracy of this kind exists at Epidamnus, and also at Opus,
but in the latter city has a more limited power. Now, absolute monarchy, or the arbitrary rule of a sovereign
over an the citizens, in a city which consists of equals, is thought by some to be quite contrary to nature; it is
argued that those who are by nature equals must have the same natural right and worth, and that for unequals
to have an equal share, or for equals to have an uneven share, in the offices of state, is as bad as for different
bodily constitutions to have the same food and clothing. Wherefore it is thought to be just that among equals
every one be ruled as well as rule, and therefore that an should have their turn. We thus arrive at law; for an
order of succession implies law. And the rule of the law, it is argued, is preferable to that of any individual.
On the same principle, even if it be better for certain individuals to govern, they should be made only
guardians and ministers of the law. For magistrates there must be- this is admitted; but then men say that to
give authority to any one man when all are equal is unjust. Nay, there may indeed be cases which the law
seems unable to determine, but in such cases can a man? Nay, it will be replied, the law trains officers for this
express purpose, and appoints them to determine matters which are left undecided by it, to the best of their
judgment. Further, it permits them to make any amendment of the existing laws which experience suggests.
Therefore he who bids the law rule may be deemed to bid God and Reason alone rule, but he who bids man
rule adds an element of the beast; for desire is a wild beast, and passion perverts the minds of rulers, even
when they are the best of men. The law is reason unaffected by desire. We are told that a patient should call
in a physician; he will not get better if he is doctored out of a book. But the parallel of the arts is clearly not in
point; for the physician does nothing contrary to rule from motives of friendship; he only cures a patient and
takes a fee; whereas magistrates do many things from spite and partiality. And, indeed, if a man suspected the
physician of being in league with his enemies to destroy him for a bribe, he would rather have recourse to the
book. But certainly physicians, when they are sick, call in other physicians, and training-masters, when they
are in training, other training-masters, as if they could not judge judge truly about their own case and might
be influenced by their feelings. Hence it is evident that in seeking for justice men seek for the mean or
neutral, for the law is the mean. Again, customary laws have more weight, and relate to more important

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matters, than written laws, and a man may be a safer ruler than the written law, but not safer than the
customary law.

Again, it is by no means easy for one man to superintend many things; he will have to appoint a number of
subordinates, and what difference does it make whether these subordinates always existed or were appointed
by him because he needed theme If, as I said before, the good man has a right to rule because he is better, still
two good men are better than one: this is the old saying, two going together, and the prayer of Agamemnon,

Would that I had ten such councillors! And at this day there are magistrates, for example judges, who have
authority to decide some matters which the law is unable to determine, since no one doubts that the law
would command and decide in the best manner whatever it could. But some things can, and other things
cannot, be comprehended under the law, and this is the origin of the nexted question whether the best law or
the best man should rule. For matters of detail about which men deliberate cannot be included in legislation.
Nor does any one deny that the decision of such matters must be left to man, but it is argued that there should
be many judges, and not one only. For every ruler who has been trained by the law judges well; and it would
surely seem strange that a person should see better with two eyes, or hear better with two ears, or act better
with two hands or feet, than many with many; indeed, it is already the practice of kings to make to
themselves many eyes and ears and hands and feet. For they make colleagues of those who are the friends of
themselves and their governments. They must be friends of the monarch and of his government; if not his
friends, they will not do what he wants; but friendship implies likeness and equality; and, therefore, if he
thinks that his friends ought to rule, he must think that those who are equal to himself and like himself ought
to rule equally with himself. These are the principal controversies relating to monarchy.

XVII

But may not all this be true in some cases and not in others? for there is by nature both a justice and an
advantage appropriate to the rule of a master, another to kingly rule, another to constitutional rule; but there is
none naturally appropriate to tyranny, or to any other perverted form of government; for these come into
being contrary to nature. Now, to judge at least from what has been said, it is manifest that, where men are
alike and equal, it is neither expedient nor just that one man should be lord of all, whether there are laws, or
whether there are no laws, but he himself is in the place of law. Neither should a good man be lord over good
men, nor a bad man over bad; nor, even if he excels in virtue, should he have a right to rule, unless in a
particular case, at which I have already hinted, and to which I will once more recur. But first of all, I must
determine what natures are suited for government by a king, and what for an aristocracy, and what for a
constitutional government.

A people who are by nature capable of producing a race superior in the virtue needed for political rule are
fitted for kingly government; and a people submitting to be ruled as freemen by men whose virtue renders
them capable of political command are adapted for an aristocracy; while the people who are suited for
constitutional freedom are those among whom there naturally exists a warlike multitude able to rule and to
obey in turn by a law which gives office to the well-to-do according to their desert. But when a whole
family or some individual, happens to be so pre-eminent in virtue as to surpass all others, then it is just that
they should be the royal family and supreme over all, or that this one citizen should be king of the whole
nation. For, as I said before, to give them authority is not only agreeable to that ground of right which the
founders of all states, whether aristocratic al, or oligarchical, or again democratical, are accustomed to put
forward (for these all recognize the claim of excellence, although not the same excellence), but accords with
the principle already laid down. For surely it would not be right to kill, or ostracize, or exile such a person, or
require that he should take his turn in being governed. The whole is naturally superior to the part, and he who
has this pre-eminence is in the relation of a whole to a part. But if so, the only alternative is that he should
have the supreme power, and that mankind should obey him, not in turn, but always. These are the

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conclusions at which we arrive respecting royalty and its various forms, and this is the answer to the question,
whether it is or is not advantageous to states, and to which, and how.

XVIII

We maintain that the true forms of government are three, and that the best must be that which is administered
by the best, and in which there is one man, or a whole family, or many persons, excelling all the others
together in virtue, and both rulers and subjects are fitted, the one to rule, the others to be ruled, in such a
manner as to attain the most eligible life. We showed at the commencement of our inquiry that the virtue of
the good man is necessarily the same as the virtue of the citizen of the perfect state. Clearly then in the same
manner, and by the same means through which a man becomes truly good, he will frame a state that is to be
ruled by an aristocracy or by a king, and the same education and the same habits will be found to make a
good man and a man fit to be a statesman or a king.

Having arrived at these conclusions, we must proceed to speak of the perfect state, and describe how it comes
into being and is established.

BOOK FOUR

IN all arts and sciences which embrace the whole of any subject, and do not come into being in a fragmentary
way, it is the province of a single art or science to consider all that appertains to a single subject. For
example, the art of gymnastic considers not only the suitableness of different modes of training to different
bodies (2), but what sort is absolutely the best (1); (for the absolutely best must suit that which is by nature
best and best furnished with the means of life), and also what common form of training is adapted to the great
majority of men (4). And if a man does not desire the best habit of body, or the greatest skill in gymnastics,
which might be attained by him, still the trainer or the teacher of gymnastic should be able to impart any
lower degree of either (3). The same principle equally holds in medicine and shipbuilding, and the making of
clothes, and in the arts generally.

Hence it is obvious that government too is the subject of a single science, which has to consider what
government is best and of what sort it must be, to be most in accordance with our aspirations, if there were no
external impediment, and also what kind of government is adapted to particular states. For the best is often
unattainable, and therefore the true legislator and statesman ought to be acquainted, not only with (1) that
which is best in the abstract, but also with (2) that which is best relatively to circumstances. We should be
able further to say how a state may be constituted under any given conditions (3); both how it is originally
formed and, when formed, how it may be longest preserved; the supposed state being so far from having the
best constitution that it is unprovided even with the conditions necessary for the best; neither is it the best
under the circumstances, but of an inferior type.

He ought, moreover, to know (4) the form of government which is best suited to states in general; for political
writers, although they have excellent ideas, are often unpractical. We should consider, not only what form of
government is best, but also what is possible and what is easily attainable by all. There are some who would
have none but the most perfect; for this many natural advantages are required. Others, again, speak of a more
attainable form, and, although they reject the constitution under which they are living, they extol some one in
particular, for example the Lacedaemonian. Any change of government which has to be introduced should be
one which men, starting from their existing constitutions, will be both willing and able to adopt, since there is
quite as much trouble in the reformation of an old constitution as in the establishment of a new one, just as to
unlearn is as hard as to learn. And therefore, in addition to the qualifications of the statesman already

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mentioned, he should be able to find remedies for the defects of existing constitutions, as has been said
before. This he cannot do unless he knows how many forms of government there are. It is often supposed that
there is only one kind of democracy and one of oligarchy. But this is a mistake; and, in order to avoid such
mistakes, we must ascertain what differences there are in the constitutions of states, and in how many ways
they are combined. The same political insight will enable a man to know which laws are the best, and which
are suited to different constitutions; for the laws are, and ought to be, relative to the constitution, and not the
constitution to the laws. A constitution is the organization of offices in a state, and determines what is to be
the governing body, and what is the end of each community. But laws are not to be confounded with the
principles of the constitution; they are the rules according to which the magistrates should administer the
state, and proceed against offenders. So that we must know the varieties, and the number of varieties, of each
form of government, if only with a view to making laws. For the same laws cannot be equally suited to all
oligarchies or to all democracies, since there is certainly more than one form both of democracy and of
oligarchy.

In our original discussion about governments we divided them into three true forms: kingly rule, aristocracy,
and constitutional government, and three corresponding perversions- tyranny, oligarchy, and democracy. Of
kingly rule and of aristocracy, we have already spoken, for the inquiry into the perfect state is the same thing
with the discussion of the two forms thus named, since both imply a principle of virtue provided with
external means. We have already determined in what aristocracy and kingly rule differ from one another, and
when the latter should be established. In what follows we have to describe the so-called constitutional
government, which bears the common name of all constitutions, and the other forms, tyranny, oligarchy, and
democracy.

It is obvious which of the three perversions is the worst, and which is the next in badness. That which is the
perversion of the first and most divine is necessarily the worst. And just as a royal rule, if not a mere name,
must exist by virtue of some great personal superiority in the king, so tyranny, which is the worst of
governments, is necessarily the farthest removed from a well-constituted form; oligarchy is little better, for it
is a long way from aristocracy, and democracy is the most tolerable of the three.

A writer who preceded me has already made these distinctions, but his point of view is not the same as mine.
For he lays down the principle that when all the constitutions are good (the oligarchy and the rest being
virtuous), democracy is the worst, but the best when all are bad. Whereas we maintain that they are in any
case defective, and that one oligarchy is not to be accounted better than another, but only less bad.

Not to pursue this question further at present, let us begin by determining (1) how many varieties of
constitution there are (since of democracy and oligarchy there are several): (2) what constitution is the most
generally acceptable, and what is eligible in the next degree after the perfect state; and besides this what other
there is which is aristocratical and well-constituted, and at the same time adapted to states in general; (3) of
the other forms of government to whom each is suited. For democracy may meet the needs of some better
than oligarchy, and conversely. In the next place (4) we have to consider in what manner a man ought to
proceed who desires to establish some one among these various forms, whether of democracy or of oligarchy;
and lastly, (5) having briefly discussed these subjects to the best of our power, we will endeavor to ascertain
the modes of ruin and preservation both of constitutions generally and of each separately, and to what causes
they are to be attributed.

POLITICS

The reason why there are many forms of government is that every state contains many elements. In the first
place we see that all states are made up of families, and in the multitude of citizen there must be some rich
and some poor, and some in a middle condition; the rich are heavy-armed, and the poor not. Of the common
people, some are husbandmen, and some traders, and some artisans. There are also among the notables
differences of wealth and property- for example, in the number of horses which they keep, for they cannot
afford to keep them unless they are rich. And therefore in old times the cities whose strength lay in their
cavalry were oligarchies, and they used cavalry in wars against their neighbors; as was the practice of the
Eretrians and Chalcidians, and also of the Magnesians on the river Maeander, and of other peoples in Asia.
Besides differences of wealth there are differences of rank and merit, and there are some other elements
which were mentioned by us when in treating of aristocracy we enumerated the essentials of a state. Of these
elements, sometimes all, sometimes the lesser and sometimes the greater number, have a share in the
government. It is evident then that there must be many forms of government, differing in kind, since the parts
of which they are composed differ from each other in kind. For a constitution is an organization of offices,
which all the citizens distribute among themselves, according to the power which different classes possess,
for example the rich or the poor, or according to some principle of equality which includes both. There must
therefore be as many forms of government as there are modes of arranging the offices, according to the
superiorities and differences of the parts of the state.

There are generally thought to be two principal forms: as men say of the winds that there are but two- north
and south, and that the rest of them are only variations of these, so of governments there are said to be only
two forms- democracy and oligarchy. For aristocracy is considered to be a kind of oligarchy, as being the
rule of a few, and the so-called constitutional government to be really a democracy, just as among the winds
we make the west a variation of the north, and the east of the south wind. Similarly of musical modes there
are said to be two kinds, the Dorian and the Phrygian; the other arrangements of the scale are comprehended
under one or other of these two. About forms of government this is a very favorite notion. But in either case
the better and more exact way is to distinguish, as I have done, the one or two which are true forms, and to
regard the others as perversions, whether of the most perfectly attempered mode or of the best form of
government: we may compare the severer and more overpowering modes to the oligarchical forms, and the
more relaxed and gentler ones to the democratic.

It must not be assumed, as some are fond of saying, that democracy is simply that form of government in
which the greater number are sovereign, for in oligarchies, and indeed in every government, the majority
rules; nor again is oligarchy that form of government in which a few are sovereign. Suppose the whole
population of a city to be 1300, and that of these 1000 are rich, and do not allow the remaining 300 who are
poor, but free, and in an other respects their equals, a share of the government- no one will say that this is a
democracy. In like manner, if the poor were few and the masters of the rich who outnumber them, no one
would ever call such a government, in which the rich majority have no share of office, an oligarchy.
Therefore we should rather say that democracy is the form of government in which the free are rulers, and
oligarchy in which the rich; it is only an accident that the free are the many and the rich are the few.
Otherwise a government in which the offices were given according to stature, as is said to be the case in
Ethiopia, or according to beauty, would be an oligarchy; for the number of tall or good-looking men is small.
And yet oligarchy and democracy are not sufficiently distinguished merely by these two characteristics of
wealth and freedom. Both of them contain many other elements, and therefore we must carry our analysis
further, and say that the government is not a democracy in which the freemen, being few in number, rule over
the many who are not free, as at Apollonia, on the Ionian Gulf, and at Thera; (for in each of these states the
nobles, who were also the earliest settlers, were held in chief honor, although they were but a few out of

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many). Neither is it a democracy when the rich have the government because they exceed in number; as was
the case formerly at Colophon, where the bulk of the inhabitants were possessed of large property before the
Lydian War. But the form of government is a democracy when the free, who are also poor and the majority,
govern, and an oligarchy when the rich and the noble govern, they being at the same time few in number.

I have said that there are many forms of government, and have explained to what causes the variety is due.
Why there are more than those already mentioned, and what they are, and whence they arise, I will now
proceed to consider, starting from the principle already admitted, which is that every state consists, not of
one, but of many parts. If we were going to speak of the different species of animals, we should first of all
determine the organs which are indispensable to every animal, as for example some organs of sense and the
instruments of receiving and digesting food, such as the mouth and the stomach, besides organs of
locomotion. Assuming now that there are only so many kinds of organs, but that there may be differences in
them- I mean different kinds of mouths, and stomachs, and perceptive and locomotive organs- the possible
combinations of these differences will necessarily furnish many variedes of animals. (For animals cannot be
the same which have different kinds of mouths or of ears.) And when all the combinations are exhausted,
there will be as many sorts of animals as there are combinations of the necessary organs. The same, then, is
true of the forms of government which have been described; states, as I have repeatedly said, are composed,
not of one, but of many elements. One element is the food-producing class, who are called husbandmen; a
second, the class of mechanics who practice the arts without which a city cannot exist; of these arts some are
absolutely necessary, others contribute to luxury or to the grace of life. The third class is that of traders, and
by traders I mean those who are engaged in buying and selling, whether in commerce or in retail trade. A
fourth class is that of the serfs or laborers. The warriors make up the fifth class, and they are as necessary as
any of the others, if the country is not to be the slave of every invader. For how can a state which has any title
to the name be of a slavish nature? The state is independent and self-sufficing, but a slave is the reverse of
independent. Hence we see that this subject, though ingeniously, has not been satisfactorily treated in the
Republic. Socrates says that a state is made up of four sorts of people who are absolutely necessary; these are
a weaver, a husbandman, a shoemaker, and a builder; afterwards, finding that they are not enough, he adds a
smith, and again a herdsman, to look after the necessary animals; then a merchant, and then a retail trader. All
these together form the complement of the first state, as if a state were established merely to supply the
necessaries of life, rather than for the sake of the good, or stood equally in need of shoemakers and of
husbandmen. But he does not admit into the state a military class until the country has increased in size, and
is beginning to encroach on its neighbor's land, whereupon they go to war. Yet even amongst his four original
citizens, or whatever be the number of those whom he associates in the state, there must be some one who
will dispense justice and determine what is just. And as the soul may be said to be more truly part of an
animal than the body, so the higher parts of states, that is to say, the warrior class, the class engaged in the
administration of justice, and that engaged in deliberation, which is the special business of political common
sense-these are more essential to the state than the parts which minister to the necessaries of life. Whether
their several functions are the functions of different citizens, or of the same- for it may often happen that the
same persons are both warriors and husbandmen- is immaterial to the argument. The higher as well as the
lower elements are to be equally considered parts of the state, and if so, the military element at any rate must
be included. There are also the wealthy who minister to the state with their property; these form the seventh
class. The eighth class is that of magistrates and of officers; for the state cannot exist without rulers. And
therefore some must be able to take office and to serve the state, either always or in turn. There only remains
the class of those who deliberate and who judge between disputants; we were just now distinguishing them. If
presence of all these elements, and their fair and equitable organization, is necessary to states, then there must
also be persons who have the ability of statesmen. Different functions appear to be often combined in the
same individual; for example, the warrior may also be a husbandman, or an artisan; or, again, the councillor a
judge. And all claim to possess political ability, and think that they are quite competent to fill most offices.
But the same persons cannot be rich and poor at the same time. For this reason the rich and the poor are
regarded in an especial sense as parts of a state. Again, because the rich are generally few in number, while
the poor are many, they appear to be antagonistic, and as the one or the other prevails they form the

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government. Hence arises the common opinion that there are two kinds of government- democracy and
oligarchy.

I have already explained that there are many forms of constitution, and to what causes the variety is due. Let
me now show that there are different forms both of democracy and oligarchy, as will indeed be evident from
what has preceded. For both in the common people and in the notables various classes are included; of the
common people, one class are husbandmen, another artisans; another traders, who are employed in buying
and selling; another are the seafaring class, whether engaged in war or in trade, as ferrymen or as fishermen.
(In many places any one of these classes forms quite a large population; for example, fishermen at Tarentum
and Byzantium, crews of triremes at Athens, merchant seamen at Aegina and Chios, ferrymen at Tenedos.)
To the classes already mentioned may be added day-laborers, and those who, owing to their needy
circumstances, have no leisure, or those who are not of free birth on both sides; and there may be other
classes as well. The notables again may be divided according to their wealth, birth, virtue, education, and
similar differences.

Of forms of democracy first comes that which is said to be based strictly on equality. In such a democracy the
law says that it is just for the poor to have no more advantage than the rich; and that neither should be
masters, but both equal. For if liberty and equality, as is thought by some, are chiefly to be found in
democracy, they will be best attained when all persons alike share in the government to the utmost. And since
the people are the majority, and the opinion of the majority is decisive, such a government must necessarily
be a democracy. Here then is one sort of democracy. There is another, in which the magistrates are elected
according to a certain property qualification, but a low one; he who has the required amount of property has a
share in the government, but he who loses his property loses his rights. Another kind is that in which all the
citizens who are under no disqualification share in the government, but still the law is supreme. In another,
everybody, if he be only a citizen, is admitted to the government, but the law is supreme as before. A fifth
form of democracy, in other respects the same, is that in which, not the law, but the multitude, have the
supreme power, and supersede the law by their decrees. This is a state of affairs brought about by the
demagogues. For in democracies which are subject to the law the best citizens hold the first place, and there
are no demagogues; but where the laws are not supreme, there demagogues spring up. For the people
becomes a monarch, and is many in one; and the many have the power in their hands, not as individuals, but
collectively. Homer says that 'it is not good to have a rule of many,' but whether he means this corporate rule,
or the rule of many individuals, is uncertain. At all events this sort of democracy, which is now a monarch,
and no longer under the control of law, seeks to exercise monarchical sway, and grows into a despot; the
flatterer is held in honor; this sort of democracy being relatively to other democracies what tyranny is to other
forms of monarchy. The spirit of both is the same, and they alike exercise a despotic rule over the better
citizens. The decrees of the demos correspond to the edicts of the tyrant; and the demagogue is to the one
what the flatterer is to the other. Both have great power; the flatterer with the tyrant, the demagogue with
democracies of the kind which we are describing. The demagogues make the decrees of the people override
the laws, by referring all things to the popular assembly. And therefore they grow great, because the people
have an things in their hands, and they hold in their hands the votes of the people, who are too ready to listen
to them. Further, those who have any complaint to bring against the magistrates say, 'Let the people be
judges'; the people are too happy to accept the invitation; and so the authority of every office is undermined.
Such a democracy is fairly open to the objection that it is not a constitution at all; for where the laws have no
authority, there is no constitution. The law ought to be supreme over all, and the magistracies should judge of
particulars, and only this should be considered a constitution. So that if democracy be a real form of
government, the sort of system in which all things are regulated by decrees is clearly not even a democracy in
the true sense of the word, for decrees relate only to particulars.

These then are the different kinds of democracy.

POLITICS

Of oligarchies, too, there are different kinds: one where the property qualification for office is such that the
poor, although they form the majority, have no share in the government, yet he who acquires a qualification
may obtain a share. Another sort is when there is a qualification for office, but a high one, and the vacancies
in the governing body are fired by co-optation. If the election is made out of all the qualified persons, a
constitution of this kind inclines to an aristocracy, if out of a privileged class, to an oligarchy. Another sort of
oligarchy is when the son succeeds the father. There is a fourth form, likewise hereditary, in which the
magistrates are supreme and not the law. Among oligarchies this is what tyranny is among monarchies, and
the last-mentioned form of democracy among democracies; and in fact this sort of oligarchy receives the
name of a dynasty (or rule of powerful families).

These are the different sorts of oligarchies and democracies. It should, however, be remembered that in many
states the constitution which is established by law, although not democratic, owing to the education and
habits of the people may be administered democratically, and conversely in other states the established
constitution may incline to democracy, but may be administered in an oligarchical spirit. This most often
happens after a revolution: for governments do not change at once; at first the dominant party are content
with encroaching a little upon their opponents. The laws which existed previously continue in force, but the
authors of the revolution have the power in their hands.

From what has been already said we may safely infer that there are so many different kinds of democracies
and of oligarchies. For it is evident that either all the classes whom we mentioned must share in the
government, or some only and not others. When the class of husbandmen and of those who possess moderate
fortunes have the supreme power, the government is administered according to law. For the citizens being
compelled to live by their labor have no leisure; and so they set up the authority of the law, and attend
assemblies only when necessary. They all obtain a share in the government when they have acquired the
qualification which is fixed by the law- the absolute exclusion of any class would be a step towards
oligarchy; hence all who have acquired the property qualification are admitted to a share in the constitution.
But leisure cannot be provided for them unless there are revenues to support them. This is one sort of
democracy, and these are the causes which give birth to it. Another kind is based on the distinction which
naturally comes next in order; in this, every one to whose birth there is no objection is eligible, but actually
shares in the government only if he can find leisure. Hence in such a democracy the supreme power is vested
in the laws, because the state has no means of paying the citizens. A third kind is when all freemen have a
right to share in the government, but do not actually share, for the reason which has been already given; so
that in this form again the law must rule. A fourth kind of democracy is that which comes latest in the history
of states. In our own day, when cities have far outgrown their original size, and their revenues have increased,
all the citizens have a place in the government, through the great preponderance of the multitude; and they
all, including the poor who receive pay, and therefore have leisure to exercise their rights, share in the
administration. Indeed, when they are paid, the common people have the most leisure, for they are not
hindered by the care of their property, which often fetters the rich, who are thereby prevented from taking
part in the assembly or in the courts, and so the state is governed by the poor, who are a majority, and not by
the laws.

So many kinds of democracies there are, and they grow out of these necessary causes.

Of oligarchies, one form is that in which the majority of the citizens have some property, but not very much;
and this is the first form, which allows to any one who obtains the required amount the right of sharing in the
government. The sharers in the government being a numerous body, it follows that the law must govern, and

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not individuals. For in proportion as they are further removed from a monarchical form of government, and in
respect of property have neither so much as to be able to live without attending to business, nor so little as to
need state support, they must admit the rule of law and not claim to rule themselves. But if the men of
property in the state are fewer than in the former case, and own more property, there arises a second form of
oligarchy. For the stronger they are, the more power they claim, and having this object in view, they
themselves select those of the other classes who are to be admitted to the government; but, not being as yet
strong enough to rule without the law, they make the law represent their wishes. When this power is
intensified by a further diminution of their numbers and increase of their property, there arises a third and
further stage of oligarchy, in which the governing class keep the offices in their own hands, and the law
ordains that the son shall succeed the father. When, again, the rulers have great wealth and numerous friends,
this sort of family despotism approaches a monarchy; individuals rule and not the law. This is the fourth sort
of oligarchy, and is analogous to the last sort of democracy.

VII

There are still two forms besides democracy and oligarchy; one of them is universally recognized and
included among the four principal forms of government, which are said to be (1) monarchy, (2) oligarchy, (3)
democracy, and (4) the so-called aristocracy or government of the best. But there is also a fifth, which retains
the generic name of polity or constitutional government; this is not common, and therefore has not been
noticed by writers who attempt to enumerate the different kinds of government; like Plato, in their books
about the state, they recognize four only. The term 'aristocracy' is rightly applied to the form of government
which is described in the first part of our treatise; for that only can be rightly called aristocracy which is a
government formed of the best men absolutely, and not merely of men who are good when tried by any given
standard. In the perfect state the good man is absolutely the same as the good citizen; whereas in other states
the good citizen is only good relatively to his own form of government. But there are some states differing
from oligarchies and also differing from the so-called polity or constitutional government; these are termed
aristocracies, and in them the magistrates are certainly chosen, both according to their wealth and according
to their merit. Such a form of government differs from each of the two just now mentioned, and is termed an
aristocracy. For indeed in states which do not make virtue the aim of the community, men of merit and
reputation for virtue may be found. And so where a government has regard to wealth, virtue, and numbers, as
at Carthage, that is aristocracy; and also where it has regard only to two out of the three, as at Lacedaemon, to
virtue and numbers, and the two principles of democracy and virtue temper each other. There are these two
forms of aristocracy in addition to the first and perfect state, and there is a third form, viz., the constitutions
which incline more than the so-called polity towards oligarchy.

VIM

I have yet to speak of the so-called polity and of tyranny. I put them in this order, not because a polity or
constitutional government is to be regarded as a perversion any more than the above mentioned aristocracies.
The truth is, that they an fall short of the most perfect form of government, and so they are reckoned among
perversions, and the really perverted forms are perversions of these, as I said in the original discussion. Last
of all I will speak of tyranny, which I place last in the series because I am inquiring into the constitutions of
states, and this is the very reverse of a constitution

Having explained why I have adopted this order, I will proceed to consider constitutional government; of
which the nature will be clearer now that oligarchy and democracy have been defined. For polity or
constitutional government may be described generally as a fusion of oligarchy and democracy; but the term is
usually applied to those forms of government which incline towards democracy, and the term aristocracy to
those which incline towards oligarchy, because birth and education are commonly the accompaniments of
wealth. Moreover, the rich already possess the external advantages the want of which is a temptation to

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crime, and hence they are called noblemen and gentlemen. And inasmuch as aristocracy seeks to give
predominance to the best of the citizens, people say also of oligarchies that they are composed of noblemen
and gentlemen. Now it appears to be an impossible thing that the state which is governed not by the best
citizens but by the worst should be well-governed, and equally impossible that the state which is
ill-governed should be governed by the best. But we must remember that good laws, if they are not obeyed,
do not constitute good government. Hence there are two parts of good government; one is the actual
obedience of citizens to the laws, the other part is the goodness of the laws which they obey; they may obey
bad laws as well as good. And there may be a further subdivision; they may obey either the best laws which
are attainable to them, or the best absolutely.

The distribution of offices according to merit is a special characteristic of aristocracy, for the principle of an
aristocracy is virtue, as wealth is of an oligarchy, and freedom of a democracy. In all of them there of course
exists the right of the majority, and whatever seems good to the majority of those who share in the
government has authority. Now in most states the form called polity exists, for the fusion goes no further than
the attempt to unite the freedom of the poor and the wealth of the rich, who commonly take the place of the
noble. But as there are three grounds on which men claim an equal share in the government, freedom, wealth,
and virtue (for the fourth or good birth is the result of the two last, being only ancient wealth and virtue), it is
clear that the admixture of the two elements, that is to say, of the rich and poor, is to be called a polity or
constitutional government; and the union of the three is to be called aristocracy or the government of the best,
and more than any other form of government, except the true and ideal, has a right to this name.

Thus far I have shown the existence of forms of states other than monarchy, democracy, and oligarchy, and
what they are, and in what aristocracies differ from one another, and polities from aristocracies- that the two
latter are not very unlike is obvious.

Next we have to consider how by the side of oligarchy and democracy the so-called polity or constitutional
government springs up, and how it should be organized. The nature of it will be at once understood from a
comparison of oligarchy and democracy; we must ascertain their different characteristics, and taking a
portion from each, put the two together, like the parts of an indenture. Now there are three modes in which
fusions of government may be affected. In the first mode we must combine the laws made by both
governments, say concerning the administration of justice. In oligarchies they impose a fine on the rich if
they do not serve as judges, and to the poor they give no pay; but in democracies they give pay to the poor
and do not fine the rich. Now (1) the union of these two modes is a common or middle term between them,
and is therefore characteristic of a constitutional government, for it is a combination of both. This is one
mode of uniting the two elements. Or (2) a mean may be taken between the enactments of the two: thus
democracies require no property qualification, or only a small one, from members of the assembly,
oligarchies a high one; here neither of these is the common term, but a mean between them. (3) There is a
third mode, in which something is borrowed from the oligarchical and something from the democratical
principle. For example, the appointment of magistrates by lot is thought to be democratical, and the election
of them oligarchical; democratical again when there is no property qualification, oligarchical when there is.
In the aristocratical or constitutional state, one element will be taken from each- from oligarchy the principle
of electing to offices, from democracy the disregard of qualification. Such are the various modes of
combination.

There is a true union of oligarchy and democracy when the same state may be termed either a democracy or
an oligarchy; those who use both names evidently feel that the fusion is complete. Such a fusion there is also
in the mean; for both extremes appear in it. The Lacedaemonian constitution, for example, is often described
as a democracy, because it has many democratical features. In the first place the youth receive a democratical

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education. For the sons of the poor are brought up with with the sons of the rich, who are educated in such a
manner as to make it possible for the sons of the poor to be educated by them. A similar equality prevails in
the following period of life, and when the citizens are grown up to manhood the same rule is observed; there
is no distinction between the rich and poor. In like manner they all have the same food at their public tables,
and the rich wear only such clothing as any poor man can afford. Again, the people elect to one of the two
greatest offices of state, and in the other they share; for they elect the Senators and share in the Ephoralty. By
others the Spartan constitution is said to be an oligarchy, because it has many oligarchical elements. That all
offices are filled by election and none by lot, is one of these oligarchical characteristics; that the power of
inflicting death or banishment rests with a few persons is another; and there are others. In a well attempted
polity there should appear to be both elements and yet neither; also the government should rely on itself, and
not on foreign aid, and on itself not through the good will of a majority- they might be equally well-disposed
when there is a vicious form of government- but through the general willingness of all classes in the state to
maintain the constitution.

Enough of the manner in which a constitutional government, and in which the so-called aristocracies ought
to be framed.

Of the nature of tyranny I have still to speak, in order that it may have its place in our inquiry (since even
tyranny is reckoned by us to be a form of government), although there is not much to be said about it. I have
already in the former part of this treatise discussed royalty or kingship according to the most usual meaning
of the term, and considered whether it is or is not advantageous to states, and what kind of royalty should be
established, and from what source, and how.

When speaking of royalty we also spoke of two forms of tyranny, which are both according to law, and
therefore easily pass into royalty. Among barbarians there are elected monarchs who exercise a despotic
power; despotic rulers were also elected in ancient Hellas, called Aesymnetes or Dictators. These monarchies,
when compared with one another, exhibit certain differences. And they are, as I said before, royal, in so far as
the monarch rules according to law over willing subjects; but they are tyrannical in so far as he is despotic
and rules according to his own fancy. There is also a third kind of tyranny, which is the most typical form,
and is the counterpart of the perfect monarchy. This tyranny is just that arbitrary power of an individual
which is responsible to no one, and governs all alike, whether equals or better, with a view to its own
advantage, not to that of its subjects, and therefore against their will. No freeman, if he can escape from it,
will endure such a government.

The kinds of tyranny are such and so many, and for the reasons which I have given.

We have now to inquire what is the best constitution for most states, and the best life for most men, neither
assuming a standard of virtue which is above ordinary persons, nor an education which is exceptionally
favored by nature and circumstances, nor yet an ideal state which is an aspiration only, but having regard to
the life in which the majority are able to share, and to the form of government which states in general can
attain. As to those aristocracies, as they are called, of which we were just now speaking, they either lie
beyond the possibilities of the greater number of states, or they approximate to the so-called constitutional
government, and therefore need no separate discussion. And in fact the conclusion at which we arrive
respecting all these forms rests upon the same grounds. For if what was said in the Ethics is true, that the
happy life is the life according to virtue lived without impediment, and that virtue is a mean, then the life
which is in a mean, and in a mean attainable by every one, must be the best. And the same the same

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principles of virtue and vice are characteristic of cities and of constitutions; for the constitution is in a figure
the life of the city.

Now in all states there are three elements: one class is very rich, another very poor, and a third in a mean. It is
admitted that moderation and the mean are best, and therefore it will clearly be best to possess the gifts of
fortune in moderation; for in that condition of life men are most ready to follow rational principle. But he
who greatly excels in beauty, strength, birth, or wealth, or on the other hand who is very poor, or very weak,
or very much disgraced, finds it difficult to follow rational principle. Of these two the one sort grow into
violent and great criminals, the others into rogues and petty rascals. And two sorts of offenses correspond to
them, the one committed from violence, the other from roguery. Again, the middle class is least likely to
shrink from rule, or to be over-ambitious for it; both of which are injuries to the state. Again, those who have
too much of the goods of fortune, strength, wealth, friends, and the like, are neither willing nor able to submit
to authority. The evil begins at home; for when they are boys, by reason of the luxury in which they are
brought up, they never learn, even at school, the habit of obedience. On the other hand, the very poor, who
are in the opposite extreme, are too degraded. So that the one class cannot obey, and can only rule
despotically; the other knows not how to command and must be ruled like slaves. Thus arises a city, not of
freemen, but of masters and slaves, the one despising, the other envying; and nothing can be more fatal to
friendship and good fellowship in states than this: for good fellowship springs from friendship; when men are
at enmity with one another, they would rather not even share the same path. But a city ought to be composed,
as far as possible, of equals and similars; and these are generally the middle classes. Wherefore the city which
is composed of middle-class citizens is necessarily best constituted in respect of the elements of which we
say the fabric of the state naturally consists. And this is the class of citizens which is most secure in a state,
for they do not, like the poor, covet their neighbors' goods; nor do others covet theirs, as the poor covet the
goods of the rich; and as they neither plot against others, nor are themselves plotted against, they pass
through life safely. Wisely then did Phocylides pray- 'Many things are best in the mean; I desire to be of a
middle condition in my city.'

Thus it is manifest that the best political community is formed by citizens of the middle class, and that those
states are likely to be well-administered in which the middle class is large, and stronger if possible than both
the other classes, or at any rate than either singly; for the addition of the middle class turns the scale, and
prevents either of the extremes from being dominant. Great then is the good fortune of a state in which the
citizens have a moderate and sufficient property; for where some possess much, and the others nothing, there
may arise an extreme democracy, or a pure oligarchy; or a tyranny may grow out of either extreme- either
out of the most rampant democracy, or out of an oligarchy; but it is not so likely to arise out of the middle
constitutions and those akin to them. I will explain the reason of this hereafter, when I speak of the
revolutions of states. The mean condition of states is clearly best, for no other is free from faction; and where
the middle class is large, there are least likely to be factions and dissensions. For a similar reason large states
are less liable to faction than small ones, because in them the middle class is large; whereas in small states it
is easy to divide all the citizens into two classes who are either rich or poor, and to leave nothing in the
middle. And democracies are safer and more permanent than oligarchies, because they have a middle class
which is more numerous and has a greater share in the government; for when there is no middle class, and the
poor greatly exceed in number, troubles arise, and the state soon comes to an end. A proof of the superiority
of the middle dass is that the best legislators have been of a middle condition; for example, Solon, as his own
verses testify; and Lycurgus, for he was not a king; and Charondas, and almost all legislators.

These considerations will help us to understand why most governments are either democratical or
oligarchical. The reason is that the middle class is seldom numerous in them, and whichever party, whether
the rich or the common people, transgresses the mean and predominates, draws the constitution its own way,
and thus arises either oligarchy or democracy. There is another reason- the poor and the rich quarrel with one
another, and whichever side gets the better, instead of establishing a just or popular government, regards
political supremacy as the prize of victory, and the one party sets up a democracy and the other an oligarchy.

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Further, both the parties which had the supremacy in Hellas looked only to the interest of their own form of
government, and established in states, the one, democracies, and the other, oligarchies; they thought of their
own advantage, of the public not at all. For these reasons the middle form of government has rarely, if ever,
existed, and among a very few only. One man alone of all who ever ruled in Hellas was induced to give this
middle constitution to states. But it has now become a habit among the citizens of states, not even to care
about equality; all men are seeking for dominion, or, if conquered, are willing to submit.

What then is the best form of government, and what makes it the best, is evident; and of other constitutions,
since we say that there are many kinds of democracy and many of oligarchy, it is not difficult to see which
has the first and which the second or any other place in the order of excellence, now that we have determined
which is the best. For that which is nearest to the best must of necessity be better, and that which is furthest
from it worse, if we are judging absolutely and not relatively to given conditions: I say 'relatively to given
conditions,' since a particular government may be preferable, but another form may be better for some
people.

XII

We have now to consider what and what kind of government is suitable to what and what kind of men. I may
begin by assuming, as a general principle common to all governments, that the portion of the state which
desires the permanence of the constitution ought to be stronger than that which desires the reverse. Now
every city is composed of quality and quantity. By quality I mean freedom, wealth, education, good birth, and
by quantity, superiority of numbers. Quality may exist in one of the classes which make up the state, and
quantity in the other. For example, the meanly-born may be more in number than the well-born, or the poor
than the rich, yet they may not so much exceed in quantity as they fall short in quality; and therefore there
must be a comparison of quantity and quality. Where the number of the poor is more than proportioned to the
wealth of the rich, there will naturally be a democracy, varying in form with the sort of people who compose
it in each case. If, for example, the husbandmen exceed in number, the first form of democracy will then
arise; if the artisans and laboring class, the last; and so with the intermediate forms. But where the rich and
the notables exceed in quality more than they fall short in quantity, there oligarchy arises, similarly assuming
various forms according to the kind of superiority possessed by the oligarchs.

The legislator should always include the middle class in his government; if he makes his laws oligarchical, to
the middle class let him look; if he makes them democratical, he should equally by his laws try to attach this
class to the state. There only can the government ever be stable where the middle class exceeds one or both of
the others, and in that case there will be no fear that the rich will unite with the poor against the rulers. For
neither of them will ever be willing to serve the other, and if they look for some form of government more
suitable to both, they will find none better than this, for the rich and the poor will never consent to rule in
turn, because they mistrust one another. The arbiter is always the one trusted, and he who is in the middle is
an arbiter. The more perfect the admixture of the political elements, the more lasting will be the constitution.
Many even of those who desire to form aristocratical governments make a mistake, not only in giving too
much power to the rich, but in attempting to overreach the people. There comes a time when out of a false
good there arises a true evil, since the encroachments of the rich are more destructive to the constitution than
those of the people.

XIII

The devices by which oligarchies deceive the people are five in number; they relate to (1) the assembly; (2)
the magistracies; (3) the courts of law; (4) the use of arms; (5) gymnastic exercises. (1) The assemblies are
thrown open to all, but either the rich only are fined for non-attendance, or a much larger fine is inflicted
upon them. (2) to the magistracies, those who are qualified by property cannot decline office upon oath, but

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the poor may. (3) In the law courts the rich, and the rich only, are fined if they do not serve, the poor are let
off with impunity, or, as in the laws of Charondas, a larger fine is inflicted on the rich, and a smaller one on
the poor. In some states all citizen who have registered themselves are allowed to attend the assembly and to
try causes; but if after registration they do not attend either in the assembly or at the courts, heavy fines are
imposed upon them. The intention is that through fear of the fines they may avoid registering themselves, and
then they cannot sit in the law-courts or in the assembly, concerning (4) the possession of arms, and (5)
gymnastic exercises, they legislate in a similar spirit. For the poor are not obliged to have arms, but the rich
are fined for not having them; and in like manner no penalty is inflicted on the poor for non-attendance at the
gymnasium, and consequently, having nothing to fear, they do not attend, whereas the rich are liable to a fine,
and therefore they take care to attend.

These are the devices of oligarchical legislators, and in democracies they have counter devices. They pay the
poor for attending the assemblies and the law-courts, and they inflict no penalty on the rich for
non-attendance. It is obvious that he who would duly mix the two principles should combine the practice of
both, and provide that the poor should be paid to attend, and the rich fined if they do not attend, for then all
will take part; if there is no such combination, power will be in the hands of one party only. The government
should be confined to those who carry arms. As to the property qualification, no absolute rule can be laid
down, but we must see what is the highest qualification sufficiently comprehensive to secure that the number
of those who have the rights of citizens exceeds the number of those excluded. Even if they have no share in
office, the poor, provided only that they are not outraged or deprived of their property, will be quiet enough.

But to secure gentle treatment for the poor is not an easy thing, since a ruling class is not always humane.
And in time of war the poor are apt to hesitate unless they are fed; when fed, they are willing enough to fight.
In some states the government is vested, not only in those who are actually serving, but also in those who
have served; among the Malians, for example, the governing body consisted of the latter, while the
magistrates were chosen from those actually on service. And the earliest government which existed among
the Hellenes, after the overthrow of the kingly power, grew up out of the warrior class, and was originally
taken from the knights (for strength and superiority in war at that time depended on cavalry; indeed, without
discipline, infantry are useless, and in ancient times there was no military knowledge or tactics, and therefore
the strength of armies lay in their cavalry). But when cities increased and the heavy armed grew in strength,
more had a share in the government; and this is the reason why the states which we call constitutional
governments have been hitherto called democracies. Ancient constitutions, as might be expected, were
oligarchical and royal; their population being small they had no considerable middle class; the people were
weak in numbers and organization, and were therefore more contented to be governed.

I have explained why there are various forms of government, and why there are more than is generally
supposed; for democracy, as well as other constitutions, has more than one form: also what their differences
are, and whence they arise, and what is the best form of government, speaking generally and to whom the
various forms of government are best suited; all this has now been explained.

XIV

Having thus gained an appropriate basis of discussion, we will proceed to speak of the points which follow
next in order. We will consider the subject not only in general but with reference to particular constitutions.
All constitutions have three elements, concerning which the good lawgiver has to regard what is expedient for
each constitution. When they are well-ordered, the constitution is well-ordered, and as they differ from one
another, constitutions differ. There is (1) one element which deliberates about public affairs; secondly (2) that
concerned with the magistrates- the question being, what they should be, over what they should exercise
authority, and what should be the mode of electing to them; and thirdly (3) that which has judicial power.

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The deliberative element has authority in matters of war and peace, in making and unmaking alliances; it
passes laws, inflicts death, exile, confiscation, elects magistrates and audits their accounts. These powers
must be assigned either all to all the citizens or an to some of them (for example, to one or more magistracies,
or different causes to different magistracies), or some of them to all, and others of them only to some. That all
things should be decided by all is characteristic of democracy; this is the sort of equality which the people
desire. But there are various ways in which all may share in the government; they may deliberate, not all in
one body, but by turns, as in the constitution of Telecles the Milesian. There are other constitutions in which
the boards of magistrates meet and deliberate, but come into office by turns, and are elected out of the tribes
and the very smallest divisions of the state, until every one has obtained office in his turn. The citizens, on the
other hand, are assembled only for the purposes of legislation, and to consult about the constitution, and to
hear the edicts of the magistrates. In another variety of democracy the citizen form one assembly, but meet
only to elect magistrates, to pass laws, to advise about war and peace, and to make scrutinies. Other matters
are referred severally to special magistrates, who are elected by vote or by lot out of all the citizens Or again,
the citizens meet about election to offices and about scrutinies, and deliberate concerning war or alliances
while other matters are administered by the magistrates, who, as far as is possible, are elected by vote. I am
speaking of those magistracies in which special knowledge is required. A fourth form of democracy is when
all the citizens meet to deliberate about everything, and the magistrates decide nothing, but only make the
preliminary inquiries; and that is the way in which the last and worst form of democracy, corresponding, as
we maintain, to the close family oligarchy and to tyranny, is at present administered. All these modes are
democratical.

On the other hand, that some should deliberate about all is oligarchical. This again is a mode which, like the
democratical has many forms. When the deliberative class being elected out of those who have a moderate
qualification are numerous and they respect and obey the prohibitions of the law without altering it, and any
one who has the required qualification shares in the government, then, just because of this moderation, the
oligarchy inclines towards polity. But when only selected individuals and not the whole people share in the
deliberations of the state, then, although, as in the former case, they observe the law, the government is a pure
oligarchy. Or, again, when those who have the power of deliberation are self-elected, and son succeeds
father, and they and not the laws are supreme- the government is of necessity oligarchical. Where, again,
particular persons have authority in particular matters- for example, when the whole people decide about
peace and war and hold scrutinies, but the magistrates regulate everything else, and they are elected by vote-
there the government is an aristocracy. And if some questions are decided by magistrates elected by vote, and
others by magistrates elected by lot, either absolutely or out of select candidates, or elected partly by vote,
partly by lot- these practices are partly characteristic of an aristocratical government, and party of a pure
constitutional government.

These are the various forms of the deliberative body; they correspond to the various forms of government.
And the government of each state is administered according to one or other of the principles which have been
laid down. Now it is for the interest of democracy, according to the most prevalent notion of it (I am speaking
of that extreme form of democracy in which the people are supreme even over the laws), with a view to better
deliberation to adopt the custom of oligarchies respecting courts of law. For in oligarchies the rich who are
wanted to be judges are compelled to attend under pain of a fine, whereas in deinocracies the poor are paid to
attend. And this practice of oligarchies should be adopted by democracies in their public assemblies, for they
will advise better if they all deliberate together- the people with the notables and the notables with the
people. It is also a good plan that those who deliberate should be elected by vote or by lot in equal numbers
out of the different classes; and that if the people greatly exceed in number those who have political training,
pay should not be given to all, but only to as many as would balance the number of the notables, or that the
number in excess should be eliminated by lot. But in oligarchies either certain persons should be co-opted
from the mass, or a class of officers should be appointed such as exist in some states who are termed probuli
and guardians of the law; and the citizens should occupy themselves exclusively with matters on which these
have previously deliberated; for so the people will have a share in the deliberations of the state, but will not

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be able to disturb the principles of the constitution. Again, in oligarchies either the people ought to accept the
measures of the government, or not to pass anything contrary to them; or, if all are allowed to share in
counsel, the decision should rest with the magistrates. The opposite of what is done in constitutional
governments should be the rule in oligarchies; the veto of the majority should be final, their assent not final,
but the proposal should be referred back to the magistrates. Whereas in constitutional governments they take
the contrary course; the few have the negative, not the affirmative power; the affirmation of everything rests
with the multitude.

These, then, are our conclusions respecting the deliberative, that is, the supreme element in states.

Next we will proceed to consider the distribution of offices; this too, being a part of politics concerning which
many questions arise: What shall their number be? Over what shall they preside, and what shall be their
duration? Sometimes they last for six months, sometimes for less; sometimes they are annual, while in other
cases offices are held for still longer periods. Shall they be for life or for a long term of years; or, if for a short
term only, shall the same persons hold them over and over again, or once only? Also about the appointment
to them- from whom are they to be chosen, by whom, and how? We should first be in a position to say what
are the possible varieties of them, and then we may proceed to determine which are suited to different forms
of government. But what are to be included under the term 'offices'? That is a question not quite so easily
answered. For a political community requires many officers; and not every one who is chosen by vote or by
lot is to be regarded as a ruler. In the first place there are the priests, who must be distinguished from political
officers; masters of choruses and heralds, even ambassadors, are elected by vote. Some duties of
superintendence again are political, extending either to all the citizens in a single sphere of action, like the
office of the general who superintends them when they are in the field, or to a section of them only, like the
inspectorships of women or of youth. Other offices are concerned with household management, like that of
the corn measurers who exist in many states and are elected officers. There are also menial offices which the
rich have executed by their slaves. Speaking generally, those are to be called offices to which the duties are
assigned of deliberating about certain measures and ofjudging and commanding, especially the last; for to
command is the especial duty of a magistrate. But the question is not of any importance in practice; no one
has ever brought into court the meaning of the word, although such problems have a speculative interest.

What kinds of offices, and how many, are necessary to the existence of a state, and which, if not necessary,
yet conduce to its well being are much more important considerations, affecting all constitutions, but more
especially small states. For in great states it is possible, and indeed necessary, that every office should have a
special function; where the citizens are numerous, many may hold office. And so it happens that some offices
a man holds a second time only after a long interval, and others he holds once only; and certainly every work
is better done which receives the sole, and not the divided attention of the worker. But in small states it is
necessary to combine many offices in a few hands, since the small number of citizens does not admit of many
holding office: for who will there be to succeed them? And yet small states at times require the same offices
and laws as large ones; the difference is that the one want them often, the others only after long intervals.
Hence there is no reason why the care of many offices should not be imposed on the same person, for they
will not interfere with each other. When the population is small, offices should be like the spits which also
serve to hold a lamp. We must first ascertain how many magistrates are necessary in every state, and also
how many are not exactly necessary, but are nevertheless useful, and then there will be no difficulty in seeing
what offices can be combined in one. We should also know over which matters several local tribunals are to
have jurisdiction, and in which authority should be centralized: for example, should one person keep order in
the market and another in some other place, or should the same person be responsible everywhere? Again,
should offices be divided according to the subjects with which they deal, or according to the persons with
whom they deal: I mean to say, should one person see to good order in general, or one look after the boys,

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another after the women, and so on? Further, under different constitutions, should the magistrates be the same
or different? For example, in democracy, oligarchy, aristocracy, monarchy, should there be the same
magistrates, although they are elected, not out of equal or similar classes of citizen but differently under
different constitutions- in aristocracies, for example, they are chosen from the educated, in oligarchies from
the wealthy, and in democracies from the free- or are there certain differences in the offices answering to
them as well, and may the same be suitable to some, but different offices to others? For in some states it may
be convenient that the same office should have a more extensive, in other states a narrower sphere. Special
offices are peculiar to certain forms of government: for example that of probuli, which is not a democratic
office, although a bule or council is. There must be some body of men whose duty is to prepare measures for
the people in order that they may not be diverted from their business; when these are few in number, the state
inclines to an oligarchy: or rather the probuli must always be few, and are therefore an oligarchical element.
But when both institutions exist in a state, the probuli are a check on the council; for the counselors is a
democratic element, but the probuli are oligarchical. Even the power of the council disappears when
democracy has taken that extreme form in which the people themselves are always meeting and deliberating
about everything. This is the case when the members of the assembly receive abundant pay; for they have
nothing to do and are always holding assemblies and deciding everything for themselves. A magistracy which
controls the boys or the women, or any similar office, is suited to an aristocracy rather than to a democracy;
for how can the magistrates prevent the wives of the poor from going out of doors? Neither is it an
oligarchical office; for the wives of the oligarchs are too fine to be controlled.

Enough of these matters. I will now inquire into appointments to offices. The varieties depend on three terms,
and the combinations of these give all possible modes: first, who appoints? secondly, from whom? and
thirdly, how? Each of these three admits of three varieties: (A) All the citizens, or (B) only some, appoint.
Either (1) the magistrates are chosen out of all or (2) out of some who are distinguished either by a property
qualification, or by birth, or merit, or for some special reason, as at Megara only those were eligible who had
returned from exile and fought together against the democracy. They may be appointed either (a) by vote or
(b) by lot. Again, these several varieties may be coupled, I mean that (C) some officers may be elected by
some, others by all, and (3) some again out of some, and others out of all, and (c) some by vote and others by
lot. Each variety of these terms admits of four modes.

For either (A 1 a) all may appoint from all by vote, or (A 1 b) all from all by lot, or (A 2 a) all from some by
vote, or (A 2 b) all from some by lot (and from all, either by sections, as, for example, by tribes, and wards,
and phratries, until all the citizens have been gone through; or the citizens may be in all cases eligible
indiscriminately); or again (A 1 c, A 2 c) to some offices in the one way, to some in the other. Again, if it is
only some that appoint, they may do so either (B 1 a) from all by vote, or (B 1 b) from all by lot, or (B 2 a)
from some by vote, or (B 2 b) from some by lot, or to some offices in the one way, to others in the other, i.e.,
(B 1 c) from all, to some offices by vote, to some by lot, and (B 2 C) from some, to some offices by vote, to
some by lot. Thus the modes that arise, apart from two (C, 3) out of the three couplings, number twelve. Of
these systems two are popular, that all should appoint from all (A 1 a) by vote or (A 1 b) by lot- or (A 1 c) by
both. That all should not appoint at once, but should appoint from all or from some either by lot or by vote or
by both, or appoint to some offices from all and to others from some ('by both' meaning to some offices by
lot, to others by vote), is characteristic of a polity. And (B 1 c) that some should appoint from all, to some
offices by vote, to others by lot, is also characteristic of a polity, but more oligarchical than the former
method. And (A 3 a, b, c, B 3 a, b, c) to appoint from both, to some offices from all, to others from some, is
characteristic of a polity with a leaning towards aristocracy. That (B 2) some should appoint from some is
oligarchical- even (B 2 b) that some should appoint from some by lot (and if this does not actually occur, it is
none the less oligarchical in character), or (B 2 C) that some should appoint from some by both. (B 1 a) that
some should appoint from all, and (A 2 a) that all should appoint from some, by vote, is aristocratic.

These are the different modes of constituting magistrates, and these correspond to different forms of
government: which are proper to which, or how they ought to be established, will be evident when we

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determine the nature of their powers. By powers I mean such powers as a magistrate exercises over the
revenue or in defense of the country; for there are various kinds of power: the power of the general, for
example, is not the same with that which regulates contracts in the market.

XVI

Of the three parts of government, the judicial remains to be considered, and this we shall divide on the same
principle. There are three points on which the variedes of law-courts depend: The persons from whom they
are appointed, the matters with which they are concerned, and the manner of their appointment. I mean, (1)
are the judges taken from all, or from some only? (2) how many kinds of law-courts are there? (3) are the
judges chosen by vote or by lot?

First, let me determine how many kinds of law-courts there are. There are eight in number: One is the court
of audits or scrutinies; a second takes cognizance of ordinary offenses against the state; a third is concerned
with treason against the constitution; the fourth determines disputes respecting penalties, whether raised by
magistrates or by private persons; the fifth decides the more important civil cases; the sixth tries cases of
homicide, which are of various kinds, (a) premeditated, (b) involuntary, (c) cases in which the guilt is
confessed but the justice is disputed; and there may be a fourth court (d) in which murderers who have fled
from justice are tried after their return; such as the Court of Phreatto is said to be at Athens. But cases of this
sort rarely happen at all even in large cities. The different kinds of homicide may be tried either by the same
or by different courts. (7) There are courts for strangers: of these there are two subdivisions, (a) for the
settlement of their disputes with one another, (b) for the settlement of disputes between them and the citizens.
And besides all these there must be (8) courts for small suits about sums of a drachma up to five drachmas, or
a little more, which have to be determined, but they do not require many judges.

Nothing more need be said of these small suits, nor of the courts for homicide and for strangers: I would
rather speak of political cases, which, when mismanaged, create division and disturbances in constitutions.

Now if all the citizens judge, in all the different cases which I have distinguished, they may be appointed by
vote or by lot, or sometimes by lot and sometimes by vote. Or when a single class of causes are tried, the
judges who decide them may be appointed, some by vote, and some by lot. These then are the four modes of
appointing judges from the whole people, and there will be likewise four modes, if they are elected from a
part only; for they may be appointed from some by vote and judge in all causes; or they may be appointed
from some by lot and judge in all causes; or they may be elected in some cases by vote, and in some cases
taken by lot, or some courts, even when judging the same causes, may be composed of members some
appointed by vote and some by lot. These modes, then, as was said, answer to those previously mentioned.

Once more, the modes of appointment may be combined; I mean, that some may be chosen out of the whole
people, others out of some, some out of both; for example, the same tribunal may be composed of some who
were elected out of all, and of others who were elected out of some, either by vote or by lot or by both.

In how many forms law-courts can be established has now been considered. The first form, viz., that in
which the judges are taken from all the citizens, and in which all causes are tried, is democratical; the second,
which is composed of a few only who try all causes, oligarchical; the third, in which some courts are taken
from all classes, and some from certain classes only, aristocratical and constitutional.

BOOK FIVE

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THE DESIGN which we proposed to ourselves is now nearly completed. Next in order follow the causes of
revolution in states, how many, and of what nature they are; what modes of destruction apply to particular
states, and out of what, and into what they mostly change; also what are the modes of preservation in states
generally, or in a particular state, and by what means each state may be best preserved: these questions
remain to be considered.

In the first place we must assume as our starting-point that in the many forms of government which have
sprung up there has always been an acknowledgment of justice and proportionate equality, although mankind
fail attaining them, as I have already explained. Democracy, for example, arises out of the notion that those
who are equal in any respect are equal in all respects; because men are equally free, they claim to be
absolutely equal. Oligarchy is based on the notion that those who are unequal in one respect are in all respects
unequal; being unequal, that is, in property, they suppose themselves to be unequal absolutely. The democrats
think that as they are equal they ought to be equal in all things; while the oligarchs, under the idea that they
are unequal, claim too much, which is one form of inequality. All these forms of government have a kind of
justice, but, tried by an absolute standard, they are faulty; and, therefore, both parties, whenever their share in
the government does not accord with their preconceived ideas, stir up revolution. Those who excel in virtue
have the best right of all to rebel (for they alone can with reason be deemed absolutely unequal), but then they
are of all men the least inclined to do so. There is also a superiority which is claimed by men of rank; for they
are thought noble because they spring from wealthy and virtuous ancestors. Here then, so to speak, are
opened the very springs and fountains of revolution; and hence arise two sorts of changes in governments; the
one affecting the constitution, when men seek to change from an existing form into some other, for example,
from democracy into oligarchy, and from oligarchy into democracy, or from either of them into constitutional
government or aristocracy, and conversely; the other not affecting the constitution, when, without disturbing
the form of government, whether oligarchy, or monarchy, or any other, they try to get the administration into
their own hands. Further, there is a question of degree; an oligarchy, for example, may become more or less
oligarchical, and a democracy more or less democratical; and in like manner the characteristics of the other
forms of government may be more or less strictly maintained. Or the revolution may be directed against a
portion of the constitution only, e.g., the establishment or overthrow of a particular office: as at Sparta it is
said that Lysander attempted to overthrow the monarchy, and King Pausanias, the Ephoralty. At Epidamnus,
too, the change was partial. For instead of phylarchs or heads of tribes, a council was appointed; but to this
day the magistrates are the only members of the ruling class who are compelled to go to the Heliaea when an
election takes place, and the office of the single archon was another oligarchical feature. Everywhere
inequality is a cause of revolution, but an inequality in which there is no proportion- for instance, a perpetual
monarchy among equals; and always it is the desire of equality which rises in rebellion.

Now equality is of two kinds, numerical and proportional; by the first I mean sameness or equality in number
or size; by the second, equality of ratios. For example, the excess of three over two is numerically equal to the
excess of two over one; whereas four exceeds two in the same ratio in which two exceeds one, for two is the
same part of four that one is of two, namely, the half. As I was saying before, men agree that justice in the
abstract is proportion, but they differ in that some think that if they are equal in any respect they are equal
absolutely, others that if they are unequal in any respect they should be unequal in all. Hence there are two
principal forms of government, democracy and oligarchy; for good birth and virtue are rare, but wealth and
numbers are more common. In what city shall we find a hundred persons of good birth and of virtue? whereas
the rich everywhere abound. That a state should be ordered, simply and wholly, according to either kind of
equality, is not a good thing; the proof is the fact that such forms of government never last. They are
originally based on a mistake, and, as they begin badly, cannot fall to end badly. The inference is that both
kinds of equality should be employed; numerical in some cases, and proportionate in others.

POLITICS

Still democracy appears to be safer and less liable to revolution than oligarchy. For in oligarchies there is the
double danger of the oligarchs falling out among themselves and also with the people; but in democracies
there is only the danger of a quarrel with the oligarchs. No dissension worth mentioning arises among the
people themselves. And we may further remark that a government which is composed of the middle class
more nearly approximates to democracy than to oligarchy, and is the safest of the imperfect forms of
government.

In considering how dissensions and poltical revolutions arise, we must first of all ascertain the beginnings
and causes of them which affect constitutions generally. They may be said to be three in number; and we
have now to give an outline of each. We want to know (1) what is the feeling? (2) what are the motives of
those who make them? (3) whence arise political disturbances and quarrels? The universal and chief cause of
this revolutionary feeling has been already mentioned; viz., the desire of equality, when men think that they
are equal to others who have more than themselves; or, again, the desire of inequality and superiority, when
conceiving themselves to be superior they think that they have not more but the same or less than their
inferiors; pretensions which may and may not be just. Inferiors revolt in order that they may be equal, and
equals that they may be superior. Such is the state of mind which creates revolutions. The motives for making
them are the desire of gain and honor, or the fear of dishonor and loss; the authors of them want to divert
punishment or dishonor from themselves or their friends. The causes and reasons of revolutions, whereby
men are themselves affected in the way described, and about the things which I have mentioned, viewed in
one way may be regarded as seven, and in another as more than seven. Two of them have been already
noticed; but they act in a different manner, for men are excited against one another by the love of gain and
honor- not, as in the case which I have just supposed, in order to obtain them for themselves, but at seeing
others, justly or unjustly, engrossing them. Other causes are insolence, fear, excessive predominance,
contempt, disproportionate increase in some part of the state; causes of another sort are election intrigues,
carelessness, neglect about trifles, dissimilarity of elements.

What share insolence and avarice have in creating revolutions, and how they work, is plain enough. When the
magistrates are insolent and grasping they conspire against one another and also against the constitution from
which they derive their power, making their gains either at the expense of individuals or of the public. It is
evident, again, what an influence honor exerts and how it is a cause of revolution. Men who are themselves
dishonored and who see others obtaining honors rise in rebellion; the honor or dishonor when undeserved is
unjust; and just when awarded according to merit.

Again, superiority is a cause of revolution when one or more persons have a power which is too much for the
state and the power of the government; this is a condition of affairs out of which there arises a monarchy, or a
family oligarchy. And therefore, in some places, as at Athens and Argos, they have recourse to ostracism. But
how much better to provide from the first that there should be no such pre-eminent individuals instead of
letting them come into existence and then finding a remedy.

Another cause of revolution is fear. Either men have committed wrong, and are afraid of punishment, or they
are expecting to suffer wrong and are desirous of anticipating their enemy. Thus at Rhodes the notables
conspired against the people through fear of the suits that were brought against them. Contempt is also a
cause of insurrection and revolution; for example, in oligarchies- when those who have no share in the state
are the majority, they revolt, because they think that they are the stronger. Or, again, in democracies, the rich
despise the disorder and anarchy of the state; at Thebes, for example, where, after the battle of Oenophyta,
the bad administration of the democracy led to its ruin. At Megara the fall of the democracy was due to a

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defeat occasioned by disorder and anarchy. And at Syracuse the democracy aroused contempt before the
tyranny of Gelo arose; at Rhodes, before the insurrection.

Political revolutions also spring from a disproportionate increase in any part of the state. For as a body is
made up of many members, and every member ought to grow in proportion, that symmetry may be preserved;
but loses its nature if the foot be four cubits long and the rest of the body two spans; and, should the abnormal
increase be one of quality as well as of quantity, may even take the form of another animal: even so a state
has many parts, of which some one may often grow imperceptibly; for example, the number of poor in
democracies and in constitutional states. And this disproportion may sometimes happen by an accident, as at
Tarentum, from a defeat in which many of the notables were slain in a battle with the Iapygians just after the
Persian War, the constitutional government in consequence becoming a democracy; or as was the case at
Argos, where the Argives, after their army had been cut to pieces on the seventh day of the month by
Cleomenes the Lacedaemonian, were compelled to admit to citizen some of their Perioeci; and at Athens,
when, after frequent defeats of their infantry at the time of the Peloponnesian War, the notables were reduced
in number, because the soldiers had to be taken from the roll of citizens. Revolutions arise from this cause as
well, in democracies as in other forms of government, but not to so great an extent. When the rich grow
numerous or properties increase, the form of government changes into an oligarchy or a government of
families. Forms of government also change- sometimes even without revolution, owing to election contests,
as at Heraea (where, instead of electing their magistrates, they took them by lot, because the electors were in
the habit of choosing their own partisans); or owing to carelessness, when disloyal persons are allowed to
find their way into the highest offices, as at Oreum, where, upon the accession of Heracleodorus to office, the
oligarchy was overthrown, and changed by him into a constitutional and democratical government.

Again, the revolution may be facilitated by the slightness of the change; I mean that a great change may
sometimes slip into the constitution through neglect of a small matter; at Ambracia, for instance, the
qualification for office, small at first, was eventually reduced to nothing. For the Ambraciots thought that a
small qualification was much the same as none at all.

Another cause of revolution is difference of races which do not at once acquire a common spirit; for a state is
not the growth of a day, any more than it grows out of a multitude brought together by accident. Hence the
reception of strangers in colonies, either at the time of their foundation or afterwards, has generally produced
revolution; for example, the Achaeans who joined the Troezenians in the foundation of Sybaris, becoming
later the more numerous, expelled them; hence the curse fell upon Sybaris. At Thurii the Sybarites quarrelled
with their fellow-colonists; thinking that the land belonged to them, they wanted too much of it and were
driven out. At Byzantium the new colonists were detected in a conspiracy, and were expelled by force of
arms; the people of Antissa, who had received the Chian exiles, fought with them, and drove them out; and
the Zancleans, after having received the Samians, were driven by them out of their own city. The citizens of
Apollonia on the Euxine, after the introduction of a fresh body of colonists, had a revolution; the Syracusans,
after the expulsion of their tyrants, having admitted strangers and mercenaries to the rights of citizenship,
quarrelled and came to blows; the people of Amphipolis, having received Chalcidian colonists, were nearly
all expelled by them.

Now, in oligarchies the masses make revolution under the idea that they are unjustly treated, because, as I
said before, they are equals, and have not an equal share, and in democracies the notables revolt, because they
are not equals, and yet have only an equal share.

Again, the situation of cities is a cause of revolution when the country is not naturally adapted to preserve the
unity of the state. For example, the Chytians at Clazomenae did not agree with the people of the island; and
the people of Colophon quarrelled with the Notians; at Athens too, the inhabitants of the Piraeus are more
democratic than those who live in the city. For just as in war the impediment of a ditch, though ever so small,
may break a regiment, so every cause of difference, however slight, makes a breach in a city. The greatest

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opposition is confessedly that of virtue and vice; next comes that of wealth and poverty; and there are other
antagonistic elements, greater or less, of which one is this difference of place.

In revolutions the occasions may be trifling, but great interests are at stake. Even trifles are most important
when they concern the rulers, as was the case of old at Syracuse; for the Syracusan constitution was once
changed by a love-quarrel of two young men, who were in the government. The story is that while one of
them was away from home his beloved was gained over by his companion, and he to revenge himself
seduced the other's wife. They then drew the members of the ruling class into their quarrel and so split all the
people into portions. We learn from this story that we should be on our guard against the beginnings of such
evils, and should put an end to the quarrels of chiefs and mighty men. The mistake lies in the beginning- as
the proverb says- 'Well begun is half done'; so an error at the beginning, though quite small, bears the same
ratio to the errors in the other parts. In general, when the notables quarrel, the whole city is involved, as
happened in Hesdaea after the Persian War. The occasion was the division of an inheritance; one of two
brothers refused to give an account of their father's property and the treasure which he had found: so the
poorer of the two quarrelled with him and enlisted in his cause the popular party, the other, who was very
rich, the wealthy classes.

At Delphi, again, a quarrel about a marriage was the beginning of all the troubles which followed. In this case
the bridegroom, fancying some occurrence to be of evil omen, came to the bride, and went away without
taking her. Whereupon her relations, thinking that they were insulted by him, put some of the sacred treasure
among his offerings while he was sacrificing, and then slew him, pretending that he had been robbing the
temple. At Mytilene, too, a dispute about heiresses was the beginning of many misfortunes, and led to the war
with the Athenians in which Paches took their city. A wealthy citizen, named Timophanes, left two
daughters; Dexander, another citizen, wanted to obtain them for his sons; but he was rejected in his suit,
whereupon he stirred up a revolution, and instigated the Athenians (of whom he was proxenus) to interfere. A
similar quarrel about an heiress arose at Phocis between Mnaseas the father of Mnason, and Euthycrates the
father of Onomarchus; this was the beginning of the Sacred War. A marriage-quarrel was also the cause of a
change in the government of Epidamnus. A certain man betrothed his daughter to a person whose father,
having been made a magistrate, fined the father of the girl, and the latter, stung by the insult, conspired with
the unenfranchised classes to overthrow the state.

Governments also change into oligarchy or into democracy or into a constitutional government because the
magistrates, or some other section of the state, increase in power or renown. Thus at Athens the reputation
gained by the court of the Areopagus, in the Persian War, seemed to tighten the reins of government. On the
other hand, the victory of Salamis, which was gained by the common people who served in the fleet, and won
for the Athenians the empire due to command of the sea, strengthened the democracy. At Argos, the notables,
having distinguished themselves against the Lacedaemonians in the battle of Mantinea, attempted to put
down the democracy. At Syracuse, the people, having been the chief authors of the victory in the war with the
Athenians, changed the constitutional government into democracy. At Chalcis, the people, uniting with the
notables, killed Phoxus the tyrant, and then seized the government. At Ambracia, the people, in like manner,
having joined with the conspirators in expelling the tyrant Periander, transferred the government to
themselves. And generally it should be remembered that those who have secured power to the state, whether
private citizens, or magistrates, or tribes, or any other part or section of the state, are apt to cause revolutions.
For either envy of their greatness draws others into rebellion, or they themselves, in their pride of superiority,
are unwilling to remain on a level with others.

Revolutions also break out when opposite parties, e.g., the rich and the people, are equally balanced, and
there is little or no middle class; for, if either party were manifestly superior, the other would not risk an

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attack upon them. And, for this reason, those who are eminent in virtue usually do not stir up insurrections,
always being a minority. Such are the beginnings and causes of the disturbances and revolutions to which
every form of government is liable.

Revolutions are effected in two ways, by force and by fraud. Force may be applied either at the time of
making the revolution or afterwards. Fraud, again, is of two kinds; for (1) sometimes the citizens are deceived
into acquiescing in a change of government, and afterwards they are held in subjection against their will. This
was what happened in the case of the Four Hundred, who deceived the people by telling them that the king
would provide money for the war against the Lacedaemonians, and, having cheated the people, still
endeavored to retain the government. (2) In other cases the people are persuaded at first, and afterwards, by a
repetition of the persuasion, their goodwill and allegiance are retained. The revolutions which effect
constitutions generally spring from the above-mentioned causes.

And now, taking each constitution separately, we must see what follows from the principles already laid
down.

Revolutions in democracies are generally caused by the intemperance of demagogues, who either in their
private capacity lay information against rich men until they compel them to combine (for a common danger
unites even the bitterest enemies), or coming forward in public stir up the people against them. The truth of
this remark is proved by a variety of examples. At Cos the democracy was overthrown because wicked
demagogues arose, and the notables combined. At Rhodes the demagogues not only provided pay for the
multitude, but prevented them from making good to the trierarchs the sums which had been expended by
them; and they, in consequence of the suits which were brought against them, were compelled to combine
and put down the democracy. The democracy at Heraclea was overthrown shortly after the foundation of the
colony by the injustice of the demagogues, which drove out the notables, who came back in a body and put
an end to the democracy. Much in the same manner the democracy at Megara was overturned; there the
demagogues drove out many of the notables in order that they might be able to confiscate their property. At
length the exiles, becoming numerous, returned, and, engaging and defeating the people, established the
oligarchy. The same thing happened with the democracy of Cyme, which was overthrown by Thrasymachus.
And we may observe that in most states the changes have been of this character. For sometimes the
demagogues, in order to curry favor with the people, wrong the notables and so force them to combine; either
they make a division of their property, or diminish their incomes by the imposition of public services, and
sometimes they bring accusations against the rich that they may have their wealth to confiscate.

Of old, the demagogue was also a general, and then democracies changed into tyrannies. Most of the ancient
tyrants were originally demagogues. They are not so now, but they were then; and the reason is that they were
generals and not orators, for oratory had not yet come into fashion. Whereas in our day, when the art of
rhetoric has made such progress, the orators lead the people, but their ignorance of military matters prevents
them from usurping power; at any rate instances to the contrary are few and slight. Tyrannies were more
common formerly than now, for this reason also, that great power was placed in the hands of individuals; thus
a tyranny arose at Miletus out of the office of the Prytanis, who had supreme authority in many important
matters. Moreover, in those days, when cities were not large, the people dwelt in the fields, busy at their
work; and their chiefs, if they possessed any military talent, seized the opportunity, and winning the
confidence of the masses by professing their hatred of the wealthy, they succeeded in obtaining the tyranny.
Thus at Athens Peisistratus led a faction against the men of the plain, and Theagenes at Megara slaughtered
the cattle of the wealthy, which he found by the river side, where they had put them to graze in land not their
own. Dionysius, again, was thought worthy of the tyranny because he denounced Daphnaeus and the rich; his
enmity to the notables won for him the confidence of the people. Changes also take place from the ancient to

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the latest form of democracy; for where there is a popular election of the magistrates and no property
qualification, the aspirants for office get hold of the people, and contrive at last even to set them above the
laws. A more or less complete cure for this state of things is for the separate tribes, and not the whole people,
to elect the magistrates.

These are the principal causes of revolutions in democracies.

There are two patent causes of revolutions in oligarchies: (1) First, when the oligarchs oppress the people, for
then anybody is good enough to be their champion, especially if he be himself a member of the oligarchy, as
Lygdamis at Naxos, who afterwards came to be tyrant. But revolutions which commence outside the
governing class may be further subdivided. Sometimes, when the government is very exclusive, the
revolution is brought about by persons of the wealthy class who are excluded, as happened at Massalia and
Istros and Heraclea, and other cities. Those who had no share in the government created a disturbance, until
first the elder brothers, and then the younger, were admitted; for in some places father and son, in others elder
and younger brothers, do not hold office together. At Massalia the oligarchy became more like a
constitutional government, but at Istros ended in a democracy, and at Heraclea was enlarged to 600. At
Cnidos, again, the oligarchy underwent a considerable change. For the notables fell out among themselves,
because only a few shared in the government; there existed among them the rule already mentioned, that
father and son not hold office together, and, if there were several brothers, only the eldest was admitted. The
people took advantage of the quarrel, and choosing one of the notables to be their leader, attacked and
conquered the oligarchs, who were divided, and division is always a source of weakness. The city of
Erythrae, too, in old times was ruled, and ruled well, by the Basilidae, but the people took offense at the
narrowness of the oligarchy and changed the constitution.

(2) Of internal causes of revolutions in oligarchies one is the personal rivalry of the oligarchs, which leads
them to play the demagogue. Now, the oligarchical demagogue is of two sorts: either (a) he practices upon
the oligarchs themselves (for, although the oligarchy are quite a small number, there may be a demagogue
among them, as at Athens Charicles' party won power by courting the Thirty, that of Phrynichus by courting
the Four Hundred); or (b) the oligarchs may play the demagogue with the people. This was the case at
Larissa, where the guardians of the citizens endeavored to gain over the people because they were elected by
them; and such is the fate of all oligarchies in which the magistrates are elected, as at Abydos, not by the
class to which they belong, but by the heavy-armed or by the people, although they may be required to have
a high qualification, or to be members of apolitical club; or, again, where the law-courts are composed of
persons outside the government, the oligarchs flatter the people in order to obtain a decision in their own
favor, and so they change the constitution; this happened at Heraclea in Pontus. Again, oligarchies change
whenever any attempt is made to narrow them; for then those who desire equal rights are compelled to call in
the people. Changes in the oligarchy also occur when the oligarchs waste their private property by
extravagant living; for then they want to innovate, and either try to make themselves tyrants, or install some
one else in the tyranny, as Hipparinus did Dionysius at Syracuse, and as at Amphipolis a man named
Cleotimus introduced Chalcidian colonists, and when they arrived, stirred them up against the rich. For a like
reason in Aegina the person who carried on the negotiation with Chares endeavored to revolutionize the state.
Sometimes a party among the oligarchs try directly to create a political change; sometimes they rob the
treasury, and then either the thieves or, as happened at Apollonia in Pontus, those who resist them in their
thieving quarrel with the rulers. But an oligarchy which is at unity with itself is not easily destroyed from
within; of this we may see an example at Pharsalus, for there, although the rulers are few in number, they
govern a large city, because they have a good understanding among themselves.

Oligarchies, again, are overthrown when another oligarchy is created within the original one, that is to say,
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when the whole governing body is small and yet they do not all share in the highest offices. Thus at Elis the
governing body was a small senate; and very few ever found their way into it, because the senators were only
ninety in number, and were elected for life and out of certain families in a manner similar to the
Lacedaemonian elders. Oligarchy is liable to revolutions alike in war and in peace; in war because, not being
able to trust the people, the oligarchs are compelled to hire mercenaries, and the general who is in command
of them often ends in becoming a tyrant, as Timophanes did at Corinth; or if there are more generals than one
they make themselves into a company of tyrants. Sometimes the oligarchs, fearing this danger, give the
people a share in the government because their services are necessary to them. And in time of peace, from
mutual distrust, the two parties hand over the defense of the state to the army and to an arbiter between the
two factions, who often ends the master of both. This happened at Larissa when Simos the Aleuad had the
government, and at Abydos in the days of Iphiades and the political clubs. Revolutions also arise out of
marriages or lawsuits which lead to the overthrow of one party among the oligarchs by another. Of quarrels
about marriages I have already mentioned some instances; another occurred at Eretria, where Diagoras
overturned the oligarchy of the knights because he had been wronged about a marriage. A revolution at
Heraclea, and another at Thebes, both arose out of decisions of law-courts upon a charge of adultery; in both
cases the punishment was just, but executed in the spirit of party, at Heraclea upon Eurytion, and at Thebes
upon Archias; for their enemies were jealous of them and so had them pilloried in the agora. Many
oligarchies have been destroyed by some members of the ruling class taking offense at their excessive
despotism; for example, the oligarchy at Cnidus and at Chios.

Changes of constitutional governments, and also of oligarchies which limit the office of counselor, judge, or
other magistrate to persons having a certain money qualification, often occur by accident. The qualification
may have been originally fixed according to the circumstances of the time, in such a manner as to include in
an oligarchy a few only, or in a constitutional government the middle class. But after a time of prosperity,
whether arising from peace or some other good fortune, the same property becomes many times as valuable,
and then everybody participates in every office; this happens sometimes gradually and insensibly, and
sometimes quickly. These are the causes of changes and revolutions in oligarchies.

We must remark generally both of democracies and oligarchies, that they sometimes change, not into the
opposite forms of government, but only into another variety of the same class; I mean to say, from those
forms of democracy and oligarchy which are regulated by law into those which are arbitrary, and conversely.

VII

In aristocracies revolutions are stirred up when a few only share in the honors of the state; a cause which has
been already shown to affect oligarchies; for an aristocracy is a sort of oligarchy, and, like an oligarchy, is the
government of a few, although few not for the same reason; hence the two are often confounded. And
revolutions will be most likely to happen, and must happen, when the mass of the people are of the
high-spirited kind, and have a notion that they are as good as their rulers. Thus at Lacedaemon the so-called
Partheniae, who were the [illegitimate] sons of the Spartan peers, attempted a revolution, and, being detected,
were sent away to colonize Tarentum. Again, revolutions occur when great men who are at least of equal
merit are dishonored by those higher in office, as Lysander was by the kings of Sparta; or, when a brave man
is excluded from the honors of the state, like Cinadon, who conspired against the Spartans in the reign of
Agesilaus; or, again, when some are very poor and others very rich, a state of society which is most often the
result of war, as at Lacedaemon in the days of the Messenian War; this is proved from the poem of Tyrtaeus,
entitled 'Good Order'; for he speaks of certain citizens who were ruined by the war and wanted to have a
redistribution of the land. Again, revolutions arise when an individual who is great, and might be greater,
wants to rule alone, as, at Lacedaemon, Pausanias, who was general in the Persian War, or like Hanno at
Carthage.

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Constitutional governments and aristocracies are commonly overthrown owing to some deviation from
justice in the constitution itself; the cause of the downfall is, in the former, the ill-mingling of the two
elements, democracy and oligarchy; in the latter, of the three elements, democracy, oligarchy, and virtue, but
especially democracy and oligarchy. For to combine these is the endeavor of constitutional governments; and
most of the so-called aristocracies have a like aim, but differ from polities in the mode of combination; hence
some of them are more and some less permanent. Those which incline more to oligarchy are called
aristocracies, and those which incline to democracy constitutional governments. And therefore the latter are
the safer of the two; for the greater the number, the greater the strength, and when men are equal they are
contented. But the rich, if the constitution gives them power, are apt to be insolent and avaricious; and, in
general, whichever way the constitution inclines, in that direction it changes as either party gains strength, a
constitutional government becoming a democracy, an aristocracy an oligarchy. But the process may be
reversed, and aristocracy may change into democracy. This happens when the poor, under the idea that they
are being wronged, force the constitution to take an opposite form. In like manner constitutional governments
change into oligarchies. The only stable principle of government is equality according to proportion, and for
every man to enjoy his own.

What I have just mentioned actually happened at Thurii, where the qualification for office, at first high, was
therefore reduced, and the magistrates increased in number. The notables had previously acquired the whole
of the land contrary to law; for the government tended to oligarchy, and they were able to encroach.... But the
people, who had been trained by war, soon got the better of the guards kept by the oligarchs, until those who
had too much gave up their land.

Again, since all aristocratical governments incline to oligarchy, the notables are apt to be grasping; thus at
Lacedaemon, where property tends to pass into few hands, the notables can do too much as they like, and are
allowed to marry whom they please. The city of Locri was ruined by a marriage connection with Dionysius,
but such a thing could never have happened in a democracy, or in a wellbalanced aristocracy.

I have already remarked that in all states revolutions are occasioned by trifles. In aristocracies, above all, they
are of a gradual and imperceptible nature. The citizens begin by giving up some part of the constitution, and
so with greater ease the government change something else which is a little more important, until they have
undermined the whole fabric of the state. At Thurii there was a law that generals should only be re-elected
after an interval of five years, and some young men who were popular with the soldiers of the guard for their
military prowess, despising the magistrates and thinking that they would easily gain their purpose, wanted to
abolish this law and allow their generals to hold perpetual commands; for they well knew that the people
would be glad enough to elect them. Whereupon the magistrates who had charge of these matters, and who
are called councillors, at first determined to resist, but they afterwards consented, thinking that, if only this
one law was changed, no further inroad would be made on the constitution. But other changes soon followed
which they in vain attempted to oppose; and the state passed into the hands of the revolutionists, who
established a dynastic oligarchy.

All constitutions are overthrown either from within or from without; the latter, when there is some
government close at hand having an opposite interest, or at a distance, but powerful. This was exemplified in
the old times of the Athenians and the Lacedaemonians; the Athenians everywhere put down the oligarchies,
and the Lacedaemonians the democracies.

I have now explained what are the chief causes of revolutions and dissensions in states.

VIM

We have next to consider what means there are of preserving constitutions in general, and in particular cases.
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In the first place it is evident that if we know the causes which destroy constitutions, we also know the causes
which preserve them; for opposites produce opposites, and destruction is the opposite of preservation.

In all well-attempered governments there is nothing which should be more jealously maintained than the
spirit of obedience to law, more especially in small matters; for transgression creeps in unperceived and at
last ruins the state, just as the constant recurrence of small expenses in time eats up a fortune. The expense
does not take place at once, and therefore is not observed; the mind is deceived, as in the fallacy which says
that 'if each part is little, then the whole is little.' this is true in one way, but not in another, for the whole and
the all are not little, although they are made up of littles.

In the first place, then, men should guard against the beginning of change, and in the second place they
should not rely upon the political devices of which I have already spoken invented only to deceive the people,
for they are proved by experience to be useless. Further, we note that oligarchies as well as aristocracies may
last, not from any inherent stability in such forms of government, but because the rulers are on good terms
both with the unenfranchised and with the governing classes, not maltreating any who are excluded from the
government, but introducing into it the leading spirits among them. They should never wrong the ambitious
in a matter of honor, or the common people in a matter of money; and they should treat one another and their
fellow citizen in a spirit of equality. The equality which the friends of democracy seek to establish for the
multitude is not only just but likewise expedient among equals. Hence, if the governing class are numerous,
many democratic institutions are useful; for example, the restriction of the tenure of offices to six months,
that all those who are of equal rank may share in them. Indeed, equals or peers when they are numerous
become a kind of democracy, and therefore demagogues are very likely to arise among them, as I have
already remarked. The short tenure of office prevents oligarchies and aristocracies from falling into the hands
of families; it is not easy for a person to do any great harm when his tenure of office is short, whereas long
possession begets tyranny in oligarchies and democracies. For the aspirants to tyranny are either the principal
men of the state, who in democracies are demagogues and in oligarchies members of ruling houses, or those
who hold great offices, and have a long tenure of them.

Constitutions are preserved when their destroyers are at a distance, and sometimes also because they are near,
for the fear of them makes the government keep in hand the constitution. Wherefore the ruler who has a care
of the constitution should invent terrors, and bring distant dangers near, in order that the citizens may be on
their guard, and, like sentinels in a night watch, never relax their attention. He should endeavor too by help of
the laws to control the contentions and quarrels of the notables, and to prevent those who have not hitherto
taken part in them from catching the spirit of contention. No ordinary man can discern the beginning of evil,
but only the true statesman.

As to the change produced in oligarchies and constitutional governments by the alteration of the qualification,
when this arises, not out of any variation in the qualification but only out of the increase of money, it is well
to compare the general valuation of property with that of past years, annually in those cities in which the
census is taken annually and in larger cities every third or fifth year. If the whole is many times greater or
many times less than when the ratings recognized by the constitution were fixed, there should be power given
by law to raise or lower the qualification as the amount is greater or less. Where this is not done a
constitutional government passes into an oligarchy, and an oligarchy is narrowed to a rule of families; or in
the opposite case constitutional government becomes democracy, and oligarchy either constitutional
government or democracy.

It is a principle common to democracy, oligarchy, and every other form of government not to allow the
disproportionate increase of any citizen but to give moderate honor for a long time rather than great honor for
a short time. For men are easily spoilt; not every one can bear prosperity. But if this rule is not observed, at
any rate the honors which are given all at once should be taken away by degrees and not all at once.
Especially should the laws provide against any one having too much power, whether derived from friends or

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money; if he has, he should be sent clean out of the country. And since innovations creep in through the
private life of individuals also, there ought to be a magistracy which will have an eye to those whose life is
not in harmony with the government, whether oligarchy or democracy or any other. And for a like reason an
increase of prosperity in any part of the state should be carefully watched. The proper remedy for this evil is
always to give the management of affairs and offices of state to opposite elements; such opposites are the
virtuous and the many, or the rich and the poor. Another way is to combine the poor and the rich in one body,
or to increase the middle class: thus an end will be put to the revolutions which arise from inequality.

But above all every state should be so administered and so regulated by law that its magistrates cannot
possibly make money. In oligarchies special precautions should be used against this evil. For the people do
not take any great offense at being kept out of the government- indeed they are rather pleased than otherwise
at having leisure for their private business- but what irritates them is to think that their rulers are stealing the
public money; then they are doubly annoyed; for they lose both honor and profit. If office brought no profit,
then and then only could democracy and aristocracy be combined; for both notables and people might have
their wishes gratified. All would be able to hold office, which is the aim of democracy, and the notables
would be magistrates, which is the aim of aristocracy. And this result may be accomplished when there is no
possibility of making money out of the offices; for the poor will not want to have them when there is nothing
to be gained from them- they would rather be attending to their own concerns; and the rich, who do not want
money from the public treasury, will be able to take them; and so the poor will keep to their work and grow
rich, and the notables will not be governed by the lower class. In order to avoid peculation of the public
money, the transfer of the revenue should be made at a general assembly of the citizens, and duplicates of the
accounts deposited with the different brotherhoods, companies, and tribes. And honors should be given by
law to magistrates who have the reputation of being incorruptible. In democracies the rich should be spared;
not only should their property not be divided, but their incomes also, which in some states are taken from
them imperceptibly, should be protected. It is a good thing to prevent the wealthy citizens, even if they are
willing from undertaking expensive and useless public services, such as the giving of choruses, torch-races,
and the like. In an oligarchy, on the other hand, great care should be taken of the poor, and lucrative offices
should go to them; if any of the wealthy classes insult them, the offender should be punished more severely
than if he had wronged one of his own class. Provision should be made that estates pass by inheritance and
not by gift, and no person should have more than one inheritance; for in this way properties will be equalized,
and more of the poor rise to competency. It is also expedient both in a democracy and in an oligarchy to
assign to those who have less share in the government (i.e., to the rich in a democracy and to the poor in an
oligarchy) an equality or preference in all but the principal offices of state. The latter should be entrusted
chiefly or only to members of the governing class.

There are three qualifications required in those who have to fill the highest offices- (1) first of all, loyalty to
the established constitution; (2) the greatest administrative capacity; (3) virtue and justice of the kind proper
to each form of government; for, if what is just is not the same in all governments, the quality of justice must
also differ. There may be a doubt, however, when all these qualities do not meet in the same person, how the
selection is to be made; suppose, for example, a good general is a bad man and not a friend to the
constitution, and another man is loyal and just, which should we choose? In making the election ought we not
to consider two points? what qualities are common, and what are rare. Thus in the choice of a general, we
should regard his skill rather than his virtue; for few have military skill, but many have virtue. In any office
of trust or stewardship, on the other hand, the opposite rule should be observed; for more virtue than ordinary
is required in the holder of such an office, but the necessary knowledge is of a sort which all men possess.

It may, however, be asked what a man wants with virtue if he have political ability and is loyal, since these
two qualities alone will make him do what is for the public interest. But may not men have both of them and

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yet be deficient in self-control? If, knowing and loving their own interests, they do not always attend to
them, may they not be equally negligent of the interests of the public?

Speaking generally, we may say that whatever legal enactments are held to be for the interest of various
constitutions, all these preserve them. And the great preserving principle is the one which has been repeatedly
mentioned- to have a care that the loyal citizen should be stronger than the disloyal. Neither should we forget
the mean, which at the present day is lost sight of in perverted forms of government; for many practices
which appear to be democratical are the ruin of democracies, and many which appear to be oligarchical are
the ruin of oligarchies. Those who think that all virtue is to be found in their own party principles push
matters to extremes; they do not consider that disproportion destroys a state. A nose which varies from the
ideal of straightness to a hook or snub may still be of good shape and agreeable to the eye; but if the excess
be very great, all symmetry is lost, and the nose at last ceases to be a nose at all on account of some excess in
one direction or defect in the other; and this is true of every other part of the human body. The same law of
proportion equally holds in states. Oligarchy or democracy, although a departure from the most perfect form,
may yet be a good enough government, but if any one attempts to push the principles of either to an extreme,
he will begin by spoiling the government and end by having none at all. Wherefore the legislator and the
statesman ought to know what democratical measures save and what destroy a democracy, and what
oligarchical measures save or destroy an oligarchy. For neither the one nor the other can exist or continue to
exist unless both rich and poor are included in it. If equality of property is introduced, the state must of
necessity take another form; for when by laws carried to excess one or other element in the state is ruined, the
constitution is ruined.

There is an error common both to oligarchies and to democracies: in the latter the demagogues, when the
multitude are above the law, are always cutting the city in two by quarrels with the rich, whereas they should
always profess to be maintaining their cause; just as in oligarchies the oligarchs should profess to maintaining
the cause of the people, and should take oaths the opposite of those which they now take. For there are cities
in which they swear- 'I will be an enemy to the people, and will devise all the harm against them which I
can'; but they ought to exhibit and to entertain the very opposite feeling; in the form of their oath there should
be an express declaration- 'I will do no wrong to the people.'

But of all the things which I have mentioned that which most contributes to the permanence of constitutions
is the adaptation of education to the form of government, and yet in our own day this principle is universally
neglected. The best laws, though sanctioned by every citizen of the state, will be of no avail unless the young
are trained by habit and education in the spirit of the constitution, if the laws are democratical, democratically
or oligarchically, if the laws are oligarchical. For there may be a want of self-discipline in states as well as in
individuals. Now, to have been educated in the spirit of the constitution is not to perform the actions in which
oligarchs or democrats delight, but those by which the existence of an oligarchy or of a democracy is made
possible. Whereas among ourselves the sons of the ruling class in an oligarchy live in luxury, but the sons of
the poor are hardened by exercise and toil, and hence they are both more inclined and better able to make a
revolution. And in democracies of the more extreme type there has arisen a false idea of freedom which is
contradictory to the true interests of the state. For two principles are characteristic of democracy, the
government of the majority and freedom. Men think that what is just is equal; and that equality is the
supremacy of the popular will; and that freedom means the doing what a man likes. In such democracies
every one lives as he pleases, or in the words of Euripides, 'according to his fancy.' But this is all wrong; men
should not think it slavery to live according to the rule of the constitution; for it is their salvation.

I have now discussed generally the causes of the revolution and destruction of states, and the means of their
preservation and continuance.

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I have still to speak of monarchy, and the causes of its destruction and preservation. What I have said already
respecting forms of constitutional government applies almost equally to royal and to tyrannical rule. For royal
rule is of the nature of an aristocracy, and a tyranny is a compound of oligarchy and democracy in their most
extreme forms; it is therefore most injurious to its subjects, being made up of two evil forms of government,
and having the perversions and errors of both. These two forms of monarchy are contrary in their very origin.
The appointment of a king is the resource of the better classes against the people, and he is elected by them
out of their own number, because either he himself or his family excel in virtue and virtuous actions; whereas
a tyrant is chosen from the people to be their protector against the notables, and in order to prevent them from
being injured. History shows that almost all tyrants have been demagogues who gained the favor of the
people by their accusation of the notables. At any rate this was the manner in which the tyrannies arose in the
days when cities had increased in power. Others which were older originated in the ambition of kings
wanting to overstep the limits of their hereditary power and become despots. Others again grew out of the
class which were chosen to be chief magistrates; for in ancient times the people who elected them gave the
magistrates, whether civil or religious, a long tenure. Others arose out of the custom which oligarchies had of
making some individual supreme over the highest offices. In any of these ways an ambitious man had no
difficulty, if he desired, in creating a tyranny, since he had the power in his hands already, either as king or as
one of the officers of state. Thus Pheidon at Argos and several others were originally kings, and ended by
becoming tyrants; Phalaris, on the other hand, and the Ionian tyrants, acquired the tyranny by holding great
offices. Whereas Panaetius at Leontini, Cypselus at Corinth, Peisistratus at Athens, Dionysius at Syracuse,
and several others who afterwards became tyrants, were at first demagogues.

And so, as I was saying, royalty ranks with aristocracy, for it is based upon merit, whether of the individual
or of his family, or on benefits conferred, or on these claims with power added to them. For all who have
obtained this honor have benefited, or had in their power to benefit, states and nations; some, like Codrus,
have prevented the state from being enslaved in war; others, like Cyrus, have given their country freedom, or
have settled or gained a territory, like the Lacedaemonian, Macedonian, and Molossian kings. The idea of a
king is to be a protector of the rich against unjust treatment, of the people against insult and oppression.
Whereas a tyrant, as has often been repeated, has no regard to any public interest, except as conducive to his
private ends; his aim is pleasure, the aim of a king, honor. Wherefore also in their desires they differ; the
tyrant is desirous of riches, the king, of what brings honor. And the guards of a king are citizens, but of a
tyrant mercenaries.

That tyranny has all the vices both of democracy and oligarchy is evident. As of oligarchy so of tyranny, the
end is wealth; (for by wealth only can the tyrant maintain either his guard or his luxury). Both mistrust the
people, and therefore deprive them of their arms. Both agree too in injuring the people and driving them out
of the city and dispersing them. From democracy tyrants have borrowed the art of making war upon the
notables and destroying them secretly or openly, or of exiling them because they are rivals and stand in the
way of their power; and also because plots against them are contrived by men of this dass, who either want to
rule or to escape subjection. Hence Periander advised Thrasybulus by cutting off the tops of the tallest ears of
corn, meaning that he must always put out of the way the citizens who overtop the rest. And so, as I have
already intimated, the beginnings of change are the same in monarchies as in forms of constitutional
government; subjects attack their sovereigns out of fear or contempt, or because they have been unjustly
treated by them. And of injustice, the most common form is insult, another is confiscation of property.

The ends sought by conspiracies against monarchies, whether tyrannies or royalties, are the same as the ends
sought by conspiracies against other forms of government. Monarchs have great wealth and honor, which are
objects of desire to all mankind. The attacks are made sometimes against their lives, sometimes against the
office; where the sense of insult is the motive, against their lives. Any sort of insult (and there are many) may

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stir up anger, and when men are angry, they commonly act out of revenge, and not from ambition. For
example, the attempt made upon the Peisistratidae arose out of the public dishonor offered to the sister of
Harmodius and the insult to himself . He attacked the tyrant for his sister's sake, and Aristogeiton joined in the
attack for the sake of Harmodius. A conspiracy was also formed against Periander, the tyrant of Ambracia,
because, when drinking with a favorite youth, he asked him whether by this time he was not with child by
him. Philip, too, was attacked by Pausanias because he permitted him to be insulted by Attalus and his
friends, and Amyntas the little, by Derdas, because he boasted of having enjoyed his youth. Evagoras of
Cyprus, again, was slain by the eunuch to revenge an insult; for his wife had been carried off by Evagoras's
son. Many conspiracies have originated in shameful attempts made by sovereigns on the persons of their
subjects. Such was the attack of Crataeas upon Archelaus; he had always hated the connection with him, and
so, when Archelaus, having promised him one of his two daughters in marriage, did not give him either of
them, but broke his word and married the elder to the king of Elymeia, when he was hard pressed in a war
against Sirrhas and Arrhabaeus, and the younger to his own son Amyntas, under the idea that Amyntas would
then be less likely to quarrel with his son by Cleopatra- Crataeas made this slight a pretext for attacking
Archelaus, though even a less reason would have sufficed, for the real cause of the estrangement was the
disgust which he felt at his connection with the king. And from a like motive Hellonocrates of Larissa
conspired with him; for when Archelaus, who was his lover, did not fulfill his promise of restoring him to his
country, he thought that the connection between them had originated, not in affection, but in the wantonness
of power. Pytho, too, and Heracleides of Aenos, slew Cotys in order to avenge their father, and Adamas
revolted from Cotys in revenge for the wanton outrage which he had committed in mutilating him when a
child.

Many, too, irritated at blows inflicted on the person which they deemed an insult, have either killed or
attempted to kill officers of state and royal princes by whom they have been injured. Thus, at Mytilene,
Megacles and his friends attacked and slew the Penthilidae, as they were going about and striking people with
clubs. At a later date Smerdis, who had been beaten and torn away from his wife by Penthilus, slew him. In
the conspiracy against Archelaus, Decamnichus stimulated the fury of the assassins and led the attack; he was
enraged because Archelaus had delivered him to Euripides to be scourged; for the poet had been irritated at
some remark made by Decamnichus on the foulness of his breath. Many other examples might be cited of
murders and conspiracies which have arisen from similar causes.

Fear is another motive which, as we have said, has caused conspiracies as well in monarchies as in more
popular forms of government. Thus Artapanes conspired against Xerxes and slew him, fearing that he would
be accused of hanging Darius against his orders-he having been under the impression that Xerxes would
forget what he had said in the middle of a meal, and that the offense would be forgiven.

Another motive is contempt, as in the case of Sardanapalus, whom some one saw carding wool with his
women, if the storytellers say truly; and the tale may be true, if not of him, of some one else. Dion attacked
the younger Dionysius because he despised him, and saw that he was equally despised by his own subjects,
and that he was always drunk. Even the friends of a tyrant will sometimes attack him out of contempt; for the
confidence which he reposes in them breeds contempt, and they think that they will not be found out. The
expectation of success is likewise a sort of contempt; the assailants are ready to strike, and think nothing of
the danger, because they seem to have the power in their hands. Thus generals of armies attack monarchs; as,
for example, Cyrus attacked Astyages, despising the effeminacy of his life, and believing that his power was
worn out. Thus again, Seuthes the Thracian conspired against Amadocus, whose general he was.

And sometimes men are actuated by more than one motive, like Mithridates, who conspired against
Ariobarzanes, partly out of contempt and partly from the love of gain.

Bold natures, placed by their sovereigns in a high military position, are most likely to make the attempt in the
expectation of success; for courage is emboldened by power, and the union of the two inspires them with the

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hope of an easy victory.

Attempts of which the motive is ambition arise in a different way as well as in those already mentioned.
There are men who will not risk their lives in the hope of gains and honors however great, but who
nevertheless regard the killing of a tyrant simply as an extraordinary action which will make them famous
and honorable in the world; they wish to acquire, not a kingdom, but a name. It is rare, however, to find such
men; he who would kill a tyrant must be prepared to lose his life if he fail. He must have the resolution of
Dion, who, when he made war upon Dionysius, took with him very few troops, saying 'that whatever measure
of success he might attain would be enough for him, even if he were to die the moment he landed; such a
death would be welcome to him.' this is a temper to which few can attain.

Once more, tyrannies, like all other governments, are destroyed from without by some opposite and more
powerful form of government. That such a government will have the will to attack them is clear; for the two
are opposed in principle; and all men, if they can, do what they will. Democracy is antagonistic to tyranny, on
the principle of Hesiod, 'Potter hates Potter,' because they are nearly akin, for the extreme form of democracy
is tyranny; and royalty and aristocracy are both alike opposed to tyranny, because they are constitutions of a
different type. And therefore the Lacedaemonians put down most of the tyrannies, and so did the Syracusans
during the time when they were well governed.

Again, tyrannies are destroyed from within, when the reigning family are divided among themselves, as that
of Gelo was, and more recently that of Dionysius; in the case of Gelo because Thrasybulus, the brother of
Hiero, flattered the son of Gelo and led him into excesses in order that he might rule in his name. Whereupon
the family got together a party to get rid of Thrasybulus and save the tyranny; but those of the people who
conspired with them seized the opportunity and drove them all out. In the case of Dionysius, Dion, his own
relative, attacked and expelled him with the assistance of the people; he afterwards perished himself.

There are two chief motives which induce men to attack tyrannies- hatred and contempt. Hatred of tyrants is
inevitable, and contempt is also a frequent cause of their destruction. Thus we see that most of those who
have acquired, have retained their power, but those who have inherited, have lost it, almost at once; for, living
in luxurious ease, they have become contemptible, and offer many opportunities to their assailants. Anger,
too, must be included under hatred, and produces the same effects. It is often times even more ready to
strike- the angry are more impetuous in making an attack, for they do not follow rational principle. And men
are very apt to give way to their passions when they are insulted. To this cause is to be attributed the fall of
the Peisistratidae and of many others. Hatred is more reasonable, for anger is accompanied by pain, which is
an impediment to reason, whereas hatred is painless.

In a word, all the causes which I have mentioned as destroying the last and most unmixed form of oligarchy,
and the extreme form of democracy, may be assumed to affect tyranny; indeed the extreme forms of both are
only tyrannies distributed among several persons. Kingly rule is little affected by external causes, and is
therefore lasting; it is generally destroyed from within. And there are two ways in which the destruction may
come about; (1) when the members of the royal family quarrel among themselves, and (2) when the kings
attempt to administer the state too much after the fashion of a tyranny, and to extend their authority contrary
to the law. Royalties do not now come into existence; where such forms of government arise, they are rather
monarchies or tyrannies. For the rule of a king is over voluntary subjects, and he is supreme in all important
matters; but in our own day men are more upon an equality, and no one is so immeasurably superior to others
as to represent adequately the greatness and dignity of the office. Hence mankind will not, if they can help,
endure it, and any one who obtains power by force or fraud is at once thought to be a tyrant. In hereditary
monarchies a further cause of destruction is the fact that kings often fall into contempt, and, although
possessing not tyrannical power, but only royal dignity, are apt to outrage others. Their overthrow is then
readily effected; for there is an end to the king when his subjects do not want to have him, but the tyrant lasts,
whether they like him or not.

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The destruction of monarchies is to be attributed to these and the like causes.

And they are preserved, to speak generally, by the opposite causes; or, if we consider them separately, (1)
royalty is preserved by the limitation of its powers. The more restricted the functions of kings, the longer
their power will last unimpaired; for then they are more moderate and not so despotic in their ways; and they
are less envied by their subjects. This is the reason why the kingly office has lasted so long among the
Molossians. And for a similar reason it has continued among the Lacedaemonians, because there it was
always divided between two, and afterwards further limited by Theopompus in various respects, more
particularly by the establishment of the Ephoralty. He diminished the power of the kings, but established on a
more lasting basis the kingly office, which was thus made in a certain sense not less, but greater. There is a
story that when his wife once asked him whether he was not ashamed to leave to his sons a royal power
which was less than he had inherited from his father, 'No indeed,' he replied, 'for the power which I leave to
them will be more lasting.'

As to (2) tyrannies, they are preserved in two most opposite ways. One of them is the old traditional method
in which most tyrants administer their government. Of such arts Periander of Corinth is said to have been the
great master, and many similar devices may be gathered from the Persians in the administration of their
government. There are firstly the prescriptions mentioned some distance back, for the preservation of a
tyranny, in so far as this is possible; viz., that the tyrant should lop off those who are too high; he must put to
death men of spirit; he must not allow common meals, clubs, education, and the like; he must be upon his
guard against anything which is likely to inspire either courage or confidence among his subjects; he must
prohibit literary assemblies or other meetings for discussion, and he must take every means to prevent people
from knowing one another (for acquaintance begets mutual confidence). Further, he must compel all persons
staying in the city to appear in public and live at his gates; then he will know what they are doing: if they are
always kept under, they will learn to be humble. In short, he should practice these and the like Persian and
barbaric arts, which all have the same object. A tyrant should also endeavor to know what each of his subjects
says or does, and should employ spies, like the 'female detectives' at Syracuse, and the eavesdroppers whom
Hiero was in the habit of sending to any place of resort or meeting; for the fear of informers prevents people
from speaking their minds, and if they do, they are more easily found out. Another art of the tyrant is to sow
quarrels among the citizens; friends should be embroiled with friends, the people with the notables, and the
rich with one another. Also he should impoverish his subjects; he thus provides against the maintenance of a
guard by the citizen and the people, having to keep hard at work, are prevented from conspiring. The
Pyramids of Egypt afford an example of this policy; also the offerings of the family of Cypselus, and the
building of the temple of Olympian Zeus by the Peisistratidae, and the great Polycratean monuments at
Samos; all these works were alike intended to occupy the people and keep them poor. Another practice of
tyrants is to multiply taxes, after the manner of Dionysius at Syracuse, who contrived that within five years
his subjects should bring into the treasury their whole property. The tyrant is also fond of making war in
order that his subjects may have something to do and be always in want of a leader. And whereas the power
of a king is preserved by his friends, the characteristic of a tyrant is to distrust his friends, because he knows
that all men want to overthrow him, and they above all have the power.

Again, the evil practices of the last and worst form of democracy are all found in tyrannies. Such are the
power given to women in their families in the hope that they will inform against their husbands, and the
license which is allowed to slaves in order that they may betray their masters; for slaves and women do not
conspire against tyrants; and they are of course friendly to tyrannies and also to democracies, since under
them they have a good time. For the people too would fain be a monarch, and therefore by them, as well as by
the tyrant, the flatterer is held in honor; in democracies he is the demagogue; and the tyrant also has those
who associate with him in a humble spirit, which is a work of flattery.

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Hence tyrants are always fond of bad men, because they love to be flattered, but no man who has the spirit of
a freeman in him will lower himself by flattery; good men love others, or at any rate do not flatter them.
Moreover, the bad are useful for bad purposes; 'nail knocks out nail,' as the proverb says. It is characteristic of
a tyrant to dislike every one who has dignity or independence; he wants to be alone in his glory, but any one
who claims a like dignity or asserts his independence encroaches upon his prerogative, and is hated by him as
an enemy to his power. Another mark of a tyrant is that he likes foreigners better than citizens, and lives with
them and invites them to his table; for the one are enemies, but the Others enter into no rivalry with him.

Such are the notes of the tyrant and the arts by which he preserves his power; there is no wickedness too great
for him. All that we have said may be summed up under three heads, which answer to the three aims of the
tyrant. These are, (1) the humiliation of his subjects; he knows that a mean-spirited man will not conspire
against anybody; (2) the creation of mistrust among them; for a tyrant is not overthrown until men begin to
have confidence in one another; and this is the reason why tyrants are at war with the good; they are under the
idea that their power is endangered by them, not only because they would not be ruled despotically but also
because they are loyal to one another, and to other men, and do not inform against one another or against
other men; (3) the tyrant desires that his subjects shall be incapable of action, for no one attempts what is
impossible, and they will not attempt to overthrow a tyranny, if they are powerless. Under these three heads
the whole policy of a tyrant may be summed up, and to one or other of them all his ideas may be referred: (1)
he sows distrust among his subjects; (2) he takes away their power; (3) he humbles them.

This then is one of the two methods by which tyrannies are preserved; and there is another which proceeds
upon an almost opposite principle of action. The nature of this latter method may be gathered from a
comparison of the causes which destroy kingdoms, for as one mode of destroying kingly power is to make the
office of king more tyrannical, so the salvation of a tyranny is to make it more like the rule of a king. But of
one thing the tyrant must be careful; he must keep power enough to rule over his subjects, whether they like
him or not, for if he once gives this up he gives up his tyranny. But though power must be retained as the
foundation, in all else the tyrant should act or appear to act in the character of a king. In the first place he
should pretend a care of the public revenues, and not waste money in making presents of a sort at which the
common people get excited when they see their hard-won earnings snatched from them and lavished on
courtesans and strangers and artists. He should give an account of what he receives and of what he spends (a
practice which has been adopted by some tyrants); for then he will seem to be a steward of the public rather
than a tyrant; nor need he fear that, while he is the lord of the city, he will ever be in want of money. Such a
policy is at all events much more advantageous for the tyrant when he goes from home, than to leave behind
him a hoard, for then the garrison who remain in the city will be less likely to attack his power; and a tyrant,
when he is absent from home, has more reason to fear the guardians of his treasure than the citizens, for the
one accompany him, but the others remain behind. In the second place, he should be seen to collect taxes and
to require public services only for state purposes, and that he may form a fund in case of war, and generally
he ought to make himself the guardian and treasurer of them, as if they belonged, not to him, but to the
public. He should appear, not harsh, but dignified, and when men meet him they should look upon him with
reverence, and not with fear. Yet it is hard for him to be respected if he inspires no respect, and therefore
whatever virtues he may neglect, at least he should maintain the character of a great soldier, and produce the
impression that he is one. Neither he nor any of his associates should ever be guilty of the least offense
against modesty towards the young of either sex who are his subjects, and the women of his family should
observe a like self-control towards other women; the insolence of women has ruined many tyrannies. In the
indulgence of pleasures he should be the opposite of our modern tyrants, who not only begin at dawn and
pass whole days in sensuality, but want other men to see them, that they may admire their happy and blessed
lot. In these things a tyrant should if possible be moderate, or at any rate should not parade his vices to the
world; for a drunken and drowsy tyrant is soon despised and attacked; not so he who is temperate and wide
awake. His conduct should be the very reverse of nearly everything which has been said before about tyrants.
He ought to adorn and improve his city, as though he were not a tyrant, but the guardian of the state. Also he
should appear to be particularly earnest in the service of the Gods; for if men think that a ruler is religious and

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has a reverence for the Gods, they are less afraid of suffering injustice at his hands, and they are less disposed
to conspire against him, because they believe him to have the very Gods fighting on his side. At the same
time his religion must not be thought foolish. And he should honor men of merit, and make them think that
they would not be held in more honor by the citizens if they had a free government. The honor he should
distribute himself, but the punishment should be inflicted by officers and courts of law. It is a precaution
which is taken by all monarchs not to make one person great; but if one, then two or more should be raised,
that they may look sharply after one another. If after all some one has to be made great, he should not be a
man of bold spirit; for such dispositions are ever most inclined to strike. And if any one is to be deprived of
his power, let it be diminished gradually, not taken from him all at once. The tyrant should abstain from all
outrage; in particular from personal violence and from wanton conduct towards the young. He should be
especially careful of his behavior to men who are lovers of honor; for as the lovers of money are offended
when their property is touched, so are the lovers of honor and the virtuous when their honor is affected.
Therefore a tyrant ought either not to commit such acts at all; or he should be thought only to employ fatherly
correction, and not to trample upon others- and his acquaintance with youth should be supposed to arise from
affection, and not from the insolence of power, and in general he should compensate the appearance of
dishonor by the increase of honor.

Of those who attempt assassination they are the most dangerous, and require to be most carefully watched,
who do not care to survive, if they effect their purpose. Therefore special precaution should be taken about
any who think that either they or those for whom they care have been insulted; for when men are led away by
passion to assault others they are regardless of themselves. As Heracleitus says, 'It is difficult to fight against
anger; for a man will buy revenge with his soul.'

And whereas states consist of two classes, of poor men and of rich, the tyrant should lead both to imagine that
they are preserved and prevented from harming one another by his rule, and whichever of the two is stronger
he should attach to his government; for, having this advantage, he has no need either to emancipate slaves or
to disarm the citizens; either party added to the force which he already has, will make him stronger than his
assailants.

But enough of these details; what should be the general policy of the tyrant is obvious. He ought to show
himself to his subjects in the light, not of a tyrant, but of a steward and a king. He should not appropriate
what is theirs, but should be their guardian; he should be moderate, not extravagant in his way of life; he
should win the notables by companionship, and the multitude by flattery. For then his rule will of necessity
be nobler and happier, because he will rule over better men whose spirits are not crushed, over men to whom
he himself is not an object of hatred, and of whom he is not afraid. His power too will be more lasting. His
disposition will be virtuous, or at least half virtuous; and he will not be wicked, but half wicked only.

XII

Yet no forms of government are so short-lived as oligarchy and tyranny. The tyranny which lasted longest
was that of Orthagoras and his sons at Sicyon; this continued for a hundred years. The reason was that they
treated their subjects with moderation, and to a great extent observed the laws; and in various ways gained the
favor of the people by the care which they took of them. Cleisthenes, in particular, was respected for his
military ability. If report may be believed, he crowned the judge who decided against him in the games; and,
as some say, the sitting statue in the Agora of Sicyon is the likeness of this person. (A similar story is told of
Peisistratus, who is said on one occasion to have allowed himself to be summoned and tried before the
Areopagus.)

Next in duration to the tyranny of Orthagoras was that of the Cypselidae at Corinth, which lasted
seventy-three years and six months: Cypselus reigned thirty years, Periander forty and a half, and

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Psammetichus the son of Gorgus three. Their continuance was due to similar causes: Cypselus was a popular
man, who during the whole time of his rule never had a bodyguard; and Periander, although he was a tyrant,
was a great soldier. Third in duration was the rule of the Peisistratidae at Athens, but it was interrupted; for
Peisistratus was twice driven out, so that during three and thirty years he reigned only seventeen; and his sons
reigned eighteen-altogether thirty-five years. Of other tyrannies, that of Hiero and Gelo at Syracuse was the
most lasting. Even this, however, was short, not more than eighteen years in all; for Gelo continued tyrant for
seven years, and died in the eighth; Hiero reigned for ten years, and Thrasybulus was driven out in the
eleventh month. In fact, tyrannies generally have been of quite short duration.

I have now gone through almost all the causes by which constitutional governments and monarchies are
either destroyed or preserved.

In the Republic of Plato, Socrates treats of revolutions, but not well, for he mentions no cause of change
which peculiarly affects the first, or perfect state. He only says that the cause is that nothing is abiding, but all
things change in a certain cycle; and that the origin of the change consists in those numbers 'of which 4 and 3,
married with 5, furnish two harmonies' (he means when the number of this figure becomes solid); he
conceives that nature at certain times produces bad men who will not submit to education; in which latter
particular he may very likely be not far wrong, for there may well be some men who cannot be educated and
made virtuous. But why is such a cause of change peculiar to his ideal state, and not rather common to all
states, nay, to everything which comes into being at all? And is it by the agency of time, which, as he
declares, makes all things change, that things which did not begin together, change together? For example, if
something has come into being the day before the completion of the cycle, will it change with things that
came into being before? Further, why should the perfect state change into the Spartan? For governments more
often take an opposite form than one akin to them. The same remark is applicable to the other changes; he
says that the Spartan constitution changes into an oligarchy, and this into a democracy, and this again into a
tyranny. And yet the contrary happens quite as often; for a democracy is even more likely to change into an
oligarchy than into a monarchy. Further, he never says whether tyranny is, or is not, liable to revolutions, and
if it is, what is the cause of them, or into what form it changes. And the reason is, that he could not very well
have told: for there is no rule; according to him it should revert to the first and best, and then there would be a
complete cycle. But in point of fact a tyranny often changes into a tyranny, as that at Sicyon changed from
the tyranny of Myron into that of Cleisthenes; into oligarchy, as the tyranny of Antileon did at Chalcis; into
democracy, as that of Gelo's family did at Syracuse; into aristocracy, as at Carthage, and the tyranny of
Charilaus at Lacedaemon. Often an oligarchy changes into a tyranny, like most of the ancient oligarchies in
Sicily; for example, the oligarchy at Leontini changed into the tyranny of Panaetius; that at Gela into the
tyranny of Cleander; that at Rhegium into the tyranny of Anaxilaus; the same thing has happened in many
other states. And it is absurd to suppose that the state changes into oligarchy merely because the ruling class
are lovers and makers of money, and not because the very rich think it unfair that the very poor should have
an equal share in the government with themselves. Moreover, in many oligarchies there are laws against
making money in trade. But at Carthage, which is a democracy, there is no such prohibition; and yet to this
day the Carthaginians have never had a revolution. It is absurd too for him to say that an oligarchy is two
cities, one of the rich, and the other of the poor. Is not this just as much the case in the Spartan constitution,
or in any other in which either all do not possess equal property, or all are not equally good men? Nobody
need be any poorer than he was before, and yet the oligarchy may change an the same into a democracy, if
the poor form the majority; and a democracy may change into an oligarchy, if the wealthy class are stronger
than the people, and the one are energetic, the other indifferent. Once more, although the causes of the change
are very numerous, he mentions only one, which is, that the citizens become poor through dissipation and
debt, as though he thought that all, or the majority of them, were originally rich. This is not true: though it is
true that when any of the leaders lose their property they are ripe for revolution; but, when anybody else, it is
no great matter, and an oligarchy does not even then more often pass into a democracy than into any other
form of government. Again, if men are deprived of the honors of state, and are wronged, and insulted, they
make revolutions, and change forms of government, even although they have not wasted their substance

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because they might do what they liked- of which extravagance he declares excessive freedom to be the
cause.

Finally, although there are many forms of oligarchies and democracies, Socrates speaks of their revolutions
as though there were only one form of either of them.

BOOK SIX

WE have now considered the varieties of the deliberative or supreme power in states, and the various
arrangements of law-courts and state offices, and which of them are adapted to different forms of
government. We have also spoken of the destruction and preservation of constitutions, how and from what
causes they arise.

Of democracy and all other forms of government there are many kinds; and it will be well to assign to them
severally the modes of organization which are proper and advantageous to each, adding what remains to be
said about them. Moreover, we ought to consider the various combinations of these modes themselves; for
such combinations make constitutions overlap one another, so that aristocracies have an oligarchical
character, and constitutional governments incline to democracies.

When I speak of the combinations which remain to be considered, and thus far have not been considered by
us, I mean such as these: when the deliberative part of the government and the election of officers is
constituted oligarchically, and the law-courts aristocratically, or when the courts and the deliberative part of
the state are oligarchical, and the election to office aristocratical, or when in any other way there is a want of
harmony in the composition of a state.

I have shown already what forms of democracy are suited to particular cities, and what of oligarchy to
particular peoples, and to whom each of the other forms of government is suited. Further, we must not only
show which of these governments is the best for each state, but also briefly proceed to consider how these
and other forms of government are to be established.

First of all let us speak of democracy, which will also bring to light the opposite form of government
commonly called oligarchy. For the purposes of this inquiry we need to ascertain all the elements and
characteristics of democracy, since from the combinations of these the varieties of democratic government
arise. There are several of these differing from each other, and the difference is due to two causes. One (1)
has been already mentioned- differences of population; for the popular element may consist of husbandmen,
or of mechanics, or of laborers, and if the first of these be added to the second, or the third to the two others,
not only does the democracy become better or worse, but its very nature is changed. A second cause (2)
remains to be mentioned: the various properties and characteristics of democracy, when variously combined,
make a difference. For one democracy will have less and another will have more, and another will have all of
these characteristics. There is an advantage in knowing them all, whether a man wishes to establish some new
form of democracy, or only to remodel an existing one. Founders of states try to bring together all the
elements which accord with the ideas of the several constitutions; but this is a mistake of theirs, as I have
already remarked when speaking of the destruction and preservation of states. We will now set forth the
principles, characteristics, and aims of such states.

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The basis of a democratic state is liberty; which, according to the common opinion of men, can only be
enjoyed in such a state; this they affirm to be the great end of every democracy. One principle of liberty is for
all to rule and be ruled in turn, and indeed democratic justice is the application of numerical not proportionate
equality; whence it follows that the majority must be supreme, and that whatever the majority approve must
be the end and the just. Every citizen, it is said, must have equality, and therefore in a democracy the poor
have more power than the rich, because there are more of them, and the will of the majority is supreme. This,
then, is one note of liberty which all democrats affirm to be the principle of their state. Another is that a man
should live as he likes. This, they say, is the privilege of a freeman, since, on the other hand, not to live as a
man likes is the mark of a slave. This is the second characteristic of democracy, whence has arisen the claim
of men to be ruled by none, if possible, or, if this is impossible, to rule and be ruled in turns; and so it
contributes to the freedom based upon equality.

Such being our foundation and such the principle from which we start, the characteristics of democracy are as
follows the election of officers by all out of all; and that all should rule over each, and each in his turn over
all; that the appointment to all offices, or to all but those which require experience and skill, should be made
by lot; that no property qualification should be required for offices, or only a very low one; that a man should
not hold the same office twice, or not often, or in the case of few except military offices: that the tenure of all
offices, or of as many as possible, should be brief, that all men should sit in judgment, or that judges selected
out of all should judge, in all matters, or in most and in the greatest and most important- such as the scrutiny
of accounts, the constitution, and private contracts; that the assembly should be supreme over all causes, or at
any rate over the most important, and the magistrates over none or only over a very few. Of all magistracies,
a council is the most democratic when there is not the means of paying all the citizens, but when they are paid
even this is robbed of its power; for the people then draw all cases to themselves, as I said in the previous
discussion. The next characteristic of democracy is payment for services; assembly, law courts, magistrates,
everybody receives pay, when it is to be had; or when it is not to be had for all, then it is given to the
law-courts and to the stated assemblies, to the council and to the magistrates, or at least to any of them who
are compelled to have their meals together. And whereas oligarchy is characterized by birth, wealth, and
education, the notes of democracy appear to be the opposite of these- low birth, poverty, mean employment.
Another note is that no magistracy is perpetual, but if any such have survived some ancient change in the
constitution it should be stripped of its power, and the holders should be elected by lot and no longer by vote.
These are the points common to all democracies; but democracy and demos in their truest form are based
upon the recognized principle of democratic justice, that all should count equally; for equality implies that the
poor should have no more share in the government than the rich, and should not be the only rulers, but that all
should rule equally according to their numbers. And in this way men think that they will secure equality and
freedom in their state.

Ill

Next comes the question, how is this equality to be obtained? Are we to assign to a thousand poor men the
property qualifications of five hundred rich men? and shall we give the thousand a power equal to that of the
five hundred? or, if this is not to be the mode, ought we, still retaining the same ratio, to take equal numbers
from each and give them the control of the elections and of the courts?- Which, according to the
democratical notion, is the juster form of the constitution- this or one based on numbers only? Democrats say
that justice is that to which the majority agree, oligarchs that to which the wealthier class; in their opinion the
decision should be given according to the amount of property. In both principles there is some inequality and
injustice. For if justice is the will of the few, any one person who has more wealth than all the rest of the rich
put together, ought, upon the oligarchical principle, to have the sole power- but this would be tyranny; or if
justice is the will of the majority, as I was before saying, they will unjustly confiscate the property of the

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wealthy minority. To find a principle of equality which they both agree we must inquire into their respective
ideas of justice.

Now they agree in saying that whatever is decided by the majority of the citizens is to be deemed law.
Granted: but not without some reserve; since there are two classes out of which a state is composed- the poor
and the rich- that is to be deemed law, on which both or the greater part of both agree; and if they disagree,
that which is approved by the greater number, and by those who have the higher qualification. For example,
suppose that there are ten rich and twenty poor, and some measure is approved by six of the rich and is
disapproved by fifteen of the poor, and the remaining four of the rich join with the party of the poor, and the
remaining five of the poor with that of the rich; in such a case the will of those whose qualifications, when
both sides are added up, are the greatest, should prevail. If they turn out to be equal, there is no greater
difficulty than at present, when, if the assembly or the courts are divided, recourse is had to the lot, or to some
similar expedient. But, although it may be difficult in theory to know what is just and equal, the practical
difficulty of inducing those to forbear who can, if they like, encroach, is far greater, for the weaker are always
asking for equality and justice, but the stronger care for none of these things.

Of the four kinds of democracy, as was said in the in the previous discussion, the best is that which comes
first in order; it is also the oldest of them all. I am speaking of them according to the natural classification of
their inhabitants. For the best material of democracy is an agricultural population; there is no difficulty in
forming a democracy where the mass of the people live by agriculture or tending of cattle. Being poor, they
have no leisure, and therefore do not often attend the assembly, and not having the necessaries of life they are
always at work, and do not covet the property of others. Indeed, they find their employment pleasanter than
the cares of government or office where no great gains can be made out of them, for the many are more
desirous of gain than of honor. A proof is that even the ancient tyrannies were patiently endured by them, as
they still endure oligarchies, if they are allowed to work and are not deprived of their property; for some of
them grow quickly rich and the others are well enough off. Moreover, they have the power of electing the
magistrates and calling them to account; their ambition, if they have any, is thus satisfied; and in some
democracies, although they do not all share in the appointment of offices, except through representatives
elected in turn out of the whole people, as at Mantinea; yet, if they have the power of deliberating, the many
are contented. Even this form of government may be regarded as a democracy, and was such at Mantinea.
Hence it is both expedient and customary in the aforementioned type of democracy that all should elect to
offices, and conduct scrutinies, and sit in the law-courts, but that the great offices should be filled up by
election and from persons having a qualification; the greater requiring a greater qualification, or, if there be
no offices for which a qualification is required, then those who are marked out by special ability should be
appointed. Under such a form of government the citizens are sure to be governed well (for the offices will
always be held by the best persons; the people are willing enough to elect them and are not jealous of the
good). The good and the notables will then be satisfied, for they will not be governed by men who are their
inferiors, and the persons elected will rule justly, because others will call them to account. Every man should
be responsible to others, nor should any one be allowed to do just as he pleases; for where absolute freedom
is allowed, there is nothing to restrain the evil which is inherent in every man. But the principle of
responsibility secures that which is the greatest good in states; the right persons rule and are prevented from
doing wrong, and the people have their due. It is evident that this is the best kind of democracy, and why?
Because the people are drawn from a certain class. Some of the ancient laws of most states were, all of them,
useful with a view to making the people husbandmen. They provided either that no one should possess more
than a certain quantity of land, or that, if he did, the land should not be within a certain distance from the
town or the acropolis. Formerly in many states there was a law forbidding any one to sell his original
allotment of land. There is a similar law attributed to Oxylus, which is to the effect that there should be a
certain portion of every man's land on which he could not borrow money. A useful corrective to the evil of

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which I am speaking would be the law of the Aphytaeans, who, although they are numerous, and do not
possess much land, are all of them husbandmen. For their properties are reckoned in the census; not entire,
but only in such small portions that even the poor may have more than the amount required.

Next best to an agricultural, and in many respects similar, are a pastoral people, who live by their flocks; they
are the best trained of any for war, robust in body and able to camp out. The people of whom other
democracies consist are far inferior to them, for their life is inferior; there is no room for moral excellence in
any of their employments, whether they be mechanics or traders or laborers. Besides, people of this class can
readily come to the assembly, because they are continually moving about in the city and in the agora; whereas
husbandmen are scattered over the country and do not meet, or equally feel the want of assembling together.
Where the territory also happens to extend to a distance from the city, there is no difficulty in making an
excellent democracy or constitutional government; for the people are compelled to settle in the country, and
even if there is a town population the assembly ought not to meet, in democracies, when the country people
cannot come. We have thus explained how the first and best form of democracy should be constituted; it is
clear that the other or inferior sorts will deviate in a regular order, and the population which is excluded will
at each stage be of a lower kind.

The last form of democracy, that in which all share alike, is one which cannot be borne by all states, and will
not last long unless well regulated by laws and customs. The more general causes which tend to destroy this
or other kinds of government have been pretty fully considered. In order to constitute such a democracy and
strengthen the people, the leaders have been in the habit including as many as they can, and making citizens
not only of those who are legitimate, but even of the illegitimate, and of those who have only one parent a
citizen, whether father or mother; for nothing of this sort comes amiss to such a democracy. This is the way
in which demagogues proceed. Whereas the right thing would be to make no more additions when the
number of the commonalty exceeds that of the notables and of the middle class- beyond this not to go. When
in excess of this point, the constitution becomes disorderly, and the notables grow excited and impatient of
the democracy, as in the insurrection at Cyrene; for no notice is taken of a little evil, but when it increases it
strikes the eye. Measures like those which Cleisthenes passed when he wanted to increase the power of the
democracy at Athens, or such as were taken by the founders of popular government at Cyrene, are useful in
the extreme form of democracy. Fresh tribes and brotherhoods should be established; the private rites of
families should be restricted and converted into public ones; in short, every contrivance should be adopted
which will mingle the citizens with one another and get rid of old connections. Again, the measures which are
taken by tyrants appear all of them to be democratic; such, for instance, as the license permitted to slaves
(which may be to a certain extent advantageous) and also that of women and children, and the allowing
everybody to live as he likes. Such a government will have many supporters, for most persons would rather
live in a disorderly than in a sober manner.

The mere establishment of a democracy is not the only or principal business of the legislator, or of those who
wish to create such a state, for any state, however badly constituted, may last one, two, or three days; a far
greater difficulty is the preservation of it. The legislator should therefore endeavor to have a firm foundation
according to the principles already laid down concerning the preservation and destruction of states; he should
guard against the destructive elements, and should make laws, whether written or unwritten, which will
contain all the preservatives of states. He must not think the truly democratical or oligarchical measure to be
that which will give the greatest amount of democracy or oligarchy, but that which will make them last
longest. The demagogues of our own day often get property confiscated in the law-courts in order to please
the people. But those who have the welfare of the state at heart should counteract them, and make a law that
the property of the condemned should not be public and go into the treasury but be sacred. Thus offenders
will be as much afraid, for they will be punished all the same, and the people, having nothing to gain, will not

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be so ready to condemn the accused. Care should also be taken that state trials are as few as possible, and
heavy penalties should be inflicted on those who bring groundless accusations; for it is the practice to indict,
not members of the popular party, but the notables, although the citizens ought to be all attached to the
constitution as well, or at any rate should not regard their rulers as enemies.

Now, since in the last and worst form of democracy the citizens are very numerous, and can hardly be made
to assemble unless they are paid, and to pay them when there are no revenues presses hardly upon the
notables (for the money must be obtained by a property tax and confiscations and corrupt practices of the
courts, things which have before now overthrown many democracies); where, I say, there are no revenues,
the government should hold few assemblies, and the law-courts should consist of many persons, but sit for a
few days only. This system has two advantages: first, the rich do not fear the expense, even although they are
unpaid themselves when the poor are paid; and secondly, causes are better tried, for wealthy persons,
although they do not like to be long absent from their own affairs, do not mind going for a few days to the
law-courts. Where there are revenues the demagogues should not be allowed after their manner to distribute
the surplus; the poor are always receiving and always wanting more and more, for such help is like water
poured into a leaky cask. Yet the true friend of the people should see that they be not too poor, for extreme
poverty lowers the character of the democracy; measures therefore should be taken which will give them
lasting prosperity; and as this is equally the interest of all classes, the proceeds of the public revenues should
be accumulated and distributed among its poor, if possible, in such quantities as may enable them to purchase
a little farm, or, at any rate, make a beginning in trade or husbandry. And if this benevolence cannot be
extended to all, money should be distributed in turn according to tribes or other divisions, and in the
meantime the rich should pay the fee for the attendance of the poor at the necessary assemblies; and should in
return be excused from useless public services. By administering the state in this spirit the Carthaginians
retain the affections of the people; their policy is from time to time to send some of them into their dependent
towns, where they grow rich. It is also worthy of a generous and sensible nobility to divide the poor amongst
them, and give them the means of going to work. The example of the people of Tarentum is also well
deserving of imitation, for, by sharing the use of their own property with the poor, they gain their good will.
Moreover, they divide all their offices into two classes, some of them being elected by vote, the others by lot;
the latter, that the people may participate in them, and the former, that the state may be better administered. A
like result may be gained by dividing the same offices, so as to have two classes of magistrates, one chosen
by vote, the other by lot.

Enough has been said of the manner in which democracies ought to be constituted.

From these considerations there will be no difficulty in seeing what should be the constitution of oligarchies.
We have only to reason from opposites and compare each form of oligarchy with the corresponding form of
democracy.

The first and best attempered of oligarchies is akin to a constitutional government. In this there ought to be
two standards of qualification; the one high, the other low- the lower qualifying for the humbler yet
indispensable offices and the higher for the superior ones. He who acquires the prescribed qualification
should have the rights of citizenship. The number of those admitted should be such as will make the entire
governing body stronger than those who are excluded, and the new citizen should be always taken out of the
better class of the people. The principle, narrowed a little, gives another form of oligarchy; until at length we
reach the most cliquish and tyrannical of them all, answering to the extreme democracy, which, being the
worst, requires vigilance in proportion to its badness. For as healthy bodies and ships well provided with
sailors may undergo many mishaps and survive them, whereas sickly constitutions and rotten ill-manned
ships are ruined by the very least mistake, so do the worst forms of government require the greatest care. The

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populousness of democracies generally preserves them (for e state need not be much increased,since there is
no necessity tha number is to democracy in the place of justice based on proportion); whereas the
preservation of an oligarchy clearly depends on an opposite principle, viz., good order.

VII

As there are four chief divisions of the common people- husbandmen, mechanics, retail traders, laborers; so
also there are four kinds of military forces- the cavalry, the heavy infantry, the light armed troops, the navy.
When the country is adapted for cavalry, then a strong oligarchy is likely to be established. For the security of
the inhabitants depends upon a force of this sort, and only rich men can afford to keep horses. The second
form of oligarchy prevails when the country is adapted to heavy infantry; for this service is better suited to
the rich than to the poor. But the light- armed and the naval element are wholly democratic; and nowadays,
where they are numerous, if the two parties quarrel, the oligarchy are often worsted by them in the struggle.
A remedy for this state of things may be found in the practice of generals who combine a proper contingent
of light-armed troops with cavalry and heavy-armed. And this is the way in which the poor get the better of
the rich in civil contests; being lightly armed, they fight with advantage against cavalry and heavy being
lightly armed, they fight with advantage against cavalry and heavy infantry. An oligarchy which raises such a
force out of the lower classes raises a power against itself. And therefore, since the ages of the citizens vary
and some are older and some younger, the fathers should have their own sons, while they are still young,
taught the agile movements of light-armed troops; and these, when they have been taken out of the ranks of
the youth, should become light-armed warriors in reality. The oligarchy should also yield a share in the
government to the people, either, as I said before, to those who have a property qualification, or, as in the
case of Thebes, to those who have abstained for a certain number of years from mean employments, or, as at
Massalia, to men of merit who are selected for their worthiness, whether previously citizens or not. The
magistracies of the highest rank, which ought to be in the hands of the governing body, should have
expensive duties attached to them, and then the people will not desire them and will take no offense at the
privileges of their rulers when they see that they pay a heavy fine for their dignity. It is fitting also that the
magistrates on entering office should offer magnificent sacrifices or erect some public edifice, and then the
people who participate in the entertainments, and see the city decorated with votive offerings and buildings,
will not desire an alteration in the government, and the notables will have memorials of their munificence.
This, however, is anything but the fashion of our modern oligarchs, who are as covetous of gain as they are of
honor; oligarchies like theirs may be well described as petty democracies. Enough of the manner in which
democracies and oligarchies should be organized.

VIM

Next in order follows the right distribution of offices, their number, their nature, their duties, of which indeed
we have already spoken. No state can exist not having the necessary offices, and no state can be well
administered not having the offices which tend to preserve harmony and good order. In small states, as we
have already remarked, there must not be many of them, but in larger there must be a larger number, and we
should carefully consider which offices may properly be united and which separated.

First among necessary offices is that which has the care of the market; a magistrate should be appointed to
inspect contracts and to maintain order. For in every state there must inevitably be buyers and sellers who
will supply one another's wants; this is the readiest way to make a state self-sufficing and so fulfill the
purpose for which men come together into one state. A second office of a similar kind undertakes the
supervision and embellishment of public and private buildings, the maintaining and repairing of houses and
roads, the prevention of disputes about boundaries, and other concerns of a like nature. This is commonly
called the office of City Warden, and has various departments, which, in more populous towns, are shared
among different persons, one, for example, taking charge of the walls, another of the fountains, a third of

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harbors. There is another equally necessary office, and of a similar kind, having to do with the same matters
without the walls and in the country- the magistrates who hold this office are called Wardens of the country,
or Inspectors of the woods. Besides these three there is a fourth office of receivers of taxes, who have under
their charge the revenue which is distributed among the various departments; these are called Receivers or
Treasurers. Another officer registers all private contracts, and decisions of the courts, all public indictments,
and also all preliminary proceedings. This office again is sometimes subdivided, in which case one officer is
appointed over all the rest. These officers are called Recorders or Sacred Recorders, Presidents, and the like.

Next to these comes an office of which the duties are the most necessary and also the most difficult, viz., that
to which is committed the execution of punishments, or the exaction of fines from those who are posted up
according to the registers; and also the custody of prisoners. The difficulty of this office arises out of the
odium which is attached to it; no one will undertake it unless great profits are to be made, and any one who
does is loath to execute the law. Still the office is necessary; for judicial decisions are useless if they take no
effect; and if society cannot exist without them, neither can it exist without the execution of them. It is an
office which, being so unpopular, should not be entrusted to one person, but divided among several taken
from different courts. In like manner an effort should be made to distribute among different persons the
writing up of those who are on the register of public debtors. Some sentences should be executed by the
magistrates also, and in particular penalties due to the outgoing magistrates should be exacted by the
incoming ones; and as regards those due to magistrates already in office, when one court has given
judgement, another should exact the penalty; for example, the wardens of the city should exact the fines
imposed by the wardens of the agora, and others again should exact the fines imposed by them. For penalties
are more likely to be exacted when less odium attaches to the exaction of them; but a double odium is
incurred when the judges who have passed also execute the sentence, and if they are always the executioners,
they will be the enemies of all.

In many places, while one magistracy executes the sentence, another has the custody of the prisoners, as, for
example, 'the Eleven' at Athens. It is well to separate off the jailorship also, and try by some device to render
the office less unpopular. For it is quite as necessary as that of the executioners; but good men do all they can
to avoid it, and worthless persons cannot safely be trusted with it; for they themselves require a guard, and are
not fit to guard others. There ought not therefore to be a single or permanent officer set apart for this duty; but
it should be entrusted to the young, wherever they are organized into a band or guard, and different
magistrates acting in turn should take charge of it.

These are the indispensable officers, and should be ranked first; next in order follow others, equally
necessary, but of higher rank, and requiring great experience and fidelity. Such are the officers to which are
committed the guard of the city, and other military functions. Not only in time of war but of peace their duty
will be to defend the walls and gates, and to muster and marshal the citizens. In some states there are many
such offices; in others there are a few only, while small states are content with one; these officers are called
generals or commanders. Again, if a state has cavalry or light-armed troops or archers or a naval force, it will
sometimes happen that each of these departments has separate officers, who are called admirals, or generals
of cavalry or of light-armed troops. And there are subordinate officers called naval captains, and captains of
light-armed troops and of horse; having others under them: all these are included in the department of war.
Thus much of military command.

But since many, not to say all, of these offices handle the public money, there must of necessity be another
office which examines and audits them, and has no other functions. Such officers are called by various
names- Scrutineers, Auditors, Accountants, Controllers. Besides all these offices there is another which is
supreme over them, and to this is often entrusted both the introduction and the ratification of measures, or at
all events it presides, in a democracy, over the assembly. For there must be a body which convenes the
supreme authority in the state. In some places they are called 'probuli,' because they hold previous
deliberations, but in a democracy more commonly 'councillors.' These are the chief political offices.

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Another set of officers is concerned with the maintenance of religion priests and guardians see to the
preservation and repair of the temples of the Gods and to other matters of religion. One office of this sort may
be enough in small places, but in larger ones there are a great many besides the priesthood; for example,
superintendents of public worship, guardians of shrines, treasurers of the sacred revenues. Nearly connected
with these there are also the officers appointed for the performance of the public sacrifices, except any which
the law assigns to the priests; such sacrifices derive their dignity from the public hearth of the city. They are
sometimes called archons, sometimes kings, and sometimes prytanes.

These, then, are the necessary offices, which may be summed up as follows: offices concerned with matters
of religion, with war, with the revenue and expenditure, with the market, with the city, with the harbors, with
the country; also with the courts of law, with the records of contracts, with execution of sentences, with
custody of prisoners, with audits and scrutinies and accounts of magistrates; lastly, there are those which
preside over the public deliberations of the state. There are likewise magistracies characteristic of states
which are peaceful and prosperous, and at the same time have a regard to good order: such as the offices of
guardians of women, guardians of the law, guardians of children, and directors of gymnastics; also
superintendents of gymnastic and Dionysiac contests, and of other similar spectacles. Some of these are
clearly not democratic offices; for example, the guardianships of women and children- the poor, not having
any slaves, must employ both their women and children as servants.

Once more: there are three offices according to whose directions the highest magistrates are chosen in certain
states- guardians of the law, probuli, councillors- of these, the guardians of the law are an aristocratical, the
probuli an oligarchical, the council a democratical institution. Enough of the different kinds of offices.

BOOK SEVEN

HE who would duly inquire about the best form of a state ought first to determine which is the most eligible
life; while this remains uncertain the best form of the state must also be uncertain; for, in the natural order of
things, those may be expected to lead the best life who are governed in the best manner of which their
circumstances admit. We ought therefore to ascertain, first of all, which is the most generally eligible life, and
then whether the same life is or is not best for the state and for individuals.

Assuming that enough has been already said in discussions outside the school concerning the best life, we
will now only repeat what is contained in them. Certainly no one will dispute the propriety of that partition of
goods which separates them into three classes, viz., external goods, goods of the body, and goods of the soul,
or deny that the happy man must have all three. For no one would maintain that he is happy who has not in
him a particle of courage or temperance or justice or prudence, who is afraid of every insect which flutters
past him, and will commit any crime, however great, in order to gratify his lust of meat or drink, who will
sacrifice his dearest friend for the sake of half-a-farthing, and is as feeble and false in mind as a child or a
madman. These propositions are almost universally acknowledged as soon as they are uttered, but men differ
about the degree or relative superiority of this or that good. Some think that a very moderate amount of virtue
is enough, but set no limit to their desires of wealth, property, power, reputation, and the like. To whom we
reply by an appeal to facts, which easily prove that mankind do not acquire or preserve virtue by the help of
external goods, but external goods by the help of virtue, and that happiness, whether consisting in pleasure or
virtue, or both, is more often found with those who are most highly cultivated in their mind and in their
character, and have only a moderate share of external goods, than among those who possess external goods to
a useless extent but are deficient in higher qualities; and this is not only matter of experience, but, if reflected
upon, will easily appear to be in accordance with reason. For, whereas external goods have a limit, like any
other instrument, and all things useful are of such a nature that where there is too much of them they must

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either do harm, or at any rate be of no use, to their possessors, every good of the soul, the greater it is, is also
of greater use, if the epithet useful as well as noble is appropriate to such subjects. No proof is required to
show that the best state of one thing in relation to another corresponds in degree of excellence to the interval
between the natures of which we say that these very states are states: so that, if the soul is more noble than
our possessions or our bodies, both absolutely and in relation to us, it must be admitted that the best state of
either has a similar ratio to the other. Again, it is for the sake of the soul that goods external and goods of the
body are eligible at all, and all wise men ought to choose them for the sake of the soul, and not the soul for
the sake of them.

Let us acknowledge then that each one has just so much of happiness as he has of virtue and wisdom, and of
virtuous and wise action. God is a witness to us of this truth, for he is happy and blessed, not by reason of any
external good, but in himself and by reason of his own nature. And herein of necessity lies the difference
between good fortune and happiness; for external goods come of themselves, and chance is the author of
them, but no one is just or temperate by or through chance. In like manner, and by a similar train of argument,
the happy state may be shown to be that which is best and which acts rightly; and rightly it cannot act without
doing right actions, and neither individual nor state can do right actions without virtue and wisdom. Thus the
courage, justice, and wisdom of a state have the same form and nature as the qualities which give the
individual who possesses them the name of just, wise, or temperate.

Thus much may suffice by way of preface: for I could not avoid touching upon these questions, neither could
I go through all the arguments affecting them; these are the business of another science.

Let us assume then that the best life, both for individuals and states, is the life of virtue, when virtue has
external goods enough for the performance of good actions. If there are any who controvert our assertion, we
will in this treatise pass them over, and consider their objections hereafter.

There remains to be discussed the question whether the happiness of the individual is the same as that of the
state, or different. Here again there can be no doubt- no one denies that they are the same. For those who
hold that the well-being of the individual consists in his wealth, also think that riches make the happiness of
the whole state, and those who value most highly the life of a tyrant deem that city the happiest which rules
over the greatest number; while they who approve an individual for his virtue say that the more virtuous a
city is, the happier it is. Two points here present themselves for consideration: first (1), which is the more
eligible life, that of a citizen who is a member of a state, or that of an alien who has no political ties; and
again (2), which is the best form of constitution or the best condition of a state, either on the supposition that
political privileges are desirable for all, or for a majority only? Since the good of the state and not of the
individual is the proper subject of political thought and speculation, and we are engaged in a political
discussion, while the first of these two points has a secondary interest for us, the latter will be the main
subject of our inquiry.

Now it is evident that the form of government is best in which every man, whoever he is, can act best and live
happily. But even those who agree in thinking that the life of virtue is the most eligible raise a question,
whether the life of business and politics is or is not more eligible than one which is wholly independent of
external goods, I mean than a contemplative life, which by some is maintained to be the only one worthy of a
philosopher. For these two lives- the life of the philosopher and the life of the statesman- appear to have
been preferred by those who have been most keen in the pursuit of virtue, both in our own and in other ages.
Which is the better is a question of no small moment; for the wise man, like the wise state, will necessarily
regulate his life according to the best end. There are some who think that while a despotic rule over others is
the greatest injustice, to exercise a constitutional rule over them, even though not unjust, is a great

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impediment to a man's individual wellbeing. Others take an opposite view; they maintain that the true life of
man is the practical and political, and that every virtue admits of being practiced, quite as much by statesmen
and rulers as by private individuals. Others, again, are of opinion that arbitrary and tyrannical rule alone
consists with happiness; indeed, in some states the entire aim both of the laws and of the constitution is to
give men despotic power over their neighbors. And, therefore, although in most cities the laws may be said
generally to be in a chaotic state, still, if they aim at anything, they aim at the maintenance of power: thus in
Lacedaemon and Crete the system of education and the greater part of the of the laws are framed with a view
to war. And in all nations which are able to gratify their ambition military power is held in esteem, for
example among the Scythians and Persians and Thracians and Celts.

In some nations there are even laws tending to stimulate the warlike virtues, as at Carthage, where we are told
that men obtain the honor of wearing as many armlets as they have served campaigns. There was once a law
in Macedonia that he who had not killed an enemy should wear a halter, and among the Scythians no one who
had not slain his man was allowed to drink out of the cup which was handed round at a certain feast. Among
the Iberians, a warlike nation, the number of enemies whom a man has slain is indicated by the number of
obelisks which are fixed in the earth round his tomb; and there are numerous practices among other nations of
a like kind, some of them established by law and others by custom. Yet to a reflecting mind it must appear
very strange that the statesman should be always considering how he can dominate and tyrannize over others,
whether they will or not. How can that which is not even lawful be the business of the statesman or the
legislator? Unlawful it certainly is to rule without regard to justice, for there may be might where there is no
right. The other arts and sciences offer no parallel a physician is not expected to persuade or coerce his
patients, nor a pilot the passengers in his ship. Yet most men appear to think that the art of despotic
government is statesmanship, and what men affirm to be unjust and inexpedient in their own case they are not
ashamed of practicing towards others; they demand just rule for themselves, but where other men are
concerned they care nothing about it. Such behavior is irrational; unless the one party is, and the other is not,
born to serve, in which case men have a right to command, not indeed all their fellows, but only those who
are intended to be subjects; just as we ought not to hunt mankind, whether for food or sacrifice, but only the
animals which may be hunted for food or sacrifice, this is to say, such wild animals as are eatable. And surely
there may be a city happy in isolation, which we will assume to be well-governed (for it is quite possible that
a city thus isolated might be well-administered and have good laws); but such a city would not be constituted
with any view to war or the conquest of enemies- all that sort of thing must be excluded. Hence we see very
plainly that warlike pursuits, although generally to be deemed honorable, are not the supreme end of all
things, but only means. And the good lawgiver should inquire how states and races of men and communities
may participate in a good life, and in the happiness which is attainable by them. His enactments will not be
always the same; and where there are neighbors he will have to see what sort of studies should be practiced in
relation to their several characters, or how the measures appropriate in relation to each are to be adopted. The
end at which the best form of government should aim may be properly made a matter of future consideration.

Let us now address those who, while they agree that the life of virtue is the most eligible, differ about the
manner of practicing it. For some renounce political power, and think that the life of the freeman is different
from the life of the statesman and the best of all; but others think the life of the statesman best. The argument
of the latter is that he who does nothing cannot do well, and that virtuous activity is identical with happiness.
To both we say: 'you are partly right and partly wrong.' first class are right in affirming that the life of the
freeman is better than the life of the despot; for there is nothing grand or noble in having the use of a slave, in
so far as he is a slave; or in issuing commands about necessary things. But it is an error to suppose that every
sort of rule is despotic like that of a master over slaves, for there is as great a difference between the rule over
freemen and the rule over slaves as there is between slavery by nature and freedom by nature, about which I
have said enough at the commencement of this treatise. And it is equally a mistake to place inactivity above

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action, for happiness is activity, and the actions of the just and wise are the realization of much that is noble.

But perhaps some one, accepting these premises, may still maintain that supreme power is the best of all
things, because the possessors of it are able to perform the greatest number of noble actions, if so, the man
who is able to rule, instead of giving up anything to his neighbor, ought rather to take away his power; and
the father should make no account of his son, nor the son of his father, nor friend of friend; they should not
bestow a thought on one another in comparison with this higher object, for the best is the most eligible and
'doing eligible' and 'doing well' is the best. There might be some truth in such a view if we assume that
robbers and plunderers attain the chief good. But this can never be; their hypothesis is false. For the actions of
a ruler cannot really be honorable, unless he is as much superior to other men as a husband is to a wife, or a
father to his children, or a master to his slaves. And therefore he who violates the law can never recover by
any success, however great, what he has already lost in departing from virtue. For equals the honorable and
the just consist in sharing alike, as is just and equal. But that the unequal should be given to equals, and the
unlike to those who are like, is contrary to nature, and nothing which is contrary to nature is good. If,
therefore, there is any one superior in virtue and in the power of performing the best actions, him we ought to
follow and obey, but he must have the capacity for action as well as virtue.

If we are right in our view, and happiness is assumed to be virtuous activity, the active life will be the best,
both for every city collectively, and for individuals. Not that a life of action must necessarily have relation to
others, as some persons think, nor are those ideas only to be regarded as practical which are pursued for the
sake of practical results, but much more the thoughts and contemplations which are independent and
complete in themselves; since virtuous activity, and therefore a certain kind of action, is an end, and even in
the case of external actions the directing mind is most truly said to act. Neither, again, is it necessary that
states which are cut off from others and choose to live alone should be inactive; for activity, as well as other
things, may take place by sections; there are many ways in which the sections of a state act upon one another.
The same thing is equally true of every individual. If this were otherwise, God and the universe, who have no
external actions over and above their own energies, would be far enough from perfection. Hence it is evident
that the same life is best for each individual, and for states and for mankind collectively

Thus far by way of introduction. In what has preceded I have discussed other forms of government; in what
remains the first point to be considered is what should be the conditions of the ideal or perfect state; for the
perfect state cannot exist without a due supply of the means of life. And therefore we must presuppose many
purely imaginary conditions, but nothing impossible. There will be a certain number of citizens, a country in
which to place them, and the like. As the weaver or shipbuilder or any other artisan must have the material
proper for his work (and in proportion as this is better prepared, so will the result of his art be nobler), so the
statesman or legislator must also have the materials suited to him.

First among the materials required by the statesman is population: he will consider what should be the
number and character of the citizens, and then what should be the size and character of the country. Most
persons think that a state in order to be happy ought to be large; but even if they are right, they have no idea
what is a large and what a small state. For they judge of the size of the city by the number of the inhabitants;
whereas they ought to regard, not their number, but their power. A city too, like an individual, has a work to
do; and that city which is best adapted to the fulfillment of its work is to be deemed greatest, in the same
sense of the word great in which Hippocrates might be called greater, not as a man, but as a physician, than
some one else who was taller And even if we reckon greatness by numbers, we ought not to include
everybody, for there must always be in cities a multitude of slaves and sojourners and foreigners; but we
should include those only who are members of the state, and who form an essential part of it. The number of
the latter is a proof of the greatness of a city; but a city which produces numerous artisans and comparatively

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few soldiers cannot be great, for a great city is not to be confounded with a populous one. Moreover,
experience shows that a very populous city can rarely, if ever, be well governed; since all cities which have a
reputation for good government have a limit of population. We may argue on grounds of reason, and the
same result will follow. For law is order, and good law is good order; but a very great multitude cannot be
orderly: to introduce order into the unlimited is the work of a divine power- of such a power as holds
together the universe. Beauty is realized in number and magnitude, and the state which combines magnitude
with good order must necessarily be the most beautiful. To the size of states there is a limit, as there is to
other things, plants, animals, implements; for none of these retain their natural power when they are too large
or too small, but they either wholly lose their nature, or are spoiled. For example, a ship which is only a span
long will not be a ship at all, nor a ship a quarter of a mile long; yet there may be a ship of a certain size,
either too large or too small, which will still be a ship, but bad for sailing. In like manner a state when
composed of too few is not, as a state ought to be, self-sufficing; when of too many, though self-sufficing in
all mere necessaries, as a nation may be, it is not a state, being almost incapable of constitutional government.
For who can be the general of such a vast multitude, or who the herald, unless he have the voice of a Stentor?

A state, then, only begins to exist when it has attained a population sufficient for a good life in the political
community: it may indeed, if it somewhat exceed this number, be a greater state. But, as I was saying, there
must be a limit. What should be the limit will be easily ascertained by experience. For both governors and
governed have duties to perform; the special functions of a governor to command and to judge. But if the
citizens of a state are to judge and to distribute offices according to merit, then they must know each other's
characters; where they do not possess this knowledge, both the election to offices and the decision of lawsuits
will go wrong. When the population is very large they are manifestly settled at haphazard, which clearly
ought not to be. Besides, in an over-populous state foreigners and metics will readily acquire the rights of
citizens, for who will find them out? Clearly then the best limit of the population of a state is the largest
number which suffices for the purposes of life, and can be taken in at a single view. Enough concerning the
size of a state.

Much the same principle will apply to the territory of the state: every one would agree in praising the territory
which is most entirely self-sufficing; and that must be the territory which is all-producing, for to have all
things and to want nothing is sufficiency. In size and extent it should be such as may enable the inhabitants to
live at once temperately and liberally in the enjoyment of leisure. Whether we are right or wrong in laying
down this limit we will inquire more precisely hereafter, when we have occasion to consider what is the right
use of property and wealth: a matter which is much disputed, because men are inclined to rush into one of
two extremes, some into meanness, others into luxury.

It is not difficult to determine the general character of the territory which is required (there are, however,
some points on which military authorities should be heard); it should be difficult of access to the enemy, and
easy of egress to the inhabitants. Further, we require that the land as well as the inhabitants of whom we were
just now speaking should be taken in at a single view, for a country which is easily seen can be easily
protected. As to the position of the city, if we could have what we wish, it should be well situated in regard
both to sea and land. This then is one principle, that it should be a convenient center for the protection of the
whole country: the other is, that it should be suitable for receiving the fruits of the soil, and also for the
bringing in of timber and any other products that are easily transported.

Whether a communication with the sea is beneficial to a well-ordered state or not is a question which has
often been asked. It is argued that the introduction of strangers brought up under other laws, and the increase

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of population, will be adverse to good order; the increase arises from their using the sea and having a crowd
of merchants coming and going, and is inimical to good government. Apart from these considerations, it
would be undoubtedly better, both with a view to safety and to the provision of necessaries, that the city and
territory should be connected with the sea; the defenders of a country, if they are to maintain themselves
against an enemy, should be easily relieved both by land and by sea; and even if they are not able to attack by
sea and land at once, they will have less difficulty in doing mischief to their assailants on one element, if they
themselves can use both. Moreover, it is necessary that they should import from abroad what is not found in
their own country, and that they should export what they have in excess; for a city ought to be a market, not
indeed for others, but for herself.

Those who make themselves a market for the world only do so for the sake of revenue, and if a state ought
not to desire profit of this kind it ought not to have such an emporium. Nowadays we often see in countries
and cities dockyards and harbors very conveniently placed outside the city, but not too far off; and they are
kept in dependence by walls and similar fortifications. Cities thus situated manifestly reap the benefit of
intercourse with their ports; and any harm which is likely to accrue may be easily guarded against by the
laws, which will pronounce and determine who may hold communication with one another, and who may
not.

There can be no doubt that the possession of a moderate naval force is advantageous to a city; the city should
be formidable not only to its own citizens but to some of its neighbors, or, if necessary, able to assist them by
sea as well as by land. The proper number or magnitude of this naval force is relative to the character of the
state; for if her function is to take a leading part in politics, her naval power should be commensurate with the
scale of her enterprises. The population of the state need not be much increased, since there is no necessity
that the sailors should be citizens: the marines who have the control and command will be freemen, and
belong also to the infantry; and wherever there is a dense population of Perioeci and husbandmen, there will
always be sailors more than enough. Of this we see instances at the present day. The city of Heraclea, for
example, although small in comparison with many others, can man a considerable fleet. Such are our
conclusions respecting the territory of the state, its harbors, its towns, its relations to the sea, and its maritime
power.

VII

Having spoken of the number of the citizens, we will proceed to speak of what should be their character. This
is a subject which can be easily understood by any one who casts his eye on the more celebrated states of
Hellas, and generally on the distribution of races in the habitable world. Those who live in a cold climate and
in Europe are full of spirit, but wanting in intelligence and skill; and therefore they retain comparative
freedom, but have no political organization, and are incapable of ruling over others. Whereas the natives of
Asia are intelligent and inventive, but they are wanting in spirit, and therefore they are always in a state of
subjection and slavery. But the Hellenic race, which is situated between them, is likewise intermediate in
character, being high-spirited and also intelligent. Hence it continues free, and is the best-governed of any
nation, and, if it could be formed into one state, would be able to rule the world. There are also similar
differences in the different tribes of Hellas; for some of them are of a one-sided nature, and are intelligent or
courageous only, while in others there is a happy combination of both qualities. And clearly those whom the
legislator will most easily lead to virtue may be expected to be both intelligent and courageous. Some say that
the guardians should be friendly towards those whom they know, fierce towards those whom they do not
know. Now, passion is the quality of the soul which begets friendship and enables us to love; notably the
spirit within us is more stirred against our friends and acquaintances than against those who are unknown to
us, when we think that we are despised by them; for which reason Archilochus, complaining of his friends,
very naturally addresses his soul in these words:

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For surely thou art plagued on account of friends.

The power of command and the love of freedom are in all men based upon this quality, for passion is
commanding and invincible. Nor is it right to say that the guardians should be fierce towards those whom
they do not know, for we ought not to be out of temper with any one; and a lofty spirit is not fierce by nature,
but only when excited against evil-doers. And this, as I was saying before, is a feeling which men show most
strongly towards their friends if they think they have received a wrong at their hands: as indeed is reasonable;
for, besides the actual injury, they seem to be deprived of a benefit by those who owe them one. Hence the
saying:

Cruel is the strife of brethren, and again:

They who love in excess also hate in excess.

Thus we have nearly determined the number and character of the citizens of our state, and also the size and
nature of their territory. I say 'nearly,' for we ought not to require the same minuteness in theory as in the
facts given by perception.

VIM

As in other natural compounds the conditions of a composite whole are not necessarily organic parts of it, so
in a state or in any other combination forming a unity not everything is a part, which is a necessary condition.
The members of an association have necessarily some one thing the same and common to all, in which they
share equally or unequally for example, food or land or any other thing. But where there are two things of
which one is a means and the other an end, they have nothing in common except that the one receives what
the other produces. Such, for example, is the relation which workmen and tools stand to their work; the house
and the builder have nothing in common, but the art of the builder is for the sake of the house. And so states
require property, but property, even though living beings are included in it, is no part of a state; for a state is
not a community of living beings only, but a community of equals, aiming at the best life possible. Now,
whereas happiness is the highest good, being a realization and perfect practice of virtue, which some can
attain, while others have little or none of it, the various qualities of men are clearly the reason why there are
various kinds of states and many forms of government; for different men seek after happiness in different
ways and by different means, and so make for themselves different modes of life and forms of government.
We must see also how many things are indispensable to the existence of a state, for what we call the parts of a
state will be found among the indispensables. Let us then enumerate the functions of a state, and we shall
easily elicit what we want:

First, there must be food; secondly, arts, for life requires many instruments; thirdly, there must be arms, for
the members of a community have need of them, and in their own hands, too, in order to maintain authority
both against disobedient subjects and against external assailants; fourthly, there must be a certain amount of
revenue, both for internal needs, and for the purposes of war; fifthly, or rather first, there must be a care of
religion which is commonly called worship; sixthly, and most necessary of all there must be a power of
deciding what is for the public interest, and what is just in men's dealings with one another.

These are the services which every state may be said to need. For a state is not a mere aggregate of persons,
but a union of them sufficing for the purposes of life; and if any of these things be wanting, it is as we
maintain impossible that the community can be absolutely self-sufficing. A state then should be framed with
a view to the fulfillment of these functions. There must be husbandmen to procure food, and artisans, and a
warlike and a wealthy class, and priests, and judges to decide what is necessary and expedient.

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Having determined these points, we have in the next place to consider whether all ought to share in every sort
of occupation. Shall every man be at once husbandman, artisan, councillor, judge, or shall we suppose the
several occupations just mentioned assigned to different persons? or, thirdly, shall some employments be
assigned to individuals and others common to all? The same arrangement, however, does not occur in every
constitution; as we were saying, all may be shared by all, or not all by all, but only by some; and hence arise
the differences of constitutions, for in democracies all share in all, in oligarchies the opposite practice
prevails. Now, since we are here speaking of the best form of government, i.e., that under which the state will
be most happy (and happiness, as has been already said, cannot exist without virtue), it clearly follows that in
the state which is best governed and possesses men who are just absolutely, and not merely relatively to the
principle of the constitution, the citizens must not lead the life of mechanics or tradesmen, for such a life is
ignoble, and inimical to virtue. Neither must they be husbandmen, since leisure is necessary both for the
development of virtue and the performance of political duties.

Again, there is in a state a class of warriors, and another of councillors, who advise about the expedient and
determine matters of law, and these seem in an especial manner parts of a state. Now, should these two
classes be distinguished, or are both functions to be assigned to the same persons? Here again there is no
difficulty in seeing that both functions will in one way belong to the same, in another, to different persons. To
different persons in so far as these i.e., the physical and the employments are suited to different primes of life,
for the one requires mental wisdom and the other strength. But on the other hand, since it is an impossible
thing that those who are able to use or to resist force should be willing to remain always in subjection, from
this point of view the persons are the same; for those who carry arms can always determine the fate of the
constitution. It remains therefore that both functions should be entrusted by the ideal constitution to the same
persons, not, however, at the same time, but in the order prescribed by nature, who has given to young men
strength and to older men wisdom. Such a distribution of duties will be expedient and also just, and is
founded upon a principle of conformity to merit. Besides, the ruling class should be the owners of property,
for they are citizens, and the citizens of a state should be in good circumstances; whereas mechanics or any
other class which is not a producer of virtue have no share in the state. This follows from our first principle,
for happiness cannot exist without virtue, and a city is not to be termed happy in regard to a portion of the
citizens, but in regard to them all. And clearly property should be in their hands, since the husbandmen will
of necessity be slaves or barbarian Perioeci.

Of the classes enumerated there remain only the priests, and the manner in which their office is to be
regulated is obvious. No husbandman or mechanic should be appointed to it; for the Gods should receive
honor from the citizens only. Now since the body of the citizen is divided into two classes, the warriors and
the councillors and it is beseeming that the worship of the Gods should be duly performed, and also a rest
provided in their service for those who from age have given up active life, to the old men of these two classes
should be assigned the duties of the priesthood.

We have shown what are the necessary conditions, and what the parts of a state: husbandmen, craftsmen, and
laborers of an kinds are necessary to the existence of states, but the parts of the state are the warriors and
councillors. And these are distinguished severally from one another, the distinction being in some cases
permanent, in others not.

It is not a new or recent discovery of political philosophers that the state ought to be divided into classes, and
that the warriors should be separated from the husbandmen. The system has continued in Egypt and in Crete
to this day, and was established, as tradition says, by a law of Sesostris in Egypt and of Minos in Crete. The

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institution of common tables also appears to be of ancient date, being in Crete as old as the reign of Minos,
and in Italy far older. The Italian historians say that there was a certain Italus, king of Oenotria, from whom
the Oenotrians were called Italians, and who gave the name of Italy to the promontory of Europe lying within
the Scylletic and Lametic Gulfs, which are distant from one another only half a day's journey. They say that
this Italus converted the Oenotrians from shepherds into husbandmen, and besides other laws which he gave
them, was the founder of their common meals; even in our day some who are derived from him retain this
institution and certain other laws of his. On the side of Italy towards Tyrrhenia dwelt the Opici, who are now,
as of old, called Ausones; and on the side towards Iapygia and the Ionian Gulf, in the district called Siritis,
the Chones, who are likewise of Oenotrian race. From this part of the world originally came the institution of
common tables; the separation into castes from Egypt, for the reign of Sesostris is of far greater antiquity than
that of Minos. It is true indeed that these and many other things have been invented several times over in the
course of ages, or rather times without number; for necessity may be supposed to have taught men the
inventions which were absolutely required, and when these were provided, it was natural that other things
which would adorn and enrich life should grow up by degrees. And we may infer that in political institutions
the same rule holds. Egypt witnesses to the antiquity of all these things, for the Egyptians appear to be of all
people the most ancient; and they have laws and a regular constitution existing from time immemorial. We
should therefore make the best use of what has been already discovered, and try to supply defects.

I have already remarked that the land ought to belong to those who possess arms and have a share in the
government, and that the husbandmen ought to be a class distinct from them; and I have determined what
should be the extent and nature of the territory. Let me proceed to discuss the distribution of the land, and the
character of the agricultural class; for I do not think that property ought to be common, as some maintain, but
only that by friendly consent there should be a common use of it; and that no citizen should be in want of
subsistence.

As to common meals, there is a general agreement that a well ordered city should have them; and we will
hereafter explain what are our own reasons for taking this view. They ought, however, to be open to all the
citizens. And yet it is not easy for the poor to contribute the requisite sum out of their private means, and to
provide also for their household. The expense of religious worship should likewise be a public charge. The
land must therefore be divided into two parts, one public and the other private, and each part should be
subdivided, part of the public land being appropriated to the service of the Gods, and the other part used to
defray the cost of the common meals; while of the private land, part should be near the border, and the other
near the city, so that, each citizen having two lots, they may all of them have land in both places; there is
justice and fairness in such a division, and it tends to inspire unanimity among the people in their border
wars. Where there is not this arrangement some of them are too ready to come to blows with their neighbors,
while others are so cautious that they quite lose the sense of honor. Wherefore there is a law in some places
which forbids those who dwell near the border to take part in public deliberations about wars with neighbors,
on the ground that their interests will pervert their judgment. For the reasons already mentioned, then, the
land should be divided in the manner described. The very best thing of all would be that the husbandmen
should be slaves taken from among men who are not all of the same race and not spirited, for if they have no
spirit they will be better suited for their work, and there will be no danger of their making a revolution. The
next best thing would be that they should be Perioeci of foreign race, and of a like inferior nature; some of
them should be the slaves of individuals, and employed in the private estates of men of property, the
remainder should be the property of the state and employed on the common land. I will hereafter explain
what is the proper treatment of slaves, and why it is expedient that liberty should be always held out to them
as the reward of their services.

We have already said that the city should be open to the land and to the sea, and to the whole country as far as
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possible. In respect of the place itself our wish would be that its situation should be fortunate in four things.
The first, health- this is a necessity: cities which lie towards the east, and are blown upon by winds coming
from the east, are the healthiest; next in healthfulness are those which are sheltered from the north wind, for
they have a milder winter. The site of the city should likewise be convenient both for political administration
and for war. With a view to the latter it should afford easy egress to the citizens, and at the same time be
inaccessible and difficult of capture to enemies. There should be a natural abundance of springs and fountains
in the town, or, if there is a deficiency of them, great reservoirs may be established for the collection of
rainwater, such as will not fail when the inhabitants are cut off from the country by by war. Special care
should be taken of the health of the inhabitants, which will depend chiefly on the healthiness of the locality
and of the quarter to which they are exposed, and secondly, on the use of pure water; this latter point is by no
means a secondary consideration. For the elements which we use most and oftenest for the support of the
body contribute most to health, and among these are water and air. Wherefore, in all wise states, if there is a
want of pure water, and the supply is not all equally good, the drinking water ought to be separated from that
which is used for other purposes.

As to strongholds, what is suitable to different forms of government varies: thus an acropolis is suited to an
oligarchy or a monarchy, but a plain to a democracy; neither to an aristocracy, but rather a number of strong
places. The arrangement of private houses is considered to be more agreeable and generally more convenient,
if the streets are regularly laid out after the modern fashion which Hippodamus introduced, but for security in
war the antiquated mode of building, which made it difficult for strangers to get out of a town and for
assailants to find their way in, is preferable. A city should therefore adopt both plans of building: it is
possible to arrange the houses irregularly, as husbandmen plant their vines in what are called 'clumps.' The
whole town should not be laid out in straight lines, but only certain quarters and regions; thus security and
beauty will be combined.

As to walls, those who say that cities making any pretension to military virtue should not have them, are quite
out of date in their notions; and they may see the cities which prided themselves on this fancy confuted by
facts. True, there is little courage shown in seeking for safety behind a rampart when an enemy is similar in
character and not much superior in number; but the superiority of the besiegers may be and often is too much
both for ordinary human valor and for that which is found only in a few; and if they are to be saved and to
escape defeat and outrage, the strongest wall will be the truest soldierly precaution, more especially now that
missiles and siege engines have been brought to such perfection. To have no walls would be as foolish as to
choose a site for a town in an exposed country, and to level the heights; or as if an individual were to leave
his house unwalled, lest the inmates should become cowards. Nor must we forget that those who have their
cities surrounded by walls may either take advantage of them or not, but cities which are unwalled have no
choice.

If our conclusions are just, not only should cities have walls, but care should be taken to make them
ornamental, as well as useful for warlike purposes, and adapted to resist modern inventions. For as the
assailants of a city do all they can to gain an advantage, so the defenders should make use of any means of
defense which have been already discovered, and should devise and invent others, for when men are well
prepared no enemy even thinks of attacking them.

XII

As the walls are to be divided by guardhouses and towers built at suitable intervals, and the body of citizens
must be distributed at common tables, the idea will naturally occur that we should establish some of the
common tables in the guardhouses. These might be arranged as has been suggested; while the principal
common tables of the magistrates will occupy a suitable place, and there also will be the buildings
appropriated to religious worship except in the case of those rites which the law or the Pythian oracle has

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restricted to a special locality. The site should be a spot seen far and wide, which gives due elevation to virtue
and towers over the neighborhood. Below this spot should be established an agora, such as that which the
Thessalians call the 'freemen's agora'; from this all trade should be excluded, and no mechanic, husbandman,
or any such person allowed to enter, unless he be summoned by the magistrates. It would be a charming use
of the place, if the gymnastic exercises of the elder men were performed there. For in this noble practice
different ages should be separated, and some of the magistrates should stay with the boys, while the
grown-up men remain with the magistrates; for the presence of the magistrates is the best mode of inspiring
true modesty and ingenuous fear. There should also be a traders' agora, distinct and apart from the other, in a
situation which is convenient for the reception of goods both by sea and land.

But in speaking of the magistrates we must not forget another section of the citizens, viz., the priests, for
whom public tables should likewise be provided in their proper place near the temples. The magistrates who
deal with contracts, indictments, summonses, and the like, and those who have the care of the agora and of
the city, respectively, ought to be established near an agora and some public place of meeting; the
neighborhood of the traders' agora will be a suitable spot; the upper agora we devote to the life of leisure, the
other is intended for the necessities of trade.

The same order should prevail in the country, for there too the magistrates, called by some 'Inspectors of
Forests' and by others 'Wardens of the Country,' must have guardhouses and common tables while they are on
duty; temples should also be scattered throughout the country, dedicated, some to Gods, and some to heroes.

But it would be a waste of time for us to linger over details like these. The difficulty is not in imagining but in
carrying them out. We may talk about them as much as we like, but the execution of them will depend upon
fortune. Wherefore let us say no more about these matters for the present.

XIII

Returning to the constitution itself, let us seek to determine out of what and what sort of elements the state
which is to be happy and well-governed should be composed. There are two things in which all which all
well-being consists: one of them is the choice of a right end and aim of action, and the other the discovery of
the actions which are means towards it; for the means and the end may agree or disagree. Sometimes the right
end is set before men, but in practice they fail to attain it; in other cases they are successful in all the means,
but they propose to themselves a bad end; and sometimes they fail in both. Take, for example, the art of
medicine; physicians do not always understand the nature of health, and also the means which they use may
not effect the desired end. In all arts and sciences both the end and the means should be equally within our
control.

The happiness and well-being which all men manifestly desire, some have the power of attaining, but to
others, from some accident or defect of nature, the attainment of them is not granted; for a good life requires
a supply of external goods, in a less degree when men are in a good state, in a greater degree when they are in
a lower state. Others again, who possess the conditions of happiness, go utterly wrong from the first in the
pursuit of it. But since our object is to discover the best form of government, that, namely, under which a city
will be best governed, and since the city is best governed which has the greatest opportunity of obtaining
happiness, it is evident that we must clearly ascertain the nature of happiness.

We maintain, and have said in the Ethics, if the arguments there adduced are of any value, that happiness is
the realization and perfect exercise of virtue, and this not conditional, but absolute. And I used the term
'conditional' to express that which is indispensable, and 'absolute' to express that which is good in itself. Take
the case of just actions; just punishments and chastisements do indeed spring from a good principle, but they
are good only because we cannot do without them- it would be better that neither individuals nor states

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should need anything of the sort- but actions which aim at honor and advantage are absolutely the best. The
conditional action is only the choice of a lesser evil; whereas these are the foundation and creation of good. A
good man may make the best even of poverty and disease, and the other ills of life; but he can only attain
happiness under the opposite conditions (for this also has been determined in accordance with ethical
arguments, that the good man is he for whom, because he is virtuous, the things that are absolutely good are
good; it is also plain that his use of these goods must be virtuous and in the absolute sense good). This makes
men fancy that external goods are the cause of happiness, yet we might as well say that a brilliant
performance on the lyre was to be attributed to the instrument and not to the skill of the performer.

It follows then from what has been said that some things the legislator must find ready to his hand in a state,
others he must provide. And therefore we can only say: May our state be constituted in such a manner as to
be blessed with the goods of which fortune disposes (for we acknowledge her power): whereas virtue and
goodness in the state are not a matter of chance but the result of knowledge and purpose. A city can be
virtuous only when the citizens who have a share in the government are virtuous, and in our state all the
citizens share in the government; let us then inquire how a man becomes virtuous. For even if we could
suppose the citizen body to be virtuous, without each of them being so, yet the latter would be better, for in
the virtue of each the virtue of all is involved.

There are three things which make men good and virtuous; these are nature, habit, rational principle. In the
first place, every one must be born a man and not some other animal; so, too, he must have a certain
character, both of body and soul. But some qualities there is no use in having at birth, for they are altered by
habit, and there are some gifts which by nature are made to be turned by habit to good or bad. Animals lead
for the most part a life of nature, although in lesser particulars some are influenced by habit as well. Man has
rational principle, in addition, and man only. Wherefore nature, habit, rational principle must be in harmony
with one another; for they do not always agree; men do many things against habit and nature, if rational
principle persuades them that they ought. We have already determined what natures are likely to be most
easily molded by the hands of the legislator. An else is the work of education; we learn some things by habit
and some by instruction.

XIV

Since every political society is composed of rulers and subjects let us consider whether the relations of one to
the other should interchange or be permanent. For the education of the citizens will necessarily vary with the
answer given to this question. Now, if some men excelled others in the same degree in which gods and heroes
are supposed to excel mankind in general (having in the first place a great advantage even in their bodies, and
secondly in their minds), so that the superiority of the governors was undisputed and patent to their subjects,
it would clearly be better that once for an the one class should rule and the other serve. But since this is
unattainable, and kings have no marked superiority over their subjects, such as Scylax affirms to be found
among the Indians, it is obviously necessary on many grounds that all the citizens alike should take their turn
of governing and being governed. Equality consists in the same treatment of similar persons, and no
government can stand which is not founded upon justice. For if the government be unjust every one in the
country unites with the governed in the desire to have a revolution, and it is an impossibility that the members
of the government can be so numerous as to be stronger than all their enemies put together. Yet that
governors should excel their subjects is undeniable. How all this is to be effected, and in what way they will
respectively share in the government, the legislator has to consider. The subject has been already mentioned.
Nature herself has provided the distinction when she made a difference between old and young within the
same species, of whom she fitted the one to govern and the other to be governed. No one takes offense at
being governed when he is young, nor does he think himself better than his governors, especially if he will
enjoy the same privilege when he reaches the required age.

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We conclude that from one point of view governors and governed are identical, and from another different.
And therefore their education must be the same and also different. For he who would learn to command well
must, as men say, first of all learn to obey. As I observed in the first part of this treatise, there is one rule
which is for the sake of the rulers and another rule which is for the sake of the ruled; the former is a despotic,
the latter a free government. Some commands differ not in the thing commanded, but in the intention with
which they are imposed. Wherefore, many apparently menial offices are an honor to the free youth by whom
they are performed; for actions do not differ as honorable or dishonorable in themselves so much as in the
end and intention of them. But since we say that the virtue of the citizen and ruler is the same as that of the
good man, and that the same person must first be a subject and then a ruler, the legislator has to see that they
become good men, and by what means this may be accomplished, and what is the end of the perfect life.

Now the soul of man is divided into two parts, one of which has a rational principle in itself, and the other,
not having a rational principle in itself, is able to obey such a principle. And we call a man in any way good
because he has the virtues of these two parts. In which of them the end is more likely to be found is no matter
of doubt to those who adopt our division; for in the world both of nature and of art the inferior always exists
for the sake of the better or superior, and the better or superior is that which has a rational principle. This
principle, too, in our ordinary way of speaking, is divided into two kinds, for there is a practical and a
speculative principle. This part, then, must evidently be similarly divided. And there must be a corresponding
division of actions; the actions of the naturally better part are to be preferred by those who have it in their
power to attain to two out of the three or to all, for that is always to every one the most eligible which is the
highest attainable by him. The whole of life is further divided into two parts, business and leisure, war and
peace, and of actions some aim at what is necessary and useful, and some at what is honorable. And the
preference given to one or the other class of actions must necessarily be like the preference given to one or
other part of the soul and its actions over the other; there must be war for the sake of peace, business for the
sake of leisure, things useful and necessary for the sake of things honorable. All these points the statesman
should keep in view when he frames his laws; he should consider the parts of the soul and their functions, and
above all the better and the end; he should also remember the diversities of human lives and actions. For men
must be able to engage in business and go to war, but leisure and peace are better; they must do what is
necessary and indeed what is useful, but what is honorable is better. On such principles children and persons
of every age which requires education should be trained. Whereas even the Hellenes of the present day who
are reputed to be best governed, and the legislators who gave them their constitutions, do not appear to have
framed their governments with a regard to the best end, or to have given them laws and education with a view
to all the virtues, but in a vulgar spirit have fallen back on those which promised to be more useful and
profitable. Many modern writers have taken a similar view: they commend the Lacedaemonian constitution,
and praise the legislator for making conquest and war his sole aim, a doctrine which may be refuted by
argument and has long ago been refuted by facts. For most men desire empire in the hope of accumulating the
goods of fortune; and on this ground Thibron and all those who have written about the Lacedaemonian
constitution have praised their legislator, because the Lacedaemonians, by being trained to meet dangers,
gained great power. But surely they are not a happy people now that their empire has passed away, nor was
their legislator right. How ridiculous is the result, if, when they are continuing in the observance of his laws
and no one interferes with them, they have lost the better part of life! These writers further err about the sort
of government which the legislator should approve, for the government of freemen is nobler and implies
more virtue than despotic government. Neither is a city to be deemed happy or a legislator to be praised
because he trains his citizens to conquer and obtain dominion over their neighbors, for there is great evil in
this. On a similar principle any citizen who could, should obviously try to obtain the power in his own state-
the crime which the Lacedaemonians accuse king Pausanias of attempting, although he had so great honor
already. No such principle and no law having this object is either statesmanlike or useful or right. For the
same things are best both for individuals and for states, and these are the things which the legislator ought to
implant in the minds of his citizens.

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Neither should men study war with a view to the enslavement of those who do not deserve to be enslaved; but
first of all they should provide against their own enslavement, and in the second place obtain empire for the
good of the governed, and not for the sake of exercising a general despotism, and in the third place they
should seek to be masters only over those who deserve to be slaves. Facts, as well as arguments, prove that
the legislator should direct all his military and other measures to the provision of leisure and the
establishment of peace. For most of these military states are safe only while they are at war, but fall when
they have acquired their empire; like unused iron they lose their temper in time of peace. And for this the
legislator is to blame, he never having taught them how to lead the life of peace.

Since the end of individuals and of states is the same, the end of the best man and of the best constitution
must also be the same; it is therefore evident that there ought to exist in both of them the virtues of leisure;
for peace, as has been often repeated, is the end of war, and leisure of toil. But leisure and cultivation may be
promoted, not only by those virtues which are practiced in leisure, but also by some of those which are useful
to business. For many necessaries of life have to be supplied before we can have leisure. Therefore a city
must be temperate and brave, and able to endure: for truly, as the proverb says, 'There is no leisure for slaves,'
and those who cannot face danger like men are the slaves of any invader. Courage and endurance are required
for business and philosophy for leisure, temperance and justice for both, and more especially in times of
peace and leisure, for war compels men to be just and temperate, whereas the enjoyment of good fortune and
the leisure which comes with peace tend to make them insolent. Those then who seem to be the best-off and
to be in the possession of every good, have special need of justice and temperance- for example, those (if
such there be, as the poets say) who dwell in the Islands of the Blest; they above all will need philosophy and
temperance and justice, and all the more the more leisure they have, living in the midst of abundance. There
is no difficulty in seeing why the state that would be happy and good ought to have these virtues. If it be
disgraceful in men not to be able to use the goods of life, it is peculiarly disgraceful not to be able to use them
in time of leisure- to show excellent qualities in action and war, and when they have peace and leisure to be
no better than slaves. Wherefore we should not practice virtue after the manner of the Lacedaemonians. For
they, while agreeing with other men in their conception of the highest goods, differ from the rest of mankind
in thinking that they are to be obtained by the practice of a single virtue. And since they think these goods
and the enjoyment of them greater than the enjoyment derived from the virtues ... and that it should be
practiced for its own sake, is evident from what has been said; we must now consider how and by what means
it is to be attained.

We have already determined that nature and habit and rational principle are required, and, of these, the proper
nature of the citizens has also been defined by us. But we have still to consider whether the training of early
life is to be that of rational principle or habit, for these two must accord, and when in accord they will then
form the best of harmonies. The rational principle may be mistaken and fail in attaining the highest ideal of
life, and there may be a like evil influence of habit. Thus much is clear in the first place, that, as in all other
things, birth implies an antecedent beginning, and that there are beginnings whose end is relative to a further
end. Now, in men rational principle and mind are the end towards which nature strives, so that the birth and
moral discipline of the citizens ought to be ordered with a view to them. In the second place, as the soul and
body are two, we see also that there are two parts of the soul, the rational and the irrational, and two
corresponding states- reason and appetite. And as the body is prior in order of generation to the soul, so the
irrational is prior to the rational. The proof is that anger and wishing and desire are implanted in children
from their very birth, but reason and understanding are developed as they grow older. Wherefore, the care of
the body ought to precede that of the soul, and the training of the appetitive part should follow: none the less
our care of it must be for the sake of the reason, and our care of the body for the sake of the soul.

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XVI

Since the legislator should begin by considering how the frames of the children whom he is rearing may be as
good as possible, his first care will be about marriage- at what age should his citizens marry, and who are fit
to marry? In legislating on this subject he ought to consider the persons and the length of their life, that their
procreative life may terminate at the same period, and that they may not differ in their bodily powers, as will
be the case if the man is still able to beget children while the woman is unable to bear them, or the woman
able to bear while the man is unable to beget, for from these causes arise quarrels and differences between
married persons. Secondly, he must consider the time at which the children will succeed to their parents;
there ought not to be too great an interval of age, for then the parents will be too old to derive any pleasure
from their affection, or to be of any use to them. Nor ought they to be too nearly of an age; to youthful
marriages there are many objections- the children will be wanting in respect to the parents, who will seem to
be their contemporaries, and disputes will arise in the management of the household. Thirdly, and this is the
point from which we digressed, the legislator must mold to his will the frames of newly-born children.
Almost all these objects may be secured by attention to one point. Since the time of generation is commonly
limited within the age of seventy years in the case of a man, and of fifty in the case of a woman, the
commencement of the union should conform to these periods. The union of male and female when too young
is bad for the procreation of children; in all other animals the offspring of the young are small and
in-developed, and with a tendency to produce female children, and therefore also in man, as is proved by the
fact that in those cities in which men and women are accustomed to marry young, the people are small and
weak; in childbirth also younger women suffer more, and more of them die; some persons say that this was
the meaning of the response once given to the Troezenians- the oracle really meant that many died because
they married too young; it had nothing to do with the ingathering of the harvest. It also conduces to
temperance not to marry too soon; for women who marry early are apt to be wanton; and in men too the
bodily frame is stunted if they marry while the seed is growing (for there is a time when the growth of the
seed, also, ceases, or continues to but a slight extent). Women should marry when they are about eighteen
years of age, and men at seven and thirty; then they are in the prime of life, and the decline in the powers of
both will coincide. Further, the children, if their birth takes place soon, as may reasonably be expected, will
succeed in the beginning of their prime, when the fathers are already in the decline of life, and have nearly
reached their term of three-score years and ten.

Thus much of the age proper for marriage: the season of the year should also be considered; according to our
present custom, people generally limit marriage to the season of winter, and they are right. The precepts of
physicians and natural philosophers about generation should also be studied by the parents themselves; the
physicians give good advice about the favorable conditions of the body, and the natural philosophers about
the winds; of which they prefer the north to the south.

What constitution in the parent is most advantageous to the offspring is a subject which we will consider
more carefully when we speak of the education of children, and we will only make a few general remarks at
present. The constitution of an athlete is not suited to the life of a citizen, or to health, or to the procreation of
children, any more than the valetudinarian or exhausted constitution, but one which is in a mean between
them. A man's constitution should be inured to labor, but not to labor which is excessive or of one sort only,
such as is practiced by athletes; he should be capable of all the actions of a freeman. These remarks apply
equally to both parents.

Women who are with child should be careful of themselves; they should take exercise and have a nourishing
diet. The first of these prescriptions the legislator will easily carry into effect by requiring that they shall take
a walk daily to some temple, where they can worship the gods who preside over birth. Their minds, however,
unlike their bodies, they ought to keep quiet, for the offspring derive their natures from their mothers as
plants do from the earth.

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As to the exposure and rearing of children, let there be a law that no deformed child shall live, but that on the
ground of an excess in the number of children, if the established customs of the state forbid this (for in our
state population has a limit), no child is to be exposed, but when couples have children in excess, let abortion
be procured before sense and life have begun; what may or may not be lawfully done in these cases depends
on the question of life and sensation.

And now, having determined at what ages men and women are to begin their union, let us also determine how
long they shall continue to beget and bear offspring for the state; men who are too old, like men who are too
young, produce children who are defective in body and mind; the children of very old men are weakly. The
limit then, should be the age which is the prime of their intelligence, and this in most persons, according to
the notion of some poets who measure life by periods of seven years, is about fifty; at four or five years or
later, they should cease from having families; and from that time forward only cohabit with one another for
the sake of health; or for some similar reason.

As to adultery, let it be held disgraceful, in general, for any man or woman to be found in any way unfaithful
when they are married, and called husband and wife. If during the time of bearing children anything of the
sort occur, let the guilty person be punished with a loss of privileges in proportion to the offense.

XVII

After the children have been born, the manner of rearing them may be supposed to have a great effect on their
bodily strength. It would appear from the example of animals, and of those nations who desire to create the
military habit, that the food which has most milk in it is best suited to human beings; but the less wine the
better, if they would escape diseases. Also all the motions to which children can be subjected at their early
age are very useful. But in order to preserve their tender limbs from distortion, some nations have had
recourse to mechanical appliances which straighten their bodies. To accustom children to the cold from their
earliest years is also an excellent practice, which greatly conduces to health, and hardens them for military
service. Hence many barbarians have a custom of plunging their children at birth into a cold stream; others,
like the Celts, clothe them in a light wrapper only. For human nature should be early habituated to endure all
which by habit it can be made to endure; but the process must be gradual. And children, from their natural
warmth, may be easily trained to bear cold. Such care should attend them in the first stage of life.

The next period lasts to the age of five; during this no demand should be made upon the child for study or
labor, lest its growth be impeded; and there should be sufficient motion to prevent the limbs from being
inactive. This can be secured, among other ways, by amusement, but the amusement should not be vulgar or
tiring or effeminate. The Directors of Education, as they are termed, should be careful what tales or stories
the children hear, for all such things are designed to prepare the way for the business of later life, and should
be for the most part imitations of the occupations which they will hereafter pursue in earnest. Those are
wrong who in their laws attempt to check the loud crying and screaming of children, for these contribute
towards their growth, and, in a manner, exercise their bodies. Straining the voice has a strengthening effect
similar to that produced by the retention of the breath in violent exertions. The Directors of Education should
have an eye to their bringing up, and in particular should take care that they are left as little as possible with
slaves. For until they are seven years old they must five at home; and therefore, even at this early age, it is to
be expected that they should acquire a taint of meanness from what they hear and see. Indeed, there is nothing
which the legislator should be more careful to drive away than indecency of speech; for the light utterance of
shameful words leads soon to shameful actions. The young especially should never be allowed to repeat or
hear anything of the sort. A freeman who is found saying or doing what is forbidden, if he be too young as
yet to have the privilege of reclining at the public tables, should be disgraced and beaten, and an elder person
degraded as his slavish conduct deserves. And since we do not allow improper language, clearly we should
also banish pictures or speeches from the stage which are indecent. Let the rulers take care that there be no

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image or picture representing unseemly actions, except in the temples of those Gods at whose festivals the
law permits even ribaldry, and whom the law also permits to be worshipped by persons of mature age on
behalf of themselves, their children, and their wives. But the legislator should not allow youth to be
spectators of iambi or of comedy until they are of an age to sit at the public tables and to drink strong wine;
by that time education will have armed them against the evil influences of such representations.

We have made these remarks in a cursory manner- they are enough for the present occasion; but hereafter we
will return to the subject and after a fuller discussion determine whether such liberty should or should not be
granted, and in what way granted, if at all. Theodorus, the tragic actor, was quite right in saying that he would
not allow any other actor, not even if he were quite second-rate, to enter before himself, because the
spectators grew fond of the voices which they first heard. And the same principle applies universally to
association with things as well as with persons, for we always like best whatever comes first. And therefore
youth should be kept strangers to all that is bad, and especially to things which suggest vice or hate. When the
five years have passed away, during the two following years they must look on at the pursuits which they are
hereafter to learn. There are two periods of life with reference to which education has to be divided, from
seven to the age of puberty, and onwards to the age of one and twenty. The poets who divide ages by sevens
are in the main right: but we should observe the divisions actually made by nature; for the deficiencies of
nature are what art and education seek to fill up.

Let us then first inquire if any regulations are to be laid down about children, and secondly, whether the care
of them should be the concern of the state or of private individuals, which latter is in our own day the
common custom, and in the third place, what these regulations should be.

BOOK EIGHT

NO ONE will doubt that the legislator should direct his attention above all to the education of youth; for the
neglect of education does harm to the constitution The citizen should be molded to suit the form of
government under which he lives. For each government has a peculiar character which originally formed and
which continues to preserve it. The character of democracy creates democracy, and the character of oligarchy
creates oligarchy; and always the better the character, the better the government.

Again, for the exercise of any faculty or art a previous training and habituation are required; clearly therefore
for the practice of virtue. And since the whole city has one end, it is manifest that education should be one
and the same for all, and that it should be public, and not private- not as at present, when every one looks
after his own children separately, and gives them separate instruction of the sort which he thinks best; the
training in things which are of common interest should be the same for all. Neither must we suppose that any
one of the citizens belongs to himself, for they all belong to the state, and are each of them a part of the state,
and the care of each part is inseparable from the care of the whole. In this particular as in some others the
Lacedaemonians are to be praised, for they take the greatest pains about their children, and make education
the business of the state.

That education should be regulated by law and should be an affair of state is not to be denied, but what
should be the character of this public education, and how young persons should be educated, are questions
which remain to be considered. As things are, there is disagreement about the subjects. For mankind are by
no means agreed about the things to be taught, whether we look to virtue or the best life. Neither is it clear
whether education is more concerned with intellectual or with moral virtue. The existing practice is

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perplexing; no one knows on what principle we should proceed- should the useful in life, or should virtue, or
should the higher knowledge, be the aim of our training; all three opinions have been entertained. Again,
about the means there is no agreement; for different persons, starting with different ideas about the nature of
virtue, naturally disagree about the practice of it. There can be no doubt that children should be taught those
useful things which are really necessary, but not all useful things; for occupations are divided into liberal and
illiberal; and to young children should be imparted only such kinds of knowledge as will be useful to them
without vulgarizing them. And any occupation, art, or science, which makes the body or soul or mind of the
freeman less fit for the practice or exercise of virtue, is vulgar; wherefore we call those arts vulgar which tend
to deform the body, and likewise all paid employments, for they absorb and degrade the mind. There are also
some liberal arts quite proper for a freeman to acquire, but only in a certain degree, and if he attend to them
too closely, in order to attain perfection in them, the same evil effects will follow. The object also which a
man sets before him makes a great difference; if he does or learns anything for his own sake or for the sake of
his friends, or with a view to excellence the action will not appear illiberal; but if done for the sake of others,
the very same action will be thought menial and servile. The received subjects of instruction, as I have
already remarked, are partly of a liberal and party of an illiberal character.

The customary branches of education are in number four; they are- (1) reading and writing, (2) gymnastic
exercises, (3) music, to which is sometimes added (4) drawing. Of these, reading and writing and drawing are
regarded as useful for the purposes of life in a variety of ways, and gymnastic exercises are thought to infuse
courage, concerning music a doubt may be raised- in our own day most men cultivate it for the sake of
pleasure, but originally it was included in education, because nature herself, as has been often said, requires
that we should be able, not only to work well, but to use leisure well; for, as I must repeat once again, the first
principle of all action is leisure. Both are required, but leisure is better than occupation and is its end; and
therefore the question must be asked, what ought we to do when at leisure? Clearly we ought not to be
amusing ourselves, for then amusement would be the end of life. But if this is inconceivable, and amusement
is needed more amid serious occupations than at other times (for he who is hard at work has need of
relaxation, and amusement gives relaxation, whereas occupation is always accompanied with exertion and
effort), we should introduce amusements only at suitable times, and they should be our medicines, for the
emotion which they create in the soul is a relaxation, and from the pleasure we obtain rest. But leisure of
itself gives pleasure and happiness and enjoyment of life, which are experienced, not by the busy man, but by
those who have leisure. For he who is occupied has in view some end which he has not attained; but
happiness is an end, since all men deem it to be accompanied with pleasure and not with pain. This pleasure,
however, is regarded differently by different persons, and varies according to the habit of individuals; the
pleasure of the best man is the best, and springs from the noblest sources. It is clear then that there are
branches of learning and education which we must study merely with a view to leisure spent in intellectual
activity, and these are to be valued for their own sake; whereas those kinds of knowledge which are useful in
business are to be deemed necessary, and exist for the sake of other things. And therefore our fathers
admitted music into education, not on the ground either of its necessity or utility, for it is not necessary, nor
indeed useful in the same manner as reading and writing, which are useful in money-making, in the
management of a household, in the acquisition of knowledge and in political life, nor like drawing, useful for
a more correct judgment of the works of artists, nor again like gymnastic, which gives health and strength; for
neither of these is to be gained from music. There remains, then, the use of music for intellectual enjoyment
in leisure; which is in fact evidently the reason of its introduction, this being one of the ways in which it is
thought that a freeman should pass his leisure; as Homer says,

But he who alone should be called to the pleasant feast, and afterwards he speaks of others whom he
describes as inviting

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The bard who would delight them all. And in another place Odysseus says there is no better way of passing
life than when men's hearts are merry and

The banqueters in the hall, sitting in order, hear the voice of the minstrel.

It is evident, then, that there is a sort of education in which parents should train their sons, not as being useful
or necessary, but because it is liberal or noble. Whether this is of one kind only, or of more than one, and if
so, what they are, and how they are to be imparted, must hereafter be determined. Thus much we are now in a
position to say, that the ancients witness to us; for their opinion may be gathered from the fact that music is
one of the received and traditional branches of education. Further, it is clear that children should be instructed
in some useful things- for example, in reading and writing- not only for their usefulness, but also because
many other sorts of knowledge are acquired through them. With a like view they may be taught drawing, not
to prevent their making mistakes in their own purchases, or in order that they may not be imposed upon in the
buying or selling of articles, but perhaps rather because it makes them judges of the beauty of the human
form. To be always seeking after the useful does not become free and exalted souls. Now it is clear that in
education practice must be used before theory, and the body be trained before the mind; and therefore boys
should be handed over to the trainer, who creates in them the roper habit of body, and to the
wrestling-master, who teaches them their exercises.

Of those states which in our own day seem to take the greatest care of children, some aim at producing in
them an athletic habit, but they only injure their forms and stunt their growth. Although the Lacedaemonians
have not fallen into this mistake, yet they brutalize their children by laborious exercises which they think will
make them courageous. But in truth, as we have often repeated, education should not be exclusively, or
principally, directed to this end. And even if we suppose the Lacedaemonians to be right in their end, they do
not attain it. For among barbarians and among animals courage is found associated, not with the greatest
ferocity, but with a gentle and lion like temper. There are many races who are ready enough to kill and eat
men, such as the Achaeans and Heniochi, who both live about the Black Sea; and there are other mainland
tribes, as bad or worse, who all live by plunder, but have no courage. It is notorious that the Lacedaemonians
themselves, while they alone were assiduous in their laborious drill, were superior to others, but now they are
beaten both in war and gymnastic exercises. For their ancient superiority did not depend on their mode of
training their youth, but only on the circumstance that they trained them when their only rivals did not. Hence
we may infer that what is noble, not what is brutal, should have the first place; no wolf or other wild animal
will face a really noble danger; such dangers are for the brave man. And parents who devote their children to
gymnastics while they neglect their necessary education, in reality vulgarize them; for they make them useful
to the art of statesmanship in one quality only, and even in this the argument proves them to be inferior to
others. We should judge the Lacedaemonians not from what they have been, but from what they are; for now
they have rivals who compete with their education; formerly they had none.

It is an admitted principle, that gymnastic exercises should be employed in education, and that for children
they should be of a lighter kind, avoiding severe diet or painful toil, lest the growth of the body be impaired.
The evil of excessive training in early years is strikingly proved by the example of the Olympic victors; for
not more than two or three of them have gained a prize both as boys and as men; their early training and
severe gymnastic exercises exhausted their constitutions. When boyhood is over, three years should be spent
in other studies; the period of life which follows may then be devoted to hard exercise and strict diet. Men
ought not to labor at the same time with their minds and with their bodies; for the two kinds of labor are
opposed to one another; the labor of the body impedes the mind, and the labor of the mind the body.

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Concerning music there are some questions which we have already raised; these we may now resume and
carry further; and our remarks will serve as a prelude to this or any other discussion of the subject. It is not
easy to determine the nature of music, or why any one should have a knowledge of it. Shall we say, for the
sake of amusement and relaxation, like sleep or drinking, which are not good in themselves, but are pleasant,
and at the same time 'care to cease,' as Euripides says? And for this end men also appoint music, and make
use of all three alike- sleep, drinking, music- to which some add dancing. Or shall we argue that music
conduces to virtue, on the ground that it can form our minds and habituate us to true pleasures as our bodies
are made by gymnastic to be of a certain character? Or shall we say that it contributes to the enjoyment of
leisure and mental cultivation, which is a third alternative? Now obviously youths are not to be instructed
with a view to their amusement, for learning is no amusement, but is accompanied with pain. Neither is
intellectual enjoyment suitable to boys of that age, for it is the end, and that which is imperfect cannot attain
the perfect or end. But perhaps it may be said that boys learn music for the sake of the amusement which they
will have when they are grown up. If so, why should they learn themselves, and not, like the Persian and
Median kings, enjoy the pleasure and instruction which is derived from hearing others? (for surely persons
who have made music the business and profession of their lives will be better performers than those who
practice only long enough to learn). If they must learn music, on the same principle they should learn
cookery, which is absurd. And even granting that music may form the character, the objection still holds: why
should we learn ourselves? Why cannot we attain true pleasure and form a correct judgment from hearing
others, like the Lacedaemonians?- for they, without learning music, nevertheless can correctly judge, as they
say, of good and bad melodies. Or again, if music should be used to promote cheerfulness and refined
intellectual enjoyment, the objection still remains- why should we learn ourselves instead of enjoying the
performances of others? We may illustrate what we are saying by our conception of the Gods; for in the poets
Zeus does not himself sing or play on the lyre. Nay, we call professional performers vulgar; no freeman
would play or sing unless he were intoxicated or in jest. But these matters may be left for the present.

The first question is whether music is or is not to be a part of education. Of the three things mentioned in our
discussion, which does it produce?- education or amusement or intellectual enjoyment, for it may be
reckoned under all three, and seems to share in the nature of all of them. Amusement is for the sake of
relaxation, and relaxation is of necessity sweet, for it is the remedy of pain caused by toil; and intellectual
enjoyment is universally acknowledged to contain an element not only of the noble but of the pleasant, for
happiness is made up of both. All men agree that music is one of the pleasantest things, whether with or
without songs; as Musaeus says:

Song to mortals of all things the sweetest. Hence and with good reason it is introduced into social gatherings
and entertainments, because it makes the hearts of men glad: so that on this ground alone we may assume that
the young ought to be trained in it. For innocent pleasures are not only in harmony with the perfect end of
life, but they also provide relaxation. And whereas men rarely attain the end, but often rest by the way and
amuse themselves, not only with a view to a further end, but also for the pleasure's sake, it may be well at
times to let them find a refreshment in music. It sometimes happens that men make amusement the end, for
the end probably contains some element of pleasure, though not any ordinary or lower pleasure; but they
mistake the lower for the higher, and in seeking for the one find the other, since every pleasure has a likeness
to the end of action. For the end is not eligible for the sake of any future good, nor do the pleasures which we
have described exist for the sake of any future good but of the past, that is to say, they are the alleviation of
past toils and pains. And we may infer this to be the reason why men seek happiness from these pleasures.

But music is pursued, not only as an alleviation of past toil, but also as providing recreation. And who can
say whether, having this use, it may not also have a nobler one? In addition to this common pleasure, felt and
shared in by all (for the pleasure given by music is natural, and therefore adapted to all ages and characters),

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may it not have also some influence over the character and the soul? It must have such an influence if
characters are affected by it. And that they are so affected is proved in many ways, and not least by the power
which the songs of Olympus exercise; for beyond question they inspire enthusiasm, and enthusiasm is an
emotion of the ethical part of the soul. Besides, when men hear imitations, even apart from the rhythms and
tunes themselves, their feelings move in sympathy. Since then music is a pleasure, and virtue consists in
rejoicing and loving and hating aright, there is clearly nothing which we are so much concerned to acquire
and to cultivate as the power of forming right judgments, and of taking delight in good dispositions and noble
actions. Rhythm and melody supply imitations of anger and gentleness, and also of courage and temperance,
and of all the qualities contrary to these, and of the other qualities of character, which hardly fall short of the
actual affections, as we know from our own experience, for in listening to such strains our souls undergo a
change. The habit of feeling pleasure or pain at mere representations is not far removed from the same feeling
about realities; for example, if any one delights in the sight of a statue for its beauty only, it necessarily
follows that the sight of the original will be pleasant to him. The objects of no other sense, such as taste or
touch, have any resemblance to moral qualities; in visible objects there is only a little, for there are figures
which are of a moral character, but only to a slight extent, and all do not participate in the feeling about them.
Again, figures and colors are not imitations, but signs, of moral habits, indications which the body gives of
states of feeling. The connection of them with morals is slight, but in so far as there is any, young men should
be taught to look, not at the works of Pauson, but at those of Polygnotus, or any other painter or sculptor who
expresses moral ideas. On the other hand, even in mere melodies there is an imitation of character, for the
musical modes differ essentially from one another, and those who hear them are differently affected by each.
Some of them make men sad and grave, like the so-called Mixolydian, others enfeeble the mind, like the
relaxed modes, another, again, produces a moderate and settled temper, which appears to be the peculiar
effect of the Dorian; the Phrygian inspires enthusiasm. The whole subject has been well treated by
philosophical writers on this branch of education, and they confirm their arguments by facts. The same
principles apply to rhythms; some have a character of rest, others of motion, and of these latter again, some
have a more vulgar, others a nobler movement. Enough has been said to show that music has a power of
forming the character, and should therefore be introduced into the education of the young. The study is suited
to the stage of youth, for young persons will not, if they can help, endure anything which is not sweetened by
pleasure, and music has a natural sweetness. There seems to be in us a sort of affinity to musical modes and
rhythms, which makes some philosophers say that the soul is a tuning, others, that it possesses tuning.

And now we have to determine the question which has been already raised, whether children should be
themselves taught to sing and play or not. Clearly there is a considerable difference made in the character by
the actual practice of the art. It is difficult, if not impossible, for those who do not perform to be good judges
of the performance of others. Besides, children should have something to do, and the rattle of Archytas,
which people give to their children in order to amuse them and prevent them from breaking anything in the
house, was a capital invention, for a young thing cannot be quiet. The rattle is a toy suited to the infant mind,
and education is a rattle or toy for children of a larger growth. We conclude then that they should be taught
music in such a way as to become not only critics but performers.

The question what is or is not suitable for different ages may be easily answered; nor is there any difficulty in
meeting the objection of those who say that the study of music is vulgar. We reply (l)in the first place, that
they who are to be judges must also be performers, and that they should begin to practice early, although
when they are older they may be spared the execution; they must have learned to appreciate what is good and
to delight in it, thanks to the knowledge which they acquired in their youth. As to (2) the vulgarizing effect
which music is supposed to exercise, this is a question which we shall have no difficulty in determining,
when we have considered to what extent freemen who are being trained to political virtue should pursue the
art, what melodies and what rhythms they should be allowed to use, and what instruments should be

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employed in teaching them to play; for even the instrument makes a difference. The answer to the objection
turns upon these distinctions; for it is quite possible that certain methods of teaching and learning music do
really have a degrading effect. It is evident then that the learning of music ought not to impede the business of
riper years, or to degrade the body or render it unfit for civil or military training, whether for bodily exercises
at the time or for later studies.

The right measure will be attained if students of music stop short of the arts which are practiced in
professional contests, and do not seek to acquire those fantastic marvels of execution which are now the
fashion in such contests, and from these have passed into education. Let the young practice even such music
as we have prescribed, only until they are able to feel delight in noble melodies and rhythms, and not merely
in that common part of music in which every slave or child and even some animals find pleasure.

From these principles we may also infer what instruments should be used. The flute, or any other instrument
which requires great skill, as for example the harp, ought not to be admitted into education, but only such as
will make intelligent students of music or of the other parts of education. Besides, the flute is not an
instrument which is expressive of moral character; it is too exciting. The proper time for using it is when the
performance aims not at instruction, but at the relief of the passions. And there is a further objection; the
impediment which the flute presents to the use of the voice detracts from its educational value. The ancients
therefore were right in forbidding the flute to youths and freemen, although they had once allowed it. For
when their wealth gave them a greater inclination to leisure, and they had loftier notions of excellence, being
also elated with their success, both before and after the Persian War, with more zeal than discernment they
pursued every kind of knowledge, and so they introduced the flute into education. At Lacedaemon there was
a choragus who led the chorus with a flute, and at Athens the instrument became so popular that most
freemen could play upon it. The popularity is shown by the tablet which Thrasippus dedicated when he
furnished the chorus to Ecphantides. Later experience enabled men to judge what was or was not really
conducive to virtue, and they rejected both the flute and several other old-fashioned instruments, such as the
Lydian harp, the many-stringed lyre, the 'heptagon,' 'triangle,' 'sambuca,' the like- which are intended only to
give pleasure to the hearer, and require extraordinary skill of hand. There is a meaning also in the myth of the
ancients, which tells how Athene invented the flute and then threw it away. It was not a bad idea of theirs,
that the Goddess disliked the instrument because it made the face ugly; but with still more reason may we say
that she rejected it because the acquirement of flute-playing contributes nothing to the mind, since to Athene
we ascribe both knowledge and art.

Thus then we reject the professional instruments and also the professional mode of education in music (and
by professional we mean that which is adopted in contests), for in this the performer practices the art, not for
the sake of his own improvement, but in order to give pleasure, and that of a vulgar sort, to his hearers. For
this reason the execution of such music is not the part of a freeman but of a paid performer, and the result is
that the performers are vulgarized, for the end at which they aim is bad. The vulgarity of the spectator tends
to lower the character of the music and therefore of the performers; they look to him- he makes them what
they are, and fashions even their bodies by the movements which he expects them to exhibit.

VII

We have also to consider rhythms and modes, and their use in education. Shall we use them all or make a
distinction? and shall the same distinction be made for those who practice music with a view to education, or
shall it be some other? Now we see that music is produced by melody and rhythm, and we ought to know
what influence these have respectively on education, and whether we should prefer excellence in melody or
excellence in rhythm. But as the subject has been very well treated by many musicians of the present day, and
also by philosophers who have had considerable experience of musical education, to these we would refer the
more exact student of the subject; we shall only speak of it now after the manner of the legislator, stating the

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general principles.

We accept the division of melodies proposed by certain philosophers into ethical melodies, melodies of
action, and passionate or inspiring melodies, each having, as they say, a mode corresponding to it. But we
maintain further that music should be studied, not for the sake of one, but of many benefits, that is to say,
with a view to (1) education, (2) purgation (the word 'purgation' we use at present without explanation, but
when hereafter we speak of poetry, we will treat the subject with more precision); music may also serve (3)
for for enjoyment, for relaxation, and for recreation after exertion. It is clear, therefore, that all the modes
must be employed by us, but not all of them in the same manner. In education the most ethical modes are to
be preferred, but in listening to the performances of others we may admit the modes of action and passion
also. For feelings such as pity and fear, or, again, enthusiasm, exist very strongly in some souls, and have
more or less influence over all. Some persons fall into a religious frenzy, whom we see as a result of the
sacred melodies- when they have used the melodies that excite the soul to mystic frenzy- restored as though
they had found healing and purgation. Those who are influenced by pity or fear, and every emotional nature,
must have a like experience, and others in so far as each is susceptible to such emotions, and all are in a
manner purged and their souls lightened and delighted. The purgative melodies likewise give an innocent
pleasure to mankind. Such are the modes and the melodies in which those who perform music at the theater
should be invited to compete. But since the spectators are of two kinds- the one free and educated, and the
other a vulgar crowd composed of mechanics, laborers, and the like- there ought to be contests and
exhibitions instituted for the relaxation of the second class also. And the music will correspond to their
minds; for as their minds are perverted from the natural state, so there are perverted modes and highly strung
and unnaturally colored melodies. A man receives pleasure from what is natural to him, and therefore
professional musicians may be allowed to practice this lower sort of music before an audience of a lower
type. But, for the purposes of education, as I have already said, those modes and melodies should be
employed which are ethical, such as the Dorian, as we said before; though we may include any others which
are approved by philosophers who have had a musical education. The Socrates of the Republic is wrong in
retaining only the Phrygian mode along with the Dorian, and the more so because he rejects the flute; for the
Phrygian is to the modes what the flute is to musical instruments- both of them are exciting and emotional.
Poetry proves this, for Bacchic frenzy and all similar emotions are most suitably expressed by the flute, and
are better set to the Phrygian than to any other mode. The dithyramb, for example, is acknowledged to be
Phrygian, a fact of which the connoisseurs of music offer many proofs, saying, among other things, that
Philoxenus, having attempted to compose his Mysians as a dithyramb in the Dorian mode, found it
impossible, and fell back by the very nature of things into the more appropriate Phrygian. All men agree that
the Dorian music is the gravest and manliest. And whereas we say that the extremes should be avoided and
the mean followed, and whereas the Dorian is a mean between the other modes, it is evident that our youth
should be taught the Dorian music.

Two principles have to be kept in view, what is possible, what is becoming: at these every man ought to aim.
But even these are relative to age; the old, who have lost their powers, cannot very well sing the high-strung
modes, and nature herself seems to suggest that their songs should be of the more relaxed kind. Wherefore
the musicians likewise blame Socrates, and with justice, for rejecting the relaxed modes in education under
the idea that they are intoxicating, not in the ordinary sense of intoxication (for wine rather tends to excite
men), but because they have no strength in them. And so, with a view also to the time of life when men begin
to grow old, they ought to practice the gentler modes and melodies as well as the others, and, further, any
mode, such as the Lydian above all others appears to be, which is suited to children of tender age, and
possesses the elements both of order and of education. Thus it is clear that education should be based upon
three principles- the mean, the possible, the becoming, these three.

-THE END-

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by Aristotle

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS

Table of Contents

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS 1

by Aristotle 1

Book 1 2

_1 2

2 3

1 4

A 5

_5 6

6 7

1 9

_8 9

_9 10

JO 10

11 11

V2 12

13 13

U 14

15 15

16 15

17 16

18 17

19 18

10 19

11 19

22 20

23 22

14 23

25 25

26 26

17 26

18 26

19 27

10 27

H 27

12 28

13 28

14 30

Book II . 30

1 30

1 31

1 32

1 33

6 34

1 34

1 35

1 36

10 36

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS

Table of Contents

JJ. 37

V2 38

13 40

U 42

15 42

16 43

11 43

J8 44

19 45

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS

by Aristotle

translated by G. R. G. Mure

« Book I
1
2
3
4
5
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12
13
14
11
16
12
18
19
2Q
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22
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34
• Book II

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS

11
13
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19

Book I

ALL instruction given or received by way of argument proceeds from pre-existent knowledge. This becomes
evident upon a survey of all the species of such instruction. The mathematical sciences and all other
speculative disciplines are acquired in this way, and so are the two forms of dialectical reasoning, syllogistic
and inductive; for each of these latter make use of old knowledge to impart new, the syllogism assuming an
audience that accepts its premisses, induction exhibiting the universal as implicit in the clearly known
particular. Again, the persuasion exerted by rhetorical arguments is in principle the same, since they use
either example, a kind of induction, or enthymeme, a form of syllogism.

The pre-existent knowledge required is of two kinds. In some cases admission of the fact must be assumed,
in others comprehension of the meaning of the term used, and sometimes both assumptions are essential.
Thus, we assume that every predicate can be either truly affirmed or truly denied of any subject, and that
'triangle' means so and so; as regards 'unit' we have to make the double assumption of the meaning of the
word and the existence of the thing. The reason is that these several objects are not equally obvious to us.
Recognition of a truth may in some cases contain as factors both previous knowledge and also knowledge
acquired simultaneously with that recognition-knowledge, this latter, of the particulars actually falling under
the universal and therein already virtually known. For example, the student knew beforehand that the angles
of every triangle are equal to two right angles; but it was only at the actual moment at which he was being led
on to recognize this as true in the instance before him that he came to know 'this figure inscribed in the
semicircle' to be a triangle. For some things (viz. the singulars finally reached which are not predicable of
anything else as subject) are only learnt in this way, i.e. there is here no recognition through a middle of a
minor term as subject to a major. Before he was led on to recognition or before he actually drew a conclusion,
we should perhaps say that in a manner he knew, in a manner not.

If he did not in an unqualified sense of the term know the existence of this triangle, how could he know
without qualification that its angles were equal to two right angles? No: clearly he knows not without
qualification but only in the sense that he knows universally. If this distinction is not drawn, we are faced
with the dilemma in the Meno: either a man will learn nothing or what he already knows; for we cannot
accept the solution which some people offer. A man is asked, 'Do you, or do you not, know that every pair is

Book I 2

POSTERIOR ANALYTICS

even?' He says he does know it. The questioner then produces a particular pair, of the existence, and so a
fortiori of the evenness, of which he was unaware. The solution which some people offer is to assert that they
do not know that every pair is even, but only that everything which they know to be a pair is even: yet what
they know to be even is that of which they have demonstrated evenness, i.e. what they made the subject of
their premiss, viz. not merely every triangle or number which they know to be such, but any and every
number or triangle without reservation. For no premiss is ever couched in the form 'every number which you
know to be such', or 'every rectilinear figure which you know to be such': the predicate is always construed as
applicable to any and every instance of the thing. On the other hand, I imagine there is nothing to prevent a
man in one sense knowing what he is learning, in another not knowing it. The strange thing would be, not if
in some sense he knew what he was learning, but if he were to know it in that precise sense and manner in
which he was learning it.

We suppose ourselves to possess unqualified scientific knowledge of a thing, as opposed to knowing it in the
accidental way in which the sophist knows, when we think that we know the cause on which the fact depends,
as the cause of that fact and of no other, and, further, that the fact could not be other than it is. Now that
scientific knowing is something of this sort is evident-witness both those who falsely claim it and those who
actually possess it, since the former merely imagine themselves to be, while the latter are also actually, in the
condition described. Consequently the proper object of unqualified scientific knowledge is something which
cannot be other than it is.

There may be another manner of knowing as well-that will be discussed later. What I now assert is that at all
events we do know by demonstration. By demonstration I mean a syllogism productive of scientific
knowledge, a syllogism, that is, the grasp of which is eo ipso such knowledge. Assuming then that my thesis
as to the nature of scientific knowing is correct, the premisses of demonstrated knowledge must be true,
primary, immediate, better known than and prior to the conclusion, which is further related to them as effect
to cause. Unless these conditions are satisfied, the basic truths will not be 'appropriate' to the conclusion.
Syllogism there may indeed be without these conditions, but such syllogism, not being productive of
scientific knowledge, will not be demonstration. The premisses must be true: for that which is non-existent
cannot be known-we cannot know, e.g. that the diagonal of a square is commensurate with its side. The
premisses must be primary and indemonstrable; otherwise they will require demonstration in order to be
known, since to have knowledge, if it be not accidental knowledge, of things which are demonstrable, means
precisely to have a demonstration of them. The premisses must be the causes of the conclusion, better known
than it, and prior to it; its causes, since we possess scientific knowledge of a thing only when we know its
cause; prior, in order to be causes; antecedently known, this antecedent knowledge being not our mere
understanding of the meaning, but knowledge of the fact as well. Now 'prior' and 'better known' are
ambiguous terms, for there is a difference between what is prior and better known in the order of being and
what is prior and better known to man. I mean that objects nearer to sense are prior and better known to man;
objects without qualification prior and better known are those further from sense. Now the most universal
causes are furthest from sense and particular causes are nearest to sense, and they are thus exactly opposed to
one another. In saying that the premisses of demonstrated knowledge must be primary, I mean that they must
be the 'appropriate' basic truths, for I identify primary premiss and basic truth. A 'basic truth' in a
demonstration is an immediate proposition. An immediate proposition is one which has no other proposition
prior to it. A proposition is either part of an enunciation, i.e. it predicates a single attribute of a single subject.
If a proposition is dialectical, it assumes either part indifferently; if it is demonstrative, it lays down one part
to the definite exclusion of the other because that part is true. The term 'enunciation' denotes either part of a
contradiction indifferently. A contradiction is an opposition which of its own nature excludes a middle. The
part of a contradiction which conjoins a predicate with a subject is an affirmation; the part disjoining them is
a negation. I call an immediate basic truth of syllogism a 'thesis' when, though it is not susceptible of proof by

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the teacher, yet ignorance of it does not constitute a total bar to progress on the part of the pupil: one which
the pupil must know if he is to learn anything whatever is an axiom. I call it an axiom because there are such
truths and we give them the name of axioms par excellence. If a thesis assumes one part or the other of an
enunciation, i.e. asserts either the existence or the non-existence of a subject, it is a hypothesis; if it does not
so assert, it is a definition. Definition is a 'thesis' or a 'laying something down', since the arithmetician lays it
down that to be a unit is to be quantitatively indivisible; but it is not a hypothesis, for to define what a unit is
is not the same as to affirm its existence.

Now since the required ground of our knowledge-i.e. of our conviction-of a fact is the possession of such a
syllogism as we call demonstration, and the ground of the syllogism is the facts constituting its premisses, we
must not only know the primary premisses-some if not all of them-beforehand, but know them better than
the conclusion: for the cause of an attribute's inherence in a subject always itself inheres in the subject more
firmly than that attribute; e.g. the cause of our loving anything is dearer to us than the object of our love. So
since the primary premisses are the cause of our knowledge-i.e. of our conviction-it follows that we know
them better-that is, are more convinced of them-than their consequences, precisely because of our
knowledge of the latter is the effect of our knowledge of the premisses. Now a man cannot believe in
anything more than in the things he knows, unless he has either actual knowledge of it or something better
than actual knowledge. But we are faced with this paradox if a student whose belief rests on demonstration
has not prior knowledge; a man must believe in some, if not in all, of the basic truths more than in the
conclusion. Moreover, if a man sets out to acquire the scientific knowledge that comes through
demonstration, he must not only have a better knowledge of the basic truths and a firmer conviction of them
than of the connexion which is being demonstrated: more than this, nothing must be more certain or better
known to him than these basic truths in their character as contradicting the fundamental premisses which lead
to the opposed and erroneous conclusion. For indeed the conviction of pure science must be unshakable.

Some hold that, owing to the necessity of knowing the primary premisses, there is no scientific knowledge.
Others think there is, but that all truths are demonstrable. Neither doctrine is either true or a necessary
deduction from the premisses. The first school, assuming that there is no way of knowing other than by
demonstration, maintain that an infinite regress is involved, on the ground that if behind the prior stands no
primary, we could not know the posterior through the prior (wherein they are right, for one cannot traverse an
infinite series): if on the other hand-they say-the series terminates and there are primary premisses, yet these
are unknowable because incapable of demonstration, which according to them is the only form of knowledge.
And since thus one cannot know the primary premisses, knowledge of the conclusions which follow from
them is not pure scientific knowledge nor properly knowing at all, but rests on the mere supposition that the
premisses are true. The other party agree with them as regards knowing, holding that it is only possible by
demonstration, but they see no difficulty in holding that all truths are demonstrated, on the ground that
demonstration may be circular and reciprocal.

Our own doctrine is that not all knowledge is demonstrative: on the contrary, knowledge of the immediate
premisses is independent of demonstration. (The necessity of this is obvious; for since we must know the
prior premisses from which the demonstration is drawn, and since the regress must end in immediate truths,
those truths must be indemonstrable.) Such, then, is our doctrine, and in addition we maintain that besides
scientific knowledge there is its originative source which enables us to recognize the definitions.

Now demonstration must be based on premisses prior to and better known than the conclusion; and the same
things cannot simultaneously be both prior and posterior to one another: so circular demonstration is clearly
not possible in the unqualified sense of 'demonstration', but only possible if 'demonstration' be extended to
include that other method of argument which rests on a distinction between truths prior to us and truths

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without qualification prior, i.e. the method by which induction produces knowledge. But if we accept this
extension of its meaning, our definition of unqualified knowledge will prove faulty; for there seem to be two
kinds of it. Perhaps, however, the second form of demonstration, that which proceeds from truths better
known to us, is not demonstration in the unqualified sense of the term.

The advocates of circular demonstration are not only faced with the difficulty we have just stated: in addition
their theory reduces to the mere statement that if a thing exists, then it does exist-an easy way of proving
anything. That this is so can be clearly shown by taking three terms, for to constitute the circle it makes no
difference whether many terms or few or even only two are taken. Thus by direct proof, if A is, B must be; if
B is, C must be; therefore if A is, C must be. Since then-by the circular proof-if A is, B must be, and if B is,
A must be, A may be substituted for C above. Then 'if B is, A must be'='if B is, C must be', which above gave
the conclusion 'if A is, C must be': but C and A have been identified. Consequently the upholders of circular
demonstration are in the position of saying that if A is, A must be-a simple way of proving anything.
Moreover, even such circular demonstration is impossible except in the case of attributes that imply one
another, viz. 'peculiar' properties.

Now, it has been shown that the positing of one thing-be it one term or one premiss-never involves a
necessary consequent: two premisses constitute the first and smallest foundation for drawing a conclusion at
all and therefore a fortiori for the demonstrative syllogism of science. If, then, A is implied in B and C, and B
and C are reciprocally implied in one another and in A, it is possible, as has been shown in my writings on
the syllogism, to prove all the assumptions on which the original conclusion rested, by circular demonstration
in the first figure. But it has also been shown that in the other figures either no conclusion is possible, or at
least none which proves both the original premisses. Propositions the terms of which are not convertible
cannot be circularly demonstrated at all, and since convertible terms occur rarely in actual demonstrations, it
is clearly frivolous and impossible to say that demonstration is reciprocal and that therefore everything can be
demonstrated.

Since the object of pure scientific knowledge cannot be other than it is, the truth obtained by demonstrative
knowledge will be necessary. And since demonstrative knowledge is only present when we have a
demonstration, it follows that demonstration is an inference from necessary premisses. So we must consider
what are the premisses of demonstration-i.e. what is their character: and as a preliminary, let us define what
we mean by an attribute 'true in every instance of its subject', an 'essential' attribute, and a 'commensurate and
universal' attribute. I call 'true in every instance' what is truly predicable of all instances-not of one to the
exclusion of others-and at all times, not at this or that time only; e.g. if animal is truly predicable of every
instance of man, then if it be true to say 'this is a man', 'this is an animal' is also true, and if the one be true
now the other is true now. A corresponding account holds if point is in every instance predicable as contained
in line. There is evidence for this in the fact that the objection we raise against a proposition put to us as true
in every instance is either an instance in which, or an occasion on which, it is not true. Essential attributes are
(1) such as belong to their subject as elements in its essential nature (e.g. line thus belongs to triangle, point
to line; for the very being or 'substance' of triangle and line is composed of these elements, which are
contained in the formulae defining triangle and line): (2) such that, while they belong to certain subjects, the
subjects to which they belong are contained in the attribute's own defining formula. Thus straight and curved
belong to line, odd and even, prime and compound, square and oblong, to number; and also the formula
defining any one of these attributes contains its subject-e.g. line or number as the case may be.

Extending this classification to all other attributes, I distinguish those that answer the above description as
belonging essentially to their respective subjects; whereas attributes related in neither of these two ways to
their subjects I call accidents or 'coincidents'; e.g. musical or white is a 'coincident' of animal.

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Further (a) that is essential which is not predicated of a subject other than itself: e.g. 'the walking [thing]'
walks and is white in virtue of being something else besides; whereas substance, in the sense of whatever
signifies a 'this somewhat', is not what it is in virtue of being something else besides. Things, then, not
predicated of a subject I call essential; things predicated of a subject I call accidental or 'coincidental'.

In another sense again (b) a thing consequentially connected with anything is essential; one not so connected
is 'coincidental'. An example of the latter is 'While he was walking it lightened': the lightning was not due to
his walking; it was, we should say, a coincidence. If, on the other hand, there is a consequential connexion,
the predication is essential; e.g. if a beast dies when its throat is being cut, then its death is also essentially
connected with the cutting, because the cutting was the cause of death, not death a 'coincident' of the cutting.

So far then as concerns the sphere of connexions scientifically known in the unqualified sense of that term, all
attributes which (within that sphere) are essential either in the sense that their subjects are contained in them,
or in the sense that they are contained in their subjects, are necessary as well as consequentially connected
with their subjects. For it is impossible for them not to inhere in their subjects either simply or in the qualified
sense that one or other of a pair of opposites must inhere in the subject; e.g. in line must be either straightness
or curvature, in number either oddness or evenness. For within a single identical genus the contrary of a given
attribute is either its privative or its contradictory; e.g. within number what is not odd is even, inasmuch as
within this sphere even is a necessary consequent of not-odd. So, since any given predicate must be either
affirmed or denied of any subject, essential attributes must inhere in their subjects of necessity.

Thus, then, we have established the distinction between the attribute which is 'true in every instance' and the
'essential' attribute.

I term 'commensurately universal' an attribute which belongs to every instance of its subject, and to every
instance essentially and as such; from which it clearly follows that all commensurate universals inhere
necessarily in their subjects. The essential attribute, and the attribute that belongs to its subject as such, are
identical. E.g. point and straight belong to line essentially, for they belong to line as such; and triangle as
such has two right angles, for it is essentially equal to two right angles.

An attribute belongs commensurately and universally to a subject when it can be shown to belong to any
random instance of that subject and when the subject is the first thing to which it can be shown to belong.
Thus, e.g. (1) the equality of its angles to two right angles is not a commensurately universal attribute of
figure. For though it is possible to show that a figure has its angles equal to two right angles, this attribute
cannot be demonstrated of any figure selected at haphazard, nor in demonstrating does one take a figure at
random-a square is a figure but its angles are not equal to two right angles. On the other hand, any isosceles
triangle has its angles equal to two right angles, yet isosceles triangle is not the primary subject of this
attribute but triangle is prior. So whatever can be shown to have its angles equal to two right angles, or to
possess any other attribute, in any random instance of itself and primarily-that is the first subject to which the
predicate in question belongs commensurately and universally, and the demonstration, in the essential sense,
of any predicate is the proof of it as belonging to this first subject commensurately and universally: while the
proof of it as belonging to the other subjects to which it attaches is demonstration only in a secondary and
unessential sense. Nor again (2) is equality to two right angles a commensurately universal attribute of
isosceles; it is of wider application.

We must not fail to observe that we often fall into error because our conclusion is not in fact primary and
commensurately universal in the sense in which we think we prove it so. We make this mistake (1) when the
subject is an individual or individuals above which there is no universal to be found: (2) when the subjects

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belong to different species and there is a higher universal, but it has no name: (3) when the subject which the
demonstrator takes as a whole is really only a part of a larger whole; for then the demonstration will be true
of the individual instances within the part and will hold in every instance of it, yet the demonstration will not
be true of this subject primarily and commensurately and universally. When a demonstration is true of a
subject primarily and commensurately and universally, that is to be taken to mean that it is true of a given
subject primarily and as such. Case (3) may be thus exemplified. If a proof were given that perpendiculars to
the same line are parallel, it might be supposed that lines thus perpendicular were the proper subject of the
demonstration because being parallel is true of every instance of them. But it is not so, for the parallelism
depends not on these angles being equal to one another because each is a right angle, but simply on their
being equal to one another. An example of (1) would be as follows: if isosceles were the only triangle, it
would be thought to have its angles equal to two right angles qua isosceles. An instance of (2) would be the
law that proportionals alternate. Alternation used to be demonstrated separately of numbers, lines, solids, and
durations, though it could have been proved of them all by a single demonstration. Because there was no
single name to denote that in which numbers, lengths, durations, and solids are identical, and because they
differed specifically from one another, this property was proved of each of them separately. To-day,
however, the proof is commensurately universal, for they do not possess this attribute qua lines or qua
numbers, but qua manifesting this generic character which they are postulated as possessing universally.
Hence, even if one prove of each kind of triangle that its angles are equal to two right angles, whether by
means of the same or different proofs; still, as long as one treats separately equilateral, scalene, and isosceles,
one does not yet know, except sophistically, that triangle has its angles equal to two right angles, nor does
one yet know that triangle has this property commensurately and universally, even if there is no other species
of triangle but these. For one does not know that triangle as such has this property, nor even that 'all' triangles
have it-unless 'all' means 'each taken singly': if 'all' means 'as a whole class', then, though there be none in
which one does not recognize this property, one does not know it of 'all triangles'.

When, then, does our knowledge fail of commensurate universality, and when it is unqualified knowledge? If
triangle be identical in essence with equilateral, i.e. with each or all equilaterals, then clearly we have
unqualified knowledge: if on the other hand it be not, and the attribute belongs to equilateral qua triangle;
then our knowledge fails of commensurate universality. 'But', it will be asked, 'does this attribute belong to
the subject of which it has been demonstrated qua triangle or qua isosceles? What is the point at which the
subject, to which it belongs is primary? (i.e. to what subject can it be demonstrated as belonging
commensurately and universally?)' Clearly this point is the first term in which it is found to inhere as the
elimination of inferior differentiae proceeds. Thus the angles of a brazen isosceles triangle are equal to two
right angles: but eliminate brazen and isosceles and the attribute remains. 'But'-you may say-'eliminate
figure or limit, and the attribute vanishes.' True, but figure and limit are not the first differentiae whose
elimination destroys the attribute. 'Then what is the first?' If it is triangle, it will be in virtue of triangle that
the attribute belongs to all the other subjects of which it is predicable, and triangle is the subject to which it
can be demonstrated as belonging commensurately and universally.

Demonstrative knowledge must rest on necessary basic truths; for the object of scientific knowledge cannot
be other than it is. Now attributes attaching essentially to their subjects attach necessarily to them: for
essential attributes are either elements in the essential nature of their subjects, or contain their subjects as
elements in their own essential nature. (The pairs of opposites which the latter class includes are necessary
because one member or the other necessarily inheres.) It follows from this that premisses of the
demonstrative syllogism must be connexions essential in the sense explained: for all attributes must inhere
essentially or else be accidental, and accidental attributes are not necessary to their subjects.

We must either state the case thus, or else premise that the conclusion of demonstration is necessary and that

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a demonstrated conclusion cannot be other than it is, and then infer that the conclusion must be developed
from necessary premisses. For though you may reason from true premisses without demonstrating, yet if your
premisses are necessary you will assuredly demonstrate-in such necessity you have at once a distinctive
character of demonstration. That demonstration proceeds from necessary premisses is also indicated by the
fact that the objection we raise against a professed demonstration is that a premiss of it is not a necessary
truth-whether we think it altogether devoid of necessity, or at any rate so far as our opponent's previous
argument goes. This shows how naive it is to suppose one's basic truths rightly chosen if one starts with a
proposition which is (1) popularly accepted and (2) true, such as the sophists' assumption that to know is the
same as to possess knowledge. For (1) popular acceptance or rejection is no criterion of a basic truth, which
can only be the primary law of the genus constituting the subject matter of the demonstration; and (2) not all
truth is 'appropriate'.

A further proof that the conclusion must be the development of necessary premisses is as follows. Where
demonstration is possible, one who can give no account which includes the cause has no scientific
knowledge. If, then, we suppose a syllogism in which, though A necessarily inheres in C, yet B, the middle
term of the demonstration, is not necessarily connected with A and C, then the man who argues thus has no
reasoned knowledge of the conclusion, since this conclusion does not owe its necessity to the middle term;
for though the conclusion is necessary, the mediating link is a contingent fact. Or again, if a man is without
knowledge now, though he still retains the steps of the argument, though there is no change in himself or in
the fact and no lapse of memory on his part; then neither had he knowledge previously. But the mediating
link, not being necessary, may have perished in the interval; and if so, though there be no change in him nor
in the fact, and though he will still retain the steps of the argument, yet he has not knowledge, and therefore
had not knowledge before. Even if the link has not actually perished but is liable to perish, this situation is
possible and might occur. But such a condition cannot be knowledge.

When the conclusion is necessary, the middle through which it was proved may yet quite easily be
non-necessary. You can in fact infer the necessary even from a non-necessary premiss, just as you can infer
the true from the not true. On the other hand, when the middle is necessary the conclusion must be necessary;
just as true premisses always give a true conclusion. Thus, if A is necessarily predicated of B and B of C,
then A is necessarily predicated of C. But when the conclusion is nonnecessary the middle cannot be
necessary either. Thus: let A be predicated non-necessarily of C but necessarily of B, and let B be a
necessary predicate of C; then A too will be a necessary predicate of C, which by hypothesis it is not.

To sum up, then: demonstrative knowledge must be knowledge of a necessary nexus, and therefore must
clearly be obtained through a necessary middle term; otherwise its possessor will know neither the cause nor
the fact that his conclusion is a necessary connexion. Either he will mistake the non-necessary for the
necessary and believe the necessity of the conclusion without knowing it, or else he will not even believe
it-in which case he will be equally ignorant, whether he actually infers the mere fact through middle terms or
the reasoned fact and from immediate premisses.

Of accidents that are not essential according to our definition of essential there is no demonstrative
knowledge; for since an accident, in the sense in which I here speak of it, may also not inhere, it is impossible
to prove its inherence as a necessary conclusion. A difficulty, however, might be raised as to why in dialectic,
if the conclusion is not a necessary connexion, such and such determinate premisses should be proposed in
order to deal with such and such determinate problems. Would not the result be the same if one asked any
questions whatever and then merely stated one's conclusion? The solution is that determinate questions have
to be put, not because the replies to them affirm facts which necessitate facts affirmed by the conclusion, but
because these answers are propositions which if the answerer affirm, he must affirm the conclusion and
affirm it with truth if they are true.

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Since it is just those attributes within every genus which are essential and possessed by their respective
subjects as such that are necessary it is clear that both the conclusions and the premisses of demonstrations
which produce scientific knowledge are essential. For accidents are not necessary: and, further, since
accidents are not necessary one does not necessarily have reasoned knowledge of a conclusion drawn from
them (this is so even if the accidental premisses are invariable but not essential, as in proofs through signs;
for though the conclusion be actually essential, one will not know it as essential nor know its reason); but to
have reasoned knowledge of a conclusion is to know it through its cause. We may conclude that the middle
must be consequentially connected with the minor, and the major with the middle.

It follows that we cannot in demonstrating pass from one genus to another. We cannot, for instance, prove
geometrical truths by arithmetic. For there are three elements in demonstration: (1) what is proved, the
conclusion-an attribute inhering essentially in a genus; (2) the axioms, i.e. axioms which are premisses of
demonstration; (3) the subject-genus whose attributes, i.e. essential properties, are revealed by the
demonstration. The axioms which are premisses of demonstration may be identical in two or more sciences:
but in the case of two different genera such as arithmetic and geometry you cannot apply arithmetical
demonstration to the properties of magnitudes unless the magnitudes in question are numbers. How in certain
cases transference is possible I will explain later.

Arithmetical demonstration and the other sciences likewise possess, each of them, their own genera; so that if
the demonstration is to pass from one sphere to another, the genus must be either absolutely or to some extent
the same. If this is not so, transference is clearly impossible, because the extreme and the middle terms must
be drawn from the same genus: otherwise, as predicated, they will not be essential and will thus be accidents.
That is why it cannot be proved by geometry that opposites fall under one science, nor even that the product
of two cubes is a cube. Nor can the theorem of any one science be demonstrated by means of another science,
unless these theorems are related as subordinate to superior (e.g. as optical theorems to geometry or harmonic
theorems to arithmetic). Geometry again cannot prove of lines any property which they do not possess qua
lines, i.e. in virtue of the fundamental truths of their peculiar genus: it cannot show, for example, that the
straight line is the most beautiful of lines or the contrary of the circle; for these qualities do not belong to
lines in virtue of their peculiar genus, but through some property which it shares with other genera.

It is also clear that if the premisses from which the syllogism proceeds are commensurately universal, the
conclusion of such i.e. in the unqualified sense-must also be eternal. Therefore no attribute can be
demonstrated nor known by strictly scientific knowledge to inhere in perishable things. The proof can only be
accidental, because the attribute's connexion with its perishable subject is not commensurately universal but
temporary and special. If such a demonstration is made, one premiss must be perishable and not
commensurately universal (perishable because only if it is perishable will the conclusion be perishable; not
commensurately universal, because the predicate will be predicable of some instances of the subject and not
of others); so that the conclusion can only be that a fact is true at the moment-not commensurately and
universally. The same is true of definitions, since a definition is either a primary premiss or a conclusion of a
demonstration, or else only differs from a demonstration in the order of its terms. Demonstration and science
of merely frequent occurrences-e.g. of eclipse as happening to the moon-are, as such, clearly eternal:
whereas so far as they are not eternal they are not fully commensurate. Other subjects too have properties
attaching to them in the same way as eclipse attaches to the moon.

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It is clear that if the conclusion is to show an attribute inhering as such, nothing can be demonstrated except
from its 'appropriate' basic truths. Consequently a proof even from true, indemonstrable, and immediate
premisses does not constitute knowledge. Such proofs are like Bryson's method of squaring the circle; for
they operate by taking as their middle a common character-a character, therefore, which the subject may
share with another-and consequently they apply equally to subjects different in kind. They therefore afford
knowledge of an attribute only as inhering accidentally, not as belonging to its subject as such: otherwise they
would not have been applicable to another genus.

Our knowledge of any attribute's connexion with a subject is accidental unless we know that connexion
through the middle term in virtue of which it inheres, and as an inference from basic premisses essential and
'appropriate' to the subject-unless we know, e.g. the property of possessing angles equal to two right angles
as belonging to that subject in which it inheres essentially, and as inferred from basic premisses essential and
'appropriate' to that subject: so that if that middle term also belongs essentially to the minor, the middle must
belong to the same kind as the major and minor terms. The only exceptions to this rule are such cases as
theorems in harmonics which are demonstrable by arithmetic. Such theorems are proved by the same middle
terms as arithmetical properties, but with a qualification-the fact falls under a separate science (for the
subject genus is separate), but the reasoned fact concerns the superior science, to which the attributes
essentially belong. Thus, even these apparent exceptions show that no attribute is strictly demonstrable except
from its 'appropriate' basic truths, which, however, in the case of these sciences have the requisite identity of
character.

It is no less evident that the peculiar basic truths of each inhering attribute are indemonstrable; for basic truths
from which they might be deduced would be basic truths of all that is, and the science to which they belonged
would possess universal sovereignty. This is so because he knows better whose knowledge is deduced from
higher causes, for his knowledge is from prior premisses when it derives from causes themselves uncaused:
hence, if he knows better than others or best of all, his knowledge would be science in a higher or the highest
degree. But, as things are, demonstration is not transferable to another genus, with such exceptions as we
have mentioned of the application of geometrical demonstrations to theorems in mechanics or optics, or of
arithmetical demonstrations to those of harmonics.

It is hard to be sure whether one knows or not; for it is hard to be sure whether one's knowledge is based on
the basic truths appropriate to each attribute-the differentia of true knowledge. We think we have scientific
knowledge if we have reasoned from true and primary premisses. But that is not so: the conclusion must be
homogeneous with the basic facts of the science.

I call the basic truths of every genus those elements in it the existence of which cannot be proved. As regards
both these primary truths and the attributes dependent on them the meaning of the name is assumed. The fact
of their existence as regards the primary truths must be assumed; but it has to be proved of the remainder, the
attributes. Thus we assume the meaning alike of unity, straight, and triangular; but while as regards unity and
magnitude we assume also the fact of their existence, in the case of the remainder proof is required.

Of the basic truths used in the demonstrative sciences some are peculiar to each science, and some are
common, but common only in the sense of analogous, being of use only in so far as they fall within the genus
constituting the province of the science in question.

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Peculiar truths are, e.g. the definitions of line and straight; common truths are such as 'take equals from
equals and equals remain'. Only so much of these common truths is required as falls within the genus in
question: for a truth of this kind will have the same force even if not used generally but applied by the
geometer only to magnitudes, or by the arithmetician only to numbers. Also peculiar to a science are the
subjects the existence as well as the meaning of which it assumes, and the essential attributes of which it
investigates, e.g. in arithmetic units, in geometry points and lines. Both the existence and the meaning of the
subjects are assumed by these sciences; but of their essential attributes only the meaning is assumed. For
example arithmetic assumes the meaning of odd and even, square and cube, geometry that of
incommensurable, or of deflection or verging of lines, whereas the existence of these attributes is
demonstrated by means of the axioms and from previous conclusions as premisses. Astronomy too proceeds
in the same way. For indeed every demonstrative science has three elements: (1) that which it posits, the
subject genus whose essential attributes it examines; (2) the so-called axioms, which are primary premisses
of its demonstration; (3) the attributes, the meaning of which it assumes. Yet some sciences may very well
pass over some of these elements; e.g. we might not expressly posit the existence of the genus if its existence
were obvious (for instance, the existence of hot and cold is more evident than that of number); or we might
omit to assume expressly the meaning of the attributes if it were well understood. In the way the meaning of
axioms, such as 'Take equals from equals and equals remain', is well known and so not expressly assumed.
Nevertheless in the nature of the case the essential elements of demonstration are three: the subject, the
attributes, and the basic premisses.

That which expresses necessary self-grounded fact, and which we must necessarily believe, is distinct both
from the hypotheses of a science and from illegitimate postulate-I say 'must believe', because all syllogism,
and therefore a fortiori demonstration, is addressed not to the spoken word, but to the discourse within the
soul, and though we can always raise objections to the spoken word, to the inward discourse we cannot
always object. That which is capable of proof but assumed by the teacher without proof is, if the pupil
believes and accepts it, hypothesis, though only in a limited sense hypothesis-that is, relatively to the pupil; if
the pupil has no opinion or a contrary opinion on the matter, the same assumption is an illegitimate postulate.
Therein lies the distinction between hypothesis and illegitimate postulate: the latter is the contrary of the
pupil's opinion, demonstrable, but assumed and used without demonstration.

The definition-viz. those which are not expressed as statements that anything is or is not-are not hypotheses:
but it is in the premisses of a science that its hypotheses are contained. Definitions require only to be
understood, and this is not hypothesis-unless it be contended that the pupil's hearing is also an hypothesis
required by the teacher. Hypotheses, on the contrary, postulate facts on the being of which depends the being
of the fact inferred. Nor are the geometer's hypotheses false, as some have held, urging that one must not
employ falsehood and that the geometer is uttering falsehood in stating that the line which he draws is a foot
long or straight, when it is actually neither. The truth is that the geometer does not draw any conclusion from
the being of the particular line of which he speaks, but from what his diagrams symbolize. A further
distinction is that all hypotheses and illegitimate postulates are either universal or particular, whereas a
definition is neither.

So demonstration does not necessarily imply the being of Forms nor a One beside a Many, but it does
necessarily imply the possibility of truly predicating one of many; since without this possibility we cannot
save the universal, and if the universal goes, the middle term goes witb. it, and so demonstration becomes
impossible. We conclude, then, that there must be a single identical term unequivocally predicable of a
number of individuals.

The law that it is impossible to affirm and deny simultaneously the same predicate of the same subject is not
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expressly posited by any demonstration except when the conclusion also has to be expressed in that form; in
which case the proof lays down as its major premiss that the major is truly affirmed of the middle but falsely
denied. It makes no difference, however, if we add to the middle, or again to the minor term, the
corresponding negative. For grant a minor term of which it is true to predicate man-even if it be also true to
predicate not-man of it — still grant simply that man is animal and not not-animal, and the conclusion
follows: for it will still be true to say that Callias — even if it be also true to say that not-Callias — is animal
and not not-animal. The reason is that the major term is predicable not only of the middle, but of something
other than the middle as well, being of wider application; so that the conclusion is not affected even if the
middle is extended to cover the original middle term and also what is not the original middle term.

The law that every predicate can be either truly affirmed or truly denied of every subject is posited by such
demonstration as uses reductio ad impossibile, and then not always universally, but so far as it is requisite;
within the limits, that is, of the genus-the genus, I mean (as I have already explained), to which the man of
science applies his demonstrations. In virtue of the common elements of demonstration-I mean the common
axioms which are used as premisses of demonstration, not the subjects nor the attributes demonstrated as
belonging to them-all the sciences have communion with one another, and in communion with them all is
dialectic and any science which might attempt a universal proof of axioms such as the law of excluded
middle, the law that the subtraction of equals from equals leaves equal remainders, or other axioms of the
same kind. Dialectic has no definite sphere of this kind, not being confined to a single genus. Otherwise its
method would not be interrogative; for the interrogative method is barred to the demonstrator, who cannot
use the opposite facts to prove the same nexus. This was shown in my work on the syllogism.

If a syllogistic question is equivalent to a proposition embodying one of the two sides of a contradiction, and
if each science has its peculiar propositions from which its peculiar conclusion is developed, then there is
such a thing as a distinctively scientific question, and it is the interrogative form of the premisses from which
the 'appropriate' conclusion of each science is developed. Hence it is clear that not every question will be
relevant to geometry, nor to medicine, nor to any other science: only those questions will be geometrical
which form premisses for the proof of the theorems of geometry or of any other science, such as optics,
which uses the same basic truths as geometry. Of the other sciences the like is true. Of these questions the
geometer is bound to give his account, using the basic truths of geometry in conjunction with his previous
conclusions; of the basic truths the geometer, as such, is not bound to give any account. The like is true of the
other sciences. There is a limit, then, to the questions which we may put to each man of science; nor is each
man of science bound to answer all inquiries on each several subject, but only such as fall within the defined
field of his own science. If, then, in controversy with a geometer qua geometer the disputant confines himself
to geometry and proves anything from geometrical premisses, he is clearly to be applauded; if he goes outside
these he will be at fault, and obviously cannot even refute the geometer except accidentally. One should
therefore not discuss geometry among those who are not geometers, for in such a company an unsound
argument will pass unnoticed. This is correspondingly true in the other sciences.

Since there are 'geometrical' questions, does it follow that there are also distinctively 'ungeometrical'
questions? Further, in each special science-geometry for instance-what kind of error is it that may vitiate
questions, and yet not exclude them from that science? Again, is the erroneous conclusion one constructed
from premisses opposite to the true premisses, or is it formal fallacy though drawn from geometrical
premisses? Or, perhaps, the erroneous conclusion is due to the drawing of premisses from another science;
e.g. in a geometrical controversy a musical question is distinctively ungeometrical, whereas the notion that
parallels meet is in one sense geometrical, being ungeometrical in a different fashion: the reason being that
'ungeometrical', like 'unrhythmical', is equivocal, meaning in the one case not geometry at all, in the other bad
geometry? It is this error, i.e. error based on premisses of this kind-'of the science but false-that is the

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contrary of science. In mathematics the formal fallacy is not so common, because it is the middle term in
which the ambiguity lies, since the major is predicated of the whole of the middle and the middle of the
whole of the minor (the predicate of course never has the prefix 'all'); and in mathematics one can, so to
speak, see these middle terms with an intellectual vision, while in dialectic the ambiguity may escape
detection. E.g. 'Is every circle a figure?' A diagram shows that this is so, but the minor premiss 'Are epics
circles?' is shown by the diagram to be false.

If a proof has an inductive minor premiss, one should not bring an 'objection' against it. For since every
premiss must be applicable to a number of cases (otherwise it will not be true in every instance, which, since
the syllogism proceeds from universals, it must be), then assuredly the same is true of an 'objection'; since
premisses and 'objections' are so far the same that anything which can be validly advanced as an 'objection'
must be such that it could take the form of a premiss, either demonstrative or dialectical. On the other hand,
arguments formally illogical do sometimes occur through taking as middles mere attributes of the major and
minor terms. An instance of this is Caeneus' proof that fire increases in geometrical proportion: 'Fire', he
argues, 'increases rapidly, and so does geometrical proportion'. There is no syllogism so, but there is a
syllogism if the most rapidly increasing proportion is geometrical and the most rapidly increasing proportion
is attributable to fire in its motion. Sometimes, no doubt, it is impossible to reason from premisses predicating
mere attributes: but sometimes it is possible, though the possibility is overlooked. If false premisses could
never give true conclusions 'resolution' would be easy, for premisses and conclusion would in that case
inevitably reciprocate. I might then argue thus: let A be an existing fact; let the existence of A imply such and
such facts actually known to me to exist, which we may call B. I can now, since they reciprocate, infer A
from B.

Reciprocation of premisses and conclusion is more frequent in mathematics, because mathematics takes
definitions, but never an accident, for its premisses-a second characteristic distinguishing mathematical
reasoning from dialectical disputations.

A science expands not by the interposition of fresh middle terms, but by the apposition of fresh extreme
terms. E.g. A is predicated of B, B of C, C of D, and so indefinitely. Or the expansion may be lateral: e.g. one
major A, may be proved of two minors, C and E. Thus let A represent number-a number or number taken
indeterminately; B determinate odd number; C any particular odd number. We can then predicate A of C.
Next let D represent determinate even number, and E even number. Then A is predicable of E.

Knowledge of the fact differs from knowledge of the reasoned fact. To begin with, they differ within the
same science and in two ways: (1) when the premisses of the syllogism are not immediate (for then the
proximate cause is not contained in them-a necessary condition of knowledge of the reasoned fact): (2) when
the premisses are immediate, but instead of the cause the better known of the two reciprocals is taken as the
middle; for of two reciprocally predicable terms the one which is not the cause may quite easily be the better
known and so become the middle term of the demonstration. Thus (2) (a) you might prove as follows that the
planets are near because they do not twinkle: let C be the planets, B not twinkling, A proximity. Then B is
predicable of C; for the planets do not twinkle. But A is also predicable of B, since that which does not
twinkle is near — we must take this truth as having been reached by induction or sense-perception. Therefore
A is a necessary predicate of C; so that we have demonstrated that the planets are near. This syllogism, then,
proves not the reasoned fact but only the fact; since they are not near because they do not twinkle, but,
because they are near, do not twinkle. The major and middle of the proof, however, may be reversed, and
then the demonstration will be of the reasoned fact. Thus: let C be the planets, B proximity, A not twinkling.
Then B is an attribute of C, and A-not twinkling-of B. Consequently A is predicable of C, and the syllogism
proves the reasoned fact, since its middle term is the proximate cause. Another example is the inference that

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the moon is spherical from its manner of waxing. Thus: since that which so waxes is spherical, and since the
moon so waxes, clearly the moon is spherical. Put in this form, the syllogism turns out to be proof of the fact,
but if the middle and major be reversed it is proof of the reasoned fact; since the moon is not spherical
because it waxes in a certain manner, but waxes in such a manner because it is spherical. (Let C be the moon,
B spherical, and A waxing.) Again (b), in cases where the cause and the effect are not reciprocal and the
effect is the better known, the fact is demonstrated but not the reasoned fact. This also occurs (1) when the
middle falls outside the major and minor, for here too the strict cause is not given, and so the demonstration is
of the fact, not of the reasoned fact. For example, the question 'Why does not a wall breathe?' might be
answered, 'Because it is not an animal'; but that answer would not give the strict cause, because if not being
an animal causes the absence of respiration, then being an animal should be the cause of respiration,
according to the rule that if the negation of causes the non-inherence of y, the affirmation of x causes the
inherence of y; e.g. if the disproportion of the hot and cold elements is the cause of ill health, their proportion
is the cause of health; and conversely, if the assertion of x causes the inherence of y, the negation of x must
cause y's non-inherence. But in the case given this consequence does not result; for not every animal
breathes. A syllogism with this kind of cause takes place in the second figure. Thus: let A be animal, B
respiration, C wall. Then A is predicable of all B (for all that breathes is animal), but of no C; and
consequently B is predicable of no C; that is, the wall does not breathe. Such causes are like far-fetched
explanations, which precisely consist in making the cause too remote, as in Anacharsis' account of why the
Scythians have no flute-players; namely because they have no vines.

Thus, then, do the syllogism of the fact and the syllogism of the reasoned fact differ within one science and
according to the position of the middle terms. But there is another way too in which the fact and the reasoned
fact differ, and that is when they are investigated respectively by different sciences. This occurs in the case of
problems related to one another as subordinate and superior, as when optical problems are subordinated to
geometry, mechanical problems to stereometry, harmonic problems to arithmetic, the data of observation to
astronomy. (Some of these sciences bear almost the same name; e.g. mathematical and nautical astronomy,
mathematical and acoustical harmonics.) Here it is the business of the empirical observers to know the fact,
of the mathematicians to know the reasoned fact; for the latter are in possession of the demonstrations giving
the causes, and are often ignorant of the fact: just as we have often a clear insight into a universal, but through
lack of observation are ignorant of some of its particular instances. These connexions have a perceptible
existence though they are manifestations of forms. For the mathematical sciences concern forms: they do not
demonstrate properties of a substratum, since, even though the geometrical subjects are predicable as
properties of a perceptible substratum, it is not as thus predicable that the mathematician demonstrates
properties of them. As optics is related to geometry, so another science is related to optics, namely the theory
of the rainbow. Here knowledge of the fact is within the province of the natural philosopher, knowledge of
the reasoned fact within that of the optician, either qua optician or qua mathematical optician. Many sciences
not standing in this mutual relation enter into it at points; e.g. medicine and geometry: it is the physician's
business to know that circular wounds heal more slowly, the geometer's to know the reason why.

Of all the figures the most scientific is the first. Thus, it is the vehicle of the demonstrations of all the
mathematical sciences, such as arithmetic, geometry, and optics, and practically all of all sciences that
investigate causes: for the syllogism of the reasoned fact is either exclusively or generally speaking and in
most cases in this figure-a second proof that this figure is the most scientific; for grasp of a reasoned
conclusion is the primary condition of knowledge. Thirdly, the first is the only figure which enables us to
pursue knowledge of the essence of a thing. In the second figure no affirmative conclusion is possible, and
knowledge of a thing's essence must be affirmative; while in the third figure the conclusion can be
affirmative, but cannot be universal, and essence must have a universal character: e.g. man is not two-footed
animal in any qualified sense, but universally. Finally, the first figure has no need of the others, while it is by

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means of the first that the other two figures are developed, and have their intervals closepacked until
immediate premisses are reached.

Clearly, therefore, the first figure is the primary condition of knowledge.

Just as an attribute A may (as we saw) be atomically connected with a subject B, so its disconnexion may be
atomic. I call 'atomic' connexions or disconnexions which involve no intermediate term; since in that case the
connexion or disconnexion will not be mediated by something other than the terms themselves. It follows that
if either A or B, or both A and B, have a genus, their disconnexion cannot be primary. Thus: let C be the
genus of A. Then, if C is not the genus of B-for A may well have a genus which is not the genus of B-there
will be a syllogism proving A's disconnexion from B thus:

all A is C,
no B is C,
therefore no B is A.

The Complete Works of Aristotle - Part 5