Bot-S: The Complete Works of Plato

SOCRATES: A better and more unexceptionable way of speaking will be—
PROTARCHUS: What?
SOCRATES: If we say that the great changes produce pleasures and pains, but that the
moderate and lesser ones do neither.
PROTARCHUS: That, Socrates, is the more correct mode of speaking.
SOCRATES: But if this be true, the life to which I was just now referring again appears.
PROTARCHUS: What life?
SOCRATES: The life which we affirmed to be devoid either of pain or of joy.
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: We may assume then that there are three lives, one pleasant, one painful,
and the third which is neither; what say you?
PROTARCHUS: I should say as you do that there are three of them.
SOCRATES: But if so, the negation of pain will not be the same with pleasure.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: Then when you hear a person saying, that always to live without pain is the
pleasantest of all things, what would you understand him to mean by that statement?
PROTARCHUS: I think that by pleasure he must mean the negative of pain.
SOCRATES: Let us take any three things; or suppose that we embellish a little and call
the first gold, the second silver, and there shall be a third which is neither.
PROTARCHUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: Now, can that which is neither be either gold or silver?
PROTARCHUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: No more can that neutral or middle life be rightly or reasonably spoken or
thought of as pleasant or painful.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And yet, my friend, there are, as we know, persons who say and think so.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And do they think that they have pleasure when they are free from pain?
PROTARCHUS: They say so.
SOCRATES: And they must think or they would not say that they have pleasure.
PROTARCHUS: I suppose not.
SOCRATES: And yet if pleasure and the negation of pain are of distinct natures, they are
wrong.
PROTARCHUS: But they are undoubtedly of distinct natures.
SOCRATES: Then shall we take the view that they are three, as we were just now saying,
or that they are two only—the one being a state of pain, which is an evil, and the other a
cessation of pain, which is of itself a good, and is called pleasant?
PROTARCHUS: But why, Socrates, do we ask the question at all? I do not see the
reason.
SOCRATES: You, Protarchus, have clearly never heard of certain enemies of our friend
Philebus.
PROTARCHUS: And who may they be?
SOCRATES: Certain persons who are reputed to be masters in natural philosophy, who
deny the very existence of pleasure.
PROTARCHUS: Indeed!
SOCRATES: They say that what the school of Philebus calls pleasures are all of them
only avoidances of pain.
PROTARCHUS: And would you, Socrates, have us agree with them?
SOCRATES: Why, no, I would rather use them as a sort of diviners, who divine the
truth, not by rules of art, but by an instinctive repugnance and extreme detestation
which a noble nature has of the power of pleasure, in which they think that there is
nothing sound, and her seductive influence is declared by them to be witchcraft, and not
pleasure. This is the use which you may make of them. And when you have considered
the various grounds of their dislike, you shall hear from me what I deem to be true
pleasures. Having thus examined the nature of pleasure from both points of view, we
will bring her up for judgment.
PROTARCHUS: Well said.
SOCRATES: Then let us enter into an alliance with these philosophers and follow in the
track of their dislike. I imagine that they would say something of this sort; they would
begin at the beginning, and ask whether, if we wanted to know the nature of any quality,
such as hardness, we should be more likely to discover it by looking at the hardest
things, rather than at the least hard? You, Protarchus, shall answer these severe
gentlemen as you answer me.
PROTARCHUS: By all means, and I reply to them, that you should look at the greatest
instances.
SOCRATES: Then if we want to see the true nature of pleasures as a class, we should not
look at the most diluted pleasures, but at the most extreme and most vehement?
PROTARCHUS: In that every one will agree.
SOCRATES: And the obvious instances of the greatest pleasures, as we have often said,
are the pleasures of the body?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And are they felt by us to be or become greater, when we are sick or when
we are in health? And here we must be careful in our answer, or we shall come to grief.
PROTARCHUS: How will that be?
SOCRATES: Why, because we might be tempted to answer, ‘When we are in health.’
PROTARCHUS: Yes, that is the natural answer.
SOCRATES: Well, but are not those pleasures the greatest of which mankind have the
greatest desires?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And do not people who are in a fever, or any similar illness, feel cold or
thirst or other bodily affections more intensely? Am I not right in saying that they have a
deeper want and greater pleasure in the satisfaction of their want?
PROTARCHUS: That is obvious as soon as it is said.
SOCRATES: Well, then, shall we not be right in saying, that if a person would wish to
see the greatest pleasures he ought to go and look, not at health, but at disease? And
here you must distinguish:—do not imagine that I mean to ask whether those who are
very ill have more pleasures than those who are well, but understand that I am speaking
of the magnitude of pleasure; I want to know where pleasures are found to be most
intense. For, as I say, we have to discover what is pleasure, and what they mean by
pleasure who deny her very existence.
PROTARCHUS: I think I follow you.
SOCRATES: You will soon have a better opportunity of showing whether you do or not,
Protarchus. Answer now, and tell me whether you see, I will not say more, but more
intense and excessive pleasures in wantonness than in temperance? Reflect before you
speak.
PROTARCHUS: I understand you, and see that there is a great difference between them;
the temperate are restrained by the wise man’s aphorism of ‘Never too much,’ which is
their rule, but excess of pleasure possessing the minds of fools and wantons becomes
madness and makes them shout with delight.
SOCRATES: Very good, and if this be true, then the greatest pleasures and pains will
clearly be found in some vicious state of soul and body, and not in a virtuous state.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And ought we not to select some of these for examination, and see what
makes them the greatest?
PROTARCHUS: To be sure we ought.
SOCRATES: Take the case of the pleasures which arise out of certain disorders.
PROTARCHUS: What disorders?
SOCRATES: The pleasures of unseemly disorders, which our severe friends utterly
detest.
PROTARCHUS: What pleasures?
SOCRATES: Such, for example, as the relief of itching and other ailments by scratching,
which is the only remedy required. For what in Heaven’s name is the feeling to be called
which is thus produced in us?—Pleasure or pain?
PROTARCHUS: A villainous mixture of some kind, Socrates, I should say.
SOCRATES: I did not introduce the argument, O Protarchus, with any personal
reference to Philebus, but because, without the consideration of these and similar
pleasures, we shall not be able to determine the point at issue.
PROTARCHUS: Then we had better proceed to analyze this family of pleasures.
SOCRATES: You mean the pleasures which are mingled with pain?
PROTARCHUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: There are some mixtures which are of the body, and only in the body, and
others which are of the soul, and only in the soul; while there are other mixtures of
pleasures with pains, common both to soul and body, which in their composite state are
called sometimes pleasures and sometimes pains.
PROTARCHUS: How is that?
SOCRATES: Whenever, in the restoration or in the derangement of nature, a man
experiences two opposite feelings; for example, when he is cold and is growing warm, or
again, when he is hot and is becoming cool, and he wants to have the one and be rid of
the other;—the sweet has a bitter, as the common saying is, and both together fasten
upon him and create irritation and in time drive him to distraction.
PROTARCHUS: That description is very true to nature.
SOCRATES: And in these sorts of mixtures the pleasures and pains are sometimes
equal, and sometimes one or other of them predominates?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: Of cases in which the pain exceeds the pleasure, an example is afforded by
itching, of which we were just now speaking, and by the tingling which we feel when the
boiling and fiery element is within, and the rubbing and motion only relieves the
surface, and does not reach the parts affected; then if you put them to the fire, and as a
last resort apply cold to them, you may often produce the most intense pleasure or pain
in the inner parts, which contrasts and mingles with the pain or pleasure, as the case
may be, of the outer parts; and this is due to the forcible separation of what is united, or
to the union of what is separated, and to the juxtaposition of pleasure and pain.
PROTARCHUS: Quite so.
SOCRATES: Sometimes the element of pleasure prevails in a man, and the slight
undercurrent of pain makes him tingle, and causes a gentle irritation; or again, the
excessive infusion of pleasure creates an excitement in him,—he even leaps for joy, he
assumes all sorts of attitudes, he changes all manner of colours, he gasps for breath, and
is quite amazed, and utters the most irrational exclamations.
PROTARCHUS: Yes, indeed.
SOCRATES: He will say of himself, and others will say of him, that he is dying with
these delights; and the more dissipated and good-for-nothing he is, the more
vehemently he pursues them in every way; of all pleasures he declares them to be the
greatest; and he reckons him who lives in the most constant enjoyment of them to be the
happiest of mankind.
PROTARCHUS: That, Socrates, is a very true description of the opinions of the majority
about pleasures.
SOCRATES: Yes, Protarchus, quite true of the mixed pleasures, which arise out of the
communion of external and internal sensations in the body; there are also cases in
which the mind contributes an opposite element to the body, whether of pleasure or
pain, and the two unite and form one mixture. Concerning these I have already
remarked, that when a man is empty he desires to be full, and has pleasure in hope and
pain in vacuity. But now I must further add what I omitted before, that in all these and
similar emotions in which body and mind are opposed (and they are innumerable),
pleasure and pain coalesce in one.
PROTARCHUS: I believe that to be quite true.
SOCRATES: There still remains one other sort of admixture of pleasures and pains.
PROTARCHUS: What is that?
SOCRATES: The union which, as we were saying, the mind often experiences of purely
mental feelings.
PROTARCHUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Why, do we not speak of anger, fear, desire, sorrow, love, emulation, envy,
and the like, as pains which belong to the soul only?
PROTARCHUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And shall we not find them also full of the most wonderful pleasures? need
I remind you of the anger
‘Which stirs even a wise man to violence, And is sweeter than honey and the
honeycomb?’
And you remember how pleasures mingle with pains in lamentation and bereavement?
PROTARCHUS: Yes, there is a natural connexion between them.
SOCRATES: And you remember also how at the sight of tragedies the spectators smile
through their tears?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly I do.
SOCRATES: And are you aware that even at a comedy the soul experiences a mixed
feeling of pain and pleasure?
PROTARCHUS: I do not quite understand you.
SOCRATES: I admit, Protarchus, that there is some difficulty in recognizing this mixture
of feelings at a comedy.
PROTARCHUS: There is, I think.
SOCRATES: And the greater the obscurity of the case the more desirable is the
examination of it, because the difficulty in detecting other cases of mixed pleasures and
pains will be less.
PROTARCHUS: Proceed.
SOCRATES: I have just mentioned envy; would you not call that a pain of the soul?
PROTARCHUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And yet the envious man finds something in the misfortunes of his
neighbours at which he is pleased?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And ignorance, and what is termed clownishness, are surely an evil?
PROTARCHUS: To be sure.
SOCRATES: From these considerations learn to know the nature of the ridiculous.
PROTARCHUS: Explain.
SOCRATES: The ridiculous is in short the specific name which is used to describe the
vicious form of a certain habit; and of vice in general it is that kind which is most at
variance with the inscription at Delphi.
PROTARCHUS: You mean, Socrates, ‘Know thyself.’
SOCRATES: I do; and the opposite would be, ‘Know not thyself.’
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And now, O Protarchus, try to divide this into three.
PROTARCHUS: Indeed I am afraid that I cannot.
SOCRATES: Do you mean to say that I must make the division for you?
PROTARCHUS: Yes, and what is more, I beg that you will.
SOCRATES: Are there not three ways in which ignorance of self may be shown?
PROTARCHUS: What are they?
SOCRATES: In the first place, about money; the ignorant may fancy himself richer than
he is.
PROTARCHUS: Yes, that is a very common error.
SOCRATES: And still more often he will fancy that he is taller or fairer than he is, or that
he has some other advantage of person which he really has not.
PROTARCHUS: Of course.
SOCRATES: And yet surely by far the greatest number err about the goods of the mind;
they imagine themselves to be much better men than they are.
PROTARCHUS: Yes, that is by far the commonest delusion.
SOCRATES: And of all the virtues, is not wisdom the one which the mass of mankind
are always claiming, and which most arouses in them a spirit of contention and lying
conceit of wisdom?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And may not all this be truly called an evil condition?
PROTARCHUS: Very evil.
SOCRATES: But we must pursue the division a step further, Protarchus, if we would see
in envy of the childish sort a singular mixture of pleasure and pain.
PROTARCHUS: How can we make the further division which you suggest?
SOCRATES: All who are silly enough to entertain this lying conceit of themselves may of
course be divided, like the rest of mankind, into two classes—one having power and
might; and the other the reverse.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Let this, then, be the principle of division; those of them who are weak and
unable to revenge themselves, when they are laughed at, may be truly called ridiculous,
but those who can defend themselves may be more truly described as strong and
formidable; for ignorance in the powerul is hateful and horrible, because hurtful to
others both in reality and in fiction, but powerless ignorance may be reckoned, and in
truth is, ridiculous.
PROTARCHUS: That is very true, but I do not as yet see where is the admixture of
pleasures and pains.
SOCRATES: Well, then, let us examine the nature of envy.
PROTARCHUS: Proceed.
SOCRATES: Is not envy an unrighteous pleasure, and also an unrighteous pain?
PROTARCHUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: There is nothing envious or wrong in rejoicing at the misfortunes of
enemies?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: But to feel joy instead of sorrow at the sight of our friends’ misfortunes—is
not that wrong?
PROTARCHUS: Undoubtedly.
SOCRATES: Did we not say that ignorance was always an evil?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And the three kinds of vain conceit in our friends which we enumerated—
the vain conceit of beauty, of wisdom, and of wealth, are ridiculous if they are weak, and
detestable when they are powerful: May we not say, as I was saying before, that our
friends who are in this state of mind, when harmless to others, are simply ridiculous?
PROTARCHUS: They are ridiculous.
SOCRATES: And do we not acknowledge this ignorance of theirs to be a misfortune?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And do we feel pain or pleasure in laughing at it?
PROTARCHUS: Clearly we feel pleasure.
SOCRATES: And was not envy the source of this pleasure which we feel at the
misfortunes of friends?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then the argument shows that when we laugh at the folly of our friends,
pleasure, in mingling with envy, mingles with pain, for envy has been acknowledged by
us to be mental pain, and laughter is pleasant; and so we envy and laugh at the same
instant.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And the argument implies that there are combinations of pleasure and pain
in lamentations, and in tragedy and comedy, not only on the stage, but on the greater
stage of human life; and so in endless other cases.
PROTARCHUS: I do not see how any one can deny what you say, Socrates, however
eager he may be to assert the opposite opinion.
SOCRATES: I mentioned anger, desire, sorrow, fear, love, emulation, envy, and similar
emotions, as examples in which we should find a mixture of the two elements so often
named; did I not?
PROTARCHUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: We may observe that our conclusions hitherto have had reference only to
sorrow and envy and anger.
PROTARCHUS: I see.
SOCRATES: Then many other cases still remain?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And why do you suppose me to have pointed out to you the admixture
which takes place in comedy? Why but to convince you that there was no difficulty in
showing the mixed nature of fear and love and similar affections; and I thought that
when I had given you the illustration, you would have let me off, and have acknowledged
as a general truth that the body without the soul, and the soul without the body, as well
as the two united, are susceptible of all sorts of admixtures of pleasures and pains; and
so further discussion would have been unnecessary. And now I want to know whether I
may depart; or will you keep me here until midnight? I fancy that I may obtain my
release without many words;—if I promise that to-morrow I will give you an account of
all these cases. But at present I would rather sail in another direction, and go to other
matters which remain to be settled, before the judgment can be given which Philebus
demands.
PROTARCHUS: Very good, Socrates; in what remains take your own course.
SOCRATES: Then after the mixed pleasures the unmixed should have their turn; this is
the natural and necessary order.
PROTARCHUS: Excellent.
SOCRATES: These, in turn, then, I will now endeavour to indicate; for with the
maintainers of the opinion that all pleasures are a cessation of pain, I do not agree, but,
as I was saying, I use them as witnesses, that there are pleasures which seem only and
are not, and there are others again which have great power and appear in many forms,
yet are intermingled with pains, and are partly alleviations of agony and distress, both of
body and mind.
PROTARCHUS: Then what pleasures, Socrates, should we be right in conceiving to be
true?
SOCRATES: True pleasures are those which are given by beauty of colour and form, and
most of those which arise from smells; those of sound, again, and in general those of
which the want is painless and unconscious, and of which the fruition is palpable to
sense and pleasant and unalloyed with pain.
PROTARCHUS: Once more, Socrates, I must ask what you mean.
SOCRATES: My meaning is certainly not obvious, and I will endeavour to be plainer. I
do not mean by beauty of form such beauty as that of animals or pictures, which the
many would suppose to be my meaning; but, says the argument, understand me to
mean straight lines and circles, and the plane or solid figures which are formed out of
them by turning-lathes and rulers and measurers of angles; for these I affirm to be not
only relatively beautiful, like other things, but they are eternally and absolutely
beautiful, and they have peculiar pleasures, quite unlike the pleasures of scratching. And
there are colours which are of the same character, and have similar pleasures; now do
you understand my meaning?
PROTARCHUS: I am trying to understand, Socrates, and I hope that you will try to
make your meaning clearer.
SOCRATES: When sounds are smooth and clear, and have a single pure tone, then I
mean to say that they are not relatively but absolutely beautiful, and have natural
pleasures associated with them.
PROTARCHUS: Yes, there are such pleasures.
SOCRATES: The pleasures of smell are of a less ethereal sort, but they have no
necessary admixture of pain; and all pleasures, however and wherever experienced,
which are unattended by pains, I assign to an analogous class. Here then are two kinds
of pleasures.
PROTARCHUS: I understand.
SOCRATES: To these may be added the pleasures of knowledge, if no hunger of
knowledge and no pain caused by such hunger precede them.
PROTARCHUS: And this is the case.
SOCRATES: Well, but if a man who is full of knowledge loses his knowledge, are there
not pains of forgetting?
PROTARCHUS: Not necessarily, but there may be times of reflection, when he feels
grief at the loss of his knowledge.
SOCRATES: Yes, my friend, but at present we are enumerating only the natural
perceptions, and have nothing to do with reflection.
PROTARCHUS: In that case you are right in saying that the loss of knowledge is not
attended with pain.
SOCRATES: These pleasures of knowledge, then, are unmixed with pain; and they are
not the pleasures of the many but of a very few.
PROTARCHUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And now, having fairly separated the pure pleasures and those which may
be rightly termed impure, let us further add to our description of them, that the
pleasures which are in excess have no measure, but that those which are not in excess
have measure; the great, the excessive, whether more or less frequent, we shall be right
in referring to the class of the infinite, and of the more and less, which pours through
body and soul alike; and the others we shall refer to the class which has measure.
PROTARCHUS: Quite right, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Still there is something more to be considered about pleasures.
PROTARCHUS: What is it?
SOCRATES: When you speak of purity and clearness, or of excess, abundance, greatness
and sufficiency, in what relation do these terms stand to truth?
PROTARCHUS: Why do you ask, Socrates?
SOCRATES: Because, Protarchus, I should wish to test pleasure and knowledge in every
possible way, in order that if there be a pure and impure element in either of them, I
may present the pure element for judgment, and then they will be more easily judged of
by you and by me and by all of us.
PROTARCHUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: Let us investigate all the pure kinds; first selecting for consideration a
single instance.
PROTARCHUS: What instance shall we select?
SOCRATES: Suppose that we first of all take whiteness.
PROTARCHUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: How can there be purity in whiteness, and what purity? Is that purest
which is greatest or most in quantity, or that which is most unadulterated and freest
from any admixture of other colours?
PROTARCHUS: Clearly that which is most unadulterated.
SOCRATES: True, Protarchus; and so the purest white, and not the greatest or largest in
quantity, is to be deemed truest and most beautiful?
PROTARCHUS: Right.
SOCRATES: And we shall be quite right in saying that a little pure white is whiter and
fairer and truer than a great deal that is mixed.
PROTARCHUS: Perfectly right.
SOCRATES: There is no need of adducing many similar examples in illustration of the
argument about pleasure; one such is sufficient to prove to us that a small pleasure or a
small amount of pleasure, if pure or unalloyed with pain, is always pleasanter and truer
and fairer than a great pleasure or a great amount of pleasure of another kind.
PROTARCHUS: Assuredly; and the instance you have given is quite sufficient.
SOCRATES: But what do you say of another question:—have we not heard that pleasure
is always a generation, and has no true being? Do not certain ingenious philosophers
teach this doctrine, and ought not we to be grateful to them?
PROTARCHUS: What do they mean?
SOCRATES: I will explain to you, my dear Protarchus, what they mean, by putting a
question.
PROTARCHUS: Ask, and I will answer.
SOCRATES: I assume that there are two natures, one self-existent, and the other ever in
want of something.
PROTARCHUS: What manner of natures are they?
SOCRATES: The one majestic ever, the other inferior.
PROTARCHUS: You speak riddles.
SOCRATES: You have seen loves good and fair, and also brave lovers of them.
PROTARCHUS: I should think so.
SOCRATES: Search the universe for two terms which are like these two and are present
everywhere.
PROTARCHUS: Yet a third time I must say, Be a little plainer, Socrates.
SOCRATES: There is no difficulty, Protarchus; the argument is only in play, and
insinuates that some things are for the sake of something else (relatives), and that other
things are the ends to which the former class subserve (absolutes).
PROTARCHUS: Your many repetitions make me slow to understand.
SOCRATES: As the argument proceeds, my boy, I dare say that the meaning will become
clearer.
PROTARCHUS: Very likely.
SOCRATES: Here are two new principles.
PROTARCHUS: What are they?
SOCRATES: One is the generation of all things, and the other is essence.
PROTARCHUS: I readily accept from you both generation and essence.
SOCRATES: Very right; and would you say that generation is for the sake of essence, or
essence for the sake of generation?
PROTARCHUS: You want to know whether that which is called essence is, properly
speaking, for the sake of generation?
SOCRATES: Yes.
PROTARCHUS: By the gods, I wish that you would repeat your question.
SOCRATES: I mean, O my Protarchus, to ask whether you would tell me that shipbuilding
is for the sake of ships, or ships for the sake of ship- building? and in all similar
cases I should ask the same question.
PROTARCHUS: Why do you not answer yourself, Socrates?
SOCRATES: I have no objection, but you must take your part.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: My answer is, that all things instrumental, remedial, material, are given to
us with a view to generation, and that each generation is relative to, or for the sake of,
some being or essence, and that the whole of generation is relative to the whole of
essence.
PROTARCHUS: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: Then pleasure, being a generation, must surely be for the sake of some
essence?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And that for the sake of which something else is done must be placed in the
class of good, and that which is done for the sake of something else, in some other class,
my good friend.
PROTARCHUS: Most certainly.
SOCRATES: Then pleasure, being a generation, will be rightly placed in some other class
than that of good?
PROTARCHUS: Quite right.
SOCRATES: Then, as I said at first, we ought to be very grateful to him who first pointed
out that pleasure was a generation only, and had no true being at all; for he is clearly one
who laughs at the notion of pleasure being a good.
PROTARCHUS: Assuredly.
SOCRATES: And he would surely laugh also at those who make generation their highest
end.
PROTARCHUS: Of whom are you speaking, and what do they mean?
SOCRATES: I am speaking of those who when they are cured of hunger or thirst or any
other defect by some process of generation are delighted at the process as if it were
pleasure; and they say that they would not wish to live without these and other feelings
of a like kind which might be mentioned.
PROTARCHUS: That is certainly what they appear to think.
SOCRATES: And is not destruction universally admitted to be the opposite of
generation?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then he who chooses thus, would choose generation and destruction rather
than that third sort of life, in which, as we were saying, was neither pleasure nor pain,
but only the purest possible thought.
PROTARCHUS: He who would make us believe pleasure to be a good is involved in
great absurdities, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Great, indeed; and there is yet another of them.
PROTARCHUS: What is it?
SOCRATES: Is there not an absurdity in arguing that there is nothing good or noble in
the body, or in anything else, but that good is in the soul only, and that the only good of
the soul is pleasure; and that courage or temperance or understanding, or any other
good of the soul, is not really a good?—and is there not yet a further absurdity in our
being compelled to say that he who has a feeling of pain and not of pleasure is bad at the
time when he is suffering pain, even though he be the best of men; and again, that he
who has a feeling of pleasure, in so far as he is pleased at the time when he is pleased, in
that degree excels in virtue?
PROTARCHUS: Nothing, Socrates, can be more irrational than all this.
SOCRATES: And now, having subjected pleasure to every sort of test, let us not appear
to be too sparing of mind and knowledge: let us ring their metal bravely, and see if there
be unsoundness in any part, until we have found out what in them is of the purest
nature; and then the truest elements both of pleasure and knowledge may be brought up
for judgment.
PROTARCHUS: Right.
SOCRATES: Knowledge has two parts,—the one productive, and the other educational?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And in the productive or handicraft arts, is not one part more akin to
knowledge, and the other less; and may not the one part be regarded as the pure, and
the other as the impure?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Let us separate the superior or dominant elements in each of them.
PROTARCHUS: What are they, and how do you separate them?
SOCRATES: I mean to say, that if arithmetic, mensuration, and weighing be taken away
from any art, that which remains will not be much.
PROTARCHUS: Not much, certainly.
SOCRATES: The rest will be only conjecture, and the better use of the senses which is
given by experience and practice, in addition to a certain power of guessing, which is
commonly called art, and is perfected by attention and pains.
PROTARCHUS: Nothing more, assuredly.
SOCRATES: Music, for instance, is full of this empiricism; for sounds are harmonized,
not by measure, but by skilful conjecture; the music of the flute is always trying to guess
the pitch of each vibrating note, and is therefore mixed up with much that is doubtful
and has little which is certain.
PROTARCHUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: And the same will be found to hold good of medicine and husbandry and
piloting and generalship.
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: The art of the builder, on the other hand, which uses a number of measures
and instruments, attains by their help to a greater degree of accuracy than the other arts.
PROTARCHUS: How is that?
SOCRATES: In ship-building and house-building, and in other branches of the art of
carpentering, the builder has his rule, lathe, compass, line, and a most ingenious
machine for straightening wood.
PROTARCHUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: Then now let us divide the arts of which we were speaking into two kinds,—
the arts which, like music, are less exact in their results, and those which, like
carpentering, are more exact.
PROTARCHUS: Let us make that division.
SOCRATES: Of the latter class, the most exact of all are those which we just now spoke
of as primary.
PROTARCHUS: I see that you mean arithmetic, and the kindred arts of weighing and
measuring.
SOCRATES: Certainly, Protarchus; but are not these also distinguishable into two
kinds?
PROTARCHUS: What are the two kinds?
SOCRATES: In the first place, arithmetic is of two kinds, one of which is popular, and
the other philosophical.
PROTARCHUS: How would you distinguish them?
SOCRATES: There is a wide difference between them, Protarchus; some arithmeticians
reckon unequal units; as for example, two armies, two oxen, two very large things or two
very small things. The party who are opposed to them insist that every unit in ten
thousand must be the same as every other unit.
PROTARCHUS: Undoubtedly there is, as you say, a great difference among the votaries
of the science; and there may be reasonably supposed to be two sorts of arithmetic.
SOCRATES: And when we compare the art of mensuration which is used in building
with philosophical geometry, or the art of computation which is used in trading with
exact calculation, shall we say of either of the pairs that it is one or two?
PROTARCHUS: On the analogy of what has preceded, I should be of opinion that they
were severally two.
SOCRATES: Right; but do you understand why I have discussed the subject?
PROTARCHUS: I think so, but I should like to be told by you.
SOCRATES: The argument has all along been seeking a parallel to pleasure, and true to
that original design, has gone on to ask whether one sort of knowledge is purer than
another, as one pleasure is purer than another.
PROTARCHUS: Clearly; that was the intention.
SOCRATES: And has not the argument in what has preceded, already shown that the
arts have different provinces, and vary in their degrees of certainty?
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And just now did not the argument first designate a particular art by a
common term, thus making us believe in the unity of that art; and then again, as if
speaking of two different things, proceed to enquire whether the art as pursed by
philosophers, or as pursued by non- philosophers, has more of certainty and purity?
PROTARCHUS: That is the very question which the argument is asking.
SOCRATES: And how, Protarchus, shall we answer the enquiry?
PROTARCHUS: O Socrates, we have reached a point at which the difference of clearness
in different kinds of knowledge is enormous.
SOCRATES: Then the answer will be the easier.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly; and let us say in reply, that those arts into which arithmetic
and mensuration enter, far surpass all others; and that of these the arts or sciences
which are animated by the pure philosophic impulse are infinitely superior in accuracy
and truth.
SOCRATES: Then this is your judgment; and this is the answer which, upon your
authority, we will give to all masters of the art of misinterpretation?
PROTARCHUS: What answer?
SOCRATES: That there are two arts of arithmetic, and two of mensuration; and also
several other arts which in like manner have this double nature, and yet only one name.
PROTARCHUS: Let us boldly return this answer to the masters of whom you speak,
Socrates, and hope for good luck.
SOCRATES: We have explained what we term the most exact arts or sciences.
PROTARCHUS: Very good.
SOCRATES: And yet, Protarchus, dialectic will refuse to acknowledge us, if we do not
award to her the first place.
PROTARCHUS: And pray, what is dialectic?
SOCRATES: Clearly the science which has to do with all that knowledge of which we are
now speaking; for I am sure that all men who have a grain of intelligence will admit that
the knowledge which has to do with being and reality, and sameness and
unchangeableness, is by far the truest of all. But how would you decide this question,
Protarchus?
PROTARCHUS: I have often heard Gorgias maintain, Socrates, that the art of
persuasion far surpassed every other; this, as he says, is by far the best of them all, for to
it all things submit, not by compulsion, but of their own free will. Now, I should not like
to quarrel either with you or with him.
SOCRATES: You mean to say that you would like to desert, if you were not ashamed?
PROTARCHUS: As you please.
SOCRATES: May I not have led you into a misapprehension?
PROTARCHUS: How?
SOCRATES: Dear Protarchus, I never asked which was the greatest or best or usefullest
of arts or sciences, but which had clearness and accuracy, and the greatest amount of
truth, however humble and little useful an art. And as for Gorgias, if you do not deny
that his art has the advantage in usefulness to mankind, he will not quarrel with you for
saying that the study of which I am speaking is superior in this particular of essential
truth; as in the comparison of white colours, a little whiteness, if that little be only pure,
was said to be superior in truth to a great mass which is impure. And now let us give our
best attention and consider well, not the comparative use or reputation of the sciences,
but the power or faculty, if there be such, which the soul has of loving the truth, and of
doing all things for the sake of it; let us search into the pure element of mind and
intelligence, and then we shall be able to say whether the science of which I have been
speaking is most likely to possess the faculty, or whether there be some other which has
higher claims.
PROTARCHUS: Well, I have been considering, and I can hardly think that any other
science or art has a firmer grasp of the truth than this.
SOCRATES: Do you say so because you observe that the arts in general and those
engaged in them make use of opinion, and are resolutely engaged in the investigation of
matters of opinion? Even he who supposes himself to be occupied with nature is really
occupied with the things of this world, how created, how acting or acted upon. Is not this
the sort of enquiry in which his life is spent?
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: He is labouring, not after eternal being, but about things which are
becoming, or which will or have become.
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And can we say that any of these things which neither are nor have been
nor will be unchangeable, when judged by the strict rule of truth ever become certain?
PROTARCHUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: How can anything fixed be concerned with that which has no fixedness?
PROTARCHUS: How indeed?
SOCRATES: Then mind and science when employed about such changing things do not
attain the highest truth?
PROTARCHUS: I should imagine not.
SOCRATES: And now let us bid farewell, a long farewell, to you or me or Philebus or
Gorgias, and urge on behalf of the argument a single point.
PROTARCHUS: What point?
SOCRATES: Let us say that the stable and pure and true and unalloyed has to do with
the things which are eternal and unchangeable and unmixed, or if not, at any rate what
is most akin to them has; and that all other things are to be placed in a second or
inferior class.
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And of the names expressing cognition, ought not the fairest to be given to
the fairest things?
PROTARCHUS: That is natural.
SOCRATES: And are not mind and wisdom the names which are to be honoured most?
PROTARCHUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And these names may be said to have their truest and most exact
application when the mind is engaged in the contemplation of true being?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And these were the names which I adduced of the rivals of pleasure?
PROTARCHUS: Very true, Socrates.
SOCRATES: In the next place, as to the mixture, here are the ingredients, pleasure and
wisdom, and we may be compared to artists who have their materials ready to their
hands.
PROTARCHUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And now we must begin to mix them?
PROTARCHUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: But had we not better have a preliminary word and refresh our memories?
PROTARCHUS: Of what?
SOCRATES: Of that which I have already mentioned. Well says the proverb, that we
ought to repeat twice and even thrice that which is good.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Well then, by Zeus, let us proceed, and I will make what I believe to be a
fair summary of the argument.
PROTARCHUS: Let me hear.
SOCRATES: Philebus says that pleasure is the true end of all living beings, at which all
ought to aim, and moreover that it is the chief good of all, and that the two names ‘good’
and ‘pleasant’ are correctly given to one thing and one nature; Socrates, on the other
hand, begins by denying this, and further says, that in nature as in name they are two,
and that wisdom partakes more than pleasure of the good. Is not and was not this what
we were saying, Protarchus?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And is there not and was there not a further point which was conceded
between us?
PROTARCHUS: What was it?
SOCRATES: That the good differs from all other things.
PROTARCHUS: In what respect?
SOCRATES: In that the being who possesses good always everywhere and in all things
has the most perfect sufficiency, and is never in need of anything else.
PROTARCHUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: And did we not endeavour to make an imaginary separation of wisdom and
pleasure, assigning to each a distinct life, so that pleasure was wholly excluded from
wisdom, and wisdom in like manner had no part whatever in pleasure?
PROTARCHUS: We did.
SOCRATES: And did we think that either of them alone would be sufficient?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly not.
SOCRATES: And if we erred in any point, then let any one who will, take up the enquiry
again and set us right; and assuming memory and wisdom and knowledge and true
opinion to belong to the same class, let him consider whether he would desire to possess
or acquire,—I will not say pleasure, however abundant or intense, if he has no real
perception that he is pleased, nor any consciousness of what he feels, nor any
recollection, however momentary, of the feeling,—but would he desire to have anything
at all, if these faculties were wanting to him? And about wisdom I ask the same
question; can you conceive that any one would choose to have all wisdom absolutely
devoid of pleasure, rather than with a certain degree of pleasure, or all pleasure devoid
of wisdom, rather than with a certain degree of wisdom?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly not, Socrates; but why repeat such questions any more?
SOCRATES: Then the perfect and universally eligible and entirely good cannot possibly
be either of them?
PROTARCHUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: Then now we must ascertain the nature of the good more or less accurately,
in order, as we were saying, that the second place may be duly assigned.
PROTARCHUS: Right.
SOCRATES: Have we not found a road which leads towards the good?
PROTARCHUS: What road?
SOCRATES: Supposing that a man had to be found, and you could discover in what
house he lived, would not that be a great step towards the discovery of the man himself?
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And now reason intimates to us, as at our first beginning, that we should
seek the good, not in the unmixed life but in the mixed.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: There is greater hope of finding that which we are seeking in the life which
is well mixed than in that which is not?
PROTARCHUS: Far greater.
SOCRATES: Then now let us mingle, Protarchus, at the same time offering up a prayer
to Dionysus or Hephaestus, or whoever is the god who presides over the ceremony of
mingling.
PROTARCHUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: Are not we the cup-bearers? and here are two fountains which are flowing
at our side: one, which is pleasure, may be likened to a fountain of honey; the other,
wisdom, a sober draught in which no wine mingles, is of water unpleasant but healthful;
out of these we must seek to make the fairest of all possible mixtures.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Tell me first;—should we be most likely to succeed if we mingled every sort
of pleasure with every sort of wisdom?
PROTARCHUS: Perhaps we might.
SOCRATES: But I should be afraid of the risk, and I think that I can show a safer plan.
PROTARCHUS: What is it?
SOCRATES: One pleasure was supposed by us to be truer than another, and one art to
be more exact than another.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: There was also supposed to be a difference in sciences; some of them
regarding only the transient and perishing, and others the permanent and imperishable
and everlasting and immutable; and when judged by the standard of truth, the latter, as
we thought, were truer than the former.
PROTARCHUS: Very good and right.
SOCRATES: If, then, we were to begin by mingling the sections of each class which have
the most of truth, will not the union suffice to give us the loveliest of lives, or shall we
still want some elements of another kind?
PROTARCHUS: I think that we ought to do what you suggest.
SOCRATES: Let us suppose a man who understands justice, and has reason as well as
understanding about the true nature of this and of all other things.
PROTARCHUS: We will suppose such a man.
SOCRATES: Will he have enough of knowledge if he is acquainted only with the divine
circle and sphere, and knows nothing of our human spheres and circles, but uses only
divine circles and measures in the building of a house?
PROTARCHUS: The knowledge which is only superhuman, Socrates, is ridiculous in
man.
SOCRATES: What do you mean? Do you mean that you are to throw into the cup and
mingle the impure and uncertain art which uses the false measure and the false circle?
PROTARCHUS: Yes, we must, if any of us is ever to find his way home.
SOCRATES: And am I to include music, which, as I was saying just now, is full of
guesswork and imitation, and is wanting in purity?
PROTARCHUS: Yes, I think that you must, if human life is to be a life at all.
SOCRATES: Well, then, suppose that I give way, and, like a doorkeeper who is pushed
and overborne by the mob, I open the door wide, and let knowledge of every sort stream
in, and the pure mingle with the impure?
PROTARCHUS: I do not know, Socrates, that any great harm would come of having
them all, if only you have the first sort.
SOCRATES: Well, then, shall I let them all flow into what Homer poetically terms ‘a
meeting of the waters’?
PROTARCHUS: By all means.
SOCRATES: There—I have let them in, and now I must return to the fountain of
pleasure. For we were not permitted to begin by mingling in a single stream the true
portions of both according to our original intention; but the love of all knowledge
constrained us to let all the sciences flow in together before the pleasures.
PROTARCHUS: Quite true.
SOCRATES: And now the time has come for us to consider about the pleasures also,
whether we shall in like manner let them go all at once, or at first only the true ones.
PROTARCHUS: It will be by far the safer course to let flow the true ones first.
SOCRATES: Let them flow, then; and now, if there are any necessary pleasures, as there
were arts and sciences necessary, must we not mingle them?
PROTARCHUS: Yes; the necessary pleasures should certainly be allowed to mingle.
SOCRATES: The knowledge of the arts has been admitted to be innocent and useful
always; and if we say of pleasures in like manner that all of them are good and innocent
for all of us at all times, we must let them all mingle?
PROTARCHUS: What shall we say about them, and what course shall we take?
SOCRATES: Do not ask me, Protarchus; but ask the daughters of pleasure and wisdom
to answer for themselves.
PROTARCHUS: How?
SOCRATES: Tell us, O beloved—shall we call you pleasures or by some other name?—
would you rather live with or without wisdom? I am of opinion that they would certainly
answer as follows:
PROTARCHUS: How?
SOCRATES: They would answer, as we said before, that for any single class to be left by
itself pure and isolated is not good, nor altogether possible; and that if we are to make
comparisons of one class with another and choose, there is no better companion than
knowledge of things in general, and likewise the perfect knowledge, if that may be, of
ourselves in every respect.
PROTARCHUS: And our answer will be:—In that ye have spoken well.
SOCRATES: Very true. And now let us go back and interrogate wisdom and mind:
Would you like to have any pleasures in the mixture? And they will reply:—‘What
pleasures do you mean?’
PROTARCHUS: Likely enough.
SOCRATES: And we shall take up our parable and say: Do you wish to have the greatest
and most vehement pleasures for your companions in addition to the true ones? ‘Why,
Socrates,’ they will say, ‘how can we? seeing that they are the source of ten thousand
hindrances to us; they trouble the souls of men, which are our habitation, with their
madness; they prevent us from coming to the birth, and are commonly the ruin of the
children which are born to us, causing them to be forgotten and unheeded; but the true
and pure pleasures, of which you spoke, know to be of our family, and also those
pleasures which accompany health and temperance, and which every Virtue, like a
goddess, has in her train to follow her about wherever she goes,—mingle these and not
the others; there would be great want of sense in any one who desires to see a fair and
perfect mixture, and to find in it what is the highest good in man and in the universe,
and to divine what is the true form of good—there would be great want of sense in his
allowing the pleasures, which are always in the company of folly and vice, to mingle with
mind in the cup.’—Is not this a very rational and suitable reply, which mind has made,
both on her own behalf, as well as on the behalf of memory and true opinion?
PROTARCHUS: Most certainly.
SOCRATES: And still there must be something more added, which is a necessary
ingredient in every mixture.
PROTARCHUS: What is that?
SOCRATES: Unless truth enter into the composition, nothing can truly be created or
subsist.
PROTARCHUS: Impossible.
SOCRATES: Quite impossible; and now you and Philebus must tell me whether
anything is still wanting in the mixture, for to my way of thinking the argument is now
completed, and may be compared to an incorporeal law, which is going to hold fair rule
over a living body.
PROTARCHUS: I agree with you, Socrates.
SOCRATES: And may we not say with reason that we are now at the vestibule of the
habitation of the good?
PROTARCHUS: I think that we are.
SOCRATES: What, then, is there in the mixture which is most precious, and which is the
principal cause why such a state is universally beloved by all? When we have discovered
it, we will proceed to ask whether this omnipresent nature is more akin to pleasure or to
mind.
PROTARCHUS: Quite right; in that way we shall be better able to judge.
SOCRATES: And there is no difficulty in seeing the cause which renders any mixture
either of the highest value or of none at all.
PROTARCHUS: What do you mean?
SOCRATES: Every man knows it.
PROTARCHUS: What?
SOCRATES: He knows that any want of measure and symmetry in any mixture whatever
must always of necessity be fatal, both to the elements and to the mixture, which is then
not a mixture, but only a confused medley which brings confusion on the possessor of it.
PROTARCHUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: And now the power of the good has retired into the region of the beautiful;
for measure and symmetry are beauty and virtue all the world over.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: Also we said that truth was to form an element in the mixture.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: Then, if we are not able to hunt the good with one idea only, with three we
may catch our prey; Beauty, Symmetry, Truth are the three, and these taken together we
may regard as the single cause of the mixture, and the mixture as being good by reason
of the infusion of them.
PROTARCHUS: Quite right.
SOCRATES: And now, Protarchus, any man could decide well enough whether pleasure
or wisdom is more akin to the highest good, and more honourable among gods and men.
PROTARCHUS: Clearly, and yet perhaps the argument had better be pursued to the
end.
SOCRATES: We must take each of them separately in their relation to pleasure and
mind, and pronounce upon them; for we ought to see to which of the two they are
severally most akin.
PROTARCHUS: You are speaking of beauty, truth, and measure?
SOCRATES: Yes, Protarchus, take truth first, and, after passing in review mind, truth,
pleasure, pause awhile and make answer to yourself—as to whether pleasure or mind is
more akin to truth.
PROTARCHUS: There is no need to pause, for the difference between them is palpable;
pleasure is the veriest impostor in the world; and it is said that in the pleasures of love,
which appear to be the greatest, perjury is excused by the gods; for pleasures, like
children, have not the least particle of reason in them; whereas mind is either the same
as truth, or the most like truth, and the truest.
SOCRATES: Shall we next consider measure, in like manner, and ask whether pleasure
has more of this than wisdom, or wisdom than pleasure?
PROTARCHUS: Here is another question which may be easily answered; for I imagine
that nothing can ever be more immoderate than the transports of pleasure, or more in
conformity with measure than mind and knowledge.
SOCRATES: Very good; but there still remains the third test: Has mind a greater share
of beauty than pleasure, and is mind or pleasure the fairer of the two?
PROTARCHUS: No one, Socrates, either awake or dreaming, ever saw or imagined
mind or wisdom to be in aught unseemly, at any time, past, present, or future.
SOCRATES: Right.
PROTARCHUS: But when we see some one indulging in pleasures, perhaps in the
greatest of pleasures, the ridiculous or disgraceful nature of the action makes us
ashamed; and so we put them out of sight, and consign them to darkness, under the idea
that they ought not to meet the eye of day.
SOCRATES: Then, Protarchus, you will proclaim everywhere, by word of mouth to this
company, and by messengers bearing the tidings far and wide, that pleasure is not the
first of possessions, nor yet the second, but that in measure, and the mean, and the
suitable, and the like, the eternal nature has been found.
PROTARCHUS: Yes, that seems to be the result of what has been now said.
SOCRATES: In the second class is contained the symmetrical and beautiful and perfect
or sufficient, and all which are of that family.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: And if you reckon in the third dass mind and wisdom, you will not be far
wrong, if I divine aright.
PROTARCHUS: I dare say.
SOCRATES: And would you not put in the fourth class the goods which we were
affirming to appertain specially to the soul—sciences and arts and true opinions as we
called them? These come after the third class, and form the fourth, as they are certainly
more akin to good than pleasure is.
PROTARCHUS: Surely.
SOCRATES: The fifth class are the pleasures which were defined by us as painless, being
the pure pleasures of the soul herself, as we termed them, which accompany, some the
sciences, and some the senses.
PROTARCHUS: Perhaps.
SOCRATES: And now, as Orpheus says,
‘With the sixth generation cease the glory of my song.’
Here, at the sixth award, let us make an end; all that remains is to set the crown on our
discourse.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then let us sum up and reassert what has been said, thus offering the third
libation to the saviour Zeus.
PROTARCHUS: How?
SOCRATES: Philebus affirmed that pleasure was always and absolutely the good.
PROTARCHUS: I understand; this third libation, Socrates, of which you spoke, meant a
recapitulation.
SOCRATES: Yes, but listen to the sequel; convinced of what I have just been saying, and
feeling indignant at the doctrine, which is maintained, not by Philebus only, but by
thousands of others, I affirmed that mind was far better and far more excellent, as an
element of human life, than pleasure.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: But, suspecting that there were other things which were also better, I went
on to say that if there was anything better than either, then I would claim the second
place for mind over pleasure, and pleasure would lose the second place as well as the
first.
PROTARCHUS: You did.
SOCRATES: Nothing could be more satisfactorily shown than the unsatisfactory nature
of both of them.
PROTARCHUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: The claims both of pleasure and mind to be the absolute good have been
entirely disproven in this argument, because they are both wanting in self-sufficiency
and also in adequacy and perfection.
PROTARCHUS: Most true.
SOCRATES: But, though they must both resign in favour of another, mind is ten
thousand times nearer and more akin to the nature of the conqueror than pleasure.
PROTARCHUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And, according to the judgment which has now been given, pleasure will
rank fifth.
PROTARCHUS: True.
SOCRATES: But not first; no, not even if all the oxen and horses and animals in the
world by their pursuit of enjoyment proclaim her to be so;— although the many trusting
in them, as diviners trust in birds, determine that pleasures make up the good of life,
and deem the lusts of animals to be better witnesses than the inspirations of divine
philosophy.
PROTARCHUS: And now, Socrates, we tell you that the truth of what you have been
saying is approved by the judgment of all of us.
SOCRATES: And will you let me go?
PROTARCHUS: There is a little which yet remains, and I will remind you of it, for I am
sure that you will not be the first to go away from an argument.

THE END

TIMAEUS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT

INTRODUCTION AND ANALYSIS.
Of all the writings of Plato the Timaeus is the most obscure and repulsive to the modern
reader, and has nevertheless had the greatest influence over the ancient and mediaeval
world. The obscurity arises in the infancy of physical science, out of the confusion of
theological, mathematical, and physiological notions, out of the desire to conceive the
whole of nature without any adequate knowledge of the parts, and from a greater
perception of similarities which lie on the surface than of differences which are hidden
from view. To bring sense under the control of reason; to find some way through the
mist or labyrinth of appearances, either the highway of mathematics, or more devious
paths suggested by the analogy of man with the world, and of the world with man; to see
that all things have a cause and are tending towards an end—this is the spirit of the
ancient physical philosopher. He has no notion of trying an experiment and is hardly
capable of observing the curiosities of nature which are ‘tumbling out at his feet,’ or of
interpreting even the most obvious of them. He is driven back from the nearer to the
more distant, from particulars to generalities, from the earth to the stars. He lifts up his
eyes to the heavens and seeks to guide by their motions his erring footsteps. But we
neither appreciate the conditions of knowledge to which he was subjected, nor have the
ideas which fastened upon his imagination the same hold upon us. For he is hanging
between matter and mind; he is under the dominion at the same time both of sense and
of abstractions; his impressions are taken almost at random from the outside of nature;
he sees the light, but not the objects which are revealed by the light; and he brings into
juxtaposition things which to us appear wide as the poles asunder, because he finds
nothing between them. He passes abruptly from persons to ideas and numbers, and
from ideas and numbers to persons,—from the heavens to man, from astronomy to
physiology; he confuses, or rather does not distinguish, subject and object, first and final
causes, and is dreaming of geometrical figures lost in a flux of sense. He contrasts the
perfect movements of the heavenly bodies with the imperfect representation of them
(Rep.), and he does not always require strict accuracy even in applications of number
and figure (Rep.). His mind lingers around the forms of mythology, which he uses as
symbols or translates into figures of speech. He has no implements of observation, such
as the telescope or microscope; the great science of chemistry is a blank to him. It is only
by an effort that the modern thinker can breathe the atmosphere of the ancient
philosopher, or understand how, under such unequal conditions, he seems in many
instances, by a sort of inspiration, to have anticipated the truth.
The influence with the Timaeus has exercised upon posterity is due partly to a
misunderstanding. In the supposed depths of this dialogue the Neo- Platonists found
hidden meanings and connections with the Jewish and Christian Scriptures, and out of
them they elicited doctrines quite at variance with the spirit of Plato. Believing that he
was inspired by the Holy Ghost, or had received his wisdom from Moses, they seemed to
find in his writings the Christian Trinity, the Word, the Church, the creation of the world
in a Jewish sense, as they really found the personality of God or of mind, and the
immortality of the soul. All religions and philosophies met and mingled in the schools of
Alexandria, and the Neo-Platonists had a method of interpretation which could elicit
any meaning out of any words. They were really incapable of distinguishing between the
opinions of one philosopher and another—between Aristotle and Plato, or between the
serious thoughts of Plato and his passing fancies. They were absorbed in his theology
and were under the dominion of his name, while that which was truly great and truly
characteristic in him, his effort to realize and connect abstractions, was not understood
by them at all. Yet the genius of Plato and Greek philosophy reacted upon the East, and
a Greek element of thought and language overlaid and partly reduced to order the chaos
of Orientalism. And kindred spirits, like St. Augustine, even though they were
acquainted with his writings only through the medium of a Latin translation, were
profoundly affected by them, seeming to find ‘God and his word everywhere insinuated’
in them (August. Confess.)
There is no danger of the modern commentators on the Timaeus falling into the
absurdities of the Neo-Platonists. In the present day we are well aware that an ancient
philosopher is to be interpreted from himself and by the contemporary history of
thought. We know that mysticism is not criticism. The fancies of the Neo-Platonists are
only interesting to us because they exhibit a phase of the human mind which prevailed
widely in the first centuries of the Christian era, and is not wholly extinct in our own
day. But they have nothing to do with the interpretation of Plato, and in spirit they are
opposed to him. They are the feeble expression of an age which has lost the power not
only of creating great works, but of understanding them. They are the spurious birth of a
marriage between philosophy and tradition, between Hellas and the East—(Greek)
(Rep.). Whereas the so-called mysticism of Plato is purely Greek, arising out of his
imperfect knowledge and high aspirations, and is the growth of an age in which
philosophy is not wholly separated from poetry and mythology.
A greater danger with modern interpreters of Plato is the tendency to regard the
Timaeus as the centre of his system. We do not know how Plato would have arranged his
own dialogues, or whether the thought of arranging any of them, besides the two
‘Trilogies’ which he has expressly connected; was ever present to his mind. But, if he had
arranged them, there are many indications that this is not the place which he would
have assigned to the Timaeus. We observe, first of all, that the dialogue is put into the
mouth of a Pythagorean philosopher, and not of Socrates. And this is required by
dramatic propriety; for the investigation of nature was expressly renounced by Socrates
in the Phaedo. Nor does Plato himself attribute any importance to his guesses at science.
He is not at all absorbed by them, as he is by the IDEA of good. He is modest and
hesitating, and confesses that his words partake of the uncertainty of the subject (Tim.).
The dialogue is primarily concerned with the animal creation, including under this term
the heavenly bodies, and with man only as one among the animals. But we can hardly
suppose that Plato would have preferred the study of nature to man, or that he would
have deemed the formation of the world and the human frame to have the same interest
which he ascribes to the mystery of being and not-being, or to the great political
problems which he discusses in the Republic and the Laws. There are no speculations on
physics in the other dialogues of Plato, and he himself regards the consideration of them
as a rational pastime only. He is beginning to feel the need of further divisions of
knowledge; and is becoming aware that besides dialectic, mathematics, and the arts,
there is another field which has been hitherto unexplored by him. But he has not as yet
defined this intermediate territory which lies somewhere between medicine and
mathematics, and he would have felt that there was as great an impiety in ranking
theories of physics first in the order of knowledge, as in placing the body before the soul.
It is true, however, that the Timaeus is by no means confined to speculations on physics.
The deeper foundations of the Platonic philosophy, such as the nature of God, the
distinction of the sensible and intellectual, the great original conceptions of time and
space, also appear in it. They are found principally in the first half of the dialogue. The
construction of the heavens is for the most part ideal; the cyclic year serves as the
connection between the world of absolute being and of generation, just as the number of
population in the Republic is the expression or symbol of the transition from the ideal to
the actual state. In some passages we are uncertain whether we are reading a description
of astronomical facts or contemplating processes of the human mind, or of that divine
mind (Phil.) which in Plato is hardly separable from it. The characteristics of man are
transferred to the world-animal, as for example when intelligence and knowledge are
said to be perfected by the circle of the Same, and true opinion by the circle of the Other;
and conversely the motions of the world-animal reappear in man; its amorphous state
continues in the child, and in both disorder and chaos are gradually succeeded by
stability and order. It is not however to passages like these that Plato is referring when
he speaks of the uncertainty of his subject, but rather to the composition of bodies, to
the relations of colours, the nature of diseases, and the like, about which he truly feels
the lamentable ignorance prevailing in his own age.
We are led by Plato himself to regard the Timaeus, not as the centre or inmost shrine of
the edifice, but as a detached building in a different style, framed, not after the Socratic,
but after some Pythagorean model. As in the Cratylus and Parmenides, we are uncertain
whether Plato is expressing his own opinions, or appropriating and perhaps improving
the philosophical speculations of others. In all three dialogues he is exerting his
dramatic and imitative power; in the Cratylus mingling a satirical and humorous
purpose with true principles of language; in the Parmenides overthrowing Megarianism
by a sort of ultra-Megarianism, which discovers contradictions in the one as great as
those which have been previously shown to exist in the ideas. There is a similar
uncertainty about the Timaeus; in the first part he scales the heights of
transcendentalism, in the latter part he treats in a bald and superficial manner of the
functions and diseases of the human frame. He uses the thoughts and almost the words
of Parmenides when he discourses of being and of essence, adopting from old religion
into philosophy the conception of God, and from the Megarians the IDEA of good. He
agrees with Empedocles and the Atomists in attributing the greater differences of kinds
to the figures of the elements and their movements into and out of one another. With
Heracleitus, he acknowledges the perpetual flux; like Anaxagoras, he asserts the
predominance of mind, although admitting an element of necessity which reason is
incapable of subduing; like the Pythagoreans he supposes the mystery of the world to be
contained in number. Many, if not all the elements of the Pre-Socratic philosophy are
included in the Timaeus. It is a composite or eclectic work of imagination, in which
Plato, without naming them, gathers up into a kind of system the various elements of
philosophy which preceded him.
If we allow for the difference of subject, and for some growth in Plato’s own mind, the
discrepancy between the Timaeus and the other dialogues will not appear to be great. It
is probable that the relation of the ideas to God or of God to the world was differently
conceived by him at different times of his life. In all his later dialogues we observe a
tendency in him to personify mind or God, and he therefore naturally inclines to view
creation as the work of design. The creator is like a human artist who frames in his mind
a plan which he executes by the help of his servants. Thus the language of philosophy
which speaks of first and second causes is crossed by another sort of phraseology: ‘God
made the world because he was good, and the demons ministered to him.’ The Timaeus
is cast in a more theological and less philosophical mould than the other dialogues, but
the same general spirit is apparent; there is the same dualism or opposition between the
ideal and actual—the soul is prior to the body, the intelligible and unseen to the visible
and corporeal. There is the same distinction between knowledge and opinion which
occurs in the Theaetetus and Republic, the same enmity to the poets, the same
combination of music and gymnastics. The doctrine of transmigration is still held by
him, as in the Phaedrus and Republic; and the soul has a view of the heavens in a prior
state of being. The ideas also remain, but they have become types in nature, forms of
men, animals, birds, fishes. And the attribution of evil to physical causes accords with
the doctrine which he maintains in the Laws respecting the involuntariness of vice.
The style and plan of the Timaeus differ greatly from that of any other of the Platonic
dialogues. The language is weighty, abrupt, and in some passages sublime. But Plato has
not the same mastery over his instrument which he exhibits in the Phaedrus or
Symposium. Nothing can exceed the beauty or art of the introduction, in which he is
using words after his accustomed manner. But in the rest of the work the power of
language seems to fail him, and the dramatic form is wholly given up. He could write in
one style, but not in another, and the Greek language had not as yet been fashioned by
any poet or philosopher to describe physical phenomena. The early physiologists had
generally written in verse; the prose writers, like Democritus and Anaxagoras, as far as
we can judge from their fragments, never attained to a periodic style. And hence we find
the same sort of clumsiness in the Timaeus of Plato which characterizes the
philosophical poem of Lucretius. There is a want of flow and often a defect of rhythm;
the meaning is sometimes obscure, and there is a greater use of apposition and more of
repetition than occurs in Plato’s earlier writings. The sentences are less closely
connected and also more involved; the antecedents of demonstrative and relative
pronouns are in some cases remote and perplexing. The greater frequency of participles
and of absolute constructions gives the effect of heaviness. The descriptive portion of the
Timaeus retains traces of the first Greek prose composition; for the great master of
language was speaking on a theme with which he was imperfectly acquainted, and had
no words in which to express his meaning. The rugged grandeur of the opening
discourse of Timaeus may be compared with the more harmonious beauty of a similar
passage in the Phaedrus.
To the same cause we may attribute the want of plan. Plato had not the command of his
materials which would have enabled him to produce a perfect work of art. Hence there
are several new beginnings and resumptions and formal or artificial connections; we
miss the ‘callida junctura’ of the earlier dialogues. His speculations about the Eternal,
his theories of creation, his mathematical anticipations, are supplemented by desultory
remarks on the one immortal and the two mortal souls of man, on the functions of the
bodily organs in health and disease, on sight, hearing, smell, taste, and touch. He soars
into the heavens, and then, as if his wings were suddenly clipped, he walks ungracefully
and with difficulty upon the earth. The greatest things in the world, and the least things
in man, are brought within the compass of a short treatise. But the intermediate links
are missing, and we cannot be surprised that there should be a want of unity in a work
which embraces astronomy, theology, physiology, and natural philosophy in a few
pages.
It is not easy to determine how Plato’s cosmos may be presented to the reader in a
clearer and shorter form; or how we may supply a thread of connexion to his ideas
without giving greater consistency to them than they possessed in his mind, or adding
on consequences which would never have occurred to him. For he has glimpses of the
truth, but no comprehensive or perfect vision. There are isolated expressions about the
nature of God which have a wonderful depth and power; but we are not justified in
assuming that these had any greater significance to the mind of Plato than language of a
neutral and impersonal character . . . With a view to the illustration of the Timaeus I
propose to divide this Introduction into sections, of which the first will contain an
outline of the dialogue: (2) I shall consider the aspects of nature which presented
themselves to Plato and his age, and the elements of philosophy which entered into the
conception of them: (3) the theology and physics of the Timaeus, including the soul of
the world, the conception of time and space, and the composition of the elements: (4) in
the fourth section I shall consider the Platonic astronomy, and the position of the earth.
There will remain, (5) the psychology, (6) the physiology of Plato, and (7) his analysis of
the senses to be briefly commented upon: (8) lastly, we may examine in what points
Plato approaches or anticipates the discoveries of modern science.
Section 1.
Socrates begins the Timaeus with a summary of the Republic. He lightly touches upon a
few points,—the division of labour and distribution of the citizens into classes, the
double nature and training of the guardians, the community of property and of women
and children. But he makes no mention of the second education, or of the government of
philosophers.
And now he desires to see the ideal State set in motion; he would like to know how she
behaved in some great struggle. But he is unable to invent such a narrative himself; and
he is afraid that the poets are equally incapable; for, although he pretends to have
nothing to say against them, he remarks that they are a tribe of imitators, who can only
describe what they have seen. And he fears that the Sophists, who are plentifully
supplied with graces of speech, in their erratic way of life having never had a city or
house of their own, may through want of experience err in their conception of
philosophers and statesmen. ‘And therefore to you I turn, Timaeus, citizen of Locris,
who are at once a philosopher and a statesman, and to you, Critias, whom all Athenians
know to be similarly accomplished, and to Hermocrates, who is also fitted by nature and
education to share in our discourse.’
HERMOCRATES: ‘We will do our best, and have been already preparing; for on our way
home, Critias told us of an ancient tradition, which I wish, Critias, that you would repeat
to Socrates.’ ‘I will, if Timaeus approves.’ ‘I approve.’ Listen then, Socrates, to a tale of
Solon’s, who, being the friend of Dropidas my great-grandfather, told it to my
grandfather Critias, and he told me. The narrative related to ancient famous actions of
the Athenian people, and to one especially, which I will rehearse in honour of you and of
the goddess. Critias when he told this tale of the olden time, was ninety years old, I
being not more than ten. The occasion of the rehearsal was the day of the Apaturia
called the Registration of Youth, at which our parents gave prizes for recitation. Some
poems of Solon were recited by the boys. They had not at that time gone out of fashion,
and the recital of them led some one to say, perhaps in compliment to Critias, that Solon
was not only the wisest of men but also the best of poets. The old man brightened up at
hearing this, and said: Had Solon only had the leisure which was required to complete
the famous legend which he brought with him from Egypt he would have been as
distinguished as Homer and Hesiod. ‘And what was the subject of the poem?’ said the
person who made the remark. The subject was a very noble one; he described the most
famous action in which the Athenian people were ever engaged. But the memory of their
exploits has passed away owing to the lapse of time and the extinction of the actors. ‘Tell
us,’ said the other, ‘the whole story, and where Solon heard the story.’ He replied—
There is at the head of the Egyptian Delta, where the river Nile divides, a city and
district called Sais; the city was the birthplace of King Amasis, and is under the
protection of the goddess Neith or Athene. The citizens have a friendly feeling towards
the Athenians, believing themselves to be related to them. Hither came Solon, and was
received with honour; and here he first learnt, by conversing with the Egyptian priests,
how ignorant he and his countrymen were of antiquity. Perceiving this, and with the
view of eliciting information from them, he told them the tales of Phoroneus and Niobe,
and also of Deucalion and Pyrrha, and he endeavoured to count the generations which
had since passed. Thereupon an aged priest said to him: ‘O Solon, Solon, you Hellenes
are ever young, and there is no old man who is a Hellene.’ ‘What do you mean?’ he
asked. ‘In mind,’ replied the priest, ‘I mean to say that you are children; there is no
opinion or tradition of knowledge among you which is white with age; and I will tell you
why. Like the rest of mankind you have suffered from convulsions of nature, which are
chiefly brought about by the two great agencies of fire and water. The former is
symbolized in the Hellenic tale of young Phaethon who drove his father’s horses the
wrong way, and having burnt up the earth was himself burnt up by a thunderbolt. For
there occurs at long intervals a derangement of the heavenly bodies, and then the earth
is destroyed by fire. At such times, and when fire is the agent, those who dwell by rivers
or on the seashore are safer than those who dwell upon high and dry places, who in their
turn are safer when the danger is from water. Now the Nile is our saviour from fire, and
as there is little rain in Egypt, we are not harmed by water; whereas in other countries,
when a deluge comes, the inhabitants are swept by the rivers into the sea. The
memorials which your own and other nations have once had of the famous actions of
mankind perish in the waters at certain periods; and the rude survivors in the
mountains begin again, knowing nothing of the world before the flood. But in Egypt the
traditions of our own and other lands are by us registered for ever in our temples. The
genealogies which you have recited to us out of your own annals, Solon, are a mere
children’s story. For in the first place, you remember one deluge only, and there were
many of them, and you know nothing of that fairest and noblest race of which you are a
seed or remnant. The memory of them was lost, because there was no written voice
among you. For in the times before the great flood Athens was the greatest and best of
cities and did the noblest deeds and had the best constitution of any under the face of
heaven.’ Solon marvelled, and desired to be informed of the particulars. ‘You are
welcome to hear them,’ said the priest, ‘both for your own sake and for that of the city,
and above all for the sake of the goddess who is the common foundress of both our
cities. Nine thousand years have elapsed since she founded yours, and eight thousand
since she founded ours, as our annals record. Many laws exist among us which are the
counterpart of yours as they were in the olden time. I will briefly describe them to you,
and you shall read the account of them at your leisure in the sacred registers. In the first
place, there was a caste of priests among the ancient Athenians, and another of artisans;
also castes of shepherds, hunters, and husbandmen, and lastly of warriors, who, like the
warriors of Egypt, were separated from the rest, and carried shields and spears, a
custom which the goddess first taught you, and then the Asiatics, and we among Asiatics
first received from her. Observe again, what care the law took in the pursuit of wisdom,
searching out the deep things of the world, and applying them to the use of man. The
spot of earth which the goddess chose had the best of climates, and produced the wisest
men; in no other was she herself, the philosopher and warrior goddess, so likely to have
votaries. And there you dwelt as became the children of the gods, excelling all men in
virtue, and many famous actions are recorded of you. The most famous of them all was
the overthrow of the island of Atlantis. This great island lay over against the Pillars of
Heracles, in extent greater than Libya and Asia put together, and was the passage to
other islands and to a great ocean of which the Mediterranean sea was only the harbour;
and within the Pillars the empire of Atlantis reached in Europe to Tyrrhenia and in
Libya to Egypt. This mighty power was arrayed against Egypt and Hellas and all the
countries bordering on the Mediterranean. Then your city did bravely, and won renown
over the whole earth. For at the peril of her own existence, and when the other Hellenes
had deserted her, she repelled the invader, and of her own accord gave liberty to all the
nations within the Pillars. A little while afterwards there were great earthquakes and
floods, and your warrior race all sank into the earth; and the great island of Atlantis also
disappeared in the sea. This is the explanation of the shallows which are found in that
part of the Atlantic ocean.’
Such was the tale, Socrates, which Critias heard from Solon; and I noticed when
listening to you yesterday, how close the resemblance was between your city and citizens
and the ancient Athenian State. But I would not speak at the time, because I wanted to
refresh my memory. I had heard the old man when I was a child, and though I could not
remember the whole of our yesterday’s discourse, I was able to recall every word of this,
which is branded into my mind; and I am prepared, Socrates, to rehearse to you the
entire narrative. The imaginary State which you were describing may be identified with
the reality of Solon, and our antediluvian ancestors may be your citizens. ‘That is
excellent, Critias, and very appropriate to a Panathenaic festival; the truth of the story is
a great advantage.’ Then now let me explain to you the order of our entertainment; first,
Timaeus, who is a natural philosopher, will speak of the origin of the world, going down
to the creation of man, and then I shall receive the men whom he has created, and some
of whom will have been educated by you, and introduce them to you as the lost Athenian
citizens of whom the Egyptian record spoke. As the law of Solon prescribes, we will
bring them into court and acknowledge their claims to citizenship. ‘I see,’ replied
Socrates, ‘that I shall be well entertained; and do you, Timaeus, offer up a prayer and
begin.’
TIMAEUS: All men who have any right feeling, at the beginning of any enterprise, call
upon the Gods; and he who is about to speak of the origin of the universe has a special
need of their aid. May my words be acceptable to them, and may I speak in the manner
which will be most intelligible to you and will best express my own meaning!
First, I must distinguish between that which always is and never becomes and which is
apprehended by reason and reflection, and that which always becomes and never is and
is conceived by opinion with the help of sense. All that becomes and is created is the
work of a cause, and that is fair which the artificer makes after an eternal pattern, but
whatever is fashioned after a created pattern is not fair. Is the world created or
uncreated?—that is the first question. Created, I reply, being visible and tangible and
having a body, and therefore sensible; and if sensible, then created; and if created, made
by a cause, and the cause is the ineffable father of all things, who had before him an
eternal archetype. For to imagine that the archetype was created would be blasphemy,
seeing that the world is the noblest of creations, and God is the best of causes. And the
world being thus created according to the eternal pattern is the copy of something; and
we may assume that words are akin to the matter of which they speak. What is spoken of
the unchanging or intelligible must be certain and true; but what is spoken of the
created image can only be probable; being is to becoming what truth is to belief. And
amid the variety of opinions which have arisen about God and the nature of the world
we must be content to take probability for our rule, considering that I, who am the
speaker, and you, who are the judges, are only men; to probability we may attain but no
further.
SOCRATES: Excellent, Timaeus, I like your manner of approaching the subject—
proceed.
TIMAEUS: Why did the Creator make the world?...He was good, and therefore not
jealous, and being free from jealousy he desired that all things should be like himself.
Wherefore he set in order the visible world, which he found in disorder. Now he who is
the best could only create the fairest; and reflecting that of visible things the intelligent
is superior to the unintelligent, he put intelligence in soul and soul in body, and framed
the universe to be the best and fairest work in the order of nature, and the world became
a living soul through the providence of God.
In the likeness of what animal was the world made?—that is the third question...The
form of the perfect animal was a whole, and contained all intelligible beings, and the
visible animal, made after the pattern of this, included all visible creatures.
Are there many worlds or one only?—that is the fourth question...One only. For if in the
original there had been more than one they would have been the parts of a third, which
would have been the true pattern of the world; and therefore there is, and will ever be,
but one created world. Now that which is created is of necessity corporeal and visible
and tangible,— visible and therefore made of fire,—tangible and therefore solid and
made of earth. But two terms must be united by a third, which is a mean between them;
and had the earth been a surface only, one mean would have sufficed, but two means are
required to unite solid bodies. And as the world was composed of solids, between the
elements of fire and earth God placed two other elements of air and water, and arranged
them in a continuous proportion—
fire:air::air:water, and air:water::water:earth,
and so put together a visible and palpable heaven, having harmony and friendship in the
union of the four elements; and being at unity with itself it was indissoluble except by
the hand of the framer. Each of the elements was taken into the universe whole and
entire; for he considered that the animal should be perfect and one, leaving no remnants
out of which another animal could be created, and should also be free from old age and
disease, which are produced by the action of external forces. And as he was to contain all
things, he was made in the all-containing form of a sphere, round as from a lathe and
every way equidistant from the centre, as was natural and suitable to him. He was
finished and smooth, having neither eyes nor ears, for there was nothing without him
which he could see or hear; and he had no need to carry food to his mouth, nor was
there air for him to breathe; and he did not require hands, for there was nothing of
which he could take hold, nor feet, with which to walk. All that he did was done
rationally in and by himself, and he moved in a circle turning within himself, which is
the most intellectual of motions; but the other six motions were wanting to him;
wherefore the universe had no feet or legs.
And so the thought of God made a God in the image of a perfect body, having
intercourse with himself and needing no other, but in every part harmonious and selfcontained
and truly blessed. The soul was first made by him—the elder to rule the
younger; not in the order in which our wayward fancy has led us to describe them, but
the soul first and afterwards the body. God took of the unchangeable and indivisible and
also of the divisible and corporeal, and out of the two he made a third nature, essence,
which was in a mean between them, and partook of the same and the other, the
intractable nature of the other being compressed into the same. Having made a
compound of all the three, he proceeded to divide the entire mass into portions related
to one another in the ratios of 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 8, 27, and proceeded to fill up the double and
triple intervals thus—
— over 1, 4/3, 3/2, — over 2, 8/3, 3, — over 4, 16/3, 6, — over 8: — over 1, 3/2, 2, — over
3, 9/2, 6, — over 9, 27/2, 18, — over 27;
in which double series of numbers are two kinds of means; the one exceeds and is
exceeded by equal parts of the extremes, e.g. 1, 4/3, 2; the other kind of mean is one
which is equidistant from the extremes—2, 4, 6. In this manner there were formed
intervals of thirds, 3:2, of fourths, 4:3, and of ninths, 9:8. And next he filled up the
intervals of a fourth with ninths, leaving a remnant which is in the ratio of 256:243. The
entire compound was divided by him lengthways into two parts, which he united at the
centre like the letter X, and bent into an inner and outer circle or sphere, cutting one
another again at a point over against the point at which they cross. The outer circle or
sphere was named the sphere of the same—the inner, the sphere of the other or diverse;
and the one revolved horizontally to the right, the other diagonally to the left. To the
sphere of the same which was undivided he gave dominion, but the sphere of the other
or diverse was distributed into seven unequal orbits, having intervals in ratios of twos
and threes, three of either sort, and he bade the orbits move in opposite directions to
one another—three of them, the Sun, Mercury, Venus, with equal swiftness, and the
remaining four—the Moon, Saturn, Mars, Jupiter, with unequal swiftness to the three
and to one another, but all in due proportion.
When the Creator had made the soul he made the body within her; and the soul
interfused everywhere from the centre to the circumference of heaven, herself turning in
herself, began a divine life of rational and everlasting motion. The body of heaven is
visible, but the soul is invisible, and partakes of reason and harmony, and is the best of
creations, being the work of the best. And being composed of the same, the other, and
the essence, these three, and also divided and bound in harmonical proportion, and
revolving within herself—the soul when touching anything which has essence, whether
divided or undivided, is stirred to utter the sameness or diversity of that and some other
thing, and to tell how and when and where individuals are affected or related, whether
in the world of change or of essence. When reason is in the neighbourhood of sense, and
the circle of the other or diverse is moving truly, then arise true opinions and beliefs;
when reason is in the sphere of thought, and the circle of the same runs smoothly, then
intelligence is perfected.
When the Father who begat the world saw the image which he had made of the Eternal
Gods moving and living, he rejoiced; and in his joy resolved, since the archetype was
eternal, to make the creature eternal as far as this was possible. Wherefore he made an
image of eternity which is time, having an uniform motion according to number, parted
into months and days and years, and also having greater divisions of past, present, and
future. These all apply to becoming in time, and have no meaning in relation to the
eternal nature, which ever is and never was or will be; for the unchangeable is never
older or younger, and when we say that he ‘was’ or ‘will be,’ we are mistaken, for these
words are applicable only to becoming, and not to true being; and equally wrong are we
in saying that what has become IS become and that what becomes IS becoming, and that
the non-existent IS non- existent...These are the forms of time which imitate eternity
and move in a circle measured by number.
Thus was time made in the image of the eternal nature; and it was created together with
the heavens, in order that if they were dissolved, it might perish with them. And God
made the sun and moon and five other wanderers, as they are called, seven in all, and to
each of them he gave a body moving in an orbit, being one of the seven orbits into which
the circle of the other was divided. He put the moon in the orbit which was nearest to
the earth, the sun in that next, the morning star and Mercury in the orbits which move
opposite to the sun but with equal swiftness—this being the reason why they overtake
and are overtaken by one another. All these bodies became living creatures, and learnt
their appointed tasks, and began to move, the nearer more swiftly, the remoter more
slowly, according to the diagonal movement of the other. And since this was controlled
by the movement of the same, the seven planets in their courses appeared to describe
spirals; and that appeared fastest which was slowest, and that which overtook others
appeared to be overtaken by them. And God lighted a fire in the second orbit from the
earth which is called the sun, to give light over the whole heaven, and to teach intelligent
beings that knowledge of number which is derived from the revolution of the same. Thus
arose day and night, which are the periods of the most intelligent nature; a month is
created by the revolution of the moon, a year by that of the sun. Other periods of
wonderful length and complexity are not observed by men in general; there is moreover
a cycle or perfect year at the completion of which they all meet and coincide...To this end
the stars came into being, that the created heaven might imitate the eternal nature.
Thus far the universal animal was made in the divine image, but the other animals were
not as yet included in him. And God created them according to the patterns or species of
them which existed in the divine original. There are four of them: one of gods, another
of birds, a third of fishes, and a fourth of animals. The gods were made in the form of a
circle, which is the most perfect figure and the figure of the universe. They were created
chiefly of fire, that they might be bright, and were made to know and follow the best,
and to be scattered over the heavens, of which they were to be the glory. Two kinds of
motion were assigned to them—first, the revolution in the same and around the same, in
peaceful unchanging thought of the same; and to this was added a forward motion
which was under the control of the same. Thus then the fixed stars were created, being
divine and eternal animals, revolving on the same spot, and the wandering stars, in their
courses, were created in the manner already described. The earth, which is our nurse,
clinging around the pole extended through the universe, he made to be the guardian and
artificer of night and day, first and eldest of gods that are in the interior of heaven. Vain
would be the labour of telling all the figures of them, moving as in dance, and their
juxta-positions and approximations, and when and where and behind what other stars
they appear to disappear—to tell of all this without looking at a plan of them would be
labour in vain.
The knowledge of the other gods is beyond us, and we can only accept the traditions of
the ancients, who were the children of the gods, as they said; for surely they must have
known their own ancestors. Although they give no proof, we must believe them as is
customary. They tell us that Oceanus and Tethys were the children of Earth and Heaven;
that Phoreys, Cronos, and Rhea came in the next generation, and were followed by Zeus
and Here, whose brothers and children are known to everybody.
When all of them, both those who show themselves in the sky, and those who retire from
view, had come into being, the Creator addressed them thus:— ‘Gods, sons of gods, my
works, if I will, are indissoluble. That which is bound may be dissolved, but only an evil
being would dissolve that which is harmonious and happy. And although you are not
immortal you shall not die, for I will hold you together. Hear me, then:—Three tribes of
mortal beings have still to be created, but if created by me they would be like gods. Do ye
therefore make them; I will implant in them the seed of immortality, and you shall
weave together the mortal and immortal, and provide food for them, and receive them
again in death.’ Thus he spake, and poured the remains of the elements into the cup in
which he had mingled the soul of the universe. They were no longer pure as before, but
diluted; and the mixture he distributed into souls equal in number to the stars, and
assigned each to a star—then having mounted them, as in a chariot, he showed them the
nature of the universe, and told them of their future birth and human lot. They were to
be sown in the planets, and out of them was to come forth the most religious of animals,
which would hereafter be called man. The souls were to be implanted in bodies, which
were in a perpetual flux, whence, he said, would arise, first, sensation; secondly, love,
which is a mixture of pleasure and pain; thirdly, fear and anger, and the opposite
affections: and if they conquered these, they would live righteously, but if they were
conquered by them, unrighteously. He who lived well would return to his native star,
and would there have a blessed existence; but, if he lived ill, he would pass into the
nature of a woman, and if he did not then alter his evil ways, into the likeness of some
animal, until the reason which was in him reasserted her sway over the elements of fire,
air, earth, water, which had engrossed her, and he regained his first and better nature.
Having given this law to his creatures, that he might be guiltless of their future evil, he
sowed them, some in the earth, some in the moon, and some in the other planets; and
he ordered the younger gods to frame human bodies for them and to make the necessary
additions to them, and to avert from them all but self-inflicted evil.
Having given these commands, the Creator remained in his own nature. And his
children, receiving from him the immortal principle, borrowed from the world portions
of earth, air, fire, water, hereafter to be returned, which they fastened together, not with
the adamantine bonds which bound themselves, but by little invisible pegs, making each
separate body out of all the elements, subject to influx and efflux, and containing the
courses of the soul. These swelling and surging as in a river moved irregularly and
irrationally in all the six possible ways, forwards, backwards, right, left, up and down.
But violent as were the internal and alimentary fluids, the tide became still more violent
when the body came into contact with flaming fire, or the solid earth, or gliding waters,
or the stormy wind; the motions produced by these impulses pass through the body to
the soul and have the name of sensations. Uniting with the ever-flowing current, they
shake the courses of the soul, stopping the revolution of the same and twisting in all
sorts of ways the nature of the other, and the harmonical ratios of twos and threes and
the mean terms which connect them, until the circles are bent and disordered and their
motion becomes irregular. You may imagine a position of the body in which the head is
resting upon the ground, and the legs are in the air, and the top is bottom and the left
right. And something similar happens when the disordered motions of the soul come
into contact with any external thing; they say the same or the other in a manner which is
the very opposite of the truth, and they are false and foolish, and have no guiding
principle in them. And when external impressions enter in, they are really conquered,
though they seem to conquer.
By reason of these affections the soul is at first without intelligence, but as time goes on
the stream of nutriment abates, and the courses of the soul regain their proper motion,
and apprehend the same and the other rightly, and become rational. The soul of him
who has education is whole and perfect and escapes the worst disease, but, if a man’s
education be neglected, he walks lamely through life and returns good for nothing to the
world below. This, however, is an after-stage—at present, we are only concerned with
the creation of the body and soul.
The two divine courses were encased by the gods in a sphere which is called the head,
and is the god and lord of us. And to this they gave the body to be a vehicle, and the
members to be instruments, having the power of flexion and extension. Such was the
origin of legs and arms. In the next place, the gods gave a forward motion to the human
body, because the front part of man was the more honourable and had authority. And
they put in a face in which they inserted organs to minister in all things to the
providence of the soul. They first contrived the eyes, into which they conveyed a light
akin to the light of day, making it flow through the pupils. When the light of the eye is
surrounded by the light of day, then like falls upon like, and they unite and form one
body which conveys to the soul the motions of visible objects. But when the visual ray
goes forth into the darkness, then unlike falls upon unlike—the eye no longer sees, and
we go to sleep. The fire or light, when kept in by the eyelids, equalizes the inward
motions, and there is rest accompanied by few dreams; only when the greater motions
remain they engender in us corresponding visions of the night. And now we shall be able
to understand the nature of reflections in mirrors. The fires from within and from
without meet about the smooth and bright surface of the mirror; and because they meet
in a manner contrary to the usual mode, the right and left sides of the object are
transposed. In a concave mirror the top and bottom are inverted, but this is no
transposition.
These are the second causes which God used as his ministers in fashioning the world.
They are thought by many to be the prime causes, but they are not so; for they are
destitute of mind and reason, and the lover of mind will not allow that there are any
prime causes other than the rational and invisible ones—these he investigates first, and
afterwards the causes of things which are moved by others, and which work by chance
and without order. Of the second or concurrent causes of sight I have already spoken,
and I will now speak of the higher purpose of God in giving us eyes. Sight is the source of
the greatest benefits to us; for if our eyes had never seen the sun, stars, and heavens, the
words which we have spoken would not have been uttered. The sight of them and their
revolutions has given us the knowledge of number and time, the power of enquiry, and
philosophy, which is the great blessing of human life; not to speak of the lesser benefits
which even the vulgar can appreciate. God gave us the faculty of sight that we might
behold the order of the heavens and create a corresponding order in our own erring
minds. To the like end the gifts of speech and hearing were bestowed upon us; not for
the sake of irrational pleasure, but in order that we might harmonize the courses of the
soul by sympathy with the harmony of sound, and cure ourselves of our irregular and
graceless ways.
Thus far we have spoken of the works of mind; and there are other works done from
necessity, which we must now place beside them; for the creation is made up of both,
mind persuading necessity as far as possible to work out good. Before the heavens there
existed fire, air, water, earth, which we suppose men to know, though no one has
explained their nature, and we erroneously maintain them to be the letters or elements
of the whole, although they cannot reasonably be compared even to syllables or first
compounds. I am not now speaking of the first principles of things, because I cannot
discover them by our present mode of enquiry. But as I observed the rule of probability
at first, I will begin anew, seeking by the grace of God to observe it still.
In our former discussion I distinguished two kinds of being—the unchanging or
invisible, and the visible or changing. But now a third kind is required, which I shall call
the receptacle or nurse of generation. There is a difficulty in arriving at an exact notion
of this third kind, because the four elements themselves are of inexact natures and easily
pass into one another, and are too transient to be detained by any one name; wherefore
we are compelled to speak of water or fire, not as substances, but as qualities. They may
be compared to images made of gold, which are continually assuming new forms.
Somebody asks what they are; if you do not know, the safest answer is to reply that they
are gold. In like manner there is a universal nature out of which all things are made, and
which is like none of them; but they enter into and pass out of her, and are made after
patterns of the true in a wonderful and inexplicable manner. The containing principle
may be likened to a mother, the source or spring to a father, the intermediate nature to a
child; and we may also remark that the matter which receives every variety of form must
be formless, like the inodorous liquids which are prepared to receive scents, or the
smooth and soft materials on which figures are impressed. In the same way space or
matter is neither earth nor fire nor air nor water, but an invisible and formless being
which receives all things, and in an incomprehensible manner partakes of the
intelligible. But we may say, speaking generally, that fire is that part of this nature which
is inflamed, water that which is moistened, and the like.
Let me ask a question in which a great principle is involved: Is there an essence of fire
and the other elements, or are there only fires visible to sense? I answer in a word: If
mind is one thing and true opinion another, then there are self-existent essences; but if
mind is the same with opinion, then the visible and corporeal is most real. But they are
not the same, and they have a different origin and nature. The one comes to us by
instruction, the other by persuasion, the one is rational, the other is irrational; the one is
movable by persuasion, the other immovable; the one is possessed by every man, the
other by the gods and by very few men. And we must acknowledge that as there are two
kinds of knowledge, so there are two kinds of being corresponding to them; the one
uncreated, indestructible, immovable, which is seen by intelligence only; the other
created, which is always becoming in place and vanishing out of place, and is
apprehended by opinion and sense. There is also a third nature—that of space, which is
indestructible, and is perceived by a kind of spurious reason without the help of sense.
This is presented to us in a dreamy manner, and yet is said to be necessary, for we say
that all things must be somewhere in space. For they are the images of other things and
must therefore have a separate existence and exist in something (i.e. in space). But true
reason assures us that while two things (i.e. the idea and the image) are different they
cannot inhere in one another, so as to be one and two at the same time.
To sum up: Being and generation and space, these three, existed before the heavens, and
the nurse or vessel of generation, moistened by water and inflamed by fire, and taking
the forms of air and earth, assumed various shapes. By the motion of the vessel, the
elements were divided, and like grain winnowed by fans, the close and heavy particles
settled in one place, the light and airy ones in another. At first they were without reason
and measure, and had only certain faint traces of themselves, until God fashioned them
by figure and number. In this, as in every other part of creation, I suppose God to have
made things, as far as was possible, fair and good, out of things not fair and good.
And now I will explain to you the generation of the world by a method with which your
scientific training will have made you familiar. Fire, air, earth, and water are bodies and
therefore solids, and solids are contained in planes, and plane rectilinear figures are
made up of triangles. Of triangles there are two kinds; one having the opposite sides
equal (isosceles), the other with unequal sides (scalene). These we may fairly assume to
be the original elements of fire and the other bodies; what principles are prior to these
God only knows, and he of men whom God loves. Next, we must determine what are the
four most beautiful figures which are unlike one another and yet sometimes capable of
resolution into one another...Of the two kinds of triangles the equal-sided has but one
form, the unequal-sided has an infinite variety of forms; and there is none more
beautiful than that which forms the half of an equilateral triangle. Let us then choose
two triangles; one, the isosceles, the other, that form of scalene which has the square of
the longer side three times as great as the square of the lesser side; and affirm that, out
of these, fire and the other elements have been constructed.
I was wrong in imagining that all the four elements could be generated into and out of
one another. For as they are formed, three of them from the triangle which has the sides
unequal, the fourth from the triangle which has equal sides, three can be resolved into
one another, but the fourth cannot be resolved into them nor they into it. So much for
their passage into one another: I must now speak of their construction. From the
triangle of which the hypotenuse is twice the lesser side the three first regular solids are
formed—first, the equilateral pyramid or tetrahedron; secondly, the octahedron; thirdly,
the icosahedron; and from the isosceles triangle is formed the cube. And there is a fifth
figure (which is made out of twelve pentagons), the dodecahedron—this God used as a
model for the twelvefold division of the Zodiac.
Let us now assign the geometrical forms to their respective elements. The cube is the
most stable of them because resting on a quadrangular plane surface, and composed of
isosceles triangles. To the earth then, which is the most stable of bodies and the most
easily modelled of them, may be assigned the form of a cube; and the remaining forms
to the other elements,—to fire the pyramid, to air the octahedron, and to water the
icosahedron,—according to their degrees of lightness or heaviness or power, or want of
power, of penetration. The single particles of any of the elements are not seen by reason
of their smallness; they only become visible when collected. The ratios of their motions,
numbers, and other properties, are ordered by the God, who harmonized them as far as
necessity permitted.
The probable conclusion is as follows:—Earth, when dissolved by the more penetrating
element of fire, whether acting immediately or through the medium of air or water, is
decomposed but not transformed. Water, when divided by fire or air, becomes one part
fire, and two parts air. A volume of air divided becomes two of fire. On the other hand,
when condensed, two volumes of fire make a volume of air; and two and a half parts of
air condense into one of water. Any element which is fastened upon by fire is cut by the
sharpness of the triangles, until at length, coalescing with the fire, it is at rest; for
similars are not affected by similars. When two kinds of bodies quarrel with one
another, then the tendency to decomposition continues until the smaller either escapes
to its kindred element or becomes one with its conqueror. And this tendency in bodies to
condense or escape is a source of motion...Where there is motion there must be a mover,
and where there is a mover there must be something to move. These cannot exist in
what is uniform, and therefore motion is due to want of uniformity. But then why, when
things are divided after their kinds, do they not cease from motion? The answer is, that
the circular motion of all things compresses them, and as ‘nature abhors a vacuum,’ the
finer and more subtle particles of the lighter elements, such as fire and air, are thrust
into the interstices of the larger, each of them penetrating according to their rarity, and
thus all the elements are on their way up and down everywhere and always into their
own places. Hence there is a principle of inequality, and therefore of motion, in all time.
In the next place, we may observe that there are different kinds of fire— (1) flame, (2)
light that burns not, (3) the red heat of the embers of fire. And there are varieties of air,
as for example, the pure aether, the opaque mist, and other nameless forms. Water,
again, is of two kinds, liquid and fusile. The liquid is composed of small and unequal
particles, the fusile of large and uniform particles and is more solid, but nevertheless
melts at the approach of fire, and then spreads upon the earth. When the substance
cools, the fire passes into the air, which is displaced, and forces together and condenses
the liquid mass. This process is called cooling and congealment. Of the fusile kinds the
fairest and heaviest is gold; this is hardened by filtration through rock, and is of a bright
yellow colour. A shoot of gold which is darker and denser than the rest is called
adamant. Another kind is called copper, which is harder and yet lighter because the
interstices are larger than in gold. There is mingled with it a fine and small portion of
earth which comes out in the form of rust. These are a few of the conjectures which
philosophy forms, when, leaving the eternal nature, she turns for innocent recreation to
consider the truths of generation.
Water which is mingled with fire is called liquid because it rolls upon the earth, and soft
because its bases give way. This becomes more equable when separated from fire and
air, and then congeals into hail or ice, or the looser forms of hoar frost or snow. There
are other waters which are called juices and are distilled through plants. Of these we
may mention, first, wine, which warms the soul as well as the body; secondly, oily
substances, as for example, oil or pitch; thirdly, honey, which relaxes the contracted
parts of the mouth and so produces sweetness; fourthly, vegetable acid, which is frothy
and has a burning quality and dissolves the flesh. Of the kinds of earth, that which is
filtered through water passes into stone; the water is broken up by the earth and escapes
in the form of air—this in turn presses upon the mass of earth, and the earth,
compressed into an indissoluble union with the remaining water, becomes rock. Rock,
when it is made up of equal particles, is fair and transparent, but the reverse when of
unequal. Earth is converted into pottery when the watery part is suddenly drawn away;
or if moisture remains, the earth, when fused by fire, becomes, on cooling, a stone of a
black colour. When the earth is finer and of a briny nature then two half-solid bodies are
formed by separating the water,—soda and salt. The strong compounds of earth and
water are not soluble by water, but only by fire. Earth itself, when not consolidated, is
dissolved by water; when consolidated, by fire only. The cohesion of water, when strong,
is dissolved by fire only; when weak, either by air or fire, the former entering the
interstices, the latter penetrating even the triangles. Air when strongly condensed is
indissoluble by any power which does not reach the triangles, and even when not
strongly condensed is only resolved by fire. Compounds of earth and water are
unaffected by water while the water occupies the interstices in them, but begin to liquefy
when fire enters into the interstices of the water. They are of two kinds, some of them,
like glass, having more earth, others, like wax, having more water in them.
Having considered objects of sense, we now pass on to sensation. But we cannot explain
sensation without explaining the nature of flesh and of the mortal soul; and as we
cannot treat of both together, in order that we may proceed at once to the sensations we
must assume the existence of body and soul.
What makes fire burn? The fineness of the sides, the sharpness of the angles, the
smallness of the particles, the quickness of the motion. Moreover, the pyramid, which is
the figure of fire, is more cutting than any other. The feeling of cold is produced by the
larger particles of moisture outside the body trying to eject the smaller ones in the body
which they compress. The struggle which arises between elements thus unnaturally
brought together causes shivering. That is hard to which the flesh yields, and soft which
yields to the flesh, and these two terms are also relative to one another. The yielding
matter is that which has the slenderest base, whereas that which has a rectangular base
is compact and repellent. Light and heavy are wrongly explained with reference to a
lower and higher in place. For in the universe, which is a sphere, there is no opposition
of above or below, and that which is to us above would be below to a man standing at the
antipodes. The greater or less difficulty in detaching any element from its like is the real
cause of heaviness or of lightness. If you draw the earth into the dissimilar air, the
particles of earth cling to their native element, and you more easily detach a small
portion than a large. There would be the same difficulty in moving any of the upper
elements towards the lower. The smooth and the rough are severally produced by the
union of evenness with compactness, and of hardness with inequality.
Pleasure and pain are the most important of the affections common to the whole body.
According to our general doctrine of sensation, parts of the body which are easily moved
readily transmit the motion to the mind; but parts which are not easily moved have no
effect upon the patient. The bones and hair are of the latter kind, sight and hearing of
the former. Ordinary affections are neither pleasant nor painful. The impressions of
sight afford an example of these, and are neither violent nor sudden. But sudden
replenishments of the body cause pleasure, and sudden disturbances, as for example
cuttings and burnings, have the opposite effect.
>From sensations common to the whole body, we proceed to those of particular parts.
The affections of the tongue appear to be caused by contraction and dilation, but they
have more of roughness or smoothness than is found in other affections. Earthy
particles, entering into the small veins of the tongue which reach to the heart, when they
melt into and dry up the little veins are astringent if they are rough; or if not so rough,
they are only harsh, and if excessively abstergent, like potash and soda, bitter.
Purgatives of a weaker sort are called salt and, having no bitterness, are rather
agreeable. Inflammatory bodies, which by their lightness are carried up into the head,
cutting all that comes in their way, are termed pungent. But when these are refined by
putrefaction, and enter the narrow veins of the tongue, and meet there particles of earth
and air, two kinds of globules are formed—one of earthy and impure liquid, which boils
and ferments, the other of pure and transparent water, which are called bubbles; of all
these affections the cause is termed acid. When, on the other hand, the composition of
the deliquescent particles is congenial to the tongue, and disposes the parts according to
their nature, this remedial power in them is called sweet.
Smells are not divided into kinds; all of them are transitional, and arise out of the
decomposition of one element into another, for the simple air or water is without smell.
They are vapours or mists, thinner than water and thicker than air: and hence in
drawing in the breath, when there is an obstruction, the air passes, but there is no smell.
They have no names, but are distinguished as pleasant and unpleasant, and their
influence extends over the whole region from the head to the navel.
Hearing is the effect of a stroke which is transmitted through the ears by means of the
air, brain, and blood to the soul, beginning at the head and extending to the liver. The
sound which moves swiftly is acute; that which moves slowly is grave; that which is
uniform is smooth, and the opposite is harsh. Loudness depends on the quantity of the
sound. Of the harmony of sounds I will hereafter speak.
Colours are flames which emanate from all bodies, having particles corresponding to the
sense of sight. Some of the particles are less and some larger, and some are equal to the
parts of the sight. The equal particles appear transparent; the larger contract, and the
lesser dilate the sight. White is produced by the dilation, black by the contraction, of the
particles of sight. There is also a swifter motion of another sort of fire which forces a way
through the passages of the eyes, and elicits from them a union of fire and water which
we call tears. The inner fire flashes forth, and the outer finds a way in and is
extinguished in the moisture, and all sorts of colours are generated by the mixture. This
affection is termed by us dazzling, and the object which produces it is called bright.
There is yet another sort of fire which mingles with the moisture of the eye without
flashing, and produces a colour like blood—to this we give the name of red. A bright
element mingling with red and white produces a colour which we call auburn. The law of
proportion, however, according to which compound colours are formed, cannot be
determined scientifically or even probably. Red, when mingled with black and white,
gives a purple hue, which becomes umber when the colours are burnt and there is a
larger admixture of black. Flame-colour is a mixture of auburn and dun; dun of white
and black; yellow of white and auburn. White and bright meeting, and falling upon a full
black, become dark blue; dark blue mingling with white becomes a light blue; the union
of flame-colour and black makes leek-green. There is no difficulty in seeing how other
colours are probably composed. But he who should attempt to test the truth of this by
experiment, would forget the difference of the human and divine nature. God only is
able to compound and resolve substances; such experiments are impossible to man.
These are the elements of necessity which the Creator received in the world of
generation when he made the all-sufficient and perfect creature, using the secondary
causes as his ministers, but himself fashioning the good in all things. For there are two
sorts of causes, the one divine, the other necessary; and we should seek to discover the
divine above all, and, for their sake, the necessary, because without them the higher
cannot be attained by us.
Having now before us the causes out of which the rest of our discourse is to be framed,
let us go back to the point at which we began, and add a fair ending to our tale. As I said
at first, all things were originally a chaos in which there was no order or proportion. The
elements of this chaos were arranged by the Creator, and out of them he made the
world. Of the divine he himself was the author, but he committed to his offspring the
creation of the mortal. From him they received the immortal soul, but themselves made
the body to be its vehicle, and constructed within another soul which was mortal, and
subject to terrible affections—pleasure, the inciter of evil; pain, which deters from good;
rashness and fear, foolish counsellors; anger hard to be appeased; hope easily led astray.
These they mingled with irrational sense and all-daring love according to necessary laws
and so framed man. And, fearing to pollute the divine element, they gave the mortal soul
a separate habitation in the breast, parted off from the head by a narrow isthmus. And
as in a house the women’s apartments are divided from the men’s, the cavity of the
thorax was divided into two parts, a higher and a lower. The higher of the two, which is
the seat of courage and anger, lies nearer to the head, between the midriff and the neck,
and assists reason in restraining the desires. The heart is the house of guard in which all
the veins meet, and through them reason sends her commands to the extremity of her
kingdom. When the passions are in revolt, or danger approaches from without, then the
heart beats and swells; and the creating powers, knowing this, implanted in the body the
soft and bloodless substance of the lung, having a porous and springy nature like a
sponge, and being kept cool by drink and air which enters through the trachea.
The part of the soul which desires meat and drink was placed between the midriff and
navel, where they made a sort of manger; and here they bound it down, like a wild
animal, away from the council-chamber, and leaving the better principle undisturbed to
advise quietly for the good of the whole. For the Creator knew that the belly would not
listen to reason, and was under the power of idols and fancies. Wherefore he framed the
liver to connect with the lower nature, contriving that it should be compact, and bright,
and sweet, and also bitter and smooth, in order that the power of thought which
originates in the mind might there be reflected, terrifying the belly with the elements of
bitterness and gall, and a suffusion of bilious colours when the liver is contracted, and
causing pain and misery by twisting out of its place the lobe and closing up the vessels
and gates. And the converse happens when some gentle inspiration coming from
intelligence mirrors the opposite fancies, giving rest and sweetness and freedom, and at
night, moderation and peace accompanied with prophetic insight, when reason and
sense are asleep. For the authors of our being, in obedience to their Father’s will and in
order to make men as good as they could, gave to the liver the power of divination,
which is never active when men are awake or in health; but when they are under the
influence of some disorder or enthusiasm then they receive intimations, which have to
be interpreted by others who are called prophets, but should rather be called
interpreters of prophecy; after death these intimations become unintelligible. The
spleen which is situated in the neighbourhood, on the left side, keeps the liver bright
and clean, as a napkin does a mirror, and the evacuations of the liver are received into it;
and being a hollow tissue it is for a time swollen with these impurities, but when the
body is purged it returns to its natural size.
The truth concerning the soul can only be established by the word of God. Still, we may
venture to assert what is probable both concerning soul and body.
The creative powers were aware of our tendency to excess. And so when they made the
belly to be a receptacle for food, in order that men might not perish by insatiable
gluttony, they formed the convolutions of the intestines, in this way retarding the
passage of food through the body, lest mankind should be absorbed in eating and
drinking, and the whole race become impervious to divine philosophy.
The creation of bones and flesh was on this wise. The foundation of these is the marrow
which binds together body and soul, and the marrow is made out of such of the primary
triangles as are adapted by their perfection to produce all the four elements. These God
took and mingled them in due proportion, making as many kinds of marrow as there
were hereafter to be kinds of souls. The receptacle of the divine soul he made round, and
called that portion of the marrow brain, intending that the vessel containing this
substance should be the head. The remaining part he divided into long and round
figures, and to these as to anchors, fastening the mortal soul, he proceeded to make the
rest of the body, first forming for both parts a covering of bone. The bone was formed by
sifting pure smooth earth and wetting it with marrow. It was then thrust alternately into
fire and water, and thus rendered insoluble by either. Of bone he made a globe which he
placed around the brain, leaving a narrow opening, and around the marrow of the neck
and spine he formed the vertebrae, like hinges, which extended from the head through
the whole of the trunk. And as the bone was brittle and liable to mortify and destroy the
marrow by too great rigidity and susceptibility to heat and cold, he contrived sinews and
flesh—the first to give flexibility, the second to guard against heat and cold, and to be a
protection against falls, containing a warm moisture, which in summer exudes and cools
the body, and in winter is a defence against cold. Having this in view, the Creator
mingled earth with fire and water and mixed with them a ferment of acid and salt, so as
to form pulpy flesh. But the sinews he made of a mixture of bone and unfermented flesh,
giving them a mean nature between the two, and a yellow colour. Hence they were more
glutinous than flesh, but softer than bone. The bones which have most of the living soul
within them he covered with the thinnest film of flesh, those which have least of it, he
lodged deeper. At the joints he diminished the flesh in order not to impede the flexure of
the limbs, and also to avoid clogging the perceptions of the mind. About the thighs and
arms, which have no sense because there is little soul in the marrow, and about the
inner bones, he laid the flesh thicker. For where the flesh is thicker there is less feeling,
except in certain parts which the Creator has made solely of flesh, as for example, the
tongue. Had the combination of solid bone and thick flesh been consistent with acute
perceptions, the Creator would have given man a sinewy and fleshy head, and then he
would have lived twice as long. But our creators were of opinion that a shorter life which
was better was preferable to a longer which was worse, and therefore they covered the
head with thin bone, and placed the sinews at the extremity of the head round the neck,
and fastened the jawbones to them below the face. And they framed the mouth, having
teeth and tongue and lips, with a view to the necessary and the good; for food is a
necessity, and the river of speech is the best of rivers. Still, the head could not be left a
bare globe of bone on account of the extremes of heat and cold, nor be allowed to
become dull and senseless by an overgrowth of flesh. Wherefore it was covered by a peel
or skin which met and grew by the help of the cerebral humour. The diversity of the
sutures was caused by the struggle of the food against the courses of the soul. The skin
of the head was pierced by fire, and out of the punctures came forth a moisture, part
liquid, and part of a skinny nature, which was hardened by the pressure of the external
cold and became hair. And God gave hair to the head of man to be a light covering, so
that it might not interfere with his perceptions. Nails were formed by combining sinew,
skin, and bone, and were made by the creators with a view to the future when, as they
knew, women and other animals who would require them would be framed out of man.
The gods also mingled natures akin to that of man with other forms and perceptions.
Thus trees and plants were created, which were originally wild and have been adapted
by cultivation to our use. They partake of that third kind of life which is seated between
the midriff and the navel, and is altogether passive and incapable of reflection.
When the creators had furnished all these natures for our sustenance, they cut channels
through our bodies as in a garden, watering them with a perennial stream. Two were cut
down the back, along the back bone, where the skin and flesh meet, one on the right and
the other on the left, having the marrow of generation between them. In the next place,
they divided the veins about the head and interlaced them with each other in order that
they might form an additional link between the head and the body, and that the
sensations from both sides might be diffused throughout the body. In the third place,
they contrived the passage of liquids, which may be explained in this way:—Finer bodies
retain coarser, but not the coarser the finer, and the belly is capable of retaining food,
but not fire and air. God therefore formed a network of fire and air to irrigate the veins,
having within it two lesser nets, and stretched cords reaching from both the lesser nets
to the extremity of the outer net. The inner parts of the net were made by him of fire, the
lesser nets and their cavities of air. The two latter he made to pass into the mouth; the
one ascending by the air- pipes from the lungs, the other by the side of the air-pipes
from the belly. The entrance to the first he divided into two parts, both of which he
made to meet at the channels of the nose, that when the mouth was closed the passage
connected with it might still be fed with air. The cavity of the network he spread around
the hollows of the body, making the entire receptacle to flow into and out of the lesser
nets and the lesser nets into and out of it, while the outer net found a way into and out of
the pores of the body, and the internal heat followed the air to and fro. These, as we
affirm, are the phenomena of respiration. And all this process takes place in order that
the body may be watered and cooled and nourished, and the meat and drink digested
and liquefied and carried into the veins.
The causes of respiration have now to be considered. The exhalation of the breath
through the mouth and nostrils displaces the external air, and at the same time leaves a
vacuum into which through the pores the air which is displaced enters. Also the vacuum
which is made when the air is exhaled through the pores is filled up by the inhalation of
breath through the mouth and nostrils. The explanation of this double phenomenon is
as follows:—Elements move towards their natural places. Now as every animal has
within him a fountain of fire, the air which is inhaled through the mouth and nostrils, on
coming into contact with this, is heated; and when heated, in accordance with the law of
attraction, it escapes by the way it entered toward the place of fire. On leaving the body
it is cooled and drives round the air which it displaces through the pores into the empty
lungs. This again is in turn heated by the internal fire and escapes, as it entered, through
the pores.
The phenomena of medical cupping-glasses, of swallowing, and of the hurling of bodies,
are to be explained on a similar principle; as also sounds, which are sometimes
discordant on account of the inequality of them, and again harmonious by reason of
equality. The slower sounds reaching the swifter, when they begin to pause, by degrees
assimilate with them: whence arises a pleasure which even the unwise feel, and which to
the wise becomes a higher sense of delight, being an imitation of divine harmony in
mortal motions. Streams flow, lightnings play, amber and the magnet attract, not by
reason of attraction, but because ‘nature abhors a vacuum,’ and because things, when
compounded or dissolved, move different ways, each to its own place.
I will now return to the phenomena of respiration. The fire, entering the belly, minces
the food, and as it escapes, fills the veins by drawing after it the divided portions, and
thus the streams of nutriment are diffused through the body. The fruits or herbs which
are our daily sustenance take all sorts of colours when intermixed, but the colour of red
or fire predominates, and hence the liquid which we call blood is red, being the
nurturing principle of the body, whence all parts are watered and empty places filled.
The process of repletion and depletion is produced by the attraction of like to like, after
the manner of the universal motion. The external elements by their attraction are always
diminishing the substance of the body: the particles of blood, too, formed out of the
newly digested food, are attracted towards kindred elements within the body and so fill
up the void. When more is taken away than flows in, then we decay; and when less, we
grow and increase.
The young of every animal has the triangles new and closely locked together, and yet the
entire frame is soft and delicate, being newly made of marrow and nurtured on milk.
These triangles are sharper than those which enter the body from without in the shape
of food, and therefore they cut them up. But as life advances, the triangles wear out and
are no longer able to assimilate food; and at length, when the bonds which unite the
triangles of the marrow become undone, they in turn unloose the bonds of the soul; and
if the release be according to nature, she then flies away with joy. For the death which is
natural is pleasant, but that which is caused by violence is painful.
Every one may understand the origin of diseases. They may be occasioned by the
disarrangement or disproportion of the elements out of which the body is framed. This
is the origin of many of them, but the worst of all owe their severity to the following
causes: There is a natural order in the human frame according to which the flesh and
sinews are made of blood, the sinews out of the fibres, and the flesh out of the congealed
substance which is formed by separation from the fibres. The glutinous matter which
comes away from the sinews and the flesh, not only binds the flesh to the bones, but
nourishes the bones and waters the marrow. When these processes take place in regular
order the body is in health.
But when the flesh wastes and returns into the veins there is discoloured blood as well
as air in the veins, having acid and salt qualities, from which is generated every sort of
phlegm and bile. All things go the wrong way and cease to give nourishment to the body,
no longer preserving their natural courses, but at war with themselves and destructive to
the constitution of the body. The oldest part of the flesh which is hard to decompose
blackens from long burning, and from being corroded grows bitter, and as the bitter
element refines away, becomes acid. When tinged with blood the bitter substance has a
red colour, and this when mixed with black takes the hue of grass; or again, the bitter
substance has an auburn colour, when new flesh is decomposed by the internal flame.
To all which phenomena some physician or philosopher who was able to see the one in
many has given the name of bile. The various kinds of bile have names answering to
their colours. Lymph or serum is of two kinds: first, the whey of blood, which is gentle;
secondly, the secretion of dark and bitter bile, which, when mingled under the influence
of heat with salt, is malignant and is called acid phlegm. There is also white phlegm,
formed by the decomposition of young and tender flesh, and covered with little bubbles,
separately invisible, but becoming visible when collected. The water of tears and
perspiration and similar substances is also the watery part of fresh phlegm. All these
humours become sources of disease when the blood is replenished in irregular ways and
not by food or drink. The danger, however, is not so great when the foundation remains,
for then there is a possibility of recovery. But when the substance which unites the flesh
and bones is diseased, and is no longer renewed from the muscles and sinews, and
instead of being oily and smooth and glutinous becomes rough and salt and dry, then
the fleshy parts fall away and leave the sinews bare and full of brine, and the flesh gets
back again into the circulation of the blood, and makes the previously mentioned
disorders still greater. There are other and worse diseases which are prior to these; as
when the bone through the density of the flesh does not receive sufficient air, and
becomes stagnant and gangrened, and crumbling away passes into the food, and the
food into the flesh, and the flesh returns again into the blood. Worst of all and most fatal
is the disease of the marrow, by which the whole course of the body is reversed. There is
a third class of diseases which are produced, some by wind and some by phlegm and
some by bile. When the lung, which is the steward of the air, is obstructed, by rheums,
and in one part no air, and in another too much, enters in, then the parts which are
unrefreshed by air corrode, and other parts are distorted by the excess of air; and in this
manner painful diseases are produced. The most painful are caused by wind generated
within the body, which gets about the great sinews of the shoulders—these are termed
tetanus. The cure of them is difficult, and in most cases they are relieved only by fever.
White phlegm, which is dangerous if kept in, by reason of the air bubbles, is not equally
dangerous if able to escape through the pores, although it variegates the body,
generating diverse kinds of leprosies. If, when mingled with black bile, it disturbs the
courses of the head in sleep, there is not so much danger; but if it assails those who are
awake, then the attack is far more dangerous, and is called epilepsy or the sacred
disease. Acid and salt phlegm is the source of catarrh.
Inflammations originate in bile, which is sometimes relieved by boils and swellings, but
when detained, and above all when mingled with pure blood, generates many
inflammatory disorders, disturbing the position of the fibres which are scattered about
in the blood in order to maintain the balance of rare and dense which is necessary to its
regular circulation. If the bile, which is only stale blood, or liquefied flesh, comes in little
by little, it is congealed by the fibres and produces internal cold and shuddering. But
when it enters with more of a flood it overcomes the fibres by its heat and reaches the
spinal marrow, and burning up the cables of the soul sets her free from the body. When
on the other hand the body, though wasted, still holds out, then the bile is expelled, like
an exile from a factious state, causing associating diarrhoeas and dysenteries and similar
disorders. The body which is diseased from the effects of fire is in a continual fever;
when air is the agent, the fever is quotidian; when water, the fever intermits a day; when
earth, which is the most sluggish element, the fever intermits three days and is with
difficulty shaken off.
Of mental disorders there are two sorts, one madness, the other ignorance, and they
may be justly attributed to disease. Excessive pleasures or pains are among the greatest
diseases, and deprive men of their senses. When the seed about the spinal marrow is too
abundant, the body has too great pleasures and pains; and during a great part of his life
he who is the subject of them is more or less mad. He is often thought bad, but this is a
mistake; for the truth is that the intemperance of lust is due to the fluidity of the marrow
produced by the loose consistency of the bones. And this is true of vice in general, which
is commonly regarded as disgraceful, whereas it is really involuntary and arises from a
bad habit of the body and evil education. In like manner the soul is often made vicious
by the influence of bodily pain; the briny phlegm and other bitter and bilious humours
wander over the body and find no exit, but are compressed within, and mingle their own
vapours with the motions of the soul, and are carried to the three places of the soul,
creating infinite varieties of trouble and melancholy, of rashness and cowardice, of
forgetfulness and stupidity. When men are in this evil plight of body, and evil forms of
government and evil discourses are superadded, and there is no education to save them,
they are corrupted through two causes; but of neither of them are they really the
authors. For the planters are to blame rather than the plants, the educators and not the
educated. Still, we should endeavour to attain virtue and avoid vice; but this is part of
another subject.
Enough of disease—I have now to speak of the means by which the mind and body are to
be preserved, a higher theme than the other. The good is the beautiful, and the beautiful
is the symmetrical, and there is no greater or fairer symmetry than that of body and
soul, as the contrary is the greatest of deformities. A leg or an arm too long or too short
is at once ugly and unserviceable, and the same is true if body and soul are
disproportionate. For a strong and impassioned soul may ‘fret the pigmy body to decay,’
and so produce convulsions and other evils. The violence of controversy, or the
earnestness of enquiry, will often generate inflammations and rheums which are not
understood, or assigned to their true cause by the professors of medicine. And in like
manner the body may be too much for the soul, darkening the reason, and quickening
the animal desires. The only security is to preserve the balance of the two, and to this
end the mathematician or philosopher must practise gymnastics, and the gymnast must
cultivate music. The parts of the body too must be treated in the same way—they should
receive their appropriate exercise. For the body is set in motion when it is heated and
cooled by the elements which enter in, or is dried up and moistened by external things;
and, if given up to these processes when at rest, it is liable to destruction. But the natural
motion, as in the world, so also in the human frame, produces harmony and divides
hostile powers. The best exercise is the spontaneous motion of the body, as in
gymnastics, because most akin to the motion of mind; not so good is the motion of
which the source is in another, as in sailing or riding; least good when the body is at rest
and the motion is in parts only, which is a species of motion imparted by physic. This
should only be resorted to by men of sense in extreme cases; lesser diseases are not to be
irritated by medicine. For every disease is akin to the living being and has an appointed
term, just as life has, which depends on the form of the triangles, and cannot be
protracted when they are worn out. And he who, instead of accepting his destiny,
endeavours to prolong his life by medicine, is likely to multiply and magnify his
diseases. Regimen and not medicine is the true cure, when a man has time at his
disposal.
Enough of the nature of man and of the body, and of training and education. The subject
is a great one and cannot be adequately treated as an appendage to another. To sum up
all in a word: there are three kinds of soul located within us, and any one of them, if
remaining inactive, becomes very weak; if exercised, very strong. Wherefore we should
duly train and exercise all three kinds.
The divine soul God lodged in the head, to raise us, like plants which are not of earthly
origin, to our kindred; for the head is nearest to heaven. He who is intent upon the
gratification of his desires and cherishes the mortal soul, has all his ideas mortal, and is
himself mortal in the truest sense. But he who seeks after knowledge and exercises the
divine part of himself in godly and immortal thoughts, attains to truth and immortality,
as far as is possible to man, and also to happiness, while he is training up within him the
divine principle and indwelling power of order. There is only one way in which one
person can benefit another; and that is by assigning to him his proper nurture and
motion. To the motions of the soul answer the motions of the universe, and by the study
of these the individual is restored to his original nature.
Thus we have finished the discussion of the universe, which, according to our original
intention, has now been brought down to the creation of man. Completeness seems to
require that something should be briefly said about other animals: first of women, who
are probably degenerate and cowardly men. And when they degenerated, the gods
implanted in men the desire of union with them, creating in man one animate substance
and in woman another in the following manner:—The outlet for liquids they connected
with the living principle of the spinal marrow, which the man has the desire to emit into
the fruitful womb of the woman; this is like a fertile field in which the seed is quickened
and matured, and at last brought to light. When this desire is unsatisfied the man is
over-mastered by the power of the generative organs, and the woman is subjected to
disorders from the obstruction of the passages of the breath, until the two meet and
pluck the fruit of the tree.
The race of birds was created out of innocent, light-minded men, who thought to pursue
the study of the heavens by sight; these were transformed into birds, and grew feathers
instead of hair. The race of wild animals were men who had no philosophy, and never
looked up to heaven or used the courses of the head, but followed only the influences of
passion. Naturally they turned to their kindred earth, and put their forelegs to the
ground, and their heads were crushed into strange oblong forms. Some of them have
four feet, and some of them more than four,—the latter, who are the more senseless,
drawing closer to their native element; the most senseless of all have no limbs and trail
their whole body on the ground. The fourth kind are the inhabitants of the waters; these
are made out of the most senseless and ignorant and impure of men, whom God placed
in the uttermost parts of the world in return for their utter ignorance, and caused them
to respire water instead of the pure element of air. Such are the laws by which animals
pass into one another.
And so the world received animals, mortal and immortal, and was fulfilled with them,
and became a visible God, comprehending the visible, made in the image of the
Intellectual, being the one perfect only-begotten heaven.
Section 2.
Nature in the aspect which she presented to a Greek philosopher of the fourth century
before Christ is not easily reproduced to modern eyes. The associations of mythology
and poetry have to be added, and the unconscious influence of science has to be
subtracted, before we can behold the heavens or the earth as they appeared to the Greek.
The philosopher himself was a child and also a man—a child in the range of his
attainments, but also a great intelligence having an insight into nature, and often
anticipations of the truth. He was full of original thoughts, and yet liable to be imposed
upon by the most obvious fallacies. He occasionally confused numbers with ideas, and
atoms with numbers; his a priori notions were out of all proportion to his experience.
He was ready to explain the phenomena of the heavens by the most trivial analogies of
earth. The experiments which nature worked for him he sometimes accepted, but he
never tried experiments for himself which would either prove or disprove his theories.
His knowledge was unequal; while in some branches, such as medicine and astronomy,
he had made considerable proficiency, there were others, such as chemistry, electricity,
mechanics, of which the very names were unknown to him. He was the natural enemy of
mythology, and yet mythological ideas still retained their hold over him. He was
endeavouring to form a conception of principles, but these principles or ideas were
regarded by him as real powers or entities, to which the world had been subjected. He
was always tending to argue from what was near to what was remote, from what was
known to what was unknown, from man to the universe, and back again from the
universe to man. While he was arranging the world, he was arranging the forms of
thought in his own mind; and the light from within and the light from without often
crossed and helped to confuse one another. He might be compared to a builder engaged
in some great design, who could only dig with his hands because he was unprovided
with common tools; or to some poet or musician, like Tynnichus (Ion), obliged to
accommodate his lyric raptures to the limits of the tetrachord or of the flute.
The Hesiodic and Orphic cosmogonies were a phase of thought intermediate between
mythology and philosophy and had a great influence on the beginnings of knowledge.
There was nothing behind them; they were to physical science what the poems of Homer
were to early Greek history. They made men think of the world as a whole; they carried
the mind back into the infinity of past time; they suggested the first observation of the
effects of fire and water on the earth’s surface. To the ancient physics they stood much
in the same relation which geology does to modern science. But the Greek was not, like
the enquirer of the last generation, confined to a period of six thousand years; he was
able to speculate freely on the effects of infinite ages in the production of physical
phenomena. He could imagine cities which had existed time out of mind (States.; Laws),
laws or forms of art and music which had lasted, ‘not in word only, but in very truth, for
ten thousand years’ (Laws); he was aware that natural phenomena like the Delta of the
Nile might have slowly accumulated in long periods of time (Hdt.). But he seems to have
supposed that the course of events was recurring rather than progressive. To this he was
probably led by the fixedness of Egyptian customs and the general observation that
there were other civilisations in the world more ancient than that of Hellas.
The ancient philosophers found in mythology many ideas which, if not originally derived
from nature, were easily transferred to her—such, for example, as love or hate,
corresponding to attraction or repulsion; or the conception of necessity allied both to
the regularity and irregularity of nature; or of chance, the nameless or unknown cause;
or of justice, symbolizing the law of compensation; are of the Fates and Furies, typifying
the fixed order or the extraordinary convulsions of nature. Their own interpretations of
Homer and the poets were supposed by them to be the original meaning. Musing in
themselves on the phenomena of nature, they were relieved at being able to utter the
thoughts of their hearts in figures of speech which to them were not figures, and were
already consecrated by tradition. Hesiod and the Orphic poets moved in a region of halfpersonification
in which the meaning or principle appeared through the person. In their
vaster conceptions of Chaos, Erebus, Aether, Night, and the like, the first rude attempts
at generalization are dimly seen. The Gods themselves, especially the greater Gods, such
as Zeus, Poseidon, Apollo, Athene, are universals as well as individuals. They were
gradually becoming lost in a common conception of mind or God. They continued to
exist for the purposes of ritual or of art; but from the sixth century onwards or even
earlier there arose and gained strength in the minds of men the notion of ‘one God,
greatest among Gods and men, who was all sight, all hearing, all knowing’
(Xenophanes).
Under the influence of such ideas, perhaps also deriving from the traditions of their own
or of other nations scraps of medicine and astronomy, men came to the observation of
nature. The Greek philosopher looked at the blue circle of the heavens and it flashed
upon him that all things were one; the tumult of sense abated, and the mind found
repose in the thought which former generations had been striving to realize. The first
expression of this was some element, rarefied by degrees into a pure abstraction, and
purged from any tincture of sense. Soon an inner world of ideas began to be unfolded,
more absorbing, more overpowering, more abiding than the brightest of visible objects,
which to the eye of the philosopher looking inward, seemed to pale before them,
retaining only a faint and precarious existence. At the same time, the minds of men
parted into the two great divisions of those who saw only a principle of motion, and of
those who saw only a principle of rest, in nature and in themselves; there were born
Heracliteans or Eleatics, as there have been in later ages born Aristotelians or Platonists.
Like some philosophers in modern times, who are accused of making a theory first and
finding their facts afterwards, the advocates of either opinion never thought of applying
either to themselves or to their adversaries the criterion of fact. They were mastered by
their ideas and not masters of them. Like the Heraclitean fanatics whom Plato has
ridiculed in the Theaetetus, they were incapable of giving a reason of the faith that was
in them, and had all the animosities of a religious sect. Yet, doubtless, there was some
first impression derived from external nature, which, as in mythology, so also in
philosophy, worked upon the minds of the first thinkers. Though incapable of induction
or generalization in the modern sense, they caught an inspiration from the external
world. The most general facts or appearances of nature, the circle of the universe, the
nutritive power of water, the air which is the breath of life, the destructive force of fire,
the seeming regularity of the greater part of nature and the irregularity of a remnant, the
recurrence of day and night and of the seasons, the solid earth and the impalpable
aether, were always present to them.
The great source of error and also the beginning of truth to them was reasoning from
analogy; they could see resemblances, but not differences; and they were incapable of
distinguishing illustration from argument. Analogy in modern times only points the
way, and is immediately verified by experiment. The dreams and visions, which pass
through the philosopher’s mind, of resemblances between different classes of
substances, or between the animal and vegetable world, are put into the refiner’s fire,
and the dross and other elements which adhere to them are purged away. But the
contemporary of Plato and Socrates was incapable of resisting the power of any analogy
which occurred to him, and was drawn into any consequences which seemed to follow.
He had no methods of difference or of concomitant variations, by the use of which he
could distinguish the accidental from the essential. He could not isolate phenomena,
and he was helpless against the influence of any word which had an equivocal or double
sense.
Yet without this crude use of analogy the ancient physical philosopher would have stood
still; he could not have made even ‘one guess among many’ without comparison. The
course of natural phenomena would have passed unheeded before his eyes, like fair
sights or musical sounds before the eyes and ears of an animal. Even the fetichism of the
savage is the beginning of reasoning; the assumption of the most fanciful of causes
indicates a higher mental state than the absence of all enquiry about them. The tendency
to argue from the higher to the lower, from man to the world, has led to many errors,
but has also had an elevating influence on philosophy. The conception of the world as a
whole, a person, an animal, has been the source of hasty generalizations; yet this general
grasp of nature led also to a spirit of comprehensiveness in early philosophy, which has
not increased, but rather diminished, as the fields of knowledge have become more
divided. The modern physicist confines himself to one or perhaps two branches of
science. But he comparatively seldom rises above his own department, and often falls
under the narrowing influence which any single branch, when pursued to the exclusion
of every other, has over the mind. Language, two, exercised a spell over the beginnings
of physical philosophy, leading to error and sometimes to truth; for many thoughts were
suggested by the double meanings of words (Greek), and the accidental distinctions of
words sometimes led the ancient philosopher to make corresponding differences in
things (Greek). ‘If they are the same, why have they different names; or if they are
different, why have they the same name?’—is an argument not easily answered in the
infancy of knowledge. The modern philosopher has always been taught the lesson which
he still imperfectly learns, that he must disengage himself from the influence of words.
Nor are there wanting in Plato, who was himself too often the victim of them, impressive
admonitions that we should regard not words but things (States.). But upon the whole,
the ancients, though not entirely dominated by them, were much more subject to the
influence of words than the moderns. They had no clear divisions of colours or
substances; even the four elements were undefined; the fields of knowledge were not
parted off. They were bringing order out of disorder, having a small grain of experience
mingled in a confused heap of a priori notions. And yet, probably, their first
impressions, the illusions and mirages of their fancy, created a greater intellectual
activity and made a nearer approach to the truth than any patient investigation of
isolated facts, for which the time had not yet come, could have accomplished.
There was one more illusion to which the ancient philosophers were subject, and against
which Plato in his later dialogues seems to be struggling—the tendency to mere
abstractions; not perceiving that pure abstraction is only negation, they thought that the
greater the abstraction the greater the truth. Behind any pair of ideas a new idea which
comprehended them—the (Greek), as it was technically termed—began at once to
appear. Two are truer than three, one than two. The words ‘being,’ or ‘unity,’ or essence,’
or ‘good,’ became sacred to them. They did not see that they had a word only, and in one
sense the most unmeaning of words. They did not understand that the content of
notions is in inverse proportion to their universality—the element which is the most
widely diffused is also the thinnest; or, in the language of the common logic, the greater
the extension the less the comprehension. But this vacant idea of a whole without parts,
of a subject without predicates, a rest without motion, has been also the most fruitful of
all ideas. It is the beginning of a priori thought, and indeed of thinking at all. Men were
led to conceive it, not by a love of hasty generalization, but by a divine instinct, a
dialectical enthusiasm, in which the human faculties seemed to yearn for enlargement.
We know that ‘being’ is only the verb of existence, the copula, the most general symbol
of relation, the first and most meagre of abstractions; but to some of the ancient
philosophers this little word appeared to attain divine proportions, and to comprehend
all truth. Being or essence, and similar words, represented to them a supreme or divine
being, in which they thought that they found the containing and continuing principle of
the universe. In a few years the human mind was peopled with abstractions; a new
world was called into existence to give law and order to the old. But between them there
was still a gulf, and no one could pass from the one to the other.
Number and figure were the greatest instruments of thought which were possessed by
the Greek philosopher; having the same power over the mind which was exerted by
abstract ideas, they were also capable of practical application. Many curious and, to the
early thinker, mysterious properties of them came to light when they were compared
with one another. They admitted of infinite multiplication and construction; in
Pythagorean triangles or in proportions of 1:2:4:8 and 1:3:9:27, or compounds of them,
the laws of the world seemed to be more than half revealed. They were also capable of
infinite subdivision—a wonder and also a puzzle to the ancient thinker (Rep.). They were
not, like being or essence, mere vacant abstractions, but admitted of progress and
growth, while at the same time they confirmed a higher sentiment of the mind, that
there was order in the universe. And so there began to be a real sympathy between the
world within and the world without. The numbers and figures which were present to the
mind’s eye became visible to the eye of sense; the truth of nature was mathematics; the
other properties of objects seemed to reappear only in the light of number. Law and
morality also found a natural expression in number and figure. Instruments of such
power and elasticity could not fail to be ‘a most gracious assistance’ to the first efforts of
human intelligence.
There was another reason why numbers had so great an influence over the minds of
early thinkers—they were verified by experience. Every use of them, even the most
trivial, assured men of their truth; they were everywhere to be found, in the least things
and the greatest alike. One, two, three, counted on the fingers was a ‘trivial matter
(Rep.), a little instrument out of which to create a world; but from these and by the help
of these all our knowledge of nature has been developed. They were the measure of all
things, and seemed to give law to all things; nature was rescued from chaos and
confusion by their power; the notes of music, the motions of the stars, the forms of
atoms, the evolution and recurrence of days, months, years, the military divisions of an
army, the civil divisions of a state, seemed to afford a ‘present witness’ of them—what
would have become of man or of the world if deprived of number (Rep.)? The mystery of
number and the mystery of music were akin. There was a music of rhythm and of
harmonious motion everywhere; and to the real connexion which existed between music
and number, a fanciful or imaginary relation was superadded. There was a music of the
spheres as well as of the notes of the lyre. If in all things seen there was number and
figure, why should they not also pervade the unseen world, with which by their
wonderful and unchangeable nature they seemed to hold communion?
Two other points strike us in the use which the ancient philosophers made of numbers.
First, they applied to external nature the relations of them which they found in their
own minds; and where nature seemed to be at variance with number, as for example in
the case of fractions, they protested against her (Rep.; Arist. Metaph.). Having long
meditated on the properties of 1:2:4:8, or 1:3:9:27, or of 3, 4, 5, they discovered in them
many curious correspondences and were disposed to find in them the secret of the
universe. Secondly, they applied number and figure equally to those parts of physics,
such as astronomy or mechanics, in which the modern philosopher expects to find them,
and to those in which he would never think of looking for them, such as physiology and
psychology. For the sciences were not yet divided, and there was nothing really
irrational in arguing that the same laws which regulated the heavenly bodies were
partially applied to the erring limbs or brain of man. Astrology was the form which the
lively fancy of ancient thinkers almost necessarily gave to astronomy. The observation
that the lower principle, e.g. mechanics, is always seen in the higher, e.g. in the
phenomena of life, further tended to perplex them. Plato’s doctrine of the same and the
other ruling the courses of the heavens and of the human body is not a mere vagary, but
is a natural result of the state of knowledge and thought at which he had arrived.
When in modern times we contemplate the heavens, a certain amount of scientific truth
imperceptibly blends, even with the cursory glance of an unscientific person. He knows
that the earth is revolving round the sun, and not the sun around the earth. He does not
imagine the earth to be the centre of the universe, and he has some conception of
chemistry and the cognate sciences. A very different aspect of nature would have been
present to the mind of the early Greek philosopher. He would have beheld the earth a
surface only, not mirrored, however faintly, in the glass of science, but indissolubly
connected with some theory of one, two, or more elements. He would have seen the
world pervaded by number and figure, animated by a principle of motion, immanent in
a principle of rest. He would have tried to construct the universe on a quantitative
principle, seeming to find in endless combinations of geometrical figures or in the
infinite variety of their sizes a sufficient account of the multiplicity of phenomena. To
these a priori speculations he would add a rude conception of matter and his own
immediate experience of health and disease. His cosmos would necessarily be imperfect
and unequal, being the first attempt to impress form and order on the primaeval chaos
of human knowledge. He would see all things as in a dream.
The ancient physical philosophers have been charged by Dr. Whewell and others with
wasting their fine intelligences in wrong methods of enquiry; and their progress in
moral and political philosophy has been sometimes contrasted with their supposed
failure in physical investigations. ‘They had plenty of ideas,’ says Dr. Whewell, ‘and
plenty of facts; but their ideas did not accurately represent the facts with which they
were acquainted.’ This is a very crude and misleading way of describing ancient science.
It is the mistake of an uneducated person—uneducated, that is, in the higher sense of
the word—who imagines every one else to be like himself and explains every other age
by his own. No doubt the ancients often fell into strange and fanciful errors: the time
had not yet arrived for the slower and surer path of the modern inductive philosophy.
But it remains to be shown that they could have done more in their age and country; or
that the contributions which they made to the sciences with which they were acquainted
are not as great upon the whole as those made by their successors. There is no single
step in astronomy as great as that of the nameless Pythagorean who first conceived the
world to be a body moving round the sun in space: there is no truer or more
comprehensive principle than the application of mathematics alike to the heavenly
bodies, and to the particles of matter. The ancients had not the instruments which
would have enabled them to correct or verify their anticipations, and their opportunities
of observation were limited. Plato probably did more for physical science by asserting
the supremacy of mathematics than Aristotle or his disciples by their collections of facts.
When the thinkers of modern times, following Bacon, undervalue or disparage the
speculations of ancient philosophers, they seem wholly to forget the conditions of the
world and of the human mind, under which they carried on their investigations. When
we accuse them of being under the influence of words, do we suppose that we are
altogether free from this illusion? When we remark that Greek physics soon became
stationary or extinct, may we not observe also that there have been and may be again
periods in the history of modern philosophy which have been barren and unproductive?
We might as well maintain that Greek art was not real or great, because it had nihil
simile aut secundum, as say that Greek physics were a failure because they admire no
subsequent progress.
The charge of premature generalization which is often urged against ancient
philosophers is really an anachronism. For they can hardly be said to have generalized at
all. They may be said more truly to have cleared up and defined by the help of
experience ideas which they already possessed. The beginnings of thought about nature
must always have this character. A true method is the result of many ages of experiment
and observation, and is ever going on and enlarging with the progress of science and
knowledge. At first men personify nature, then they form impressions of nature, at last
they conceive ‘measure’ or laws of nature. They pass out of mythology into philosophy.
Early science is not a process of discovery in the modern sense; but rather a process of
correcting by observation, and to a certain extent only, the first impressions of nature,
which mankind, when they began to think, had received from poetry or language or
unintelligent sense. Of all scientific truths the greatest and simplest is the uniformity of
nature; this was expressed by the ancients in many ways, as fate, or necessity, or
measure, or limit. Unexpected events, of which the cause was unknown to them, they
attributed to chance (Thucyd.). But their conception of nature was never that of law
interrupted by exceptions,—a somewhat unfortunate metaphysical invention of modern
times, which is at variance with facts and has failed to satisfy the requirements of
thought.
Section 3.
Plato’s account of the soul is partly mythical or figurative, and partly literal. Not that
either he or we can draw a line between them, or say, ‘This is poetry, this is philosophy’;
for the transition from the one to the other is imperceptible. Neither must we expect to
find in him absolute consistency. He is apt to pass from one level or stage of thought to
another without always making it apparent that he is changing his ground. In such
passages we have to interpret his meaning by the general spirit of his writings. To
reconcile his inconsistencies would be contrary to the first principles of criticism and
fatal to any true understanding of him.
There is a further difficulty in explaining this part of the Timaeus—the natural order of
thought is inverted. We begin with the most abstract, and proceed from the abstract to
the concrete. We are searching into things which are upon the utmost limit of human
intelligence, and then of a sudden we fall rather heavily to the earth. There are no
intermediate steps which lead from one to the other. But the abstract is a vacant form to
us until brought into relation with man and nature. God and the world are mere names,
like the Being of the Eleatics, unless some human qualities are added on to them. Yet the
negation has a kind of unknown meaning to us. The priority of God and of the world,
which he is imagined to have created, to all other existences, gives a solemn awe to
them. And as in other systems of theology and philosophy, that of which we know least
has the greatest interest to us.
There is no use in attempting to define or explain the first God in the Platonic system,
who has sometimes been thought to answer to God the Father; or the world, in whom
the Fathers of the Church seemed to recognize ‘the firstborn of every creature.’ Nor need
we discuss at length how far Plato agrees in the later Jewish idea of creation, according
to which God made the world out of nothing. For his original conception of matter as
something which has no qualities is really a negation. Moreover in the Hebrew
Scriptures the creation of the world is described, even more explicitly than in the
Timaeus, not as a single act, but as a work or process which occupied six days. There is a
chaos in both, and it would be untrue to say that the Greek, any more than the Hebrew,
had any definite belief in the eternal existence of matter. The beginning of things
vanished into the distance. The real creation began, not with matter, but with ideas.
According to Plato in the Timaeus, God took of the same and the other, of the divided
and undivided, of the finite and infinite, and made essence, and out of the three
combined created the soul of the world. To the soul he added a body formed out of the
four elements. The general meaning of these words is that God imparted determinations
of thought, or, as we might say, gave law and variety to the material universe. The
elements are moving in a disorderly manner before the work of creation begins; and
there is an eternal pattern of the world, which, like the ‘idea of good,’ is not the Creator
himself, but not separable from him. The pattern too, though eternal, is a creation, a
world of thought prior to the world of sense, which may be compared to the wisdom of
God in the book of Ecclesiasticus, or to the ‘God in the form of a globe’ of the old Eleatic
philosophers. The visible, which already exists, is fashioned in the likeness of this
eternal pattern. On the other hand, there is no truth of which Plato is more firmly
convinced than of the priority of the soul to the body, both in the universe and in man.
So inconsistent are the forms in which he describes the works which no tongue can
utter—his language, as he himself says, partaking of his own uncertainty about the
things of which he is speaking.
We may remark in passing, that the Platonic compared with the Jewish description of
the process of creation has less of freedom or spontaneity. The Creator in Plato is still
subject to a remnant of necessity which he cannot wholly overcome. When his work is
accomplished he remains in his own nature. Plato is more sensible than the Hebrew
prophet of the existence of evil, which he seeks to put as far as possible out of the way of
God. And he can only suppose this to be accomplished by God retiring into himself and
committing the lesser works of creation to inferior powers. (Compare, however, Laws for
another solution of the difficulty.)
Nor can we attach any intelligible meaning to his words when he speaks of the visible
being in the image of the invisible. For how can that which is divided be like that which
is undivided? Or that which is changing be the copy of that which is unchanging? All the
old difficulties about the ideas come back upon us in an altered form. We can imagine
two worlds, one of which is the mere double of the other, or one of which is an imperfect
copy of the other, or one of which is the vanishing ideal of the other; but we cannot
imagine an intellectual world which has no qualities—‘a thing in itself’—a point which
has no parts or magnitude, which is nowhere, and nothing. This cannot be the archetype
according to which God made the world, and is in reality, whether in Plato or in Kant, a
mere negative residuum of human thought.
There is another aspect of the same difficulty which appears to have no satisfactory
solution. In what relation does the archetype stand to the Creator himself? For the idea
or pattern of the world is not the thought of God, but a separate, self-existent nature, of
which creation is the copy. We can only reply, (1) that to the mind of Plato subject and
object were not yet distinguished; (2) that he supposes the process of creation to take
place in accordance with his own theory of ideas; and as we cannot give a consistent
account of the one, neither can we of the other. He means (3) to say that the creation of
the world is not a material process of working with legs and arms, but ideal and
intellectual; according to his own fine expression, ‘the thought of God made the God that
was to be.’ He means (4) to draw an absolute distinction between the invisible or
unchangeable which is or is the place of mind or being, and the world of sense or
becoming which is visible and changing. He means (5) that the idea of the world is prior
to the world, just as the other ideas are prior to sensible objects; and like them may be
regarded as eternal and self- existent, and also, like the IDEA of good, may be viewed
apart from the divine mind.
There are several other questions which we might ask and which can receive no answer,
or at least only an answer of the same kind as the preceding. How can matter be
conceived to exist without form? Or, how can the essences or forms of things be
distinguished from the eternal ideas, or essence itself from the soul? Or, how could there
have been motion in the chaos when as yet time was not? Or, how did chaos come into
existence, if not by the will of the Creator? Or, how could there have been a time when
the world was not, if time was not? Or, how could the Creator have taken portions of an
indivisible same? Or, how could space or anything else have been eternal when time is
only created? Or, how could the surfaces of geometrical figures have formed solids? We
must reply again that we cannot follow Plato in all his inconsistencies, but that the gaps
of thought are probably more apparent to us than to him. He would, perhaps, have said
that ‘the first things are known only to God and to him of men whom God loves.’ How
often have the gaps in Theology been concealed from the eye of faith! And we may say
that only by an effort of metaphysical imagination can we hope to understand Plato
from his own point of view; we must not ask for consistency. Everywhere we find traces
of the Platonic theory of knowledge expressed in an objective form, which by us has to
be translated into the subjective, before we can attach any meaning to it. And this theory
is exhibited in so many different points of view, that we cannot with any certainty
interpret one dialogue by another; e.g. the Timaeus by the Parmenides or Phaedrus or
Philebus.
The soul of the world may also be conceived as the personification of the numbers and
figures in which the heavenly bodies move. Imagine these as in a Pythagorean dream,
stripped of qualitative difference and reduced to mathematical abstractions. They too
conform to the principle of the same, and may be compared with the modern conception
of laws of nature. They are in space, but not in time, and they are the makers of time.
They are represented as constantly thinking of the same; for thought in the view of Plato
is equivalent to truth or law, and need not imply a human consciousness, a conception
which is familiar enough to us, but has no place, hardly even a name, in ancient Greek
philosophy. To this principle of the same is opposed the principle of the other—the
principle of irregularity and disorder, of necessity and chance, which is only partially
impressed by mathematical laws and figures. (We may observe by the way, that the
principle of the other, which is the principle of plurality and variation in the Timaeus,
has nothing in common with the ‘other’ of the Sophist, which is the principle of
determination.) The element of the same dominates to a certain extent over the other—
the fixed stars keep the ‘wanderers’ of the inner circle in their courses, and a similar
principle of fixedness or order appears to regulate the bodily constitution of man. But
there still remains a rebellious seed of evil derived from the original chaos, which is the
source of disorder in the world, and of vice and disease in man.
But what did Plato mean by essence, (Greek), which is the intermediate nature
compounded of the Same and the Other, and out of which, together with these two, the
soul of the world is created? It is difficult to explain a process of thought so strange and
unaccustomed to us, in which modern distinctions run into one another and are lost
sight of. First, let us consider once more the meaning of the Same and the Other. The
Same is the unchanging and indivisible, the heaven of the fixed stars, partaking of the
divine nature, which, having law in itself, gives law to all besides and is the element of
order and permanence in man and on the earth. It is the rational principle, mind
regarded as a work, as creation—not as the creator. The old tradition of Parmenides and
of the Eleatic Being, the foundation of so much in the philosophy of Greece and of the
world, was lingering in Plato’s mind. The Other is the variable or changing element, the
residuum of disorder or chaos, which cannot be reduced to order, nor altogether
banished, the source of evil, seen in the errors of man and also in the wanderings of the
planets, a necessity which protrudes through nature. Of this too there was a shadow in
the Eleatic philosophy in the realm of opinion, which, like a mist, seemed to darken the
purity of truth in itself.—So far the words of Plato may perhaps find an intelligible
meaning. But when he goes on to speak of the Essence which is compounded out of
both, the track becomes fainter and we can only follow him with hesitating steps. But
still we find a trace reappearing of the teaching of Anaxagoras: ‘All was confusion, and
then mind came and arranged things.’ We have already remarked that Plato was not
acquainted with the modern distinction of subject and object, and therefore he
sometimes confuses mind and the things of mind—(Greek) and (Greek). By (Greek) he
clearly means some conception of the intelligible and the intelligent; it belongs to the
class of (Greek). Matter, being, the Same, the eternal,—for any of these terms, being
almost vacant of meaning, is equally suitable to express indefinite existence,—are
compared or united with the Other or Diverse, and out of the union or comparison is
elicited the idea of intelligence, the ‘One in many,’ brighter than any Promethean fire
(Phil.), which co- existing with them and so forming a new existence, is or becomes the
intelligible world...So we may perhaps venture to paraphrase or interpret or put into
other words the parable in which Plato has wrapped up his conception of the creation of
the world. The explanation may help to fill up with figures of speech the void of
knowledge.
The entire compound was divided by the Creator in certain proportions and reunited; it
was then cut into two strips, which were bent into an inner circle and an outer, both
moving with an uniform motion around a centre, the outer circle containing the fixed,
the inner the wandering stars. The soul of the world was diffused everywhere from the
centre to the circumference. To this God gave a body, consisting at first of fire and earth,
and afterwards receiving an addition of air and water; because solid bodies, like the
world, are always connected by two middle terms and not by one. The world was made
in the form of a globe, and all the material elements were exhausted in the work of
creation.
The proportions in which the soul of the world as well as the human soul is divided
answer to a series of numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 8, 27, composed of the two Pythagorean
progressions 1, 2, 4, 8 and 1, 3, 9, 27, of which the number 1 represents a point, 2 and 3
lines, 4 and 8, 9 and 27 the squares and cubes respectively of 2 and 3. This series, of
which the intervals are afterwards filled up, probably represents (1) the diatonic scale
according to the Pythagoreans and Plato; (2) the order and distances of the heavenly
bodies; and (3) may possibly contain an allusion to the music of the spheres, which is
referred to in the myth at the end of the Republic. The meaning of the words that ‘solid
bodies are always connected by two middle terms’ or mean proportionals has been much
disputed. The most received explanation is that of Martin, who supposes that Plato is
only speaking of surfaces and solids compounded of prime numbers (i.e. of numbers not
made up of two factors, or, in other words, only measurable by unity). The square of any
such number represents a surface, the cube a solid. The squares of any two such
numbers (e.g. 2 squared, 3 squared = 4, 9), have always a single mean proportional (e.g.
4 and 9 have the single mean 6), whereas the cubes of primes (e.g. 3 cubed and 5 cubed)
have always two mean proportionals (e.g. 27:45:75:125). But to this explanation of
Martin’s it may be objected, (1) that Plato nowhere says that his proportion is to be
limited to prime numbers; (2) that the limitation of surfaces to squares is also not to be
found in his words; nor (3) is there any evidence to show that the distinction of prime
from other numbers was known to him. What Plato chiefly intends to express is that a
solid requires a stronger bond than a surface; and that the double bond which is given
by two means is stronger than the single bond given by one. Having reflected on the
singular numerical phenomena of the existence of one mean proportional between two
square numbers are rather perhaps only between the two lowest squares; and of two
mean proportionals between two cubes, perhaps again confining his attention to the two
lowest cubes, he finds in the latter symbol an expression of the relation of the elements,
as in the former an image of the combination of two surfaces. Between fire and earth,
the two extremes, he remarks that there are introduced, not one, but two elements, air
and water, which are compared to the two mean proportionals between two cube
numbers. The vagueness of his language does not allow us to determine whether
anything more than this was intended by him.
Leaving the further explanation of details, which the reader will find discussed at length
in Boeckh and Martin, we may now return to the main argument: Why did God make
the world? Like man, he must have a purpose; and his purpose is the diffusion of that
goodness or good which he himself is. The term ‘goodness’ is not to be understood in
this passage as meaning benevolence or love, in the Christian sense of the term, but
rather law, order, harmony, like the idea of good in the Republic. The ancient
mythologers, and even the Hebrew prophets, had spoken of the jealousy of God; and the
Greek had imagined that there was a Nemesis always attending the prosperity of
mortals. But Plato delights to think of God as the author of order in his works, who, like
a father, lives over again in his children, and can never have too much of good or
friendship among his creatures. Only, as there is a certain remnant of evil inherent in
matter which he cannot get rid of, he detaches himself from them and leaves them to
themselves, that he may be guiltless of their faults and sufferings.
Between the ideal and the sensible Plato interposes the two natures of time and space.
Time is conceived by him to be only the shadow or image of eternity which ever is and
never has been or will be, but is described in a figure only as past or future. This is one of
the great thoughts of early philosophy, which are still as difficult to our minds as they
were to the early thinkers; or perhaps more difficult, because we more distinctly see the
consequences which are involved in such an hypothesis. All the objections which may be
urged against Kant’s doctrine of the ideality of space and time at once press upon us. If
time is unreal, then all which is contained in time is unreal—the succession of human
thoughts as well as the flux of sensations; there is no connecting link between (Greek)
and (Greek). Yet, on the other hand, we are conscious that knowledge is independent of
time, that truth is not a thing of yesterday or tomorrow, but an ‘eternal now.’ To the
‘spectator of all time and all existence’ the universe remains at rest. The truths of
geometry and arithmetic in all their combinations are always the same. The generations
of men, like the leaves of the forest, come and go, but the mathematical laws by which
the world is governed remain, and seem as if they could never change. The ever-present
image of space is transferred to time—succession is conceived as extension. (We remark
that Plato does away with the above and below in space, as he has done away with the
absolute existence of past and future.) The course of time, unless regularly marked by
divisions of number, partakes of the indefiniteness of the Heraclitean flux. By such
reflections we may conceive the Greek to have attained the metaphysical conception of
eternity, which to the Hebrew was gained by meditation on the Divine Being. No one
saw that this objective was really a subjective, and involved the subjectivity of all
knowledge. ‘Non in tempore sed cum tempore finxit Deus mundum,’ says St. Augustine,
repeating a thought derived from the Timaeus, but apparently unconscious of the results
to which his doctrine would have led.
The contradictions involved in the conception of time or motion, like the infinitesimal in
space, were a source of perplexity to the mind of the Greek, who was driven to find a
point of view above or beyond them. They had sprung up in the decline of the Eleatic
philosophy and were very familiar to Plato, as we gather from the Parmenides. The
consciousness of them had led the great Eleatic philosopher to describe the nature of
God or Being under negatives. He sings of ‘Being unbegotten and imperishable,
unmoved and never-ending, which never was nor will be, but always is, one and
continuous, which cannot spring from any other; for it cannot be said or imagined not to
be.’ The idea of eternity was for a great part a negation. There are regions of speculation
in which the negative is hardly separable from the positive, and even seems to pass into
it. Not only Buddhism, but Greek as well as Christian philosophy, show that it is quite
possible that the human mind should retain an enthusiasm for mere negations. In
different ages and countries there have been forms of light in which nothing could be
discerned and which have nevertheless exercised a life-giving and illumining power. For
the higher intelligence of man seems to require, not only something above sense, but
above knowledge, which can only be described as Mind or Being or Truth or God or the
unchangeable and eternal element, in the expression of which all predicates fail and fall
short. Eternity or the eternal is not merely the unlimited in time but the truest of all
Being, the most real of all realities, the most certain of all knowledge, which we
nevertheless only see through a glass darkly. The passionate earnestness of Parmenides
contrasts with the vacuity of the thought which he is revolving in his mind.
Space is said by Plato to be the ‘containing vessel or nurse of generation.’ Reflecting on
the simplest kinds of external objects, which to the ancients were the four elements, he
was led to a more general notion of a substance, more or less like themselves, out of
which they were fashioned. He would not have them too precisely distinguished. Thus
seems to have arisen the first dim perception of (Greek) or matter, which has played so
great a part in the metaphysical philosophy of Aristotle and his followers. But besides
the material out of which the elements are made, there is also a space in which they are
contained. There arises thus a second nature which the senses are incapable of
discerning and which can hardly be referred to the intelligible class. For it is and it is
not, it is nowhere when filled, it is nothing when empty. Hence it is said to be discerned
by a kind of spurious or analogous reason, partaking so feebly of existence as to be
hardly perceivable, yet always reappearing as the containing mother or nurse of all
things. It had not that sort of consistency to Plato which has been given to it in modern
times by geometry and metaphysics. Neither of the Greek words by which it is described
are so purely abstract as the English word ‘space’ or the Latin ‘spatium.’ Neither Plato
nor any other Greek would have spoken of (Greek) or (Greek) in the same manner as we
speak of ‘time’ and ‘space.’
Yet space is also of a very permanent or even eternal nature; and Plato seems more
willing to admit of the unreality of time than of the unreality of space; because, as he
says, all things must necessarily exist in space. We, on the other hand, are disposed to
fancy that even if space were annihilated time might still survive. He admits indeed that
our knowledge of space is of a dreamy kind, and is given by a spurious reason without
the help of sense. (Compare the hypotheses and images of Rep.) It is true that it does not
attain to the clearness of ideas. But like them it seems to remain, even if all the objects
contained in it are supposed to have vanished away. Hence it was natural for Plato to
conceive of it as eternal. We must remember further that in his attempt to realize either
space or matter the two abstract ideas of weight and extension, which are familiar to us,
had never passed before his mind.
Thus far God, working according to an eternal pattern, out of his goodness has created
the same, the other, and the essence (compare the three principles of the Philebus—the
finite, the infinite, and the union of the two), and out of them has formed the outer circle
of the fixed stars and the inner circle of the planets, divided according to certain musical
intervals; he has also created time, the moving image of eternity, and space, existing by
a sort of necessity and hardly distinguishable from matter. The matter out of which the
world is formed is not absolutely void, but retains in the chaos certain germs or traces of
the elements. These Plato, like Empedocles, supposed to be four in number—fire, air,
earth, and water. They were at first mixed together; but already in the chaos, before God
fashioned them by form and number, the greater masses of the elements had an
appointed place. Into the confusion (Greek) which preceded Plato does not attempt
further to penetrate. They are called elements, but they are so far from being elements
(Greek) or letters in the higher sense that they are not even syllables or first compounds.
The real elements are two triangles, the rectangular isosceles which has but one form,
and the most beautiful of the many forms of scalene, which is half of an equilateral
triangle. By the combination of these triangles which exist in an infinite variety of sizes,
the surfaces of the four elements are constructed.
That there were only five regular solids was already known to the ancients, and out of
the surfaces which he has formed Plato proceeds to generate the four first of the five. He
perhaps forgets that he is only putting together surfaces and has not provided for their
transformation into solids. The first solid is a regular pyramid, of which the base and
sides are formed by four equilateral or twenty-four scalene triangles. Each of the four
solid angles in this figure is a little larger than the largest of obtuse angles. The second
solid is composed of the same triangles, which unite as eight equilateral triangles, and
make one solid angle out of four plane angles—six of these angles form a regular
octahedron. The third solid is a regular icosahedron, having twenty triangular
equilateral bases, and therefore 120 rectangular scalene triangles. The fourth regular
solid, or cube, is formed by the combination of four isosceles triangles into one square
and of six squares into a cube. The fifth regular solid, or dodecahedron, cannot be
formed by a combination of either of these triangles, but each of its faces may be
regarded as composed of thirty triangles of another kind. Probably Plato notices this as
the only remaining regular polyhedron, which from its approximation to a globe, and
possibly because, as Plutarch remarks, it is composed of 12 x 30 = 360 scalene triangles
(Platon. Quaest.), representing thus the signs and degrees of the Zodiac, as well as the
months and days of the year, God may be said to have ‘used in the delineation of the
universe.’ According to Plato earth was composed of cubes, fire of regular pyramids, air
of regular octahedrons, water of regular icosahedrons. The stability of the last three
increases with the number of their sides.
The elements are supposed to pass into one another, but we must remember that these
transformations are not the transformations of real solids, but of imaginary geometrical
figures; in other words, we are composing and decomposing the faces of substances and
not the substances themselves—it is a house of cards which we are pulling to pieces and
putting together again (compare however Laws). Yet perhaps Plato may regard these
sides or faces as only the forms which are impressed on pre-existent matter. It is
remarkable that he should speak of each of these solids as a possible world in itself,
though upon the whole he inclines to the opinion that they form one world and not five.
To suppose that there is an infinite number of worlds, as Democritus (Hippolyt. Ref.
Haer. I.) had said, would be, as he satirically observes, ‘the characteristic of a very
indefinite and ignorant mind.’
The twenty triangular faces of an icosahedron form the faces or sides of two regular
octahedrons and of a regular pyramid (20 = 8 x 2 + 4); and therefore, according to
Plato, a particle of water when decomposed is supposed to give two particles of air and
one of fire. So because an octahedron gives the sides of two pyramids (8 = 4 x 2), a
particle of air is resolved into two particles of fire.
The transformation is effected by the superior power or number of the conquering
elements. The manner of the change is (1) a separation of portions of the elements from
the masses in which they are collected; (2) a resolution of them into their original
triangles; and (3) a reunion of them in new forms. Plato himself proposes the question,
Why does motion continue at all when the elements are settled in their places? He
answers that although the force of attraction is continually drawing similar elements to
the same spot, still the revolution of the universe exercises a condensing power, and
thrusts them again out of their natural places. Thus want of uniformity, the condition of
motion, is produced. In all such disturbances of matter there is an alternative for the
weaker element: it may escape to its kindred, or take the form of the stronger—
becoming denser, if it be denser, or rarer if rarer. This is true of fire, air, and water,
which, being composed of similar triangles, are interchangeable; earth, however, which
has triangles peculiar to itself, is capable of dissolution, but not of change. Of the
interchangeable elements, fire, the rarest, can only become a denser, and water, the
densest, only a rarer: but air may become a denser or a rarer. No single particle of the
elements is visible, but only the aggregates of them are seen. The subordinate species
depend, not upon differences of form in the original triangles, but upon differences of
size. The obvious physical phenomena from which Plato has gathered his views of the
relations of the elements seem to be the effect of fire upon air, water, and earth, and the
effect of water upon earth. The particles are supposed by him to be in a perpetual
process of circulation caused by inequality. This process of circulation does not admit of
a vacuum, as he tells us in his strange account of respiration.
Of the phenomena of light and heavy he speaks afterwards, when treating of sensation,
but they may be more conveniently considered by us in this place. They are not, he says,
to be explained by ‘above’ and ‘below,’ which in the universal globe have no existence,
but by the attraction of similars towards the great masses of similar substances; fire to
fire, air to air, water to water, earth to earth. Plato’s doctrine of attraction implies not
only (1) the attraction of similar elements to one another, but also (2) of smaller bodies
to larger ones. Had he confined himself to the latter he would have arrived, though,
perhaps, without any further result or any sense of the greatness of the discovery, at the
modern doctrine of gravitation. He does not observe that water has an equal tendency
towards both water and earth. So easily did the most obvious facts which were
inconsistent with his theories escape him.
The general physical doctrines of the Timaeus may be summed up as follows: (1) Plato
supposes the greater masses of the elements to have been already settled in their places
at the creation: (2) they are four in number, and are formed of rectangular triangles
variously combined into regular solid figures: (3) three of them, fire, air, and water,
admit of transformation into one another; the fourth, earth, cannot be similarly
transformed: (4) different sizes of the same triangles form the lesser species of each
element: (5) there is an attraction of like to like—smaller masses of the same kind being
drawn towards greater: (6) there is no void, but the particles of matter are ever pushing
one another round and round (Greek). Like the atomists, Plato attributes the differences
between the elements to differences in geometrical figures. But he does not explain the
process by which surfaces become solids; and he characteristically ridicules Democritus
for not seeing that the worlds are finite and not infinite.
Section 4.
The astronomy of Plato is based on the two principles of the same and the other, which
God combined in the creation of the world. The soul, which is compounded of the same,
the other, and the essence, is diffused from the centre to the circumference of the
heavens. We speak of a soul of the universe; but more truly regarded, the universe of the
Timaeus is a soul, governed by mind, and holding in solution a residuum of matter or
evil, which the author of the world is unable to expel, and of which Plato cannot tell us
the origin. The creation, in Plato’s sense, is really the creation of order; and the first step
in giving order is the division of the heavens into an inner and outer circle of the other
and the same, of the divisible and the indivisible, answering to the two spheres, of the
planets and of the world beyond them, all together moving around the earth, which is
their centre. To us there is a difficulty in apprehending how that which is at rest can also
be in motion, or that which is indivisible exist in space. But the whole description is so
ideal and imaginative, that we can hardly venture to attribute to many of Plato’s words
in the Timaeus any more meaning than to his mythical account of the heavens in the
Republic and in the Phaedrus. (Compare his denial of the ‘blasphemous opinion’ that
there are planets or wandering stars; all alike move in circles—Laws.) The stars are the
habitations of the souls of men, from which they come and to which they return. In
attributing to the fixed stars only the most perfect motion—that which is on the same
spot or circulating around the same—he might perhaps have said that to ‘the spectator
of all time and all existence,’ to borrow once more his own grand expression, or viewed,
in the language of Spinoza, ‘sub specie aeternitatis,’ they were still at rest, but appeared
to move in order to teach men the periods of time. Although absolutely in motion, they
are relatively at rest; or we may conceive of them as resting, while the space in which
they are contained, or the whole anima mundi, revolves.
The universe revolves around a centre once in twenty-four hours, but the orbits of the
fixed stars take a different direction from those of the planets. The outer and the inner
sphere cross one another and meet again at a point opposite to that of their first contact;
the first moving in a circle from left to right along the side of a parallelogram which is
supposed to be inscribed in it, the second also moving in a circle along the diagonal of
the same parallelogram from right to left; or, in other words, the first describing the
path of the equator, the second, the path of the ecliptic. The motion of the second is
controlled by the first, and hence the oblique line in which the planets are supposed to
move becomes a spiral. The motion of the same is said to be undivided, whereas the
inner motion is split into seven unequal orbits—the intervals between them being in the
ratio of two and three, three of either:—the Sun, moving in the opposite direction to
Mercury and Venus, but with equal swiftness; the remaining four, Moon, Saturn, Mars,
Jupiter, with unequal swiftness to the former three and to one another. Thus arises the
following progression:— Moon 1, Sun 2, Venus 3, Mercury 4, Mars 8, Jupiter 9, Saturn
27. This series of numbers is the compound of the two Pythagorean ratios, having the
same intervals, though not in the same order, as the mixture which was originally
divided in forming the soul of the world.
Plato was struck by the phenomenon of Mercury, Venus, and the Sun appearing to
overtake and be overtaken by one another. The true reason of this, namely, that they lie
within the circle of the earth’s orbit, was unknown to him, and the reason which he
gives—that the two former move in an opposite direction to the latter—is far from
explaining the appearance of them in the heavens. All the planets, including the sun, are
carried round in the daily motion of the circle of the fixed stars, and they have a second
or oblique motion which gives the explanation of the different lengths of the sun’s
course in different parts of the earth. The fixed stars have also two movements—a
forward movement in their orbit which is common to the whole circle; and a movement
on the same spot around an axis, which Plato calls the movement of thought about the
same. In this latter respect they are more perfect than the wandering stars, as Plato
himself terms them in the Timaeus, although in the Laws he condemns the appellation
as blasphemous.
The revolution of the world around earth, which is accomplished in a single day and
night, is described as being the most perfect or intelligent. Yet Plato also speaks of an
‘annus magnus’ or cyclical year, in which periods wonderful for their complexity are
found to coincide in a perfect number, i.e. a number which equals the sum of its factors,
as 6 = 1 + 2 + 3. This, although not literally contradictory, is in spirit irreconcilable with
the perfect revolution of twenty-four hours. The same remark may be applied to the
complexity of the appearances and occultations of the stars, which, if the outer heaven is
supposed to be moving around the centre once in twenty- four hours, must be confined
to the effects produced by the seven planets. Plato seems to confuse the actual
observation of the heavens with his desire to find in them mathematical perfection. The
same spirit is carried yet further by him in the passage already quoted from the Laws, in
which he affirms their wanderings to be an appearance only, which a little knowledge of
mathematics would enable men to correct.
We have now to consider the much discussed question of the rotation or immobility of
the earth. Plato’s doctrine on this subject is contained in the following words:—‘The
earth, which is our nurse, compacted (OR revolving) around the pole which is extended
through the universe, he made to be the guardian and artificer of night and day, first
and eldest of gods that are in the interior of heaven’. There is an unfortunate doubt in
this passage (1) about the meaning of the word (Greek), which is translated either
‘compacted’ or ‘revolving,’ and is equally capable of both explanations. A doubt (2) may
also be raised as to whether the words ‘artificer of day and night’ are consistent with the
mere passive causation of them, produced by the immobility of the earth in the midst of
the circling universe. We must admit, further, (3) that Aristotle attributed to Plato the
doctrine of the rotation of the earth on its axis. On the other hand it has been urged that
if the earth goes round with the outer heaven and sun in twenty-four hours, there is no
way of accounting for the alternation of day and night; since the equal motion of the
earth and sun would have the effect of absolute immobility. To which it may be replied
that Plato never says that the earth goes round with the outer heaven and sun; although
the whole question depends on the relation of earth and sun, their movements are
nowhere precisely described. But if we suppose, with Mr. Grote, that the diurnal
rotation of the earth on its axis and the revolution of the sun and outer heaven precisely
coincide, it would be difficult to imagine that Plato was unaware of the consequence. For
though he was ignorant of many things which are familiar to us, and often confused in
his ideas where we have become clear, we have no right to attribute to him a childish
want of reasoning about very simple facts, or an inability to understand the necessary
and obvious deductions from geometrical figures or movements. Of the causes of day
and night the pre-Socratic philosophers, and especially the Pythagoreans, gave various
accounts, and therefore the question can hardly be imagined to have escaped him. On
the other hand it may be urged that the further step, however simple and obvious, is just
what Plato often seems to be ignorant of, and that as there is no limit to his insight,
there is also no limit to the blindness which sometimes obscures his intelligence
(compare the construction of solids out of surfaces in his account of the creation of the
world, or the attraction of similars to similars). Further, Mr. Grote supposes, not that
(Greek) means ‘revolving,’ or that this is the sense in which Aristotle understood the
word, but that the rotation of the earth is necessarily implied in its adherence to the
cosmical axis. But (a) if, as Mr Grote assumes, Plato did not see that the rotation of the
earth on its axis and of the sun and outer heavens around the earth in equal times was
inconsistent with the alternation of day and night, neither need we suppose that he
would have seen the immobility of the earth to be inconsistent with the rotation of the
axis. And (b) what proof is there that the axis of the world revolves at all? (c) The
comparison of the two passages quoted by Mr Grote (see his pamphlet on ‘The Rotation
of the Earth’) from Aristotle De Coelo, Book II (Greek) clearly shows, although this is a
matter of minor importance, that Aristotle, as Proclus and Simplicius supposed,
understood (Greek) in the Timaeus to mean ‘revolving.’ For the second passage, in
which motion on an axis is expressly mentioned, refers to the first, but this would be
unmeaning unless (Greek) in the first passage meant rotation on an axis. (4) The
immobility of the earth is more in accordance with Plato’s other writings than the
opposite hypothesis. For in the Phaedo the earth is described as the centre of the world,
and is not said to be in motion. In the Republic the pilgrims appear to be looking out
from the earth upon the motions of the heavenly bodies; in the Phaedrus, Hestia, who
remains immovable in the house of Zeus while the other gods go in procession, is called
the first and eldest of the gods, and is probably the symbol of the earth. The silence of
Plato in these and in some other passages (Laws) in which he might be expected to
speak of the rotation of the earth, is more favourable to the doctrine of its immobility
than to the opposite. If he had meant to say that the earth revolves on its axis, he would
have said so in distinct words, and have explained the relation of its movements to those
of the other heavenly bodies. (5) The meaning of the words ‘artificer of day and night’ is
literally true according to Plato’s view. For the alternation of day and night is not
produced by the motion of the heavens alone, or by the immobility of the earth alone,
but by both together; and that which has the inherent force or energy to remain at rest
when all other bodies are moving, may be truly said to act, equally with them. (6) We
should not lay too much stress on Aristotle or the writer De Caelo having adopted the
other interpretation of the words, although Alexander of Aphrodisias thinks that he
could not have been ignorant either of the doctrine of Plato or of the sense which he
intended to give to the word (Greek). For the citations of Plato in Aristotle are frequently
misinterpreted by him; and he seems hardly ever to have had in his mind the connection
in which they occur. In this instance the allusion is very slight, and there is no reason to
suppose that the diurnal revolution of the heavens was present to his mind. Hence we
need not attribute to him the error from which we are defending Plato.
After weighing one against the other all these complicated probabilities, the final
conclusion at which we arrive is that there is nearly as much to be said on the one side of
the question as on the other, and that we are not perfectly certain, whether, as Bockh
and the majority of commentators, ancient as well as modern, are inclined to believe,
Plato thought that the earth was at rest in the centre of the universe, or, as Aristotle and
Mr. Grote suppose, that it revolved on its axis. Whether we assume the earth to be
stationary in the centre of the universe, or to revolve with the heavens, no explanation is
given of the variation in the length of days and nights at different times of the year. The
relations of the earth and heavens are so indistinct in the Timaeus and so figurative in
the Phaedo, Phaedrus and Republic, that we must give up the hope of ascertaining how
they were imagined by Plato, if he had any fixed or scientific conception of them at all.
Section 5.
The soul of the world is framed on the analogy of the soul of man, and many traces of
anthropomorphism blend with Plato’s highest flights of idealism. The heavenly bodies
are endowed with thought; the principles of the same and other exist in the universe as
well as in the human mind. The soul of man is made out of the remains of the elements
which had been used in creating the soul of the world; these remains, however, are
diluted to the third degree; by this Plato expresses the measure of the difference
between the soul human and divine. The human soul, like the cosmical, is framed before
the body, as the mind is before the soul of either—this is the order of the divine work—
and the finer parts of the body, which are more akin to the soul, such as the spinal
marrow, are prior to the bones and flesh. The brain, the containing vessel of the divine
part of the soul, is (nearly) in the form of a globe, which is the image of the gods, who
are the stars, and of the universe.
There is, however, an inconsistency in Plato’s manner of conceiving the soul of man; he
cannot get rid of the element of necessity which is allowed to enter. He does not, like
Kant, attempt to vindicate for men a freedom out of space and time; but he
acknowledges him to be subject to the influence of external causes, and leaves hardly
any place for freedom of the will. The lusts of men are caused by their bodily
constitution, though they may be increased by bad education and bad laws, which
implies that they may be decreased by good education and good laws. He appears to
have an inkling of the truth that to the higher nature of man evil is involuntary. This is
mixed up with the view which, while apparently agreeing with it, is in reality the
opposite of it, that vice is due to physical causes. In the Timaeus, as well as in the Laws,
he also regards vices and crimes as simply involuntary; they are diseases analogous to
the diseases of the body, and arising out of the same causes. If we draw together the
opposite poles of Plato’s system, we find that, like Spinoza, he combines idealism with
fatalism.
The soul of man is divided by him into three parts, answering roughly to the charioteer
and steeds of the Phaedrus, and to the (Greek) of the Republic and Nicomachean Ethics.
First, there is the immortal nature of which the brain is the seat, and which is akin to the
soul of the universe. This alone thinks and knows and is the ruler of the whole.
Secondly, there is the higher mortal soul which, though liable to perturbations of her
own, takes the side of reason against the lower appetites. The seat of this is the heart, in
which courage, anger, and all the nobler affections are supposed to reside. There the
veins all meet; it is their centre or house of guard whence they carry the orders of the
thinking being to the extremities of his kingdom. There is also a third or appetitive soul,
which receives the commands of the immortal part, not immediately but mediately,
through the liver, which reflects on its surface the admonitions and threats of the
reason.
The liver is imagined by Plato to be a smooth and bright substance, having a store of
sweetness and also of bitterness, which reason freely uses in the execution of her
mandates. In this region, as ancient superstition told, were to be found intimations of
the future. But Plato is careful to observe that although such knowledge is given to the
inferior parts of man, it requires to be interpreted by the superior. Reason, and not
enthusiasm, is the true guide of man; he is only inspired when he is demented by some
distemper or possession. The ancient saying, that ‘only a man in his senses can judge of
his own actions,’ is approved by modern philosophy too. The same irony which appears
in Plato’s remark, that ‘the men of old time must surely have known the gods who were
their ancestors, and we should believe them as custom requires,’ is also manifest in his
account of divination.
The appetitive soul is seated in the belly, and there imprisoned like a wild beast, far
away from the council chamber, as Plato graphically calls the head, in order that the
animal passions may not interfere with the deliberations of reason. Though the soul is
said by him to be prior to the body, yet we cannot help seeing that it is constructed on
the model of the body—the threefold division into the rational, passionate, and
appetitive corresponding to the head, heart and belly. The human soul differs from the
soul of the world in this respect, that it is enveloped and finds its expression in matter,
whereas the soul of the world is not only enveloped or diffused in matter, but is the
element in which matter moves. The breath of man is within him, but the air or aether of
heaven is the element which surrounds him and all things.
Pleasure and pain are attributed in the Timaeus to the suddenness of our sensations—
the first being a sudden restoration, the second a sudden violation, of nature (Phileb.).
The sensations become conscious to us when they are exceptional. Sight is not attended
either by pleasure or pain, but hunger and the appeasing of hunger are pleasant and
painful because they are extraordinary.
Section 6.
I shall not attempt to connect the physiological speculations of Plato either with ancient
or modern medicine. What light I can throw upon them will be derived from the
comparison of them with his general system.
There is no principle so apparent in the physics of the Timaeus, or in ancient physics
generally, as that of continuity. The world is conceived of as a whole, and the elements
are formed into and out of one another; the varieties of substances and processes are
hardly known or noticed. And in a similar manner the human body is conceived of as a
whole, and the different substances of which, to a superficial observer, it appears to be
composed—the blood, flesh, sinews—like the elements out of which they are formed, are
supposed to pass into one another in regular order, while the infinite complexity of the
human frame remains unobserved. And diseases arise from the opposite process—when
the natural proportions of the four elements are disturbed, and the secondary
substances which are formed out of them, namely, blood, flesh, sinews, are generated in
an inverse order.
Plato found heat and air within the human frame, and the blood circulating in every
part. He assumes in language almost unintelligible to us that a network of fire and air
envelopes the greater part of the body. This outer net contains two lesser nets, one
corresponding to the stomach, the other to the lungs; and the entrance to the latter is
forked or divided into two passages which lead to the nostrils and to the mouth. In the
process of respiration the external net is said to find a way in and out of the pores of the
skin: while the interior of it and the lesser nets move alternately into each other. The
whole description is figurative, as Plato himself implies when he speaks of a ‘fountain of
fire which we compare to the network of a creel.’ He really means by this what we should
describe as a state of heat or temperature in the interior of the body. The ‘fountain of
fire’ or heat is also in a figure the circulation of the blood. The passage is partly
imagination, partly fact.
He has a singular theory of respiration for which he accounts solely by the movement of
the air in and out of the body; he does not attribute any part of the process to the action
of the body itself. The air has a double ingress and a double exit, through the mouth or
nostrils, and through the skin. When exhaled through the mouth or nostrils, it leaves a
vacuum which is filled up by other air finding a way in through the pores, this air being
thrust out of its place by the exhalation from the mouth and nostrils. There is also a
corresponding process of inhalation through the mouth or nostrils, and of exhalation
through the pores. The inhalation through the pores appears to take place nearly at the
same time as the exhalation through the mouth; and conversely. The internal fire is in
either case the propelling cause outwards—the inhaled air, when heated by it, having a
natural tendency to move out of the body to the place of fire; while the impossibility of a
vacuum is the propelling cause inwards.
Thus we see that this singular theory is dependent on two principles largely employed by
Plato in explaining the operations of nature, the impossibility of a vacuum and the
attraction of like to like. To these there has to be added a third principle, which is the
condition of the action of the other two,—the interpenetration of particles in proportion
to their density or rarity. It is this which enables fire and air to permeate the flesh.
Plato’s account of digestion and the circulation of the blood is closely connected with his
theory of respiration. Digestion is supposed to be effected by the action of the internal
fire, which in the process of respiration moves into the stomach and minces the food. As
the fire returns to its place, it takes with it the minced food or blood; and in this way the
veins are replenished. Plato does not enquire how the blood is separated from the
faeces.
Of the anatomy and functions of the body he knew very little,—e.g. of the uses of the
nerves in conveying motion and sensation, which he supposed to be communicated by
the bones and veins; he was also ignorant of the distinction between veins and
arteries;—the latter term he applies to the vessels which conduct air from the mouth to
the lungs;—he supposes the lung to be hollow and bloodless; the spinal marrow he
conceives to be the seed of generation; he confuses the parts of the body with the states
of the body—the network of fire and air is spoken of as a bodily organ; he has absolutely
no idea of the phenomena of respiration, which he attributes to a law of equalization in
nature, the air which is breathed out displacing other air which finds a way in; he is
wholly unacquainted with the process of digestion. Except the general divisions into the
spleen, the liver, the belly, and the lungs, and the obvious distinctions of flesh, bones,
and the limbs of the body, we find nothing that reminds us of anatomical facts. But we
find much which is derived from his theory of the universe, and transferred to man, as
there is much also in his theory of the universe which is suggested by man. The
microcosm of the human body is the lesser image of the macrocosm. The courses of the
same and the other affect both; they are made of the same elements and therefore in the
same proportions. Both are intelligent natures endued with the power of self- motion,
and the same equipoise is maintained in both. The animal is a sort of ‘world’ to the
particles of the blood which circulate in it. All the four elements entered into the original
composition of the human frame; the bone was formed out of smooth earth; liquids of
various kinds pass to and fro; the network of fire and air irrigates the veins. Infancy and
childhood is the chaos or first turbid flux of sense prior to the establishment of order;
the intervals of time which may be observed in some intermittent fevers correspond to
the density of the elements. The spinal marrow, including the brain, is formed out of the
finest sorts of triangles, and is the connecting link between body and mind. Health is
only to be preserved by imitating the motions of the world in space, which is the mother
and nurse of generation. The work of digestion is carried on by the superior sharpness of
the triangles forming the substances of the human body to those which are introduced
into it in the shape of food. The freshest and acutest forms of triangles are those that are
found in children, but they become more obtuse with advancing years; and when they
finally wear out and fall to pieces, old age and death supervene.
As in the Republic, Plato is still the enemy of the purgative treatment of physicians,
which, except in extreme cases, no man of sense will ever adopt. For, as he adds, with an
insight into the truth, ‘every disease is akin to the nature of the living being and is only
irritated by stimulants.’ He is of opinion that nature should be left to herself, and is
inclined to think that physicians are in vain (Laws—where he says that warm baths
would be more beneficial to the limbs of the aged rustic than the prescriptions of a not
over-wise doctor). If he seems to be extreme in his condemnation of medicine and to
rely too much on diet and exercise, he might appeal to nearly all the best physicians of
our own age in support of his opinions, who often speak to their patients of the
worthlessness of drugs. For we ourselves are sceptical about medicine, and very
unwilling to submit to the purgative treatment of physicians. May we not claim for Plato
an anticipation of modern ideas as about some questions of astronomy and physics, so
also about medicine? As in the Charmides he tells us that the body cannot be cured
without the soul, so in the Timaeus he strongly asserts the sympathy of soul and body;
any defect of either is the occasion of the greatest discord and disproportion in the
other. Here too may be a presentiment that in the medicine of the future the
interdependence of mind and body will be more fully recognized, and that the influence
of the one over the other may be exerted in a manner which is not now thought possible.
Section 7.
In Plato’s explanation of sensation we are struck by the fact that he has not the same
distinct conception of organs of sense which is familiar to ourselves. The senses are not
instruments, but rather passages, through which external objects strike upon the mind.
The eye is the aperture through which the stream of vision passes, the ear is the aperture
through which the vibrations of sound pass. But that the complex structure of the eye or
the ear is in any sense the cause of sight and hearing he seems hardly to be aware.
The process of sight is the most complicated (Rep.), and consists of three elements—the
light which is supposed to reside within the eye, the light of the sun, and the light
emitted from external objects. When the light of the eye meets the light of the sun, and
both together meet the light issuing from an external object, this is the simple act of
sight. When the particles of light which proceed from the object are exactly equal to the
particles of the visual ray which meet them from within, then the body is transparent. If
they are larger and contract the visual ray, a black colour is produced; if they are smaller
and dilate it, a white. Other phenomena are produced by the variety and motion of light.
A sudden flash of fire at once elicits light and moisture from the eye, and causes a bright
colour. A more subdued light, on mingling with the moisture of the eye, produces a red
colour. Out of these elements all other colours are derived. All of them are combinations
of bright and red with white and black. Plato himself tells us that he does not know in
what proportions they combine, and he is of opinion that such knowledge is granted to
the gods only. To have seen the affinity of them to each other and their connection with
light, is not a bad basis for a theory of colours. We must remember that they were not
distinctly defined to his, as they are to our eyes; he saw them, not as they are divided in
the prism, or artificially manufactured for the painter’s use, but as they exist in nature,
blended and confused with one another.
We can hardly agree with him when he tells us that smells do not admit of kinds. He
seems to think that no definite qualities can attach to bodies which are in a state of
transition or evaporation; he also makes the subtle observation that smells must be
denser than air, though thinner than water, because when there is an obstruction to the
breathing, air can penetrate, but not smell.
The affections peculiar to the tongue are of various kinds, and, like many other
affections, are caused by contraction and dilation. Some of them are produced by rough,
others by abstergent, others by inflammatory substances,—these act upon the testing
instruments of the tongue, and produce a more or less disagreeable sensation, while
other particles congenial to the tongue soften and harmonize them. The instruments of
taste reach from the tongue to the heart. Plato has a lively sense of the manner in which
sensation and motion are communicated from one part of the body to the other, though
he confuses the affections with the organs. Hearing is a blow which passes through the
ear and ends in the region of the liver, being transmitted by means of the air, the brain,
and the blood to the soul. The swifter sound is acute, the sound which moves slowly is
grave. A great body of sound is loud, the opposite is low. Discord is produced by the
swifter and slower motions of two sounds, and is converted into harmony when the
swifter motions begin to pause and are overtaken by the slower.
The general phenomena of sensation are partly internal, but the more violent are caused
by conflict with external objects. Proceeding by a method of superficial observation,
Plato remarks that the more sensitive parts of the human frame are those which are
least covered by flesh, as is the case with the head and the elbows. Man, if his head had
been covered with a thicker pulp of flesh, might have been a longer-lived animal than he
is, but could not have had as quick perceptions. On the other hand, the tongue is one of
the most sensitive of organs; but then this is made, not to be a covering to the bones
which contain the marrow or source of life, but with an express purpose, and in a
separate mass.
Section 8.
We have now to consider how far in any of these speculations Plato approximated to the
discoveries of modern science. The modern physical philosopher is apt to dwell
exclusively on the absurdities of ancient ideas about science, on the haphazard fancies
and a priori assumptions of ancient teachers, on their confusion of facts and ideas, on
their inconsistency and blindness to the most obvious phenomena. He measures them
not by what preceded them, but by what has followed them. He does not consider that
ancient physical philosophy was not a free enquiry, but a growth, in which the mind was
passive rather than active, and was incapable of resisting the impressions which flowed
in upon it. He hardly allows to the notions of the ancients the merit of being the
stepping-stones by which he has himself risen to a higher knowledge. He never reflects,
how great a thing it was to have formed a conception, however imperfect, either of the
human frame as a whole, or of the world as a whole. According to the view taken in these
volumes the errors of ancient physicists were not separable from the intellectual
conditions under which they lived. Their genius was their own; and they were not the
rash and hasty generalizers which, since the days of Bacon, we have been apt to suppose
them. The thoughts of men widened to receive experience; at first they seemed to know
all things as in a dream: after a while they look at them closely and hold them in their
hands. They begin to arrange them in classes and to connect causes with effects. General
notions are necessary to the apprehension of particular facts, the metaphysical to the
physical. Before men can observe the world, they must be able to conceive it.
To do justice to the subject, we should consider the physical philosophy of the ancients
as a whole; we should remember, (1) that the nebular theory was the received belief of
several of the early physicists; (2) that the development of animals out of fishes who
came to land, and of man out of the animals, was held by Anaximander in the sixth
century before Christ (Plut. Symp. Quaest; Plac. Phil.); (3) that even by Philolaus and
the early Pythagoreans, the earth was held to be a body like the other stars revolving in
space around the sun or a central fire; (4) that the beginnings of chemistry are
discernible in the ‘similar particles’ of Anaxagoras. Also they knew or thought (5) that
there was a sex in plants as well as in animals; (6) they were aware that musical notes
depended on the relative length or tension of the strings from which they were emitted,
and were measured by ratios of number; (7) that mathematical laws pervaded the world;
and even qualitative differences were supposed to have their origin in number and
figure; (8) the annihilation of matter was denied by several of them, and the seeming
disappearance of it held to be a transformation only. For, although one of these
discoveries might have been supposed to be a happy guess, taken together they seem to
imply a great advance and almost maturity of natural knowledge.
We should also remember, when we attribute to the ancients hasty generalizations and
delusions of language, that physical philosophy and metaphysical too have been guilty of
similar fallacies in quite recent times. We by no means distinguish clearly between mind
and body, between ideas and facts. Have not many discussions arisen about the Atomic
theory in which a point has been confused with a material atom? Have not the natures
of things been explained by imaginary entities, such as life or phlogiston, which exist in
the mind only? Has not disease been regarded, like sin, sometimes as a negative and
necessary, sometimes as a positive or malignant principle? The ‘idols’ of Bacon are
nearly as common now as ever; they are inherent in the human mind, and when they
have the most complete dominion over us, we are least able to perceive them. We
recognize them in the ancients, but we fail to see them in ourselves.
Such reflections, although this is not the place in which to dwell upon them at length,
lead us to take a favourable view of the speculations of the Timaeus. We should consider
not how much Plato actually knew, but how far he has contributed to the general ideas
of physics, or supplied the notions which, whether true or false, have stimulated the
minds of later generations in the path of discovery. Some of them may seem oldfashioned,
but may nevertheless have had a great influence in promoting system and
assisting enquiry, while in others we hear the latest word of physical or metaphysical
philosophy. There is also an intermediate class, in which Plato falls short of the truths of
modern science, though he is not wholly unacquainted with them. (1) To the first class
belongs the teleological theory of creation. Whether all things in the world can be
explained as the result of natural laws, or whether we must not admit of tendencies and
marks of design also, has been a question much disputed of late years. Even if all
phenomena are the result of natural forces, we must admit that there are many things in
heaven and earth which are as well expressed under the image of mind or design as
under any other. At any rate, the language of Plato has been the language of natural
theology down to our own time, nor can any description of the world wholly dispense
with it. The notion of first and second or co-operative causes, which originally appears
in the Timaeus, has likewise survived to our own day, and has been a great peace- maker
between theology and science. Plato also approaches very near to our doctrine of the
primary and secondary qualities of matter. (2) Another popular notion which is found in
the Timaeus, is the feebleness of the human intellect—‘God knows the original qualities
of things; man can only hope to attain to probability.’ We speak in almost the same
words of human intelligence, but not in the same manner of the uncertainty of our
knowledge of nature. The reason is that the latter is assured to us by experiment, and is
not contrasted with the certainty of ideal or mathematical knowledge. But the ancient
philosopher never experimented: in the Timaeus Plato seems to have thought that there
would be impiety in making the attempt; he, for example, who tried experiments in
colours would ‘forget the difference of the human and divine natures.’ Their
indefiniteness is probably the reason why he singles them out, as especially incapable of
being tested by experiment. (Compare the saying of Anaxagoras—Sext. Pyrrh.—that
since snow is made of water and water is black, snow ought to be black.)
The greatest ‘divination’ of the ancients was the supremacy which they assigned to
mathematics in all the realms of nature; for in all of them there is a foundation of
mechanics. Even physiology partakes of figure and number; and Plato is not wrong in
attributing them to the human frame, but in the omission to observe how little could be
explained by them. Thus we may remark in passing that the most fanciful of ancient
philosophies is also the most nearly verified in fact. The fortunate guess that the world is
a sum of numbers and figures has been the most fruitful of anticipations. The ‘diatonic’
scale of the Pythagoreans and Plato suggested to Kepler that the secret of the distances
of the planets from one another was to be found in mathematical proportions. The
doctrine that the heavenly bodies all move in a circle is known by us to be erroneous; but
without such an error how could the human mind have comprehended the heavens?
Astronomy, even in modern times, has made far greater progress by the high a priori
road than could have been attained by any other. Yet, strictly speaking—and the remark
applies to ancient physics generally— this high a priori road was based upon a posteriori
grounds. For there were no facts of which the ancients were so well assured by
experience as facts of number. Having observed that they held good in a few instances,
they applied them everywhere; and in the complexity, of which they were capable, found
the explanation of the equally complex phenomena of the universe. They seemed to see
them in the least things as well as in the greatest; in atoms, as well as in suns and stars;
in the human body as well as in external nature. And now a favourite speculation of
modern chemistry is the explanation of qualitative difference by quantitative, which is at
present verified to a certain extent and may hereafter be of far more universal
application. What is this but the atoms of Democritus and the triangles of Plato? The
ancients should not be wholly deprived of the credit of their guesses because they were
unable to prove them. May they not have had, like the animals, an instinct of something
more than they knew?
Besides general notions we seem to find in the Timaeus some more precise
approximations to the discoveries of modern physical science. First, the doctrine of
equipoise. Plato affirms, almost in so many words, that nature abhors a vacuum.
Whenever a particle is displaced, the rest push and thrust one another until equality is
restored. We must remember that these ideas were not derived from any definite
experiment, but were the original reflections of man, fresh from the first observation of
nature. The latest word of modern philosophy is continuity and development, but to
Plato this is the beginning and foundation of science; there is nothing that he is so
strongly persuaded of as that the world is one, and that all the various existences which
are contained in it are only the transformations of the same soul of the world acting on
the same matter. He would have readily admitted that out of the protoplasm all things
were formed by the gradual process of creation; but he would have insisted that mind
and intelligence —not meaning by this, however, a conscious mind or person—were
prior to them, and could alone have created them. Into the workings of this eternal mind
or intelligence he does not enter further; nor would there have been any use in
attempting to investigate the things which no eye has seen nor any human language can
express.
Lastly, there remain two points in which he seems to touch great discoveries of modern
times—the law of gravitation, and the circulation of the blood.
(1) The law of gravitation, according to Plato, is a law, not only of the attraction of lesser
bodies to larger ones, but of similar bodies to similar, having a magnetic power as well
as a principle of gravitation. He observed that earth, water, and air had settled down to
their places, and he imagined fire or the exterior aether to have a place beyond air.
When air seemed to go upwards and fire to pierce through air—when water and earth
fell downward, they were seeking their native elements. He did not remark that his own
explanation did not suit all phenomena; and the simpler explanation, which assigns to
bodies degrees of heaviness and lightness proportioned to the mass and distance of the
bodies which attract them, never occurred to him. Yet the affinities of similar substances
have some effect upon the composition of the world, and of this Plato may be thought to
have had an anticipation. He may be described as confusing the attraction of gravitation
with the attraction of cohesion. The influence of such affinities and the chemical action
of one body upon another in long periods of time have become a recognized principle of
geology.
(2) Plato is perfectly aware—and he could hardly be ignorant—that blood is a fluid in
constant motion. He also knew that blood is partly a solid substance consisting of
several elements, which, as he might have observed in the use of ‘cupping-glasses’,
decompose and die, when no longer in motion. But the specific discovery that the blood
flows out on one side of the heart through the arteries and returns through the veins on
the other, which is commonly called the circulation of the blood, was absolutely
unknown to him.
A further study of the Timaeus suggests some after-thoughts which may be conveniently
brought together in this place. The topics which I propose briefly to reconsider are (a)
the relation of the Timaeus to the other dialogues of Plato and to the previous
philosophy; (b) the nature of God and of creation (c) the morality of the Timaeus:—
(a) The Timaeus is more imaginative and less scientific than any other of the Platonic
dialogues. It is conjectural astronomy, conjectural natural philosophy, conjectural
medicine. The writer himself is constantly repeating that he is speaking what is probable
only. The dialogue is put into the mouth of Timaeus, a Pythagorean philosopher, and
therefore here, as in the Parmenides, we are in doubt how far Plato is expressing his own
sentiments. Hence the connexion with the other dialogues is comparatively slight. We
may fill up the lacunae of the Timaeus by the help of the Republic or Phaedrus: we may
identify the same and other with the (Greek) of the Philebus. We may find in the Laws or
in the Statesman parallels with the account of creation and of the first origin of man. It
would be possible to frame a scheme in which all these various elements might have a
place. But such a mode of proceeding would be unsatisfactory, because we have no
reason to suppose that Plato intended his scattered thoughts to be collected in a system.
There is a common spirit in his writings, and there are certain general principles, such
as the opposition of the sensible and intellectual, and the priority of mind, which run
through all of them; but he has no definite forms of words in which he consistently
expresses himself. While the determinations of human thought are in process of
creation he is necessarily tentative and uncertain. And there is least of definiteness,
whenever either in describing the beginning or the end of the world, he has recourse to
myths. These are not the fixed modes in which spiritual truths are revealed to him, but
the efforts of imagination, by which at different times and in various manners he seeks
to embody his conceptions. The clouds of mythology are still resting upon him, and he
has not yet pierced ‘to the heaven of the fixed stars’ which is beyond them. It is safer
then to admit the inconsistencies of the Timaeus, or to endeavour to fill up what is
wanting from our own imagination, inspired by a study of the dialogue, than to refer to
other Platonic writings,—and still less should we refer to the successors of Plato,—for
the elucidation of it.
More light is thrown upon the Timaeus by a comparison of the previous philosophies.
For the physical science of the ancients was traditional, descending through many
generations of Ionian and Pythagorean philosophers. Plato does not look out upon the
heavens and describe what he sees in them, but he builds upon the foundations of
others, adding something out of the ‘depths of his own self-consciousness.’ Socrates had
already spoken of God the creator, who made all things for the best. While he ridiculed
the superficial explanations of phenomena which were current in his age, he recognised
the marks both of benevolence and of design in the frame of man and in the world. The
apparatus of winds and waters is contemptuously rejected by him in the Phaedo, but he
thinks that there is a power greater than that of any Atlas in the ‘Best’ (Phaedo; Arist.
Met.). Plato, following his master, affirms this principle of the best, but he acknowledges
that the best is limited by the conditions of matter. In the generation before Socrates,
Anaxagoras had brought together ‘Chaos’ and ‘Mind’; and these are connected by Plato
in the Timaeus, but in accordance with his own mode of thinking he has interposed
between them the idea or pattern according to which mind worked. The circular impulse
(Greek) of the one philosopher answers to the circular movement (Greek) of the other.
But unlike Anaxagoras, Plato made the sun and stars living beings and not masses of
earth or metal. The Pythagoreans again had framed a world out of numbers, which they
constructed into figures. Plato adopted their speculations and improved upon them by a
more exact knowledge of geometry. The Atomists too made the world, if not out of
geometrical figures, at least out of different forms of atoms, and these atoms resembled
the triangles of Plato in being too small to be visible. But though the physiology of the
Timaeus is partly borrowed from them, they are either ignored by Plato or referred to
with a secret contempt and dislike. He looks with more favour on the Pythagoreans,
whose intervals of number applied to the distances of the planets reappear in the
Timaeus. It is probable that among the Pythagoreans living in the fourth century B.C.,
there were already some who, like Plato, made the earth their centre. Whether he
obtained his circles of the Same and Other from any previous thinker is uncertain. The
four elements are taken from Empedocles; the interstices of the Timaeus may also be
compared with his (Greek). The passage of one element into another is common to
Heracleitus and several of the Ionian philosophers. So much of a syncretist is Plato,
though not after the manner of the Neoplatonists. For the elements which he borrows
from others are fused and transformed by his own genius. On the other hand we find
fewer traces in Plato of early Ionic or Eleatic speculation. He does not imagine the world
of sense to be made up of opposites or to be in a perpetual flux, but to vary within
certain limits which are controlled by what he calls the principle of the same. Unlike the
Eleatics, who relegated the world to the sphere of not-being, he admits creation to have
an existence which is real and even eternal, although dependent on the will of the
creator. Instead of maintaining the doctrine that the void has a necessary place in the
existence of the world, he rather affirms the modern thesis that nature abhors a vacuum,
as in the Sophist he also denies the reality of not-being (Aristot. Metaph.). But though in
these respects he differs from them, he is deeply penetrated by the spirit of their
philosophy; he differs from them with reluctance, and gladly recognizes the ‘generous
depth’ of Parmenides (Theaet.).
There is a similarity between the Timaeus and the fragments of Philolaus, which by
some has been thought to be so great as to create a suspicion that they are derived from
it. Philolaus is known to us from the Phaedo of Plato as a Pythagorean philosopher
residing at Thebes in the latter half of the fifth century B.C., after the dispersion of the
original Pythagorean society. He was the teacher of Simmias and Cebes, who became
disciples of Socrates. We have hardly any other information about him. The story that
Plato had purchased three books of his writings from a relation is not worth repeating; it
is only a fanciful way in which an ancient biographer dresses up the fact that there was
supposed to be a resemblance between the two writers. Similar gossiping stories are told
about the sources of the Republic and the Phaedo. That there really existed in antiquity
a work passing under the name of Philolaus there can be no doubt. Fragments of this
work are preserved to us, chiefly in Stobaeus, a few in Boethius and other writers. They
remind us of the Timaeus, as well as of the Phaedrus and Philebus. When the writer says
(Stob. Eclog.) that all things are either finite (definite) or infinite (indefinite), or a union
of the two, and that this antithesis and synthesis pervades all art and nature, we are
reminded of the Philebus. When he calls the centre of the world (Greek), we have a
parallel to the Phaedrus. His distinction between the world of order, to which the sun
and moon and the stars belong, and the world of disorder, which lies in the region
between the moon and the earth, approximates to Plato’s sphere of the Same and of the
Other. Like Plato (Tim.), he denied the above and below in space, and said that all things
were the same in relation to a centre. He speaks also of the world as one and
indestructible: ‘for neither from within nor from without does it admit of destruction’
(Tim). He mentions ten heavenly bodies, including the sun and moon, the earth and the
counter-earth (Greek), and in the midst of them all he places the central fire, around
which they are moving—this is hidden from the earth by the counter-earth. Of neither is
there any trace in Plato, who makes the earth the centre of his system. Philolaus
magnifies the virtues of particular numbers, especially of the number 10 (Stob. Eclog.),
and descants upon odd and even numbers, after the manner of the later Pythagoreans. It
is worthy of remark that these mystical fancies are nowhere to be found in the writings
of Plato, although the importance of number as a form and also an instrument of
thought is ever present to his mind. Both Philolaus and Plato agree in making the world
move in certain numerical ratios according to a musical scale: though Bockh is of
opinion that the two scales, of Philolaus and of the Timaeus, do not correspond...We
appear not to be sufficiently acquainted with the early Pythagoreans to know how far the
statements contained in these fragments corresponded with their doctrines; and we
therefore cannot pronounce, either in favour of the genuineness of the fragments, with
Bockh and Zeller, or, with Valentine Rose and Schaarschmidt, against them. But it is
clear that they throw but little light upon the Timaeus, and that their resemblance to it
has been exaggerated.
That there is a degree of confusion and indistinctness in Plato’s account both of man and
of the universe has been already acknowledged. We cannot tell (nor could Plato himself
have told) where the figure or myth ends and the philosophical truth begins; we cannot
explain (nor could Plato himself have explained to us) the relation of the ideas to
appearance, of which one is the copy of the other, and yet of all things in the world they
are the most opposed and unlike. This opposition is presented to us in many forms, as
the antithesis of the one and many, of the finite and infinite, of the intelligible and
sensible, of the unchangeable and the changing, of the indivisible and the divisible, of
the fixed stars and the planets, of the creative mind and the primeval chaos. These pairs
of opposites are so many aspects of the great opposition between ideas and
phenomena—they easily pass into one another; and sometimes the two members of the
relation differ in kind, sometimes only in degree. As in Aristotle’s matter and form the
connexion between them is really inseparable; for if we attempt to separate them they
become devoid of content and therefore indistinguishable; there is no difference
between the idea of which nothing can be predicated, and the chaos or matter which has
no perceptible qualities—between Being in the abstract and Nothing. Yet we are
frequently told that the one class of them is the reality and the other appearance; and
one is often spoken of as the double or reflection of the other. For Plato never clearly
saw that both elements had an equal place in mind and in nature; and hence, especially
when we argue from isolated passages in his writings, or attempt to draw what appear to
us to be the natural inferences from them, we are full of perplexity. There is a similar
confusion about necessity and free- will, and about the state of the soul after death. Also
he sometimes supposes that God is immanent in the world, sometimes that he is
transcendent. And having no distinction of objective and subjective, he passes
imperceptibly from one to the other; from intelligence to soul, from eternity to time.
These contradictions may be softened or concealed by a judicious use of language, but
they cannot be wholly got rid of. That an age of intellectual transition must also be one
of inconsistency; that the creative is opposed to the critical or defining habit of mind or
time, has been often repeated by us. But, as Plato would say, ‘there is no harm in
repeating twice or thrice’ (Laws) what is important for the understanding of a great
author.
It has not, however, been observed, that the confusion partly arises out of the elements
of opposing philosophies which are preserved in him. He holds these in solution, he
brings them into relation with one another, but he does not perfectly harmonize them.
They are part of his own mind, and he is incapable of placing himself outside of them
and criticizing them. They grow as he grows; they are a kind of composition with which
his own philosophy is overlaid. In early life he fancies that he has mastered them: but he
is also mastered by them; and in language (Sophist) which may be compared with the
hesitating tone of the Timaeus, he confesses in his later years that they are full of
obscurity to him. He attributes new meanings to the words of Parmenides and
Heracleitus; but at times the old Eleatic philosophy appears to go beyond him; then the
world of phenomena disappears, but the doctrine of ideas is also reduced to
nothingness. All of them are nearer to one another than they themselves supposed, and
nearer to him than he supposed. All of them are antagonistic to sense and have an
affinity to number and measure and a presentiment of ideas. Even in Plato they still
retain their contentious or controversial character, which was developed by the growth
of dialectic. He is never able to reconcile the first causes of the pre-Socratic philosophers
with the final causes of Socrates himself. There is no intelligible account of the relation
of numbers to the universal ideas, or of universals to the idea of good. He found them all
three, in the Pythagorean philosophy and in the teaching of Socrates and of the
Megarians respectively; and, because they all furnished modes of explaining and
arranging phenomena, he is unwilling to give up any of them, though he is unable to
unite them in a consistent whole.
Lastly, Plato, though an idealist philosopher, is Greek and not Oriental in spirit and
feeling. He is no mystic or ascetic; he is not seeking in vain to get rid of matter or to find
absorption in the divine nature, or in the Soul of the universe. And therefore we are not
surprised to find that his philosophy in the Timaeus returns at last to a worship of the
heavens, and that to him, as to other Greeks, nature, though containing a remnant of
evil, is still glorious and divine. He takes away or drops the veil of mythology, and
presents her to us in what appears to him to be the form- fairer and truer far—of
mathematical figures. It is this element in the Timaeus, no less than its affinity to certain
Pythagorean speculations, which gives it a character not wholly in accordance with the
other dialogues of Plato.
(b) The Timaeus contains an assertion perhaps more distinct than is found in any of the
other dialogues (Rep.; Laws) of the goodness of God. ‘He was good himself, and he
fashioned the good everywhere.’ He was not ‘a jealous God,’ and therefore he desired
that all other things should be equally good. He is the IDEA of good who has now
become a person, and speaks and is spoken of as God. Yet his personality seems to
appear only in the act of creation. In so far as he works with his eye fixed upon an
eternal pattern he is like the human artificer in the Republic. Here the theory of Platonic
ideas intrudes upon us. God, like man, is supposed to have an ideal of which Plato is
unable to tell us the origin. He may be said, in the language of modern philosophy, to
resolve the divine mind into subject and object.
The first work of creation is perfected, the second begins under the direction of inferior
ministers. The supreme God is withdrawn from the world and returns to his own
accustomed nature (Tim.). As in the Statesman, he retires to his place of view. So early
did the Epicurean doctrine take possession of the Greek mind, and so natural is it to the
heart of man, when he has once passed out of the stage of mythology into that of rational
religion. For he sees the marks of design in the world; but he no longer sees or fancies
that he sees God walking in the garden or haunting stream or mountain. He feels also
that he must put God as far as possible out of the way of evil, and therefore he banishes
him from an evil world. Plato is sensible of the difficulty; and he often shows that he is
desirous of justifying the ways of God to man. Yet on the other hand, in the Tenth Book
of the Laws he passes a censure on those who say that the Gods have no care of human
things.
The creation of the world is the impression of order on a previously existing chaos. The
formula of Anaxagoras—‘all things were in chaos or confusion, and then mind came and
disposed them’—is a summary of the first part of the Timaeus. It is true that of a chaos
without differences no idea could be formed. All was not mixed but one; and therefore it
was not difficult for the later Platonists to draw inferences by which they were enabled
to reconcile the narrative of the Timaeus with the Mosaic account of the creation.
Neither when we speak of mind or intelligence, do we seem to get much further in our
conception than circular motion, which was deemed to be the most perfect. Plato, like
Anaxagoras, while commencing his theory of the universe with ideas of mind and of the
best, is compelled in the execution of his design to condescend to the crudest physics.
(c) The morality of the Timaeus is singular, and it is difficult to adjust the balance
between the two elements of it. The difficulty which Plato feels, is that which all of us
feel, and which is increased in our own day by the progress of physical science, how the
responsibility of man is to be reconciled with his dependence on natural causes. And
sometimes, like other men, he is more impressed by one aspect of human life,
sometimes by the other. In the Republic he represents man as freely choosing his own
lot in a state prior to birth—a conception which, if taken literally, would still leave him
subject to the dominion of necessity in his after life; in the Statesman he supposes the
human race to be preserved in the world only by a divine interposition; while in the
Timaeus the supreme God commissions the inferior deities to avert from him all but
self-inflicted evils—words which imply that all the evils of men are really self- inflicted.
And here, like Plato (the insertion of a note in the text of an ancient writer is a literary
curiosity worthy of remark), we may take occasion to correct an error. For we too hastily
said that Plato in the Timaeus regarded all ‘vices and crimes as involuntary.’ But the fact
is that he is inconsistent with himself; in one and the same passage vice is attributed to
the relaxation of the bodily frame, and yet we are exhorted to avoid it and pursue virtue.
It is also admitted that good and evil conduct are to be attributed respectively to good
and evil laws and institutions. These cannot be given by individuals to themselves; and
therefore human actions, in so far as they are dependent upon them, are regarded by
Plato as involuntary rather than voluntary. Like other writers on this subject, he is
unable to escape from some degree of self- contradiction. He had learned from Socrates
that vice is ignorance, and suddenly the doctrine seems to him to be confirmed by
observing how much of the good and bad in human character depends on the bodily
constitution. So in modern times the speculative doctrine of necessity has often been
supported by physical facts.
The Timaeus also contains an anticipation of the stoical life according to nature. Man
contemplating the heavens is to regulate his erring life according to them. He is to
partake of the repose of nature and of the order of nature, to bring the variable principle
in himself into harmony with the principle of the same. The ethics of the Timaeus may
be summed up in the single idea of ‘law.’ To feel habitually that he is part of the order of
the universe, is one of the highest ethical motives of which man is capable. Something
like this is what Plato means when he speaks of the soul ‘moving about the same in
unchanging thought of the same.’ He does not explain how man is acted upon by the
lesser influences of custom or of opinion; or how the commands of the soul watching in
the citadel are conveyed to the bodily organs. But this perhaps, to use once more
expressions of his own, ‘is part of another subject’ or ‘may be more suitably discussed on
some other occasion.’
There is no difficulty, by the help of Aristotle and later writers, in criticizing the Timaeus
of Plato, in pointing out the inconsistencies of the work, in dwelling on the ignorance of
anatomy displayed by the author, in showing the fancifulness or unmeaningness of
some of his reasons. But the Timaeus still remains the greatest effort of the human mind
to conceive the world as a whole which the genius of antiquity has bequeathed to us.
...
One more aspect of the Timaeus remains to be considered—the mythological or
geographical. Is it not a wonderful thing that a few pages of one of Plato’s dialogues have
grown into a great legend, not confined to Greece only, but spreading far and wide over
the nations of Europe and reaching even to Egypt and Asia? Like the tale of Troy, or the
legend of the Ten Tribes (Ewald, Hist. of Isr.), which perhaps originated in a few verses
of II Esdras, it has become famous, because it has coincided with a great historical fact.
Like the romance of King Arthur, which has had so great a charm, it has found a way
over the seas from one country and language to another. It inspired the navigators of the
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; it foreshadowed the discovery of America. It realized
the fiction so natural to the human mind, because it answered the enquiry about the
origin of the arts, that there had somewhere existed an ancient primitive civilization. It
might find a place wherever men chose to look for it; in North, South, East, or West; in
the Islands of the Blest; before the entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar, in Sweden or in
Palestine. It mattered little whether the description in Plato agreed with the locality
assigned to it or not. It was a legend so adapted to the human mind that it made a
habitation for itself in any country. It was an island in the clouds, which might be seen
anywhere by the eye of faith. It was a subject especially congenial to the ponderous
industry of certain French and Swedish writers, who delighted in heaping up learning of
all sorts but were incapable of using it.
M. Martin has written a valuable dissertation on the opinions entertained respecting the
Island of Atlantis in ancient and modern times. It is a curious chapter in the history of
the human mind. The tale of Atlantis is the fabric of a vision, but it has never ceased to
interest mankind. It was variously regarded by the ancients themselves. The stronger
heads among them, like Strabo and Longinus, were as little disposed to believe in the
truth of it as the modern reader in Gulliver or Robinson Crusoe. On the other hand there
is no kind or degree of absurdity or fancy in which the more foolish writers, both of
antiquity and of modern times, have not indulged respecting it. The Neo-Platonists,
loyal to their master, like some commentators on the Christian Scriptures, sought to give
an allegorical meaning to what they also believed to be an historical fact. It was as if
some one in our own day were to convert the poems of Homer into an allegory of the
Christian religion, at the same time maintaining them to be an exact and veritable
history. In the Middle Ages the legend seems to have been half-forgotten until revived
by the discovery of America. It helped to form the Utopia of Sir Thomas More and the
New Atlantis of Bacon, although probably neither of those great men were at all
imposed upon by the fiction. It was most prolific in the seventeenth or in the early part
of the eighteenth century, when the human mind, seeking for Utopias or inventing
them, was glad to escape out of the dulness of the present into the romance of the past
or some ideal of the future. The later forms of such narratives contained features taken
from the Edda, as well as from the Old and New Testament; also from the tales of
missionaries and the experiences of travellers and of colonists.
The various opinions respecting the Island of Atlantis have no interest for us except in
so far as they illustrate the extravagances of which men are capable. But this is a real
interest and a serious lesson, if we remember that now as formerly the human mind is
liable to be imposed upon by the illusions of the past, which are ever assuming some
new form.
When we have shaken off the rubbish of ages, there remain one or two questions of
which the investigation has a permanent value:—
1. Did Plato derive the legend of Atlantis from an Egyptian source? It may be replied that
there is no such legend in any writer previous to Plato; neither in Homer, nor in Pindar,
nor in Herodotus is there any mention of an Island of Atlantis, nor any reference to it in
Aristotle, nor any citation of an earlier writer by a later one in which it is to be found.
Nor have any traces been discovered hitherto in Egyptian monuments of a connexion
between Greece and Egypt older than the eighth or ninth century B.C. It is true that
Proclus, writing in the fifth century after Christ, tells us of stones and columns in Egypt
on which the history of the Island of Atlantis was engraved. The statement may be
false—there are similar tales about columns set up ‘by the Canaanites whom Joshua
drove out’ (Procop.); but even if true, it would only show that the legend, 800 years after
the time of Plato, had been transferred to Egypt, and inscribed, not, like other forgeries,
in books, but on stone. Probably in the Alexandrian age, when Egypt had ceased to have
a history and began to appropriate the legends of other nations, many such monuments
were to be found of events which had become famous in that or other countries. The
oldest witness to the story is said to be Crantor, a Stoic philosopher who lived a
generation later than Plato, and therefore may have borrowed it from him. The
statement is found in Proclus; but we require better assurance than Proclus can give us
before we accept this or any other statement which he makes.
Secondly, passing from the external to the internal evidence, we may remark that the
story is far more likely to have been invented by Plato than to have been brought by
Solon from Egypt. That is another part of his legend which Plato also seeks to impose
upon us. The verisimilitude which he has given to the tale is a further reason for
suspecting it; for he could easily ‘invent Egyptian or any other tales’ (Phaedrus). Are not
the words, ‘The truth of the story is a great advantage,’ if we read between the lines, an
indication of the fiction? It is only a legend that Solon went to Egypt, and if he did he
could not have conversed with Egyptian priests or have read records in their temples.
The truth is that the introduction is a mosaic work of small touches which, partly by
their minuteness, and also by their seeming probability, win the confidence of the
reader. Who would desire better evidence than that of Critias, who had heard the
narrative in youth when the memory is strongest at the age of ten from his grandfather
Critias, an old man of ninety, who in turn had heard it from Solon himself? Is not the
famous expression—‘You Hellenes are ever children and there is no knowledge among
you hoary with age,’ really a compliment to the Athenians who are described in these
words as ‘ever young’? And is the thought expressed in them to be attributed to the
learning of the Egyptian priest, and not rather to the genius of Plato? Or when the
Egyptian says—‘Hereafter at our leisure we will take up the written documents and
examine in detail the exact truth about these things’—what is this but a literary trick by
which Plato sets off his narrative? Could any war between Athens and the Island of
Atlantis have really coincided with the struggle between the Greeks and Persians, as is
sufficiently hinted though not expressly stated in the narrative of Plato? And whence
came the tradition to Egypt? or in what does the story consist except in the war between
the two rival powers and the submersion of both of them? And how was the tale
transferred to the poem of Solon? ‘It is not improbable,’ says Mr. Grote, ‘that Solon did
leave an unfinished Egyptian poem’ (Plato). But are probabilities for which there is not a
tittle of evidence, and which are without any parallel, to be deemed worthy of attention
by the critic? How came the poem of Solon to disappear in antiquity? or why did Plato, if
the whole narrative was known to him, break off almost at the beginning of it?
While therefore admiring the diligence and erudition of M. Martin, we cannot for a
moment suppose that the tale was told to Solon by an Egyptian priest, nor can we
believe that Solon wrote a poem upon the theme which was thus suggested to him—a
poem which disappeared in antiquity; or that the Island of Atlantis or the antediluvian
Athens ever had any existence except in the imagination of Plato. Martin is of opinion
that Plato would have been terrified if he could have foreseen the endless fancies to
which his Island of Atlantis has given occasion. Rather he would have been infinitely
amused if he could have known that his gift of invention would have deceived M. Martin
himself into the belief that the tradition was brought from Egypt by Solon and made the
subject of a poem by him. M. Martin may also be gently censured for citing without
sufficient discrimination ancient authors having very different degrees of authority and
value.
2. It is an interesting and not unimportant question which is touched upon by Martin,
whether the Atlantis of Plato in any degree held out a guiding light to the early
navigators. He is inclined to think that there is no real connexion between them. But
surely the discovery of the New World was preceded by a prophetic anticipation of it,
which, like the hope of a Messiah, was entering into the hearts of men? And this hope
was nursed by ancient tradition, which had found expression from time to time in the
celebrated lines of Seneca and in many other places. This tradition was sustained by the
great authority of Plato, and therefore the legend of the Island of Atlantis, though not
closely connected with the voyages of the early navigators, may be truly said to have
contributed indirectly to the great discovery.
The Timaeus of Plato, like the Protagoras and several portions of the Phaedrus and
Republic, was translated by Cicero into Latin. About a fourth, comprehending with
lacunae the first portion of the dialogue, is preserved in several MSS. These generally
agree, and therefore may be supposed to be derived from a single original. The version is
very faithful, and is a remarkable monument of Cicero’s skill in managing the difficult
and intractable Greek. In his treatise De Natura Deorum, he also refers to the Timaeus,
which, speaking in the person of Velleius the Epicurean, he severely criticises.
The commentary of Proclus on the Timaeus is a wonderful monument of the silliness
and prolixity of the Alexandrian Age. It extends to about thirty pages of the book, and is
thirty times the length of the original. It is surprising that this voluminous work should
have found a translator (Thomas Taylor, a kindred spirit, who was himself a NeoPlatonist,
after the fashion, not of the fifth or sixteenth, but of the nineteenth century
A.D.). The commentary is of little or no value, either in a philosophical or philological
point of view. The writer is unable to explain particular passages in any precise manner,
and he is equally incapable of grasping the whole. He does not take words in their
simple meaning or sentences in their natural connexion. He is thinking, not of the
context in Plato, but of the contemporary Pythagorean philosophers and their wordy
strife. He finds nothing in the text which he does not bring to it. He is full of Porphyry,
Iamblichus and Plotinus, of misapplied logic, of misunderstood grammar, and of the
Orphic theology.
Although such a work can contribute little or nothing to the understanding of Plato, it
throws an interesting light on the Alexandrian times; it realizes how a philosophy made
up of words only may create a deep and widespread enthusiasm, how the forms of logic
and rhetoric may usurp the place of reason and truth, how all philosophies grow faded
and discoloured, and are patched and made up again like worn-out garments, and retain
only a second-hand existence. He who would study this degeneracy of philosophy and of
the Greek mind in the original cannot do better than devote a few of his days and nights
to the commentary of Proclus on the Timaeus.
A very different account must be given of the short work entitled ‘Timaeus Locrus,’
which is a brief but clear analysis of the Timaeus of Plato, omitting the introduction or
dialogue and making a few small additions. It does not allude to the original from which
it is taken; it is quite free from mysticism and Neo-Platonism. In length it does not
exceed a fifth part of the Timaeus. It is written in the Doric dialect, and contains several
words which do not occur in classical Greek. No other indication of its date, except this
uncertain one of language, appears in it. In several places the writer has simplified the
language of Plato, in a few others he has embellished and exaggerated it. He generally
preserves the thought of the original, but does not copy the words. On the whole this
little tract faithfully reflects the meaning and spirit of the Timaeus.
>From the garden of the Timaeus, as from the other dialogues of Plato, we may still
gather a few flowers and present them at parting to the reader. There is nothing in Plato
grander and simpler than the conversation between Solon and the Egyptian priest, in
which the youthfulness of Hellas is contrasted with the antiquity of Egypt. Here are to be
found the famous words, ‘O Solon, Solon, you Hellenes are ever young, and there is not
an old man among you’—which may be compared to the lively saying of Hegel, that
‘Greek history began with the youth Achilles and left off with the youth Alexander.’ The
numerous arts of verisimilitude by which Plato insinuates into the mind of the reader
the truth of his narrative have been already referred to. Here occur a sentence or two not
wanting in Platonic irony (Greek—a word to the wise). ‘To know or tell the origin of the
other divinities is beyond us, and we must accept the traditions of the men of old time
who affirm themselves to be the offspring of the Gods—that is what they say—and they
must surely have known their own ancestors. How can we doubt the word of the
children of the Gods? Although they give no probable or certain proofs, still, as they
declare that they are speaking of what took place in their own family, we must conform
to custom and believe them.’ ‘Our creators well knew that women and other animals
would some day be framed out of men, and they further knew that many animals would
require the use of nails for many purposes; wherefore they fashioned in men at their
first creation the rudiments of nails.’ Or once more, let us reflect on two serious
passages in which the order of the world is supposed to find a place in the human soul
and to infuse harmony into it. ‘The soul, when touching anything that has essence,
whether dispersed in parts or undivided, is stirred through all her powers to declare the
sameness or difference of that thing and some other; and to what individuals are
related, and by what affected, and in what way and how and when, both in the world of
generation and in the world of immutable being. And when reason, which works with
equal truth, whether she be in the circle of the diverse or of the same,—in voiceless
silence holding her onward course in the sphere of the self-moved,—when reason, I say,
is hovering around the sensible world, and when the circle of the diverse also moving
truly imparts the intimations of sense to the whole soul, then arise opinions and beliefs
sure and certain. But when reason is concerned with the rational, and the circle of the
same moving smoothly declares it, then intelligence and knowledge are necessarily
perfected;’ where, proceeding in a similar path of contemplation, he supposes the
inward and the outer world mutually to imply each other. ‘God invented and gave us
sight to the end that we might behold the courses of intelligence in the heaven, and
apply them to the courses of our own intelligence which are akin to them, the
unperturbed to the perturbed; and that we, learning them and partaking of the natural
truth of reason, might imitate the absolutely unerring courses of God and regulate our
own vagaries.’ Or let us weigh carefully some other profound thoughts, such as the
following. ‘He who neglects education walks lame to the end of his life, and returns
imperfect and good for nothing to the world below.’ ‘The father and maker of all this
universe is past finding out; and even if we found him, to tell of him to all men would be
impossible.’ ‘Let me tell you then why the Creator made this world of generation. He was
good, and the good can never have jealousy of anything. And being free from jealousy,
he desired that all things should be as like himself as they could be. This is in the truest
sense the origin of creation and of the world, as we shall do well in believing on the
testimony of wise men: God desired that all things should be good and nothing bad, so
far as this was attainable.’ This is the leading thought in the Timaeus, just as the IDEA of
Good is the leading thought of the Republic, the one expression describing the personal,
the other the impersonal Good or God, differing in form rather than in substance, and
both equally implying to the mind of Plato a divine reality. The slight touch, perhaps
ironical, contained in the words, ‘as we shall do well in believing on the testimony of
wise men,’ is very characteristic of Plato.
TIMAEUS
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Socrates, Critias, Timaeus, Hermocrates.
SOCRATES: One, two, three; but where, my dear Timaeus, is the fourth of those who
were yesterday my guests and are to be my entertainers to-day?
TIMAEUS: He has been taken ill, Socrates; for he would not willingly have been absent
from this gathering.
SOCRATES: Then, if he is not coming, you and the two others must supply his place.
TIMAEUS: Certainly, and we will do all that we can; having been handsomely
entertained by you yesterday, those of us who remain should be only too glad to return
your hospitality.
SOCRATES: Do you remember what were the points of which I required you to speak?
TIMAEUS: We remember some of them, and you will be here to remind us of anything
which we have forgotten: or rather, if we are not troubling you, will you briefly
recapitulate the whole, and then the particulars will be more firmly fixed in our
memories?
SOCRATES: To be sure I will: the chief theme of my yesterday’s discourse was the
State—how constituted and of what citizens composed it would seem likely to be most
perfect.
TIMAEUS: Yes, Socrates; and what you said of it was very much to our mind.
SOCRATES: Did we not begin by separating the husbandmen and the artisans from the
class of defenders of the State?
TIMAEUS: Yes.
SOCRATES: And when we had given to each one that single employment and particular
art which was suited to his nature, we spoke of those who were intended to be our
warriors, and said that they were to be guardians of the city against attacks from within
as well as from without, and to have no other employment; they were to be merciful in
judging their subjects, of whom they were by nature friends, but fierce to their enemies,
when they came across them in battle.
TIMAEUS: Exactly.
SOCRATES: We said, if I am not mistaken, that the guardians should be gifted with a
temperament in a high degree both passionate and philosophical; and that then they
would be as they ought to be, gentle to their friends and fierce with their enemies.
TIMAEUS: Certainly.
SOCRATES: And what did we say of their education? Were they not to be trained in
gymnastic, and music, and all other sorts of knowledge which were proper for them?
TIMAEUS: Very true.
SOCRATES: And being thus trained they were not to consider gold or silver or anything
else to be their own private property; they were to be like hired troops, receiving pay for
keeping guard from those who were protected by them—the pay was to be no more than
would suffice for men of simple life; and they were to spend in common, and to live
together in the continual practice of virtue, which was to be their sole pursuit.
TIMAEUS: That was also said.
SOCRATES: Neither did we forget the women; of whom we declared, that their natures
should be assimilated and brought into harmony with those of the men, and that
common pursuits should be assigned to them both in time of war and in their ordinary
life.
TIMAEUS: That, again, was as you say.
SOCRATES: And what about the procreation of children? Or rather was not the proposal
too singular to be forgotten? for all wives and children were to be in common, to the
intent that no one should ever know his own child, but they were to imagine that they
were all one family; those who were within a suitable limit of age were to be brothers
and sisters, those who were of an elder generation parents and grandparents, and those
of a younger, children and grandchildren.
TIMAEUS: Yes, and the proposal is easy to remember, as you say.
SOCRATES: And do you also remember how, with a view of securing as far as we could
the best breed, we said that the chief magistrates, male and female, should contrive
secretly, by the use of certain lots, so to arrange the nuptial meeting, that the bad of
either sex and the good of either sex might pair with their like; and there was to be no
quarrelling on this account, for they would imagine that the union was a mere accident,
and was to be attributed to the lot?
TIMAEUS: I remember.
SOCRATES: And you remember how we said that the children of the good parents were
to be educated, and the children of the bad secretly dispersed among the inferior
citizens; and while they were all growing up the rulers were to be on the look-out, and to
bring up from below in their turn those who were worthy, and those among themselves
who were unworthy were to take the places of those who came up?
TIMAEUS: True.
SOCRATES: Then have I now given you all the heads of our yesterday’s discussion? Or is
there anything more, my dear Timaeus, which has been omitted?
TIMAEUS: Nothing, Socrates; it was just as you have said.
SOCRATES: I should like, before proceeding further, to tell you how I feel about the
State which we have described. I might compare myself to a person who, on beholding
beautiful animals either created by the painter’s art, or, better still, alive but at rest, is
seized with a desire of seeing them in motion or engaged in some struggle or conflict to
which their forms appear suited; this is my feeling about the State which we have been
describing. There are conflicts which all cities undergo, and I should like to hear some
one tell of our own city carrying on a struggle against her neighbours, and how she went
out to war in a becoming manner, and when at war showed by the greatness of her
actions and the magnanimity of her words in dealing with other cities a result worthy of
her training and education. Now I, Critias and Hermocrates, am conscious that I myself
should never be able to celebrate the city and her citizens in a befitting manner, and I
am not surprised at my own incapacity; to me the wonder is rather that the poets
present as well as past are no better—not that I mean to depreciate them; but every one
can see that they are a tribe of imitators, and will imitate best and most easily the life in
which they have been brought up; while that which is beyond the range of a man’s
education he finds hard to carry out in action, and still harder adequately to represent in
language. I am aware that the Sophists have plenty of brave words and fair conceits, but
I am afraid that being only wanderers from one city to another, and having never had
habitations of their own, they may fail in their conception of philosophers and
statesmen, and may not know what they do and say in time of war, when they are
fighting or holding parley with their enemies. And thus people of your class are the only
ones remaining who are fitted by nature and education to take part at once both in
politics and philosophy. Here is Timaeus, of Locris in Italy, a city which has admirable
laws, and who is himself in wealth and rank the equal of any of his fellow-citizens; he
has held the most important and honourable offices in his own state, and, as I believe,
has scaled the heights of all philosophy; and here is Critias, whom every Athenian knows
to be no novice in the matters of which we are speaking; and as to Hermocrates, I am
assured by many witnesses that his genius and education qualify him to take part in any
speculation of the kind. And therefore yesterday when I saw that you wanted me to
describe the formation of the State, I readily assented, being very well aware, that, if you
only would, none were better qualified to carry the discussion further, and that when
you had engaged our city in a suitable war, you of all men living could best exhibit her
playing a fitting part. When I had completed my task, I in return imposed this other task
upon you. You conferred together and agreed to entertain me to-day, as I had
entertained you, with a feast of discourse. Here am I in festive array, and no man can be
more ready for the promised banquet.
HERMOCRATES: And we too, Socrates, as Timaeus says, will not be wanting in
enthusiasm; and there is no excuse for not complying with your request. As soon as we
arrived yesterday at the guest-chamber of Critias, with whom we are staying, or rather
on our way thither, we talked the matter over, and he told us an ancient tradition, which
I wish, Critias, that you would repeat to Socrates, so that he may help us to judge
whether it will satisfy his requirements or not.
CRITIAS: I will, if Timaeus, who is our other partner, approves.
TIMAEUS: I quite approve.
CRITIAS: Then listen, Socrates, to a tale which, though strange, is certainly true, having
been attested by Solon, who was the wisest of the seven sages. He was a relative and a
dear friend of my great-grandfather, Dropides, as he himself says in many passages of
his poems; and he told the story to Critias, my grandfather, who remembered and
repeated it to us. There were of old, he said, great and marvellous actions of the
Athenian city, which have passed into oblivion through lapse of time and the destruction
of mankind, and one in particular, greater than all the rest. This we will now rehearse. It
will be a fitting monument of our gratitude to you, and a hymn of praise true and worthy
of the goddess, on this her day of festival.
SOCRATES: Very good. And what is this ancient famous action of the Athenians, which
Critias declared, on the authority of Solon, to be not a mere legend, but an actual fact?
CRITIAS: I will tell an old-world story which I heard from an aged man; for Critias, at
the time of telling it, was, as he said, nearly ninety years of age, and I was about ten.
Now the day was that day of the Apaturia which is called the Registration of Youth, at
which, according to custom, our parents gave prizes for recitations, and the poems of
several poets were recited by us boys, and many of us sang the poems of Solon, which at
that time had not gone out of fashion. One of our tribe, either because he thought so or
to please Critias, said that in his judgment Solon was not only the wisest of men, but also
the noblest of poets. The old man, as I very well remember, brightened up at hearing
this and said, smiling: Yes, Amynander, if Solon had only, like other poets, made poetry
the business of his life, and had completed the tale which he brought with him from
Egypt, and had not been compelled, by reason of the factions and troubles which he
found stirring in his own country when he came home, to attend to other matters, in my
opinion he would have been as famous as Homer or Hesiod, or any poet.
And what was the tale about, Critias? said Amynander.
About the greatest action which the Athenians ever did, and which ought to have been
the most famous, but, through the lapse of time and the destruction of the actors, it has
not come down to us.
Tell us, said the other, the whole story, and how and from whom Solon heard this
veritable tradition.
He replied:—In the Egyptian Delta, at the head of which the river Nile divides, there is a
certain district which is called the district of Sais, and the great city of the district is also
called Sais, and is the city from which King Amasis came. The citizens have a deity for
their foundress; she is called in the Egyptian tongue Neith, and is asserted by them to be
the same whom the Hellenes call Athene; they are great lovers of the Athenians, and say
that they are in some way related to them. To this city came Solon, and was received
there with great honour; he asked the priests who were most skilful in such matters,
about antiquity, and made the discovery that neither he nor any other Hellene knew
anything worth mentioning about the times of old. On one occasion, wishing to draw
them on to speak of antiquity, he began to tell about the most ancient things in our part
of the world—about Phoroneus, who is called ‘the first man,’ and about Niobe; and after
the Deluge, of the survival of Deucalion and Pyrrha; and he traced the genealogy of their
descendants, and reckoning up the dates, tried to compute how many years ago the
events of which he was speaking happened. Thereupon one of the priests, who was of a
very great age, said: O Solon, Solon, you Hellenes are never anything but children, and
there is not an old man among you. Solon in return asked him what he meant. I mean to
say, he replied, that in mind you are all young; there is no old opinion handed down
among you by ancient tradition, nor any science which is hoary with age. And I will tell
you why. There have been, and will be again, many destructions of mankind arising out
of many causes; the greatest have been brought about by the agencies of fire and water,
and other lesser ones by innumerable other causes. There is a story, which even you
have preserved, that once upon a time Paethon, the son of Helios, having yoked the
steeds in his father’s chariot, because he was not able to drive them in the path of his
father, burnt up all that was upon the earth, and was himself destroyed by a
thunderbolt. Now this has the form of a myth, but really signifies a declination of the
bodies moving in the heavens around the earth, and a great conflagration of things upon
the earth, which recurs after long intervals; at such times those who live upon the
mountains and in dry and lofty places are more liable to destruction than those who
dwell by rivers or on the seashore. And from this calamity the Nile, who is our neverfailing
saviour, delivers and preserves us. When, on the other hand, the gods purge the
earth with a deluge of water, the survivors in your country are herdsmen and shepherds
who dwell on the mountains, but those who, like you, live in cities are carried by the
rivers into the sea. Whereas in this land, neither then nor at any other time, does the
water come down from above on the fields, having always a tendency to come up from
below; for which reason the traditions preserved here are the most ancient. The fact is,
that wherever the extremity of winter frost or of summer sun does not prevent, mankind
exist, sometimes in greater, sometimes in lesser numbers. And whatever happened
either in your country or in ours, or in any other region of which we are informed—if
there were any actions noble or great or in any other way remarkable, they have all been
written down by us of old, and are preserved in our temples. Whereas just when you and
other nations are beginning to be provided with letters and the other requisites of
civilized life, after the usual interval, the stream from heaven, like a pestilence, comes
pouring down, and leaves only those of you who are destitute of letters and education;
and so you have to begin all over again like children, and know nothing of what
happened in ancient times, either among us or among yourselves. As for those
genealogies of yours which you just now recounted to us, Solon, they are no better than
the tales of children. In the first place you remember a single deluge only, but there were
many previous ones; in the next place, you do not know that there formerly dwelt in
your land the fairest and noblest race of men which ever lived, and that you and your
whole city are descended from a small seed or remnant of them which survived. And this
was unknown to you, because, for many generations, the survivors of that destruction
died, leaving no written word. For there was a time, Solon, before the great deluge of all,
when the city which now is Athens was first in war and in every way the best governed of
all cities, is said to have performed the noblest deeds and to have had the fairest
constitution of any of which tradition tells, under the face of heaven. Solon marvelled at
his words, and earnestly requested the priests to inform him exactly and in order about
these former citizens. You are welcome to hear about them, Solon, said the priest, both
for your own sake and for that of your city, and above all, for the sake of the goddess
who is the common patron and parent and educator of both our cities. She founded your
city a thousand years before ours (Observe that Plato gives the same date (9000 years
ago) for the foundation of Athens and for the repulse of the invasion from Atlantis
(Crit.).), receiving from the Earth and Hephaestus the seed of your race, and afterwards
she founded ours, of which the constitution is recorded in our sacred registers to be
8000 years old. As touching your citizens of 9000 years ago, I will briefly inform you of
their laws and of their most famous action; the exact particulars of the whole we will
hereafter go through at our leisure in the sacred registers themselves. If you compare
these very laws with ours you will find that many of ours are the counterpart of yours as
they were in the olden time. In the first place, there is the caste of priests, which is
separated from all the others; next, there are the artificers, who ply their several crafts
by themselves and do not intermix; and also there is the class of shepherds and of
hunters, as well as that of husbandmen; and you will observe, too, that the warriors in
Egypt are distinct from all the other classes, and are commanded by the law to devote
themselves solely to military pursuits; moreover, the weapons which they carry are
shields and spears, a style of equipment which the goddess taught of Asiatics first to us,
as in your part of the world first to you. Then as to wisdom, do you observe how our law
from the very first made a study of the whole order of things, extending even to
prophecy and medicine which gives health, out of these divine elements deriving what
was needful for human life, and adding every sort of knowledge which was akin to them.
All this order and arrangement the goddess first imparted to you when establishing your
city; and she chose the spot of earth in which you were born, because she saw that the
happy temperament of the seasons in that land would produce the wisest of men.
Wherefore the goddess, who was a lover both of war and of wisdom, selected and first of
all settled that spot which was the most likely to produce men likest herself. And there
you dwelt, having such laws as these and still better ones, and excelled all mankind in all
virtue, as became the children and disciples of the gods.
Many great and wonderful deeds are recorded of your state in our histories. But one of
them exceeds all the rest in greatness and valour. For these histories tell of a mighty
power which unprovoked made an expedition against the whole of Europe and Asia, and
to which your city put an end. This power came forth out of the Atlantic Ocean, for in
those days the Atlantic was navigable; and there was an island situated in front of the
straits which are by you called the Pillars of Heracles; the island was larger than Libya
and Asia put together, and was the way to other islands, and from these you might pass
to the whole of the opposite continent which surrounded the true ocean; for this sea
which is within the Straits of Heracles is only a harbour, having a narrow entrance, but
that other is a real sea, and the surrounding land may be most truly called a boundless
continent. Now in this island of Atlantis there was a great and wonderful empire which
had rule over the whole island and several others, and over parts of the continent, and,
furthermore, the men of Atlantis had subjected the parts of Libya within the columns of
Heracles as far as Egypt, and of Europe as far as Tyrrhenia. This vast power, gathered
into one, endeavoured to subdue at a blow our country and yours and the whole of the
region within the straits; and then, Solon, your country shone forth, in the excellence of
her virtue and strength, among all mankind. She was pre-eminent in courage and
military skill, and was the leader of the Hellenes. And when the rest fell off from her,
being compelled to stand alone, after having undergone the very extremity of danger,
she defeated and triumphed over the invaders, and preserved from slavery those who
were not yet subjugated, and generously liberated all the rest of us who dwell within the
pillars. But afterwards there occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single
day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the
island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea. For which reason
the sea in those parts is impassable and impenetrable, because there is a shoal of mud in
the way; and this was caused by the subsidence of the island.
I have told you briefly, Socrates, what the aged Critias heard from Solon and related to
us. And when you were speaking yesterday about your city and citizens, the tale which I
have just been repeating to you came into my mind, and I remarked with astonishment
how, by some mysterious coincidence, you agreed in almost every particular with the
narrative of Solon; but I did not like to speak at the moment. For a long time had
elapsed, and I had forgotten too much; I thought that I must first of all run over the
narrative in my own mind, and then I would speak. And so I readily assented to your
request yesterday, considering that in all such cases the chief difficulty is to find a tale
suitable to our purpose, and that with such a tale we should be fairly well provided.
And therefore, as Hermocrates has told you, on my way home yesterday I at once
communicated the tale to my companions as I remembered it; and after I left them,
during the night by thinking I recovered nearly the whole of it. Truly, as is often said, the
lessons of our childhood make a wonderful impression on our memories; for I am not
sure that I could remember all the discourse of yesterday, but I should be much
surprised if I forgot any of these things which I have heard very long ago. I listened at
the time with childlike interest to the old man’s narrative; he was very ready to teach
me, and I asked him again and again to repeat his words, so that like an indelible picture
they were branded into my mind. As soon as the day broke, I rehearsed them as he
spoke them to my companions, that they, as well as myself, might have something to
say. And now, Socrates, to make an end of my preface, I am ready to tell you the whole
tale. I will give you not only the general heads, but the particulars, as they were told to
me. The city and citizens, which you yesterday described to us in fiction, we will now
transfer to the world of reality. It shall be the ancient city of Athens, and we will suppose
that the citizens whom you imagined, were our veritable ancestors, of whom the priest
spoke; they will perfectly harmonize, and there will be no inconsistency in saying that
the citizens of your republic are these ancient Athenians. Let us divide the subject
among us, and all endeavour according to our ability gracefully to execute the task
which you have imposed upon us. Consider then, Socrates, if this narrative is suited to
the purpose, or whether we should seek for some other instead.
SOCRATES: And what other, Critias, can we find that will be better than this, which is
natural and suitable to the festival of the goddess, and has the very great advantage of
being a fact and not a fiction? How or where shall we find another if we abandon this?
We cannot, and therefore you must tell the tale, and good luck to you; and I in return for
my yesterday’s discourse will now rest and be a listener.
CRITIAS: Let me proceed to explain to you, Socrates, the order in which we have
arranged our entertainment. Our intention is, that Timaeus, who is the most of an
astronomer amongst us, and has made the nature of the universe his special study,
should speak first, beginning with the generation of the world and going down to the
creation of man; next, I am to receive the men whom he has created, and of whom some
will have profited by the excellent education which you have given them; and then, in
accordance with the tale of Solon, and equally with his law, we will bring them into court
and make them citizens, as if they were those very Athenians whom the sacred Egyptian
record has recovered from oblivion, and thenceforward we will speak of them as
Athenians and fellow-citizens.
SOCRATES: I see that I shall receive in my turn a perfect and splendid feast of reason.
And now, Timaeus, you, I suppose, should speak next, after duly calling upon the Gods.
TIMAEUS: All men, Socrates, who have any degree of right feeling, at the beginning of
every enterprise, whether small or great, always call upon God. And we, too, who are
going to discourse of the nature of the universe, how created or how existing without
creation, if we be not altogether out of our wits, must invoke the aid of Gods and
Goddesses and pray that our words may be acceptable to them and consistent with
themselves. Let this, then, be our invocation of the Gods, to which I add an exhortation
of myself to speak in such manner as will be most intelligible to you, and will most
accord with my own intent.
First then, in my judgment, we must make a distinction and ask, What is that which
always is and has no becoming; and what is that which is always becoming and never is?
That which is apprehended by intelligence and reason is always in the same state; but
that which is conceived by opinion with the help of sensation and without reason, is
always in a process of becoming and perishing and never really is. Now everything that
becomes or is created must of necessity be created by some cause, for without a cause
nothing can be created. The work of the creator, whenever he looks to the unchangeable
and fashions the form and nature of his work after an unchangeable pattern, must
necessarily be made fair and perfect; but when he looks to the created only, and uses a
created pattern, it is not fair or perfect. Was the heaven then or the world, whether
called by this or by any other more appropriate name—assuming the name, I am asking
a question which has to be asked at the beginning of an enquiry about anything—was the
world, I say, always in existence and without beginning? or created, and had it a
beginning? Created, I reply, being visible and tangible and having a body, and therefore
sensible; and all sensible things are apprehended by opinion and sense and are in a
process of creation and created. Now that which is created must, as we affirm, of
necessity be created by a cause. But the father and maker of all this universe is past
finding out; and even if we found him, to tell of him to all men would be impossible. And
there is still a question to be asked about him: Which of the patterns had the artificer in
view when he made the world—the pattern of the unchangeable, or of that which is
created? If the world be indeed fair and the artificer good, it is manifest that he must
have looked to that which is eternal; but if what cannot be said without blasphemy is
true, then to the created pattern. Every one will see that he must have looked to the
eternal; for the world is the fairest of creations and he is the best of causes. And having
been created in this way, the world has been framed in the likeness of that which is
apprehended by reason and mind and is unchangeable, and must therefore of necessity,
if this is admitted, be a copy of something. Now it is all-important that the beginning of
everything should be according to nature. And in speaking of the copy and the original
we may assume that words are akin to the matter which they describe; when they relate
to the lasting and permanent and intelligible, they ought to be lasting and unalterable,
and, as far as their nature allows, irrefutable and immovable—nothing less. But when
they express only the copy or likeness and not the eternal things themselves, they need
only be likely and analogous to the real words. As being is to becoming, so is truth to
belief. If then, Socrates, amid the many opinions about the gods and the generation of
the universe, we are not able to give notions which are altogether and in every respect
exact and consistent with one another, do not be surprised. Enough, if we adduce
probabilities as likely as any others; for we must remember that I who am the speaker,
and you who are the judges, are only mortal men, and we ought to accept the tale which
is probable and enquire no further.
SOCRATES: Excellent, Timaeus; and we will do precisely as you bid us. The prelude is
charming, and is already accepted by us—may we beg of you to proceed to the strain?
TIMAEUS: Let me tell you then why the creator made this world of generation. He was
good, and the good can never have any jealousy of anything. And being free from
jealousy, he desired that all things should be as like himself as they could be. This is in
the truest sense the origin of creation and of the world, as we shall do well in believing
on the testimony of wise men: God desired that all things should be good and nothing
bad, so far as this was attainable. Wherefore also finding the whole visible sphere not at
rest, but moving in an irregular and disorderly fashion, out of disorder he brought order,
considering that this was in every way better than the other. Now the deeds of the best
could never be or have been other than the fairest; and the creator, reflecting on the
things which are by nature visible, found that no unintelligent creature taken as a whole
was fairer than the intelligent taken as a whole; and that intelligence could not be
present in anything which was devoid of soul. For which reason, when he was framing
the universe, he put intelligence in soul, and soul in body, that he might be the creator of
a work which was by nature fairest and best. Wherefore, using the language of
probability, we may say that the world became a living creature truly endowed with soul
and intelligence by the providence of God.
This being supposed, let us proceed to the next stage: In the likeness of what animal did
the Creator make the world? It would be an unworthy thing to liken it to any nature
which exists as a part only; for nothing can be beautiful which is like any imperfect
thing; but let us suppose the world to be the very image of that whole of which all other
animals both individually and in their tribes are portions. For the original of the
universe contains in itself all intelligible beings, just as this world comprehends us and
all other visible creatures. For the Deity, intending to make this world like the fairest
and most perfect of intelligible beings, framed one visible animal comprehending within
itself all other animals of a kindred nature. Are we right in saying that there is one
world, or that they are many and infinite? There must be one only, if the created copy is
to accord with the original. For that which includes all other intelligible creatures cannot
have a second or companion; in that case there would be need of another living being
which would include both, and of which they would be parts, and the likeness would be
more truly said to resemble not them, but that other which included them. In order then
that the world might be solitary, like the perfect animal, the creator made not two
worlds or an infinite number of them; but there is and ever will be one only-begotten
and created heaven.
Now that which is created is of necessity corporeal, and also visible and tangible. And
nothing is visible where there is no fire, or tangible which has no solidity, and nothing is
solid without earth. Wherefore also God in the beginning of creation made the body of
the universe to consist of fire and earth. But two things cannot be rightly put together
without a third; there must be some bond of union between them. And the fairest bond
is that which makes the most complete fusion of itself and the things which it combines;
and proportion is best adapted to effect such a union. For whenever in any three
numbers, whether cube or square, there is a mean, which is to the last term what the
first term is to it; and again, when the mean is to the first term as the last term is to the
mean—then the mean becoming first and last, and the first and last both becoming
means, they will all of them of necessity come to be the same, and having become the
same with one another will be all one. If the universal frame had been created a surface
only and having no depth, a single mean would have sufficed to bind together itself and
the other terms; but now, as the world must be solid, and solid bodies are always
compacted not by one mean but by two, God placed water and air in the mean between
fire and earth, and made them to have the same proportion so far as was possible (as fire
is to air so is air to water, and as air is to water so is water to earth); and thus he bound
and put together a visible and tangible heaven. And for these reasons, and out of such
elements which are in number four, the body of the world was created, and it was
harmonized by proportion, and therefore has the spirit of friendship; and having been
reconciled to itself, it was indissoluble by the hand of any other than the framer.
Now the creation took up the whole of each of the four elements; for the Creator
compounded the world out of all the fire and all the water and all the air and all the
earth, leaving no part of any of them nor any power of them outside. His intention was,
in the first place, that the animal should be as far as possible a perfect whole and of
perfect parts: secondly, that it should be one, leaving no remnants out of which another
such world might be created: and also that it should be free from old age and unaffected
by disease. Considering that if heat and cold and other powerful forces which unite
bodies surround and attack them from without when they are unprepared, they
decompose them, and by bringing diseases and old age upon them, make them waste
away—for this cause and on these grounds he made the world one whole, having every
part entire, and being therefore perfect and not liable to old age and disease. And he
gave to the world the figure which was suitable and also natural. Now to the animal
which was to comprehend all animals, that figure was suitable which comprehends
within itself all other figures. Wherefore he made the world in the form of a globe, round
as from a lathe, having its extremes in every direction equidistant from the centre, the
most perfect and the most like itself of all figures; for he considered that the like is
infinitely fairer than the unlike. This he finished off, making the surface smooth all
round for many reasons; in the first place, because the living being had no need of eyes
when there was nothing remaining outside him to be seen; nor of ears when there was
nothing to be heard; and there was no surrounding atmosphere to be breathed; nor
would there have been any use of organs by the help of which he might receive his food
or get rid of what he had already digested, since there was nothing which went from him
or came into him: for there was nothing beside him. Of design he was created thus, his
own waste providing his own food, and all that he did or suffered taking place in and by
himself. For the Creator conceived that a being which was self-sufficient would be far
more excellent than one which lacked anything; and, as he had no need to take anything
or defend himself against any one, the Creator did not think it necessary to bestow upon
him hands: nor had he any need of feet, nor of the whole apparatus of walking; but the
movement suited to his spherical form was assigned to him, being of all the seven that
which is most appropriate to mind and intelligence; and he was made to move in the
same manner and on the same spot, within his own limits revolving in a circle. All the
other six motions were taken away from him, and he was made not to partake of their
deviations. And as this circular movement required no feet, the universe was created
without legs and without feet.
Such was the whole plan of the eternal God about the god that was to be, to whom for
this reason he gave a body, smooth and even, having a surface in every direction
equidistant from the centre, a body entire and perfect, and formed out of perfect bodies.
And in the centre he put the soul, which he diffused throughout the body, making it also
to be the exterior environment of it; and he made the universe a circle moving in a
circle, one and solitary, yet by reason of its excellence able to converse with itself, and
needing no other friendship or acquaintance. Having these purposes in view he created
the world a blessed god.
Now God did not make the soul after the body, although we are speaking of them in this
order; for having brought them together he would never have allowed that the elder
should be ruled by the younger; but this is a random manner of speaking which we have,
because somehow we ourselves too are very much under the dominion of chance.
Whereas he made the soul in origin and excellence prior to and older than the body, to
be the ruler and mistress, of whom the body was to be the subject. And he made her out
of the following elements and on this wise: Out of the indivisible and unchangeable, and
also out of that which is divisible and has to do with material bodies, he compounded a
third and intermediate kind of essence, partaking of the nature of the same and of the
other, and this compound he placed accordingly in a mean between the indivisible, and
the divisible and material. He took the three elements of the same, the other, and the
essence, and mingled them into one form, compressing by force the reluctant and
unsociable nature of the other into the same. When he had mingled them with the
essence and out of three made one, he again divided this whole into as many portions as
was fitting, each portion being a compound of the same, the other, and the essence. And
he proceeded to divide after this manner:—First of all, he took away one part of the
whole (1), and then he separated a second part which was double the first (2), and then
he took away a third part which was half as much again as the second and three times as
much as the first (3), and then he took a fourth part which was twice as much as the
second (4), and a fifth part which was three times the third (9), and a sixth part which
was eight times the first (8), and a seventh part which was twenty-seven times the first
(27). After this he filled up the double intervals (i.e. between 1, 2, 4, 8) and the triple (i.e.
between 1, 3, 9, 27) cutting off yet other portions from the mixture and placing them in
the intervals, so that in each interval there were two kinds of means, the one exceeding
and exceeded by equal parts of its extremes (as for example 1, 4/3, 2, in which the mean
4/3 is one-third of 1 more than 1, and one-third of 2 less than 2), the other being that
kind of mean which exceeds and is exceeded by an equal number (e.g.
— over 1, 4/3, 3/2, — over 2, 8/3, 3, — over 4, 16/3, 6, — over 8: and — over 1, 3/2, 2, —
over 3, 9/2, 6, — over 9, 27/2, 18, — over 27.).
Where there were intervals of 3/2 and of 4/3 and of 9/8, made by the connecting terms
in the former intervals, he filled up all the intervals of 4/3 with the interval of 9/8,
leaving a fraction over; and the interval which this fraction expressed was in the ratio of
256 to 243 (e.g.
243:256::81/64:4/3::243/128:2::81/32:8/3::243/64:4::81/16:16/3::242/32:8.).
And thus the whole mixture out of which he cut these portions was all exhausted by him.
This entire compound he divided lengthways into two parts, which he joined to one
another at the centre like the letter X, and bent them into a circular form, connecting
them with themselves and each other at the point opposite to their original meetingpoint;
and, comprehending them in a uniform revolution upon the same axis, he made
the one the outer and the other the inner circle. Now the motion of the outer circle he
called the motion of the same, and the motion of the inner circle the motion of the other
or diverse. The motion of the same he carried round by the side (i.e. of the rectangular
figure supposed to be inscribed in the circle of the Same) to the right, and the motion of
the diverse diagonally (i.e. across the rectangular figure from corner to corner) to the
left. And he gave dominion to the motion of the same and like, for that he left single and
undivided; but the inner motion he divided in six places and made seven unequal circles
having their intervals in ratios of two and three, three of each, and bade the orbits
proceed in a direction opposite to one another; and three (Sun, Mercury, Venus) he
made to move with equal swiftness, and the remaining four (Moon, Saturn, Mars,
Jupiter) to move with unequal swiftness to the three and to one another, but in due
proportion.
Now when the Creator had framed the soul according to his will, he formed within her
the corporeal universe, and brought the two together, and united them centre to centre.
The soul, interfused everywhere from the centre to the circumference of heaven, of
which also she is the external envelopment, herself turning in herself, began a divine
beginning of never-ceasing and rational life enduring throughout all time. The body of
heaven is visible, but the soul is invisible, and partakes of reason and harmony, and
being made by the best of intellectual and everlasting natures, is the best of things
created. And because she is composed of the same and of the other and of the essence,
these three, and is divided and united in due proportion, and in her revolutions returns
upon herself, the soul, when touching anything which has essence, whether dispersed in
parts or undivided, is stirred through all her powers, to declare the sameness or
difference of that thing and some other; and to what individuals are related, and by what
affected, and in what way and how and when, both in the world of generation and in the
world of immutable being. And when reason, which works with equal truth, whether she
be in the circle of the diverse or of the same—in voiceless silence holding her onward
course in the sphere of the self-moved—when reason, I say, is hovering around the
sensible world and when the circle of the diverse also moving truly imparts the
intimations of sense to the whole soul, then arise opinions and beliefs sure and certain.
But when reason is concerned with the rational, and the circle of the same moving
smoothly declares it, then intelligence and knowledge are necessarily perfected. And if
any one affirms that in which these two are found to be other than the soul, he will say
the very opposite of the truth.
When the father and creator saw the creature which he had made moving and living, the
created image of the eternal gods, he rejoiced, and in his joy determined to make the
copy still more like the original; and as this was eternal, he sought to make the universe
eternal, so far as might be. Now the nature of the ideal being was everlasting, but to
bestow this attribute in its fulness upon a creature was impossible. Wherefore he
resolved to have a moving image of eternity, and when he set in order the heaven, he
made this image eternal but moving according to number, while eternity itself rests in
unity; and this image we call time. For there were no days and nights and months and
years before the heaven was created, but when he constructed the heaven he created
them also. They are all parts of time, and the past and future are created species of time,
which we unconsciously but wrongly transfer to the eternal essence; for we say that he
‘was,’ he ‘is,’ he ‘will be,’ but the truth is that ‘is’ alone is properly attributed to him, and
that ‘was’ and ‘will be’ are only to be spoken of becoming in time, for they are motions,
but that which is immovably the same cannot become older or younger by time, nor ever
did or has become, or hereafter will be, older or younger, nor is subject at all to any of
those states which affect moving and sensible things and of which generation is the
cause. These are the forms of time, which imitates eternity and revolves according to a
law of number. Moreover, when we say that what has become IS become and what
becomes IS becoming, and that what will become IS about to become and that the nonexistent
IS non-existent—all these are inaccurate modes of expression (compare
Parmen.). But perhaps this whole subject will be more suitably discussed on some other
occasion.
Time, then, and the heaven came into being at the same instant in order that, having
been created together, if ever there was to be a dissolution of them, they might be
dissolved together. It was framed after the pattern of the eternal nature, that it might
resemble this as far as was possible; for the pattern exists from eternity, and the created
heaven has been, and is, and will be, in all time. Such was the mind and thought of God
in the creation of time. The sun and moon and five other stars, which are called the
planets, were created by him in order to distinguish and preserve the numbers of time;
and when he had made their several bodies, he placed them in the orbits in which the
circle of the other was revolving,—in seven orbits seven stars. First, there was the moon
in the orbit nearest the earth, and next the sun, in the second orbit above the earth; then
came the morning star and the star sacred to Hermes, moving in orbits which have an
equal swiftness with the sun, but in an opposite direction; and this is the reason why the
sun and Hermes and Lucifer overtake and are overtaken by each other. To enumerate
the places which he assigned to the other stars, and to give all the reasons why he
assigned them, although a secondary matter, would give more trouble than the primary.
These things at some future time, when we are at leisure, may have the consideration
which they deserve, but not at present.
Now, when all the stars which were necessary to the creation of time had attained a
motion suitable to them, and had become living creatures having bodies fastened by
vital chains, and learnt their appointed task, moving in the motion of the diverse, which
is diagonal, and passes through and is governed by the motion of the same, they
revolved, some in a larger and some in a lesser orbit—those which had the lesser orbit
revolving faster, and those which had the larger more slowly. Now by reason of the
motion of the same, those which revolved fastest appeared to be overtaken by those
which moved slower although they really overtook them; for the motion of the same
made them all turn in a spiral, and, because some went one way and some another, that
which receded most slowly from the sphere of the same, which was the swiftest,
appeared to follow it most nearly. That there might be some visible measure of their
relative swiftness and slowness as they proceeded in their eight courses, God lighted a
fire, which we now call the sun, in the second from the earth of these orbits, that it might
give light to the whole of heaven, and that the animals, as many as nature intended,
might participate in number, learning arithmetic from the revolution of the same and
the like. Thus then, and for this reason the night and the day were created, being the
period of the one most intelligent revolution. And the month is accomplished when the
moon has completed her orbit and overtaken the sun, and the year when the sun has
completed his own orbit. Mankind, with hardly an exception, have not remarked the
periods of the other stars, and they have no name for them, and do not measure them
against one another by the help of number, and hence they can scarcely be said to know
that their wanderings, being infinite in number and admirable for their variety, make up
time. And yet there is no difficulty in seeing that the perfect number of time fulfils the
perfect year when all the eight revolutions, having their relative degrees of swiftness, are
accomplished together and attain their completion at the same time, measured by the
rotation of the same and equally moving. After this manner, and for these reasons, came
into being such of the stars as in their heavenly progress received reversals of motion, to
the end that the created heaven might imitate the eternal nature, and be as like as
possible to the perfect and intelligible animal.
Thus far and until the birth of time the created universe was made in the likeness of the
original, but inasmuch as all animals were not yet comprehended therein, it was still
unlike. What remained, the creator then proceeded to fashion after the nature of the
pattern. Now as in the ideal animal the mind perceives ideas or species of a certain
nature and number, he thought that this created animal ought to have species of a like
nature and number. There are four such; one of them is the heavenly race of the gods;
another, the race of birds whose way is in the air; the third, the watery species; and the
fourth, the pedestrian and land creatures. Of the heavenly and divine, he created the
greater part out of fire, that they might be the brightest of all things and fairest to
behold, and he fashioned them after the likeness of the universe in the figure of a circle,
and made them follow the intelligent motion of the supreme, distributing them over the
whole circumference of heaven, which was to be a true cosmos or glorious world
spangled with them all over. And he gave to each of them two movements: the first, a
movement on the same spot after the same manner, whereby they ever continue to think
consistently the same thoughts about the same things; the second, a forward movement,
in which they are controlled by the revolution of the same and the like; but by the other
five motions they were unaffected, in order that each of them might attain the highest
perfection. And for this reason the fixed stars were created, to be divine and eternal
animals, ever-abiding and revolving after the same manner and on the same spot; and
the other stars which reverse their motion and are subject to deviations of this kind,
were created in the manner already described. The earth, which is our nurse, clinging
(or ‘circling’) around the pole which is extended through the universe, he framed to be
the guardian and artificer of night and day, first and eldest of gods that are in the
interior of heaven. Vain would be the attempt to tell all the figures of them circling as in
dance, and their juxtapositions, and the return of them in their revolutions upon
themselves, and their approximations, and to say which of these deities in their
conjunctions meet, and which of them are in opposition, and in what order they get
behind and before one another, and when they are severally eclipsed to our sight and
again reappear, sending terrors and intimations of the future to those who cannot
calculate their movements—to attempt to tell of all this without a visible representation
of the heavenly system would be labour in vain. Enough on this head; and now let what
we have said about the nature of the created and visible gods have an end.
To know or tell the origin of the other divinities is beyond us, and we must accept the
traditions of the men of old time who affirm themselves to be the offspring of the gods—
that is what they say—and they must surely have known their own ancestors. How can
we doubt the word of the children of the gods? Although they give no probable or certain
proofs, still, as they declare that they are speaking of what took place in their own
family, we must conform to custom and believe them. In this manner, then, according to
them, the genealogy of these gods is to be received and set forth.
Oceanus and Tethys were the children of Earth and Heaven, and from these sprang
Phorcys and Cronos and Rhea, and all that generation; and from Cronos and Rhea
sprang Zeus and Here, and all those who are said to be their brethren, and others who
were the children of these.
Now, when all of them, both those who visibly appear in their revolutions as well as
those other gods who are of a more retiring nature, had come into being, the creator of
the universe addressed them in these words: ‘Gods, children of gods, who are my works,
and of whom I am the artificer and father, my creations are indissoluble, if so I will. All
that is bound may be undone, but only an evil being would wish to undo that which is
harmonious and happy. Wherefore, since ye are but creatures, ye are not altogether
immortal and indissoluble, but ye shall certainly not be dissolved, nor be liable to the
fate of death, having in my will a greater and mightier bond than those with which ye
were bound at the time of your birth. And now listen to my instructions:—Three tribes of
mortal beings remain to be created—without them the universe will be incomplete, for it
will not contain every kind of animal which it ought to contain, if it is to be perfect. On
the other hand, if they were created by me and received life at my hands, they would be
on an equality with the gods. In order then that they may be mortal, and that this
universe may be truly universal, do ye, according to your natures, betake yourselves to
the formation of animals, imitating the power which was shown by me in creating you.
The part of them worthy of the name immortal, which is called divine and is the guiding
principle of those who are willing to follow justice and you—of that divine part I will
myself sow the seed, and having made a beginning, I will hand the work over to you.
And do ye then interweave the mortal with the immortal, and make and beget living
creatures, and give them food, and make them to grow, and receive them again in
death.’
Thus he spake, and once more into the cup in which he had previously mingled the soul
of the universe he poured the remains of the elements, and mingled them in much the
same manner; they were not, however, pure as before, but diluted to the second and
third degree. And having made it he divided the whole mixture into souls equal in
number to the stars, and assigned each soul to a star; and having there placed them as in
a chariot, he showed them the nature of the universe, and declared to them the laws of
destiny, according to which their first birth would be one and the same for all,—no one
should suffer a disadvantage at his hands; they were to be sown in the instruments of
time severally adapted to them, and to come forth the most religious of animals; and as
human nature was of two kinds, the superior race would hereafter be called man. Now,
when they should be implanted in bodies by necessity, and be always gaining or losing
some part of their bodily substance, then in the first place it would be necessary that
they should all have in them one and the same faculty of sensation, arising out of
irresistible impressions; in the second place, they must have love, in which pleasure and
pain mingle; also fear and anger, and the feelings which are akin or opposite to them; if
they conquered these they would live righteously, and if they were conquered by them,
unrighteously. He who lived well during his appointed time was to return and dwell in
his native star, and there he would have a blessed and congenial existence. But if he
failed in attaining this, at the second birth he would pass into a woman, and if, when in
that state of being, he did not desist from evil, he would continually be changed into
some brute who resembled him in the evil nature which he had acquired, and would not
cease from his toils and transformations until he followed the revolution of the same
and the like within him, and overcame by the help of reason the turbulent and irrational
mob of later accretions, made up of fire and air and water and earth, and returned to the
form of his first and better state. Having given all these laws to his creatures, that he
might be guiltless of future evil in any of them, the creator sowed some of them in the
earth, and some in the moon, and some in the other instruments of time; and when he
had sown them he committed to the younger gods the fashioning of their mortal bodies,
and desired them to furnish what was still lacking to the human soul, and having made
all the suitable additions, to rule over them, and to pilot the mortal animal in the best
and wisest manner which they could, and avert from him all but self-inflicted evils.
When the creator had made all these ordinances he remained in his own accustomed
nature, and his children heard and were obedient to their father’s word, and receiving
from him the immortal principle of a mortal creature, in imitation of their own creator
they borrowed portions of fire, and earth, and water, and air from the world, which were
hereafter to be restored—these they took and welded them together, not with the
indissoluble chains by which they were themselves bound, but with little pegs too small
to be visible, making up out of all the four elements each separate body, and fastening
the courses of the immortal soul in a body which was in a state of perpetual influx and
efflux. Now these courses, detained as in a vast river, neither overcame nor were
overcome; but were hurrying and hurried to and fro, so that the whole animal was
moved and progressed, irregularly however and irrationally and anyhow, in all the six
directions of motion, wandering backwards and forwards, and right and left, and up and
down, and in all the six directions. For great as was the advancing and retiring flood
which provided nourishment, the affections produced by external contact caused still
greater tumult—when the body of any one met and came into collision with some
external fire, or with the solid earth or the gliding waters, or was caught in the tempest
borne on the air, and the motions produced by any of these impulses were carried
through the body to the soul. All such motions have consequently received the general
name of ‘sensations,’ which they still retain. And they did in fact at that time create a
very great and mighty movement; uniting with the ever-flowing stream in stirring up
and violently shaking the courses of the soul, they completely stopped the revolution of
the same by their opposing current, and hindered it from predominating and advancing;
and they so disturbed the nature of the other or diverse, that the three double intervals
(i.e. between 1, 2, 4, 8), and the three triple intervals (i.e. between 1, 3, 9, 27), together
with the mean terms and connecting links which are expressed by the ratios of 3:2, and
4:3, and of 9:8—these, although they cannot be wholly undone except by him who
united them, were twisted by them in all sorts of ways, and the circles were broken and
disordered in every possible manner, so that when they moved they were tumbling to
pieces, and moved irrationally, at one time in a reverse direction, and then again
obliquely, and then upside down, as you might imagine a person who is upside down
and has his head leaning upon the ground and his feet up against something in the air;
and when he is in such a position, both he and the spectator fancy that the right of either
is his left, and the left right. If, when powerfully experiencing these and similar effects,
the revolutions of the soul come in contact with some external thing, either of the class
of the same or of the other, they speak of the same or of the other in a manner the very
opposite of the truth; and they become false and foolish, and there is no course or
revolution in them which has a guiding or directing power; and if again any sensations
enter in violently from without and drag after them the whole vessel of the soul, then the
courses of the soul, though they seem to conquer, are really conquered.
And by reason of all these affections, the soul, when encased in a mortal body, now, as in
the beginning, is at first without intelligence; but when the flood of growth and
nutriment abates, and the courses of the soul, calming down, go their own way and
become steadier as time goes on, then the several circles return to their natural form,
and their revolutions are corrected, and they call the same and the other by their right
names, and make the possessor of them to become a rational being. And if these
combine in him with any true nurture or education, he attains the fulness and health of
the perfect man, and escapes the worst disease of all; but if he neglects education he
walks lame to the end of his life, and returns imperfect and good for nothing to the
world below. This, however, is a later stage; at present we must treat more exactly the
subject before us, which involves a preliminary enquiry into the generation of the body
and its members, and as to how the soul was created—for what reason and by what
providence of the gods; and holding fast to probability, we must pursue our way.
First, then, the gods, imitating the spherical shape of the universe, enclosed the two
divine courses in a spherical body, that, namely, which we now term the head, being the
most divine part of us and the lord of all that is in us: to this the gods, when they put
together the body, gave all the other members to be servants, considering that it partook
of every sort of motion. In order then that it might not tumble about among the high and
deep places of the earth, but might be able to get over the one and out of the other, they
provided the body to be its vehicle and means of locomotion; which consequently had
length and was furnished with four limbs extended and flexible; these God contrived to
be instruments of locomotion with which it might take hold and find support, and so be
able to pass through all places, carrying on high the dwelling-place of the most sacred
and divine part of us. Such was the origin of legs and hands, which for this reason were
attached to every man; and the gods, deeming the front part of man to be more
honourable and more fit to command than the hinder part, made us to move mostly in a
forward direction. Wherefore man must needs have his front part unlike and
distinguished from the rest of his body.
And so in the vessel of the head, they first of all put a face in which they inserted organs
to minister in all things to the providence of the soul, and they appointed this part,
which has authority, to be by nature the part which is in front. And of the organs they
first contrived the eyes to give light, and the principle according to which they were
inserted was as follows: So much of fire as would not burn, but gave a gentle light, they
formed into a substance akin to the light of every-day life; and the pure fire which is
within us and related thereto they made to flow through the eyes in a stream smooth
and dense, compressing the whole eye, and especially the centre part, so that it kept out
everything of a coarser nature, and allowed to pass only this pure element. When the
light of day surrounds the stream of vision, then like falls upon like, and they coalesce,
and one body is formed by natural affinity in the line of vision, wherever the light that
falls from within meets with an external object. And the whole stream of vision, being
similarly affected in virtue of similarity, diffuses the motions of what it touches or what
touches it over the whole body, until they reach the soul, causing that perception which
we call sight. But when night comes on and the external and kindred fire departs, then
the stream of vision is cut off; for going forth to an unlike element it is changed and
extinguished, being no longer of one nature with the surrounding atmosphere which is
now deprived of fire: and so the eye no longer sees, and we feel disposed to sleep. For
when the eyelids, which the gods invented for the preservation of sight, are closed, they
keep in the internal fire; and the power of the fire diffuses and equalizes the inward
motions; when they are equalized, there is rest, and when the rest is profound, sleep
comes over us scarce disturbed by dreams; but where the greater motions still remain,
of whatever nature and in whatever locality, they engender corresponding visions in
dreams, which are remembered by us when we are awake and in the external world. And
now there is no longer any difficulty in understanding the creation of images in mirrors
and all smooth and bright surfaces. For from the communion of the internal and
external fires, and again from the union of them and their numerous transformations
when they meet in the mirror, all these appearances of necessity arise, when the fire
from the face coalesces with the fire from the eye on the bright and smooth surface. And
right appears left and left right, because the visual rays come into contact with the rays
emitted by the object in a manner contrary to the usual mode of meeting; but the right
appears right, and the left left, when the position of one of the two concurring lights is
reversed; and this happens when the mirror is concave and its smooth surface repels the
right stream of vision to the left side, and the left to the right (He is speaking of two
kinds of mirrors, first the plane, secondly the concave; and the latter is supposed to be
placed, first horizontally, and then vertically.). Or if the mirror be turned vertically, then
the concavity makes the countenance appear to be all upside down, and the lower rays
are driven upwards and the upper downwards.
All these are to be reckoned among the second and co-operative causes which God,
carrying into execution the idea of the best as far as possible, uses as his ministers. They
are thought by most men not to be the second, but the prime causes of all things,
because they freeze and heat, and contract and dilate, and the like. But they are not so,
for they are incapable of reason or intellect; the only being which can properly have
mind is the invisible soul, whereas fire and water, and earth and air, are all of them
visible bodies. The lover of intellect and knowledge ought to explore causes of intelligent
nature first of all, and, secondly, of those things which, being moved by others, are
compelled to move others. And this is what we too must do. Both kinds of causes should
be acknowledged by us, but a distinction should be made between those which are
endowed with mind and are the workers of things fair and good, and those which are
deprived of intelligence and always produce chance effects without order or design. Of
the second or co-operative causes of sight, which help to give to the eyes the power
which they now possess, enough has been said. I will therefore now proceed to speak of
the higher use and purpose for which God has given them to us. The sight in my opinion
is the source of the greatest benefit to us, for had we never seen the stars, and the sun,
and the heaven, none of the words which we have spoken about the universe would ever
have been uttered. But now the sight of day and night, and the months and the
revolutions of the years, have created number, and have given us a conception of time,
and the power of enquiring about the nature of the universe; and from this source we
have derived philosophy, than which no greater good ever was or will be given by the
gods to mortal man. This is the greatest boon of sight: and of the lesser benefits why
should I speak? even the ordinary man if he were deprived of them would bewail his
loss, but in vain. Thus much let me say however: God invented and gave us sight to the
end that we might behold the courses of intelligence in the heaven, and apply them to
the courses of our own intelligence which are akin to them, the unperturbed to the
perturbed; and that we, learning them and partaking of the natural truth of reason,
might imitate the absolutely unerring courses of God and regulate our own vagaries. The
same may be affirmed of speech and hearing: they have been given by the gods to the
same end and for a like reason. For this is the principal end of speech, whereto it most
contributes. Moreover, so much of music as is adapted to the sound of the voice and to
the sense of hearing is granted to us for the sake of harmony; and harmony, which has
motions akin to the revolutions of our souls, is not regarded by the intelligent votary of
the Muses as given by them with a view to irrational pleasure, which is deemed to be the
purpose of it in our day, but as meant to correct any discord which may have arisen in
the courses of the soul, and to be our ally in bringing her into harmony and agreement
with herself; and rhythm too was given by them for the same reason, on account of the
irregular and graceless ways which prevail among mankind generally, and to help us
against them.
Thus far in what we have been saying, with small exception, the works of intelligence
have been set forth; and now we must place by the side of them in our discourse the
things which come into being through necessity—for the creation is mixed, being made
up of necessity and mind. Mind, the ruling power, persuaded necessity to bring the
greater part of created things to perfection, and thus and after this manner in the
beginning, when the influence of reason got the better of necessity, the universe was
created. But if a person will truly tell of the way in which the work was accomplished, he
must include the other influence of the variable cause as well. Wherefore, we must
return again and find another suitable beginning, as about the former matters, so also
about these. To which end we must consider the nature of fire, and water, and air, and
earth, such as they were prior to the creation of the heaven, and what was happening to
them in this previous state; for no one has as yet explained the manner of their
generation, but we speak of fire and the rest of them, whatever they mean, as though
men knew their natures, and we maintain them to be the first principles and letters or
elements of the whole, when they cannot reasonably be compared by a man of any sense
even to syllables or first compounds. And let me say thus much: I will not now speak of
the first principle or principles of all things, or by whatever name they are to be called,
for this reason—because it is difficult to set forth my opinion according to the method of
discussion which we are at present employing. Do not imagine, any more than I can
bring myself to imagine, that I should be right in undertaking so great and difficult a
task. Remembering what I said at first about probability, I will do my best to give as
probable an explanation as any other—or rather, more probable; and I will first go back
to the beginning and try to speak of each thing and of all. Once more, then, at the
commencement of my discourse, I call upon God, and beg him to be our saviour out of a
strange and unwonted enquiry, and to bring us to the haven of probability. So now let us
begin again.
This new beginning of our discussion of the universe requires a fuller division than the
former; for then we made two classes, now a third must be revealed. The two sufficed for
the former discussion: one, which we assumed, was a pattern intelligible and always the
same; and the second was only the imitation of the pattern, generated and visible. There
is also a third kind which we did not distinguish at the time, conceiving that the two
would be enough. But now the argument seems to require that we should set forth in
words another kind, which is difficult of explanation and dimly seen. What nature are
we to attribute to this new kind of being? We reply, that it is the receptacle, and in a
manner the nurse, of all generation. I have spoken the truth; but I must express myself
in clearer language, and this will be an arduous task for many reasons, and in particular
because I must first raise questions concerning fire and the other elements, and
determine what each of them is; for to say, with any probability or certitude, which of
them should be called water rather than fire, and which should be called any of them
rather than all or some one of them, is a difficult matter. How, then, shall we settle this
point, and what questions about the elements may be fairly raised?
In the first place, we see that what we just now called water, by condensation, I suppose,
becomes stone and earth; and this same element, when melted and dispersed, passes
into vapour and air. Air, again, when inflamed, becomes fire; and again fire, when
condensed and extinguished, passes once more into the form of air; and once more, air,
when collected and condensed, produces cloud and mist; and from these, when still
more compressed, comes flowing water, and from water comes earth and stones once
more; and thus generation appears to be transmitted from one to the other in a circle.
Thus, then, as the several elements never present themselves in the same form, how can
any one have the assurance to assert positively that any of them, whatever it may be, is
one thing rather than another? No one can. But much the safest plan is to speak of them
as follows:— Anything which we see to be continually changing, as, for example, fire, we
must not call ‘this’ or ‘that,’ but rather say that it is ‘of such a nature’; nor let us speak of
water as ‘this’; but always as ‘such’; nor must we imply that there is any stability in any
of those things which we indicate by the use of the words ‘this’ and ‘that,’ supposing
ourselves to signify something thereby; for they are too volatile to be detained in any
such expressions as ‘this,’ or ‘that,’ or ‘relative to this,’ or any other mode of speaking
which represents them as permanent. We ought not to apply ‘this’ to any of them, but
rather the word ‘such’; which expresses the similar principle circulating in each and all
of them; for example, that should be called ‘fire’ which is of such a nature always, and so
of everything that has generation. That in which the elements severally grow up, and
appear, and decay, is alone to be called by the name ‘this’ or ‘that’; but that which is of a
certain nature, hot or white, or anything which admits of opposite qualities, and all
things that are compounded of them, ought not to be so denominated. Let me make
another attempt to explain my meaning more clearly. Suppose a person to make all
kinds of figures of gold and to be always transmuting one form into all the rest;—
somebody points to one of them and asks what it is. By far the safest and truest answer
is, That is gold; and not to call the triangle or any other figures which are formed in the
gold ‘these,’ as though they had existence, since they are in process of change while he is
making the assertion; but if the questioner be willing to take the safe and indefinite
expression, ‘such,’ we should be satisfied. And the same argument applies to the
universal nature which receives all bodies—that must be always called the same; for,
while receiving all things, she never departs at all from her own nature, and never in any
way, or at any time, assumes a form like that of any of the things which enter into her;
she is the natural recipient of all impressions, and is stirred and informed by them, and
appears different from time to time by reason of them. But the forms which enter into
and go out of her are the likenesses of real existences modelled after their patterns in a
wonderful and inexplicable manner, which we will hereafter investigate. For the present
we have only to conceive of three natures: first, that which is in process of generation;
secondly, that in which the generation takes place; and thirdly, that of which the thing
generated is a resemblance. And we may liken the receiving principle to a mother, and
the source or spring to a father, and the intermediate nature to a child; and may remark
further, that if the model is to take every variety of form, then the matter in which the
model is fashioned will not be duly prepared, unless it is formless, and free from the
impress of any of those shapes which it is hereafter to receive from without. For if the
matter were like any of the supervening forms, then whenever any opposite or entirely
different nature was stamped upon its surface, it would take the impression badly,
because it would intrude its own shape. Wherefore, that which is to receive all forms
should have no form; as in making perfumes they first contrive that the liquid substance
which is to receive the scent shall be as inodorous as possible; or as those who wish to
impress figures on soft substances do not allow any previous impression to remain, but
begin by making the surface as even and smooth as possible. In the same way that which
is to receive perpetually and through its whole extent the resemblances of all eternal
beings ought to be devoid of any particular form. Wherefore, the mother and receptacle
of all created and visible and in any way sensible things, is not to be termed earth, or air,
or fire, or water, or any of their compounds or any of the elements from which these are
derived, but is an invisible and formless being which receives all things and in some
mysterious way partakes of the intelligible, and is most incomprehensible. In saying this
we shall not be far wrong; as far, however, as we can attain to a knowledge of her from
the previous considerations, we may truly say that fire is that part of her nature which
from time to time is inflamed, and water that which is moistened, and that the mother
substance becomes earth and air, in so far as she receives the impressions of them.
Let us consider this question more precisely. Is there any self-existent fire? and do all
those things which we call self-existent exist? or are only those things which we see, or
in some way perceive through the bodily organs, truly existent, and nothing whatever
besides them? And is all that which we call an intelligible essence nothing at all, and
only a name? Here is a question which we must not leave unexamined or undetermined,
nor must we affirm too confidently that there can be no decision; neither must we
interpolate in our present long discourse a digression equally long, but if it is possible to
set forth a great principle in a few words, that is just what we want.
Thus I state my view:—If mind and true opinion are two distinct classes, then I say that
there certainly are these self-existent ideas unperceived by sense, and apprehended only
by the mind; if, however, as some say, true opinion differs in no respect from mind, then
everything that we perceive through the body is to be regarded as most real and certain.
But we must affirm them to be distinct, for they have a distinct origin and are of a
different nature; the one is implanted in us by instruction, the other by persuasion; the
one is always accompanied by true reason, the other is without reason; the one cannot
be overcome by persuasion, but the other can: and lastly, every man may be said to
share in true opinion, but mind is the attribute of the gods and of very few men.
Wherefore also we must acknowledge that there is one kind of being which is always the
same, uncreated and indestructible, never receiving anything into itself from without,
nor itself going out to any other, but invisible and imperceptible by any sense, and of
which the contemplation is granted to intelligence only. And there is another nature of
the same name with it, and like to it, perceived by sense, created, always in motion,
becoming in place and again vanishing out of place, which is apprehended by opinion
and sense. And there is a third nature, which is space, and is eternal, and admits not of
destruction and provides a home for all created things, and is apprehended without the
help of sense, by a kind of spurious reason, and is hardly real; which we beholding as in
a dream, say of all existence that it must of necessity be in some place and occupy a
space, but that what is neither in heaven nor in earth has no existence. Of these and
other things of the same kind, relating to the true and waking reality of nature, we have
only this dreamlike sense, and we are unable to cast off sleep and determine the truth
about them. For an image, since the reality, after which it is modelled, does not belong
to it, and it exists ever as the fleeting shadow of some other, must be inferred to be in
another (i.e. in space), grasping existence in some way or other, or it could not be at all.
But true and exact reason, vindicating the nature of true being, maintains that while two
things (i.e. the image and space) are different they cannot exist one of them in the other
and so be one and also two at the same time.
Thus have I concisely given the result of my thoughts; and my verdict is that being and
space and generation, these three, existed in their three ways before the heaven; and
that the nurse of generation, moistened by water and inflamed by fire, and receiving the
forms of earth and air, and experiencing all the affections which accompany these,
presented a strange variety of appearances; and being full of powers which were neither
similar nor equally balanced, was never in any part in a state of equipoise, but swaying
unevenly hither and thither, was shaken by them, and by its motion again shook them;
and the elements when moved were separated and carried continually, some one way,
some another; as, when grain is shaken and winnowed by fans and other instruments
used in the threshing of corn, the close and heavy particles are borne away and settle in
one direction, and the loose and light particles in another. In this manner, the four kinds
or elements were then shaken by the receiving vessel, which, moving like a winnowing
machine, scattered far away from one another the elements most unlike, and forced the
most similar elements into close contact. Wherefore also the various elements had
different places before they were arranged so as to form the universe. At first, they were
all without reason and measure. But when the world began to get into order, fire and
water and earth and air had only certain faint traces of themselves, and were altogether
such as everything might be expected to be in the absence of God; this, I say, was their
nature at that time, and God fashioned them by form and number. Let it be consistently
maintained by us in all that we say that God made them as far as possible the fairest and
best, out of things which were not fair and good. And now I will endeavour to show you
the disposition and generation of them by an unaccustomed argument, which I am
compelled to use; but I believe that you will be able to follow me, for your education has
made you familiar with the methods of science.
In the first place, then, as is evident to all, fire and earth and water and air are bodies.
And every sort of body possesses solidity, and every solid must necessarily be contained
in planes; and every plane rectilinear figure is composed of triangles; and all triangles
are originally of two kinds, both of which are made up of one right and two acute angles;
one of them has at either end of the base the half of a divided right angle, having equal
sides, while in the other the right angle is divided into unequal parts, having unequal
sides. These, then, proceeding by a combination of probability with demonstration, we
assume to be the original elements of fire and the other bodies; but the principles which
are prior to these God only knows, and he of men who is the friend of God. And next we
have to determine what are the four most beautiful bodies which are unlike one another,
and of which some are capable of resolution into one another; for having discovered
thus much, we shall know the true origin of earth and fire and of the proportionate and
intermediate elements. And then we shall not be willing to allow that there are any
distinct kinds of visible bodies fairer than these. Wherefore we must endeavour to
construct the four forms of bodies which excel in beauty, and then we shall be able to say
that we have sufficiently apprehended their nature. Now of the two triangles, the
isosceles has one form only; the scalene or unequal-sided has an infinite number. Of the
infinite forms we must select the most beautiful, if we are to proceed in due order, and
any one who can point out a more beautiful form than ours for the construction of these
bodies, shall carry off the palm, not as an enemy, but as a friend. Now, the one which we
maintain to be the most beautiful of all the many triangles (and we need not speak of the
others) is that of which the double forms a third triangle which is equilateral; the reason
of this would be long to tell; he who disproves what we are saying, and shows that we are
mistaken, may claim a friendly victory. Then let us choose two triangles, out of which
fire and the other elements have been constructed, one isosceles, the other having the
square of the longer side equal to three times the square of the lesser side.
Now is the time to explain what was before obscurely said: there was an error in
imagining that all the four elements might be generated by and into one another; this, I
say, was an erroneous supposition, for there are generated from the triangles which we
have selected four kinds—three from the one which has the sides unequal; the fourth
alone is framed out of the isosceles triangle. Hence they cannot all be resolved into one
another, a great number of small bodies being combined into a few large ones, or the
converse. But three of them can be thus resolved and compounded, for they all spring
from one, and when the greater bodies are broken up, many small bodies will spring up
out of them and take their own proper figures; or, again, when many small bodies are
dissolved into their triangles, if they become one, they will form one large mass of
another kind. So much for their passage into one another. I have now to speak of their
several kinds, and show out of what combinations of numbers each of them was formed.
The first will be the simplest and smallest construction, and its element is that triangle
which has its hypotenuse twice the lesser side. When two such triangles are joined at the
diagonal, and this is repeated three times, and the triangles rest their diagonals and
shorter sides on the same point as a centre, a single equilateral triangle is formed out of
six triangles; and four equilateral triangles, if put together, make out of every three
plane angles one solid angle, being that which is nearest to the most obtuse of plane
angles; and out of the combination of these four angles arises the first solid form which
distributes into equal and similar parts the whole circle in which it is inscribed. The
second species of solid is formed out of the same triangles, which unite as eight
equilateral triangles and form one solid angle out of four plane angles, and out of six
such angles the second body is completed. And the third body is made up of 120
triangular elements, forming twelve solid angles, each of them included in five plane
equilateral triangles, having altogether twenty bases, each of which is an equilateral
triangle. The one element (that is, the triangle which has its hypotenuse twice the lesser
side) having generated these figures, generated no more; but the isosceles triangle
produced the fourth elementary figure, which is compounded of four such triangles,
joining their right angles in a centre, and forming one equilateral quadrangle. Six of
these united form eight solid angles, each of which is made by the combination of three
plane right angles; the figure of the body thus composed is a cube, having six plane
quadrangular equilateral bases. There was yet a fifth combination which God used in the
delineation of the universe.
Now, he who, duly reflecting on all this, enquires whether the worlds are to be regarded
as indefinite or definite in number, will be of opinion that the notion of their
indefiniteness is characteristic of a sadly indefinite and ignorant mind. He, however,
who raises the question whether they are to be truly regarded as one or five, takes up a
more reasonable position. Arguing from probabilities, I am of opinion that they are one;
another, regarding the question from another point of view, will be of another mind.
But, leaving this enquiry, let us proceed to distribute the elementary forms, which have
now been created in idea, among the four elements.
To earth, then, let us assign the cubical form; for earth is the most immoveable of the
four and the most plastic of all bodies, and that which has the most stable bases must of
necessity be of such a nature. Now, of the triangles which we assumed at first, that
which has two equal sides is by nature more firmly based than that which has unequal
sides; and of the compound figures which are formed out of either, the plane equilateral
quadrangle has necessarily a more stable basis than the equilateral triangle, both in the
whole and in the parts. Wherefore, in assigning this figure to earth, we adhere to
probability; and to water we assign that one of the remaining forms which is the least
moveable; and the most moveable of them to fire; and to air that which is intermediate.
Also we assign the smallest body to fire, and the greatest to water, and the intermediate
in size to air; and, again, the acutest body to fire, and the next in acuteness to air, and
the third to water. Of all these elements, that which has the fewest bases must
necessarily be the most moveable, for it must be the acutest and most penetrating in
every way, and also the lightest as being composed of the smallest number of similar
particles: and the second body has similar properties in a second degree, and the third
body in the third degree. Let it be agreed, then, both according to strict reason and
according to probability, that the pyramid is the solid which is the original element and
seed of fire; and let us assign the element which was next in the order of generation to
air, and the third to water. We must imagine all these to be so small that no single
particle of any of the four kinds is seen by us on account of their smallness: but when
many of them are collected together their aggregates are seen. And the ratios of their
numbers, motions, and other properties, everywhere God, as far as necessity allowed or
gave consent, has exactly perfected, and harmonized in due proportion.
>From all that we have just been saying about the elements or kinds, the most probable
conclusion is as follows:—earth, when meeting with fire and dissolved by its sharpness,
whether the dissolution take place in the fire itself or perhaps in some mass of air or
water, is borne hither and thither, until its parts, meeting together and mutually
harmonising, again become earth; for they can never take any other form. But water,
when divided by fire or by air, on re-forming, may become one part fire and two parts
air; and a single volume of air divided becomes two of fire. Again, when a small body of
fire is contained in a larger body of air or water or earth, and both are moving, and the
fire struggling is overcome and broken up, then two volumes of fire form one volume of
air; and when air is overcome and cut up into small pieces, two and a half parts of air are
condensed into one part of water. Let us consider the matter in another way. When one
of the other elements is fastened upon by fire, and is cut by the sharpness of its angles
and sides, it coalesces with the fire, and then ceases to be cut by them any longer. For no
element which is one and the same with itself can be changed by or change another of
the same kind and in the same state. But so long as in the process of transition the
weaker is fighting against the stronger, the dissolution continues. Again, when a few
small particles, enclosed in many larger ones, are in process of decomposition and
extinction, they only cease from their tendency to extinction when they consent to pass
into the conquering nature, and fire becomes air and air water. But if bodies of another
kind go and attack them (i.e. the small particles), the latter continue to be dissolved
until, being completely forced back and dispersed, they make their escape to their own
kindred, or else, being overcome and assimilated to the conquering power, they remain
where they are and dwell with their victors, and from being many become one. And
owing to these affections, all things are changing their place, for by the motion of the
receiving vessel the bulk of each class is distributed into its proper place; but those
things which become unlike themselves and like other things, are hurried by the shaking
into the place of the things to which they grow like.
Now all unmixed and primary bodies are produced by such causes as these. As to the
subordinate species which are included in the greater kinds, they are to be attributed to
the varieties in the structure of the two original triangles. For either structure did not
originally produce the triangle of one size only, but some larger and some smaller, and
there are as many sizes as there are species of the four elements. Hence when they are
mingled with themselves and with one another there is an endless variety of them,
which those who would arrive at the probable truth of nature ought duly to consider.
Unless a person comes to an understanding about the nature and conditions of rest and
motion, he will meet with many difficulties in the discussion which follows. Something
has been said of this matter already, and something more remains to be said, which is,
that motion never exists in what is uniform. For to conceive that anything can be moved
without a mover is hard or indeed impossible, and equally impossible to conceive that
there can be a mover unless there be something which can be moved—motion cannot
exist where either of these are wanting, and for these to be uniform is impossible;
wherefore we must assign rest to uniformity and motion to the want of uniformity. Now
inequality is the cause of the nature which is wanting in uniformity; and of this we have
already described the origin. But there still remains the further point—why things when
divided after their kinds do not cease to pass through one another and to change their
place—which we will now proceed to explain. In the revolution of the universe are
comprehended all the four elements, and this being circular and having a tendency to
come together, compresses everything and will not allow any place to be left void.
Wherefore, also, fire above all things penetrates everywhere, and air next, as being next
in rarity of the elements; and the two other elements in like manner penetrate according
to their degrees of rarity. For those things which are composed of the largest particles
have the largest void left in their compositions, and those which are composed of the
smallest particles have the least. And the contraction caused by the compression thrusts
the smaller particles into the interstices of the larger. And thus, when the small parts are
placed side by side with the larger, and the lesser divide the greater and the greater unite
the lesser, all the elements are borne up and down and hither and thither towards their
own places; for the change in the size of each changes its position in space. And these
causes generate an inequality which is always maintained, and is continually creating a
perpetual motion of the elements in all time.
In the next place we have to consider that there are divers kinds of fire. There are, for
example, first, flame; and secondly, those emanations of flame which do not burn but
only give light to the eyes; thirdly, the remains of fire, which are seen in red-hot embers
after the flame has been extinguished. There are similar differences in the air; of which
the brightest part is called the aether, and the most turbid sort mist and darkness; and
there are various other nameless kinds which arise from the inequality of the triangles.
Water, again, admits in the first place of a division into two kinds; the one liquid and the
other fusile. The liquid kind is composed of the small and unequal particles of water;
and moves itself and is moved by other bodies owing to the want of uniformity and the
shape of its particles; whereas the fusile kind, being formed of large and uniform
particles, is more stable than the other, and is heavy and compact by reason of its
uniformity. But when fire gets in and dissolves the particles and destroys the uniformity,
it has greater mobility, and becoming fluid is thrust forth by the neighbouring air and
spreads upon the earth; and this dissolution of the solid masses is called melting, and
their spreading out upon the earth flowing. Again, when the fire goes out of the fusile
substance, it does not pass into a vacuum, but into the neighbouring air; and the air
which is displaced forces together the liquid and still moveable mass into the place
which was occupied by the fire, and unites it with itself. Thus compressed the mass
resumes its equability, and is again at unity with itself, because the fire which was the
author of the inequality has retreated; and this departure of the fire is called cooling,
and the coming together which follows upon it is termed congealment. Of all the kinds
termed fusile, that which is the densest and is formed out of the finest and most uniform
parts is that most precious possession called gold, which is hardened by filtration
through rock; this is unique in kind, and has both a glittering and a yellow colour. A
shoot of gold, which is so dense as to be very hard, and takes a black colour, is termed
adamant. There is also another kind which has parts nearly like gold, and of which there
are several species; it is denser than gold, and it contains a small and fine portion of
earth, and is therefore harder, yet also lighter because of the great interstices which it
has within itself; and this substance, which is one of the bright and denser kinds of
water, when solidified is called copper. There is an alloy of earth mingled with it, which,
when the two parts grow old and are disunited, shows itself separately and is called rust.
The remaining phenomena of the same kind there will be no difficulty in reasoning out
by the method of probabilities. A man may sometimes set aside meditations about
eternal things, and for recreation turn to consider the truths of generation which are
probable only; he will thus gain a pleasure not to be repented of, and secure for himself
while he lives a wise and moderate pastime. Let us grant ourselves this indulgence, and
go through the probabilities relating to the same subjects which follow next in order.
Water which is mingled with fire, so much as is fine and liquid (being so called by reason
of its motion and the way in which it rolls along the ground), and soft, because its bases
give way and are less stable than those of earth, when separated from fire and air and
isolated, becomes more uniform, and by their retirement is compressed into itself; and if
the condensation be very great, the water above the earth becomes hail, but on the
earth, ice; and that which is congealed in a less degree and is only half solid, when above
the earth is called snow, and when upon the earth, and condensed from dew, hoar-frost.
Then, again, there are the numerous kinds of water which have been mingled with one
another, and are distilled through plants which grow in the earth; and this whole class is
called by the name of juices or saps. The unequal admixture of these fluids creates a
variety of species; most of them are nameless, but four which are of a fiery nature are
clearly distinguished and have names. First, there is wine, which warms the soul as well
as the body: secondly, there is the oily nature, which is smooth and divides the visual
ray, and for this reason is bright and shining and of a glistening appearance, including
pitch, the juice of the castor berry, oil itself, and other things of a like kind: thirdly, there
is the class of substances which expand the contracted parts of the mouth, until they
return to their natural state, and by reason of this property create sweetness;—these are
included under the general name of honey: and, lastly, there is a frothy nature, which
differs from all juices, having a burning quality which dissolves the flesh; it is called
opos (a vegetable acid).
As to the kinds of earth, that which is filtered through water passes into stone in the
following manner:—The water which mixes with the earth and is broken up in the
process changes into air, and taking this form mounts into its own place. But as there is
no surrounding vacuum it thrusts away the neighbouring air, and this being rendered
heavy, and, when it is displaced, having been poured around the mass of earth, forcibly
compresses it and drives it into the vacant space whence the new air had come up; and
the earth when compressed by the air into an indissoluble union with water becomes
rock. The fairer sort is that which is made up of equal and similar parts and is
transparent; that which has the opposite qualities is inferior. But when all the watery
part is suddenly drawn out by fire, a more brittle substance is formed, to which we give
the name of pottery. Sometimes also moisture may remain, and the earth which has
been fused by fire becomes, when cool, a certain stone of a black colour. A like
separation of the water which had been copiously mingled with them may occur in two
substances composed of finer particles of earth and of a briny nature; out of either of
them a half-solid-body is then formed, soluble in water—the one, soda, which is used for
purging away oil and earth, the other, salt, which harmonizes so well in combinations
pleasing to the palate, and is, as the law testifies, a substance dear to the gods. The
compounds of earth and water are not soluble by water, but by fire only, and for this
reason:—Neither fire nor air melt masses of earth; for their particles, being smaller than
the interstices in its structure, have plenty of room to move without forcing their way,
and so they leave the earth unmelted and undissolved; but particles of water, which are
larger, force a passage, and dissolve and melt the earth. Wherefore earth when not
consolidated by force is dissolved by water only; when consolidated, by nothing but fire;
for this is the only body which can find an entrance. The cohesion of water again, when
very strong, is dissolved by fire only—when weaker, then either by air or fire—the former
entering the interstices, and the latter penetrating even the triangles. But nothing can
dissolve air, when strongly condensed, which does not reach the elements or triangles;
or if not strongly condensed, then only fire can dissolve it. As to bodies composed of
earth and water, while the water occupies the vacant interstices of the earth in them
which are compressed by force, the particles of water which approach them from
without, finding no entrance, flow around the entire mass and leave it undissolved; but
the particles of fire, entering into the interstices of the water, do to the water what water
does to earth and fire to air (The text seems to be corrupt.), and are the sole causes of
the compound body of earth and water liquefying and becoming fluid. Now these bodies
are of two kinds; some of them, such as glass and the fusible sort of stones, have less
water than they have earth; on the other hand, substances of the nature of wax and
incense have more of water entering into their composition.
I have thus shown the various classes of bodies as they are diversified by their forms and
combinations and changes into one another, and now I must endeavour to set forth
their affections and the causes of them. In the first place, the bodies which I have been
describing are necessarily objects of sense. But we have not yet considered the origin of
flesh, or what belongs to flesh, or of that part of the soul which is mortal. And these
things cannot be adequately explained without also explaining the affections which are
concerned with sensation, nor the latter without the former: and yet to explain them
together is hardly possible; for which reason we must assume first one or the other and
afterwards examine the nature of our hypothesis. In order, then, that the affections may
follow regularly after the elements, let us presuppose the existence of body and soul.
First, let us enquire what we mean by saying that fire is hot; and about this we may
reason from the dividing or cutting power which it exercises on our bodies. We all of us
feel that fire is sharp; and we may further consider the fineness of the sides, and the
sharpness of the angles, and the smallness of the particles, and the swiftness of the
motion—all this makes the action of fire violent and sharp, so that it cuts whatever it
meets. And we must not forget that the original figure of fire (i.e. the pyramid), more
than any other form, has a dividing power which cuts our bodies into small pieces
(Kepmatizei), and thus naturally produces that affection which we call heat; and hence
the origin of the name (thepmos, Kepma). Now, the opposite of this is sufficiently
manifest; nevertheless we will not fail to describe it. For the larger particles of moisture
which surround the body, entering in and driving out the lesser, but not being able to
take their places, compress the moist principle in us; and this from being unequal and
disturbed, is forced by them into a state of rest, which is due to equability and
compression. But things which are contracted contrary to nature are by nature at war,
and force themselves apart; and to this war and convulsion the name of shivering and
trembling is given; and the whole affection and the cause of the affection are both
termed cold. That is called hard to which our flesh yields, and soft which yields to our
flesh; and things are also termed hard and soft relatively to one another. That which
yields has a small base; but that which rests on quadrangular bases is firmly posed and
belongs to the class which offers the greatest resistance; so too does that which is the
most compact and therefore most repellent. The nature of the light and the heavy will be
best understood when examined in connexion with our notions of above and below; for
it is quite a mistake to suppose that the universe is parted into two regions, separate
from and opposite to each other, the one a lower to which all things tend which have any
bulk, and an upper to which things only ascend against their will. For as the universe is
in the form of a sphere, all the extremities, being equidistant from the centre, are equally
extremities, and the centre, which is equidistant from them, is equally to be regarded as
the opposite of them all. Such being the nature of the world, when a person says that any
of these points is above or below, may he not be justly charged with using an improper
expression? For the centre of the world cannot be rightly called either above or below,
but is the centre and nothing else; and the circumference is not the centre, and has in no
one part of itself a different relation to the centre from what it has in any of the opposite
parts. Indeed, when it is in every direction similar, how can one rightly give to it names
which imply opposition? For if there were any solid body in equipoise at the centre of
the universe, there would be nothing to draw it to this extreme rather than to that, for
they are all perfectly similar; and if a person were to go round the world in a circle, he
would often, when standing at the antipodes of his former position, speak of the same
point as above and below; for, as I was saying just now, to speak of the whole which is in
the form of a globe as having one part above and another below is not like a sensible
man. The reason why these names are used, and the circumstances under which they are
ordinarily applied by us to the division of the heavens, may be elucidated by the
following supposition:—if a person were to stand in that part of the universe which is the
appointed place of fire, and where there is the great mass of fire to which fiery bodies
gather—if, I say, he were to ascend thither, and, having the power to do this, were to
abstract particles of fire and put them in scales and weigh them, and then, raising the
balance, were to draw the fire by force towards the uncongenial element of the air, it
would be very evident that he could compel the smaller mass more readily than the
larger; for when two things are simultaneously raised by one and the same power, the
smaller body must necessarily yield to the superior power with less reluctance than the
larger; and the larger body is called heavy and said to tend downwards, and the smaller
body is called light and said to tend upwards. And we may detect ourselves who are
upon the earth doing precisely the same thing. For we often separate earthy natures, and
sometimes earth itself, and draw them into the uncongenial element of air by force and
contrary to nature, both clinging to their kindred elements. But that which is smaller
yields to the impulse given by us towards the dissimilar element more easily than the
larger; and so we call the former light, and the place towards which it is impelled we call
above, and the contrary state and place we call heavy and below respectively. Now the
relations of these must necessarily vary, because the principal masses of the different
elements hold opposite positions; for that which is light, heavy, below or above in one
place will be found to be and become contrary and transverse and every way diverse in
relation to that which is light, heavy, below or above in an opposite place. And about all
of them this has to be considered:—that the tendency of each towards its kindred
element makes the body which is moved heavy, and the place towards which the motion
tends below, but things which have an opposite tendency we call by an opposite name.
Such are the causes which we assign to these phenomena. As to the smooth and the
rough, any one who sees them can explain the reason of them to another. For roughness
is hardness mingled with irregularity, and smoothness is produced by the joint effect of
uniformity and density.
The most important of the affections which concern the whole body remains to be
considered—that is, the cause of pleasure and pain in the perceptions of which I have
been speaking, and in all other things which are perceived by sense through the parts of
the body, and have both pains and pleasures attendant on them. Let us imagine the
causes of every affection, whether of sense or not, to be of the following nature,
remembering that we have already distinguished between the nature which is easy and
which is hard to move; for this is the direction in which we must hunt the prey which we
mean to take. A body which is of a nature to be easily moved, on receiving an impression
however slight, spreads abroad the motion in a circle, the parts communicating with
each other, until at last, reaching the principle of mind, they announce the quality of the
agent. But a body of the opposite kind, being immobile, and not extending to the
surrounding region, merely receives the impression, and does not stir any of the
neighbouring parts; and since the parts do not distribute the original impression to
other parts, it has no effect of motion on the whole animal, and therefore produces no
effect on the patient. This is true of the bones and hair and other more earthy parts of
the human body; whereas what was said above relates mainly to sight and hearing,
because they have in them the greatest amount of fire and air. Now we must conceive of
pleasure and pain in this way. An impression produced in us contrary to nature and
violent, if sudden, is painful; and, again, the sudden return to nature is pleasant; but a
gentle and gradual return is imperceptible and vice versa. On the other hand the
impression of sense which is most easily produced is most readily felt, but is not
accompanied by pleasure or pain; such, for example, are the affections of the sight,
which, as we said above, is a body naturally uniting with our body in the day-time; for
cuttings and burnings and other affections which happen to the sight do not give pain,
nor is there pleasure when the sight returns to its natural state; but the sensations are
clearest and strongest according to the manner in which the eye is affected by the object,
and itself strikes and touches it; there is no violence either in the contraction or dilation
of the eye. But bodies formed of larger particles yield to the agent only with a struggle;
and then they impart their motions to the whole and cause pleasure and pain—pain
when alienated from their natural conditions, and pleasure when restored to them.
Things which experience gradual withdrawings and emptyings of their nature, and great
and sudden replenishments, fail to perceive the emptying, but are sensible of the
replenishment; and so they occasion no pain, but the greatest pleasure, to the mortal
part of the soul, as is manifest in the case of perfumes. But things which are changed all
of a sudden, and only gradually and with difficulty return to their own nature, have
effects in every way opposite to the former, as is evident in the case of burnings and
cuttings of the body.
Thus have we discussed the general affections of the whole body, and the names of the
agents which produce them. And now I will endeavour to speak of the affections of
particular parts, and the causes and agents of them, as far as I am able. In the first place
let us set forth what was omitted when we were speaking of juices, concerning the
affections peculiar to the tongue. These too, like most of the other affections, appear to
be caused by certain contractions and dilations, but they have besides more of
roughness and smoothness than is found in other affections; for whenever earthy
particles enter into the small veins which are the testing instruments of the tongue,
reaching to the heart, and fall upon the moist, delicate portions of flesh—when, as they
are dissolved, they contract and dry up the little veins, they are astringent if they are
rougher, but if not so rough, then only harsh. Those of them which are of an abstergent
nature, and purge the whole surface of the tongue, if they do it in excess, and so
encroach as to consume some part of the flesh itself, like potash and soda, are all termed
bitter. But the particles which are deficient in the alkaline quality, and which cleanse
only moderately, are called salt, and having no bitterness or roughness, are regarded as
rather agreeable than otherwise. Bodies which share in and are made smooth by the
heat of the mouth, and which are inflamed, and again in turn inflame that which heats
them, and which are so light that they are carried upwards to the sensations of the head,
and cut all that comes in their way, by reason of these qualities in them, are all termed
pungent. But when these same particles, refined by putrefaction, enter into the narrow
veins, and are duly proportioned to the particles of earth and air which are there, they
set them whirling about one another, and while they are in a whirl cause them to dash
against and enter into one another, and so form hollows surrounding the particles that
enter—which watery vessels of air (for a film of moisture, sometimes earthy, sometimes
pure, is spread around the air) are hollow spheres of water; and those of them which are
pure, are transparent, and are called bubbles, while those composed of the earthy liquid,
which is in a state of general agitation and effervescence, are said to boil or ferment—of
all these affections the cause is termed acid. And there is the opposite affection arising
from an opposite cause, when the mass of entering particles, immersed in the moisture
of the mouth, is congenial to the tongue, and smooths and oils over the roughness, and
relaxes the parts which are unnaturally contracted, and contracts the parts which are
relaxed, and disposes them all according to their nature;—that sort of remedy of violent
affections is pleasant and agreeable to every man, and has the name sweet. But enough
of this.
The faculty of smell does not admit of differences of kind; for all smells are of a halfformed
nature, and no element is so proportioned as to have any smell. The veins about
the nose are too narrow to admit earth and water, and too wide to detain fire and air;
and for this reason no one ever perceives the smell of any of them; but smells always
proceed from bodies that are damp, or putrefying, or liquefying, or evaporating, and are
perceptible only in the intermediate state, when water is changing into air and air into
water; and all of them are either vapour or mist. That which is passing out of air into
water is mist, and that which is passing from water into air is vapour; and hence all
smells are thinner than water and thicker than air. The proof of this is, that when there
is any obstruction to the respiration, and a man draws in his breath by force, then no
smell filters through, but the air without the smell alone penetrates. Wherefore the
varieties of smell have no name, and they have not many, or definite and simple kinds;
but they are distinguished only as painful and pleasant, the one sort irritating and
disturbing the whole cavity which is situated between the head and the navel, the other
having a soothing influence, and restoring this same region to an agreeable and natural
condition.
In considering the third kind of sense, hearing, we must speak of the causes in which it
originates. We may in general assume sound to be a blow which passes through the ears,
and is transmitted by means of the air, the brain, and the blood, to the soul, and that
hearing is the vibration of this blow, which begins in the head and ends in the region of
the liver. The sound which moves swiftly is acute, and the sound which moves slowly is
grave, and that which is regular is equable and smooth, and the reverse is harsh. A great
body of sound is loud, and a small body of sound the reverse. Respecting the harmonies
of sound I must hereafter speak.
There is a fourth class of sensible things, having many intricate varieties, which must
now be distinguished. They are called by the general name of colours, and are a flame
which emanates from every sort of body, and has particles corresponding to the sense of
sight. I have spoken already, in what has preceded, of the causes which generate sight,
and in this place it will be natural and suitable to give a rational theory of colours.
Of the particles coming from other bodies which fall upon the sight, some are smaller
and some are larger, and some are equal to the parts of the sight itself. Those which are
equal are imperceptible, and we call them transparent. The larger produce contraction,
the smaller dilation, in the sight, exercising a power akin to that of hot and cold bodies
on the flesh, or of astringent bodies on the tongue, or of those heating bodies which we
termed pungent. White and black are similar effects of contraction and dilation in
another sphere, and for this reason have a different appearance. Wherefore, we ought to
term white that which dilates the visual ray, and the opposite of this is black. There is
also a swifter motion of a different sort of fire which strikes and dilates the ray of sight
until it reaches the eyes, forcing a way through their passages and melting them, and
eliciting from them a union of fire and water which we call tears, being itself an opposite
fire which comes to them from an opposite direction—the inner fire flashes forth like
lightning, and the outer finds a way in and is extinguished in the moisture, and all sorts
of colours are generated by the mixture. This affection is termed dazzling, and the object
which produces it is called bright and flashing. There is another sort of fire which is
intermediate, and which reaches and mingles with the moisture of the eye without
flashing; and in this, the fire mingling with the ray of the moisture, produces a colour
like blood, to which we give the name of red. A bright hue mingled with red and white
gives the colour called auburn (Greek). The law of proportion, however, according to
which the several colours are formed, even if a man knew he would be foolish in telling,
for he could not give any necessary reason, nor indeed any tolerable or probable
explanation of them. Again, red, when mingled with black and white, becomes purple,
but it becomes umber (Greek) when the colours are burnt as well as mingled and the
black is more thoroughly mixed with them. Flame-colour (Greek) is produced by a union
of auburn and dun (Greek), and dun by an admixture of black and white; pale yellow
(Greek), by an admixture of white and auburn. White and bright meeting, and falling
upon a full black, become dark blue (Greek), and when dark blue mingles with white, a
light blue (Greek) colour is formed, as flame-colour with black makes leek green
(Greek). There will be no difficulty in seeing how and by what mixtures the colours
derived from these are made according to the rules of probability. He, however, who
should attempt to verify all this by experiment, would forget the difference of the human
and divine nature. For God only has the knowledge and also the power which are able to
combine many things into one and again resolve the one into many. But no man either is
or ever will be able to accomplish either the one or the other operation.
These are the elements, thus of necessity then subsisting, which the creator of the fairest
and best of created things associated with himself, when he made the self-sufficing and
most perfect God, using the necessary causes as his ministers in the accomplishment of
his work, but himself contriving the good in all his creations. Wherefore we may
distinguish two sorts of causes, the one divine and the other necessary, and may seek for
the divine in all things, as far as our nature admits, with a view to the blessed life; but
the necessary kind only for the sake of the divine, considering that without them and
when isolated from them, these higher things for which we look cannot be apprehended
or received or in any way shared by us.
Seeing, then, that we have now prepared for our use the various classes of causes which
are the material out of which the remainder of our discourse must be woven, just as
wood is the material of the carpenter, let us revert in a few words to the point at which
we began, and then endeavour to add on a suitable ending to the beginning of our tale.
As I said at first, when all things were in disorder God created in each thing in relation
to itself, and in all things in relation to each other, all the measures and harmonies
which they could possibly receive. For in those days nothing had any proportion except
by accident; nor did any of the things which now have names deserve to be named at
all—as, for example, fire, water, and the rest of the elements. All these the creator first
set in order, and out of them he constructed the universe, which was a single animal
comprehending in itself all other animals, mortal and immortal. Now of the divine, he
himself was the creator, but the creation of the mortal he committed to his offspring.
And they, imitating him, received from him the immortal principle of the soul; and
around this they proceeded to fashion a mortal body, and made it to be the vehicle of the
soul, and constructed within the body a soul of another nature which was mortal,
subject to terrible and irresistible affections,—first of all, pleasure, the greatest
incitement to evil; then, pain, which deters from good; also rashness and fear, two
foolish counsellors, anger hard to be appeased, and hope easily led astray;—these they
mingled with irrational sense and with all-daring love according to necessary laws, and
so framed man. Wherefore, fearing to pollute the divine any more than was absolutely
unavoidable, they gave to the mortal nature a separate habitation in another part of the
body, placing the neck between them to be the isthmus and boundary, which they
constructed between the head and breast, to keep them apart. And in the breast, and in
what is termed the thorax, they encased the mortal soul; and as the one part of this was
superior and the other inferior they divided the cavity of the thorax into two parts, as the
women’s and men’s apartments are divided in houses, and placed the midriff to be a
wall of partition between them. That part of the inferior soul which is endowed with
courage and passion and loves contention they settled nearer the head, midway between
the midriff and the neck, in order that it might be under the rule of reason and might
join with it in controlling and restraining the desires when they are no longer willing of
their own accord to obey the word of command issuing from the citadel.
The heart, the knot of the veins and the fountain of the blood which races through all the
limbs, was set in the place of guard, that when the might of passion was roused by
reason making proclamation of any wrong assailing them from without or being
perpetrated by the desires within, quickly the whole power of feeling in the body,
perceiving these commands and threats, might obey and follow through every turn and
alley, and thus allow the principle of the best to have the command in all of them. But
the gods, foreknowing that the palpitation of the heart in the expectation of danger and
the swelling and excitement of passion was caused by fire, formed and implanted as a
supporter to the heart the lung, which was, in the first place, soft and bloodless, and also
had within hollows like the pores of a sponge, in order that by receiving the breath and
the drink, it might give coolness and the power of respiration and alleviate the heat.
Wherefore they cut the air-channels leading to the lung, and placed the lung about the
heart as a soft spring, that, when passion was rife within, the heart, beating against a
yielding body, might be cooled and suffer less, and might thus become more ready to
join with passion in the service of reason.
The part of the soul which desires meats and drinks and the other things of which it has
need by reason of the bodily nature, they placed between the midriff and the boundary
of the navel, contriving in all this region a sort of manger for the food of the body; and
there they bound it down like a wild animal which was chained up with man, and must
be nourished if man was to exist. They appointed this lower creation his place here in
order that he might be always feeding at the manger, and have his dwelling as far as
might be from the council-chamber, making as little noise and disturbance as possible,
and permitting the best part to advise quietly for the good of the whole. And knowing
that this lower principle in man would not comprehend reason, and even if attaining to
some degree of perception would never naturally care for rational notions, but that it
would be led away by phantoms and visions night and day,—to be a remedy for this, God
combined with it the liver, and placed it in the house of the lower nature, contriving that
it should be solid and smooth, and bright and sweet, and should also have a bitter
quality, in order that the power of thought, which proceeds from the mind, might be
reflected as in a mirror which receives likenesses of objects and gives back images of
them to the sight; and so might strike terror into the desires, when, making use of the
bitter part of the liver, to which it is akin, it comes threatening and invading, and
diffusing this bitter element swiftly through the whole liver produces colours like bile,
and contracting every part makes it wrinkled and rough; and twisting out of its right
place and contorting the lobe and closing and shutting up the vessels and gates, causes
pain and loathing. And the converse happens when some gentle inspiration of the
understanding pictures images of an opposite character, and allays the bile and
bitterness by refusing to stir or touch the nature opposed to itself, but by making use of
the natural sweetness of the liver, corrects all things and makes them to be right and
smooth and free, and renders the portion of the soul which resides about the liver happy
and joyful, enabling it to pass the night in peace, and to practise divination in sleep,
inasmuch as it has no share in mind and reason. For the authors of our being,
remembering the command of their father when he bade them create the human race as
good as they could, that they might correct our inferior parts and make them to attain a
measure of truth, placed in the liver the seat of divination. And herein is a proof that
God has given the art of divination not to the wisdom, but to the foolishness of man. No
man, when in his wits, attains prophetic truth and inspiration; but when he receives the
inspired word, either his intelligence is enthralled in sleep, or he is demented by some
distemper or possession. And he who would understand what he remembers to have
been said, whether in a dream or when he was awake, by the prophetic and inspired
nature, or would determine by reason the meaning of the apparitions which he has seen,
and what indications they afford to this man or that, of past, present or future good and
evil, must first recover his wits. But, while he continues demented, he cannot judge of
the visions which he sees or the words which he utters; the ancient saying is very true,
that ‘only a man who has his wits can act or judge about himself and his own affairs.’
And for this reason it is customary to appoint interpreters to be judges of the true
inspiration. Some persons call them prophets; they are quite unaware that they are only
the expositors of dark sayings and visions, and are not to be called prophets at all, but
only interpreters of prophecy.
Such is the nature of the liver, which is placed as we have described in order that it may
give prophetic intimations. During the life of each individual these intimations are
plainer, but after his death the liver becomes blind, and delivers oracles too obscure to
be intelligible. The neighbouring organ (the spleen) is situated on the left-hand side, and
is constructed with a view of keeping the liver bright and pure,—like a napkin, always
ready prepared and at hand to clean the mirror. And hence, when any impurities arise in
the region of the liver by reason of disorders of the body, the loose nature of the spleen,
which is composed of a hollow and bloodless tissue, receives them all and clears them
away, and when filled with the unclean matter, swells and festers, but, again, when the
body is purged, settles down into the same place as before, and is humbled.
Concerning the soul, as to which part is mortal and which divine, and how and why they
are separated, and where located, if God acknowledges that we have spoken the truth,
then, and then only, can we be confident; still, we may venture to assert that what has
been said by us is probable, and will be rendered more probable by investigation. Let us
assume thus much.
The creation of the rest of the body follows next in order, and this we may investigate in
a similar manner. And it appears to be very meet that the body should be framed on the
following principles:—
The authors of our race were aware that we should be intemperate in eating and
drinking, and take a good deal more than was necessary or proper, by reason of
gluttony. In order then that disease might not quickly destroy us, and lest our mortal
race should perish without fulfilling its end— intending to provide against this, the gods
made what is called the lower belly, to be a receptacle for the superfluous meat and
drink, and formed the convolution of the bowels, so that the food might be prevented
from passing quickly through and compelling the body to require more food, thus
producing insatiable gluttony, and making the whole race an enemy to philosophy and
music, and rebellious against the divinest element within us.
The bones and flesh, and other similar parts of us, were made as follows. The first
principle of all of them was the generation of the marrow. For the bonds of life which
unite the soul with the body are made fast there, and they are the root and foundation of
the human race. The marrow itself is created out of other materials: God took such of
the primary triangles as were straight and smooth, and were adapted by their perfection
to produce fire and water, and air and earth—these, I say, he separated from their kinds,
and mingling them in due proportions with one another, made the marrow out of them
to be a universal seed of the whole race of mankind; and in this seed he then planted and
enclosed the souls, and in the original distribution gave to the marrow as many and
various forms as the different kinds of souls were hereafter to receive. That which, like a
field, was to receive the divine seed, he made round every way, and called that portion of
the marrow, brain, intending that, when an animal was perfected, the vessel containing
this substance should be the head; but that which was intended to contain the remaining
and mortal part of the soul he distributed into figures at once round and elongated, and
he called them all by the name ‘marrow’; and to these, as to anchors, fastening the bonds
of the whole soul, he proceeded to fashion around them the entire framework of our
body, constructing for the marrow, first of all a complete covering of bone.
Bone was composed by him in the following manner. Having sifted pure and smooth
earth he kneaded it and wetted it with marrow, and after that he put it into fire and then
into water, and once more into fire and again into water—in this way by frequent
transfers from one to the other he made it insoluble by either. Out of this he fashioned,
as in a lathe, a globe made of bone, which he placed around the brain, and in this he left
a narrow opening; and around the marrow of the neck and back he formed vertebrae
which he placed under one another like pivots, beginning at the head and extending
through the whole of the trunk. Thus wishing to preserve the entire seed, he enclosed it
in a stone-like casing, inserting joints, and using in the formation of them the power of
the other or diverse as an intermediate nature, that they might have motion and flexure.
Then again, considering that the bone would be too brittle and inflexible, and when
heated and again cooled would soon mortify and destroy the seed within— having this in
view, he contrived the sinews and the flesh, that so binding all the members together by
the sinews, which admitted of being stretched and relaxed about the vertebrae, he might
thus make the body capable of flexion and extension, while the flesh would serve as a
protection against the summer heat and against the winter cold, and also against falls,
softly and easily yielding to external bodies, like articles made of felt; and containing in
itself a warm moisture which in summer exudes and makes the surface damp, would
impart a natural coolness to the whole body; and again in winter by the help of this
internal warmth would form a very tolerable defence against the frost which surrounds
it and attacks it from without. He who modelled us, considering these things, mixed
earth with fire and water and blended them; and making a ferment of acid and salt, he
mingled it with them and formed soft and succulent flesh. As for the sinews, he made
them of a mixture of bone and unfermented flesh, attempered so as to be in a mean, and
gave them a yellow colour; wherefore the sinews have a firmer and more glutinous
nature than flesh, but a softer and moister nature than the bones. With these God
covered the bones and marrow, binding them together by sinews, and then enshrouded
them all in an upper covering of flesh. The more living and sensitive of the bones he
enclosed in the thinnest film of flesh, and those which had the least life within them in
the thickest and most solid flesh. So again on the joints of the bones, where reason
indicated that no more was required, he placed only a thin covering of flesh, that it
might not interfere with the flexion of our bodies and make them unwieldy because
difficult to move; and also that it might not, by being crowded and pressed and matted
together, destroy sensation by reason of its hardness, and impair the memory and dull
the edge of intelligence. Wherefore also the thighs and the shanks and the hips, and the
bones of the arms and the forearms, and other parts which have no joints, and the inner
bones, which on account of the rarity of the soul in the marrow are destitute of reason—
all these are abundantly provided with flesh; but such as have mind in them are in
general less fleshy, except where the creator has made some part solely of flesh in order
to give sensation,—as, for example, the tongue. But commonly this is not the case. For
the nature which comes into being and grows up in us by a law of necessity, does not
admit of the combination of solid bone and much flesh with acute perceptions. More
than any other part the framework of the head would have had them, if they could have
co-existed, and the human race, having a strong and fleshy and sinewy head, would have
had a life twice or many times as long as it now has, and also more healthy and free from
pain. But our creators, considering whether they should make a longer-lived race which
was worse, or a shorter-lived race which was better, came to the conclusion that every
one ought to prefer a shorter span of life, which was better, to a longer one, which was
worse; and therefore they covered the head with thin bone, but not with flesh and
sinews, since it had no joints; and thus the head was added, having more wisdom and
sensation than the rest of the body, but also being in every man far weaker. For these
reasons and after this manner God placed the sinews at the extremity of the head, in a
circle round the neck, and glued them together by the principle of likeness and fastened
the extremities of the jawbones to them below the face, and the other sinews he
dispersed throughout the body, fastening limb to limb. The framers of us framed the
mouth, as now arranged, having teeth and tongue and lips, with a view to the necessary
and the good contriving the way in for necessary purposes, the way out for the best
purposes; for that is necessary which enters in and gives food to the body; but the river
of speech, which flows out of a man and ministers to the intelligence, is the fairest and
noblest of all streams. Still the head could neither be left a bare frame of bones, on
account of the extremes of heat and cold in the different seasons, nor yet be allowed to
be wholly covered, and so become dull and senseless by reason of an overgrowth of
flesh. The fleshy nature was not therefore wholly dried up, but a large sort of peel was
parted off and remained over, which is now called the skin. This met and grew by the
help of the cerebral moisture, and became the circular envelopment of the head. And the
moisture, rising up under the sutures, watered and closed in the skin upon the crown,
forming a sort of knot. The diversity of the sutures was caused by the power of the
courses of the soul and of the food, and the more these struggled against one another the
more numerous they became, and fewer if the struggle were less violent. This skin the
divine power pierced all round with fire, and out of the punctures which were thus made
the moisture issued forth, and the liquid and heat which was pure came away, and a
mixed part which was composed of the same material as the skin, and had a fineness
equal to the punctures, was borne up by its own impulse and extended far outside the
head, but being too slow to escape, was thrust back by the external air, and rolled up
underneath the skin, where it took root. Thus the hair sprang up in the skin, being akin
to it because it is like threads of leather, but rendered harder and closer through the
pressure of the cold, by which each hair, while in process of separation from the skin, is
compressed and cooled. Wherefore the creator formed the head hairy, making use of the
causes which I have mentioned, and reflecting also that instead of flesh the brain needed
the hair to be a light covering or guard, which would give shade in summer and shelter
in winter, and at the same time would not impede our quickness of perception. From the
combination of sinew, skin, and bone, in the structure of the finger, there arises a triple
compound, which, when dried up, takes the form of one hard skin partaking of all three
natures, and was fabricated by these second causes, but designed by mind which is the
principal cause with an eye to the future. For our creators well knew that women and
other animals would some day be framed out of men, and they further knew that many
animals would require the use of nails for many purposes; wherefore they fashioned in
men at their first creation the rudiments of nails. For this purpose and for these reasons
they caused skin, hair, and nails to grow at the extremities of the limbs.
And now that all the parts and members of the mortal animal had come together, since
its life of necessity consisted of fire and breath, and it therefore wasted away by
dissolution and depletion, the gods contrived the following remedy: They mingled a
nature akin to that of man with other forms and perceptions, and thus created another
kind of animal. These are the trees and plants and seeds which have been improved by
cultivation and are now domesticated among us; anciently there were only the wild
kinds, which are older than the cultivated. For everything that partakes of life may be
truly called a living being, and the animal of which we are now speaking partakes of the
third kind of soul, which is said to be seated between the midriff and the navel, having
no part in opinion or reason or mind, but only in feelings of pleasure and pain and the
desires which accompany them. For this nature is always in a passive state, revolving in
and about itself, repelling the motion from without and using its own, and accordingly is
not endowed by nature with the power of observing or reflecting on its own concerns.
Wherefore it lives and does not differ from a living being, but is fixed and rooted in the
same spot, having no power of self-motion.
Now after the superior powers had created all these natures to be food for us who are of
the inferior nature, they cut various channels through the body as through a garden, that
it might be watered as from a running stream. In the first place, they cut two hidden
channels or veins down the back where the skin and the flesh join, which answered
severally to the right and left side of the body. These they let down along the backbone,
so as to have the marrow of generation between them, where it was most likely to
flourish, and in order that the stream coming down from above might flow freely to the
other parts, and equalize the irrigation. In the next place, they divided the veins about
the head, and interlacing them, they sent them in opposite directions; those coming
from the right side they sent to the left of the body, and those from the left they diverted
towards the right, so that they and the skin might together form a bond which should
fasten the head to the body, since the crown of the head was not encircled by sinews;
and also in order that the sensations from both sides might be distributed over the
whole body. And next, they ordered the water-courses of the body in a manner which I
will describe, and which will be more easily understood if we begin by admitting that all
things which have lesser parts retain the greater, but the greater cannot retain the lesser.
Now of all natures fire has the smallest parts, and therefore penetrates through earth
and water and air and their compounds, nor can anything hold it. And a similar
principle applies to the human belly; for when meats and drinks enter it, it holds them,
but it cannot hold air and fire, because the particles of which they consist are smaller
than its own structure.
These elements, therefore, God employed for the sake of distributing moisture from the
belly into the veins, weaving together a network of fire and air like a weel, having at the
entrance two lesser weels; further he constructed one of these with two openings, and
from the lesser weels he extended cords reaching all round to the extremities of the
network. All the interior of the net he made of fire, but the lesser weels and their cavity,
of air. The network he took and spread over the newly-formed animal in the following
manner:—He let the lesser weels pass into the mouth; there were two of them, and one
he let down by the air-pipes into the lungs, the other by the side of the air-pipes into the
belly. The former he divided into two branches, both of which he made to meet at the
channels of the nose, so that when the way through the mouth did not act, the streams
of the mouth as well were replenished through the nose. With the other cavity (i.e. of the
greater weel) he enveloped the hollow parts of the body, and at one time he made all this
to flow into the lesser weels, quite gently, for they are composed of air, and at another
time he caused the lesser weels to flow back again; and the net he made to find a way in
and out through the pores of the body, and the rays of fire which are bound fast within
followed the passage of the air either way, never at any time ceasing so long as the
mortal being holds together. This process, as we affirm, the name-giver named
inspiration and expiration. And all this movement, active as well as passive, takes place
in order that the body, being watered and cooled, may receive nourishment and life; for
when the respiration is going in and out, and the fire, which is fast bound within, follows
it, and ever and anon moving to and fro, enters through the belly and reaches the meat
and drink, it dissolves them, and dividing them into small portions and guiding them
through the passages where it goes, pumps them as from a fountain into the channels of
the veins, and makes the stream of the veins flow through the body as through a
conduit.
Let us once more consider the phenomena of respiration, and enquire into the causes
which have made it what it is. They are as follows:—Seeing that there is no such thing as
a vacuum into which any of those things which are moved can enter, and the breath is
carried from us into the external air, the next point is, as will be clear to every one, that
it does not go into a vacant space, but pushes its neighbour out of its place, and that
which is thrust out in turn drives out its neighbour; and in this way everything of
necessity at last comes round to that place from whence the breath came forth, and
enters in there, and following the breath, fills up the vacant space; and this goes on like
the rotation of a wheel, because there can be no such thing as a vacuum. Wherefore also
the breast and the lungs, when they emit the breath, are replenished by the air which
surrounds the body and which enters in through the pores of the flesh and is driven
round in a circle; and again, the air which is sent away and passes out through the body
forces the breath inwards through the passage of the mouth and the nostrils. Now the
origin of this movement may be supposed to be as follows. In the interior of every
animal the hottest part is that which is around the blood and veins; it is in a manner an
internal fountain of fire, which we compare to the network of a creel, being woven all of
fire and extended through the centre of the body, while the outer parts are composed of
air. Now we must admit that heat naturally proceeds outward to its own place and to its
kindred element; and as there are two exits for the heat, the one out through the body,
and the other through the mouth and nostrils, when it moves towards the one, it drives
round the air at the other, and that which is driven round falls into the fire and becomes
warm, and that which goes forth is cooled. But when the heat changes its place, and the
particles at the other exit grow warmer, the hotter air inclining in that direction and
carried towards its native element, fire, pushes round the air at the other; and this being
affected in the same way and communicating the same impulse, a circular motion
swaying to and fro is produced by the double process, which we call inspiration and
expiration.
The phenomena of medical cupping-glasses and of the swallowing of drink and of the
projection of bodies, whether discharged in the air or bowled along the ground, are to be
investigated on a similar principle; and swift and slow sounds, which appear to be high
and low, and are sometimes discordant on account of their inequality, and then again
harmonical on account of the equality of the motion which they excite in us. For when
the motions of the antecedent swifter sounds begin to pause and the two are equalized,
the slower sounds overtake the swifter and then propel them. When they overtake them
they do not intrude a new and discordant motion, but introduce the beginnings of a
slower, which answers to the swifter as it dies away, thus producing a single mixed
expression out of high and low, whence arises a pleasure which even the unwise feel,
and which to the wise becomes a higher sort of delight, being an imitation of divine
harmony in mortal motions. Moreover, as to the flowing of water, the fall of the
thunderbolt, and the marvels that are observed about the attraction of amber and the
Heraclean stones,—in none of these cases is there any attraction; but he who
investigates rightly, will find that such wonderful phenomena are attributable to the
combination of certain conditions—the non-existence of a vacuum, the fact that objects
push one another round, and that they change places, passing severally into their proper
positions as they are divided or combined.
Such as we have seen, is the nature and such are the causes of respiration, —the subject
in which this discussion originated. For the fire cuts the food and following the breath
surges up within, fire and breath rising together and filling the veins by drawing up out
of the belly and pouring into them the cut portions of the food; and so the streams of
food are kept flowing through the whole body in all animals. And fresh cuttings from
kindred substances, whether the fruits of the earth or herb of the field, which God
planted to be our daily food, acquire all sorts of colours by their inter-mixture; but red is
the most pervading of them, being created by the cutting action of fire and by the
impression which it makes on a moist substance; and hence the liquid which circulates
in the body has a colour such as we have described. The liquid itself we call blood, which
nourishes the flesh and the whole body, whence all parts are watered and empty places
filled.
Now the process of repletion and evacuation is effected after the manner of the universal
motion by which all kindred substances are drawn towards one another. For the
external elements which surround us are always causing us to consume away, and
distributing and sending off like to like; the particles of blood, too, which are divided
and contained within the frame of the animal as in a sort of heaven, are compelled to
imitate the motion of the universe. Each, therefore, of the divided parts within us, being
carried to its kindred nature, replenishes the void. When more is taken away than flows
in, then we decay, and when less, we grow and increase.
The frame of the entire creature when young has the triangles of each kind new, and
may be compared to the keel of a vessel which is just off the stocks; they are locked
firmly together and yet the whole mass is soft and delicate, being freshly formed of
marrow and nurtured on milk. Now when the triangles out of which meats and drinks
are composed come in from without, and are comprehended in the body, being older
and weaker than the triangles already there, the frame of the body gets the better of
them and its newer triangles cut them up, and so the animal grows great, being
nourished by a multitude of similar particles. But when the roots of the triangles are
loosened by having undergone many conflicts with many things in the course of time,
they are no longer able to cut or assimilate the food which enters, but are themselves
easily divided by the bodies which come in from without. In this way every animal is
overcome and decays, and this affection is called old age. And at last, when the bonds by
which the triangles of the marrow are united no longer hold, and are parted by the strain
of existence, they in turn loosen the bonds of the soul, and she, obtaining a natural
release, flies away with joy. For that which takes place according to nature is pleasant,
but that which is contrary to nature is painful. And thus death, if caused by disease or
produced by wounds, is painful and violent; but that sort of death which comes with old
age and fulfils the debt of nature is the easiest of deaths, and is accompanied with
pleasure rather than with pain.
Now every one can see whence diseases arise. There are four natures out of which the
body is compacted, earth and fire and water and air, and the unnatural excess or defect
of these, or the change of any of them from its own natural place into another, or—since
there are more kinds than one of fire and of the other elements—the assumption by any
of these of a wrong kind, or any similar irregularity, produces disorders and diseases; for
when any of them is produced or changed in a manner contrary to nature, the parts
which were previously cool grow warm, and those which were dry become moist, and
the light become heavy, and the heavy light; all sorts of changes occur. For, as we affirm,
a thing can only remain the same with itself, whole and sound, when the same is added
to it, or subtracted from it, in the same respect and in the same manner and in due
proportion; and whatever comes or goes away in violation of these laws causes all
manner of changes and infinite diseases and corruptions. Now there is a second class of
structures which are also natural, and this affords a second opportunity of observing
diseases to him who would understand them. For whereas marrow and bone and flesh
and sinews are composed of the four elements, and the blood, though after another
manner, is likewise formed out of them, most diseases originate in the way which I have
described; but the worst of all owe their severity to the fact that the generation of these
substances proceeds in a wrong order; they are then destroyed. For the natural order is
that the flesh and sinews should be made of blood, the sinews out of the fibres to which
they are akin, and the flesh out of the clots which are formed when the fibres are
separated. And the glutinous and rich matter which comes away from the sinews and
the flesh, not only glues the flesh to the bones, but nourishes and imparts growth to the
bone which surrounds the marrow; and by reason of the solidity of the bones, that which
filters through consists of the purest and smoothest and oiliest sort of triangles,
dropping like dew from the bones and watering the marrow. Now when each process
takes place in this order, health commonly results; when in the opposite order, disease.
For when the flesh becomes decomposed and sends back the wasting substance into the
veins, then an over-supply of blood of diverse kinds, mingling with air in the veins,
having variegated colours and bitter properties, as well as acid and saline qualities,
contains all sorts of bile and serum and phlegm. For all things go the wrong way, and
having become corrupted, first they taint the blood itself, and then ceasing to give
nourishment to the body they are carried along the veins in all directions, no longer
preserving the order of their natural courses, but at war with themselves, because they
receive no good from one another, and are hostile to the abiding constitution of the
body, which they corrupt and dissolve. The oldest part of the flesh which is corrupted,
being hard to decompose, from long burning grows black, and from being everywhere
corroded becomes bitter, and is injurious to every part of the body which is still
uncorrupted. Sometimes, when the bitter element is refined away, the black part
assumes an acidity which takes the place of the bitterness; at other times the bitterness
being tinged with blood has a redder colour; and this, when mixed with black, takes the
hue of grass; and again, an auburn colour mingles with the bitter matter when new flesh
is decomposed by the fire which surrounds the internal flame;—to all which symptoms
some physician perhaps, or rather some philosopher, who had the power of seeing in
many dissimilar things one nature deserving of a name, has assigned the common name
of bile. But the other kinds of bile are variously distinguished by their colours. As for
serum, that sort which is the watery part of blood is innocent, but that which is a
secretion of black and acid bile is malignant when mingled by the power of heat with any
salt substance, and is then called acid phlegm. Again, the substance which is formed by
the liquefaction of new and tender flesh when air is present, if inflated and encased in
liquid so as to form bubbles, which separately are invisible owing to their small size, but
when collected are of a bulk which is visible, and have a white colour arising out of the
generation of foam—all this decomposition of tender flesh when intermingled with air is
termed by us white phlegm. And the whey or sediment of newly-formed phlegm is sweat
and tears, and includes the various daily discharges by which the body is purified. Now
all these become causes of disease when the blood is not replenished in a natural
manner by food and drink but gains bulk from opposite sources in violation of the laws
of nature. When the several parts of the flesh are separated by disease, if the foundation
remains, the power of the disorder is only half as great, and there is still a prospect of an
easy recovery; but when that which binds the flesh to the bones is diseased, and no
longer being separated from the muscles and sinews, ceases to give nourishment to the
bone and to unite flesh and bone, and from being oily and smooth and glutinous
becomes rough and salt and dry, owing to bad regimen, then all the substance thus
corrupted crumbles away under the flesh and the sinews, and separates from the bone,
and the fleshy parts fall away from their foundation and leave the sinews bare and full of
brine, and the flesh again gets into the circulation of the blood and makes the
previously-mentioned disorders still greater. And if these bodily affections be severe,
still worse are the prior disorders; as when the bone itself, by reason of the density of the
flesh, does not obtain sufficient air, but becomes mouldy and hot and gangrened and
receives no nutriment, and the natural process is inverted, and the bone crumbling
passes into the food, and the food into the flesh, and the flesh again falling into the
blood makes all maladies that may occur more virulent than those already mentioned.
But the worst case of all is when the marrow is diseased, either from excess or defect;
and this is the cause of the very greatest and most fatal disorders, in which the whole
course of the body is reversed.
There is a third class of diseases which may be conceived of as arising in three ways; for
they are produced sometimes by wind, and sometimes by phlegm, and sometimes by
bile. When the lung, which is the dispenser of the air to the body, is obstructed by
rheums and its passages are not free, some of them not acting, while through others too
much air enters, then the parts which are unrefreshed by air corrode, while in other
parts the excess of air forcing its way through the veins distorts them and decomposing
the body is enclosed in the midst of it and occupies the midriff; thus numberless painful
diseases are produced, accompanied by copious sweats. And oftentimes when the flesh
is dissolved in the body, wind, generated within and unable to escape, is the source of
quite as much pain as the air coming in from without; but the greatest pain is felt when
the wind gets about the sinews and the veins of the shoulders, and swells them up, and
so twists back the great tendons and the sinews which are connected with them. These
disorders are called tetanus and opisthotonus, by reason of the tension which
accompanies them. The cure of them is difficult; relief is in most cases given by fever
supervening. The white phlegm, though dangerous when detained within by reason of
the air-bubbles, yet if it can communicate with the outside air, is less severe, and only
discolours the body, generating leprous eruptions and similar diseases. When it is
mingled with black bile and dispersed about the courses of the head, which are the
divinest part of us, the attack if coming on in sleep, is not so severe; but when assailing
those who are awake it is hard to be got rid of, and being an affection of a sacred part, is
most justly called sacred. An acid and salt phlegm, again, is the source of all those
diseases which take the form of catarrh, but they have many names because the places
into which they flow are manifold.
Inflammations of the body come from burnings and inflamings, and all of them
originate in bile. When bile finds a means of discharge, it boils up and sends forth all
sorts of tumours; but when imprisoned within, it generates many inflammatory
diseases, above all when mingled with pure blood; since it then displaces the fibres
which are scattered about in the blood and are designed to maintain the balance of rare
and dense, in order that the blood may not be so liquefied by heat as to exude from the
pores of the body, nor again become too dense and thus find a difficulty in circulating
through the veins. The fibres are so constituted as to maintain this balance; and if any
one brings them all together when the blood is dead and in process of cooling, then the
blood which remains becomes fluid, but if they are left alone, they soon congeal by
reason of the surrounding cold. The fibres having this power over the blood, bile, which
is only stale blood, and which from being flesh is dissolved again into blood, at the first
influx coming in little by little, hot and liquid, is congealed by the power of the fibres;
and so congealing and made to cool, it produces internal cold and shuddering. When it
enters with more of a flood and overcomes the fibres by its heat, and boiling up throws
them into disorder, if it have power enough to maintain its supremacy, it penetrates the
marrow and burns up what may be termed the cables of the soul, and sets her free; but
when there is not so much of it, and the body though wasted still holds out, the bile is
itself mastered, and is either utterly banished, or is thrust through the veins into the
lower or upper belly, and is driven out of the body like an exile from a state in which
there has been civil war; whence arise diarrhoeas and dysenteries, and all such
disorders. When the constitution is disordered by excess of fire, continuous heat and
fever are the result; when excess of air is the cause, then the fever is quotidian; when of
water, which is a more sluggish element than either fire or air, then the fever is a tertian;
when of earth, which is the most sluggish of the four, and is only purged away in a fourfold
period, the result is a quartan fever, which can with difficulty be shaken off.
Such is the manner in which diseases of the body arise; the disorders of the soul, which
depend upon the body, originate as follows. We must acknowledge disease of the mind
to be a want of intelligence; and of this there are two kinds; to wit, madness and
ignorance. In whatever state a man experiences either of them, that state may be called
disease; and excessive pains and pleasures are justly to be regarded as the greatest
diseases to which the soul is liable. For a man who is in great joy or in great pain, in his
unreasonable eagerness to attain the one and to avoid the other, is not able to see or to
hear anything rightly; but he is mad, and is at the time utterly incapable of any
participation in reason. He who has the seed about the spinal marrow too plentiful and
overflowing, like a tree overladen with fruit, has many throes, and also obtains many
pleasures in his desires and their offspring, and is for the most part of his life deranged,
because his pleasures and pains are so very great; his soul is rendered foolish and
disordered by his body; yet he is regarded not as one diseased, but as one who is
voluntarily bad, which is a mistake. The truth is that the intemperance of love is a
disease of the soul due chiefly to the moisture and fluidity which is produced in one of
the elements by the loose consistency of the bones. And in general, all that which is
termed the incontinence of pleasure and is deemed a reproach under the idea that the
wicked voluntarily do wrong is not justly a matter for reproach. For no man is
voluntarily bad; but the bad become bad by reason of an ill disposition of the body and
bad education, things which are hateful to every man and happen to him against his will.
And in the case of pain too in like manner the soul suffers much evil from the body. For
where the acid and briny phlegm and other bitter and bilious humours wander about in
the body, and find no exit or escape, but are pent up within and mingle their own
vapours with the motions of the soul, and are blended with them, they produce all sorts
of diseases, more or fewer, and in every degree of intensity; and being carried to the
three places of the soul, whichever they may severally assail, they create infinite varieties
of ill-temper and melancholy, of rashness and cowardice, and also of forgetfulness and
stupidity. Further, when to this evil constitution of body evil forms of government are
added and evil discourses are uttered in private as well as in public, and no sort of
instruction is given in youth to cure these evils, then all of us who are bad become bad
from two causes which are entirely beyond our control. In such cases the planters are to
blame rather than the plants, the educators rather than the educated. But however that
may be, we should endeavour as far as we can by education, and studies, and learning,
to avoid vice and attain virtue; this, however, is part of another subject.
There is a corresponding enquiry concerning the mode of treatment by which the mind
and the body are to be preserved, about which it is meet and right that I should say a
word in turn; for it is more our duty to speak of the good than of the evil. Everything
that is good is fair, and the fair is not without proportion, and the animal which is to be
fair must have due proportion. Now we perceive lesser symmetries or proportions and
reason about them, but of the highest and greatest we take no heed; for there is no
proportion or disproportion more productive of health and disease, and virtue and vice,
than that between soul and body. This however we do not perceive, nor do we reflect
that when a weak or small frame is the vehicle of a great and mighty soul, or conversely,
when a little soul is encased in a large body, then the whole animal is not fair, for it lacks
the most important of all symmetries; but the due proportion of mind and body is the
fairest and loveliest of all sights to him who has the seeing eye. Just as a body which has
a leg too long, or which is unsymmetrical in some other respect, is an unpleasant sight,
and also, when doing its share of work, is much distressed and makes convulsive efforts,
and often stumbles through awkwardness, and is the cause of infinite evil to its own
self—in like manner we should conceive of the double nature which we call the living
being; and when in this compound there is an impassioned soul more powerful than the
body, that soul, I say, convulses and fills with disorders the whole inner nature of man;
and when eager in the pursuit of some sort of learning or study, causes wasting; or
again, when teaching or disputing in private or in public, and strifes and controversies
arise, inflames and dissolves the composite frame of man and introduces rheums; and
the nature of this phenomenon is not understood by most professors of medicine, who
ascribe it to the opposite of the real cause. And once more, when a body large and too
strong for the soul is united to a small and weak intelligence, then inasmuch as there are
two desires natural to man,—one of food for the sake of the body, and one of wisdom for
the sake of the diviner part of us—then, I say, the motions of the stronger, getting the
better and increasing their own power, but making the soul dull, and stupid, and
forgetful, engender ignorance, which is the greatest of diseases. There is one protection
against both kinds of disproportion:— that we should not move the body without the
soul or the soul without the body, and thus they will be on their guard against each
other, and be healthy and well balanced. And therefore the mathematician or any one
else whose thoughts are much absorbed in some intellectual pursuit, must allow his
body also to have due exercise, and practise gymnastic; and he who is careful to fashion
the body, should in turn impart to the soul its proper motions, and should cultivate
music and all philosophy, if he would deserve to be called truly fair and truly good. And
the separate parts should be treated in the same manner, in imitation of the pattern of
the universe; for as the body is heated and also cooled within by the elements which
enter into it, and is again dried up and moistened by external things, and experiences
these and the like affections from both kinds of motions, the result is that the body if
given up to motion when in a state of quiescence is overmastered and perishes; but if
any one, in imitation of that which we call the foster-mother and nurse of the universe,
will not allow the body ever to be inactive, but is always producing motions and
agitations through its whole extent, which form the natural defence against other
motions both internal and external, and by moderate exercise reduces to order
according to their affinities the particles and affections which are wandering about the
body, as we have already said when speaking of the universe, he will not allow enemy
placed by the side of enemy to stir up wars and disorders in the body, but he will place
friend by the side of friend, so as to create health. Now of all motions that is the best
which is produced in a thing by itself, for it is most akin to the motion of thought and of
the universe; but that motion which is caused by others is not so good, and worst of all is
that which moves the body, when at rest, in parts only and by some external agency.
Wherefore of all modes of purifying and re- uniting the body the best is gymnastic; the
next best is a surging motion, as in sailing or any other mode of conveyance which is not
fatiguing; the third sort of motion may be of use in a case of extreme necessity, but in
any other will be adopted by no man of sense: I mean the purgative treatment of
physicians; for diseases unless they are very dangerous should not be irritated by
medicines, since every form of disease is in a manner akin to the living being, whose
complex frame has an appointed term of life. For not the whole race only, but each
individual—barring inevitable accidents—comes into the world having a fixed span, and
the triangles in us are originally framed with power to last for a certain time, beyond
which no man can prolong his life. And this holds also of the constitution of diseases; if
any one regardless of the appointed time tries to subdue them by medicine, he only
aggravates and multiplies them. Wherefore we ought always to manage them by
regimen, as far as a man can spare the time, and not provoke a disagreeable enemy by
medicines.
Enough of the composite animal, and of the body which is a part of him, and of the
manner in which a man may train and be trained by himself so as to live most according
to reason: and we must above and before all provide that the element which is to train
him shall be the fairest and best adapted to that purpose. A minute discussion of this
subject would be a serious task; but if, as before, I am to give only an outline, the subject
may not unfitly be summed up as follows.
I have often remarked that there are three kinds of soul located within us, having each of
them motions, and I must now repeat in the fewest words possible, that one part, if
remaining inactive and ceasing from its natural motion, must necessarily become very
weak, but that which is trained and exercised, very strong. Wherefore we should take
care that the movements of the different parts of the soul should be in due proportion.
And we should consider that God gave the sovereign part of the human soul to be the
divinity of each one, being that part which, as we say, dwells at the top of the body, and
inasmuch as we are a plant not of an earthly but of a heavenly growth, raises us from
earth to our kindred who are in heaven. And in this we say truly; for the divine power
suspended the head and root of us from that place where the generation of the soul first
began, and thus made the whole body upright. When a man is always occupied with the
cravings of desire and ambition, and is eagerly striving to satisfy them, all his thoughts
must be mortal, and, as far as it is possible altogether to become such, he must be
mortal every whit, because he has cherished his mortal part. But he who has been
earnest in the love of knowledge and of true wisdom, and has exercised his intellect
more than any other part of him, must have thoughts immortal and divine, if he attain
truth, and in so far as human nature is capable of sharing in immortality, he must
altogether be immortal; and since he is ever cherishing the divine power, and has the
divinity within him in perfect order, he will be perfectly happy. Now there is only one
way of taking care of things, and this is to give to each the food and motion which are
natural to it. And the motions which are naturally akin to the divine principle within us
are the thoughts and revolutions of the universe. These each man should follow, and
correct the courses of the head which were corrupted at our birth, and by learning the
harmonies and revolutions of the universe, should assimilate the thinking being to the
thought, renewing his original nature, and having assimilated them should attain to that
perfect life which the gods have set before mankind, both for the present and the future.
Thus our original design of discoursing about the universe down to the creation of man
is nearly completed. A brief mention may be made of the generation of other animals, so
far as the subject admits of brevity; in this manner our argument will best attain a due
proportion. On the subject of animals, then, the following remarks may be offered. Of
the men who came into the world, those who were cowards or led unrighteous lives may
with reason be supposed to have changed into the nature of women in the second
generation. And this was the reason why at that time the gods created in us the desire of
sexual intercourse, contriving in man one animated substance, and in woman another,
which they formed respectively in the following manner. The outlet for drink by which
liquids pass through the lung under the kidneys and into the bladder, which receives
and then by the pressure of the air emits them, was so fashioned by them as to penetrate
also into the body of the marrow, which passes from the head along the neck and
through the back, and which in the preceding discourse we have named the seed. And
the seed having life, and becoming endowed with respiration, produces in that part in
which it respires a lively desire of emission, and thus creates in us the love of
procreation. Wherefore also in men the organ of generation becoming rebellious and
masterful, like an animal disobedient to reason, and maddened with the sting of lust,
seeks to gain absolute sway; and the same is the case with the so-called womb or matrix
of women; the animal within them is desirous of procreating children, and when
remaining unfruitful long beyond its proper time, gets discontented and angry, and
wandering in every direction through the body, closes up the passages of the breath,
and, by obstructing respiration, drives them to extremity, causing all varieties of disease,
until at length the desire and love of the man and the woman, bringing them together
and as it were plucking the fruit from the tree, sow in the womb, as in a field, animals
unseen by reason of their smallness and without form; these again are separated and
matured within; they are then finally brought out into the light, and thus the generation
of animals is completed.
Thus were created women and the female sex in general. But the race of birds was
created out of innocent light-minded men, who, although their minds were directed
toward heaven, imagined, in their simplicity, that the clearest demonstration of the
things above was to be obtained by sight; these were remodelled and transformed into
birds, and they grew feathers instead of hair. The race of wild pedestrian animals, again,
came from those who had no philosophy in any of their thoughts, and never considered
at all about the nature of the heavens, because they had ceased to use the courses of the
head, but followed the guidance of those parts of the soul which are in the breast. In
consequence of these habits of theirs they had their front-legs and their heads resting
upon the earth to which they were drawn by natural affinity; and the crowns of their
heads were elongated and of all sorts of shapes, into which the courses of the soul were
crushed by reason of disuse. And this was the reason why they were created quadrupeds
and polypods: God gave the more senseless of them the more support that they might be
more attracted to the earth. And the most foolish of them, who trail their bodies entirely
upon the ground and have no longer any need of feet, he made without feet to crawl
upon the earth. The fourth class were the inhabitants of the water: these were made out
of the most entirely senseless and ignorant of all, whom the transformers did not think
any longer worthy of pure respiration, because they possessed a soul which was made
impure by all sorts of transgression; and instead of the subtle and pure medium of air,
they gave them the deep and muddy sea to be their element of respiration; and hence
arose the race of fishes and oysters, and other aquatic animals, which have received the
most remote habitations as a punishment of their outlandish ignorance. These are the
laws by which animals pass into one another, now, as ever, changing as they lose or gain
wisdom and folly.
We may now say that our discourse about the nature of the universe has an end. The
world has received animals, mortal and immortal, and is fulfilled with them, and has
become a visible animal containing the visible—the sensible God who is the image of the
intellectual, the greatest, best, fairest, most perfect—the one only-begotten heaven.

THE END

CRITIAS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT

Introduction and Analysis.
The Critias is a fragment which breaks off in the middle of a sentence. It was designed to
be the second part of a trilogy, which, like the other great Platonic trilogy of the Sophist,
Statesman, Philosopher, was never completed. Timaeus had brought down the origin of
the world to the creation of man, and the dawn of history was now to succeed the
philosophy of nature. The Critias is also connected with the Republic. Plato, as he has
already told us (Tim.), intended to represent the ideal state engaged in a patriotic
conflict. This mythical conflict is prophetic or symbolical of the struggle of Athens and
Persia, perhaps in some degree also of the wars of the Greeks and Carthaginians, in the
same way that the Persian is prefigured by the Trojan war to the mind of Herodotus, or
as the narrative of the first part of the Aeneid is intended by Virgil to foreshadow the
wars of Carthage and Rome. The small number of the primitive Athenian citizens
(20,000), ‘which is about their present number’ (Crit.), is evidently designed to contrast
with the myriads and barbaric array of the Atlantic hosts. The passing remark in the
Timaeus that Athens was left alone in the struggle, in which she conquered and became
the liberator of Greece, is also an allusion to the later history. Hence we may safely
conclude that the entire narrative is due to the imagination of Plato, who has used the
name of Solon and introduced the Egyptian priests to give verisimilitude to his story. To
the Greek such a tale, like that of the earth-born men, would have seemed perfectly
accordant with the character of his mythology, and not more marvellous than the
wonders of the East narrated by Herodotus and others: he might have been deceived
into believing it. But it appears strange that later ages should have been imposed upon
by the fiction. As many attempts have been made to find the great island of Atlantis, as
to discover the country of the lost tribes. Without regard to the description of Plato, and
without a suspicion that the whole narrative is a fabrication, interpreters have looked for
the spot in every part of the globe, America, Arabia Felix, Ceylon, Palestine, Sardinia,
Sweden.
Timaeus concludes with a prayer that his words may be acceptable to the God whom he
has revealed, and Critias, whose turn follows, begs that a larger measure of indulgence
may be conceded to him, because he has to speak of men whom we know and not of
gods whom we do not know. Socrates readily grants his request, and anticipating that
Hermocrates will make a similar petition, extends by anticipation a like indulgence to
him.
Critias returns to his story, professing only to repeat what Solon was told by the priests.
The war of which he was about to speak had occurred 9000 years ago. One of the
combatants was the city of Athens, the other was the great island of Atlantis. Critias
proposes to speak of these rival powers first of all, giving to Athens the precedence; the
various tribes of Greeks and barbarians who took part in the war will be dealt with as
they successively appear on the scene.
In the beginning the gods agreed to divide the earth by lot in a friendly manner, and
when they had made the allotment they settled their several countries, and were the
shepherds or rather the pilots of mankind, whom they guided by persuasion, and not by
force. Hephaestus and Athena, brother and sister deities, in mind and art united,
obtained as their lot the land of Attica, a land suited to the growth of virtue and wisdom;
and there they settled a brave race of children of the soil, and taught them how to order
the state. Some of their names, such as Cecrops, Erechtheus, Erichthonius, and
Erysichthon, were preserved and adopted in later times, but the memory of their deeds
has passed away; for there have since been many deluges, and the remnant who
survived in the mountains were ignorant of the art of writing, and during many
generations were wholly devoted to acquiring the means of life...And the armed image of
the goddess which was dedicated by the ancient Athenians is an evidence to other ages
that men and women had in those days, as they ought always to have, common virtues
and pursuits. There were various classes of citizens, including handicraftsmen and
husbandmen and a superior class of warriors who dwelt apart, and were educated, and
had all things in common, like our guardians. Attica in those days extended southwards
to the Isthmus, and inland to the heights of Parnes and Cithaeron, and between them
and the sea included the district of Oropus. The country was then, as what remains of it
still is, the most fertile in the world, and abounded in rich plains and pastures. But in
the course of ages much of the soil was washed away and disappeared in the deep sea.
And the inhabitants of this fair land were endowed with intelligence and the love of
beauty.
The Acropolis of the ancient Athens extended to the Ilissus and Eridanus, and included
the Pnyx, and the Lycabettus on the opposite side to the Pnyx, having a level surface and
deep soil. The side of the hill was inhabited by craftsmen and husbandmen; and the
warriors dwelt by themselves on the summit, around the temples of Hephaestus and
Athene, in an enclosure which was like the garden of a single house. In winter they
retired into houses on the north of the hill, in which they held their syssitia. These were
modest dwellings, which they bequeathed unaltered to their children’s children. In
summer time the south side was inhabited by them, and then they left their gardens and
dining-halls. In the midst of the Acropolis was a fountain, which gave an abundant
supply of cool water in summer and warm in winter; of this there are still some traces.
They were careful to preserve the number of fighting men and women at 20,000, which
is equal to that of the present military force. And so they passed their lives as guardians
of the citizens and leaders of the Hellenes. They were a just and famous race, celebrated
for their beauty and virtue all over Europe and Asia.
And now I will speak to you of their adversaries, but first I ought to explain that the
Greek names were given to Solon in an Egyptian form, and he enquired their meaning
and translated them. His manuscript was left with my grandfather Dropides, and is now
in my possession...In the division of the earth Poseidon obtained as his portion the
island of Atlantis, and there he begat children whose mother was a mortal. Towards the
sea and in the centre of the island there was a very fair and fertile plain, and near the
centre, about fifty stadia from the plain, there was a low mountain in which dwelt a man
named Evenor and his wife Leucippe, and their daughter Cleito, of whom Poseidon
became enamoured. He to secure his love enclosed the mountain with rings or zones
varying in size, two of land and three of sea, which his divine power readily enabled him
to excavate and fashion, and, as there was no shipping in those days, no man could get
into the place. To the interior island he conveyed under the earth springs of water hot
and cold, and supplied the land with all things needed for the life of man. Here he begat
a family consisting of five pairs of twin male children. The eldest was Atlas, and him he
made king of the centre island, while to his twin brother, Eumelus, or Gadeirus, he
assigned that part of the country which was nearest the Straits. The other brothers he
made chiefs over the rest of the island. And their kingdom extended as far as Egypt and
Tyrrhenia. Now Atlas had a fair posterity, and great treasures derived from mines—
among them that precious metal orichalcum; and there was abundance of wood, and
herds of elephants, and pastures for animals of all kinds, and fragrant herbs, and
grasses, and trees bearing fruit. These they used, and employed themselves in
constructing their temples, and palaces, and harbours, and docks, in the following
manner:—First, they bridged over the zones of sea, and made a way to and from the
royal palace which they built in the centre island. This ancient palace was ornamented
by successive generations; and they dug a canal which passed through the zones of land
from the island to the sea. The zones of earth were surrounded by walls made of stone of
divers colours, black and white and red, which they sometimes intermingled for the sake
of ornament; and as they quarried they hollowed out beneath the edges of the zones
double docks having roofs of rock. The outermost of the walls was coated with brass, the
second with tin, and the third, which was the wall of the citadel, flashed with the red
light of orichalcum. In the interior of the citadel was a holy temple, dedicated to Cleito
and Poseidon, and surrounded by an enclosure of gold, and there was Poseidon’s own
temple, which was covered with silver, and the pinnacles with gold. The roof was of
ivory, adorned with gold and silver and orichalcum, and the rest of the interior was lined
with orichalcum. Within was an image of the god standing in a chariot drawn by six
winged horses, and touching the roof with his head; around him were a hundred
Nereids, riding on dolphins. Outside the temple were placed golden statues of all the
descendants of the ten kings and of their wives; there was an altar too, and there were
palaces, corresponding to the greatness and glory both of the kingdom and of the
temple.
Also there were fountains of hot and cold water, and suitable buildings surrounding
them, and trees, and there were baths both of the kings and of private individuals, and
separate baths for women, and also for cattle. The water from the baths was carried to
the grove of Poseidon, and by aqueducts over the bridges to the outer circles. And there
were temples in the zones, and in the larger of the two there was a racecourse for horses,
which ran all round the island. The guards were distributed in the zones according to the
trust reposed in them; the most trusted of them were stationed in the citadel. The docks
were full of triremes and stores. The land between the harbour and the sea was
surrounded by a wall, and was crowded with dwellings, and the harbour and canal
resounded with the din of human voices.
The plain around the city was highly cultivated and sheltered from the north by
mountains; it was oblong, and where falling out of the straight line followed the circular
ditch, which was of an incredible depth. This depth received the streams which came
down from the mountains, as well as the canals of the interior, and found a way to the
sea. The entire country was divided into sixty thousand lots, each of which was a square
of ten stadia; and the owner of a lot was bound to furnish the sixth part of a war-chariot,
so as to make up ten thousand chariots, two horses and riders upon them, a pair of
chariot-horses without a seat, and an attendant and charioteer, two hoplites, two
archers, two slingers, three stone-shooters, three javelin-men, and four sailors to make
up the complement of twelve hundred ships.
Each of the ten kings was absolute in his own city and kingdom. The relations of the
different governments to one another were determined by the injunctions of Poseidon,
which had been inscribed by the first kings on a column of orichalcum in the temple of
Poseidon, at which the kings and princes gathered together and held a festival every fifth
and every sixth year alternately. Around the temple ranged the bulls of Poseidon, one of
which the ten kings caught and sacrificed, shedding the blood of the victim over the
inscription, and vowing not to transgress the laws of their father Poseidon. When night
came, they put on azure robes and gave judgment against offenders. The most important
of their laws related to their dealings with one another. They were not to take up arms
against one another, and were to come to the rescue if any of their brethren were
attacked. They were to deliberate in common about war, and the king was not to have
the power of life and death over his kinsmen, unless he had the assent of the majority.
For many generations, as tradition tells, the people of Atlantis were obedient to the laws
and to the gods, and practised gentleness and wisdom in their intercourse with one
another. They knew that they could only have the true use of riches by not caring about
them. But gradually the divine portion of their souls became diluted with too much of
the mortal admixture, and they began to degenerate, though to the outward eye they
appeared glorious as ever at the very time when they were filled with all iniquity. The
all-seeing Zeus, wanting to punish them, held a council of the gods, and when he had
called them together, he spoke as follows:—
No one knew better than Plato how to invent ‘a noble lie.’ Observe (1) the innocent
declaration of Socrates, that the truth of the story is a great advantage: (2) the manner
in which traditional names and indications of geography are intermingled (‘Why, here
be truths!’): (3) the extreme minuteness with which the numbers are given, as in the Old
Epic poetry: (4) the ingenious reason assigned for the Greek names occurring in the
Egyptian tale: (5) the remark that the armed statue of Athena indicated the common
warrior life of men and women: (6) the particularity with which the third deluge before
that of Deucalion is affirmed to have been the great destruction: (7) the happy guess that
great geological changes have been effected by water: (8) the indulgence of the prejudice
against sailing beyond the Columns, and the popular belief of the shallowness of the
ocean in that part: (9) the confession that the depth of the ditch in the Island of Atlantis
was not to be believed, and ‘yet he could only repeat what he had heard’, compared with
the statement made in an earlier passage that Poseidon, being a God, found no difficulty
in contriving the water-supply of the centre island: (10) the mention of the old rivalry of
Poseidon and Athene, and the creation of the first inhabitants out of the soil. Plato here,
as elsewhere, ingeniously gives the impression that he is telling the truth which
mythology had corrupted.
The world, like a child, has readily, and for the most part unhesitatingly, accepted the
tale of the Island of Atlantis. In modern times we hardly seek for traces of the
submerged continent; but even Mr. Grote is inclined to believe in the Egyptian poem of
Solon of which there is no evidence in antiquity; while others, like Martin, discuss the
Egyptian origin of the legend, or like M. de Humboldt, whom he quotes, are disposed to
find in it a vestige of a widely-spread tradition. Others, adopting a different vein of
reflection, regard the Island of Atlantis as the anticipation of a still greater island—the
Continent of America. ‘The tale,’ says M. Martin, ‘rests upon the authority of the
Egyptian priests; and the Egyptian priests took a pleasure in deceiving the Greeks.’ He
never appears to suspect that there is a greater deceiver or magician than the Egyptian
priests, that is to say, Plato himself, from the dominion of whose genius the critic and
natural philosopher of modern times are not wholly emancipated. Although worthless in
respect of any result which can be attained by them, discussions like those of M. Martin
(Timee) have an interest of their own, and may be compared to the similar discussions
regarding the Lost Tribes (2 Esdras), as showing how the chance word of some poet or
philosopher has given birth to endless religious or historical enquiries. (See
Introduction to the Timaeus.)
In contrasting the small Greek city numbering about twenty thousand inhabitants with
the barbaric greatness of the island of Atlantis, Plato probably intended to show that a
state, such as the ideal Athens, was invincible, though matched against any number of
opponents (cp. Rep.). Even in a great empire there might be a degree of virtue and
justice, such as the Greeks believed to have existed under the sway of the first Persian
kings. But all such empires were liable to degenerate, and soon incurred the anger of the
gods. Their Oriental wealth, and splendour of gold and silver, and variety of colours,
seemed also to be at variance with the simplicity of Greek notions. In the island of
Atlantis, Plato is describing a sort of Babylonian or Egyptian city, to which he opposes
the frugal life of the true Hellenic citizen. It is remarkable that in his brief sketch of
them, he idealizes the husbandmen ‘who are lovers of honour and true husbandmen,’ as
well as the warriors who are his sole concern in the Republic; and that though he speaks
of the common pursuits of men and women, he says nothing of the community of wives
and children.
It is singular that Plato should have prefixed the most detested of Athenian names to
this dialogue, and even more singular that he should have put into the mouth of
Socrates a panegyric on him (Tim.). Yet we know that his character was accounted
infamous by Xenophon, and that the mere acquaintance with him was made a subject of
accusation against Socrates. We can only infer that in this, and perhaps in some other
cases, Plato’s characters have no reference to the actual facts. The desire to do honour to
his own family, and the connection with Solon, may have suggested the introduction of
his name. Why the Critias was never completed, whether from accident, or from
advancing age, or from a sense of the artistic difficulty of the design, cannot be
determined.
Critias
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: Critias, Hermocrates, Timaeus, Socrates.
TIMAEUS: How thankful I am, Socrates, that I have arrived at last, and, like a weary
traveller after a long journey, may be at rest! And I pray the being who always was of
old, and has now been by me revealed, to grant that my words may endure in so far as
they have been spoken truly and acceptably to him; but if unintentionally I have said
anything wrong, I pray that he will impose upon me a just retribution, and the just
retribution of him who errs is that he should be set right. Wishing, then, to speak truly
in future concerning the generation of the gods, I pray him to give me knowledge, which
of all medicines is the most perfect and best. And now having offered my prayer I deliver
up the argument to Critias, who is to speak next according to our agreement. (Tim.)
CRITIAS: And I, Timaeus, accept the trust, and as you at first said that you were going
to speak of high matters, and begged that some forbearance might be shown to you, I
too ask the same or greater forbearance for what I am about to say. And although I very
well know that my request may appear to be somewhat ambitious and discourteous, I
must make it nevertheless. For will any man of sense deny that you have spoken well? I
can only attempt to show that I ought to have more indulgence than you, because my
theme is more difficult; and I shall argue that to seem to speak well of the gods to men is
far easier than to speak well of men to men: for the inexperience and utter ignorance of
his hearers about any subject is a great assistance to him who has to speak of it, and we
know how ignorant we are concerning the gods. But I should like to make my meaning
clearer, if you will follow me. All that is said by any of us can only be imitation and
representation. For if we consider the likenesses which painters make of bodies divine
and heavenly, and the different degrees of gratification with which the eye of the
spectator receives them, we shall see that we are satisfied with the artist who is able in
any degree to imitate the earth and its mountains, and the rivers, and the woods, and
the universe, and the things that are and move therein, and further, that knowing
nothing precise about such matters, we do not examine or analyze the painting; all that
is required is a sort of indistinct and deceptive mode of shadowing them forth. But when
a person endeavours to paint the human form we are quick at finding out defects, and
our familiar knowledge makes us severe judges of any one who does not render every
point of similarity. And we may observe the same thing to happen in discourse; we are
satisfied with a picture of divine and heavenly things which has very little likeness to
them; but we are more precise in our criticism of mortal and human things. Wherefore if
at the moment of speaking I cannot suitably express my meaning, you must excuse me,
considering that to form approved likenesses of human things is the reverse of easy.
This is what I want to suggest to you, and at the same time to beg, Socrates, that I may
have not less, but more indulgence conceded to me in what I am about to say. Which
favour, if I am right in asking, I hope that you will be ready to grant.
SOCRATES: Certainly, Critias, we will grant your request, and we will grant the same by
anticipation to Hermocrates, as well as to you and Timaeus; for I have no doubt that
when his turn comes a little while hence, he will make the same request which you have
made. In order, then, that he may provide himself with a fresh beginning, and not be
compelled to say the same things over again, let him understand that the indulgence is
already extended by anticipation to him. And now, friend Critias, I will announce to you
the judgment of the theatre. They are of opinion that the last performer was wonderfully
successful, and that you will need a great deal of indulgence before you will be able to
take his place.
HERMOCRATES: The warning, Socrates, which you have addressed to him, I must also
take to myself. But remember, Critias, that faint heart never yet raised a trophy; and
therefore you must go and attack the argument like a man. First invoke Apollo and the
Muses, and then let us hear you sound the praises and show forth the virtues of your
ancient citizens.
CRITIAS: Friend Hermocrates, you, who are stationed last and have another in front of
you, have not lost heart as yet; the gravity of the situation will soon be revealed to you;
meanwhile I accept your exhortations and encouragements. But besides the gods and
goddesses whom you have mentioned, I would specially invoke Mnemosyne; for all the
important part of my discourse is dependent on her favour, and if I can recollect and
recite enough of what was said by the priests and brought hither by Solon, I doubt not
that I shall satisfy the requirements of this theatre. And now, making no more excuses, I
will proceed.
Let me begin by observing first of all, that nine thousand was the sum of years which
had elapsed since the war which was said to have taken place between those who dwelt
outside the pillars of Heracles and all who dwelt within them; this war I am going to
describe. Of the combatants on the one side, the city of Athens was reported to have
been the leader and to have fought out the war; the combatants on the other side were
commanded by the kings of Atlantis, which, as I was saying, was an island greater in
extent than Libya and Asia, and when afterwards sunk by an earthquake, became an
impassable barrier of mud to voyagers sailing from hence to any part of the ocean. The
progress of the history will unfold the various nations of barbarians and families of
Hellenes which then existed, as they successively appear on the scene; but I must
describe first of all the Athenians of that day, and their enemies who fought with them,
and then the respective powers and governments of the two kingdoms. Let us give the
precedence to Athens.
In the days of old, the gods had the whole earth distributed among them by allotment
(Cp. Polit.) There was no quarrelling; for you cannot rightly suppose that the gods did
not know what was proper for each of them to have, or, knowing this, that they would
seek to procure for themselves by contention that which more properly belonged to
others. They all of them by just apportionment obtained what they wanted, and peopled
their own districts; and when they had peopled them they tended us, their nurselings
and possessions, as shepherds tend their flocks, excepting only that they did not use
blows or bodily force, as shepherds do, but governed us like pilots from the stern of the
vessel, which is an easy way of guiding animals, holding our souls by the rudder of
persuasion according to their own pleasure;—thus did they guide all mortal creatures.
Now different gods had their allotments in different places which they set in order.
Hephaestus and Athene, who were brother and sister, and sprang from the same father,
having a common nature, and being united also in the love of philosophy and art, both
obtained as their common portion this land, which was naturally adapted for wisdom
and virtue; and there they implanted brave children of the soil, and put into their minds
the order of government; their names are preserved, but their actions have disappeared
by reason of the destruction of those who received the tradition, and the lapse of ages.
For when there were any survivors, as I have already said, they were men who dwelt in
the mountains; and they were ignorant of the art of writing, and had heard only the
names of the chiefs of the land, but very little about their actions. The names they were
willing enough to give to their children; but the virtues and the laws of their
predecessors, they knew only by obscure traditions; and as they themselves and their
children lacked for many generations the necessaries of life, they directed their attention
to the supply of their wants, and of them they conversed, to the neglect of events that
had happened in times long past; for mythology and the enquiry into antiquity are first
introduced into cities when they begin to have leisure (Cp. Arist. Metaphys.), and when
they see that the necessaries of life have already been provided, but not before. And this
is the reason why the names of the ancients have been preserved to us and not their
actions. This I infer because Solon said that the priests in their narrative of that war
mentioned most of the names which are recorded prior to the time of Theseus, such as
Cecrops, and Erechtheus, and Erichthonius, and Erysichthon, and the names of the
women in like manner. Moreover, since military pursuits were then common to men
and women, the men of those days in accordance with the custom of the time set up a
figure and image of the goddess in full armour, to be a testimony that all animals which
associate together, male as well as female, may, if they please, practise in common the
virtue which belongs to them without distinction of sex.
Now the country was inhabited in those days by various classes of citizens;—there were
artisans, and there were husbandmen, and there was also a warrior class originally set
apart by divine men. The latter dwelt by themselves, and had all things suitable for
nurture and education; neither had any of them anything of their own, but they
regarded all that they had as common property; nor did they claim to receive of the
other citizens anything more than their necessary food. And they practised all the
pursuits which we yesterday described as those of our imaginary guardians. Concerning
the country the Egyptian priests said what is not only probable but manifestly true, that
the boundaries were in those days fixed by the Isthmus, and that in the direction of the
continent they extended as far as the heights of Cithaeron and Parnes; the boundary line
came down in the direction of the sea, having the district of Oropus on the right, and
with the river Asopus as the limit on the left. The land was the best in the world, and was
therefore able in those days to support a vast army, raised from the surrounding people.
Even the remnant of Attica which now exists may compare with any region in the world
for the variety and excellence of its fruits and the suitableness of its pastures to every
sort of animal, which proves what I am saying; but in those days the country was fair as
now and yielded far more abundant produce. How shall I establish my words? and what
part of it can be truly called a remnant of the land that then was? The whole country is
only a long promontory extending far into the sea away from the rest of the continent,
while the surrounding basin of the sea is everywhere deep in the neighbourhood of the
shore. Many great deluges have taken place during the nine thousand years, for that is
the number of years which have elapsed since the time of which I am speaking; and
during all this time and through so many changes, there has never been any
considerable accumulation of the soil coming down from the mountains, as in other
places, but the earth has fallen away all round and sunk out of sight. The consequence is,
that in comparison of what then was, there are remaining only the bones of the wasted
body, as they may be called, as in the case of small islands, all the richer and softer parts
of the soil having fallen away, and the mere skeleton of the land being left. But in the
primitive state of the country, its mountains were high hills covered with soil, and the
plains, as they are termed by us, of Phelleus were full of rich earth, and there was
abundance of wood in the mountains. Of this last the traces still remain, for although
some of the mountains now only afford sustenance to bees, not so very long ago there
were still to be seen roofs of timber cut from trees growing there, which were of a size
sufficient to cover the largest houses; and there were many other high trees, cultivated
by man and bearing abundance of food for cattle. Moreover, the land reaped the benefit
of the annual rainfall, not as now losing the water which flows off the bare earth into the
sea, but, having an abundant supply in all places, and receiving it into herself and
treasuring it up in the close clay soil, it let off into the hollows the streams which it
absorbed from the heights, providing everywhere abundant fountains and rivers, of
which there may still be observed sacred memorials in places where fountains once
existed; and this proves the truth of what I am saying.
Such was the natural state of the country, which was cultivated, as we may well believe,
by true husbandmen, who made husbandry their business, and were lovers of honour,
and of a noble nature, and had a soil the best in the world, and abundance of water, and
in the heaven above an excellently attempered climate. Now the city in those days was
arranged on this wise. In the first place the Acropolis was not as now. For the fact is that
a single night of excessive rain washed away the earth and laid bare the rock; at the
same time there were earthquakes, and then occurred the extraordinary inundation,
which was the third before the great destruction of Deucalion. But in primitive times the
hill of the Acropolis extended to the Eridanus and Ilissus, and included the Pnyx on one
side, and the Lycabettus as a boundary on the opposite side to the Pnyx, and was all well
covered with soil, and level at the top, except in one or two places. Outside the Acropolis
and under the sides of the hill there dwelt artisans, and such of the husbandmen as were
tilling the ground near; the warrior class dwelt by themselves around the temples of
Athene and Hephaestus at the summit, which moreover they had enclosed with a single
fence like the garden of a single house. On the north side they had dwellings in common
and had erected halls for dining in winter, and had all the buildings which they needed
for their common life, besides temples, but there was no adorning of them with gold and
silver, for they made no use of these for any purpose; they took a middle course between
meanness and ostentation, and built modest houses in which they and their children’s
children grew old, and they handed them down to others who were like themselves,
always the same. But in summer-time they left their gardens and gymnasia and dining
halls, and then the southern side of the hill was made use of by them for the same
purpose. Where the Acropolis now is there was a fountain, which was choked by the
earthquake, and has left only the few small streams which still exist in the vicinity, but
in those days the fountain gave an abundant supply of water for all and of suitable
temperature in summer and in winter. This is how they dwelt, being the guardians of
their own citizens and the leaders of the Hellenes, who were their willing followers. And
they took care to preserve the same number of men and women through all time, being
so many as were required for warlike purposes, then as now—that is to say, about twenty
thousand. Such were the ancient Athenians, and after this manner they righteously
administered their own land and the rest of Hellas; they were renowned all over Europe
and Asia for the beauty of their persons and for the many virtues of their souls, and of all
men who lived in those days they were the most illustrious. And next, if I have not
forgotten what I heard when I was a child, I will impart to you the character and origin
of their adversaries. For friends should not keep their stories to themselves, but have
them in common.
Yet, before proceeding further in the narrative, I ought to warn you, that you must not
be surprised if you should perhaps hear Hellenic names given to foreigners. I will tell
you the reason of this: Solon, who was intending to use the tale for his poem, enquired
into the meaning of the names, and found that the early Egyptians in writing them down
had translated them into their own language, and he recovered the meaning of the
several names and when copying them out again translated them into our language. My
great-grandfather, Dropides, had the original writing, which is still in my possession,
and was carefully studied by me when I was a child. Therefore if you hear names such as
are used in this country, you must not be surprised, for I have told how they came to be
introduced. The tale, which was of great length, began as follows:—
I have before remarked in speaking of the allotments of the gods, that they distributed
the whole earth into portions differing in extent, and made for themselves temples and
instituted sacrifices. And Poseidon, receiving for his lot the island of Atlantis, begat
children by a mortal woman, and settled them in a part of the island, which I will
describe. Looking towards the sea, but in the centre of the whole island, there was a
plain which is said to have been the fairest of all plains and very fertile. Near the plain
again, and also in the centre of the island at a distance of about fifty stadia, there was a
mountain not very high on any side. In this mountain there dwelt one of the earth-born
primeval men of that country, whose name was Evenor, and he had a wife named
Leucippe, and they had an only daughter who was called Cleito. The maiden had already
reached womanhood, when her father and mother died; Poseidon fell in love with her
and had intercourse with her, and breaking the ground, inclosed the hill in which she
dwelt all round, making alternate zones of sea and land larger and smaller, encircling
one another; there were two of land and three of water, which he turned as with a lathe,
each having its circumference equidistant every way from the centre, so that no man
could get to the island, for ships and voyages were not as yet. He himself, being a god,
found no difficulty in making special arrangements for the centre island, bringing up
two springs of water from beneath the earth, one of warm water and the other of cold,
and making every variety of food to spring up abundantly from the soil. He also begat
and brought up five pairs of twin male children; and dividing the island of Atlantis into
ten portions, he gave to the first-born of the eldest pair his mother’s dwelling and the
surrounding allotment, which was the largest and best, and made him king over the rest;
the others he made princes, and gave them rule over many men, and a large territory.
And he named them all; the eldest, who was the first king, he named Atlas, and after
him the whole island and the ocean were called Atlantic. To his twin brother, who was
born after him, and obtained as his lot the extremity of the island towards the pillars of
Heracles, facing the country which is now called the region of Gades in that part of the
world, he gave the name which in the Hellenic language is Eumelus, in the language of
the country which is named after him, Gadeirus. Of the second pair of twins he called
one Ampheres, and the other Evaemon. To the elder of the third pair of twins he gave
the name Mneseus, and Autochthon to the one who followed him. Of the fourth pair of
twins he called the elder Elasippus, and the younger Mestor. And of the fifth pair he
gave to the elder the name of Azaes, and to the younger that of Diaprepes. All these and
their descendants for many generations were the inhabitants and rulers of divers islands
in the open sea; and also, as has been already said, they held sway in our direction over
the country within the pillars as far as Egypt and Tyrrhenia. Now Atlas had a numerous
and honourable family, and they retained the kingdom, the eldest son handing it on to
his eldest for many generations; and they had such an amount of wealth as was never
before possessed by kings and potentates, and is not likely ever to be again, and they
were furnished with everything which they needed, both in the city and country. For
because of the greatness of their empire many things were brought to them from foreign
countries, and the island itself provided most of what was required by them for the uses
of life. In the first place, they dug out of the earth whatever was to be found there, solid
as well as fusile, and that which is now only a name and was then something more than
a name, orichalcum, was dug out of the earth in many parts of the island, being more
precious in those days than anything except gold. There was an abundance of wood for
carpenter’s work, and sufficient maintenance for tame and wild animals. Moreover,
there were a great number of elephants in the island; for as there was provision for all
other sorts of animals, both for those which live in lakes and marshes and rivers, and
also for those which live in mountains and on plains, so there was for the animal which
is the largest and most voracious of all. Also whatever fragrant things there now are in
the earth, whether roots, or herbage, or woods, or essences which distil from fruit and
flower, grew and thrived in that land; also the fruit which admits of cultivation, both the
dry sort, which is given us for nourishment and any other which we use for food—we call
them all by the common name of pulse, and the fruits having a hard rind, affording
drinks and meats and ointments, and good store of chestnuts and the like, which furnish
pleasure and amusement, and are fruits which spoil with keeping, and the pleasant
kinds of dessert, with which we console ourselves after dinner, when we are tired of
eating—all these that sacred island which then beheld the light of the sun, brought forth
fair and wondrous and in infinite abundance. With such blessings the earth freely
furnished them; meanwhile they went on constructing their temples and palaces and
harbours and docks. And they arranged the whole country in the following manner:—
First of all they bridged over the zones of sea which surrounded the ancient metropolis,
making a road to and from the royal palace. And at the very beginning they built the
palace in the habitation of the god and of their ancestors, which they continued to
ornament in successive generations, every king surpassing the one who went before him
to the utmost of his power, until they made the building a marvel to behold for size and
for beauty. And beginning from the sea they bored a canal of three hundred feet in width
and one hundred feet in depth and fifty stadia in length, which they carried through to
the outermost zone, making a passage from the sea up to this, which became a harbour,
and leaving an opening sufficient to enable the largest vessels to find ingress. Moreover,
they divided at the bridges the zones of land which parted the zones of sea, leaving room
for a single trireme to pass out of one zone into another, and they covered over the
channels so as to leave a way underneath for the ships; for the banks were raised
considerably above the water. Now the largest of the zones into which a passage was cut
from the sea was three stadia in breadth, and the zone of land which came next of equal
breadth; but the next two zones, the one of water, the other of land, were two stadia, and
the one which surrounded the central island was a stadium only in width. The island in
which the palace was situated had a diameter of five stadia. All this including the zones
and the bridge, which was the sixth part of a stadium in width, they surrounded by a
stone wall on every side, placing towers and gates on the bridges where the sea passed
in. The stone which was used in the work they quarried from underneath the centre
island, and from underneath the zones, on the outer as well as the inner side. One kind
was white, another black, and a third red, and as they quarried, they at the same time
hollowed out double docks, having roofs formed out of the native rock. Some of their
buildings were simple, but in others they put together different stones, varying the
colour to please the eye, and to be a natural source of delight. The entire circuit of the
wall, which went round the outermost zone, they covered with a coating of brass, and
the circuit of the next wall they coated with tin, and the third, which encompassed the
citadel, flashed with the red light of orichalcum. The palaces in the interior of the citadel
were constructed on this wise:—In the centre was a holy temple dedicated to Cleito and
Poseidon, which remained inaccessible, and was surrounded by an enclosure of gold;
this was the spot where the family of the ten princes first saw the light, and thither the
people annually brought the fruits of the earth in their season from all the ten portions,
to be an offering to each of the ten. Here was Poseidon’s own temple which was a
stadium in length, and half a stadium in width, and of a proportionate height, having a
strange barbaric appearance. All the outside of the temple, with the exception of the
pinnacles, they covered with silver, and the pinnacles with gold. In the interior of the
temple the roof was of ivory, curiously wrought everywhere with gold and silver and
orichalcum; and all the other parts, the walls and pillars and floor, they coated with
orichalcum. In the temple they placed statues of gold: there was the god himself
standing in a chariot—the charioteer of six winged horses—and of such a size that he
touched the roof of the building with his head; around him there were a hundred
Nereids riding on dolphins, for such was thought to be the number of them by the men
of those days. There were also in the interior of the temple other images which had been
dedicated by private persons. And around the temple on the outside were placed statues
of gold of all the descendants of the ten kings and of their wives, and there were many
other great offerings of kings and of private persons, coming both from the city itself
and from the foreign cities over which they held sway. There was an altar too, which in
size and workmanship corresponded to this magnificence, and the palaces, in like
manner, answered to the greatness of the kingdom and the glory of the temple.
In the next place, they had fountains, one of cold and another of hot water, in gracious
plenty flowing; and they were wonderfully adapted for use by reason of the pleasantness
and excellence of their waters. They constructed buildings about them and planted
suitable trees, also they made cisterns, some open to the heaven, others roofed over, to
be used in winter as warm baths; there were the kings’ baths, and the baths of private
persons, which were kept apart; and there were separate baths for women, and for
horses and cattle, and to each of them they gave as much adornment as was suitable. Of
the water which ran off they carried some to the grove of Poseidon, where were growing
all manner of trees of wonderful height and beauty, owing to the excellence of the soil,
while the remainder was conveyed by aqueducts along the bridges to the outer circles;
and there were many temples built and dedicated to many gods; also gardens and places
of exercise, some for men, and others for horses in both of the two islands formed by the
zones; and in the centre of the larger of the two there was set apart a race-course of a
stadium in width, and in length allowed to extend all round the island, for horses to race
in. Also there were guard-houses at intervals for the guards, the more trusted of whom
were appointed to keep watch in the lesser zone, which was nearer the Acropolis; while
the most trusted of all had houses given them within the citadel, near the persons of the
kings. The docks were full of triremes and naval stores, and all things were quite ready
for use. Enough of the plan of the royal palace.
Leaving the palace and passing out across the three harbours, you came to a wall which
began at the sea and went all round: this was everywhere distant fifty stadia from the
largest zone or harbour, and enclosed the whole, the ends meeting at the mouth of the
channel which led to the sea. The entire area was densely crowded with habitations; and
the canal and the largest of the harbours were full of vessels and merchants coming from
all parts, who, from their numbers, kept up a multitudinous sound of human voices, and
din and clatter of all sorts night and day.
I have described the city and the environs of the ancient palace nearly in the words of
Solon, and now I must endeavour to represent to you the nature and arrangement of the
rest of the land. The whole country was said by him to be very lofty and precipitous on
the side of the sea, but the country immediately about and surrounding the city was a
level plain, itself surrounded by mountains which descended towards the sea; it was
smooth and even, and of an oblong shape, extending in one direction three thousand
stadia, but across the centre inland it was two thousand stadia. This part of the island
looked towards the south, and was sheltered from the north. The surrounding
mountains were celebrated for their number and size and beauty, far beyond any which
still exist, having in them also many wealthy villages of country folk, and rivers, and
lakes, and meadows supplying food enough for every animal, wild or tame, and much
wood of various sorts, abundant for each and every kind of work.
I will now describe the plain, as it was fashioned by nature and by the labours of many
generations of kings through long ages. It was for the most part rectangular and oblong,
and where falling out of the straight line followed the circular ditch. The depth, and
width, and length of this ditch were incredible, and gave the impression that a work of
such extent, in addition to so many others, could never have been artificial. Nevertheless
I must say what I was told. It was excavated to the depth of a hundred feet, and its
breadth was a stadium everywhere; it was carried round the whole of the plain, and was
ten thousand stadia in length. It received the streams which came down from the
mountains, and winding round the plain and meeting at the city, was there let off into
the sea. Further inland, likewise, straight canals of a hundred feet in width were cut
from it through the plain, and again let off into the ditch leading to the sea: these canals
were at intervals of a hundred stadia, and by them they brought down the wood from the
mountains to the city, and conveyed the fruits of the earth in ships, cutting transverse
passages from one canal into another, and to the city. Twice in the year they gathered
the fruits of the earth—in winter having the benefit of the rains of heaven, and in
summer the water which the land supplied by introducing streams from the canals.
As to the population, each of the lots in the plain had to find a leader for the men who
were fit for military service, and the size of a lot was a square of ten stadia each way, and
the total number of all the lots was sixty thousand. And of the inhabitants of the
mountains and of the rest of the country there was also a vast multitude, which was
distributed among the lots and had leaders assigned to them according to their districts
and villages. The leader was required to furnish for the war the sixth portion of a warchariot,
so as to make up a total of ten thousand chariots; also two horses and riders for
them, and a pair of chariot-horses without a seat, accompanied by a horseman who
could fight on foot carrying a small shield, and having a charioteer who stood behind the
man-at-arms to guide the two horses; also, he was bound to furnish two heavy-armed
soldiers, two archers, two slingers, three stone-shooters and three javelin-men, who
were light-armed, and four sailors to make up the complement of twelve hundred ships.
Such was the military order of the royal city—the order of the other nine governments
varied, and it would be wearisome to recount their several differences.
As to offices and honours, the following was the arrangement from the first. Each of the
ten kings in his own division and in his own city had the absolute control of the citizens,
and, in most cases, of the laws, punishing and slaying whomsoever he would. Now the
order of precedence among them and their mutual relations were regulated by the
commands of Poseidon which the law had handed down. These were inscribed by the
first kings on a pillar of orichalcum, which was situated in the middle of the island, at
the temple of Poseidon, whither the kings were gathered together every fifth and every
sixth year alternately, thus giving equal honour to the odd and to the even number. And
when they were gathered together they consulted about their common interests, and
enquired if any one had transgressed in anything, and passed judgment, and before they
passed judgment they gave their pledges to one another on this wise:—There were bulls
who had the range of the temple of Poseidon; and the ten kings, being left alone in the
temple, after they had offered prayers to the god that they might capture the victim
which was acceptable to him, hunted the bulls, without weapons, but with staves and
nooses; and the bull which they caught they led up to the pillar and cut its throat over
the top of it so that the blood fell upon the sacred inscription. Now on the pillar, besides
the laws, there was inscribed an oath invoking mighty curses on the disobedient. When
therefore, after slaying the bull in the accustomed manner, they had burnt its limbs,
they filled a bowl of wine and cast in a clot of blood for each of them; the rest of the
victim they put in the fire, after having purified the column all round. Then they drew
from the bowl in golden cups, and pouring a libation on the fire, they swore that they
would judge according to the laws on the pillar, and would punish him who in any point
had already transgressed them, and that for the future they would not, if they could
help, offend against the writing on the pillar, and would neither command others, nor
obey any ruler who commanded them, to act otherwise than according to the laws of
their father Poseidon. This was the prayer which each of them offered up for himself and
for his descendants, at the same time drinking and dedicating the cup out of which he
drank in the temple of the god; and after they had supped and satisfied their needs,
when darkness came on, and the fire about the sacrifice was cool, all of them put on
most beautiful azure robes, and, sitting on the ground, at night, over the embers of the
sacrifices by which they had sworn, and extinguishing all the fire about the temple, they
received and gave judgment, if any of them had an accusation to bring against any one;
and when they had given judgment, at daybreak they wrote down their sentences on a
golden tablet, and dedicated it together with their robes to be a memorial.
There were many special laws affecting the several kings inscribed about the temples,
but the most important was the following: They were not to take up arms against one
another, and they were all to come to the rescue if any one in any of their cities
attempted to overthrow the royal house; like their ancestors, they were to deliberate in
common about war and other matters, giving the supremacy to the descendants of Atlas.
And the king was not to have the power of life and death over any of his kinsmen unless
he had the assent of the majority of the ten.
Such was the vast power which the god settled in the lost island of Atlantis; and this he
afterwards directed against our land for the following reasons, as tradition tells: For
many generations, as long as the divine nature lasted in them, they were obedient to the
laws, and well-affectioned towards the god, whose seed they were; for they possessed
true and in every way great spirits, uniting gentleness with wisdom in the various
chances of life, and in their intercourse with one another. They despised everything but
virtue, caring little for their present state of life, and thinking lightly of the possession of
gold and other property, which seemed only a burden to them; neither were they
intoxicated by luxury; nor did wealth deprive them of their self-control; but they were
sober, and saw clearly that all these goods are increased by virtue and friendship with
one another, whereas by too great regard and respect for them, they are lost and
friendship with them. By such reflections and by the continuance in them of a divine
nature, the qualities which we have described grew and increased among them; but
when the divine portion began to fade away, and became diluted too often and too much
with the mortal admixture, and the human nature got the upper hand, they then, being
unable to bear their fortune, behaved unseemly, and to him who had an eye to see grew
visibly debased, for they were losing the fairest of their precious gifts; but to those who
had no eye to see the true happiness, they appeared glorious and blessed at the very time
when they were full of avarice and unrighteous power. Zeus, the god of gods, who rules
according to law, and is able to see into such things, perceiving that an honourable race
was in a woeful plight, and wanting to inflict punishment on them, that they might be
chastened and improve, collected all the gods into their most holy habitation, which,
being placed in the centre of the world, beholds all created things. And when he had
called them together, he spake as follows—[1]
[1] The rest of the Dialogue of Critias has been lost.
THE LAWS
BY
PLATO
TRANSLATED BY
BENJAMIN
JOWETT
Introduction and Analysis.
The genuineness of the Laws is sufficiently proved (1) by more than twenty citations of
them in the writings of Aristotle, who was residing at Athens during the last twenty
years of the life of Plato, and who, having left it after his death (B.C. 347), returned
thither twelve years later (B.C. 335); (2) by the allusion of Isocrates
(Oratio ad Philippum missa, p.84: To men tais paneguresin enochlein kai pros apantas
legein tous sunprechontas en autais pros oudena legein estin, all omoios oi toioutoi ton
logon (sc. speeches in the assembly) akuroi tugchanousin ontes tois nomois kai tais
politeiais tais upo ton sophiston gegrammenais.)
—writing 346 B.C., a year after the death of Plato, and probably not more than three or
four years after the composition of the Laws—who speaks of the Laws and Republics
written by philosophers (upo ton sophiston); (3) by the reference (Athen.) of the comic
poet Alexis, a younger contemporary of Plato (fl. B.C 356–306), to the enactment about
prices, which occurs in Laws xi., viz that the same goods should not be offered at two
prices on the same day
(Ou gegone kreitton nomothetes tou plousiou
Aristonikou tithesi gar nuni nomon,
ton ichthuopolon ostis an polon tini
ichthun upotimesas apodot elattonos
es eipe times, eis to desmoterion
euthus apagesthai touton, ina dedoikotes
tes axias agaposin, e tes esperas
saprous apantas apopherosin oikade.
Meineke, Frag. Com. Graec.);
(4) by the unanimous voice of later antiquity and the absence of any suspicion among
ancient writers worth speaking of to the contrary; for it is not said of Philippus of Opus
that he composed any part of the Laws, but only that he copied them out of the waxen
tablets, and was thought by some to have written the Epinomis (Diog. Laert.) That the
longest and one of the best writings bearing the name of Plato should be a forgery, even
if its genuineness were unsupported by external testimony, would be a singular
phenomenon in ancient literature; and although the critical worth of the consensus of
late writers is generally not to be compared with the express testimony of
contemporaries, yet a somewhat greater value may be attributed to their consent in the
present instance, because the admission of the Laws is combined with doubts about the
Epinomis, a spurious writing, which is a kind of epilogue to the larger work probably of
a much later date. This shows that the reception of the Laws was not altogether
undiscriminating.
The suspicion which has attached to the Laws of Plato in the judgment of some modern
writers appears to rest partly (1) on differences in the style and form of the work, and (2)
on differences of thought and opinion which they observe in them. Their suspicion is
increased by the fact that these differences are accompanied by resemblances as striking
to passages in other Platonic writings. They are sensible of a want of point in the
dialogue and a general inferiority in the ideas, plan, manners, and style. They miss the
poetical flow, the dramatic verisimilitude, the life and variety of the characters, the
dialectic subtlety, the Attic purity, the luminous order, the exquisite urbanity; instead of
which they find tautology, obscurity, self-sufficiency, sermonizing, rhetorical
declamation, pedantry, egotism, uncouth forms of sentences, and peculiarities in the use
of words and idioms. They are unable to discover any unity in the patched, irregular
structure. The speculative element both in government and education is superseded by a
narrow economical or religious vein. The grace and cheerfulness of Athenian life have
disappeared; and a spirit of moroseness and religious intolerance has taken their place.
The charm of youth is no longer there; the mannerism of age makes itself unpleasantly
felt. The connection is often imperfect; and there is a want of arrangement, exhibited
especially in the enumeration of the laws towards the end of the work. The Laws are full
of flaws and repetitions. The Greek is in places very ungrammatical and intractable. A
cynical levity is displayed in some passages, and a tone of disappointment and
lamentation over human things in others. The critics seem also to observe in them bad
imitations of thoughts which are better expressed in Plato’s other writings. Lastly, they
wonder how the mind which conceived the Republic could have left the Critias,
Hermocrates, and Philosophus incomplete or unwritten, and have devoted the last years
of life to the Laws.
The questions which have been thus indirectly suggested may be considered by us under
five or six heads: I, the characters; II, the plan; III, the style; IV, the imitations of other
writings of Plato; V; the more general relation of the Laws to the Republic and the other
dialogues; and VI, to the existing Athenian and Spartan states.
I. Already in the Philebus the distinctive character of Socrates has disappeared; and in
the Timaeus, Sophist, and Statesman his function of chief speaker is handed over to the
Pythagorean philosopher Timaeus, and to the Eleatic Stranger, at whose feet he sits, and
is silent. More and more Plato seems to have felt in his later writings that the character
and method of Socrates were no longer suited to be the vehicle of his own philosophy.
He is no longer interrogative but dogmatic; not ‘a hesitating enquirer,’ but one who
speaks with the authority of a legislator. Even in the Republic we have seen that the
argument which is carried on by Socrates in the old style with Thrasymachus in the first
book, soon passes into the form of exposition. In the Laws he is nowhere mentioned. Yet
so completely in the tradition of antiquity is Socrates identified with Plato, that in the
criticism of the Laws which we find in the so-called Politics of Aristotle he is supposed
by the writer still to be playing his part of the chief speaker (compare Pol.).
The Laws are discussed by three representatives of Athens, Crete, and Sparta. The
Athenian, as might be expected, is the protagonist or chief speaker, while the second
place is assigned to the Cretan, who, as one of the leaders of a new colony, has a special
interest in the conversation. At least four-fifths of the answers are put into his mouth.
The Spartan is every inch a soldier, a man of few words himself, better at deeds than
words. The Athenian talks to the two others, although they are his equals in age, in the
style of a master discoursing to his scholars; he frequently praises himself; he entertains
a very poor opinion of the understanding of his companions. Certainly the boastfulness
and rudeness of the Laws is the reverse of the refined irony and courtesy which
characterize the earlier dialogues. We are no longer in such good company as in the
Phaedrus and Symposium. Manners are lost sight of in the earnestness of the speakers,
and dogmatic assertions take the place of poetical fancies.
The scene is laid in Crete, and the conversation is held in the course of a walk from
Cnosus to the cave and temple of Zeus, which takes place on one of the longest and
hottest days of the year. The companions start at dawn, and arrive at the point in their
conversation which terminates the fourth book, about noon. The God to whose temple
they are going is the lawgiver of Crete, and this may be supposed to be the very cave at
which he gave his oracles to Minos. But the externals of the scene, which are briefly and
inartistically described, soon disappear, and we plunge abruptly into the subject of the
dialogue. We are reminded by contrast of the higher art of the Phaedrus, in which the
summer’s day, and the cool stream, and the chirping of the grasshoppers, and the
fragrance of the agnus castus, and the legends of the place are present to the
imagination throughout the discourse.
The typical Athenian apologizes for the tendency of his countrymen ‘to spin a long
discussion out of slender materials,’ and in a similar spirit the Lacedaemonian Megillus
apologizes for the Spartan brevity (compare Thucydid.), acknowledging at the same time
that there may be occasions when long discourses are necessary. The family of Megillus
is the proxenus of Athens at Sparta; and he pays a beautiful compliment to the
Athenian, significant of the character of the work, which, though borrowing many
elements from Sparta, is also pervaded by an Athenian spirit. A good Athenian, he says,
is more than ordinarily good, because he is inspired by nature and not manufactured by
law. The love of listening which is attributed to the Timocrat in the Republic is also
exhibited in him. The Athenian on his side has a pleasure in speaking to the
Lacedaemonian of the struggle in which their ancestors were jointly engaged against the
Persians. A connexion with Athens is likewise intimated by the Cretan Cleinias. He is the
relative of Epimenides, whom, by an anachronism of a century,—perhaps arising as
Zeller suggests (Plat. Stud.) out of a confusion of the visit of Epimenides and Diotima
(Symp.),—he describes as coming to Athens, not after the attempt of Cylon, but ten
years before the Persian war. The Cretan and Lacedaemonian hardly contribute at all to
the argument of which the Athenian is the expounder; they only supply information
when asked about the institutions of their respective countries. A kind of simplicity or
stupidity is ascribed to them. At first, they are dissatisfied with the free criticisms which
the Athenian passes upon the laws of Minos and Lycurgus, but they acquiesce in his
greater experience and knowledge of the world. They admit that there can be no
objection to the enquiry; for in the spirit of the legislator himself, they are discussing his
laws when there are no young men present to listen. They are unwilling to allow that the
Spartan and Cretan lawgivers can have been mistaken in honouring courage as the first
part of virtue, and are puzzled at hearing for the first time that ‘Goods are only evil to
the evil.’ Several times they are on the point of quarrelling, and by an effort learn to
restrain their natural feeling (compare Shakespeare, Henry V, act iii. sc. 2). In Book vii.,
the Lacedaemonian expresses a momentary irritation at the accusation which the
Athenian brings against the Spartan institutions, of encouraging licentiousness in their
women, but he is reminded by the Cretan that the permission to criticize them freely has
been given, and cannot be retracted. His only criterion of truth is the authority of the
Spartan lawgiver; he is ‘interested,’ in the novel speculations of the Athenian, but
inclines to prefer the ordinances of Lycurgus.
The three interlocutors all of them speak in the character of old men, which forms a
pleasant bond of union between them. They have the feelings of old age about youth,
about the state, about human things in general. Nothing in life seems to be of much
importance to them; they are spectators rather than actors, and men in general appear
to the Athenian speaker to be the playthings of the Gods and of circumstances. Still they
have a fatherly care of the young, and are deeply impressed by sentiments of religion.
They would give confidence to the aged by an increasing use of wine, which, as they get
older, is to unloose their tongues and make them sing. The prospect of the existence of
the soul after death is constantly present to them; though they can hardly be said to have
the cheerful hope and resignation which animates Socrates in the Phaedo or Cephalus in
the Republic. Plato appears to be expressing his own feelings in remarks of this sort. For
at the time of writing the first book of the Laws he was at least seventy-four years of age,
if we suppose him to allude to the victory of the Syracusans under Dionysius the
Younger over the Locrians, which occurred in the year 356. Such a sadness was the
natural effect of declining years and failing powers, which make men ask, ‘After all, what
profit is there in life?’ They feel that their work is beginning to be over, and are ready to
say, ‘All the world is a stage;’ or, in the actual words of Plato, ‘Let us play as good plays
as we can,’ though ‘we must be sometimes serious, which is not agreeable, but
necessary.’ These are feelings which have crossed the minds of reflective persons in all
ages, and there is no reason to connect the Laws any more than other parts of Plato’s
writings with the very uncertain narrative of his life, or to imagine that this melancholy
tone is attributable to disappointment at having failed to convert a Sicilian tyrant into a
philosopher.
II. The plan of the Laws is more irregular and has less connexion than any other of the
writings of Plato. As Aristotle says in the Politics, ‘The greater part consists of laws’; in
Books v, vi, xi, xii the dialogue almost entirely disappears. Large portions of them are
rather the materials for a work than a finished composition which may rank with the
other Platonic dialogues. To use his own image, ‘Some stones are regularly inserted in
the building; others are lying on the ground ready for use.’ There is probably truth in the
tradition that the Laws were not published until after the death of Plato. We can easily
believe that he has left imperfections, which would have been removed if he had lived a
few years longer. The arrangement might have been improved; the connexion of the
argument might have been made plainer, and the sentences more accurately framed.
Something also may be attributed to the feebleness of old age. Even a rough sketch of
the Phaedrus or Symposium would have had a very different look. There is, however, an
interest in possessing one writing of Plato which is in the process of creation.
We must endeavour to find a thread of order which will carry us through this
comparative disorder. The first four books are described by Plato himself as the preface
or preamble. Having arrived at the conclusion that each law should have a preamble, the
lucky thought occurs to him at the end of the fourth book that the preceding discourse is
the preamble of the whole. This preamble or introduction may be abridged as follows:—
The institutions of Sparta and Crete are admitted by the Lacedaemonian and Cretan to
have one aim only: they were intended by the legislator to inspire courage in war. To this
the Athenian objects that the true lawgiver should frame his laws with a view to all the
virtues and not to one only. Better is he who has temperance as well as courage, than he
who has courage only; better is he who is faithful in civil broils, than he who is a good
soldier only. Better, too, is peace than war; the reconciliation than the defeat of an
enemy. And he who would attain all virtue should be trained amid pleasures as well as
pains. Hence there should be convivial intercourse among the citizens, and a man’s
temperance should be tested in his cups, as we test his courage amid dangers. He should
have a fear of the right sort, as well as a courage of the right sort.
At the beginning of the second book the subject of pleasure leads to education, which in
the early years of life is wholly a discipline imparted by the means of pleasure and pain.
The discipline of pleasure is implanted chiefly by the practice of the song and the dance.
Of these the forms should be fixed, and not allowed to depend on the fickle breath of the
multitude. There will be choruses of boys, girls, and grown-up persons, and all will be
heard repeating the same strain, that ‘virtue is happiness.’ One of them will give the law
to the rest; this will be the chorus of aged minstrels, who will sing the most beautiful and
the most useful of songs. They will require a little wine, to mellow the austerity of age,
and make them amenable to the laws.
After having laid down as the first principle of politics, that peace, and not war, is the
true aim of the legislator, and briefly discussed music and festive intercourse, at the
commencement of the third book Plato makes a digression, in which he speaks of the
origin of society. He describes, first of all, the family; secondly, the patriarchal stage,
which is an aggregation of families; thirdly, the founding of regular cities, like Ilium;
fourthly, the establishment of a military and political system, like that of Sparta, with
which he identifies Argos and Messene, dating from the return of the Heraclidae. But
the aims of states should be good, or else, like the prayer of Theseus, they may be
ruinous to themselves. This was the case in two out of three of the Heracleid kingdoms.
They did not understand that the powers in a state should be balanced. The balance of
powers saved Sparta, while the excess of tyranny in Persia and the excess of liberty at
Athens have been the ruin of both...This discourse on politics is suddenly discovered to
have an immediate practical use; for Cleinias the Cretan is about to give laws to a new
colony.
At the beginning of the fourth book, after enquiring into the circumstances and situation
of the colony, the Athenian proceeds to make further reflections. Chance, and God, and
the skill of the legislator, all co-operate in the formation of states. And the most
favourable condition for the foundation of a new one is when the government is in the
hands of a virtuous tyrant who has the good fortune to be the contemporary of a great
legislator. But a virtuous tyrant is a contradiction in terms; we can at best only hope to
have magistrates who are the servants of reason and the law. This leads to the enquiry,
what is to be the polity of our new state. And the answer is, that we are to fear God, and
honour our parents, and to cultivate virtue and justice; these are to be our first
principles. Laws must be definite, and we should create in the citizens a predisposition
to obey them. The legislator will teach as well as command; and with this view he will
prefix preambles to his principal laws.
The fifth book commences in a sort of dithyramb with another and higher preamble
about the honour due to the soul, whence are deduced the duties of a man to his parents
and his friends, to the suppliant and stranger. He should be true and just, free from envy
and excess of all sorts, forgiving to crimes which are not incurable and are partly
involuntary; and he should have a true taste. The noblest life has the greatest pleasures
and the fewest pains...Having finished the preamble, and touched on some other
preliminary considerations, we proceed to the Laws, beginning with the constitution of
the state. This is not the best or ideal state, having all things common, but only the
second-best, in which the land and houses are to be distributed among 5040 citizens
divided into four classes. There is to be no gold or silver among them, and they are to
have moderate wealth, and to respect number and numerical order in all things.
In the first part of the sixth book, Plato completes his sketch of the constitution by the
appointment of officers. He explains the manner in which guardians of the law,
generals, priests, wardens of town and country, ministers of education, and other
magistrates are to be appointed; and also in what way courts of appeal are to be
constituted, and omissions in the law to be supplied. Next—and at this point the Laws
strictly speaking begin—there follow enactments respecting marriage and the
procreation of children, respecting property in slaves as well as of other kinds,
respecting houses, married life, common tables for men and women. The question of age
in marriage suggests the consideration of a similar question about the time for holding
offices, and for military service, which had been previously omitted.
Resuming the order of the discussion, which was indicated in the previous book, from
marriage and birth we proceed to education in the seventh book. Education is to begin
at or rather before birth; to be continued for a time by mothers and nurses under the
supervision of the state; finally, to comprehend music and gymnastics. Under music is
included reading, writing, playing on the lyre, arithmetic, geometry, and a knowledge of
astronomy sufficient to preserve the minds of the citizens from impiety in after-life.
Gymnastics are to be practised chiefly with a view to their use in war. The discussion of
education, which was lightly touched upon in Book ii, is here completed.
The eighth book contains regulations for civil life, beginning with festivals, games, and
contests, military exercises and the like. On such occasions Plato seems to see young
men and maidens meeting together, and hence he is led into discussing the relations of
the sexes, the evil consequences which arise out of the indulgence of the passions, and
the remedies for them. Then he proceeds to speak of agriculture, of arts and trades, of
buying and selling, and of foreign commerce.
The remaining books of the Laws, ix-xii, are chiefly concerned with criminal offences. In
the first class are placed offences against the Gods, especially sacrilege or robbery of
temples: next follow offences against the state,—conspiracy, treason, theft. The mention
of thefts suggests a distinction between voluntary and involuntary, curable and
incurable offences. Proceeding to the greater crime of homicide, Plato distinguishes
between mere homicide, manslaughter, which is partly voluntary and partly involuntary,
and murder, which arises from avarice, ambition, fear. He also enumerates murders by
kindred, murders by slaves, wounds with or without intent to kill, wounds inflicted in
anger, crimes of or against slaves, insults to parents. To these, various modes of
purification or degrees of punishment are assigned, and the terrors of another world are
also invoked against them.
At the beginning of Book x, all acts of violence, including sacrilege, are summed up in a
single law. The law is preceded by an admonition, in which the offenders are informed
that no one ever did an unholy act or said an unlawful word while he retained his belief
in the existence of the Gods; but either he denied their existence, or he believed that
they took no care of man, or that they might be turned from their course by sacrifices
and prayers. The remainder of the book is devoted to the refutation of these three
classes of unbelievers, and concludes with the means to be taken for their reformation,
and the announcement of their punishments if they continue obstinate and impenitent.
The eleventh book is taken up with laws and with admonitions relating to individuals,
which follow one another without any exact order. There are laws concerning deposits
and the finding of treasure; concerning slaves and freedmen; concerning retail trade,
bequests, divorces, enchantments, poisonings, magical arts, and the like. In the twelfth
book the same subjects are continued. Laws are passed concerning violations of military
discipline, concerning the high office of the examiners and their burial; concerning
oaths and the violation of them, and the punishments of those who neglect their duties
as citizens. Foreign travel is then discussed, and the permission to be accorded to
citizens of journeying in foreign parts; the strangers who may come to visit the city are
also spoken of, and the manner in which they are to be received. Laws are added
respecting sureties, searches for property, right of possession by prescription, abduction
of witnesses, theatrical competition, waging of private warfare, and bribery in offices.
Rules are laid down respecting taxation, respecting economy in sacred rites, respecting
judges, their duties and sentences, and respecting sepulchral places and ceremonies.
Here the Laws end. Lastly, a Nocturnal Council is instituted for the preservation of the
state, consisting of older and younger members, who are to exhibit in their lives that
virtue which is the basis of the state, to know the one in many, and to be educated in
divine and every other kind of knowledge which will enable them to fulfil their office.
III. The style of the Laws differs in several important respects from that of the other
dialogues of Plato: (1) in the want of character, power, and lively illustration; (2) in the
frequency of mannerisms (compare Introduction to the Philebus); (3) in the form and
rhythm of the sentences; (4) in the use of words. On the other hand, there are many
passages (5) which are characterized by a sort of ethical grandeur; and (6) in which,
perhaps, a greater insight into human nature, and a greater reach of practical wisdom is
shown, than in any other of Plato’s writings.
1. The discourse of the three old men is described by themselves as an old man’s game of
play. Yet there is little of the liveliness of a game in their mode of treating the subject.
They do not throw the ball to and fro, but two out of the three are listeners to the third,
who is constantly asserting his superior wisdom and opportunities of knowledge, and
apologizing (not without reason) for his own want of clearness of speech. He will ‘carry
them over the stream;’ he will answer for them when the argument is beyond their
comprehension; he is afraid of their ignorance of mathematics, and thinks that
gymnastic is likely to be more intelligible to them;—he has repeated his words several
times, and yet they cannot understand him. The subject did not properly take the form
of dialogue, and also the literary vigour of Plato had passed away. The old men speak as
they might be expected to speak, and in this there is a touch of dramatic truth. Plato has
given the Laws that form or want of form which indicates the failure of natural power.
There is no regular plan—none of that consciousness of what has preceded and what is
to follow, which makes a perfect style,—but there are several attempts at a plan; the
argument is ‘pulled up,’ and frequent explanations are offered why a particular topic was
introduced.
The fictions of the Laws have no longer the verisimilitude which is characteristic of the
Phaedrus and the Timaeus, or even of the Statesman. We can hardly suppose that an
educated Athenian would have placed the visit of Epimenides to Athens ten years before
the Persian war, or have imagined that a war with Messene prevented the
Lacedaemonians from coming to the rescue of Hellas. The narrative of the origin of the
Dorian institutions, which are said to have been due to a fear of the growing power of
the Assyrians, is a plausible invention, which may be compared with the tale of the
island of Atlantis and the poem of Solon, but is not accredited by similar arts of
deception. The other statement that the Dorians were Achaean exiles assembled by
Dorieus, and the assertion that Troy was included in the Assyrian Empire, have some
foundation (compare for the latter point, Diod. Sicul.). Nor is there anywhere in the
Laws that lively enargeia, that vivid mise en scene, which is as characteristic of Plato as
of some modern novelists.
The old men are afraid of the ridicule which ‘will fall on their heads more than enough,’
and they do not often indulge in a joke. In one of the few which occur, the book of the
Laws, if left incomplete, is compared to a monster wandering about without a head. But
we no longer breathe the atmosphere of humour which pervades the Symposium and
the Euthydemus, in which we pass within a few sentences from the broadest
Aristophanic joke to the subtlest refinement of wit and fancy; instead of this, in the Laws
an impression of baldness and feebleness is often left upon our minds. Some of the most
amusing descriptions, as, for example, of children roaring for the first three years of life;
or of the Athenians walking into the country with fighting-cocks under their arms; or of
the slave doctor who knocks about his patients finely; and the gentleman doctor who
courteously persuades them; or of the way of keeping order in the theatre, ‘by a hint
from a stick,’ are narrated with a commonplace gravity; but where we find this sort of
dry humour we shall not be far wrong in thinking that the writer intended to make us
laugh. The seriousness of age takes the place of the jollity of youth. Life should have
holidays and festivals; yet we rebuke ourselves when we laugh, and take our pleasures
sadly. The irony of the earlier dialogues, of which some traces occur in the tenth book, is
replaced by a severity which hardly condescends to regard human things. ‘Let us say, if
you please, that man is of some account, but I was speaking of him in comparison with
God.’
The imagery and illustrations are poor in themselves, and are not assisted by the
surrounding phraseology. We have seen how in the Republic, and in the earlier
dialogues, figures of speech such as ‘the wave,’ ‘the drone,’ ‘the chase,’ ‘the bride,’ appear
and reappear at intervals. Notes are struck which are repeated from time to time, as in a
strain of music. There is none of this subtle art in the Laws. The illustrations, such as the
two kinds of doctors, ‘the three kinds of funerals,’ the fear potion, the puppet, the
painter leaving a successor to restore his picture, the ‘person stopping to consider where
three ways meet,’ the ‘old laws about water of which he will not divert the course,’ can
hardly be said to do much credit to Plato’s invention. The citations from the poets have
lost that fanciful character which gave them their charm in the earlier dialogues. We are
tired of images taken from the arts of navigation, or archery, or weaving, or painting, or
medicine, or music. Yet the comparisons of life to a tragedy, or of the working of mind to
the revolution of the self-moved, or of the aged parent to the image of a God dwelling in
the house, or the reflection that ‘man is made to be the plaything of God, and that this
rightly considered is the best of him,’ have great beauty.
2. The clumsiness of the style is exhibited in frequent mannerisms and repetitions. The
perfection of the Platonic dialogue consists in the accuracy with which the question and
answer are fitted into one another, and the regularity with which the steps of the
argument succeed one another. This finish of style is no longer discernible in the Laws.
There is a want of variety in the answers; nothing can be drawn out of the respondents
but ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ ‘True,’ ‘To be sure,’ etc.; the insipid forms, ‘What do you mean?’ ‘To
what are you referring?’ are constantly returning. Again and again the speaker is
charged, or charges himself, with obscurity; and he repeats again and again that he will
explain his views more clearly. The process of thought which should be latent in the
mind of the writer appears on the surface. In several passages the Athenian praises
himself in the most unblushing manner, very unlike the irony of the earlier dialogues, as
when he declares that ‘the laws are a divine work given by some inspiration of the Gods,’
and that ‘youth should commit them to memory instead of the compositions of the
poets.’ The prosopopoeia which is adopted by Plato in the Protagoras and other
dialogues is repeated until we grow weary of it. The legislator is always addressing the
speakers or the youth of the state, and the speakers are constantly making addresses to
the legislator. A tendency to a paradoxical manner of statement is also observable. ‘We
must have drinking,’ ‘we must have a virtuous tyrant’—this is too much for the duller
wits of the Lacedaemonian and Cretan, who at first start back in surprise. More than in
any other writing of Plato the tone is hortatory; the laws are sermons as well as laws;
they are considered to have a religious sanction, and to rest upon a religious sentiment
in the mind of the citizens. The words of the Athenian are attributed to the
Lacedaemonian and Cretan, who are supposed to have made them their own, after the
manner of the earlier dialogues. Resumptions of subjects which have been half disposed
of in a previous passage constantly occur: the arrangement has neither the clearness of
art nor the freedom of nature. Irrelevant remarks are made here and there, or
illustrations used which are not properly fitted in. The dialogue is generally weak and
laboured, and is in the later books fairly given up, apparently, because unsuited to the
subject of the work. The long speeches or sermons of the Athenian, often extending over
several pages, have never the grace and harmony which are exhibited in the earlier
dialogues. For Plato is incapable of sustained composition; his genius is dramatic rather
than oratorical; he can converse, but he cannot make a speech. Even the Timaeus, which
is one of his most finished works, is full of abrupt transitions. There is the same kind of
difference between the dialogue and the continuous discourse of Plato as between the
narrative and speeches of Thucydides.
3. The perfection of style is variety in unity, freedom, ease, clearness, the power of
saying anything, and of striking any note in the scale of human feelings without
impropriety; and such is the divine gift of language possessed by Plato in the
Symposium and Phaedrus. From this there are many fallings-off in the Laws: first, in
the structure of the sentences, which are rhythmical and monotonous,—the formal and
sophistical manner of the age is superseding the natural genius of Plato: secondly, many
of them are of enormous length, and the latter end often forgets the beginning of
them,—they seem never to have received the second thoughts of the author; either the
emphasis is wrongly placed, or there is a want of point in a clause; or an absolute case
occurs which is not properly separated from the rest of the sentence; or words are
aggregated in a manner which fails to show their relation to one another; or the
connecting particles are omitted at the beginning of sentences; the uses of the relative
and antecedent are more indistinct, the changes of person and number more frequent,
examples of pleonasm, tautology, and periphrasis, antitheses of positive and negative,
false emphasis, and other affectations, are more numerous than in the other writings of
Plato; there is also a more common and sometimes unmeaning use of qualifying
formulae, os epos eipein, kata dunamin, and of double expressions, pante pantos,
oudame oudamos, opos kai ope—these are too numerous to be attributed to errors in the
text; again, there is an over-curious adjustment of verb and participle, noun and epithet,
and other artificial forms of cadence and expression take the place of natural variety:
thirdly, the absence of metaphorical language is remarkable—the style is not devoid of
ornament, but the ornament is of a debased rhetorical kind, patched on to instead of
growing out of the subject; there is a great command of words, and a laboured use of
them; forced attempts at metaphor occur in several passages,—e.g. parocheteuein
logois; ta men os tithemena ta d os paratithemena; oinos kolazomenos upo nephontos
eterou theou; the plays on the word nomos = nou dianome, ode etara: fourthly, there is
a foolish extravagance of language in other passages,—‘the swinish ignorance of
arithmetic;’ ‘the justice and suitableness of the discourse on laws;’ over-emphasis; ‘best
of Greeks,’ said of all the Greeks, and the like: fifthly, poor and insipid illustrations are
also common: sixthly, we may observe an excessive use of climax and hyperbole,
aischron legein chre pros autous doulon te kai doulen kai paida kai ei pos oion te olen
ten oikian: dokei touto to epitedeuma kata phusin tas peri ta aphrodisia edonas ou
monon anthropon alla kai therion diephtharkenai.
4. The peculiarities in the use of words which occur in the Laws have been collected by
Zeller (Platonische Studien) and Stallbaum (Legg.): first, in the use of nouns, such as
allodemia, apeniautesis, glukuthumia, diatheter, thrasuxenia, koros, megalonoia,
paidourgia: secondly, in the use of adjectives, such as aistor, biodotes, echthodopos,
eitheos, chronios, and of adverbs, such as aniditi, anatei, nepoivei: thirdly, in the use of
verbs, such as athurein, aissein (aixeien eipein), euthemoneisthai, parapodizesthai,
sebein, temelein, tetan. These words however, as Stallbaum remarks, are formed
according to analogy, and nearly all of them have the support of some poetical or other
authority.
Zeller and Stallbaum have also collected forms of words in the Laws, differing from the
forms of the same words which occur in other places: e.g. blabos for blabe, abios for
abiotos, acharistos for acharis, douleios for doulikos, paidelos for paidikos, exagrio for
exagriaino, ileoumai for ilaskomai, and the Ionic word sophronistus, meaning
‘correction.’ Zeller has noted a fondness for substantives ending in —ma and —sis, such
as georgema, diapauma, epithumema, zemioma, komodema, omilema; blapsis,
loidoresis, paraggelsis, and others; also a use of substantives in the plural, which are
commonly found only in the singular, maniai, atheotetes, phthonoi, phoboi, phuseis;
also, a peculiar use of prepositions in composition, as in eneirgo, apoblapto,
dianomotheteo, dieiretai, dieulabeisthai, and other words; also, a frequent occurrence of
the Ionic datives plural in —aisi and —oisi, perhaps used for the sake of giving an
ancient or archaic effect.
To these peculiarities of words he has added a list of peculiar expressions and
constructions. Among the most characteristic are the following: athuta pallakon
spermata; amorphoi edrai; osa axiomata pros archontas; oi kata polin kairoi; muthos,
used in several places of ‘the discourse about laws;’ and connected with this the frequent
use of paramuthion and paramutheisthai in the general sense of ‘address,’ ‘addressing’;
aimulos eros; ataphoi praxeis; muthos akephalos; ethos euthuporon. He remarks also
on the frequent employment of the abstract for the concrete; e.g. uperesia for uperetai,
phugai for phugades, mechanai in the sense of ‘contrivers,’ douleia for douloi, basileiai
for basileis, mainomena kedeumata for ganaika mainomenen; e chreia ton paidon in the
sense of ‘indigent children,’ and paidon ikanotes; to ethos tes apeirias for e eiothuia
apeiria; kuparitton upse te kai kalle thaumasia for kuparittoi mala upselai kai kalai. He
further notes some curious uses of the genitive case, e.g. philias omologiai, maniai orges,
laimargiai edones, cheimonon anupodesiai, anosioi plegon tolmai; and of the dative,
omiliai echthrois, nomothesiai, anosioi plegon tolmai; and of the dative omiliai
echthrois, nomothesiai epitropois; and also some rather uncommon periphrases,
thremmata Neilou, xuggennetor teknon for alochos, Mouses lexis for poiesis, zographon
paides, anthropon spermata and the like; the fondness for particles of limitation,
especially tis and ge, sun tisi charisi, tois ge dunamenois and the like; the pleonastic use
of tanun, of os, of os eros eipein, of ekastote; and the periphrastic use of the preposition
peri. Lastly, he observes the tendency to hyperbata or transpositions of words, and to
rhythmical uniformity as well as grammatical irregularity in the structure of the
sentences.
For nearly all the expressions which are adduced by Zeller as arguments against the
genuineness of the Laws, Stallbaum finds some sort of authority. There is no real ground
for doubting that the work was written by Plato, merely because several words occur in
it which are not found in his other writings. An imitator may preserve the usual
phraseology of a writer better than he would himself. But, on the other hand, the fact
that authorities may be quoted in support of most of these uses of words, does not show
that the diction is not peculiar. Several of them seem to be poetical or dialectical, and
exhibit an attempt to enlarge the limits of Greek prose by the introduction of Homeric
and tragic expressions. Most of them do not appear to have retained any hold on the
later language of Greece. Like several experiments in language of the writers of the
Elizabethan age, they were afterwards lost; and though occasionally found in Plutarch
and imitators of Plato, they have not been accepted by Aristotle or passed into the
common dialect of Greece.
5. Unequal as the Laws are in style, they contain a few passages which are very grand
and noble. For example, the address to the poets: ‘Best of strangers, we also are poets of
the best and noblest tragedy; for our whole state is an imitation of the best and noblest
life, which we affirm to be indeed the very truth of tragedy.’ Or again, the sight of young
men and maidens in friendly intercourse with one another, suggesting the dangers to
which youth is liable from the violence of passion; or the eloquent denunciation of
unnatural lusts in the same passage; or the charming thought that the best legislator
‘orders war for the sake of peace and not peace for the sake of war;’ or the pleasant
allusion, ‘O Athenian—inhabitant of Attica, I will not say, for you seem to me worthy to
be named after the Goddess Athene because you go back to first principles;’ or the pithy
saying, ‘Many a victory has been and will be suicidal to the victors, but education is
never suicidal;’ or the fine expression that ‘the walls of a city should be allowed to sleep
in the earth, and that we should not attempt to disinter them;’ or the remark that ‘God is
the measure of all things in a sense far higher than any man can be;’ or that ‘a man
should be from the first a partaker of the truth, that he may live a true man as long as
possible;’ or the principle repeatedly laid down, that ‘the sins of the fathers are not to be
visited on the children;’ or the description of the funeral rites of those priestly sages who
depart in innocence; or the noble sentiment, that we should do more justice to slaves
than to equals; or the curious observation, founded, perhaps, on his own experience,
that there are a few ‘divine men in every state however corrupt, whose conversation is of
inestimable value;’ or the acute remark, that public opinion is to be respected, because
the judgments of mankind about virtue are better than their practice; or the deep
religious and also modern feeling which pervades the tenth book (whatever may be
thought of the arguments); the sense of the duty of living as a part of a whole, and in
dependence on the will of God, who takes care of the least things as well as the greatest;
and the picture of parents praying for their children—not as we may say, slightly altering
the words of Plato, as if there were no truth or reality in the Gentile religions, but as if
there were the greatest—are very striking to us. We must remember that the Laws,
unlike the Republic, do not exhibit an ideal state, but are supposed to be on the level of
human motives and feelings; they are also on the level of the popular religion, though
elevated and purified: hence there is an attempt made to show that the pleasant is also
just. But, on the other hand, the priority of the soul to the body, and of God to the soul,
is always insisted upon as the true incentive to virtue; especially with great force and
eloquence at the commencement of Book v. And the work of legislation is carried back to
the first principles of morals.
6. No other writing of Plato shows so profound an insight into the world and into human
nature as the Laws. That ‘cities will never cease from ill until they are better governed,’
is the text of the Laws as well as of the Statesman and Republic. The principle that the
balance of power preserves states; the reflection that no one ever passed his whole life in
disbelief of the Gods; the remark that the characters of men are best seen in convivial
intercourse; the observation that the people must be allowed to share not only in the
government, but in the administration of justice; the desire to make laws, not with a
view to courage only, but to all virtue; the clear perception that education begins with
birth, or even, as he would say, before birth; the attempt to purify religion; the modern
reflections, that punishment is not vindictive, and that limits must be set to the power of
bequest; the impossibility of undeceiving the victims of quacks and jugglers; the
provision for water, and for other requirements of health, and for concealing the bodies
of the dead with as little hurt as possible to the living; above all, perhaps, the distinct
consciousness that under the actual circumstances of mankind the ideal cannot be
carried out, and yet may be a guiding principle—will appear to us, if we remember that
we are still in the dawn of politics, to show a great depth of political wisdom.
IV. The Laws of Plato contain numerous passages which closely resemble other passages
in his writings. And at first sight a suspicion arises that the repetition shows the unequal
hand of the imitator. For why should a writer say over again, in a more imperfect form,
what he had already said in his most finished style and manner? And yet it may be urged
on the other side that an author whose original powers are beginning to decay will be
very liable to repeat himself, as in conversation, so in books. He may have forgotten
what he had written before; he may be unconscious of the decline of his own powers.
Hence arises a question of great interest, bearing on the genuineness of ancient writers.
Is there any criterion by which we can distinguish the genuine resemblance from the
spurious, or, in other words, the repetition of a thought or passage by an author himself
from the appropriation of it by another? The question has, perhaps, never been fully
discussed; and, though a real one, does not admit of a precise answer. A few general
considerations on the subject may be offered:—
(a) Is the difference such as might be expected to arise at different times of life or under
different circumstances?—There would be nothing surprising in a writer, as he grew
older, losing something of his own originality, and falling more and more under the
spirit of his age. ‘What a genius I had when I wrote that book!’ was the pathetic
exclamation of a famous English author, when in old age he chanced to take up one of
his early works. There would be nothing surprising again in his losing somewhat of his
powers of expression, and becoming less capable of framing language into a harmonious
whole. There would also be a strong presumption that if the variation of style was
uniform, it was attributable to some natural cause, and not to the arts of the imitator.
The inferiority might be the result of feebleness and of want of activity of mind. But the
natural weakness of a great author would commonly be different from the artificial
weakness of an imitator; it would be continuous and uniform. The latter would be apt to
fill his work with irregular patches, sometimes taken verbally from the writings of the
author whom he personated, but rarely acquiring his spirit. His imitation would be
obvious, irregular, superficial. The patches of purple would be easily detected among his
threadbare and tattered garments. He would rarely take the pains to put the same
thought into other words. There were many forgeries in English literature which
attained a considerable degree of success 50 or 100 years ago; but it is doubtful whether
attempts such as these could now escape detection, if there were any writings of the
same author or of the same age to be compared with them. And ancient forgers were
much less skilful than modern; they were far from being masters in the art of deception,
and had rarely any motive for being so.
(b) But, secondly, the imitator will commonly be least capable of understanding or
imitating that part of a great writer which is most characteristic of him. In every man’s
writings there is something like himself and unlike others, which gives individuality. To
appreciate this latent quality would require a kindred mind, and minute study and
observation. There are a class of similarities which may be called undesigned
coincidences, which are so remote as to be incapable of being borrowed from one
another, and yet, when they are compared, find a natural explanation in their being the
work of the same mind. The imitator might copy the turns of style—he might repeat
images or illustrations, but he could not enter into the inner circle of Platonic
philosophy. He would understand that part of it which became popular in the next
generation, as for example, the doctrine of ideas or of numbers: he might approve of
communism. But the higher flights of Plato about the science of dialectic, or the unity of
virtue, or a person who is above the law, would be unintelligible to him.
(c) The argument from imitation assumes a different character when the supposed
imitations are associated with other passages having the impress of original genius. The
strength of the argument from undesigned coincidences of style is much increased when
they are found side by side with thoughts and expressions which can only have come
from a great original writer. The great excellence, not only of the whole, but even of the
parts of writings, is a strong proof of their genuineness—for although the great writer
may fall below, the forger or imitator cannot rise much above himself. Whether we can
attribute the worst parts of a work to a forger and the best to a great writer,—as for
example, in the case of some of Shakespeare’s plays,—depends upon the probability that
they have been interpolated, or have been the joint work of two writers; and this can
only be established either by express evidence or by a comparison of other writings of
the same class. If the interpolation or double authorship of Greek writings in the time of
Plato could be shown to be common, then a question, perhaps insoluble, would arise,
not whether the whole, but whether parts of the Platonic dialogues are genuine, and, if
parts only, which parts. Hebrew prophecies and Homeric poems and Laws of Manu may
have grown together in early times, but there is no reason to think that any of the
dialogues of Plato is the result of a similar process of accumulation. It is therefore rash
to say with Oncken (Die Staatslehre des Aristoteles) that the form in which Aristotle
knew the Laws of Plato must have been different from that in which they have come
down to us.
It must be admitted that these principles are difficult of application. Yet a criticism may
be worth making which rests only on probabilities or impressions. Great disputes will
arise about the merits of different passages, about what is truly characteristic and
original or trivial and borrowed. Many have thought the Laws to be one of the greatest of
Platonic writings, while in the judgment of Mr. Grote they hardly rise above the level of
the forged epistles. The manner in which a writer would or would not have written at a
particular time of life must be acknowledged to be a matter of conjecture. But enough
has been said to show that similarities of a certain kind, whether criticism is able to
detect them or not, may be such as must be attributed to an original writer, and not to a
mere imitator.
(d) Applying these principles to the case of the Laws, we have now to point out that they
contain the class of refined or unconscious similarities which are indicative of
genuineness. The parallelisms are like the repetitions of favourite thoughts into which
every one is apt to fall unawares in conversation or in writing. They are found in a work
which contains many beautiful and remarkable passages. We may therefore begin by
claiming this presumption in their favour. Such undesigned coincidences, as we may
venture to call them, are the following. The conception of justice as the union of
temperance, wisdom, courage (Laws; Republic): the latent idea of dialectic implied in
the notion of dividing laws after the kinds of virtue (Laws); the approval of the method
of looking at one idea gathered from many things, ‘than which a truer was never
discovered by any man’ (compare Republic): or again the description of the Laws as
parents (Laws; Republic): the assumption that religion has been already settled by the
oracle of Delphi (Laws; Republic), to which an appeal is also made in special cases
(Laws): the notion of the battle with self, a paradox for which Plato in a manner
apologizes both in the Laws and the Republic: the remark (Laws) that just men, even
when they are deformed in body, may still be perfectly beautiful in respect of the
excellent justice of their minds (compare Republic): the argument that ideals are none
the worse because they cannot be carried out (Laws; Republic): the near approach to the
idea of good in ‘the principle which is common to all the four virtues,’ a truth which the
guardians must be compelled to recognize (Laws; compare Republic): or again the
recognition by reason of the right pleasure and pain, which had previously been matter
of habit (Laws; Republic): or the blasphemy of saying that the excellency of music is to
give pleasure (Laws; Republic): again the story of the Sidonian Cadmus (Laws), which is
a variation of the Phoenician tale of the earth-born men (Republic): the comparison of
philosophy to a yelping she-dog, both in the Republic and in the Laws: the remark that
no man can practise two trades (Laws; Republic): or the advantage of the middle
condition (Laws; Republic): the tendency to speak of principles as moulds or forms;
compare the ekmageia of song (Laws), and the tupoi of religion (Republic): or the
remark (Laws) that ‘the relaxation of justice makes many cities out of one,’ which may
be compared with the Republic: or the description of lawlessness ‘creeping in little by
little in the fashions of music and overturning all things,’—to us a paradox, but to Plato’s
mind a fixed idea, which is found in the Laws as well as in the Republic: or the figure of
the parts of the human body under which the parts of the state are described (Laws;
Republic): the apology for delay and diffuseness, which occurs not unfrequently in the
Republic, is carried to an excess in the Laws (compare Theaet.): the remarkable thought
(Laws) that the soul of the sun is better than the sun, agrees with the relation in which
the idea of good stands to the sun in the Republic, and with the substitution of mind for
the idea of good in the Philebus: the passage about the tragic poets (Laws) agrees
generally with the treatment of them in the Republic, but is more finely conceived, and
worked out in a nobler spirit. Some lesser similarities of thought and manner should not
be omitted, such as the mention of the thirty years’ old students in the Republic, and the
fifty years’ old choristers in the Laws; or the making of the citizens out of wax (Laws)
compared with the other image (Republic); or the number of the tyrant (729), which is
NEARLY equal with the number of days and nights in the year (730), compared with the
‘slight correction’ of the sacred number 5040, which is divisible by all the numbers from
1 to 12 except 11, and divisible by 11, if two families be deducted; or once more, we may
compare the ignorance of solid geometry of which he complains in the Republic and the
puzzle about fractions with the difficulty in the Laws about commensurable and
incommensurable quantities —and the malicious emphasis on the word gunaikeios
(Laws) with the use of the same word (Republic). These and similar passages tend to
show that the author of the Republic is also the author of the Laws. They are echoes of
the same voice, expressions of the same mind, coincidences too subtle to have been
invented by the ingenuity of any imitator. The force of the argument is increased, if we
remember that no passage in the Laws is exactly copied,—nowhere do five or six words
occur together which are found together elsewhere in Plato’s writings.
In other dialogues of Plato, as well as in the Republic, there are to be found parallels
with the Laws. Such resemblances, as we might expect, occur chiefly (but not
exclusively) in the dialogues which, on other grounds, we may suppose to be of later
date. The punishment of evil is to be like evil men (Laws), as he says also in the
Theaetetus. Compare again the dependence of tragedy and comedy on one another, of
which he gives the reason in the Laws—‘For serious things cannot be understood
without laughable, nor opposites at all without opposites, if a man is really to have
intelligence of either’; here he puts forward the principle which is the groundwork of the
thesis of Socrates in the Symposium, ‘that the genius of tragedy is the same as that of
comedy, and that the writer of comedy ought to be a writer of tragedy also.’ There is a
truth and right which is above Law (Laws), as we learn also from the Statesman. That
men are the possession of the Gods (Laws), is a reflection which likewise occurs in the
Phaedo. The remark, whether serious or ironical (Laws), that ‘the sons of the Gods
naturally believed in the Gods, because they had the means of knowing about them,’ is
found in the Timaeus. The reign of Cronos, who is the divine ruler (Laws), is a
reminiscence of the Statesman. It is remarkable that in the Sophist and Statesman
(Soph.), Plato, speaking in the character of the Eleatic Stranger, has already put on the
old man. The madness of the poets, again, is a favourite notion of Plato’s, which occurs
also in the Laws, as well as in the Phaedrus, Ion, and elsewhere. There are traces in the
Laws of the same desire to base speculation upon history which we find in the Critias.
Once more, there is a striking parallel with the paradox of the Gorgias, that ‘if you do
evil, it is better to be punished than to be unpunished,’ in the Laws: ‘To live having all
goods without justice and virtue is the greatest of evils if life be immortal, but not so
great if the bad man lives but a short time.’
The point to be considered is whether these are the kind of parallels which would be the
work of an imitator. Would a forger have had the wit to select the most peculiar and
characteristic thoughts of Plato; would he have caught the spirit of his philosophy;
would he, instead of openly borrowing, have half concealed his favourite ideas; would he
have formed them into a whole such as the Laws; would he have given another the credit
which he might have obtained for himself; would he have remembered and made use of
other passages of the Platonic writings and have never deviated into the phraseology of
them? Without pressing such arguments as absolutely certain, we must acknowledge
that such a comparison affords a new ground of real weight for believing the Laws to be
a genuine writing of Plato.
V. The relation of the Republic to the Laws is clearly set forth by Plato in the Laws. The
Republic is the best state, the Laws is the best possible under the existing conditions of
the Greek world. The Republic is the ideal, in which no man calls anything his own,
which may or may not have existed in some remote clime, under the rule of some God,
or son of a God (who can say?), but is, at any rate, the pattern of all other states and the
exemplar of human life. The Laws distinctly acknowledge what the Republic partly
admits, that the ideal is inimitable by us, but that we should ‘lift up our eyes to the
heavens’ and try to regulate our lives according to the divine image. The citizens are no
longer to have wives and children in common, and are no longer to be under the
government of philosophers. But the spirit of communism or communion is to continue
among them, though reverence for the sacredness of the family, and respect of children
for parents, not promiscuous hymeneals, are now the foundation of the state; the sexes
are to be as nearly on an equality as possible; they are to meet at common tables, and to
share warlike pursuits (if the women will consent), and to have a common education.
The legislator has taken the place of the philosopher, but a council of elders is retained,
who are to fulfil the duties of the legislator when he has passed out of life. The addition
of younger persons to this council by co-optation is an improvement on the governing
body of the Republic. The scheme of education in the Laws is of a far lower kind than
that which Plato had conceived in the Republic. There he would have his rulers trained
in all knowledge meeting in the idea of good, of which the different branches of
mathematical science are but the hand-maidens or ministers; here he treats chiefly of
popular education, stopping short with the preliminary sciences,—these are to be
studied partly with a view to their practical usefulness, which in the Republic he holds
cheap, and even more with a view to avoiding impiety, of which in the Republic he says
nothing; he touches very lightly on dialectic, which is still to be retained for the rulers.
Yet in the Laws there remain traces of the old educational ideas. He is still for banishing
the poets; and as he finds the works of prose writers equally dangerous, he would
substitute for them the study of his own laws. He insists strongly on the importance of
mathematics as an educational instrument. He is no more reconciled to the Greek
mythology than in the Republic, though he would rather say nothing about it out of a
reverence for antiquity; and he is equally willing to have recourse to fictions, if they have
a moral tendency. His thoughts recur to a golden age in which the sanctity of oaths was
respected and in which men living nearer the Gods were more disposed to believe in
them; but we must legislate for the world as it is, now that the old beliefs have passed
away. Though he is no longer fired with dialectical enthusiasm, he would compel the
guardians to ‘look at one idea gathered from many things,’ and to ‘perceive the principle
which is the same in all the four virtues.’ He still recognizes the enormous influence of
music, in which every youth is to be trained for three years; and he seems to attribute
the existing degeneracy of the Athenian state and the laxity of morals partly to musical
innovation, manifested in the unnatural divorce of the instrument and the voice, of the
rhythm from the words, and partly to the influence of the mob who ruled at the theatres.
He assimilates the education of the two sexes, as far as possible, both in music and
gymnastic, and, as in the Republic, he would give to gymnastic a purely military
character. In marriage, his object is still to produce the finest children for the state. As in
the Statesman, he would unite in wedlock dissimilar natures— the passionate with the
dull, the courageous with the gentle. And the virtuous tyrant of the Statesman, who has
no place in the Republic, again appears. In this, as in all his writings, he has the
strongest sense of the degeneracy and incapacity of the rulers of his own time.
In the Laws, the philosophers, if not banished, like the poets, are at least ignored; and
religion takes the place of philosophy in the regulation of human life. It must however
be remembered that the religion of Plato is co-extensive with morality, and is that
purified religion and mythology of which he speaks in the second book of the Republic.
There is no real discrepancy in the two works. In a practical treatise, he speaks of
religion rather than of philosophy; just as he appears to identify virtue with pleasure,
and rather seeks to find the common element of the virtues than to maintain his old
paradoxical theses that they are one, or that they are identical with knowledge. The
dialectic and the idea of good, which even Glaucon in the Republic could not
understand, would be out of place in a less ideal work. There may also be a change in his
own mind, the purely intellectual aspect of philosophy having a diminishing interest to
him in his old age.
Some confusion occurs in the passage in which Plato speaks of the Republic, occasioned
by his reference to a third state, which he proposes (D.V.) hereafter to expound. Like
many other thoughts in the Laws, the allusion is obscure from not being worked out.
Aristotle (Polit.) speaks of a state which is neither the best absolutely, nor the best under
existing conditions, but an imaginary state, inferior to either, destitute, as he supposes,
of the necessaries of life—apparently such a beginning of primitive society as is
described in Laws iii. But it is not clear that by this the third state of Plato is intended. It
is possible that Plato may have meant by his third state an historical sketch, bearing the
same relation to the Laws which the unfinished Critias would have borne to the
Republic; or he may, perhaps, have intended to describe a state more nearly
approximating than the Laws to existing Greek states.
The Statesman is a mere fragment when compared with the Laws, yet combining a
second interest of dialectic as well as politics, which is wanting in the larger work.
Several points of similarity and contrast may be observed between them. In some
respects the Statesman is even more ideal than the Republic, looking back to a former
state of paradisiacal life, in which the Gods ruled over mankind, as the Republic looks
forward to a coming kingdom of philosophers. Of this kingdom of Cronos there is also
mention in the Laws. Again, in the Statesman, the Eleatic Stranger rises above law to the
conception of the living voice of the lawgiver, who is able to provide for individual cases.
A similar thought is repeated in the Laws: ‘If in the order of nature, and by divine
destiny, a man were able to apprehend the truth about these things, he would have no
need of laws to rule over him; for there is no law or order above knowledge, nor can
mind without impiety be deemed the subject or slave of any, but rather the lord of all.’
The union of opposite natures, who form the warp and the woof of the political web, is a
favourite thought which occurs in both dialogues (Laws; Statesman).
The Laws are confessedly a Second-best, an inferior Ideal, to which Plato has recourse,
when he finds that the city of Philosophers is no longer ‘within the horizon of practical
politics.’ But it is curious to observe that the higher Ideal is always returning (compare
Arist. Polit.), and that he is not much nearer the actual fact, nor more on the level of
ordinary life in the Laws than in the Republic. It is also interesting to remark that the
new Ideal is always falling away, and that he hardly supposes the one to be more capable
of being realized than the other. Human beings are troublesome to manage; and the
legislator cannot adapt his enactments to the infinite variety of circumstances; after all
he must leave the administration of them to his successors; and though he would have
liked to make them as permanent as they are in Egypt, he cannot escape from the
necessity of change. At length Plato is obliged to institute a Nocturnal Council which is
supposed to retain the mind of the legislator, and of which some of the members are
even supposed to go abroad and inspect the institutions of foreign countries, as a
foundation for changes in their own. The spirit of such changes, though avoiding the
extravagance of a popular assembly, being only so much change as the conservative
temper of old members is likely to allow, is nevertheless inconsistent with the fixedness
of Egypt which Plato wishes to impress upon Hellenic institutions. He is inconsistent
with himself as the truth begins to dawn upon him that ‘in the execution things for the
most part fall short of our conception of them’ (Republic).
And is not this true of ideals of government in general? We are always disappointed in
them. Nothing great can be accomplished in the short space of human life; wherefore
also we look forward to another (Republic). As we grow old, we are sensible that we have
no power actively to pursue our ideals any longer. We have had our opportunity and do
not aspire to be more than men: we have received our ‘wages and are going home.’
Neither do we despair of the future of mankind, because we have been able to do so little
in comparison of the whole. We look in vain for consistency either in men or things. But
we have seen enough of improvement in our own time to justify us in the belief that the
world is worth working for and that a good man’s life is not thrown away. Such
reflections may help us to bring home to ourselves by inward sympathy the language of
Plato in the Laws, and to combine into something like a whole his various and at first
sight inconsistent utterances.
VI. The Republic may be described as the Spartan constitution appended to a
government of philosophers. But in the Laws an Athenian element is also introduced.
Many enactments are taken from the Athenian; the four classes are borrowed from the
constitution of Cleisthenes, which Plato regards as the best form of Athenian
government, and the guardians of the law bear a certain resemblance to the archons. In
the constitution of the Laws nearly all officers are elected by a vote more or less popular
and by lot. But the assembly only exists for the purposes of election, and has no
legislative or executive powers. The Nocturnal Council, which is the highest body in the
state, has several of the functions of the ancient Athenian Areopagus, after which it
appears to be modelled. Life is to wear, as at Athens, a joyous and festive look; there are
to be Bacchic choruses, and men of mature age are encouraged in moderate potations.
On the other hand, the common meals, the public education, the crypteia are borrowed
from Sparta and not from Athens, and the superintendence of private life, which was to
be practised by the governors, has also its prototype in Sparta. The extravagant dislike
which Plato shows both to a naval power and to extreme democracy is the reverse of
Athenian.
The best-governed Hellenic states traced the origin of their laws to individual lawgivers.
These were real persons, though we are uncertain how far they originated or only
modified the institutions which are ascribed to them. But the lawgiver, though not a
myth, was a fixed idea in the mind of the Greek,—as fixed as the Trojan war or the earthborn
Cadmus. ‘This was what Solon meant or said’—was the form in which the Athenian
expressed his own conception of right and justice, or argued a disputed point of law.
And the constant reference in the Laws of Plato to the lawgiver is altogether in
accordance with Greek modes of thinking and speaking.
There is also, as in the Republic, a Pythagorean element. The highest branch of
education is arithmetic; to know the order of the heavenly bodies, and to reconcile the
apparent contradiction of their movements, is an important part of religion; the lives of
the citizens are to have a common measure, as also their vessels and coins; the great
blessing of the state is the number 5040. Plato is deeply impressed by the antiquity of
Egypt, and the unchangeableness of her ancient forms of song and dance. And he is also
struck by the progress which the Egyptians had made in the mathematical sciences—in
comparison of them the Greeks appeared to him to be little better than swine. Yet he
censures the Egyptian meanness and inhospitality to strangers. He has traced the
growth of states from their rude beginnings in a philosophical spirit; but of any life or
growth of the Hellenic world in future ages he is silent. He has made the reflection that
past time is the maker of states (Book iii.); but he does not argue from the past to the
future, that the process is always going on, or that the institutions of nations are relative
to their stage of civilization. If he could have stamped indelibly upon Hellenic states the
will of the legislator, he would have been satisfied. The utmost which he expects of
future generations is that they should supply the omissions, or correct the errors which
younger statesmen detect in his enactments. When institutions have been once
subjected to this process of criticism, he would have them fixed for ever.
THE LAWS
BOOK I
PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE: An ATHENIAN STRANGER; CLEINIAS, a Cretan;
MEGILLUS, a Lacedaemonian
Athenian Stranger. Tell me, Strangers, is a God or some man supposed to be the author
of your laws?
Cleinias. A God, Stranger; in very truth a, God: among us Cretans he is said to have been
Zeus, but in Lacedaemon, whence our friend here comes, I believe they would say that
Apollo is their lawgiver: would they not, Megillus?
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. And do you, Cleinias, believe, as Homer tells, that every ninth year Minos
went to converse with his Olympian sire, and was inspired by him to make laws for your
cities?
Cleinias. Yes, that is our tradition; and there was Rhadamanthus, a brother of his, with
whose name you are familiar; he is reputed to have been the justest of men, and we
Cretans are of opinion that he earned this reputation from his righteous administration
of justice when he was alive.
Athenian. Yes, and a noble reputation it was, worthy of a son of Zeus. As you and
Megillus have been trained in these institutions, I dare say that you will not be unwilling
to give an account of your government and laws; on our way we can pass the time
pleasantly in about them, for I am told that the distance from Cnosus to the cave and
temple of Zeus is considerable; and doubtless there are shady places under the lofty
trees, which will protect us from this scorching sun. Being no longer young, we may
often stop to rest beneath them, and get over the whole journey without difficulty,
beguiling the time by conversation.
Cleinias. Yes, Stranger, and if we proceed onward we shall come to groves of cypresses,
which are of rare height and beauty, and there are green meadows, in which we may
repose and converse.
Athenian. Very good.
Cleinias. Very good, indeed; and still better when we see them; let us move on cheerily.
Athenian. I am willing—And first, I want to know why the law has ordained that you
shall have common meals and gymnastic exercises, and wear arms.
Cleinias. I think, Stranger, that the aim of our institutions is easily intelligible to any
one. Look at the character of our country: Crete is not like Thessaly, a large plain; and
for this reason they have horsemen in Thessaly, and we have runners—the inequality of
the ground in our country is more adapted to locomotion on foot; but then, if you have
runners you must have light arms—no one can carry a heavy weight when running, and
bows and arrows are convenient because they are light. Now all these regulations have
been made with a view to war, and the legislator appears to me to have looked to this in
all his arrangements:—the common meals, if I am not mistaken, were instituted by him
for a similar reason, because he saw that while they are in the field the citizens are by the
nature of the case compelled to take their meals together for the sake of mutual
protection. He seems to me to have thought the world foolish in not understanding that
all are always at war with one another; and if in war there ought to be common meals
and certain persons regularly appointed under others to protect an army, they should be
continued in peace. For what men in general term peace would be said by him to be only
a name; in reality every city is in a natural state of war with every other, not indeed
proclaimed by heralds, but everlasting. And if you look closely, you will find that this
was the intention of the Cretan legislator; all institutions, private as well as public, were
arranged by him with a view to war; in giving them he was under the impression that no
possessions or institutions are of any value to him who is defeated in battle; for all the
good things of the conquered pass into the hands of the conquerors.
Athenian. You appear to me, Stranger, to have been thoroughly trained in the Cretan
institutions, and to be well informed about them; will you tell me a little more explicitly
what is the principle of government which you would lay down? You seem to imagine
that a well governed state ought to be so ordered as to conquer all other states in war:
am I right in supposing this to be your meaning?
Cleinias. Certainly; and our Lacedaemonian friend, if I am not mistaken, will agree with
me.
Megillus. Why, my good friend, how could any Lacedaemonian say anything else?
Athenian. And is what you say applicable only to states, or also to villages?
Cleinias. To both alike.
Athenian. The case is the same?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And in the village will there be the same war of family against family, and of
individual against individual?
Cleinias. The same.
Athenian. And should each man conceive himself to be his own enemy:—what shall we
say?
Cleinias. O Athenian Stranger—inhabitant of Attica I will not call you, for you seem to
deserve rather to be named after the goddess herself, because you go back to first
principles you have thrown a light upon the argument, and will now be better able to
understand what I was just saying—that all men are publicly one another’s enemies, and
each man privately his own.
(Ath. My good sir, what do you mean?)—
Cleinias. ... Moreover, there is a victory and defeat—the first and best of victories, the
lowest and worst of defeats—which each man gains or sustains at the hands, not of
another, but of himself; this shows that there is a war against ourselves going on within
every one of us.
Athenian. Let us now reverse the order of the argument: Seeing that every individual is
either his own superior or his own inferior, may we say that there is the same principle
in the house, the village, and the state?
Cleinias. You mean that in each of them there is a principle of superiority or inferiority
to self?
Athenian. Yes.
Cleinias. You are quite right in asking the question, for there certainly is such a
principle, and above all in states; and the state in which the better citizens win a victory
over the mob and over the inferior classes may be truly said to be better than itself, and
may be justly praised, where such a victory is gained, or censured in the opposite case.
Athenian. Whether the better is ever really conquered by the worse, is a question which
requires more discussion, and may be therefore left for the present. But I now quite
understand your meaning when you say that citizens who are of the same race and live
in the same cities may unjustly conspire, and having the superiority in numbers may
overcome and enslave the few just; and when they prevail, the state may be truly called
its own inferior and therefore bad; and when they are defeated, its own superior and
therefore good.
Cleinias. Your remark, Stranger, is a paradox, and yet we cannot possibly deny it.
Athenian. Here is another case for consideration;—in a family there may be several
brothers, who are the offspring of a single pair; very possibly the majority of them may
be unjust, and the just may be in a minority.
Cleinias. Very possibly.
Athenian. And you and I ought not to raise a question of words as to whether this family
and household are rightly said to be superior when they conquer, and inferior when they
are conquered; for we are not now considering what may or may not be the proper or
customary way of speaking, but we are considering the natural principles of right and
wrong in laws.
Cleinias. What you say, Stranger, is most true.
Megillus. Quite excellent, in my opinion, as far as we have gone.
Athenian. Again; might there not be a judge over these brethren, of whom we were
speaking?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Now, which would be the better judge—one who destroyed the bad and
appointed the good to govern themselves; or one who, while allowing the good to
govern, let the bad live, and made them voluntarily submit? Or third, I suppose, in the
scale of excellence might be placed a judge, who, finding the family distracted, not only
did not destroy any one, but reconciled them to one another for ever after, and gave
them laws which they mutually observed, and was able to keep them friends.
Cleinias. The last would be by far the best sort of judge and legislator.
Athenian. And yet the aim of all the laws which he gave would be the reverse of war.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And will he who constitutes the state and orders the life of man have in view
external war, or that kind of intestine war called civil, which no one, if he could prevent,
would like to have occurring in his own state; and when occurring, every one would wish
to be quit of as soon as possible?
Cleinias. He would have the latter chiefly in view.
Athenian. And would he prefer that this civil war should be terminated by the
destruction of one of the parties, and by the victory of the other, or that peace and
friendship should be re–established, and that, being reconciled, they should give their
attention to foreign enemies?
Cleinias. Every one would desire the latter in the case of his own state.
Athenian. And would not that also be the desire of the legislator?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And would not every one always make laws for the sake of the best?
Cleinias. To be sure.
Athenian. But war, whether external or civil, is not the best, and the need of either is to
be deprecated; but peace with one another, and good will, are best. Nor is the victory of
the state over itself to be regarded as a really good thing, but as a necessity; a man might
as well say that the body was in the best state when sick and purged by medicine,
forgetting that there is also a state of the body which needs no purge. And in like
manner no one can be a true statesman, whether he aims at the happiness of the
individual or state, who looks only, or first of all, to external warfare; nor will he ever be
a sound legislator who orders peace for the sake of war, and not war for the sake of
peace.
Cleinias. I suppose that there is truth, Stranger, in that remark of yours; and yet I am
greatly mistaken if war is not the entire aim and object of our own institutions, and also
of the Lacedaemonian.
Athenian. I dare say; but there is no reason why we should rudely quarrel with one
another about your legislators, instead of gently questioning them, seeing that both we
and they are equally in earnest. Please follow me and the argument closely:—And first I
will put forward Tyrtaeus, an Athenian by birth, but also a Spartan citizen, who of all
men was most eager about war: Well, he says, “I sing not, I care not, about any man,
even if he were the richest of men, and possessed every good (and then he gives a whole
list of them), if he be not at all times a brave warrior.” I imagine that you, too, must have
heard his poems; our Lacedaemonian friend has probably heard more than enough of
them.
Megillus. Very true.
Cleinias. And they have found their way from Lacedaemon to Crete.
Athenian. Come now and let us all join in asking this question of Tyrtaeus: O most
divine poet, we will say to him, the excellent praise which you have bestowed on those
who excel in war sufficiently proves that you are wise and good, and I and Megillus and
Cleinias of Cnosus do, as I believe, entirely agree with you. But we should like to be quite
sure that we are speaking of the same men; tell us, then, do you agree with us in
thinking that there are two kinds of war; or what would you say? A far inferior man to
Tyrtaeus would have no difficulty in replying quite truly, that war is of two kinds one
which is universally called civil war, and is as we were just now saying, of all wars the
worst; the other, as we should all admit, in which we fall out with other nations who are
of a different race, is a far milder form of warfare.
Cleinias. Certainly, far milder.
Athenian. Well, now, when you praise and blame war in this high–flown strain, whom
are you praising or blaming, and to which kind of war are you referring? I suppose that
you must mean foreign war, if I am to judge from expressions of yours in which you say
that you abominate those
Who refuse to look upon fields of blood, and will not draw near and strike at their
enemies. And we shall naturally go on to say to him—You, Tyrtaeus, as it seems, praise
those who distinguish themselves in external and foreign war; and he must admit this.
Cleinias. Evidently.
Athenian. They are good; but we say that there are still better men whose virtue is
displayed in the greatest of all battles. And we too have a poet whom we summon as a
witness, Theognis, citizen of Megara in Sicily:
Cyrnus, he who is faithful in a civil broil is worth his weight in gold and silver. And such
an one is far better, as we affirm, than the other in a more difficult kind of war, much in
the same degree as justice and temperance and wisdom, when united with courage, are
better than courage only; for a man cannot be faithful and good in civil strife without
having all virtue. But in the war of which Tyrtaeus speaks, many a mercenary soldier will
take his stand and be ready to die at his post, and yet they are generally and almost
without exception insolent, unjust, violent men, and the most senseless of human
beings. You will ask what the conclusion is, and what I am seeking to prove: I maintain
that the divine legislator of Crete, like any other who is worthy of consideration, will
always and above all things in making laws have regard to the greatest virtue; which,
according to Theognis, is loyalty in the hour of danger, and may be truly called perfect
justice. Whereas, that virtue which Tyrtaeus highly praises is well enough, and was
praised by the poet at the right time, yet in place and dignity may be said to be only
fourth rate.
Cleinias. Stranger, we are degrading our inspired lawgiver to a rank which is far beneath
him.
Athenian. Nay, I think that we degrade not him but ourselves, if we imagine that
Lycurgus and Minos laid down laws both in Lacedaemon and Crete mainly with a view
to war.
Cleinias. What ought we to say then?
Athenian. What truth and what justice require of us, if I am not mistaken, when
speaking in behalf of divine excellence;—at the legislator when making his laws had in
view not a part only, and this the lowest part of virtue, but all virtue, and that he devised
classes of laws answering to the kinds of virtue; not in the way in which modern
inventors of laws make the classes, for they only investigate and offer laws whenever a
want is felt, and one man has a class of laws about allotments and heiresses, another
about assaults; others about ten thousand other such matters. But we maintain that the
right way of examining into laws is to proceed as we have now done, and I admired the
spirit of your exposition; for you were quite right in beginning with virtue, and saying
that this was the aim of the giver of the law, but I thought that you went wrong when you
added that all his legislation had a view only to a part, and the least part of virtue, and
this called forth my subsequent remarks. Will you allow me then to explain how I should
have liked to have heard you expound the matter?
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. You ought to have said, Stranger—The Cretan laws are with reason famous
among the Hellenes; for they fulfil the object of laws, which is to make those who use
them happy; and they confer every sort of good. Now goods are of two kinds: there are
human and there are divine goods, and the human hang upon the divine; and the state
which attains the greater, at the same time acquires the less, or, not having the greater,
has neither. Of the lesser goods the first is health, the second beauty, the third strength,
including swiftness in running and bodily agility generally, and the fourth is wealth, not
the blind god [Pluto], but one who is keen of sight, if only he has wisdom for his
companion. For wisdom is chief and leader of the divine dass of goods, and next follows
temperance; and from the union of these two with courage springs justice, and fourth in
the scale of virtue is courage. All these naturally take precedence of the other goods, and
this is the order in which the legislator must place them, and after them he will enjoin
the rest of his ordinances on the citizens with a view to these, the human looking to the
divine, and the divine looking to their leader mind. Some of his ordinances will relate to
contracts of marriage which they make one with another, and then to the procreation
and education of children, both male and female; the duty of the lawgiver will be to take
charge of his citizens, in youth and age, and at every time of life, and to give them
punishments and rewards; and in reference to all their intercourse with one another, he
ought to consider their pains and pleasures and desires, and the vehemence of all their
passions; he should keep a watch over them, and blame and praise them rightly by the
mouth of the laws themselves. Also with regard to anger and terror, and the other
perturbations of the soul, which arise out of misfortune, and the deliverances from them
which prosperity brings, and the experiences which come to men in diseases, or in war,
or poverty, or the opposite of these; in all these states he should determine and teach
what is the good and evil of the condition of each. In the next place, the legislator has to
be careful how the citizens make their money and in what way they spend it, and to have
an eye to their mutual contracts and dissolutions of contracts, whether voluntary or
involuntary: he should see how they order all this, and consider where justice as well as
injustice is found or is wanting in their several dealings with one another; and honour
those who obey the law, and impose fixed penalties on those who disobey, until the
round of civil life is ended, and the time has come for the consideration of the proper
funeral rites and honours of the dead. And the lawgiver reviewing his work, will appoint
guardians to preside over these things—some who walk by intelligence, others by true
opinion only, and then mind will bind together all his ordinances and show them to be
in harmony with temperance and justice, and not with wealth or ambition. This is the
spirit, Stranger, in which I was and am desirous that you should pursue the subject. And
I want to know the nature of all these things, and how they are arranged in the laws of
Zeus, as they are termed, and in those of the Pythian Apollo, which Minos and Lycurgus
gave; and how the order of them is discovered to his eyes, who has experience in laws
gained either by study or habit, although they are far from being self–evident to the rest
of mankind like ourselves.
Cleinias. How shall we proceed, Stranger?
Athenian. I think that we must begin again as before, and first consider the habit of
courage; and then we will go on and discuss another and then another form of virtue, if
you please. In this way we shall have a model of the whole; and with these and similar
discourses we will beguile the way. And when we have gone through all the virtues, we
will show, by the grace of God, that the institutions of which I was speaking look to
virtue.
Megillus. Very good; and suppose that you first criticize this praiser of Zeus and the laws
of Crete.
Athenian. I will try to criticize you and myself, as well as him, for the argument is a
common concern. Tell me—were not first the syssitia, and secondly the gymnasia,
invented by your legislator with a view to war?
Megillus. Yes.
Athenian. And what comes third, and what fourth? For that, I think, is the sort of
enumeration which ought to be made of the remaining parts of virtue, no matter
whether you call them parts or what their name is, provided the meaning is clear.
Megillus. Then I, or any other Lacedaemonian, would reply that hunting is third in
order.
Athenian. Let us see if we can discover what comes fourth and fifth.
Megillus. I think that I can get as far as the fouth head, which is the frequent endurance
of pain, exhibited among us Spartans in certain hand–to–hand fights; also in stealing
with the prospect of getting a good beating; there is, too, the so–called Crypteia, or
secret service, in which wonderful endurance is shown—our people wander over the
whole country by day and by night, and even in winter have not a shoe to their foot, and
are without beds to lie upon, and have to attend upon themselves. Marvellous, too, is the
endurance which our citizens show in their naked exercises, contending against the
violent summer heat; and there are many similar practices, to speak of which in detail
would be endless.
Athenian. Excellent, O Lacedaemonian Stranger. But how ought we to define courage?
Is it to be regarded only as a combat against fears and pains, or also against desires and
pleasures, and against flatteries; which exercise such a tremendous power, that they
make the hearts even of respectable citizens to melt like wax?
Megillus. I should say the latter.
Athenian. In what preceded, as you will remember, our Cnosian friend was speaking of a
man or a city being inferior to themselves:—Were you not, Cleinias?
Cleinias. I was.
Athenian. Now, which is in the truest sense inferior, the man who is overcome by
pleasure or by pain?
Cleinias. I should say the man who is overcome by pleasure; for all men deem him to be
inferior in a more disgraceful sense, than the other who is overcome by pain.
Athenian. But surely the lawgivers of Crete and Lacedaemon have not legislated for a
courage which is lame of one leg, able only to meet attacks which come from the left, but
impotent against the insidious flatteries which come from the right?
Cleinias. Able to meet both, I should say.
Athenian. Then let me once more ask, what institutions have you in either of your states
which give a taste of pleasures, and do not avoid them any more than they avoid pains;
but which set a person in the midst of them, and compel or induce him by the prospect
of reward to get the better of them? Where is an ordinance about pleasure similar to that
about pain to be found in your laws? Tell me what there is of this nature among you:—
What is there which makes your citizen equally brave against pleasure and pain,
conquering what they ought to conquer, and superior to the enemies who are most
dangerous and nearest home?
Megillus. I was able to tell you, Stranger, many laws which were directed against pain;
but I do not know that I can point out any great or obvious examples of similar
institutions which are concerned with pleasure; there are some lesser provisions,
however, which I might mention.
Cleinias. Neither can I show anything of that sort which is at all equally prominent in
the Cretan laws.
Athenian. No wonder, my dear friends; and if, as is very likely, in our search after the
true and good, one of us may have to censure the laws of the others, we must not be
offended, but take kindly what another says.
Cleinias. You are quite right, Athenian Stranger, and we will do as you say.
Athenian. At our time of life, Cleinias, there should be no feeling of irritation.
Cleinias. Certainly not.
Athenian. I will not at present determine whether he who censures the Cretan or
Lacedaemonian polities is right or wrong. But I believe that I can tell better than either
of you what the many say about them. For assuming that you have reasonably good
laws, one of the best of them will be the law forbidding any young men to enquire which
of them are right or wrong; but with one mouth and one voice they must all agree that
the laws are all good, for they came from God; and any one who says the contrary is not
to be listened to. But an old man who remarks any defect in your laws may communicate
his observation to a ruler or to an equal in years when no young man is present.
Cleinias. Exactly so, Stranger; and like a diviner, although not there at the time, you
seem to me quite to have hit the meaning of the legislator, and to say what is most true.
Athenian. As there are no young men present, and the legislator has given old men free
licence, there will be no impropriety in our discussing these very matters now that we
are alone.
Cleinias. True. And therefore you may be as free as you like in your censure of our laws,
for there is no discredit in knowing what is wrong; he who receives what is said in a
generous and friendly spirit will be all the better for it.
Athenian. Very good; however, I am not going to say anything against your laws until to
the best of my ability I have examined them, but I am going to raise doubts about them.
For you are the only people known to us, whether Greek or barbarian, whom the
legislator commanded to eschew all great pleasures and amusements and never to touch
them; whereas in the matter of pains or fears which we have just been discussing, he
thought that they who from infancy had always avoided pains and fears and sorrows,
when they were compelled to face them would run away from those who were hardened
in them, and would become their subjects. Now the legislator ought to have considered
that this was equally true of pleasure; he should have said to himself, that if our citizens
are from their youth upward unacquainted with the greatest pleasures, and unused to
endure amid the temptations of pleasure, and are not disciplined to refrain from all
things evil, the sweet feeling of pleasure will overcome them just as fear would overcome
the former class; and in another, and even a worse manner, they will be the slaves of
those who are able to endure amid pleasures, and have had the opportunity of enjoying
them, they being often the worst of mankind. One half of their souls will be a slave, the
other half free; and they will not be worthy to be called in the true sense men and
freemen. Tell me whether you assent to my words?
Cleinias. On first hearing, what you say appears to be the truth; but to be hasty in
coming to a conclusion about such important matters would be very childish and
simple.
Athenian. Suppose, Cleinias and Megillus, that we consider the virtue which follows
next of those which we intended to discuss (for after courage comes temperance), what
institutions shall we find relating to temperance, either in Crete or Lacedaemon, which,
like your military institutions, differ from those of any ordinary state.
Megillus. That is not an easy question to answer; still I should say that the common
meals and gymnastic exercises have been excellently devised for the promotion both of
temperance and courage.
Athenian. There seems to be a difficulty, Stranger, with regard to states, in making
words and facts coincide so that there can be no dispute about them. As in the human
body, the regimen which does good in one way does harm in another; and we can hardly
say that any one course of treatment is adapted to a particular constitution. Now the
gymnasia and common meals do a great deal of good, and yet they are a source of evil in
civil troubles; as is shown in the case of the Milesian, and Boeotian, and Thurian youth,
among whom these institutions seem always to have had a tendency to degrade the
ancient and natural custom of love below the level, not only of man, but of the beasts.
The charge may be fairly brought against your cities above all others, and is true also of
most other states which especially cultivate gymnastics. Whether such matters are to be
regarded jestingly or seriously, I think that the pleasure is to be deemed natural which
arises out of the intercourse between men and women; but that the intercourse of men
with men, or of women with women, is contrary to nature, and that the bold attempt
was originally due to unbridled lust. The Cretans are always accused of having invented
the story of Ganymede and Zeus because they wanted to justify themselves in the
enjoyment of unnatural pleasures by the practice of the god whom they believe to have
been their lawgiver. Leaving the story, we may observe that any speculation about laws
turns almost entirely on pleasure and pain, both in states and in individuals: these are
two fountains which nature lets flow, and he who draws from them where and when,
and as much as he ought, is happy; and this holds of men and animals—of individuals as
well as states; and he who indulges in them ignorantly and at the wrong time, is the
reverse of happy.
Megillus. I admit, Stranger, that your words are well spoken, and I hardly know what to
say in answer to you; but still I think that the Spartan lawgiver was quite right in
forbidding pleasure. Of the Cretan laws, I shall leave the defence to my Cnosian friend.
But the laws of Sparta, in as far as they relate to pleasure, appear to me to be the best in
the world; for that which leads mankind in general into the wildest pleasure and licence,
and every other folly, the law has clean driven out; and neither in the country nor in
towns which are under the control of Sparta, will you find revelries and the many
incitements of every kind of pleasure which accompany them; and any one who meets a
drunken and disorderly person, will immediately have him most severely punished, and
will not let him off on any pretence, not even at the time of a Dionysiac festival; although
I have remarked that this may happen at your performances “on the cart,” as they are
called; and among our Tarentine colonists I have seen the whole city drunk at a
Dionysiac festival; but nothing of the sort happens among us.
Athenian. O Lacedaemonian Stranger, these festivities are praiseworthy where there is a
spirit of endurance, but are very senseless when they are under no regulations. In order
to retaliate, an Athenian has only to point out the licence which exists among your
women. To all such accusations, whether they are brought against the Tarentines, or us,
or you, there is one answer which exonerates the practice in question from impropriety.
When a stranger expresses wonder at the singularity of what he sees, any inhabitant will
naturally answer him:—Wonder not, O stranger; this is our custom, and you may very
likely have some other custom about the same things. Now we are speaking, my friends,
not about men in general, but about the merits and defects of the lawgivers themselves.
Let us then discourse a little more at length about intoxication, which is a very
important subject, and will seriously task the discrimination of the legislator. I am not
speaking of drinking, or not drinking, wine at all, but of intoxication. Are we to follow
the custom of the Scythians, and Persians, and Carthaginians, and Celts, and Iberians,
and Thracians, who are all warlike nations, or that of your countrymen, for they, as you
say, altogether abstain? But the Scythians and Thracians, both men and women, drink
unmixed wine, which they pour on their garments, and this they think a happy and
glorious institution. The Persians, again, are much given to other practices of luxury
which you reject, but they have more moderation in them than the Thracians and
Scythians.
Megillus. O best of men, we have only to take arms into our hands, and we send all these
nations flying before us.
Athenian. Nay, my good friend, do not say that; there have been, as there always will be,
flights and pursuits of which no account can be given, and therefore we cannot say that
victory or defeat in battle affords more than a doubtful proof of the goodness or badness
of institutions. For when the greater states conquer and enslave the lesser, as the
Syracusans have done the Locrians, who appear to be the best–governed people in their
part of the world, or as the Athenians have done the Ceans (and there are ten thousand
other instances of the same sort of thing), all this is not to the point; let us endeavour
rather to form a conclusion about each institution in itself and say nothing, at present,
of victories and defeats. Let us only say that such and such a custom is honourable, and
another not. And first permit me to tell you how good and bad are to be estimated in
reference to these very matters.
Megillus. How do you mean?
Athenian. All those who are ready at a moment’s notice to praise or censure any practice
which is matter of discussion, seem to me to proceed in a wrong way. Let me give you an
illustration of what I mean:—You may suppose a person to be praising wheat as a good
kind of food, whereupon another person instantly blames wheat, without ever enquiring
into its effect or use, or in what way, or to whom, or with what, or in what state and how,
wheat is to be given. And that is just what we are doing in this discussion. At the very
mention of the word intoxication, one side is ready with their praises and the other with
their censures; which is absurd. For either side adduce their witnesses and approvers,
and some of us think that we speak with authority because we have many witnesses; and
others because they see those who abstain conquering in battle, and this again is
disputed by us. Now I cannot say that I shall be satisfied, if we go on discussing each of
the remaining laws in the same way. And about this very point of intoxication I should
like to speak in another way, which I hold to be the right one; for if number is to be the
criterion, are there not myriads upon myriads of nations ready to dispute the point with
you, who are only two cities?
Megillus. I shall gladly welcome any method of enquiry which is right.
Athenian. Let me put the matter thus:—Suppose a person to praise the keeping of goats,
and the creatures themselves as capital things to have, and then some one who had seen
goats feeding without a goatherd in cultivated spots, and doing mischief, were to
censure a goat or any other animal who has no keeper, or a bad keeper, would there be
any sense or justice in such censure?
Megillus. Certainly not.
Athenian. Does a captain require only to have nautical knowledge in order to be a good
captain, whether he is sea–sick or not? What do you say?
Megillus. I say that he is not a good captain if, although he have nautical skill, he is
liable to sea–sickness.
Athenian. And what would you say of the commander of an army? Will he be able to
command merely because he has military skill if he be a coward, who, when danger
comes, is sick and drunk with fear?
Megillus. Impossible.
Athenian. And what if besides being a coward he has no skill?
Megillus. He is a miserable fellow, not fit to be a commander of men, but only of old
women.
Athenian. And what would you say of some one who blames or praises any sort of
meeting which is intended by nature to have a ruler, and is well enough when under his
presidency? The critic, however, has never seen the society meeting together at an
orderly feast under the control of a president, but always without a ruler or with a bad
one:—when observers of this class praise or blame such meetings, are we to suppose that
what they say is of any value?
Megillus. Certainly not, if they have never seen or been present at such a meeting when
rightly ordered.
Athenian. Reflect; may not banqueters and banquets be said to constitute a kind of
meeting?
Megillus. Of course.
Athenian. And did any one ever see this sort of convivial meeting rightly ordered? Of
course you two will answer that you have never seen them at all, because they are not
customary or lawful in your country; but I have come across many of them in many
different places, and moreover I have made enquiries about them wherever I went, as I
may say, and never did I see or hear of anything of the kind which was carried on
altogether rightly; in some few particulars they might be right, but in general they were
utterly wrong.
Cleinias. What do you mean, Stranger, by this remark? Explain; For we, as you say, from
our inexperience in such matters, might very likely not know, even if they came in our
way, what was right or wrong in such societies.
Athenian. Likely enough; then let me try to be your instructor: You would acknowledge,
would you not, that in all gatherings of man, kind, of whatever sort, there ought to be a
leader?
Cleinias. Certainly I should.
Athenian. And we were saying just now, that when men are at war the leader ought to be
a brave man?
Cleinias. We were.
Athenian. The brave man is less likely than the coward to be disturbed by fears?
Cleinias. That again is true.
Athenian. And if there were a possibility of having a general of an army who was
absolutely fearless and imperturbable, should we not by all means appoint him?
Cleinias. Assuredly.
Athenian. Now, however, we are speaking not of a general who is to command an army,
when foe meets foe in time of war, but of one who is to regulate meetings of another
sort, when friend meets friend in time of peace.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And that sort of meeting, if attended with drunkenness, is apt to be unquiet.
Cleinias. Certainly; the reverse of quiet.
Athenian. In the first place, then, the revellers as well as the soldiers will require a ruler?
Cleinias. To be sure; no men more so.
Athenian. And we ought, if possible, to provide them with a quiet ruler?
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. And he should be a man who understands society; for his duty is to preserve
the friendly feelings which exist among the company at the time, and to increase them
for the future by his use of the occasion.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. Must we not appoint a sober man and a wise to be our master of the revels?
For if the ruler of drinkers be himself young and drunken, and not over–wise, only by
some special good fortune will he be saved from doing some great evil.
Cleinias. It will be by a singular good fortune that he is saved.
Athenian. Now suppose such associations to be framed in the best way possible in
states, and that some one blames the very fact of their existence—he may very likely be
right. But if he blames a practice which he only sees very much mismanaged, he shows
in the first place that he is not aware of the mismanagement, and also not aware that
everything done in this way will turn out to be wrong, because done without the
superintendence of a sober ruler. Do you not see that a drunken pilot or a drunken ruler
of any sort will ruin ship, chariot, army—anything, in short, of which he has the
direction?
Cleinias. The last remark is very true, Stranger; and I see quite clearly the advantage of
an army having a good leader—he will give victory in war to his followers, which is a very
great advantage; and so of other things. But I do not see any similar advantage which
either individuals or states gain from the good management of a feast; and I want you to
tell me what great good will be effected, supposing that this drinking ordinance is duly
established.
Athenian. If you mean to ask what great good accrues to the state from the right training
of a single youth, or of a single chorus—when the question is put in that form, we cannot
deny that the good is not very great in any particular instance. But if you ask what is the
good of education in general, the answer is easy—that education makes good men, and
that good men act nobly, and conquer their enemies in battle, because they are good.
Education certainly gives victory, although victory sometimes produces forgetfulness of
education; for many have grown insolent from victory in war, and this insolence has
engendered in them innumerable evils; and many a victory has been and will be suicidal
to the victors; but education is never suicidal.
Cleinias. You seem to imply, my friend, that convivial meetings, when rightly ordered,
are an important element of education.
Athenian. Certainly I do.
Cleinias. And can you show that what you have been saying is true?
Athenian. To be absolutely sure of the truth of matters concerning which there are many
opinions, is an attribute of the Gods not given to man, Stranger; but I shall be very
happy to tell you what I think, especially as we are now proposing to enter on a
discussion concerning laws and constitutions.
Cleinias. Your opinion, Stranger, about the questions which are now being raised, is
precisely what we want to hear.
Athenian. Very good; I will try to find a way of explaining my meaning, and you shall try
to have the gift of understanding me. But first let me make an apology. The Athenian
citizen is reputed among all the Hellenes to be a great talker, whereas Sparta is
renowned for brevity, and the Cretans have more wit than words. Now I am afraid of
appearing to elicit a very long discourse out of very small materials. For drinking indeed
may appear to be a slight matter, and yet is one which cannot be rightly ordered
according to nature, without correct principles of music; these are necessary to any clear
or satisfactory treatment of the subject, and music again runs up into education
generally, and there is much to be said about all this. What would you say then to
leaving these matters for the present, and passing on to some other question of law?
Megillus. O Athenian Stranger, let me tell you what perhaps you do not know, that our
family is the proxenus of your state. I imagine that from their earliest youth all boys,
when they are told that they are the proxeni of a particular state, feel kindly towards
their second and this has certainly been my own feeling. I can well remember from the
days of my boyhood, how, when any Lacedaemonians praised or blamed the Athenians,
they used to say to me—”See, Megillus, how ill or how well,” as the case might be, “has
your state treated us”; and having always had to fight your battles against detractors
when I heard you assailed, I became warmly attached to you. And I always like to hear
the Athenian tongue spoken; the common saying is quite true, that a good Athenian is
more than ordinarily good, for he is the only man who is freely and genuinely good by
the divine inspiration of his own nature, and is not manufactured. Therefore be assured
that I shall like to hear you say whatever you have to say.
Cleinias. Yes, Stranger; and when you have heard me speak, say boldly what is in your
thoughts. Let me remind you of a tie which unites you to Crete. You must have heard
here the story of the prophet Epimenides, who was of my family, and came to Athens ten
years before the Persian war, in accordance with the response of the Oracle, and offered
certain sacrifices which the God commanded. The Athenians were at that time in dread
of the Persian invasion; and he said that for ten years they would not come, and that
when they came, they would go away again without accomplishing any of their objects,
and would suffer more evil than they inflicted. At that time my forefathers formed ties of
hospitality with you; thus ancient is the friendship which I and my parents have had for
you.
Athenian. You seem to be quite ready to listen; and I am also ready to perform as much
as I can of an almost impossible task, which I will nevertheless attempt. At the outset of
the discussion, let me define the nature and power of education; for this is the way by
which our argument must travel onwards to the God Dionysus.
Cleinias. Let us proceed, if you please.
Athenian. Well, then, if I tell you what are my notions of education, will you consider
whether they satisfy you?
Cleinias. Let us hear.
Athenian. According to my view, any one who would be good at anything must practise
that thing from his youth upwards, both in sport and earnest, in its several branches: for
example, he who is to be a good builder, should play at building children’s houses; he
who is to be a good husbandman, at tilling the ground; and those who have the care of
their education should provide them when young with mimic tools. They should learn
beforehand the knowledge which they will afterwards require for their art. For example,
the future carpenter should learn to measure or apply the line in play; and the future
warrior should learn riding, or some other exercise, for amusement, and the teacher
should endeavour to direct the children’s inclinations and pleasures, by the help of
amusements, to their final aim in life. The most important part of education is right
training in the nursery. The soul of the child in his play should be guided to the love of
that sort of excellence in which when he grows up to manhood he will have to be
perfected. Do you agree with me thus far?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Then let us not leave the meaning of education ambiguous or ill–defined. At
present, when we speak in terms of praise or blame about the bringing–up of each
person, we call one man educated and another uneducated, although the uneducated
man may be sometimes very well educated for the calling of a retail trader, or of a
captain of a ship, and the like. For we are not speaking of education in this narrower
sense, but of that other education in virtue from youth upwards, which makes a man
eagerly pursue the ideal perfection of citizenship, and teaches him how rightly to rule
and how to obey. This is the only education which, upon our view, deserves the name;
that other sort of training, which aims at the acquisition of wealth or bodily strength, or
mere cleverness apart from intelligence and justice, is mean and illiberal, and is not
worthy to be called education at all. But let us not quarrel with one another about a
word, provided that the proposition which has just been granted hold good: to wit, that
those who are rightly educated generally become good men. Neither must we cast a
slight upon education, which is the first and fairest thing that the best of men can ever
have, and which, though liable to take a wrong direction, is capable of reformation. And
this work of reformation is the great business of every man while he lives.
Cleinias. Very true; and we entirely agree with you.
Athenian. And we agreed before that they are good men who are able to rule themselves,
and bad men who are not.
Cleinias. You are quite right.
Athenian. Let me now proceed, if I can, to clear up the subject a little further by an
illustration which I will offer you.
Cleinias. Proceed.
Athenian. Do we not consider each of ourselves to be one?
Cleinias. We do.
Athenian. And each one of us has in his bosom two counsellors, both foolish and also
antagonistic; of which we call the one pleasure, and the other pain.
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. Also there are opinions about the future, which have the general name of
expectations; and the specific name of fear, when the expectation is of pain; and of hope,
when of pleasure; and further, there is reflection about the good or evil of them, and
this, when embodied in a decree by the State, is called Law.
Cleinias. I am hardly able to follow you; proceed, however, as if I were.
Megillus. I am in the like case.
Athenian. Let us look at the matter thus: May we not conceive each of us living beings to
be a puppet of the Gods, either their plaything only, or created with a purpose—which of
the two we cannot certainly know? But we do know, that these affections in us are like
cords and strings, which pull us different and opposite ways, and to opposite actions;
and herein lies the difference between virtue and vice. According to the argument there
is one among these cords which every man ought to grasp and never let go, but to pull
with it against all the rest; and this is the sacred and golden cord of reason, called by us
the common law of the State; there are others which are hard and of iron, but this one is
soft because golden; and there are several other kinds. Now we ought always to
cooperate with the lead of the best, which is law. For inasmuch as reason is beautiful
and gentle, and not violent, her rule must needs have ministers in order to help the
golden principle in vanquishing the other principles. And thus the moral of the tale
about our being puppets will not have been lost, and the meaning of the expression
“superior or inferior to a man’s self” will become clearer; and the individual, attaining to
right reason in this matter of pulling the strings of the puppet, should live according to
its rule; while the city, receiving the same from some god or from one who has
knowledge of these things, should embody it in a law, to be her guide in her dealings
with herself and with other states. In this way virtue and vice will be more clearly
distinguished by us. And when they have become clearer, education and other
institutions will in like manner become clearer; and in particular that question of
convivial entertainment, which may seem, perhaps, to have been a very trifling matter,
and to have taken a great many more words than were necessary.
Cleinias. Perhaps, however, the theme may turn out not to be unworthy of the length of
discourse.
Athenian. Very good; let us proceed with any enquiry which really bears on our present
object.
Cleinias. Proceed.
Athenian. Suppose that we give this puppet of ours drink—what will be the effect on
him?
Cleinias. Having what in view do you ask that question?
Athenian. Nothing as yet; but I ask generally, when the puppet is brought to the drink,
what sort of result is likely to follow. I will endeavour to explain my meaning more
clearly: what I am now asking is this—Does the drinking of wine heighten and increase
pleasures and pains, and passions and loves?
Cleinias. Very greatly.
Athenian. And are perception and memory, and opinion and prudence, heightened and
increased? Do not these qualities entirely desert a man if he becomes saturated with
drink?
Cleinias. Yes, they entirely desert him.
Athenian. Does he not return to the state of soul in which he was when a young child?
Cleinias. He does.
Athenian. Then at that time he will have the least control over himself?
Cleinias. The least.
Athenian. And will he not be in a most wretched plight?
Cleinias. Most wretched.
Athenian. Then not only an old man but also a drunkard becomes a second time a child?
Cleinias. Well said, Stranger.
Athenian. Is there any argument which will prove to us that we ought to encourage the
taste for drinking instead of doing all we can to avoid it?
Cleinias. I suppose that there is; you at any rate, were just now saying that you were
ready to maintain such a doctrine.
Athenian. True, I was; and I am ready still, seeing that you have both declared that you
are anxious to hear me.
Cleinias. To sure we are, if only for the strangeness of the paradox, which asserts that a
man ought of his own accord to plunge into utter degradation.
Athenian. Are you speaking of the soul?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And what would you say about the body, my friend? Are you not surprised at
any one of his own accord bringing upon himself deformity, leanness, ugliness,
decrepitude?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Yet when a man goes of his own accord to a doctor’s shop, and takes
medicine, is he not aware that soon, and for many days afterwards, he will be in a state
of body which he would die rather than accept as the permanent condition of his life?
Are not those who train in gymnasia, at first beginning reduced to a state of weakness?
Cleinias. Yes, all that is well known.
Athenian. Also that they go of their own accord for the sake of the subsequent benefit?
Cleinias. Very good.
Athenian. And we may conceive this to be true in the same way of other practices?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And the same view may be taken of the pastime of drinking wine, if we are
right in supposing that the same good effect follows?
Cleinias. To be sure.
Athenian. If such convivialities should turn out to have any advantage equal in
importance to that of gymnastic, they are in their very nature to be preferred to mere
bodily exercise, inasmuch as they have no accompaniment of pain.
Cleinias. True; but I hardly think that we shall be able to discover any such benefits to
be derived from them.
Athenian. That is just what we must endeavour to show. And let me ask you a
question:—Do we not distinguish two kinds of fear, which are very different?
Cleinias. What are they?
Athenian. There is the fear of expected evil.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And there is the fear of an evil reputation; we are afraid of being thought evil,
because we do or say some dishonourable thing, which fear we and all men term shame.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. These are the two fears, as I called them; one of which is the opposite of pain
and other fears, and the opposite also of the greatest and most numerous sort of
pleasures.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And does not the legislator and every one who is good for anything, hold this
fear in the greatest honour? This is what he terms reverence, and the confidence which
is the reverse of this he terms insolence; and the latter he always deems to be a very
great evil both to individuals and to states.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Does not this kind of fear preserve us in many important ways? What is there
which so surely gives victory and safety in war? For there are two things which give
victory—confidence before enemies, and fear of disgrace before friends.
Cleinias. There are.
Athenian. Then each of us should be fearless and also fearful; and why we should be
either has now been determined.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And when we want to make any one fearless, we and the law bring him face to
face with many fears.
Cleinias. Clearly.
Athenian. And when we want to make him rightly fearful, must we not introduce him to
shameless pleasures, and train him to take up arms against them, and to overcome
them? Or does this principle apply to courage only, and must he who would be perfect in
valour fight against and overcome his own natural character—since if he be unpractised
and inexperienced in such conflicts, he will not be half the man which he might have
been—and are we to suppose, that with temperance it is otherwise, and that he who has
never fought with the shameless and unrighteous temptations of his pleasures and lusts,
and conquered them, in earnest and in play, by word, deed, and act, will still be perfectly
temperate?
Cleinias. A most unlikely supposition.
Athenian. Suppose that some God had given a fear–potion to men, and that the more a
man drank of this the more he regarded himself at every draught as a child of
misfortune, and that he feared everything happening or about to happen to him; and
that at last the most courageous of men utterly lost his presence of mind for a time, and
only came to himself again when he had slept off the influence of the draught.
Cleinias. But has such a draught, Stranger, ever really been known among men?
Athenian. No; but, if there had been, might not such a draught have been of use to the
legislator as a test of courage? Might we not go and say to him, “O legislator, whether
you are legislating for the Cretan, or for any other state, would you not like to have a
touchstone of the courage and cowardice of your citizens?”
Cleinias. “I should,” will be the answer of every one.
Athenian. “And you would rather have a touchstone in which there is no risk and no
great danger than the reverse?”
Cleinias. In that proposition every one may safely agree.
Athenian. “And in order to make use of the draught, you would lead them amid these
imaginary terrors, and prove them, when the affection of fear was working upon them,
and compel them to be fearless, exhorting and admonishing them; and also honouring
them, but dishonouring any one who will not be persuaded by you to be in all respects
such as you command him; and if he underwent the trial well and manfully, you would
let him go unscathed; but if ill, you would inflict a punishment upon him? Or would you
abstain from using the potion altogether, although you have no reason for abstaining?”
Cleinias. He would be certain, Stranger, to use the potion.
Athenian. This would be a mode of testing and training which would be wonderfully
easy in comparison with those now in use, and might be applied to a single person, or to
a few, or indeed to any number; and he would do well who provided himself with the
potion only, rather than with any number of other things, whether he preferred to be by
himself in solitude, and there contend with his fears, because he was ashamed to be seen
by the eye of man until he was perfect; or trusting to the force of his own nature and
habits, and believing that he had been already disciplined sufficiently, he did not
hesitate to train himself in company with any number of others, and display his power
in conquering the irresistible change effected by the draught—his virtue being such, that
he never in any instance fell into any great unseemliness, but was always himself, and
left off before he arrived at the last cup, fearing that he, like all other men, might be
overcome by the potion.
Cleinias. Yes, Stranger, in that last case, too, he might equally show his self–control.
Athenian. Let us return to the lawgiver, and say to him:—”Well, lawgiver, there is
certainly no such fear–potion which man has either received from the Gods or himself
discovered; for witchcraft has no place at our board. But is there any potion which might
serve as a test of overboldness and excessive and indiscreet boasting?
Cleinias. I suppose that he will say, Yes—meaning that wine is such a potion.
Athenian. Is not the effect of this quite the opposite of the effect of the other? When a
man drinks wine he begins to be better pleased with himself, and the more he drinks the
more he is filled full of brave hopes, and conceit of his power, and at last the string of his
tongue is loosened, and fancying himself wise, he is brimming over with lawlessness,
and has no more fear or respect, and is ready to do or say anything.
Cleinias. I think that every one will admit the truth of your description.
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. Now, let us remember, as we were saying, that there are two things which
should be cultivated in the soul: first, the greatest courage; secondly, the greatest fear—
Cleinias. Which you said to be characteristic of reverence, if I am not mistaken.
Athenian. Thank you for reminding me. But now, as the habit of courage and
fearlessness is to be trained amid fears, let us consider whether the opposite quality is
not also to be trained among opposites.
Cleinias. That is probably the case.
Athenian. There are times and seasons at which we are by nature more than commonly
valiant and bold; now we ought to train ourselves on these occasions to be as free from
impudence and shamelessness as possible, and to be afraid to say or suffer or do
anything that is base.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Are not the moments in which we are apt to be bold and shameless such as
these?—when we are under the influence of anger, love, pride, ignorance, avarice,
cowardice? or when wealth, beauty, strength, and all the intoxicating workings of
pleasure madden us? What is better adapted than the festive use of wine, in the first
place to test, and in the second place to train the character of a man, if care be taken in
the use of it? What is there cheaper, or more innocent? For do but consider which is the
greater risk:—Would you rather test a man of a morose and savage nature, which is the
source of ten thousand acts of injustice, by making bargains with him at a risk to
yourself, or by having him as a companion at the festival of Dionysus? Or would you, if
you wanted to apply a touchstone to a man who is prone to love, entrust your wife, or
your sons, or daughters to him, perilling your dearest interests in order to have a view of
the condition of his soul? I might mention numberless cases, in which the advantage
would be manifest of getting to know a character in sport, and without paying dearly for
experience. And I do not believe that either a Cretan, or any other man, will doubt that
such a test is a fair test, and safer, cheaper, and speedier than any other.
Cleinias. That is certainly true.
Athenian. And this knowledge of the natures and habits of men’s souls will be of the
greatest use in that art which has the management of them; and that art, if I am not
mistaken, is politics.
Cleinias. Exactly so.
BOOK II
Athenian Stranger. And now we have to consider whether the insight into human
nature is the only benefit derived from well ordered potations, or whether there are not
other advantages great and much to be desired. The argument seems to imply that there
are. But how and in what way these are to be attained, will have to be considered
attentively, or we may be entangled in error.
Cleinias. Proceed.
Athenian. Let me once more recall our doctrine of right education; which, if I am not
mistaken, depends on the due regulation of convivial intercourse.
Cleinias. You talk rather grandly.
Athenian. Pleasure and pain I maintain to be the first perceptions of children, and I say
that they are the forms under which virtue and vice are originally present to them. As to
wisdom and true and fixed opinions, happy is the man who acquires them, even when
declining in years; and we may say that he who possesses them, and the blessings which
are contained in them, is a perfect man. Now I mean by education that training which is
given by suitable habits to the first instincts of virtue in children;—when pleasure, and
friendship, and pain, and hatred, are rightly implanted in souls not yet capable of
understanding the nature of them, and who find them, after they have attained reason,
to be in harmony with her. This harmony of the soul, taken as a whole, is virtue; but the
particular training in respect of pleasure and pain, which leads you always to hate what
you ought to hate, and love what you ought to love from the beginning of life to the end,
may be separated off; and, in my view, will be rightly called education.
Cleinias. I think, Stranger, that you are quite right in all that you have said and are
saying about education.
Athenian. I am glad to hear that you agree with me; for, indeed, the discipline of
pleasure and pain which, when rightly ordered, is a principle of education, has been
often relaxed and corrupted in human life. And the Gods, pitying the toils which our
race is born to undergo, have appointed holy festivals, wherein men alternate rest with
labour; and have given them the Muses and Apollo, the leader of the Muses, and
Dionysus, to be companions in their revels, that they may improve their education by
taking part in the festivals of the Gods, and with their help. I should like to know
whether a common saying is in our opinion true to nature or not. For men say that the
young of all creatures cannot be quiet in their bodies or in their voices; they are always
wanting to move and cry out; some leaping and skipping, and overflowing with
sportiveness and delight at something, others uttering all sorts of cries. But, whereas the
animals have no perception of order or disorder in their movements, that is, of rhythm
or harmony, as they are called, to us, the Gods, who, as we say, have been appointed to
be our companions in the dance, have given the pleasurable sense of harmony and
rhythm; and so they stir us into life, and we follow them, joining hands together in
dances and songs; and these they call choruses, which is a term naturally expressive of
cheerfulness. Shall we begin, then, with the acknowledgment that education is first
given through Apollo and the Muses? What do you say?
Cleinias. I assent.
Athenian. And the uneducated is he who has not been trained in the chorus, and the
educated is he who has been well trained?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And the chorus is made up of two parts, dance and song?
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Then he who is well educated will be able to sing and dance well?
Cleinias. I suppose that he will.
Athenian. Let us see; what are we saying?
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. He sings well and dances well; now must we add that he sings what is good
and dances what is good?
Cleinias. Let us make the addition.
Athenian. We will suppose that he knows the good to be good, and the bad to be bad,
and makes use of them accordingly: which now is the better trained in dancing and
music—he who is able to move his body and to use his voice in what is understood to be
the right manner, but has no delight in good or hatred of evil; or he who is incorrect in
gesture and voice, but is right in his sense of pleasure and pain, and welcomes what is
good, and is offended at what is evil?
Cleinias. There is a great difference, Stranger, in the two kinds of education.
Athenian. If we three know what is good in song and dance, then we truly know also
who is educated and who is uneducated; but if not, then we certainly shall not know
wherein lies the safeguard of education, and whether there is any or not.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Let us follow the scent like hounds, and go in pursuit of beauty of figure, and
melody, and song, and dance; if these escape us, there will be no use in talking about
true education, whether Hellenic or barbarian.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And what is beauty of figure, or beautiful melody? When a manly soul is in
trouble, and when a cowardly soul is in similar case, are they likely to use the same
figures and gestures, or to give utterance to the same sounds?
Cleinias. How can they, when the very colours of their faces differ?
Athenian. Good, my friend; I may observe, however, in passing, that in music there
certainly are figures and there are melodies: and music is concerned with harmony and
rhythm, so that you may speak of a melody or figure having good rhythm or good
harmony—the term is correct enough; but to speak metaphorically of a melody or figure
having a “good colour,” as the masters of choruses do, is not allowable, although you can
speak of the melodies or figures of the brave and the coward, praising the one and
censuring the other. And not to be tedious, let us say that the figures and melodies
which are expressive of virtue of soul or body, or of images of virtue, are without
exception good, and those which are expressive of vice are the reverse of good.
Cleinias. Your suggestion is excellent; and let us answer that these things are so.
Athenian. Once more, are all of us equally delighted with every sort of dance?
Cleinias. Far otherwise.
Athenian. What, then, leads us astray? Are beautiful things not the same to us all, or are
they the same in themselves, but not in our opinion of them? For no one will admit that
forms of vice in the dance are more beautiful than forms of virtue, or that he himself
delights in the forms of vice, and others in a muse of another character. And yet most
persons say, that the excellence of music is to give pleasure to our souls. But this is
intolerable and blasphemous; there is, however, a much more plausible account of the
delusion.
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. The adaptation of art to the characters of men. Choric movements are
imitations of manners occurring in various actions, fortunes, dispositions—each
particular is imitated, and those to whom the words, or songs, or dances are suited,
either by nature or habit or both, cannot help feeling pleasure in them and applauding
them, and calling them beautiful. But those whose natures, or ways, or habits are
unsuited to them, cannot delight in them or applaud them, and they call them base.
There are others, again, whose natures are right and their habits wrong, or whose habits
are right and their natures wrong, and they praise one thing, but are pleased at another.
For they say that all these imitations are pleasant, but not good. And in the presence of
those whom they think wise, they are ashamed of dancing and singing in the baser
manner, or of deliberately lending any countenance to such proceedings; and yet, they
have a secret pleasure in them.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And is any harm done to the lover of vicious dances or songs, or any good
done to the approver of the opposite sort of pleasure?
Cleinias. I think that there is.
Athenian. “I think” is not the word, but I would say, rather, “I am certain.” For must
they not have the same effect as when a man associates with bad characters, whom he
likes and approves rather than dislikes, and only censures playfully because he has a
suspicion of his own badness? In that case, he who takes pleasure in them will surely
become like those in whom he takes pleasure, even though he be ashamed to praise
them. And what greater good or evil can any destiny ever make us undergo?
Cleinias. I know of none.
Athenian. Then in a city which has good laws, or in future ages is to have them, bearing
in mind the instruction and amusement which are given by music, can we suppose that
the poets are to be allowed to teach in the dance anything which they themselves like, in
the way of rhythm, or melody, or words, to the young children of any well–conditioned
parents? Is the poet to train his choruses as he pleases, without reference to virtue or
vice?
Cleinias. That is surely quite unreasonable, and is not to be thought of.
Athenian. And yet he may do this in almost any state with the exception of Egypt.
Cleinias. And what are the laws about music and dancing in Egypt?
Athenian. You will wonder when I tell you: Long ago they appear to have recognized the
very principle of which we are now speaking—that their young citizens must be
habituated to forms and strains of virtue. These they fixed, and exhibited the patterns of
them in their temples; and no painter or artist is allowed to innovate upon them, or to
leave the traditional forms and invent new ones. To this day, no alteration is allowed
either in these arts, or in music at all. And you will find that their works of art are
painted or moulded in the same forms which they had ten thousand years ago;—this is
literally true and no exaggeration—their ancient paintings and sculptures are not a whit
better or worse than the work of to–day, but are made with just the same skill.
Cleinias. How extraordinary!
Athenian. I should rather say, How statesmanlike, how worthy of a legislator! I know
that other things in Egypt are nat so well. But what I am telling you about music is true
and deserving of consideration, because showing that a lawgiver may institute melodies
which have a natural truth and correctness without any fear of failure. To do this,
however, must be the work of God, or of a divine person; in Egypt they have a tradition
that their ancient chants which have been preserved for so many ages are the
composition of the Goddess Isis. And therefore, as I was saying, if a person can only find
in any way the natural melodies, he may confidently embody them in a fixed and legal
form. For the love of novelty which arises out of pleasure in the new and weariness of
the old, has not strength enough to corrupt the consecrated song and dance, under the
plea that they have become antiquated. At any rate, they are far from being corrupted in
Egypt.
Cleinias. Your arguments seem to prove your point.
Athenian. May we not confidently say that the true use of music and of choral festivities
is as follows: We rejoice when we think that we prosper, and again we think that we
prosper when we rejoice?
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. And when rejoicing in our good fortune, we are unable to be still?
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Our young men break forth into dancing and singing, and we who are their
elders deem that we are fulfilling our part in life when we look on at them. Having lost
our agility, we delight in their sports and merry–making, because we love to think of our
former selves; and gladly institute contests for those who are able to awaken in us the
memory of our youth.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. Is it altogether unmeaning to say, as the common people do about festivals,
that he should be adjudged the wisest of men, and the winner of the palm, who gives us
the greatest amount of pleasure and mirth? For on such occasions, and when mirth is
the order of the day, ought not he to be honoured most, and, as I was saying, bear the
palm, who gives most mirth to the greatest number? Now is this a true way of speaking
or of acting?
Cleinias. Possibly.
Athenian. But, my dear friend, let us distinguish between different cases, and not be
hasty in forming a judgment: One way of considering the question will be to imagine a
festival at which there are entertainments of all sorts, including gymnastic, musical, and
equestrian contests: the citizens are assembled; prizes are offered, and proclamation is
made that any one who likes may enter the lists, and that he is to bear the palm who
gives the most pleasure to the spectators—there is to be no regulation about the manner
how; but he who is most successful in giving pleasure is to be crowned victor, and
deemed to be the pleasantest of the candidates: What is likely to be the result of such a
proclamation?
Cleinias. In what respect?
Athenian. There would be various exhibitions: one man, like Homer, will exhibit a
rhapsody, another a performance on the lute; one will have a tragedy, and another a
comedy. Nor would there be anything astonishing in some one imagining that he could
gain the prize by exhibiting a puppet–show. Suppose these competitors to meet, and not
these only, but innumerable others as well can you tell me who ought to be the victor?
Cleinias. I do not see how any one can answer you, or pretend to know, unless he has
heard with his own ears the several competitors; the question is absurd.
Athenian. Well, then, if neither of you can answer, shall I answer this question which
you deem so absurd?
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. If very small children are to determine the question, they will decide for the
puppet show.
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. The older children will be advocates of comedy; educated women, and young
men, and people in general, will favour tragedy.
Cleinias. Very likely.
Athenian. And I believe that we old men would have the greatest pleasure in hearing a
rhapsodist recite well the Iliad and Odyssey, or one of the Hesiodic poems, and would
award the victory to him. But, who would really be the victor?—that is the question.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. Clearly you and I will have to declare that those whom we old men adjudge
victors ought to win; for our ways are far and away better than any which at present
exist anywhere in the world.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Thus far I too should agree with the many, that the excellence of music is to
be measured by pleasure. But the pleasure must not be that of chance persons; the
fairest music is that which delights the best and best educated, and especially that which
delights the one man who is pre–eminent in virtue and education. And therefore the
judges must be men of character, for they will require both wisdom and courage; the
true judge must not draw his inspiration from the theatre, nor ought he to be unnerved
by the clamour of the many and his own incapacity; nor again, knowing the truth, ought
he through cowardice and unmanliness carelessly to deliver a lying judgment, with the
very same lips which have just appealed to the Gods before he judged. He is sitting not
as the disciple of the theatre, but, in his proper place, as their instructor, and he ought to
be the enemy of all pandering to the pleasure of the spectators. The ancient and
common custom of Hellas, which still prevails in Italy and Sicily, did certainly leave the
judgment to the body of spectators, who determined the victor by show of hands. But
this custom has been the destruction of the poets; for they are now in the habit of
composing with a view to please the bad taste of their judges, and the result is that the
spectators instruct themselves;—and also it has been the ruin of the theatre; they ought
to be having characters put before them better than their own, and so receiving a higher
pleasure, but now by their own act the opposite result follows. What inference is to be
drawn from all this? Shall I tell you?
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. The inference at which we arrive for the third or fourth time is, that education
is the constraining and directing of youth towards that right reason, which the law
affirms, and which the experience of the eldest and best has agreed to be truly right. In
order, then, that the soul of the child may not be habituated to feel joy and sorrow in a
manner at variance with the law, and those who obey the law, but may rather follow the
law and rejoice and sorrow at the same things as the aged—in order, I say, to produce
this effect, chants appear to have been invented, which really enchant, and are designed
to implant that harmony of which we speak. And, because the mind of the child is
incapable of enduring serious training, they are called plays and songs, and are
performed in play; just as when men are sick and ailing in their bodies, their attendants
give them wholesome diet in pleasant meats and drinks, but unwholesome diet in
disagreeable things, in order that they may learn, as they ought, to like the one, and to
dislike the other. And similarly the true legislator will persuade, and, if he cannot
persuade, will compel the poet to express, as he ought, by fair and noble words, in his
rhythms, the figures, and in his melodies, the music of temperate and brave and in every
way good men.
Cleinias. But do you really imagine, Stranger, that this is the way in which poets
generally compose in States at the present day? As far as I can observe, except among us
and among the Lacedaemonians, there are no regulations like those of which you speak;
in other places novelties are always being introduced in dancing and in music, generally
not under the authority of any law, but at the instigation of lawless pleasures; and these
pleasures are so far from being the same, as you describe the Egyptian to be, or having
the same principles, that they are never the same.
Athenian. Most true, Cleinias; and I daresay that I may have expressed myself
obscurely, and so led you to imagine that I was speaking of some really existing state of
things, whereas I was only saying what regulations I would like to have about music; and
hence there occurred a misapprehension on your part. For when evils are far gone and
irremediable, the task of censuring them is never pleasant, although at times necessary.
But as we do not really differ, will you let me ask you whether you consider such
institutions to be more prevalent among the Cretans and Lacedaemonians than among
the other Hellenes?
Cleinias. Certainly they are.
Athenian. And if they were extended to the other Hellenes, would it be an improvement
on the present state of things?
Cleinias. A very great improvement, if the customs which prevail among them were such
as prevail among us and the Lacedaemonians, and such as you were just now saying
ought to prevail.
Athenian. Let us see whether we understand one another:—Are not the principles of
education and music which prevail among you as follows: you compel your poets to say
that the good man, if he be temperate and just, is fortunate and happy; and this whether
he be great and strong or small and weak, and whether he be rich or poor; and, on the
other hand, if he have a wealth passing that of Cinyras or Midas, and be unjust, he is
wretched and lives in misery? As the poet says, and with truth: I sing not, I care not
about him who accomplishes all noble things, not having justice; let him who “draws
near and stretches out his hand against his enemies be a just man.” But if he be unjust, I
would not have him “look calmly upon bloody death,” nor “surpass in swiftness the
Thracian Boreas”; and let no other thing that is called good ever be his. For the goods of
which the many speak are not really good: first in the catalogue is placed health, beauty
next, wealth third; and then innumerable others, as for example to have a keen eye or a
quick ear, and in general to have all the senses perfect; or, again, to be a tyrant and do as
you like; and the final consummation of happiness is to have acquired all these things,
and when you have acquired them to become at once immortal. But you and I say, that
while to the just and holy all these things are the best of possessions, to the unjust they
are all, including even health, the greatest of evils. For in truth, to have sight, and
hearing, and the use of the senses, or to live at all without justice and virtue, even
though a man be rich in all the so–called goods of fortune, is the greatest of evils, if life
be immortal; but not so great, if the bad man lives only a very short time. These are the
truths which, if I am not mistaken, you will persuade or compel your poets to utter with
suitable accompaniments of harmony and rhythm, and in these they must train up your
youth. Am I not right? For I plainly declare that evils as they are termed are goods to the
unjust, and only evils to the just, and that goods are truly good to the good, but evil to
the evil. Let me ask again, Are you and I agreed about this?
Cleinias. I think that we partly agree and partly do not.
Athenian. When a man has health and wealth and a tyranny which lasts, and when he is
preeminent in strength and courage, and has the gift of immortality, and none of the so–
called evils which counter–balance these goods, but only the injustice and insolence of
his own nature—of such an one you are, I suspect, unwilling to believe that he is
miserable rather than happy.
Cleinias. That is quite true.
Athenian. Once more: Suppose that he be valiant and strong, and handsome and rich,
and does throughout his whole life whatever he likes, still, if he be unrighteous and
insolent, would not both of you agree that he will of necessity live basely? You will surely
grant so much?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And an evil life too?
Cleinias. I am not equally disposed to grant that.
Athenian. Will he not live painfully and to his own disadvantage?
Cleinias. How can I possibly say so?
Athenian. How! Then may Heaven make us to be of one mind, for now we are of two. To
me, dear Cleinias, the truth of what I am saying is as plain as the fact that Crete is an
island. And, if I were a lawgiver, I would try to make the poets and all the citizens speak
in this strain, and I would inflict the heaviest penalties on any one in all the land who
should dare to say that there are bad men who lead pleasant lives, or that the profitable
and gainful is one thing, and the just another; and there are many other matters about
which I should make my citizens speak in a manner different from the Cretans and
Lacedaemonians of this age, and I may say, indeed, from the world in general. For tell
me, my good friends, by Zeus and Apollo tell me, if I were to ask these same Gods who
were your legislators—Is not the most just life also the pleasantest? or are there two
lives, one of which is the justest and the other the pleasantest?—and they were to reply
that there are two; and thereupon I proceeded to ask, (that would be the right way of
pursuing the enquiry), Which are the happier—those who lead the justest, or those who
lead the pleasantest life? and they replied, Those who lead the pleasantest—that would
be a very strange answer, which I should not like to put into the mouth of the Gods. The
words will come with more propriety from the lips of fathers and legislators, and
therefore I will repeat my former questions to one of them, and suppose him to say
again that he who leads the pleasantest life is the happiest. And to that I rejoin:—O my
father, did you not wish me to live as happily as possible? And yet you also never ceased
telling me that I should live as justly as possible. Now, here the giver of the rule, whether
he be legislator or father, will be in a dilemma, and will in vain endeavour to be
consistent with himself. But if he were to declare that the justest life is also the happiest,
every one hearing him would enquire, if I am not mistaken, what is that good and noble
principle in life which the law approves, and which is superior to pleasure. For what
good can the just man have which is separated from pleasure? Shall we say that glory
and fame, coming from Gods and men, though good and noble, are nevertheless
unpleasant, and infamy pleasant? Certainly not, sweet legislator. Or shall we say that the
not–doing of wrong and there being no wrong done is good and honourable, although
there is no pleasure in it, and that the doing wrong is pleasant, but evil and base?
Cleinias. Impossible.
Athenian. The view which identifies the pleasant and the pleasant and the just and the
good and the noble has an excellent moral and religious tendency. And the opposite
view is most at variance with the designs of the legislator, and is, in his opinion,
infamous; for no one, if he can help, will be persuaded to do that which gives him more
pain than pleasure. But as distant prospects are apt to make us dizzy, especially in
childhood, the legislator will try to purge away the darkness and exhibit the truth; he
will persuade the citizens, in some way or other, by customs and praises and words, that
just and unjust are shadows only, and that injustice, which seems opposed to justice,
when contemplated by the unjust and evil man appears pleasant and the just most
unpleasant; but that from the just man’s point of view, the very opposite is the
appearance of both of them.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And which may be supposed to be the truer judgment—that of the inferior or
of the better soul?
Cleinias. Surely, that of the better soul.
Athenian. Then the unjust life must not only be more base and depraved, but also more
unpleasant than the just and holy life?
Cleinias. That seems to be implied in the present argument.
Athenian. And even supposing this were otherwise, and not as the argument has proven,
still the lawgiver, who is worth anything, if he ever ventures to tell a lie to the young for
their good, could not invent a more useful lie than this, or one which will have a better
effect in making them do what is right, not on compulsion but voluntarily.
Cleinias. Truth, Stranger, is a noble thing and a lasting, but a thing of which men are
hard to be persuaded.
Athenian. And yet the story of the Sidonian Cadmus, which is so improbable, has been
readily believed, and also innumerable other tales.
Cleinias. What is that story?
Athenian. The story of armed men springing up after the sowing of teeth, which the
legislator may take as a proof that he can persuade the minds of the young of anything;
so that he has only to reflect and find out what belief will be of the greatest public
advantage, and then use all his efforts to make the whole community utter one and the
same word in their songs and tales and discourses all their life long. But if you do not
agree with me, there is no reason why you should not argue on the other side.
Cleinias. I do not see that any argument can fairly be raised by either of us against what
you are now saying.
Athenian. The next suggestion which I have to offer is, that all our three choruses shall
sing to the young and tender souls of children, reciting in their strains all the noble
thoughts of which we have already spoken, or are about to speak; and the sum of them
shall be, that the life which is by the Gods deemed to be the happiest is also the best;—
we shall affirm this to be a most certain truth; and the minds of our young disciples will
be more likely to receive these words of ours than any others which we might address to
them.
Cleinias. I assent to what you say.
Athenian. First will enter in their natural order the sacred choir composed of children,
which is to sing lustily the heaven–taught lay to the whole city. Next will follow the choir
of young men under the age of thirty, who will call upon the God Paean to testify to the
truth of their words, and will pray him to be gracious to the youth and to turn their
hearts. Thirdly, the choir of elder men, who are from thirty to sixty years of age, will also
sing. There remain those who are too old to sing, and they will tell stories, illustrating
the same virtues, as with the voice of an oracle.
Cleinias. Who are those who compose the third choir, Stranger? for I do not clearly
understand what you mean to say about them.
Athenian. And yet almost all that I have been saying has said with a view to them.
Cleinias. Will you try to be a little plainer?
Athenian. I was speaking at the commencement of our discourse, as you will remember,
of the fiery nature of young creatures: I said that they were unable to keep quiet either in
limb or voice, and that they called out and jumped about in a disorderly manner; and
that no other animal attained to any perception of order, but man only. Now the order of
motion is called rhythm, and the order of the voice, in which high and low are duly
mingled, is called harmony; and both together are termed choric song. And I said that
the Gods had pity on us, and gave us Apollo and the Muses to be our playfellows and
leaders in the dance; and Dionysus, as I dare say that you will remember, was the third.
Cleinias. I quite remember.
Athenian. Thus far I have spoken of the chorus of Apollo and the Muses, and I have still
to speak of the remaining chorus, which is that of Dionysus.
Cleinias. How is that arranged? There is something strange, at any rate on first hearing,
in a Dionysiac chorus of old men, if you really mean that those who are above thirty, and
may be fifty, or from fifty to sixty years of age, are to dance in his honour.
Athenian. Very true; and therefore it must be shown that there is good reason for the
proposal.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Are we agreed thus far?
Cleinias. About what?
Athenian. That every man and boy, slave and free, both sexes, and the whole city, should
never cease charming themselves with the strains of which we have spoken; and that
there should be every sort of change and variation of them in order to take away the
effect of sameness, so that the singers may always receive pleasure from their hymns,
and may never weary of them?
Cleinias. Every one will agree.
Athenian. Where, then, will that best part of our city which, by reason of age and
intelligence, has the greatest influence, sing these fairest of strains, which are to do so
much good? Shall we be so foolish as to let them off who would give us the most
beautiful and also the most useful of songs?
Cleinias. But, says the argument, we cannot let them off.
Athenian. Then how can we carry out our purpose with decorum? Will this be the way?
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. When a man is advancing in years, he is afraid and reluctant to sing;—he has
no pleasure in his own performances; and if compulsion is used, he will be more and
more ashamed, the older and more discreet he grows;—is not this true?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Well, and will he not be yet more ashamed if he has to stand up and sing in
the theatre to a mixed audience?—and if moreover when he is required to do so, like the
other choirs who contend for prizes, and have been trained under a singing master, he is
pinched and hungry, he will certainly have a feeling of shame and discomfort which will
make him very unwilling to exhibit.
Cleinias. No doubt.
Athenian. How, then, shall we reassure him, and get him to sing? Shall we begin by
enacting that boys shall not taste wine at all until they are eighteen years of age; we will
tell them that fire must not be poured upon fire, whether in the body or in the soul, until
they begin to go to work—this is a precaution which has to be taken against the
excitableness of youth;—afterwards they may taste wine in moderation up to the age of
thirty, but while a man is young he should abstain altogether from intoxication and from
excess of wine; when, at length, he has reached forty years, after dinner at a public mess,
he may invite not only the other Gods, but Dionysus above all, to the mystery and
festivity of the elder men, making use of the wine which he has given men to lighten the
sourness of old age; that in age we may renew our youth, and forget our sorrows; and
also in order that the nature of the soul, like iron melted in the fire, may become softer
and so more impressible. In the first place, will not any one who is thus mellowed be
more ready and less ashamed to sing—I do not say before a large audience, but before a
moderate company; nor yet among strangers, but among his familiars, and, as we have
often said, to chant, and to enchant?
Cleinias. He will be far more ready.
Athenian. There will be no impropriety in our using such a method of persuading them
to join with us in song.
Cleinias. None at all.
Athenian. And what strain will they sing, and what muse will they hymn? The strain
should clearly be one suitable to them.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And what strain is suitable for heroes? Shall they sing a choric strain?
Cleinias. Truly, Stranger, we of Crete and Lacedaemon know no strain other than that
which we have learnt and been accustomed to sing in our chorus.
Athenian. I dare say; for you have never acquired the knowledge of the most beautiful
kind of song, in your military way of life, which is modelled after the camp, and is not
like that of dwellers in cities; and you have your young men herding and feeding
together like young colts. No one takes his own individual colt and drags him away from
his fellows against his will, raging and foaming, and gives him a groom to attend to him
alone, and trains and rubs him down privately, and gives him the qualities in education
which will make him not only a good soldier, but also a governor of a state and of cities.
Such an one, as we said at first, would be a greater warrior than he of whom Tyrtaeus
sings; and he would honour courage everywhere, but always as the fourth, and not as the
first part of virtue, either in individuals or states.
Cleinias. Once more, Stranger, I must complain that you depreciate our lawgivers.
Athenian. Not intentionally, if at all, my good friend; but whither the argument leads,
thither let us follow; for if there be indeed some strain of song more beautiful than that
of the choruses or the public theatres, I should like to impart it to those who, as we say,
are ashamed of these, and want to have the best.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. When things have an accompanying charm, either the best thing in them is
this very charm, or there is some rightness or utility possessed by them;—for example, I
should say that eating and drinking, and the use of food in general, have an
accompanying charm which we call pleasure; but that this rightness and utility is just
the healthfulness of the things served up to us, which is their true rightness.
Cleinias. Just so.
Athenian. Thus, too, I should say that learning has a certain accompanying charm which
is the pleasure; but that the right and the profitable, the good and the noble, are
qualities which the truth gives to it.
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. And so in the imitative arts—if they succeed in making likenesses, and are
accompanied by pleasure, may not their works be said to have a charm?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. But equal proportions, whether of quality or quantity, and not pleasure,
speaking generally, would give them truth or rightness.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. Then that only can be rightly judged by the standard of pleasure, which makes
or furnishes no utility or truth or likeness, nor on the other hand is productive of any
hurtful quality, but exists solely for the sake of the accompanying charm; and the term
“pleasure” is most appropriately applied to it when these other qualities are absent.
Cleinias. You are speaking of harmless pleasure, are you not?
Athenian. Yes; and this I term amusement, when doing neither harm nor good in any
degree worth speaking of.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. Then, if such be our principles, we must assert that imitation is not to be
judged of by pleasure and false opinion; and this is true of all equality, for the equal is
not equal or the symmetrical symmetrical, because somebody thinks or likes something,
but they are to be judged of by the standard of truth, and by no other whatever.
Cleinias. Quite true.
Athenian. Do we not regard all music as representative and imitative?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Then, when any one says that music is to be judged of by pleasure, his
doctrine cannot be admitted; and if there be any music of which pleasure is the
criterion, such music is not to be sought out or deemed to have any real excellence, but
only that other kind of music which is an imitation of the good.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And those who seek for the best kind of song and music ought not to seek for
that which is pleasant, but for that which is true; and the truth of imitation consists, as
we were saying, in rendering the thing imitated according to quantity and quality.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And every one will admit that musical compositions are all imitative and
representative. Will not poets and spectators and actors all agree in this?
Cleinias. They will.
Athenian. Surely then he who would judge correctly must know what each composition
is; for if he does not know what is the character and meaning of the piece, and what it
represents, he will never discern whether the intention is true or false.
Cleinias. Certainly not.
Athenian. And will he who does not know what is true be able to distinguish what is
good and bad? My statement is not very clear; but perhaps you will understand me
better if I put the matter in another way.
Cleinias. How?
Athenian. There are ten thousand likenesses of objects of sight?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And can he who does not know what the exact object is which is imitated, ever
know whether the resemblance is truthfully executed? I mean, for example, whether a
statue has the proportions of a body, and the true situation of the parts; what those
proportions are, and how the parts fit into one another in due order; also their colours
and conformations, or whether this is all confused in the execution: do you think that
any one can know about this, who does not know what the animal is which has been
imitated?
Cleinias. Impossible.
Athenian. But even if we know that the thing pictured or sculptured is a man, who has
received at the hand of the artist all his proper parts and colours and shapes, must we
not also know whether the work is beautiful or in any respect deficient in beauty?
Cleinias. If this were not required, Stranger, we should all of us be judges of beauty.
Athenian. Very true; and may we not say that in everything imitated, whether in
drawing, music, or any other art, he who is to be a competent judge must possess three
things;—he must know, in the first place, of what the imitation is; secondly, he must
know that it is true; and thirdly, that it has been well executed in words and melodies
and rhythms?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Then let us not faint in discussing the peculiar difficulty of music. Music is
more celebrated than any other kind of imitation, and therefore requires the greatest
care of them all. For if a man makes a mistake here, he may do himself the greatest
injury by welcoming evil dispositions, and the mistake may be very difficult to discern,
because the poets are artists very inferior in character to the Muses themselves, who
would never fall into the monstrous error of assigning to the words of men the gestures
and songs of women; nor after combining the melodies with the gestures of freemen
would they add on the rhythms of slaves and men of the baser sort; nor, beginning with
the rhythms and gestures of freemen, would they assign to them a melody or words
which are of an opposite character; nor would they mix up the voices and sounds of
animals and of men and instruments, and every other sort of noise, as if they were all
one. But human poets are fond of introducing this sort of inconsistent mixture, and so
make themselves ridiculous in the eyes of those who, as Orpheus says, “are ripe for true
pleasure.” The experienced see all this confusion, and yet the poets go on and make still
further havoc by separating the rhythm and the figure of the dance from the melody,
setting bare words to metre, and also separating the melody and the rhythm from the
words, using the lyre or the flute alone. For when there are no words, it is very difficult
to recognize the meaning of the harmony and rhythm, or to see that any worthy object is
imitated by them. And we must acknowledge that all this sort of thing, which aims only
at swiftness and smoothness and a brutish noise, and uses the flute and the lyre not as
the mere accompaniments of the dance and song, is exceedingly coarse and tasteless.
The use of either instrument, when unaccompanied, leads to every sort of irregularity
and trickery. This is all rational enough. But we are considering not how our choristers,
who are from thirty to fifty years of age, and may be over fifty, are not to use the Muses,
but how they are to use them. And the considerations which we have urged seem to
show in what way these fifty year–old choristers who are to sing, may be expected to be
better trained. For they need to have a quick perception and knowledge of harmonies
and rhythms; otherwise, how can they ever know whether a melody would be rightly
sung to the Dorian mode, or to the rhythm which the poet has assigned to it?
Cleinias. Clearly they cannot.
Athenian. The many are ridiculous in imagining that they know what is in proper
harmony and rhythm, and what is not, when they can only be made to sing and step in
rhythm by force; it never occurs to them that they are ignorant of what they are doing.
Now every melody is right when it has suitable harmony and rhythm, and wrong when
unsuitable.
Cleinias. That is most certain.
Athenian. But can a man who does not know a thing, as we were saying, know that the
thing is right?
Cleinias. Impossible.
Athenian. Then now, as would appear, we are making the discovery that our newly–
appointed choristers, whom we hereby invite and, although they are their own masters,
compel to sing, must be educated to such an extent as to be able to follow the steps of
the rhythm and the notes of the song, that they may know the harmonies and rhythms,
and be able to select what are suitable for men of their age and character to sing; and
may sing them, and have innocent pleasure from their own performance, and also lead
younger men to welcome with dutiful delight good dispositions. Having such training,
they will attain a more accurate knowledge than falls to the lot of the common people, or
even of the poets themselves. For the poet need not know the third point, viz., whether
the imitation is good or not, though he can hardly help knowing the laws of melody and
rhythm. But the aged chorus must know all the three, that they may choose the best, and
that which is nearest to the best; for otherwise they will never be able to charm the souls
of young men in the way of virtue. And now the original design of the argument which
was intended to bring eloquent aid to the Chorus of Dionysus, has been accomplished to
the best of our ability, and let us see whether we were right:—I should imagine that a
drinking assembly is likely to become more and more tumultuous as the drinking goes
on: this, as we were saying at first, will certainly be the case.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Every man has a more than natural elevation; his heart is glad within him,
and he will say anything and will be restrained by nobody at such a time; he fancies that
he is able to rule over himself and all mankind.
Cleinias. Quite true.
Athenian. Were we not saying that on such occasions the souls of the drinkers become
like iron heated in the fire, and grow softer and younger, and are easily moulded by him
who knows how to educate and fashion them, just as when they were young, and that
this fashioner of them is the same who prescribed for them in the days of their youth,
viz., the good legislator; and that he ought to enact laws of the banquet, which, when a
man is confident, bold, and impudent, and unwilling to wait his turn and have his share
of silence and speech, and drinking and music, will change his character into the
opposite—such laws as will infuse into him a just and noble fear, which will take up
arms at the approach of insolence, being that divine fear which we have called reverence
and shame?
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And the guardians of these laws and fellow–workers with them are the calm
and sober generals of the drinkers; and without their help there is greater difficulty in
fighting against drink than in fighting against enemies when the commander of an army
is not himself calm; and he who is unwilling to obey them and the commanders of
Dionysiac feasts who are more than sixty years of age, shall suffer a disgrace as great as
he who disobeys military leaders, or even greater.
Cleinias. Right.
Athenian. If, then, drinking and amusement were regulated in this way, would not the
companions of our revels be improved? they would part better friends than they were,
and not, as now enemies. Their whole intercourse would be regulated by law and
observant of it, and the sober would be the leaders of the drunken.
Cleinias. I think so too, if drinking were regulated as you propose.
Athenian. Let us not then simply censure the gift of Dionysus as bad and unfit to be
received into the State. For wine has many excellences, and one pre–eminent one, about
which there is a difficulty in speaking to the many, from a fear of their misconceiving
and misunderstanding what is said.
Cleinias. To what do you refer?
Athenian. There is a tradition or story, which has somehow crept about the world, that
Dionysus was robbed of his wits by his stepmother Here, and that out of revenge he
inspires Bacchic furies and dancing madnesses in others; for which reason he gave men
wine. Such traditions concerning the Gods I leave to those who think that they may be
safely uttered; I only know that no animal at birth is mature or perfect in intelligence;
and in the intermediate period, in which he has not yet acquired his own proper sense,
he rages and roars without rhyme or reason; and when he has once got on his legs he
jumps about without rhyme or reason; and this, as you will remember, has been already
said by us to be the origin of music and gymnastic.
Cleinias. To be sure, I remember.
Athenian. And did we not say that the sense of harmony and rhythm sprang from this
beginning among men, and that Apollo and the Muses and Dionysus were the Gods
whom we had to thank for them?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. The other story implied that wine was given man out of revenge, and in order
to make him mad; but our present doctrine, on the contrary, is, that wine was given him
as a balm, and in order to implant modesty in the soul, and health and strength in the
body.
Cleinias. That, Stranger, is precisely what was said.
Athenian. Then half the subject may now be considered to have been discussed; shall we
proceed to the consideration of the other half?
Cleinias. What is the other half, and how do you divide the subject?
Athenian. The whole choral art is also in our view the whole of education; and of this
art, rhythms and harmonies form the part which has to do with the voice.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. The movement of the body has rhythm in common with the movement of the
voice, but gesture is peculiar to it, whereas song is simply the movement of the voice.
Cleinias. Most true.
Athenian. And the sound of the voice which reaches and educates the soul, we have
ventured to term music.
Cleinias. We were right.
Athenian. And the movement of the body, when regarded as an amusement, we termed
dancing; but when extended and pursued with a view to the excellence of the body, this
scientific training may be called gymnastic.
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. Music, which was one half of the choral art, may be said to have been
completely discussed. Shall we proceed to the other half or not? What would you like?
Cleinias. My good friend, when you are talking with a Cretan and Lacedaemonian, and
we have discussed music and not gymnastic, what answer are either of us likely to make
to such an enquiry?
Athenian. An answer is contained in your question; and I understand and accept what
you say not only as an answer, but also as a command to proceed with gymnastic.
Cleinias. You quite understand me; do as you say.
Athenian. I will; and there will not be any difficulty in speaking intelligibly to you about
a subject with which both of you are far more familiar than with music.
Cleinias. There will not.
Athenian. Is not the origin of gymnastics, too, to be sought in the tendency to rapid
motion which exists in all animals; man, as we were saying, having attained the sense of
rhythm, created and invented dancing; and melody arousing and awakening rhythm,
both united formed the choral art?
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And one part of this subject has been already discussed by us, and there still
remains another to be discussed?
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. I have first a final word to add to my discourse about drink, if you will allow
me to do so.
Cleinias. What more have you to say?
Athenian. I should say that if a city seriously means to adopt the practice of drinking
under due regulation and with a view to the enforcement of temperance, and in like
manner, and on the same principle, will allow of other pleasures, designing to gain the
victory over them in this way all of them may be used. But if the State makes drinking an
amusement only, and whoever likes may drink whenever he likes, and with whom he
likes, and add to this any other indulgences, I shall never agree or allow that this city or
this man should practise drinking. I would go further than the Cretans and
Lacedaemonians, and am disposed rather to the law of the Carthaginians, that no one
while he is on a campaign should be allowed to taste wine at all, but that he should drink
water during all that time, and that in the city no slave, male or female, should ever
drink wine; and that no magistrates should drink during their year of office, nor should
pilots of vessels or judges while on duty taste wine at all, nor any one who is going to
hold a consultation about any matter of importance; nor in the daytime at all, unless in
consequence of exercise or as medicine; nor again at night, when any one, either man or
woman, is minded to get children. There are numberless other cases also in which those
who have good sense and good laws ought not to drink wine, so that if what I say is true,
no city will need many vineyards. Their husbandry and their way of life in general will
follow an appointed order, and their cultivation of the vine will be the most limited and
the least common of their employments. And this, Stranger, shall be the crown of my
discourse about wine, if you agree.
Cleinias. Excellent: we agree.
BOOK III
Athenian Stranger. Enough of this. And what, then, is to be regarded as the origin of
government? Will not a man be able to judge of it best from a point of view in which he
may behold the progress of states and their transitions to good or evil?
Cleinias. What do you mean?
Athenian. I mean that he might watch them from the point of view of time, and observe
the changes which take place in them during infinite ages.
Cleinias. How so?
Athenian. Why, do you think that you can reckon the time which has elapsed since cities
first existed and men were citizens of them?
Cleinias. Hardly.
Athenian. But are sure that it must be vast and incalculable?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And have not thousands and thousands of cities come into being during this
period and as many perished? And has not each of them had every form of government
many times over, now growing larger, now smaller, and again improving or declining?
Cleinias. To be sure.
Athenian. Let us endeavour to ascertain the cause of these changes; for that will
probably explain the first origin and development of forms of government.
Cleinias. Very good. You shall endeavour to impart your thoughts to us, and we will
make an effort to understand you.
Athenian. Do you believe that there is any truth in ancient traditions?
Cleinias. What traditions?
Athenian. The traditions about the many destructions of mankind which have been
occasioned by deluges and pestilences, and in many other ways, and of the survival of a
remnant?
Cleinias. Every one is disposed to believe them.
Athenian. Let us consider one of them, that which was caused by the famous deluge.
Cleinias. What are we to observe about it?
Athenian. I mean to say that those who then escaped would only be hill shepherds—
small sparks of the human race preserved on the tops of mountains.
Cleinias. Clearly.
Athenian. Such survivors would necessarily be unacquainted with the arts and the
various devices which are suggested to the dwellers in cities by interest or ambition, and
with all the wrongs which they contrive against one another.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. Let us suppose, then, that the cities in the plain and on the sea–coast were
utterly destroyed at that time.
Cleinias. Very good.
Athenian. Would not all implements have then perished and every other excellent
invention of political or any other sort of wisdom have utterly disappeared?
Cleinias. Why, yes, my friend; and if things had always continued as they are at present
ordered, how could any discovery have ever been made even in the least particular? For
it is evident that the arts were unknown during ten thousand times ten thousand years.
And no more than a thousand or two thousand years have elapsed since the discoveries
of Daedalus, Orpheus and Palamedes—since Marsyas and Olympus invented music, and
Amphion the lyre—not to speak of numberless other inventions which are but of
yesterday.
Athenian. Have you forgotten, Cleinias, the name of a friend who is really of yesterday?
Cleinias. I suppose that you mean Epimenides.
Athenian. The same, my friend; he does indeed far overleap the heads of all mankind by
his invention; for he carried out in practice, as you declare, what of old Hesiod only
preached.
Cleinias. Yes, according to our tradition.
Athenian. After the great destruction, may we not suppose that the state of man was
something of this sort:—In the beginning of things there was a fearful illimitable desert
and a vast expanse of land; a herd or two of oxen would be the only survivors of the
animal world; and there might be a few goats, these too hardly enough to maintain the
shepherds who tended them?
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And of cities or governments or legislation, about which we are now talking,
do you suppose that they could have any recollection at all?
Cleinias. None whatever.
Athenian. And out of this state of things has there not sprung all that we now are and
have: cities and governments, and arts and laws, and a great deal of vice and a great deal
of virtue?
Cleinias. What do you mean?
Athenian. Why, my good friend, how can we possibly suppose that those who knew
nothing of all the good and evil of cities could have attained their full development,
whether of virtue or of vice?
Cleinias. I understand your meaning, and you are quite right.
Athenian. But, as time advanced and the race multiplied, the world came to be what the
world is.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. Doubtless the change was not made all in a moment, but little by little, during
a very long period of time.
Cleinias. A highly probable supposition.
Athenian. At first, they would have a natural fear ringing in their ears which would
prevent their descending from the heights into the plain.
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. The fewness of the survivors at that time would have made them all the more
desirous of seeing one another; but then the means of travelling either by land or sea
had been almost entirely lost, as I may say, with the loss of the arts, and there was great
difficulty in getting at one another; for iron and brass and all metals were jumbled
together and had disappeared in the chaos; nor was there any possibility of extracting
ore from them; and they had scarcely any means of felling timber. Even if you suppose
that some implements might have been preserved in the mountains, they must quickly
have worn out and vanished, and there would be no more of them until the art of
metallurgy had again revived.
Cleinias. There could not have been.
Athenian. In how many generations would this be attained?
Cleinias. Clearly, not for many generations.
Athenian. During this period, and for some time afterwards, all the arts which require
iron and brass and the like would disappear.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Faction and war would also have died out in those days, and for many
reasons.
Cleinias. How would that be?
Athenian. In the first place, the desolation of these primitive men would create in them
a feeling of affection and good–will towards one another; and, secondly, they would
have no occasion to quarrel about their subsistence, for they would have pasture in
abundance, except just at first, and in some particular cases; and from their pasture–
land they would obtain the greater part of their food in a primitive age, having plenty of
milk and flesh; moreover they would procure other food by the chase, not to be despised
either in quantity or quality. They would also have abundance of clothing, and bedding,
and dwellings, and utensils either capable of standing on the fire or not; for the plastic
and weaving arts do not require any use of iron: and God has given these two arts to
man in order to provide him with all such things, that, when reduced to the last
extremity, the human race may still grow and increase. Hence in those days mankind
were not very poor; nor was poverty a cause of difference among them; and rich they
could not have been, having neither gold nor silver:—such at that time was their
condition. And the community which has neither poverty nor riches will always have the
noblest principles; in it there is no insolence or injustice, nor, again, are there any
contentions or envyings. And therefore they were good, and also because they were what
is called simple–minded; and when they were told about good and evil, they in their
simplicity believed what they heard to be very truth and practised it. No one had the wit
to suspect another of a falsehood, as men do now; but what they heard about Gods and
men they believed to be true, and lived accordingly; and therefore they were in all
respects such as we have described them.
Cleinias. That quite accords with my views, and with those of my friend here.
Athenian. Would not many generations living on in a simple manner, although ruder,
perhaps, and more ignorant of the arts generally, and in particular of those of land or
naval warfare, and likewise of other arts, termed in cities legal practices and party
conflicts, and including all conceivable ways of hurting one another in word and deed;—
although inferior to those who lived before the deluge, or to the men of our day in these
respects, would they not, I say, be simpler and more manly, and also more temperate
and altogether more just? The reason has been already explained.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. I should wish you to understand that what has preceded and what is about to
follow, has been, and will be said, with the intention of explaining what need the men of
that time had of laws, and who was their lawgiver.
Cleinias. And thus far what you have said has been very well said.
Athenian. They could hardly have wanted lawgivers as yet; nothing of that sort was
likely to have existed in their days, for they had no letters at this early period; they lived
by habit and the customs of their ancestors, as they are called.
Cleinias. Probably.
Athenian. But there was already existing a form of government which, if I am not
mistaken, is generally termed a lordship, and this still remains in many places, both
among Hellenes and barbarians, and is the government which is declared by Homer to
have prevailed among the Cyclopes:
They have neither councils nor judgments, but they dwell in hollow caves on the tops of
high mountains, and every one gives law to his wife and children, and they do not busy
themselves about one another.
Cleinias. That seems to be a charming poet of yours; I have read some other verses of
his, which are very clever; but I do not know much of him, for foreign poets are very
little read among the Cretans.
Megillus. But they are in Lacedaemon, and he appears to be the prince of them all; the
manner of life, however, which he describes is not Spartan, but rather Ionian, and he
seems quite to confirm what you are saying, when he traces up the ancient state of
mankind by the help of tradition to barbarism.
Athenian. Yes, he does confirm it; and we may accept his witness to the fact that such
forms of government sometimes arise.
Cleinias. We may.
Athenian. And were not such states composed of men who had been dispersed in single
habitations and families by the poverty which attended the devastations; and did not the
eldest then rule among them, because with them government originated in the authority
of a father and a mother, whom, like a flock of birds, they followed, forming one troop
under the patriarchal rule and sovereignty of their parents, which of all sovereignties is
the most just?
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. After this they came together in greater numbers, and increased the size of
their cities, and betook themselves to husbandry, first of all at the foot of the mountains,
and made enclosures of loose walls and works of defence, in order to keep off wild
beasts; thus creating a single large and common habitation.
Cleinias. Yes; at least we may suppose so.
Athenian. There is another thing which would probably happen.
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. When these larger habitations grew up out of the lesser original ones, each of
the lesser ones would survive in the larger; every family would be under the rule of the
eldest, and, owing to their separation from one another, would have peculiar customs in
things divine and human, which they would have received from their several parents
who had educated them; and these customs would incline them to order, when the
parents had the element of order in their nature, and to courage, when they had the
element of courage. And they would naturally stamp upon their children, and upon their
children’s children, their own likings; and, as we are saying, they would find their way
into the larger society, having already their own peculiar laws.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And every man surely likes his own laws best, and the laws of others not so
well.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Then now we seem to have stumbled upon the beginnings of legislation.
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. The next step will be that these persons who have met together, will select
some arbiters, who will review the laws of all of them, and will publicly present such as
they approve to the chiefs who lead the tribes, and who are in a manner their kings,
allowing them to choose those which they think best. These persons will themselves be
called legislators, and will appoint the magistrates, framing some sort of aristocracy, or
perhaps monarchy, out of the dynasties or lordships, and in this altered state of the
government they will live.
Cleinias. Yes, that would be the natural order of things.
Athenian. Then, now let us speak of a third form of government, in which all other
forms and conditions of polities and cities concur.
Cleinias. What is that?
Athenian. The form which in fact Homer indicates as following the second. This third
form arose when, as he says, Dardanus founded Dardania:
For not as yet had the holy Ilium been built on the plain to be a city of speaking men;
but they were still dwelling at the foot of many–fountained Ida. For indeed, in these
verses, and in what he said of the Cyclopes, he speaks the words of God and nature; for
poets are a divine race and often in their strains, by the aid of the Muses and the Graces,
they attain truth.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. Then now let us proceed with the rest of our tale, which will probably be
found to illustrate in some degree our proposed design:—Shall we do so?
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. Ilium was built, when they descended from the mountain, in a large and fair
plain, on a sort of low hill, watered by many rivers descending from Ida.
Cleinias. Such is the tradition.
Athenian. And we must suppose this event to have taken place many ages after the
deluge?
Athenian. A marvellous forgetfulness of the former destruction would appear to have
come over them, when they placed their town right under numerous streams flowing
from the heights, trusting for their security to not very high hills, either.
Cleinias. There must have been a long interval, clearly.
Athenian. And, as population increased, many other cities would begin to be inhabited.
Cleinias. Doubtless.
Athenian. Those cities made war against Troy—by sea as well as land—for at that time
men were ceasing to be afraid of the sea.
Cleinias. Clearly.
Athenian. The Achaeans remained ten years, and overthrew Troy.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And during the ten years in which the Achaeans were besieging Ilium, the
homes of the besiegers were falling into an evil plight. Their youth revolted; and when
the soldiers returned to their own cities and families, they did not receive them properly,
and as they ought to have done, and numerous deaths, murders, exiles, were the
consequence. The exiles came again, under a new name, no longer Achaeans, but
Dorians—a name which they derived from Dorieus; for it was he who gathered them
together. The rest of the story is told by you Lacedaemonians as part of the history of
Sparta.
Megillus. To be sure.
Athenian. Thus, after digressing from the original subject of laws into music and
drinking–bouts, the argument has, providentially, come back to the same point, and
presents to us another handle. For we have reached the settlement of Lacedaemon;
which, as you truly say, is in laws and in institutions the sister of Crete. And we are all
the better for the digression, because we have gone through various governments and
settlements, and have been present at the foundation of a first, second, and third state,
succeeding one another in infinite time. And now there appears on the horizon a fourth
state or nation which was once in process of settlement and has continued settled to this
day. If, out of all this, we are able to discern what is well or ill settled, and what laws are
the salvation and what are the destruction of cities, and what changes would make a
state happy, O Megillus and Cleinias, we may now begin again, unless we have some
fault to find with the previous discussion.
Megillus. If some God, Stranger, would promise us that our new enquiry about
legislation would be as good and full as the present, I would go a great way to hear such
another, and would think that a day as long as this—and we are now approaching the
longest day of the year—was too short for the discussion.
Athenian. Then I suppose that we must consider this subject?
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. Let us place ourselves in thought at the moment when Lacedaemon and Argos
and Messene and the rest of the Peloponnesus were all in complete subjection, Megillus,
to your ancestors; for afterwards, as the legend informs us, they divided their army into
three portions, and settled three cities, Argos, Messene, Lacedaemon.
Megillus. True.
Athenian. Temenus was the king of Argos, Cresphontes of Messene, Procles and
Eurysthenes of Lacedaemon.
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. To these kings all the men of that day made oath that they would assist them,
if any one subverted their kingdom.
Megillus. True.
Athenian. But can a kingship be destroyed, or was any other form of government ever
destroyed, by any but the rulers themselves? No indeed, by Zeus. Have we already
forgotten what was said a little while ago?
Megillus. No.
Athenian. And may we not now further confirm what was then mentioned? For we have
come upon facts which have brought us back again to the same principle; so that, in
resuming the discussion, we shall not be enquiring about an empty theory, but about
events which actually happened. The case was as follows:—Three royal heroes made
oath to three cities which were under a kingly government, and the cities to the kings,
that both rulers and subjects should govern and be governed according to the laws
which were common to all of them: the rulers promised that as time and the race went
forward they would not make their rule more arbitrary; and the subjects said that, if the
rulers observed these conditions, they would never subvert or permit others to subvert
those kingdoms; the kings were to assist kings and peoples when injured, and the
peoples were to assist peoples and kings in like manner. Is not this the fact?
Megillus. Yes.
Athenian. And the three states to whom these laws were given, whether their kings or
any others were the authors of them, had therefore the greatest security for the
maintenance of their constitutions?
Megillus. What security?
Athenian. That the other two states were always to come to the rescue against a
rebellious third.
Megillus. True.
Athenian. Many persons say that legislators ought to impose such laws as the mass of
the people will be ready to receive; but this is just as if one were to command gymnastic
masters or physicians to treat or cure their pupils or patients in an agreeable manner.
Megillus. Exactly.
Athenian. Whereas the physician may often be too happy if he can restore health, and
make the body whole, without any very great infliction of pain.
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. There was also another advantage possessed by the men of that day, which
greatly lightened the task of passing laws.
Megillus. What advantage?
Athenian. The legislators of that day, when they equalized property, escaped the great
accusation which generally arises in legislation, if a person attempts to disturb the
possession of land, or to abolish debts, because he sees that without this reform there
can never be any real equality. Now, in general, when the legislator attempts to make a
new settlement of such matters, every one meets him with the cry, that “he is not to
disturb vested interests”—declaring with imprecations that he is introducing agrarian
laws and cancelling of debts, until a man is at his wits end; whereas no one could quarrel
with the Dorians for distributing the land—there was nothing to hinder them; and as for
debts, they had none which were considerable or of old standing.
Megillus. Very true.
Athenian. But then, my good friends, why did the settlement and legislation of their
country turn out so badly?
Megillus. How do you mean; and why do you blame them?
Athenian. There were three kingdoms, and of these, two quickly corrupted their original
constitution and laws, and the only one which remained was the Spartan.
Megillus. The question which you ask is not easily answered.
Athenian. And yet must be answered when we are enquiring about laws, this being our
old man’s sober game of play, whereby we beguile the way, as I was saying when we first
set out on our journey.
Megillus. Certainly; and we must find out why this was.
Athenian. What laws are more worthy of our attention than those which have regulated
such cities? or what settlements of states are greater or more famous?
Megillus. I know of none.
Athenian. Can we doubt that your ancestors intended these institutions not only for the
protection of Peloponnesus, but of all the Hellenes. in case they were attacked by the
barbarian? For the inhabitants of the region about Ilium, when they provoked by their
insolence the Trojan war, relied upon the power of the Assyrians and the Empire of
Ninus, which still existed and had a great prestige; the people of those days fearing the
united Assyrian Empire just as we now fear the Great King. And the second capture of
Troy was a serious offence against them, because Troy was a portion of the Assyrian
Empire. To meet the danger the single army was distributed between three cities by the
royal brothers, sons of Heracles—a fair device, as it seemed, and a far better
arrangement than the expedition against Troy. For, firstly, the people of that day had, as
they thought, in the Heraclidae better leaders than the Pelopidae; in the next place, they
considered that their army was superior in valour to that which went against Troy; for,
although the latter conquered the Trojans, they were themselves conquered by the
Heraclidae—Achaeans by Dorians. May we not suppose that this was the intention with
which the men of those days framed the constitutions of their states?
Megillus. Quite true.
Athenian. And would not men who had shared with one another many dangers, and
were governed by a single race of royal brothers, and had taken the advice of oracles,
and in particular of the Delphian Apollo, be likely to think that such states would be
firmly and lastingly established?
Megillus. Of course they would.
Athenian. Yet these institutions, of which such great expectations were entertained,
seem to have all rapidly vanished away; with the exception, as I was saying, of that small
part of them which existed in yourland.And this third part has never to this day ceased
warring against the two others; whereas, if the original idea had been carried out, and
they had agreed to be one, their power would have been invincible in war.
Megillus. No doubt.
Athenian. But what was the ruin of this glorious confederacy? Here is a subject well
worthy of consideration.
Megillus. Certainly, no one will ever find more striking instances of laws or governments
being the salvation or destruction of great and noble interests, than are here presented
to his view.
Athenian. Then now we seem to have happily arrived at a real and important question.
Megillus. Very true.
Athenian. Did you never remark, sage friend, that all men, and we ourselves at this
moment, often fancy that they see some beautiful thing which might have effected
wonders if any one had only known how to make a right use of it in some way; and yet
this mode of looking at things may turn out after all to be a mistake, and not according
to nature, either in our own case or in any other?
Megillus. To what are you referring, and what do you mean?
Athenian. I was thinking of my own admiration of the aforesaid Heracleid expedition,
which was so noble, and might have had such wonderful results for the Hellenes, if only
rightly used; and I was just laughing at myself.
Megillus. But were you not right and wise in speaking as you did, and we in assenting to
you?
Athenian. Perhaps; and yet I cannot help observing that any one who sees anything
great or powerful, immediately has the feeling that—”If the owner only knew how to use
his great and noble possession, how happy would he be, and what great results would he
achieve!”
Megillus. And would he not be justified?
Athenian. Reflect; in what point of view does this sort of praise appear just: First, in
reference to the question in hand:—If the then commanders had known how to arrange
their army properly, how would they have attained success? Would not this have been
the way? They would have bound them all firmly together and preserved them for ever,
giving them freedom and dominion at pleasure, combined with the power of doing in
the whole world, Hellenic and barbarian, whatever they and their descendants desired.
What other aim would they have had?
Megillus. Very good.
Athenian. Suppose any one were in the same way to express his admiration at the sight
of great wealth or family honour, or the like, he would praise them under the idea that
through them he would attain either all or the greater and chief part of what he desires.
Megillus. He would.
Athenian. Well, now, and does not the argument show that there is one common desire
of all mankind?
Megillus. What is it?
Athenian. The desire which a man has, that all things, if possible—at any rate, things
human—may come to pass in accordance with his soul’s desire.
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. And having this desire always, and at every time of life, in youth, in manhood,
in age, he cannot help always praying for the fulfilment of it.
Megillus. No doubt.
Athenian. And we join in the prayers of our friends, and ask for them what they ask for
themselves.
Megillus. We do.
Athenian. Dear is the son to the father—the younger to the elder.
Megillus. Of course.
Athenian. And yet the son often prays to obtain things which the father prays that he
may not obtain.
Megillus. When the son is young and foolish, you mean?
Athenian. Yes; or when the father, in the dotage of age or the heat of youth, having no
sense of right and justice, prays with fervour, under the influence of feelings akin to
those of Theseus when he cursed the unfortunate Hippolytus, do you imagine that the
son, having a sense of right and justice, will join in his father’s prayers?
Megillus. I understand you to mean that a man should not desire or be in a hurry to
have all things according to his wish, for his wish may be at variance with his reason.
But every state and every individual ought to pray and strive for wisdom.
Athenian. Yes; and I remember, and you will remember, what I said at first, that a
statesman and legislator ought to ordain laws with a view to wisdom; while you were
arguing that the good lawgiver ought to order all with a view to war. And to this I replied
that there were four virtues, but that upon your view one of them only was the aim of
legislation; whereas you ought to regard all virtue, and especially that which comes first,
and is the leader of all the rest—I mean wisdom and mind and opinion, having affection
and desire in their train. And now the argument returns to the same point, and I say
once more, in jest if you like, or in earnest if you like, that the prayer of a fool is full of
danger, being likely to end in the opposite of what he desires. And if you would rather
receive my words in earnest, I am willing that you should; and you will find, I suspect, as
I have said already, that not cowardice was the cause of the ruin of the Dorian kings and
of their whole design, nor ignorance of military matters, either on the part of the rulers
or of their subjects; but their misfortunes were due to their general degeneracy, and
especially to their ignorance of the most important human affairs. That was then, and is
still, and always will be the case, as I will endeavour, if you will allow me, to make out
and demonstrate as well as I am able to you who are my friends, in the course of the
argument.
Cleinias. Pray go on, Stranger;—compliments are troublesome, but we will show, not in
word but in deed, how greatly we prize your words, for we will give them our best
attention; and that is the way in which a freeman best shows his approval or
disapproval.
Megillus. Excellent, Cleinias; let us do as you say.
Cleinias. By all means, if Heaven wills. Go on.
Athenian. Well, then, proceeding in the same train of thought, I say that the greatest
ignorance was the ruin of the Dorian power, and that now, as then, ignorance is ruin.
And if this be true, the legislator must endeavour to implant wisdom in states, and
banish ignorance to the utmost of his power.
Cleinias. That is evident.
Athenian. Then now consider what is really the greatest ignorance. I should like to know
whether you and Megillus would agree with me in what I am about to say; for my
opinion is—
Cleinias. What?
Athenian. That the greatest ignorance is when a man hates that which he nevertheless
thinks to be good and noble, and loves and embraces that which he knows to be
unrighteous and evil. This disagreement between the sense of pleasure and the
judgment of reason in the soul is, in my opinion, the worst ignorance; and also the
greatest, because affecting the great mass of the human soul; for the principle which
feels pleasure and pain in the individual is like the mass or populace in a state. And
when the soul is opposed to knowledge, or opinion, or reason, which are her natural
lords, that I call folly, just as in the state, when the multitude refuses to obey their rulers
and the laws; or, again, in the individual, when fair reasonings have their habitation in
the soul and yet do no good, but rather the reverse of good. All these cases I term the
worst ignorance, whether in individuals or in states. You will understand, Stranger, that
I am speaking of something which is very different from the ignorance of
handicraftsmen.
Cleinias. Yes, my friend, we understand and agree.
Athenian. Let us, then, in the first place declare and affirm that the citizen who does not
know these things ought never to have any kind of authority entrusted to him: he must
be stigmatized as ignorant, even though he be versed in calculation and skilled in all
sorts of accomplishments, and feats of mental dexterity; and the opposite are to be
called wise, even although, in the words of the proverb, they know neither how to read
nor how to swim; and to them, as to men of sense, authority is to be committed. For, O
my friends, how can there be the least shadow of wisdom when there is no harmony?
There is none; but the noblest and greatest of harmonies may be truly said to be the
greatest wisdom; and of this he is a partaker who lives according to reason; whereas he
who is devoid of reason is the destroyer of his house and the very opposite of a saviour
of the state: he is utterly ignorant of political wisdom. Let this, then, as I was saying, be
laid down by us.
Cleinias. Let it be so laid down.
Athenian. I suppose that there must be rulers and subjects in states?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And what are the principles on which men rule and obey in cities, whether
great or small; and similarly in families? What are they, and how many in number? Is
there not one claim of authority which is always just—that of fathers and mothers and in
general of progenitors to rule over their offspring?
Cleinias. There is.
Athenian. Next follows the principle that the noble should rule over the ignoble; and,
thirdly, that the elder should rule and the younger obey?
Cleinias. To be sure.
Athenian. And, fourthly, that slaves should be ruled, and their masters rule?
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. Fifthly, if I am not mistaken, comes the principle that the stronger shall rule,
and the weaker be ruled?
Cleinias. That is a rule not to be disobeyed.
Athenian. Yes, and a rule which prevails very widely among all creatures, and is
according to nature, as the Theban poet Pindar once said; and the sixth principle, and
the greatest of all, is, that the wise should lead and command, and the ignorant follow
and obey; and yet, O thou most wise Pindar, as I should reply him, this surely is not
contrary to nature, but according to nature, being the rule of law over willing subjects,
and not a rule of compulsion.
Cleinias. Most true.
Athenian. There is a seventh kind of rule which is awarded by lot, and is dear to the
Gods and a token of good fortune: he on whom the lot falls is a ruler, and he who fails in
obtaining the lot goes away and is the subject; and this we affirm to be quite just.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. “Then now,” as we say playfully to any of those who lightly undertake the
making of laws, “you see, legislator, the principles of government, how many they are,
and that they are naturally opposed to each other. There we have discovered a fountain–
head of seditions, to which you must attend. And, first, we will ask you to consider with
us, how and in what respect the kings of Argos and Messene violated these our maxims,
and ruined themselves and the great and famous Hellenic power of the olden time. Was
it because they did not know how wisely Hesiod spoke when he said that the half is often
more than the whole? His meaning was, that when to take the whole would be
dangerous, and to take the half would be the safe and moderate course, then the
moderate or better was more than the immoderate or worse.”
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And may we suppose this immoderate spirit to be more fatal when found
among kings than when among peoples?
Cleinias. The probability is that ignorance will be a disorder especially prevalent among
kings, because they lead a proud and luxurious life.
Athenian. Is it not palpable that the chief aim of the kings of that time was to get the
better of the established laws, and that they were not in harmony with the principles
which they had agreed to observe by word and oath? This want of harmony may have
had the appearance of wisdom, but was really, as we assert, the greatest ignorance, and
utterly overthrew the whole empire by dissonance and harsh discord.
Cleinias. Very likely.
Athenian. Good; and what measures ought the legislator to have then taken in order to
avert this calamity? Truly there is no great wisdom in knowing, and no great difficulty in
telling, after the evil has happened; but to have foreseen the remedy at the time would
have taken a much wiser head than ours.
Megillus. What do you mean?
Athenian. Any one who looks at what has occurred with you Lacedaemonians, Megillus,
may easily know and may easily say what ought to have been done at that time.
Megillus. Speak a little more clearly.
Athenian. Nothing can be clearer than the observation which I am about to make.
Megillus. What is it?
Athenian. That if any one gives too great a power to anything, too large a sail to a vessel,
too much food to the body, too much authority to the mind, and does not observe the
mean, everything is overthrown, and, in the wantonness of excess runs in the one case to
disorders, and in the other to injustice, which is the child of excess. I mean to say, my
dear friends, that there is no soul of man, young and irresponsible, who will be able to
sustain the temptation of arbitrary power—no one who will not, under such
circumstances, become filled with folly, that worst of diseases, and be hated by his
nearest and dearest friends: when this happens, his kingdom is undermined, and all his
power vanishes from him. And great legislators who know the mean should take heed of
the danger. As far as we can guess at this distance of time, what happened was as
follows:—
Megillus. What?
Athenian. A God, who watched over Sparta, seeing into the future, gave you two families
of kings instead of one; and thus brought you more within the limits of moderation. In
the next place, some human wisdom mingled with divine power, observing that the
constitution of your government was still feverish and excited, tempered your inborn
strength and pride of birth with the moderation which comes of age, making the power
of your twenty–eight elders equal with that of the kings in the most important matters.
But your third saviour, perceiving that your government was still swelling and foaming,
and desirous to impose a curb upon it, instituted the Ephors, whose power he made to
resemble that of magistrates elected by lot; and by this arrangement the kingly office,
being compounded of the right elements and duly moderated, was preserved, and was
the means of preserving all the rest. Since, if there had been only the original legislators,
Temenus, Cresphontes, and their contemporaries, as far as they were concerned not
even the portion of Aristodemus would have been preserved; for they had no proper
experience in legislation, or they would surely not have imagined that oaths would
moderate a youthful spirit invested with a power which might be converted into a
tyranny. Now that God has instructed us what sort of government would have been or
will be lasting, there is no wisdom, as I have already said, in judging after the event;
there is no difficulty in learning from an example which has already occurred. But if any
one could have foreseen all this at the time, and had been able to moderate the
government of the three kingdoms and unite them into one, he might have saved all the
excellent institutions which were then conceived; and no Persian or any other armament
would have dared to attack us, or would have regarded Hellas as a power to be despised.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. There was small credit to us, Cleinias, in defeating them; and the discredit
was, not that the conquerors did not win glorious victories both by land and sea, but
what, in my opinion, brought discredit was, first of all, the circumstance that of the three
cities one only fought on behalf of Hellas, and the two others were so utterly good for
nothing that the one was waging a mighty war against Lacedaemon, and was thus
preventing her from rendering assistance, while the city of Argos, which had the
precedence at the time of the distribution, when asked to aid in repelling the barbarian,
would not answer to the call, or give aid. Many things might be told about Hellas in
connection with that war which are far from honourable; nor, indeed, can we rightly say
that Hellas repelled the invader; for the truth is, that unless the Athenians and
Lacedaemonians, acting in concert, had warded off the impending yoke, all the tribes of
Hellas would have been fused in a chaos of Hellenes mingling with one another, of
barbarians mingling with Hellenes, and Hellenes with barbarians; just as nations who
are now subject to the Persian power, owing to unnatural separations and combinations
of them, are dispersed and scattered, and live miserably. These, Cleinias and Megillus,
are the reproaches which we have to make against statesmen and legislators, as they are
called, past and present, if we would analyse the causes of their failure, and find out
what else might have been done. We said, for instance, just now, that there ought to be
no great and unmixed powers; and this was under the idea that a state ought to be free
and wise and harmonious, and that a legislator ought to legislate with a view to this end.
Nor is there any reason to be surprised at our continually proposing aims for the
legislator which appear not to be always the same; but we should consider when we say
that temperance is to be the aim, or wisdom is to be the aim, or friendship is to be the
aim, that all these aims are really the same; and if so, a variety in the modes of
expression ought not to disturb us.
Cleinias. Let us resume the argument in that spirit. And now, speaking of friendship and
wisdom and freedom, I wish that you would tell me at what, in your opinion, the
legislator should aim.
Athenian. Hear me, then: there are two mother forms of states from which the rest may
be truly said to be derived; and one of them may be called monarchy and the other
democracy: the Persians have the highest form of the one, and we of the other; almost
all the rest, as I was saying, are variations of these. Now, if you are to have liberty and
the combination of friendship with wisdom, you must have both these forms of
government in a measure; the argument emphatically declares that no city can be well
governed which is not made up of both.
Cleinias. Impossible.
Athenian. Neither the one, if it be exclusively and excessively attached to monarchy, nor
the other, if it be similarly attached to freedom, observes moderation; but your states,
the Laconian and Cretan, have more of it; and the same was the case with the Athenians
and Persians of old time, but now they have less. Shall I tell you why?
Cleinias. By all means, if it will tend to elucidate our subject.
Athenian. Hear, then:—There was a time when the Persians had more of the state which
is a mean between slavery and freedom. In the reign of Cyrus they were freemen and
also lords of many others: the rulers gave a share of freedom to the subjects, and being
treated as equals, the soldiers were on better terms with their generals, and showed
themselves more ready in the hour of danger. And if there was any wise man among
them, who was able to give good counsel, he imparted his wisdom to the public; for the
king was not jealous, but allowed him full liberty of speech, and gave honour to those
who could advise him in any matter. And the nation waxed in all respects, because there
was freedom and friendship and communion of mind among them.
Cleinias. That certainly appears to have been the case.
Athenian. How, then, was this advantage lost under Cambyses, and again recovered
under Darius? Shall I try to divine?
Cleinias. The enquiry, no doubt, has a bearing upon our subject.
Athenian. I imagine that Cyrus, though a great and patriotic general, had never given his
mind to education, and never attended to the order of his household.
Cleinias. What makes you say so?
Athenian. I think that from his youth upwards he was a soldier, and entrusted the
education of his children to the women; and they brought them up from their childhood
as the favourites of fortune, who were blessed already, and needed no more blessings.
They thought that they were happy enough, and that no one should be allowed to oppose
them in any way, and they compelled every one to praise all that they said or did. This
was how they brought them up.
Cleinias. A splendid education truly!
Athenian. Such an one as women were likely to give them, and especially princesses who
had recently grown rich, and in the absence of the men, too, who were occupied in wars
and dangers, and had no time to look after them.
Cleinias. What would you expect?
Athenian. Their father had possessions of cattle and sheep, and many herds of men and
other animals, but he did not consider that those to whom he was about to make them
over were not trained in his own calling, which was Persian; for the Persians are
shepherds—sons of a rugged land, which is a stern mother, and well fitted to produce
sturdy race able to live in the open air and go without sleep, and also to fight, if fighting
is required. He did not observe that his sons were trained differently; through the so–
called blessing of being royal they were educated in the Median fashion by women and
eunuchs, which led to their becoming such as people do become when they are brought
up unreproved. And so, after the death of Cyrus, his sons, in the fulness of luxury and
licence, took the kingdom, and first one slew the other because he could not endure a
rival; and, afterwards, the slayer himself, mad with wine and brutality, lost his kingdom
through the Medes and the Eunuch, as they called him, who despised the folly of
Cambyses.
Cleinias. So runs the tale, and such probably were the facts.
Athenian. Yes; and the tradition says, that the empire came back to the Persians,
through Darius and the seven chiefs.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Let us note the rest of the story. Observe, that Darius was not the son of a
king, and had not received a luxurious education. When he came to the throne, being
one of the seven, he divided the country into seven portions, and of this arrangement
there are some shadowy traces still remaining; he made laws upon the principle of
introducing universal equality in the order of the state, and he embodied in his laws the
settlement of the tribute which Cyrus promised—thus creating a feeling of friendship
and community among all the Persians, and attaching the people to him with money
and gifts. Hence his armies cheerfully acquired for him countries as large as those which
Cyrus had left behind him. Darius was succeeded by his son Xerxes; and he again was
brought up in the royal and luxurious fashion. Might we not most justly say: “O Darius,
how came you to bring up Xerxes in the same way in which Cyrus brought up Cambyses,
and not to see his fatal mistake?” For Xerxes, being the creation of the same education,
met with much the same fortune as Cambyses; and from that time until now there has
never been a really great king among the Persians, although they are all called Great.
And their degeneracy is not to be attributed to chance, as I maintain; the reason is
rather the evil life which is generally led by the sons of very rich and royal persons; for
never will boy or man, young or old, excel in virtue, who has been thus educated. And
this, I say, is what the legislator has to consider, and what at the present moment has to
be considered by us. Justly may you, O Lacedaemonians, be praised, in that you do not
give special honour or a special education to wealth rather than to poverty, or to a royal
rather than to a private station, where the divine and inspired lawgiver has not
originally commanded them to be given. For no man ought to have pre–eminent honour
in a state because he surpasses others in wealth, any more than because he is swift of
foot or fair or strong, unless he have some virtue in him; nor even if he have virtue,
unless he have this particular virtue of temperance.
Megillus. What do you mean, Stranger?
Athenian. I suppose that courage is a part of virtue?
Megillus. To be sure.
Athenian. Then, now hear and judge for yourself:—Would you like to have for a fellow—
lodger or neighbour a very courageous man, who had no control over himself?
Megillus. Heaven forbid!
Athenian. Or an artist, who was clever in his profession, but a rogue?
Megillus. Certainly not.
Athenian. And surely justice does not grow apart from temperance?
Megillus. Impossible.
Athenian. Any more than our pattern wise man, whom we exhibited as having his
pleasures and pains in accordance with and corresponding to true reason, can be
intemperate?
Megillus. No.
Athenian. There is a further consideration relating to the due and undue award of
honours in states.
Megillus. What is it?
Athenian. I should like to know whether temperance without the other virtues, existing
alone in the soul of man, is rightly to be praised or blamed?
Megillus. I cannot tell.
Athenian. And that is the best answer; for whichever alternative you had chosen, I think
that you would have gone wrong.
Megillus. I am fortunate.
Athenian. Very good; a quality, which is a mere appendage of things which can be
praised or blamed, does not deserve an expression of opinion, but is best passed over in
silence.
Megillus. You are speaking of temperance?
Athenian. Yes; but of the other virtues, that which having this appendage is also most
beneficial, will be most deserving of honour, and next that which is beneficial in the next
degree; and so each of them will be rightly honoured according to a regular order.
Megillus. True.
Athenian. And ought not the legislator to determine these classes?
Megillus. Certainly he should.
Athenian. Suppose that we leave to him the arrangement of details. But the general
division of laws according to their importance into a first and second and third class, we
who are lovers of law may make ourselves.
Megillus. Very; good.
Athenian. We maintain, then, that a State which would be safe and happy, as far as the
nature of man allows, must and ought to distribute honour and dishonour in the right
way. And the right way is to place the goods of the soul first and highest in the scale,
always assuming temperance to be the condition of them; and to assign the second place
to the goods of the body; and the third place to money and property. And it any
legislator or state departs from this rule by giving money the place of honour, or in any
way preferring that which is really last, may we not say, that he or the state is doing an
unholy and unpatriotic thing?
Megillus. Yes; let that be plainly declared.
Athenian. The consideration of the Persian governments led us thus far to enlarge. We
remarked that the Persians grew worse and worse. And we affirm the reason of this to
have been, that they too much diminished the freedom of the people, and introduced too
much of despotism, and so destroyed friendship and community of feeling. And when
there is an end of these, no longer do the governors govern on behalf of their subjects or
of the people, but on behalf of themselves; and if they think that they can gain ever so
small an advantage for themselves, they devastate cities, and send fire and desolation
among friendly races. And as they hate ruthlessly and horribly, so are they hated; and
when they want the people to fight for them, they find no community of feeling or
willingness to risk their lives on their behalf; their untold myriads are useless to them on
the field of battle, and they think that their salvation depends on the employment of
mercenaries and strangers whom they hire, as if they were in want of more men. And
they cannot help being stupid, since they proclaim by actions that the ordinary
distinctions of right and wrong which are made in a state are a trifle, when compared
with gold and silver.
Megillus. Quite true.
Athenian. And now enough of the Persians, and their present maladministration of their
government, which is owing to the excess of slavery and despotism among them.
Megillus. Good.
Athenian. Next, we must pass in review the government of Attica in like manner, and
from this show that entire freedom and the absence of all superior authority is not by
any means so good as government by others when properly limited, which was our
ancient Athenian constitution at the time when the Persians made their attack on
Hellas, or, speaking more correctly, on the whole continent of Europe. There were four
classes, arranged according to a property census, and reverence was our queen and
mistress, and made us willing to live in obedience to the laws which then prevailed. Also
the vastness of the Persian armament, both by sea and on land, caused a helpless terror,
which made us more and more the servants of our rulers and of the laws; and for all
these reasons an exceeding harmony prevailed among us. About ten years before the
naval engagement at Salamis, Datis came, leading a Persian host by command of Darius,
which was expressly directed against the Athenians and Eretrians, having orders to
carry them away captive; and these orders he was to execute under pain of death. Now
Datis and his myriads soon became complete masters of Eretria, and he sent a fearful
report to Athens that no Eretrian had escaped him; for the soldiers of Datis had joined
hands and netted the whole of Eretria. And this report, whether well or ill founded, was
terrible to all the Hellenes, and above all to the Athenians, and they dispatched
embassies in all directions, but no one was willing to come to their relief, with the
exception of the Lacedaemonians; and they, either because they were detained by the
Messenian war, which was then going on, or for some other reason of which we are not
told, came a day too late for the battle of Marathon. After a while, the news arrived of
mighty preparations being made, and innumerable threats came from the king. Then, as
time went on, a rumour reached us that Darius had died, and that his son, who was
young and hot–headed, had come to the throne and was persisting in his design. The
Athenians were under the impression that the whole expedition was directed against
them, in consequence of the battle of Marathon; and hearing of the bridge over the
Hellespont, and the canal of Athos, and the host of ships, considering that there was no
salvation for them either by land or by sea, for there was no one to help them, and
remembering that in the first expedition, when the Persians destroyed Eretria, no one
came to their help, or would risk the danger of an alliance with them, they thought that
this would happen again, at least on land; nor, when they looked to the sea, could they
descry any hope of salvation; for they were attacked by a thousand vessels and more.
One chance of safety remained, slight indeed and desperate, but their only one. They
saw that on the former occasion they had gained a seemingly impossible victory, and
borne up by this hope, they found that their only refuge was in themselves and in the
Gods. All these things created in them the spirit of friendship; there was the fear of the
moment, and there was that higher fear, which they had acquired by obedience to their
ancient laws, and which I have several times in the preceding discourse called reverence,
of which the good man ought to be a willing servant, and of which the coward is
independent and fearless. If this fear had not possessed them, they would never have
met the enemy, or defended their temples and sepulchres and their country, and
everything that was near and dear to them, as they did; but little by little they would
have been all scattered and dispersed.
Megillus. Your words, Athenian, are quite true, and worthy of yourself and of your
country.
Athenian. They are true, Megillus; and to you, who have inherited the virtues of your
ancestors, I may properly speak of the actions of that day. And I would wish you and
Cleinias to consider whether my words have not also a bearing on legislation; for I am
not discoursing only for the pleasure of talking, but for the argument’s sake. Please to
remark that the experience both of ourselves and the Persians was, in a certain sense,
the same; for as they led their people into utter servitude, so we too led ours into all
freedom. And now, how shall we proceed? for I would like you to observe that our
previous arguments have good deal to say for themselves.
Megillus. True; but I wish that you would give us a fuller explanation.
Athenian. I will. Under the ancient laws, my friends, the people was not as now the
master, but rather the willing servant of the laws.
Megillus. What laws do you mean?
Athenian. In the first place, let us speak of the laws about music—that is to say, such
music as then existed—in order that we may trace the growth of the excess of freedom
from the beginning. Now music was early divided among us into certain kinds and
manners. One sort consisted of prayers to the Gods, which were called hymns; and there
was another and opposite sort called lamentations, and another termed paeans, and
another, celebrating the birth of Dionysus, called, I believe, “dithyrambs.” And they used
the actual word “laws,” or nomoi, for another kind of song; and to this they added the
term “citharoedic.” All these and others were duly distinguished, nor were the
performers allowed to confuse one style of music with another. And the authority which
determined and gave judgment, and punished the disobedient, was not expressed in a
hiss, nor in the most unmusical shouts of the multitude, as in our days, nor in applause
and clapping of hands. But the directors of public instruction insisted that the spectators
should listen in silence to the end; and boys and their tutors, and the multitude in
general, were kept quiet by a hint from a stick. Such was the good order which the
multitude were willing to observe; they would never have dared to give judgment by
noisy cries. And then, as time went on, the poets themselves introduced the reign of
vulgar and lawless innovation. They were men of genius, but they had no perception of
what is just and lawful in music; raging like Bacchanals and possessed with inordinate
delights—mingling lamentations with hymns, and paeans with dithyrambs; imitating
the sounds of the flute on the lyre, and making one general confusion; ignorantly
affirming that music has no truth, and, whether good or bad, can only be judged of
rightly by the pleasure of the hearer. And by composing such licentious works, and
adding to them words as licentious, they have inspired the multitude with lawlessness
and boldness, and made them fancy that they can judge for themselves about melody
and song. And in this way the theatres from being mute have become vocal, as though
they had understanding of good and bad in music and poetry; and instead of an
aristocracy, an evil sort of theatrocracy has grown up. For if the democracy which judged
had only consisted of educated persons, no fatal harm would have been done; but in
music there first arose the universal conceit of omniscience and general lawlessness;—
freedom came following afterwards, and men, fancying that they knew what they did not
know, had no longer any fear, and the absence of fear begets shamelessness. For what is
this shamelessness, which is so evil a thing, but the insolent refusal to regard the
opinion of the better by reason of an over–daring sort of liberty?
Megillus. Very true.
Athenian. Consequent upon this freedom comes the other freedom, of disobedience to
rulers; and then the attempt to escape the control and exhortation of father, mother,
elders, and when near the end, the control of the laws also; and at the very end there is
the contempt of oaths and pledges, and no regard at all for the Gods—herein they
exhibit and imitate the old so called Titanic nature, and come to the same point as the
Titans when they rebelled against God, leading a life of endless evils. But why have I said
all this? I ask, because the argument ought to be pulled up from time to time, and not be
allowed to run away, but held with bit and bridle, and then we shall not, as the proverb
says, fall off our ass. Let us then once more ask the question, To what end has all this
been said?
Megillus. Very good.
Athenian. This, then, has been said for the sake—
Megillus. Of what?
Athenian. We were maintaining that the lawgiver ought to have three things in view:
first, that the city for which he legislates should be free; and secondly, be at unity with
herself; and thirdly, should have understanding;—these were our principles, were they
not?
Megillus. Certainly.
Athenian. With a view to this we selected two kinds of government, the despotic, and the
other the most free; and now we are considering which of them is the right form: we
took a mean in both cases, of despotism in the one, and of liberty in the other, and we
saw that in a mean they attained their perfection; but that when they were carried to the
extreme of either, slavery or licence, neither party were the gainers.
Megillus. Very true.
Athenian. And that was our reason for considering the settlement of the Dorian army,
and of the city built by Dardanus at the foot of the mountains, and the removal of cities
to the seashore, and of our mention of the first men, who were the survivors of the
deluge. And all that was previously said about music and drinking, and what preceded,
was said with the view of seeing how a state might be best administered, and how an
individual might best order his own life. And now, Megillus and Cleinias, how can we
put to the proof the value of our words?
Cleinias. Stranger, I think that I see how a proof of their value may be obtained. This
discussion of ours appears to me to have been singularly fortunate, and just what I at
this moment want; most auspiciously have you and my friend Megillus come in my way.
For I will tell you what has happened to me; and I regard the coincidence as a sort of
omen. The greater part of Crete is going to send out a colony, and they have entrusted
the management of the affair to the Cnosians; and the Cnosian government to me and
nine others. And they desire us to give them any laws which we please, whether taken
from the Cretan model or from any other; and they do not mind about their being
foreign if they are better. Grant me then this favour, which will also be a gain to
yourselves:—Let us make a selection from what has been said, and then let us imagine a
State of which we will suppose ourselves to be the original founders. Thus we shall
proceed with our enquiry, and, at the same time, I may have the use of the framework
which you are constructing, for the city which is in contemplation.
Athenian. Good news, Cleinias; if Megillus has no objection, you may be sure that I will
do all in my power to please you.
Cleinias. Thank you.
Megillus. And so will I.
Cleinias. Excellent; and now let us begin to frame the State.
BOOK IV
Athenian Stranger. And now, what will this city be? I do not mean to ask what is or will
hereafter be the name of the place; that may be determined by the accident of locality or
of the original settlement—a river or fountain, or some local deity may give the sanction
of a name to the newly–founded city; but I do want to know what the situation is,
whether maritime or inland.
Cleinias. I should imagine, Stranger, that the city of which we are speaking is about
eighty stadia distant from the sea.
Athenian. And are there harbours on the seaboard?
Cleinias. Excellent harbours, Stranger; there could not be better.
Athenian. Alas! what a prospect! And is the surrounding country productive, or in need
of importations?
Cleinias. Hardly in need of anything.
Athenian. And is there any neighbouring State?
Cleinias. None whatever, and that is the reason for selecting the place; in days of old,
there was a migration of the inhabitants, and the region has been deserted from time
immemorial.
Athenian. And has the place a fair proportion of hill, and plain, and wood?
Cleinias. Like the rest of Crete in that.
Athenian. You mean to say that there is more rock than plain?
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. Then there is some hope that your citizens may be virtuous: had you been on
the sea, and well provided with harbours, and an importing rather than a producing
country, some mighty saviour would have been needed, and lawgivers more than
mortal, if you were ever to have a chance of preserving your state from degeneracy and
discordance of manners. But there is comfort in the eighty stadia; although the sea is too
near, especially if, as you say, the harbours are so good. Still we may be content. The sea
is pleasant enough as a daily companion, but has indeed also a bitter and brackish
quality; filling the streets with merchants and shopkeepers, and begetting in the souls of
men uncertain and unfaithful ways—making the state unfriendly and unfaithful both to
her own citizens, and also to other nations. There is a consolation, therefore, in the
country producing all things at home; and yet, owing to the ruggedness of the soil, not
providing anything in great abundance. Had there been abundance, there might have
been a great export trade, and a great return of gold and silver; which, as we may safely
affirm, has the most fatal results on a State whose aim is the attainment of just and
noble sentiments: this was said by us, if you remember, in the previous discussion.
Cleinias. I remember, and am of opinion that we both were and are in the right.
Athenian. Well, but let me ask, how is the country supplied with timber for ship–
building?
Cleinias. There is no fir of any consequence, nor pine, and not much cypress; and you
will find very little stone–pine or plane–wood, which shipwrights always require for the
interior of ships.
Athenian. These are also natural advantages.
Cleinias. Why so?
Athenian. Because no city ought to be easily able to imitate its enemies in what is
mischievous.
Cleinias. How does that bear upon any of the matters of which we have been speaking?
Athenian. Remember, my good friend, what I said at first about the Cretan laws, that
they look to one thing only, and this, as you both agreed, was war; and I replied that
such laws, in so far as they tended to promote virtue, were good; but in that they
regarded a part only, and not the whole of virtue, I disapproved of them. And now I
hope that you in your turn will follow and watch me if I legislate with a view to anything
but virtue, or with a view to a part of virtue only. For I consider that the true lawgiver,
like an archer, aims only at that on which some eternal beauty is always attending, and
dismisses everything else, whether wealth or any other benefit, when separated from
virtue. I was saying that the imitation of enemies was a bad thing; and I was thinking of
a case in which a maritime people are harassed by enemies, as the Athenians were by
Minos (I do not speak from any desire to recall past grievances); but he, as we know,
was a great naval potentate, who compelled the inhabitants of Attica to pay him a cruel
tribute; and in those days they had no ships of war as they now have, nor was the
country filled with ship–timber, and therefore they could not readily build them. Hence
they could not learn how to imitate their enemy at sea, and in this way, becoming sailors
themselves, directly repel their enemies. Better for them to have lost many times over
the seven youths, than that heavy–armed and stationary troops should have been turned
into sailors, and accustomed to be often leaping on shore, and again to come running
back to their ships; or should have fancied that there was no disgrace in not awaiting the
attack of an enemy and dying boldly; and that there were good reasons, and plenty of
them, for a man throwing away his arms, and betaking himself to flight—which is not
dishonourable, as people say, at certain times. This is the language of naval warfare, and
is anything but worthy of extraordinary praise. For we should not teach bad habits, least
of all to the best part of the citizens. You may learn the evil of such a practice from
Homer, by whom Odysseus is introduced, rebuking Agamemnon because he desires to
draw down the ships to the sea at a time when the Achaeans are hard pressed by the
Trojans—he gets angry with him, and says:
Who, at a time when the battle is in full cry, biddest to drag the well–benched ships into
the sea, that the prayers of the Trojans may be accomplished yet more, and high ruin
falls upon us. For the Achaeans will not maintain the battle, when the ships are drawn
into the sea, but they will look behind and will cease from strife; in that the counsel
which you give will prove injurious. You see that he quite knew triremes on the sea, in
the neighbourhood of fighting men, to be an evil;—lions might be trained in that way to
fly from a herd of deer. Moreover, naval powers which owe their safety to ships, do not
give honour to that sort of warlike excellence which is most deserving of it. For he who
owes his safety to the pilot and the captain, and the oarsman, and all sorts of rather
inferior persons cannot rightly give honour to whom honour is due. But how can a state
be in a right condition which cannot justly award honour?
Cleinias. It is hardly possible, I admit; and yet, Stranger, we Cretans are in the habit of
saying that the battle of Salamis was the salvation of Hellas.
Athenian. Why, yes; and that is an opinion which is widely spread both among Hellenes
and barbarians. But Megillus and I say rather, that the battle of Marathon was the
beginning, and the battle of Plataea the completion, of the great deliverance, and that
these battles by land made the Hellenes better; whereas the sea–fights of Salamis and
Artemisium—for I may as well put them both together—made them no better, if I may
say so without offence about the battles which helped to save us. And in estimating the
goodness of a state, we regard both the situation of the country and the order of the
laws, considering that the mere preservation and continuance of life is not the most
honourable thing for men, as the vulgar think, but the continuance of the best life, while
we live; and that again, if I am jot mistaken, is remark which has been made already.
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. Then we have only to ask whether we are taking the course which we
acknowledge to be the best for the settlement and legislation of states.
Cleinias. The best by far.
Athenian. And now let me proceed to another question: Who are to be the colonists?
May any one come out of all Crete; and is the idea that the population in the several
states is too numerous for the means of subsistence? For I suppose that you are not
going to send out a general invitation to any Hellene who likes to come. And yet I
observe that to your country settlers have come from Argos and Aegina and other parts
of Hellas. Tell me, then, whence do you draw your recruits in the present enterprise?
Cleinias. They will come from all Crete; and of other Hellenes, Peloponnesians will be
most acceptable. For, as you truly observe, there are Cretans of Argive descent; and the
race of Cretans which has the highest character at the present day is the Gortynian, and
this has come from Gortys in the Peloponnesus.
Athenian. Cities find colonization in some respects easier if the colonists are one race,
which like a swarm of bees is sent out from a single country, either when friends leave
friends, owing to some pressure of population or other similar necessity, or when a
portion of a state is driven by factions to emigrate. And there have been whole cities
which have taken flight when utterly conquered by a superior power in war. This,
however, which is in one way an advantage to the colonist or legislator, in another point
of view creates a difficulty. There is an element of friendship in the community of race,
and language, and language, and laws, and in common temples and rites of worship; but
colonies which are of this homogeneous sort are apt to kick against any laws or any form
of constitution differing from that which they had at home; and although the badness of
their own laws may have been the cause of the factions which prevailed among them, yet
from the force of habit they would fain preserve the very customs which were their ruin,
and the leader of the colony, who is their legislator, finds them troublesome and
rebellious. On the other hand, the conflux of several populations might be more
disposed to listen to new laws; but then, to make them combine and pull together, as
they say of horses, is a most difficult task, and the work of years. And yet there is
nothing which tends more to the improvement of mankind than legislation and
colonization.
Cleinias. No doubt; but I should like to know why you say so.
Athenian. My good friend, I am afraid that the course of my speculations is leading me
to say something depreciatory of legislators; but if the word be to the purpose, there can
be no harm. And yet, why am I disquieted, for I believe that the same principle applies
equally to all human things?
Cleinias. To what are you referring?
Athenian. I was going to say that man never legislates, but accidents of all sorts, which
legislate for us in all sorts of ways. The violence of war and the hard necessity of poverty
are constantly overturning governments and changing laws. And the power of discase
has often caused innovations in the state, when there have been pestilences, or when
there has been a succession of bad seasons continuing during many years. Any one who
sees all this, naturally rushes to the conclusion of which I was speaking, that no mortal
legislates in anything, but that in human affairs chance is almost everything. And this
may be said of the arts of the sailor, and the pilot, and the physician, and the general,
and may seem to be well said; and yet there is another thing which may be said with
equal truth of all of them.
Cleinias. What is it?
Athenian. That God governs all things, and that chance and opportunity co–operate
with him in the government of human affairs. There is, however, a third and less
extreme view, that art should be there also; for I should say that in a storm there must
surely be a great advantage in having the aid of the pilot’s art. You would agree?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. And does not a like principle apply to legislation as well as to other things:
even supposing all the conditions to be favourable which are needed for the happiness of
the state, yet the true legislator must from time to time appear on the scene?
Cleinias. Most true.
Athenian. In each case the artist would be able to pray rightly for certain conditions, and
if these were granted by fortune, he would then only require to exercise his art?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. And all the other artists just now mentioned, if they were bidden to offer up
each their special prayer, would do so?
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. And the legislator would do likewise?
Cleinias. I believe that he would.
Athenian. “Come, legislator,” we will say to him; “what are the conditions which you
require in a state before you can organize it?” How ought he to answer this question?
Shall I give his answer?
Cleinias. Yes.
Athenian. He will say—”Give me a state which is governed by a tyrant, and let the tyrant
be young and have a good memory; let him be quick at learning, and of a courageous
and noble nature; let him have that quality which, as I said before, is the inseparable
companion of all the other parts of virtue, if there is to be any good in them.”
Cleinias. I suppose, Megillus, that this companion virtue of which the Stranger speaks,
must be temperance?
Athenian. Yes, Cleinias, temperance in the vulgar sense; not that which in the forced
and exaggerated language of some philosophers is called prudence, but that which is the
natural gift of children and animals, of whom some live continently and others
incontinently, but when isolated, was as we said, hardly worth reckoning in the
catalogue of goods. I think that you must understand my meaning.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. Then our tyrant must have this as well as the other qualities, if the state is to
acquire in the best manner and in the shortest time the form of government which is
most conducive to happiness; for there neither is nor ever will be a better or speedier
way of establishing a polity than by a tyranny.
Cleinias. By what possible arguments, Stranger, can any man persuade himself of such a
monstrous doctrine?
Athenian. There is surely no difficulty in seeing, Cleinias, what is in accordance with the
order of nature?
Cleinias. You would assume, as you say, a tyrant who was young, temperate, quick at
learning, having a good memory, courageous, of a noble nature?
Athenian. Yes; and you must add fortunate; and his good fortune must be that he is the
contemporary of a great legislator, and that some happy chance brings them together.
When this has been accomplished, God has done all that he ever does for a state which
he desires to be eminently prosperous; He has done second best for a state in which
there are two such rulers, and third best for a state in which there are three. The
difficulty increases with the increase, and diminishes with the diminution of the
number.
Cleinias. You mean to say, I suppose, that the best government is produced from a
tyranny, and originates in a good lawgiver and an orderly tyrant, and that the change
from such a tyranny into a perfect form of government takes place most easily; less
easily when from an oligarchy; and, in the third degree, from a democracy: is not that
your meaning?
Athenian. Not so; I mean rather to say that the change is best made out of a tyranny;
and secondly, out of a monarchy; and thirdly, out of some sort of democracy: fourth, in
the capacity for improvement, comes oligarchy, which has the greatest difficulty in
admitting of such a change, because the government is in the hands of a number of
potentates. I am supposing that the legislator is by nature of the true sort, and that his
strength is united with that of the chief men of the state; and when the ruling element is
numerically small, and at the same time very strong, as in a tyranny, there the change is
likely to be easiest and most rapid.
Cleinias. How? I do not understand.
Athenian. And yet I have repeated what I am saying a good many times; but I suppose
that you have never seen a city which is under a tyranny?
Cleinias. No, and I cannot say that I have any great desire to see one.
Athenian. And yet, where there is a tyranny, you might certainly see that of which I am
now speaking.
Cleinias. What do you mean?
Athenian. I mean that you might see how, without trouble and in no very long period of
time, the tyrant, if he wishes, can change the manners of a state: he has only to go in the
direction of virtue or of vice, whichever he prefers, he himself indicating by his example
the lines of conduct, praising and rewarding some actions and reproving others, and
degrading those who disobey.
Cleinias. But how can we imagine that the citizens in general will at once follow the
example set to them; and how can he have this power both of persuading and of
compelling them?
Athenian. Let no one, my friends, persuade us that there is any quicker and easier way
in which states change their laws than when the rulers lead: such changes never have,
nor ever will, come to pass in any other way. The real impossibility or difficulty is of
another sort, and is rarely surmounted in the course of ages; but when once it is
surmounted, ten thousand or rather all blessings follow.
Cleinias. Of what are you speaking?
Athenian. The difficulty is to find the divine love of temperate and just institutions
existing in any powerful forms of government, whether in a monarchy or oligarchy of
wealth or of birth. You might as well hope to reproduce the character of Nestor, who is
said to have excelled all men in the power of speech, and yet more in his temperance.
This, however, according to the tradition, was in the times of Troy; in our own days
there is nothing of the sort; but if such an one either has or ever shall come into being,
or is now among us, blessed is he and blessed are they who hear the wise words that flow
from his lips. And this may be said of power in general: When the supreme power in
man coincides with the greatest wisdom and temperance, then the best laws and the
best constitution come into being; but in no other way. And let what I have been saying
be regarded as a kind of sacred legend or oracle, and let this be our proof that, in one
point of view, there may be a difficulty for a city to have good laws, but that there is
another point of view in which nothing can be easier or sooner effected, granting our
supposition.
Cleinias. How do you mean?
Athenian. Let us try to amuse ourselves, old boys as we are, by moulding in words the
laws which are suitable to your state.
Cleinias. Let us proceed without delay.
Athenian. Then let us invoke God at the settlement of our state; may he hear and be
propitious to us, and come and set in order the State and the laws!
Cleinias. May he come!
Athenian. But what form of polity are we going to give the city?
Cleinias. Tell us what you mean a little more clearly. Do you mean some form of
democracy, or oligarchy, or aristocracy, or monarchy? For we cannot suppose that you
would include tyranny.
Athenian. Which of you will first tell me to which of these classes his own government is
to be referred?
Megillus. Ought I to answer first, since I am the elder?
Cleinias. Perhaps you should.
Megillus. And yet, Stranger, I perceive that I cannot say, without more thought, what I
should call the government of Lacedaemon, for it seems to me to be like a tyranny—the
power of our Ephors is marvellously tyrannical; and sometimes it appears to me to be of
all cities the most democratical; and who can reasonably deny that it is an aristocracy?
We have also a monarchy which is held for life, and is said by all mankind, and not by
ourselves only, to be the most ancient of all monarchies; and, therefore, when asked on a
sudden, I cannot precisely say which form of government the Spartan is.
Cleinias. I am in the same difficulty, Megillus; for I do not feel confident that the polity
of Cnosus is any of these.
Athenian. The reason is, my excellent friends, that you really have polities, but the states
of which we were just now speaking are merely aggregations of men dwelling in cities
who are the subjects and servants of a part of their own state, and each of them is named
after the dominant power; they are not polities at all. But if states are to be named after
their rulers, the true state ought to be called by the name of the God who rules over wise
men.
Cleinias. And who is this God?
Athenian. May I still make use of fable to some extent, in the hope that I may be better
able to answer your question: shall I?
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. In the primeval world, and a long while before the cities came into being
whose settlements we have described, there is said to have been in the time of Cronos a
blessed rule and life, of which the best–ordered of existing states is a copy.
Cleinias. It will be very necessary to hear about that.
Athenian. I quite agree with you; and therefore I have introduced the subject.
Cleinias. Most appropriately; and since the tale is to the point, you will do well in giving
us the whole story.
Athenian. I will do as you suggest. There is a tradition of the happy life of mankind in
days when all things were spontaneous and abundant. And of this the reason is said to
have been as follows:—Cronos knew what we ourselves were declaring, that no human
nature invested with supreme power is able to order human affairs and not overflow
with insolence and wrong. Which reflection led him to appoint not men but demigods,
who are of a higher and more divine race, to be the kings and rulers of our cities; he did
as we do with flocks of sheep and other tame animals. For we do not appoint oxen to be
the lords of oxen, or goats of goats; but we ourselves are a superior race, and rule over
them. In like manner God, in his love of mankind, placed over us the demons, who are a
superior race, and they with great case and pleasure to themselves, and no less to us,
taking care us and giving us peace and reverence and order and justice never failing,
made the tribes of men happy and united. And this tradition, which is true, declares that
cities of which some mortal man and not God is the ruler, have no escape from evils and
toils. Still we must do all that we can to imitate the life which is said to have existed in
the days of Cronos, and, as far as the principle of immortality dwells in us, to that we
must hearken, both in private and public life, and regulate our cities and houses
according to law, meaning by the very term “law,” the distribution of mind. But if either
a single person or an oligarchy or a democracy has a soul eager after pleasures and
desires—wanting to be filled with them, yet retaining none of them, and perpetually
afflicted with an endless and insatiable disorder; and this evil spirit, having first
trampled the laws under foot, becomes the master either of a state or of an individual—
then, as I was saying, salvation is hopeless. And now, Cleinias, we have to consider
whether you will or will not accept this tale of mine.
Cleinias. Certainly we will.
Athenian. You are aware—are you not?—that there are of said to be as many forms of
laws as there are of governments, and of the latter we have already mentioned all those
which are commonly recognized. Now you must regard this as a matter of first–rate
importance. For what is to be the standard of just and unjust, is once more the point at
issue. Men say that the law ought not to regard either military virtue, or virtue in
general, but only the interests and power and preservation of the established form of
government; this is thought by them to be the best way of expressing the natural
definition of justice.
Cleinias. How?
Athenian. Justice is said by them to be the interest of the stronger.
Cleinias. Speak plainer.
Athenian. I will:—”Surely,” they say, “the governing power makes whatever laws have
authority in any state?”
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. “Well,” they would add, “and do you suppose that tyranny or democracy, or
any other conquering power, does not make the continuance of the power which is
possessed by them the first or principal object of their laws?”
Cleinias. How can they have any other?
Athenian. “And whoever transgresses these laws is punished as an evil–doer by the
legislator, who calls the laws just?”
Cleinias. Naturally.
Athenian. “This, then, is always the mode and fashion in which justice exists.”
Cleinias. Certainly, if they are correct in their view.
Athenian. Why, yes, this is one of those false principles of government to which we were
referring.
Cleinias. Which do you mean?
Athenian. Those which we were examining when we spoke of who ought to govern
whom. Did we not arrive at the conclusion that parents ought to govern their children,
and the elder the younger, and the noble the ignoble? And there were many other
principles, if you remember, and they were not always consistent. One principle was this
very principle of might, and we said that Pindar considered violence natural and
justified it.
Cleinias. Yes; I remember.
Athenian. Consider, then, to whom our state is to be entrusted. For there is a thing
which has occurred times without number in states—
Cleinias. What thing?
Athenian. That when there has been a contest for power, those who gain the upper hand
so entirely monopolize the government, as to refuse all share to the defeated party and
their descendants—they live watching one another, the ruling class being in perpetual
fear that some one who has a recollection of former wrongs will come into power and
rise up against them. Now, according to our view, such governments are not polities at
all, nor are laws right which are passed for the good of particular classes and not for the
good of the whole state. States which have such laws are not polities but parties, and
their notions of justice are simply unmeaning. I say this, because I am going to assert
that we must not entrust the government in your state to any one because he is rich, or
because he possesses any other advantage, such as strength, or stature, or again birth:
but he who is most obedient to the laws of the state, he shall win the palm; and to him
who is victorious in the first degree shall be given the highest office and chief ministry of
the gods; and the second to him who bears the second palm; and on a similar principle
shall all the other be assigned to those who come next in order. And when I call the
rulers servants or ministers of the law, I give them this name not for the sake of novelty,
but because I certainly believe that upon such service or ministry depends the well– or
ill–being of the state. For that state in which the law is subject and has no authority, I
perceive to be on the highway to ruin; but I see that the state in which the law is above
the rulers, and the rulers are the inferiors of the law, has salvation, and every blessing
which the Gods can confer.
Cleinias. Truly, Stranger, you see with the keen vision of age.
Athenian. Why, yes; every man when he is young has that sort of vision dullest, and
when he is old keenest.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And now, what is to be the next step? May we not suppose the colonists to
have arrived, and proceed to make our speech to them?
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. “Friends,” we say to them,—”God, as the old tradition declares, holding in his
hand the beginning, middle, and end of all that is, travels according to his nature in a
straight line towards the accomplishment of his end. Justice always accompanies him,
and is the punisher of those who fall short of the divine law. To justice, he who would be
happy holds fast, and follows in her company with all humility and order; but he who is
lifted up with pride, or elated by wealth or rank, or beauty, who is young and foolish,
and has a soul hot with insolence, and thinks that he has no need of any guide or ruler,
but is able himself to be the guide of others, he, I say, is left deserted of God; and being
thus deserted, he takes to him others who are like himself, and dances about, throwing
all things into confusion, and many think that he is a great man, but in a short time he
pays a penalty which justice cannot but approve, and is utterly destroyed, and his family
and city with him. Wherefore, seeing that human things are thus ordered, what should a
wise man do or think, or not do or think?
Cleinias. Every man ought to make up his mind that he will be one of the followers of
God; there can be no doubt of that.
Athenian. Then what life is agreeable to God, and becoming in his followers? One only,
expressed once for all in the old saying that “like agrees with like, with measure
measure,” but things which have no measure agree neither with themselves nor with the
things which have. Now God ought to be to us the measure of all things, and not man, as
men commonly say (Protagoras): the words are far more true of him. And he who would
be dear to God must, as far as is possible, be like him and such as he is. Wherefore the
temperate man is the friend of God, for he is like him; and the intemperate man is
unlike him, and different from him, and unjust. And the same applies to other things;
and this is the conclusion, which is also the noblest and truest of all sayings—that for the
good man to offer sacrifice to the Gods, and hold converse with them by means of
prayers and offerings and every kind of service, is the noblest and best of all things, and
also the most conducive to a happy life, and very fit and meet. But with the bad man, the
opposite of this is true: for the bad man has an impure soul, whereas the good is pure;
and from one who is polluted, neither good man nor God can without impropriety
receive gifts. Wherefore the unholy do only waste their much service upon the Gods, but
when offered by any holy man, such service is most acceptable to them. This is the mark
at which we ought to aim. But what weapons shall we use, and how shall we direct
them? In the first place, we affirm that next after the Olympian Gods and the Gods of
the State, honour should be given to the Gods below; they should receive everything in
even and of the second choice, and ill omen, while the odd numbers, and the first choice,
and the things of lucky omen, are given to the Gods above, by him who would rightly hit
the mark of piety. Next to these Gods, a wise man will do service to the demons or
spirits, and then to the heroes, and after them will follow the private and ancestral Gods,
who are worshipped as the law prescribes in the places which are sacred to them. Next
comes the honour of living parents, to whom, as is meet, we have to pay the first and
greatest and oldest of all debts, considering that all which a man has belongs to those
who gave him birth and brought him up, and that he must do all that he can to minister
to them, first, in his property, secondly, in his person, and thirdly, in his soul, in return
for the endless care and travail which they bestowed upon him of old, in the days of his
infancy, and which he is now to pay back to them when they are old and in the extremity
of their need. And all his life long he ought never to utter, or to have uttered, an
unbecoming word to them; for of light and fleeting words the penalty is most severe;
Nemesis, the messenger of justice, is appointed to watch over all such matters. When
they are angry and want to satisfy their feelings in word or deed, he should give way to
them; for a father who thinks that he has been wronged by his son may be reasonably
expected to be very angry. At their death, the most moderate funeral is best, neither
exceeding the customary expense, nor yet falling short of the honour which has been
usually shown by the former generation to their parents. And let a man not forget to pay
the yearly tribute of respect to the dead, honouring them chiefly by omitting nothing
that conduces to a perpetual remembrance of them, and giving a reasonable portion of
his fortune to the dead. Doing this, and living after this manner, we shall receive our
reward from the Gods and those who are above us [i.e., the demons]; and we shall spend
our days for the most part in good hope. And how a man ought to order what relates to
his descendants and his kindred and friends and fellow–citizens, and the rites of
hospitality taught by Heaven, and the intercourse which arises out of all these duties,
with a view to the embellishment and orderly regulation of his own life—these things, I
say, the laws, as we proceed with them, will accomplish, partly persuading, and partly
when natures do not yield to the persuasion of custom, chastising them by might and
right, and will thus render our state, if the Gods co–operate with us, prosperous and
happy. But of what has to be said, and must be said by the legislator who is of my way of
thinking, and yet, if said in the form of law, would be out of place—of this I think that he
may give a sample for the instruction of himself and of those for whom he is legislating;
and then when, as far as he is able, he has gone through all the preliminaries, he may
proceed to the work of legislation. Now, what will be the form of such prefaces? There
may be a difficulty in including or describing them all under a single form, but I think
that we may get some notion of them if we can guarantee one thing.
Cleinias. What is that?
Athenian. I should wish the citizens to be as readily persuaded to virtue as possible; this
will surely be the aim of the legislator in all his laws.
Cleinias. Certainly.
Athenian. The proposal appears to me to be of some value; and I think that a person will
listen with more gentleness and good–will to the precepts addressed to him by the
legislator, when his soul is not altogether unprepared to receive them. Even a little done
in the way of conciliation gains his ear, and is always worth having. For there is no great
inclination or readiness on the part of mankind to be made as good, or as quickly good,
as possible. The case of the many proves the wisdom of Hesiod, who says that the road
to wickedness is smooth and can be travelled without perspiring, because it is so very
short:
But before virtue the immortal Gods have placed the sweat of labour, and long and steep
is the way thither, and rugged at first; but when you have reached the top, although
difficult before, it is then easy.
Cleinias. Yes; and he certainly speaks well.
Athenian. Very true: and now let me tell you the effect which the preceding discourse
has had upon me.
Cleinias. Proceed.
Athenian. Suppose that we have a little conversation with the legislator, and say to
him—”O, legislator, speak; if you know what we ought to say and do, you can surely tell.”
Cleinias. Of course he can.
Athenian. “Did we not hear you just now saying, that the legislator ought not to allow
the poets to do what they liked? For that they would not know in which of their words
they went against the laws, to the hurt of the state.”
Cleinias. That is true.
Athenian. May we not fairly make answer to him on behalf of the poets?
Cleinias. What answer shall we make to him?
Athenian. That the poet, according to the tradition which has ever prevailed among us,
and is accepted of all men, when he sits down on the tripod of the muse, is not in his
right mind; like a fountain, he allows to flow out freely whatever comes in, and his art
being imitative, he is often compelled to represent men of opposite dispositions, and
thus to contradict himself; neither can he tell whether there is more truth in one thing
that he has said than in another. this is not the case in a law; the legislator must give not
two rules about the same thing, but one only. Take an example from what you have just
been saying. Of three kinds of funerals, there is one which is too extravagant, another is
too niggardly, the third is a mean; and you choose and approve and order the last
without qualification. But if I had an extremely rich wife, and she bade me bury her and
describe her burial in a poem, I should praise the extravagant sort; and a poor miserly
man, who had not much money to spend, would approve of the niggardly; and the man
of moderate means, who was himself moderate, would praise a moderate funeral. Now
you in the capacity of legislator must not barely say “a moderate funeral,” but you must
define what moderation is, and how much; unless you are definite, you must not
suppose that you are speaking a language that can become law.
Cleinias. Certainly not.
Athenian. And is our legislator to have no preface to his laws, but to say at once Do this,
avoid that—and then holding the penalty in terrorem to go on to another law; offering
never a word of advice or exhortation to those for whom he is legislating, after the
manner of some doctors? For of doctors, as I may remind you, some have a gentler,
others a ruder method of cure; and as children ask the doctor to be gentle with them, so
we will ask the legislator to cure our disorders with the gentlest remedies. What I mean
to say is, that besides doctors there are doctors’ servants, who are also styled doctors.
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And whether they are slaves or freemen makes no difference; they acquire
their knowledge of medicine by obeying and observing their masters; empirically and
not according to the natural way of learning, as the manner of freemen is, who have
learned scientifically themselves the art which they impart scientifically to their pupils.
You are aware that there are these two classes of doctors?
Cleinias. To be sure.
Athenian. And did you ever observe that there are two classes of patients in states,
slaves and freemen; and the slave doctors run about and cure the slaves, or wait for
them in the dispensaries—practitioners of this sort never talk to their patients
individually, or let them talk about their own individual complaints? The slave doctor
prescribes what mere experience suggests, as if he had exact knowledge; and when he
has given his orders, like a tyrant, he rushes off with equal assurance to some other
servant who is ill; and so he relieves the master of the house of the care of his invalid
slaves. But the other doctor, who is a freeman, attends and practises upon freemen; and
he carries his enquiries far back, and goes into the nature of the disorder; he enters into
discourse with the patient and with his friends, and is at once getting information from
the sick man, and also instructing him as far as he is able, and he will not prescribe for
him until he has first convinced him; at last, when he has brought the patient more and
more under his persuasive influences and set him on the road to health, he attempts to
effect a cure. Now which is the better way of proceeding in a physician and in a trainer?
Is he the better who accomplishes his ends in a double way, or he who works in one way,
and that the ruder and inferior?
Cleinias. I should say, Stranger, that the double way is far better.
Athenian. Should you like to see an example of the double and single method in
legislation?
Cleinias. Certainly I should.
Athenian. What will be our first law? Will not the the order of nature, begin by making
regulations for states about births?
Cleinias. He will.
Athenian. In all states the birth of children goes back to the connection of marriage?
Cleinias. Very true.
Athenian. And, according to the true order, the laws relating to marriage should be
those which are first determined in every state?
Cleinias. Quite so.
Athenian. Then let me first give the law of marriage in a simple form; it may run as
follows:—A man shall marry between the ages of thirty and thirty–five, or, if he does
not, he shall pay such and such a fine, or shall suffer the loss of such and such privileges.
This would be the simple law about marriage. The double law would run thus:—A man
shall marry between the ages of thirty and thirty–five, considering that in a manner the
human race naturally partakes of immortality, which every man is by nature inclined to
desire to the utmost; for the desire of every man that he may become famous, and not lie
in the grave without a name, is only the love of continuance. Now mankind are coeval
with all time, and are ever following, and will ever follow, the course of time; and so they
are immortal, because they leave children’s children behind them, and partake of
immortality in the unity of generation. And for a man voluntarily to deprive himself of
this gift, as he deliberately does who will not have a wife or children, is impiety. He who
obeys the law shall be free, and shall pay no fine; but he who is disobedient, and does
not marry, when he has arrived at the age of thirty–five, shall pay a yearly fine of a
certain amount, in order that he may not imagine his celibacy to bring ease and profit to
him; and he shall not share in the honours which the young men in the state give to the
aged. Comparing now the two forms of the law, you will be able to arrive at a judgment
about any other laws—whether they should be double in length even when shortest,
because they have to persuade as well as threaten, or whether they shall only threaten
and be of half the length.
Megillus. The shorter form, Stranger, would be more in accordance with
Lacedaemonian custom; although, for my own part, if any one were to ask me which I
myself prefer in the state, I should certainly determine in favour of the longer; and I
would have every law made after the same pattern, if I had to choose. But I think that
Cleinias is the person to be consulted, for his is the state which is going to use these
laws.
Cleinias. Thank you, Megillus.
Athenian. Whether, in the abstract, words are to be many or few, is a very foolish
question; the best form, and not the shortest, is to be approved; nor is length at all to be
regarded. Of the two forms of law which have been recited, the one is not only twice as
good in practical usefulness as the other, but the case is like that of the two kinds of
doctors, which I was just now mentioning. And yet legislators never appear to have
considered that they have two instruments which they might use in legislation—
persuasion and force; for in dealing with the rude and uneducated multitude, they use
the one only as far as they can; they do not mingle persuasion with coercion, but employ
force pure and simple. Moreover, there is a third point, sweet friends, which ought to be,
and never is, regarded in our existing laws.
Cleinias. What is it?
Athenian. A point arising out of our previous discussion, which comes into my mind in
some mysterious way. All this time, from early dawn until noon, have we been talking
about laws in this charming retreat: now we are going to promulgate our laws, and what
has preceded was only the prelude of them. Why do I mention this? For this reason:—
Because all discourses and vocal exercises have preludes and overtures, which are a sort
of artistic beginnings intended to help the strain which is to be performed; lyric
measures and music of every other kind have preludes framed with wonderful care. But
of the truer and higher strain of law and politics, no one has ever yet uttered any
prelude, or composed or published any, as though there was no such thing in nature.
Whereas our present discussion seems to me to imply that there is;—these double laws,
of which we were speaking, are not exactly double, but they are in two parts, the law and
the prelude of the law. The arbitrary command, which was compared to the commands
of doctors, whom we described as of the meaner sort, was the law pure and simple; and
that which preceded, and was described by our friend here as being hortatory only, was,
although in fact, an exhortation, likewise analogous to the preamble of a discourse. For I
imagine that all this language of conciliation, which the legislator has been uttering in
the preface of the law, was intended to create goodwill in the person whom he
addressed, in order that, by reason of this good–will, he might more intelligently receive
his command, that is to say, the law. And therefore, in my way of speaking, this is more
rightly described as the preamble than as the matter of the law. And I must further
proceed to observe, that to all his laws, and to each separately, the legislator should
prefix a preamble; he should remember how great will be the difference between them,
according as they have, or have not, such preambles, as in the case already given.
Cleinias. The lawgiver, if he asks my opinion, will certainly legislate in the form which
you advise.
Athenian. I think that you are right, Cleinias, in affirming that all laws have preambles,
and that throughout the whole of this work of legislation every single law should have a
suitable preamble at the beginning; for that which is to follow is most important, and it
makes all the difference whether we clearly remember the preambles or not. Yet we
should be wrong in requiring that all laws, small and great alike, should have preambles
of the same kind, any more than all songs or speeches; although they may be natural to
all, they are not always necessary, and whether they are to be employed or not has in
each case to be left to the judgment of the speaker or the musician, or, in the present
instance, of the lawgiver.
Cleinias. That I think is most true. And now, Stranger, without delay let us return to the
argument, and, as people say in play, make a second and better beginning, if you please,
with the principles which we have been laying down, which we never thought of
regarding as a preamble before, but of which we may now make a preamble, and not
merely consider them to be chance topics of discourse. Let us acknowledge, then, that
we have a preamble. About the honour of the Gods and the respect of parents, enough
has been already said; and we may proceed to the topics which follow next in order,
until the preamble is deemed by you to be complete; and after that you shall go through
the laws themselves.
Athenian. I understand you to mean that we have made a sufficient preamble about
Gods and demi–gods, and about parents living or dead; and now you would have us
bring the rest of the subject into the light of day?
Cleinias. Exactly.
Athenian. After this, as is meet and for the interest of us all, I the speaker, and you the
listeners, will try to estimate all that relates to the souls and bodies and properties of the
citizens, as regards both their occupations and arrive, as far as in us lies, at the nature of
education. These then are the topics which follow next in order.
Cleinias. Very good.
BOOK V
Athenian Stranger. Listen, all ye who have just now heard the laws about Gods, and
about our dear forefathers:—Of all the things which a man has, next to the Gods, his
soul is the most divine and most truly his own. Now in every man there are two parts:
the better and superior, which rules, and the worse and inferior, which serves; and the
ruling part of him is always to be preferred to the subject. Wherefore I am right in
bidding every one next to the Gods, who are our masters, and those who in order follow
them [i.e., the demons], to honour his own soul, which every one seems to honour, but
no one honours as he ought; for honour is a divine good, and no evil thing is
honourable; and he who thinks that he can honour the soul by word or gift, or any sort
of compliance, without making her in any way better, seems to honour her, but honours
her not at all. For example, every man, from his very boyhood, fancies that he is able to
know everything, and thinks that he honours his soul by praising her, and he is very
ready to let her do whatever she may like. But I mean to say that in acting thus he
injures his soul, and is far from honouring her; whereas, in our opinion, he ought to
honour her as second only to the Gods. Again, when a man thinks that others are to be
blamed, and not himself, for the errors which he has committed from time to time, and
the many and great evils which befell him in consequence, and is always fancying
himself to be exempt and innocent, he is under the idea that he is honouring his soul;
whereas the very reverse is the fact, for he is really injuring her. And when, disregarding
the word and approval of the legislator, he indulges in pleasure, then again he is far
from honouring her; he only dishonours her, and fills her full of evil and remorse; or
when he does not endure to the end the labours and fears and sorrows and pains which
the legislator approves, but gives way before them, then, by yielding, he does not honour
the soul, but by all such conduct he makes her to be dishonourable; nor when he thinks
that life at any price is a good, does he honour her, but yet once more he dishonours her;
for the soul having a notion that the world below is all evil, he yields to her, and does not
resist and teach or convince her that, for aught she knows, the world of the Gods below,
instead of being evil, may be the greatest of all goods. Again, when any one prefers
beauty to virtue, what is this but the real and utter dishonour of the soul? For such a
preference implies that the body is more honourable than the soul; and this is false, for
there is nothing of earthly birth which is more honourable than the heavenly, and he
who thinks otherwise of the soul has no idea how greatly he undervalues this wonderful
possession; nor, again, when a person is willing, or not unwilling, to acquire dishonest
gains, does he then honour his soul with gifts—far otherwise; he sells her glory and
honour for a small piece of gold; but all the gold which is under or upon the earth is not
enough to give in exchange for virtue. In a word, I may say that he who does not
estimate the base and evil, the good and noble, according to the standard of the
legislator, and abstain in every possible way from the one and practise the other to the
utmost of his power, does not know that in all these respects he is most foully and
disgracefully abusing his soul, which is the divinest part of man; for no one, as I may
say, ever considers that which is declared to be the greatest penalty of evil–doing—
namely, to grow into the likeness of bad men, and growing like them to fly from the
conversation of the good, and be cut off from them, and cleave to and follow after the
company of the bad. And he who is joined to them must do and suffer what such men by
nature do and say to one another—a suffering which is not justice but retribution; for
justice and the just are noble, whereas retribution is the suffering which waits upon
injustice; and whether a man escape or endure this, he is miserable—in the former case,
because he is not cured; while in the latter, he perishes in order that the rest of mankind
may be saved.
Speaking generally, our glory is to follow the better and improve the inferior, which is
susceptible of improvement, as far as this is possible. And of all human possessions, the
soul is by nature most inclined to avoid the evil, and track out and find the chief good;
which when a man has found, he should take up his abode with it during the remainder
of his life. Wherefore the soul also is second [or next to God] in honour; and third, as
every one will perceive, comes the honour of the body in natural order. Having
determined this, we have next to consider that there is a natural honour of the body, and
that of honours some are true and some are counterfeit. To decide which are which is
the business of the legislator; and he, I suspect, would intimate that they are as
follows:—Honour is not to be given to the fair body, or to the strong or the swift or the
tall, or to the healthy body (although many may think otherwise), any more than to their
opposites; but the mean states of all these habits are by far the safest and most
moderate; for the one extreme makes the soul braggart and insolent, and the other,
illiberal and base; and money, and property, and distinction all go to the same tune. The
excess of any of these things is apt to be a source of hatreds and divisions among states
and individuals; and the defect of them is commonly a cause of slavery. And, therefore, I
would not have any one fond of heaping up riches for the sake of his children, in order
that he may leave them as rich as possible. For the possession of great wealth is of no
use, either to them or to the state. The condition of youth which is free from flattery, and
at the same time not in need of the necessaries of life, is the best and most harmonious
of all, being in accord and agreement with our nature, and making life to be most
entirely free from sorrow. Let parents, then, bequeath to their children not a heap of
riches, but the spirit of reverence. We, indeed, fancy that they will inherit reverence
from us, if we rebuke them when they show a want of reverence. But this quality is not
really imparted to them by the present style of admonition, which only tells them that
the young ought always to be reverential. A sensible legislator will rather exhort the
elders to reverence the younger, and above all to take heed that no young man sees or
hears one of themselves doing or saying anything disgraceful; for where old men have
no shame, there young men will most certainly be devoid of reverence. The best way of
training the young is to train yourself at the same time; not to admonish them, but to be
always carrying out your own admonitions in practice. He who honours his kindred, and
reveres those who share in the same Gods and are of the same blood and family, may
fairly expect that the Gods who preside over generation will be propitious to him, and
will quicken his seed. And he who deems the services which his friends and
acquaintances do for him, greater and more important than they themselves deem
them, and his own favours to them less than theirs to him, will have their good–will in
the intercourse of life. And surely in his relations to the state and his fellow citizens, he
is by far the best, who rather than the Olympic or any other victory of peace or war,
desires to win the palm of obedience to the laws of his country, and who, of all mankind,
is the person reputed to have obeyed them best through life. In his relations to
strangers, a man should consider that a contract is a most holy thing, and that all
concerns and wrongs of strangers are more directly dependent on the protection of God,
than wrongs done to citizens; for the stranger, having no kindred and friends, is more to
be pitied by Gods and men. Wherefore, also, he who is most able to avenge him is most
zealous in his cause; and he who is most able is the genius and the god of the stranger,
who follow in the train of Zeus, the god of strangers. And for this reason, he who has a
spark of caution in him, will do his best to pass through life without sinning against the
stranger. And of offences committed, whether against strangers or fellow–countrymen,
that against suppliants is the greatest. For the god who witnessed to the agreement
made with the suppliant, becomes in a special manner the guardian of the sufferer; and
he will certainly not suffer unavenged.
Thus we have fairly described the manner in which a man is to act about his parents,
and himself, and his own affairs; and in relation to the state, and his friends, and
kindred, both in what concerns his own countrymen, and in what concerns the stranger.
We will now consider what manner of man he must be who would best pass through life
in respect of those other things which are not matters of law, but of praise and blame
only; in which praise and blame educate a man, and make him more tractable and
amenable to the laws which are about to be imposed.
Truth is the beginning of every good thing, both to Gods and men; and he who would be
blessed and happy, should be from the first a partaker of the truth, that he may live a
true man as long as possible, for then he can be trusted; but he is not to be trusted who
loves voluntary falsehood, and he who loves involuntary falsehood is a fool. Neither
condition is enviable, for the untrustworthy and ignorant has no friend, and as time
advances he becomes known, and lays up in store for himself isolation in crabbed age
when life is on the wane: so that, whether his children or friends are alive or not, he is
equally solitary.—Worthy of honour is he who does no injustice, and of more than
twofold honour, if he not only does no injustice himself, but hinders others from doing
any; the first may count as one man, the second is worth many men, because he informs
the rulers of the injustice of others. And yet more highly to be esteemed is he who co–
operates with the rulers in correcting the citizens as far as he can—he shall be
proclaimed the great and perfect citizen, and bear away the palm of virtue. The same
praise may be given about temperance and wisdom, and all other goods which may be
imparted to others, as well as acquired by a man for himself; he who imparts them shall
be honoured as the man of men, and he who is willing, yet is not able, may be allowed
the second place; but he who is jealous and will not, if he can help, allow others to
partake in a friendly way of any good, is deserving of blame: the good, however, which
he has, is not to be undervalued by us because it is possessed by him, but must be
acquired by us also to the utmost of our power. Let every man, then, freely strive for the
prize of virtue, and let there be no envy. For the unenvious nature increases the
greatness of states—he himself contends in the race, blasting the fair fame of no man;
but the envious, who thinks that he ought to get the better by defaming others, is less
energetic himself in the pursuit of true virtue, and reduces his rivals to despair by his
unjust slanders of them. And so he makes the whole city to enter the arena untrained in
the practice of virtue, and diminishes her glory as far as in him lies. Now every man
should be valiant, but he should also be gentle. From the cruel, or hardly curable, or
altogether incurable acts of injustice done to him by others, a man can only escape by
fighting and defending himself and conquering, and by never ceasing to punish them;
and no man who is not of a noble spirit is able to accomplish this. As to the actions of
those who do evil, but whose evil is curable, in the first place, let us remember that the
unjust man is not unjust of his own free will. For no man of his own free will would
choose to possess the greatest of evils, and least of all in the most honourable part of
himself. And the soul, as we said, is of a truth deemed by all men the most honourable.
In the soul, then, which is the most honourable part of him, no one, if he could help,
would admit, or allow to continue the greatest of evils. The unrighteous and vicious are
always to be pitied in any case; and one can afford to forgive as well as pity him who is
curable, and refrain and calm one’s anger, not getting into a passion, like a woman, and
nursing ill–feeling. But upon him who is incapable of reformation and wholly evil, the
vials of our wrath should be poured out; wherefore I say that good men ought, when
occasion demands, to be both gentle and passionate.
Of all evils the greatest is one which in the souls of most men is innate, and which a man
is always excusing in himself and never correcting; mean, what is expressed in the
saying that “Every man by nature is and ought to be his own friend.” Whereas the
excessive love of self is in reality the source to each man of all offences; for the lover is
blinded about the beloved, so that he judges wrongly of the just, the good, and the
honourable, and thinks that he ought always to prefer himself to the truth. But he who
would be a great man ought to regard, not himself or his interests, but what is just,
whether the just act be his own or that of another. Through a similar error men are
induced to fancy that their own ignorance is wisdom, and thus we who may be truly said
to know nothing, think that we know all things; and because we will not let others act for
us in what we do not know, we are compelled to act amiss ourselves. Wherefore let every
man avoid excess of self–love, and condescend to follow a better man than himself, not
allowing any false shame to stand in the way. There are also minor precepts which are
often repeated, and are quite as useful; a man should recollect them and remind himself
of them. For when a stream is flowing out, there should be water flowing in too; and
recollection flows in while wisdom is departing. Therefore I say that a man should
refrain from excess either of laughter or tears, and should exhort his neighbour to do the
same; he should veil his immoderate sorrow or joy, and seek to behave with propriety,
whether the genius of his good fortune remains with him, or whether at the crisis of his
fate, when he seems to be mounting high and steep places, the Gods oppose him in some
of his enterprises. Still he may ever hope, in the case of good men, that whatever
afflictions are to befall them in the future God will lessen, and that present evils he will
change for the better; and as to the goods which are the opposite of these evils, he will
not doubt that they will be added to them, and that they will be fortunate. Such should
be men’s hopes, and such should be the exhortations with which they admonish one
another, never losing an opportunity, but on every occasion distinctly reminding
themselves and others of all these things, both in jest and earnest.
Enough has now been said of divine matters, both as touching the practices which men
ought to follow, and as to the sort of persons who they ought severally to be. But of
human things we have not as yet spoken, and we must; for to men we are discoursing
and not to Gods. Pleasures and pains and desires are a part of human nature, and on
them every mortal being must of necessity hang and depend with the most eager
interest. And therefore we must praise the noblest life, not only as the fairest in
appearance, but as being one which, if a man will only taste, and not, while still in his
youth, desert for another, he will find to surpass also in the very thing which we all of us
desire—I mean in having a greater amount of pleasure and less of pain during the whole
of life. And this will be plain, if a man has a true taste of them, as will be quickly and
clearly seen. But what is a true taste? That we have to learn from the argument—the
point being what is according to nature, and what is not according to nature. One life
must be compared with another, the more pleasurable with the more painful, after this
manner:—We desire to have pleasure, but we neither desire nor choose pain; and the
neutral state we are ready to take in exchange, not for pleasure but for pain; and we also
wish for less pain and greater pleasure, but less pleasure and greater pain we do not
wish for; and an equal balance of either we cannot venture to assert that we should
desire. And all these differ or do not differ severally in number and magnitude and
intensity and equality, and in the opposites of these when regarded as objects of choice,
in relation to desire. And such being the necessary order of things, we wish for that life
in which there are many great and intense elements of pleasure and pain, and in which
the pleasures are in excess, and do not wish for that in which the opposites exceed; nor,
again, do we wish for that in which the clements of either are small and few and feeble,
and the pains exceed. And when, as I said before, there is a balance of pleasure and pain
in life, this is to be regarded by us as the balanced life; while other lives are preferred by
us because they exceed in what we like, or are rejected by us because they exceed in what
we dislike. All the lives of men may be regarded by us as bound up in these, and we must
also consider what sort of lives we by nature desire. And if we wish for any others, I say
that we desire them only through some ignorance and inexperience of the lives which
actually exist.
Now, what lives are they, and how many in which, having searched out and beheld the
objects of will and desire and their opposites, and making of them a law, choosing, I say,
the dear and the pleasant and the best and noblest, a man may live in the happiest way
possible? Let us say that the temperate life is one kind of life, and the rational another,
and the courageous another, and the healthful another; and to these four let us oppose
four other lives—the foolish, the cowardly, the intemperate, the diseased. He who knows
the temperate life will describe it as in all things gentle, having gentle pains and gentle
pleasures, and placid desires and loves not insane; whereas the intemperate life is
impetuous in all things, and has violent pains and pleasures, and vehement and stinging
desires, and loves utterly insane; and in the temperate life the pleasures exceed the
pains, but in the intemperate life the pains exceed the pleasures in greatness and
number and frequency. Hence one of the two lives is naturally and necessarily more
pleasant and the other more painful, and he who would live pleasantly cannot possibly
choose to live intemperately. And if this is true, the inference clearly is that no man is
voluntarily intemperate; but that the whole multitude of men lack temperance in their
lives, either from ignorance, or from want of self–control, or both. And the same holds
of the diseased and healthy life; they both have pleasures and pains, but in health the
pleasure exceeds the pain, and in sickness the pain exceeds the pleasure. Now our
intention in choosing the lives is not that the painful should exceed, but the life in which
pain is exceeded by pleasure we have determined to be the more pleasant life. And we
should say that the temperate life has the elements both of pleasure and pain fewer and
smaller and less frequent than the intemperate, and the wise life than the foolish life,
and the life of courage than the life of cowardice; one of each pair exceeding in pleasure
and the other in pain, the courageous surpassing the cowardly, and the wise exceeding
the foolish. And so the one dass of lives exceeds the other class in pleasure; the
temperate and courageous and wise and healthy exceed the cowardly and foolish and
intemperate and diseased lives; and generally speaking, that which has any virtue,
whether of body or soul, is pleasanter than the vicious life, and far superior in beauty
and rectitude and excellence and reputation, and causes him who lives accordingly to be
infinitely happier than the opposite.
Enough of the preamble; and now the laws should follow; or, to speak more correctly,
outline of them. As, then, in the case of a web or any other tissue, the warp and the woof
cannot be made of the same materials, but the warp is necessarily superior as being
stronger, and having a certain character of firmness, whereas the woof is softer and has
a proper degree of elasticity;—in a similar manner those who are to hold great offices in
states, should be distinguished truly in each case from those who have been but
slenderly proven by education. Let us suppose that there are two parts in the
constitution of a state—one the creation of offices, the other the laws which are assigned
to them to administer.
But, before all this, comes the following consideration:—The shepherd or herdsman, or
breeder of horses or the like, when he has received his animals will not begin to train
them until he has first purified them in a manner which befits a community of animals;
he will divide the healthy and unhealthy, and the good breed and the bad breed, and will
send away the unhealthy and badly bred to other herds, and tend the rest, reflecting that
his labours will be vain and have no effect, either on the souls or bodies of those whom
nature and ill nurture have corrupted, and that they will involve in destruction the pure
and healthy nature and being of every other animal, if he should neglect to purify them.
Now the case of other animals is not so important—they are only worth introducing for
the sake of illustration; but what relates to man is of the highest importance; and the
legislator should make enquiries, and indicate what is proper for each one in the way of
purification and of any other procedure. Take, for example, the purification of a city—
there are many kinds of purification, some easier and others more difficult; and some of
them, and the best and most difficult of them, the legislator, if he be also a despot, may
be able to effect; but the legislator, who, not being a despot, sets up a new government
and laws, even if he attempt the mildest of purgations, may think himself happy if he
can complete his work. The best kind of purification is painful, like similar cures in
medicine, involving righteous punishment and inflicting death or exile in the last resort.
For in this way we commonly dispose of great sinners who are incurable, and are the
greatest injury of the whole state. But the milder form of purification is as follows:—
when men who have nothing, and are in want of food, show a disposition to follow their
leaders in an attack on the property of the rich—these, who are the natural plague of the
state, are sent away by the legislator in a friendly spirit as far as he is able; and this
dismissal of them is euphemistically termed a colony. And every legislator should
contrive to do this at once. Our present case, however, is peculiar. For there is no need
to devise any colony or purifying separation under the circumstances in which we are
placed. But as, when many streams flow together from many sources, whether springs
or mountain torrents, into a single lake, we ought to attend and take care that the
confluent waters should be perfectly clear, and in order to effect this, should pump and
draw off and divert impurities, so in every political arrangement there may be trouble
and danger. But, seeing that we are now only discoursing and not acting, let our
selection be supposed to be completed, and the desired purity attained. Touching evil
men, who want to join and be citizens of our state, after we have tested them by every
sort of persuasion and for a sufficient time, we will prevent them from coming; but the
good we will to the utmost of our ability receive as friends with open arms.
Another piece of good fortune must not be forgotten, which, as we were saying, the
Heraclid colony had, and which is also ours—that we have escaped division of land and
the abolition of debts; for these are always a source of dangerous contention, and a city
which is driven by necessity to legislate upon such matters can neither allow the old
ways to continue, nor yet venture to alter them. We must have recourse to prayers, so to
speak, and hope that a slight change may be cautiously effected in a length of time. And
such a change can be accomplished by those who have abundance of land, and having
also many debtors, are willing, in a kindly spirit, to share with those who are in want,
sometimes remitting and sometimes giving, holding fast in a path of moderation, and
deeming poverty to be the increase of a man’s desires and not the diminution of his
property. For this is the great beginning of salvation to a state, and upon this lasting
basis may be erected afterwards whatever political order is suitable under the
circumstances; but if the change be based upon an unsound principle, the future
administration of the country will be full of difficulties. That is a danger which, as I am
saying, is escaped by us, and yet we had better say how, if we had not escaped, we might
have escaped; and we may venture now to assert that no other way of escape, whether
narrow or broad, can be devised but freedom from avarice and a sense of justice—upon
this rock our city shall be built; for there ought to be no disputes among citizens about
property. If there are quarrels of long standing among them, no legislator of any degree
of sense will proceed a step in the arrangement of the state until they are settled. But
that they to whom God has given, as he has to us, to be the founders of a new state as yet
free from enmity—that they should create themselves enmities by their mode of
distributing lands and houses, would be superhuman folly and wickedness.
How then can we rightly order the distribution of the land? In the first place, the
number of the citizens has to be determined, and also the number and size of the
divisions into which they will have to be formed; and the land and the houses will then
have to be apportioned by us as fairly as we can. The number of citizens can only be
estimated satisfactorily in relation to the territory and the neighbouring states. The
territory must be sufficient to maintain a certain number of inhabitants in a moderate
way of life—more than this is not required; and the number of citizens should be
sufficient to defend themselves against the injustice of their neighbours, and also to give
them the power of rendering efficient aid to their neighbours when they are wronged.
After having taken a survey of theirs and their neighbours’ territory, we will determine
the limits of them in fact as well as in theory. And now, let us proceed to legislate with a
view to perfecting the form and outline of our state. The number of our citizens shall be
5040—this will be a convenient number; and these shall be owners of the land and
protectors of the allotment. The houses and the land will be divided in the same way, so
that every man may correspond to a lot. Let the whole number be first divided into two
parts, and then into three; and the number is further capable of being divided into four
or five parts, or any number of parts up to ten. Every legislator ought to know so much
arithmetic as to be able to tell what number is most likely to be useful to all cities; and
we are going to take that number which contains the greatest and most regular and
unbroken series of divisions. The whole of number has every possible division, and the
number 5040 can be divided by exactly fifty–nine divisors, and ten of these proceed
without interval from one to ten: this will furnish numbers for war and peace, and for all
contracts and dealings, including taxes and divisions of the land. These properties of
number should be ascertained at leisure by those who are bound by law to know them;
for they are true, and should be proclaimed at the foundation of the city, with a view to
use. Whether the legislator is establishing a new state or restoring an old and decayed
one, in respect of Gods and temples—the temples which are to be built in each city, and
the Gods or demi–gods after whom they are to be called—if he be a man of sense, he will
make no change in anything which the oracle of Delphi, or Dodona, or the God Ammon,
or any ancient tradition has sanctioned in whatever manner, whether by apparitions or
reputed inspiration of Heaven, in obedience to which mankind have established
sacrifices in connection with mystic rites, either originating on the spot, or derived from
Tyrrhenia or Cyprus or some other place, and on the strength of which traditions they
have consecrated oracles and images, and altars and temples, and portioned out a
sacred domain for each of them. The least part of all these ought not to be disturbed by
the legislator; but he should assign to the several districts some God, or demi–god, or
hero, and, in the distribution of the soil, should give to these first their chosen domain
and all things fitting, that the inhabitants of the several districts may meet at fixed
times, and that they may readily supply their various wants, and entertain one another
with sacrifices, and become friends and acquaintances; for there is no greater good in a
state than that the citizens should be known to one another. When not light but
darkness and ignorance of each other’s characters prevails among them, no one will
receive the honour of which he is deserving, or the power or the justice to which he is
fairly entitled: wherefore, in every state, above all things, every man should take heed
that he have no deceit in him, but that he be always true and simple; and that no
deceitful person take any advantage of him.
The next move in our pastime of legislation, like the withdrawal of the stone from the
holy line in the game of draughts, being an unusual one, will probably excite wonder
when mentioned for the first time. And yet, if a man will only reflect and weigh the
matter with care, he will see that our city is ordered in a manner which, if not the best, is
the second best. Perhaps also some one may not approve this form, because he thinks
that such a constitution is ill adapted to a legislator who has not despotic power. The
truth is, that there are three forms of government, the best, the second and the third
best, which we may just mention, and then leave the selection to the ruler of the
settlement. Following this method in the present instance, let us speak of the states
which are respectively first, second, and third in excellence, and then we will leave the
choice to Cleinias now, or to any one else who may hereafter have to make a similar
choice among constitutions, and may desire to give to his state some feature which is
congenial to him and which he approves in his own country.
The first and highest form of the state and of the government and of the law is that in
which there prevails most widely the ancient saying, that “Friends have all things in
common.” Whether there is anywhere now, or will ever be, this communion of women
and children and of property, in which the private and individual is altogether banished
from life, and things which are by nature private, such as eyes and ears and hands, have
become common, and in some way see and hear and act in common, and all men
express praise and blame and feel joy and sorrow on the same occasions, and whatever
laws there are unite the city to the utmost—whether all this is possible or not, I say that
no man, acting upon any other principle, will ever constitute a state which will be truer
or better or more exalted in virtue. Whether such a state is governed by Gods or sons of
Gods, one, or more than one, happy are the men who, living after this manner, dwell
there; and therefore to this we are to look for the pattern of the state, and to cling to this,
and to seek with all our might for one which is like this. The state which we have now in
hand, when created, will be nearest to immortality and the only one which takes the
second place; and after that, by the grace of God, we will complete the third one. And we
will begin by speaking of the nature and origin of the second.
Let the citizens at once distribute their land and houses, and not till the land in
common, since a community of goods goes beyond their proposed origin, and nurture,
and education. But in making the distribution, let the several possessors feel that their
particular lots also belong to the whole city; and seeing that the earth is their parent, let
them tend her more carefully than children do their mother. For she is a goddess and
their queen, and they are her mortal subjects. Such also are the feelings which they
ought to entertain to the Gods and demi–gods of the country. And in order that the
distribution may always remain, they ought to consider further that the present number
of families should be always retained, and neither increased nor diminished. This may
be secured for the whole city in the following manner:—Let the possessor of a lot leave
the one of his children who is his best beloved, and one only, to be the heir of his
dwelling, and his successor in the duty of ministering to the Gods, the state and the
family, as well the living members of it as those who are departed when he comes into
the inheritance; but of his other children, if he have more than one, he shall give the
females in marriage according to the law to be hereafter enacted, and the males he shall
distribute as sons to those citizens who have no children and are disposed to receive
them; or if there should be none such, and particular individuals have too many
children, male or female, or too few, as in the case of barrenness—in all these cases let
the highest and most honourable magistracy created by us judge and determine what is
to be done with the redundant or deficient, and devise a means that the number of 5040
houses shall always remain the same. There are many ways of regulating numbers; for
they in whom generation is affluent may be made to refrain, and, on the other hand,
special care may be taken to increase the number of births by rewards and stigmas, or
we may meet the evil by the elder men giving advice and administering rebuke to the
younger—in this way the object may be attained. And if after all there be very great
difficulty about the equal preservation of the 5040 houses, and there be an excess of
citizens, owing to the too great love of those who live together, and we are at our wits’
end, there is still the old device often mentioned by us of sending out a colony, which
will part friends with us, and be composed of suitable persons. If, on the other hand,
there come a wave bearing a deluge of disease, or a plague of war, and the inhabitants
become much fewer than the appointed number by reason of bereavement, we ought not
to introduce citizens of spurious birth and education, if this can be avoided; but even
God is said not to be able to fight against necessity.
Wherefore let us suppose this “high argument” of ours to address us in the following
terms:—Best of men, cease not to honour according to nature similarity and equality
and sameness and agreement, as regards number and every good and noble quality.
And, above all, observe the aforesaid number 5040 throughout life; in the second place,
do not disparage the small and modest proportions of the inheritances which you
received in the distribution, by buying and selling them to one another. For then neither
will the God who gave you the lot be your friend, nor will the legislator; and indeed the
law declares to the disobedient that these are the terms upon which he may or may not
take the lot. In the first place, the earth as he is informed is sacred to the Gods; and in
the next place, priests and priestesses will offer up prayers over a first, and second, and
even a third sacrifice, that he who buys or sells the houses or lands which he has
received, may suffer the punishment which he deserves; and these their prayers they
shall write down in the temples, on tablets of cypress–wood, for the instruction of
posterity. Moreover they will set a watch over all these things, that they may be
observed;—the magistracy which has the sharpest eyes shall keep watch that any
infringement of these commands may be discovered and punished as offences both
against the law and the God. How great is the benefit of such an ordinance to all those
cities, which obey and are administered accordingly, no bad man can ever know, as the
old proverb says; but only a man of experience and good habits. For in such an order of
things there will not be much opportunity for making money; no man either ought, or
indeed will be allowed, to exercise any ignoble occupation, of which the vulgarity is a
matter of reproach to a freeman, and should never want to acquire riches by any such
means.
Further, the law enjoins that no private man shall be allowed to possess gold and silver,
but only coin for daily use, which is almost necessary in dealing with artisans, and for
payment of hirelings, whether slaves or immigrants, by all those persons who require
the use of them. Wherefore our citizens, as we say, should have a coin passing current
among themselves, but not accepted among the rest of mankind; with a view, however,
to expeditions and journeys to other lands—for embassies, or for any other occasion
which may arise of sending out a herald, the state must also possess a common Hellenic
currency. If a private person is ever obliged to go abroad, let him have the consent of the
magistrates and go; and if when he returns he has any foreign money remaining, let him
give the surplus back to the treasury, and receive a corresponding sum in the local
currency. And if he is discovered to appropriate it, let it be confiscated, and let him who
knows and does not inform be subject to curse and dishonour equally him who brought
the money, and also to a fine not less in amount than the foreign money which has been
brought back. In marrying and giving in marriage, no one shall give or receive any
dowry at all; and no one shall deposit money with another whom he does not trust as a
friend, nor shall he lend money upon interest; and the borrower should be under no
obligation to repay either capital or interest. That these principles are best, any one may
see who compares them with the first principle and intention of a state. The intention,
as we affirm, of a reasonable statesman, is not what the many declare to be the object of
a good legislator, namely, that the state for the true interests of which he is advising
should be as great and as rich as possible, and should possess gold and silver, and have
the greatest empire by sea and land;—this they imagine to be the real object of
legislation, at the same time adding, inconsistently, that the true legislator desires to
have the city the best and happiest possible. But they do not see that some of these
things are possible, and some of them are impossible; and he who orders the state will
desire what is possible, and will not indulge in vain wishes or attempts to accomplish
that which is impossible. The citizen must indeed be happy and good, and the legislator
will seek to make him so; but very rich and very good at the same time he cannot be, not,
at least, in the sense in which the many speak of riches. For they mean by “the rich” the
few who have the most valuable possessions, although the owner of them may quite well
be a rogue. And if this is true, I can never assent to the doctrine that the rich man will be
happy—he must be good as well as rich. And good in a high degree, and rich in a high
degree at the same time, he cannot be. Some one will ask, why not? And we shall
answer—Because acquisitions which come from sources which are just and unjust
indifferently, are more than double those which come from just sources only; and the
sums which are expended neither honourably nor disgracefully, are only half as great as
those which are expended honourably and on honourable purposes. Thus, if the one
acquires double and spends half, the other who is in the opposite case and is a good man
cannot possibly be wealthier than he. The first—I am speaking of the saver and not of
the spender—is not always bad; he may indeed in some cases be utterly bad, but, as I
was saying, a good man he never is. For he who receives money unjustly as well as justly,
and spends neither nor unjustly, will be a rich man if he be also thrifty. On the other
hand, the utterly bad is in general profligate, and therefore very poor; while he who
spends on noble objects, and acquires wealth by just means only, can hardly be
remarkable for riches, any more than he can be very poor. Our statement, then, is true,
that the very rich are not good, and, if they are not good, they are not happy. But the
intention of our laws was that the citizens should be as happy as may be, and as friendly
as possible to one another. And men who are always at law with one another, and
amongst whom there are many wrongs done, can never be friends to one another, but
only those among whom crimes and lawsuits are few and slight. Therefore we say that
gold and silver ought not to be allowed in the city, nor much of the vulgar sort of trade
which is carried on by lending money, or rearing the meaner kinds of live stock; but only
the produce of agriculture, and only so much of this as will not compel us in pursuing it
to neglect that for the sake of which riches exist—I mean, soul and body, which without
gymnastics, and without education, will never be worth anything; and therefore, as we
have said not once but many times, the care of riches should have the last place in our
thoughts. For there are in all three things about which every man has an interest; and
the interest about money, when rightly regarded, is the third and lowest of them:
midway comes the interest of the body; and, first of all, that of the soul; and the state
which we are describing will have been rightly constituted if it ordains honours
according to this scale. But if, in any of the laws which have been ordained, health has
been preferred to temperance, or wealth to health and temperate habits, that law must
clearly be wrong. Wherefore, also, the legislator ought often to impress upon himself the
question—”What do I want?” and “Do I attain my aim, or do I miss the mark?” In this
way, and in this way only, he ma acquit himself and free others from the work of
legislation.
Let the allottee then hold his lot upon the conditions which we have mentioned.
It would be well that every man should come to the colony having all things equal; but
seeing that this is not possible, and one man will have greater possessions than another,
for many reasons and in particular in order to preserve equality in special crises of the
state, qualifications of property must be unequal, in order that offices and contributions
and distributions may be proportioned to the value of each person’s wealth, and not
solely to the virtue of his ancestors or himself, nor yet to the strength and beauty of his
person, but also to the measure of his wealth or poverty; and so by a law of inequality,
which will be in proportion to his wealth, he will receive honours and offices as equally
as possible, and there will be no quarrels and disputes. To which end there should be
four different standards appointed according to the amount of property: there should be
a first and a second and a third and a fourth class, in which the citizens will be placed,
and they will be called by these or similar names: they may continue in the same rank,
or pass into another in any individual case, on becoming richer from being, poorer, or
poorer from being richer. The form of law which I should propose as the natural sequel
would be as follows:—In a state which is desirous of being saved from the greatest of all
plagues—not faction, but rather distraction;—here should exist among the citizens
neither extreme poverty, nor, again, excess of wealth, for both are productive of both
these evils. Now the legislator should determine what is to be the limit of poverty or
wealth. Let the limit of poverty be the value of the lot; this ought to be preserved, and no
ruler, nor any one else who aspires after a reputation for virtue, will allow the lot to be
impaired in any case. This the legislator gives as a measure, and he will permit a man to
acquire double or triple, or as much as four times the amount of this. But if a person
have yet greater riches, whether he has found them, or they have been given to him, or
he has made them in business, or has acquired by any stroke of fortune that which is in
excess of the measure, if he give back the surplus to the state, and to the Gods who are
the patrons of the state, he shall suffer no penalty or loss of reputation; but if he
disobeys this our law any one who likes may inform against him and receive half the
value of the excess, and the delinquent shall pay a sum equal to the excess out of his own
property, and the other half of the excess shall belong to the Gods. And let every
possession of every man, with the exception of the lot, be publicly registered before the
magistrates whom the law appoints, so that all suits about money may be easy and quite
simple.
The next thing to be noted is, that the city should be placed as nearly as possible in the
centre of the country; we should choose a place which possesses what is suitable for a
city, and this may easily be imagined and described. Then we will divide the city into
twelve portions, first founding temples to Hestia, to Zeus and to Athene, in a spot which
we will call the Acropolis, and surround with a circular wall, making the division of the
entire city and country radiate from this point. The twelve portions shall be equalized by
the provision that those which are of good land shall be smaller. while those of inferior
quality shall be larger. The number of the lots shall be 5040, and each of them shall be
divided into two, and every allotment shall be composed of two such sections; one of
land near the city, the other of land which is at a distance. This arrangement shall be
carried out in the following manner: The section which is near the city shall be added to
that which is on borders, and form one lot, and the portion which is next nearest shall be
added to the portion which is next farthest; and so of the rest. Moreover, in the two
sections of the lots the same principle of equalization of the soil ought to be maintained;
the badness and goodness shall be compensated by more and less. And the legislator
shall divide the citizens into twelve parts, and arrange the rest of their property, as far as
possible, so as to form twelve equal parts; and there shall be a registration of all. After
this they shall assign twelve lots to twelve Gods, and call them by their names, and
dedicate to each God their several portions, and call the tribes after them. And they shall
distribute the twelve divisions of the city in the same way in which they divided the
country; and every man shall have two habitations, one in the centre of the country, and
the other at the extremity. Enough of the manner of settlement.
Now we ought by all means to consider that there can never be such a happy
concurrence of circumstances as we have described; neither can all things coincide as
they are wanted. Men who will not take offence at such a mode of living together, and
will endure all their life long to have their property fixed at a moderate limit, and to
beget children in accordance with our ordinances, and will allow themselves to be
deprived of gold and other things which the legislator, as is evident from these
enactments, will certainly forbid them; and will endure, further, the situation of the land
with the city in the middle and dwellings round about;—all this is as if the legislator
were telling his dreams, or making a city and citizens of wax. There is truth in these
objections, and therefore every one should take to heart what I am going to say. Once
more, then, the legislator shall appear and address us:—”O my friends,” he will say to us,
“do not suppose me ignorant that there is a certain degree of truth in your words; but I
am of opinion that, in matters which are not present but future, he who exhibits a
pattern of that at which he aims, should in nothing fall short of the fairest and truest;
and that if he finds any part of this work impossible of execution he should avoid and
not execute it, but he should contrive to carry out that which is nearest and most akin to
it; you must allow the legislator to perfect his design, and when it is perfected, you
should join with him in considering what part of his legislation is expedient and what
will arouse opposition; for surely the artist who is to be deemed worthy of any regard at
all, ought always to make his work self–consistent.”
Having determined that there is to be a distribution into twelve parts, let us now see in
what way this may be accomplished. There is no difficulty in perceiving that the twelve
parts admit of the greatest number of divisions of that which they include, or in seeing
the other numbers which are consequent upon them, and are produced out of them up
to 5040; wherefore the law ought to order phratries and demes and villages, and also
military ranks and movements, as well as coins and measures, dry and liquid, and
weights, so as to be commensurable and agreeable to one another. Nor should we fear
the appearance of minuteness, if the law commands that all the vessels which a man
possesses should have a common measure, when we consider generally that the
divisions and variations of numbers have a use in respect of all the variations of which
they are susceptible, both in themselves and as measures of height and depth, and in all
sounds, and in motions, as well those which proceed in a straight direction, upwards or
downwards, as in those which go round and round. The legislator is to consider all these
things and to bid the citizens, as far as possible, not to lose sight of numerical order; for
no single instrument of youthful education has such mighty power, both as regards
domestic economy and politics, and in the arts, as the study of arithmetic. Above all,
arithmetic stirs up him who is by nature sleepy and dull, and makes him quick to learn,
retentive, shrewd, and aided by art divine he makes progress quite beyond his natural
powers. All such things, if only the legislator, by other laws and institutions, can banish
meanness and covetousness from the souls of men, so that they can use them properly
and to their own good, will be excellent and suitable instruments of education. But if he
cannot, he will unintentionally create in them, instead of wisdom, the habit of craft,
which evil tendency may be observed in the Egyptians and Phoenicians, and many other
races, through the general vulgarity of their pursuits and acquisitions, whether some
unworthy legislator theirs has been the cause, or some impediment of chance or nature.
For we must not fail to observe, O Megillus and Cleinias, that there is a difference in
places, and that some beget better men and others worse; and we must legislate
accordingly. Some places are subject to strange and fatal influences by reason of diverse
winds and violent heats, some by reason of waters; or, again, from the character of the
food given by the earth, which not only affects the bodies of men for good or evil, but
produces similar results in their souls. And in all such qualities those spots excel in
which there is a divine inspiration, and in which the demi–gods have their appointed
lots, and are propitious, not adverse, to the settlers in them. To all these matters the
legislator, if he have any sense in him, will attend as far as man can, and frame his laws
accordingly. And this is what you, Cleinias, must do, and to matters of this kind you
must turn your mind since you are going to colonize a new country.
Cleinias. Your words, Athenian Stranger, are excellent, and I will do as you say.
BOOK VI
Athenian Stranger. And now having made an end of the preliminaries we will proceed
to the appointment of magistracies.
Cleinias. Very good.
Athenian. In the ordering of a state there are two parts: first, the number of the
magistracies, and the mode of establishing them; and, secondly, when they have been
established, laws again will have to be provided for each of them, suitable in nature and
number. But before electing the magistrates let us stop a little and say a word in season
about the election of them.
Cleinias. What have you got to say?
Athenian. This is what I have to say; every one can see, that although the work of
legislation is a most important matter, yet if a well–ordered city superadd to good laws
unsuitable offices, not only will there be no use in having the good laws—not only will
they be ridiculous and useless, but the greatest political injury and evil will accrue from
them.
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. Then now, my friend, let us observe what will happen in the constitution of
out intended state. In the first place, you will acknowledge that those who are duly
appointed to magisterial power, and their families, should severally have given
satisfactory proof of what they are, from youth upward until the time of election; in the
next place, those who are to elect should have been trained in habits of law, and be well
educated, that they may have a right judgment, and may be able to select or reject men
whom they approve or disapprove, as they are worthy of either. But how can we imagine
that those who are brought together for the first time, and are strangers to one another,
and also uneducated, will avoid making mistakes in the choice of magistrates?
Cleinias. Impossible.
Athenian. The matter is serious, and excuses will not serve the turn. I will tell you, then,
what you and I will have to do, since you, as you tell me, with nine others, have offered
to settle the new state on behalf of the people of Crete, and I am to help you by the
invention of the present romance. I certainly should not like to leave the tale wandering
all over the world without a head;—a headless monster is such a hideous thing.
Cleinias. Excellent, Stranger.
Athenian. Yes; and I will be as good as my word.
Cleinias. Let us by all means do as you propose.
Athenian. That we will, by the grace of God, if old age will only permit us.
Cleinias. But God will be gracious.
Athenian. Yes; and under his guidance let us consider further point.
Cleinias. What is it?
Athenian. Let us remember what a courageously mad and daring creation this our city
is.
Cleinias. What had you in your mind when you said that?
Athenian. I had in my mind the free and easy manner in which we are ordaining that the
inexperienced colonists shall receive our laws. Now a man need not be very wise,
Cleinias, in order to see that no one can easily receive laws at their first imposition. But
if we could anyhow wait until those who have been imbued with them from childhood,
and have been nurtured in them, and become habituated to them, take their part in the
public elections of the state; I say, if this could be accomplished, and rightly
accomplished by any way or contrivance—then, I think that there would be very little
danger, at the end of the time, of a state thus trained not being permanent.
Cleinias. A reasonable supposition.
Athenian. Then let us consider if we can find any way out of the difficulty; for I
maintain, Cleinias, that the Cnosians, above all the other Cretans, should not be satisfied
with barely discharging their duty to the colony, but they ought to take the utmost pains
to establish the offices which are first created by them in the best and surest manner.
Above all, this applies to the selection of the guardians of the law, who must be chosen
first of all, and with the greatest care; the others are of less importance.
Cleinias. What method can we devise of electing them?
Athenian. This will be the method:—Sons of the Cretans, I shall say to them, inasmuch
as the Cnosians have precedence over the other states, they should, in common with
those who join this settlement, choose a body of thirty–seven in all, nineteen of them
being taken from the settlers, and the remainder from the citizens of Cnosus. Of those
latter the Cnosians shall make a present to your colony, and you yourself shall be one of
the eighteen, and shall become a citizen of the new state; and if you and they cannot be
persuaded to go, the Cnosians may fairly use a little violence in order to make you.
Cleinias. But why, Stranger, do not you and Megillus take a part in our new city?
Athenian. O, Cleinias, Athens is proud, and Sparta too; and they are both a long way off.
But you and likewise the other colonists are conveniently situated as you describe. I
have been speaking of the way in which the new citizens may be best managed under
present circumstances; but in after–ages, if the city continues to exist, let the election be
on this wise. All who are horse or foot soldiers, or have seen military service at the
proper ages when they were severally fitted for it, shall share in the election of
magistrates; and the election shall be held in whatever temple the state deems most
venerable, and every one shall carry his vote to the altar of the God, writing down on a
tablet the name of the person for whom he votes, and his father’s name, and his tribe,
and ward; and at the side he shall write his own name in like manner. Any one who
pleases may take away any tablet which he does not think properly filled up, and exhibit
it in the Agara for a period of not less than thirty days. The tablets which are judged to
be first, to the number of 300, shall be shown by the magistrates to the whole city, and
the citizens shall in like manner select from these the candidates whom they prefer; and
this second selection, to the number of 100, shall be again exhibited to the citizens; in
the third, let any one who pleases select whom pleases out of the 100, walking through
the parts of victims, and let them choose for magistrates and proclaim the seven and
thirty who have the greatest number of votes. But who, Cleinias and Megillus, will order
for us in the colony all this matter of the magistrates, and the scrutinies of them? If we
reflect, we shall see that cities which are in process of construction like ours must have
some such persons, who cannot possibly be elected before there are any magistrates;
and yet they must be elected in some way, and they are not to be inferior men, but the
best possible. For as the proverb says, “a good beginning is half the business”; and “to
have begun well” is praised by all, and in my opinion is a great deal more than half the
business, and has never been praised by any one enough.
Cleinias. That is very true.
Athenian. Then let us recognize the difficulty, and make clear to our own minds how the
beginning is to be accomplished. There is only one proposal which I have to offer, and
that is one which, under our circumstances, is both necessary and expedient.
Cleinias. What is it?
Athenian. I maintain that this colony of ours has a father and mother, who are no other
than the colonizing state. Well I know that many colonies have been, and will be, at
enmity with their parents. But in early days the child, as in a family, loves and is
beloved; even if there come a time later when the tie is broken, still, while he is in want
of education, he naturally loves his parents and is beloved by them, and flies to his
relatives for protection, and finds in them his only natural allies in time of need; and this
parental feeling already exists in the Cnosians, as is shown by their care of the new city;
and there is a similar feeling on the part of the young city towards Cnosus. And I repeat
what I was saying—for there is no harm in repeating a good thing—that the Cnosians
should take a common interest in all these matters, and choose, as far as they can, the
eldest and best of the colonists, to the number of not less than a hundred; and let there
be another hundred of the Cnosians themselves. These, I say, on their arrival, should
have a joint care that the magistrates should be appointed according to law, and that
when they are appointed they should undergo a scrutiny. When this has been effected,
the Cnosians shall return home, and the new city do the best she can for her own
preservation and happiness. I would have the seven–and–thirty now, and in all future
time, chosen to fulfil the following duties:—Let them, in the first place, be the guardians
of the law; and, secondly, of the registers in which each one registers before the
magistrate the amount of his property, excepting four minae which are allowed to
citizens of the first class, three allowed to the second, two to the third, and a single mina
to the fourth. And if any one, despising the laws for the sake of gain, be found to possess
anything more which has not been registered, let all that he has in excess be confiscated,
and let him be liable to a suit which shall be the reverse of honourable or fortunate. And
let any one who will, indict him on the charge of loving base gains, and proceed against
him before the guardians of the law. And if he be cast, let him lose his share of the public
possessions, and when there is any public distribution, let him have nothing but his
original lot; and let him be written down a condemned man as long as he lives, in some
place in which any one who pleases can read about his onces. The guardian of the law
shall not hold office longer than twenty years, and shall not be less than fifty years of age
when he is elected; or if he is elected when he is sixty years of age, he shall hold office for
ten years only; and upon the same principle, he must not imagine that he will be
permitted to hold such an important office as that of guardian of the laws after he is
seventy years of age, if he live so long.
These are the three first ordinances about the guardians of the law; as the work of
legislation progresses, each law in turn will assign to them their further duties. And now
we may proceed in order to speak of the election of other officers; for generals have to be
elected, and these again must have their ministers, commanders, and colonels of horse,
and commanders of brigades of foot, who would be more rightly called by their popular
name of brigadiers. The guardians of the law shall propose as generals men who are
natives of the city, and a selection from the candidates proposed shall be made by those
who are or have been of the age for military service. And if one who is not proposed is
thought by somebody to be better than one who is, let him name whom he prefers in the
place of whom, and make oath that he is better, and propose him; and whichever of
them is approved by vote shall be admitted to the final selection; and the three who have
the greatest number of votes shall be appointed generals, and superintendents of
military affairs, after previously undergoing a scrutiny, like the guardians of the law.
And let the generals thus elected propose twelve brigadiers, one for each tribe; and there
shall be a right of counterproposal as in the case of the generals, and the voting and
decision shall take place in the same way. Until the prytanes and council are elected, the
guardians of the law shall convene the assembly in some holy spot which is suitable to
the purpose, placing the hoplites by themselves, and the cavalry by themselves, and in a
third division all the rest of the army. All are to vote for the generals [and for the
colonels of horse], but the brigadiers are to be voted for only by those who carry shields
[i.e. the hoplites]. Let the body of cavalry choose phylarchs for the generals; but captains
of light troops, or archers, or any other division of the army, shall be appointed by the
generals for themselves. There only remains the appointment of officers of cavalry:
these shall be proposed by the same persons who proposed the generals, and the
election and the counter–proposal of other candidates shall be arranged in the same
way as in the case of the generals, and let the cavalry vote and the infantry look on at the
election; the two who have the greatest number of votes shall be the leaders of all the
horse. Disputes about the voting may be raised once or twice; but if the dispute be raised
a third time, the officers who preside at the several elections shall decide.
The council shall consist of 30 x 12 members—360 will be a convenient number for sub–
division. If we divide the whole number into four parts of ninety each, we get ninety
counsellors for each class. First, all the citizens shall select candidates from the first
class; they shall be compelled to vote, and, if they do not, shall be duly fined. When the
candidates have been selected, some one shall mark them down; this shall be the
business of the first day. And on the following day, candidates shall be selected from the
second class in the same manner and under the same conditions as on the previous day;
and on the third day a selection shall be made from the third class, at which every one
may, if he likes, vote, and the three first classes shall be compelled to vote; but the fourth
and lowest class shall be under no compulsion, and any member of this class who does
not vote shall not be punished. On the fourth day candidates shall be selected from the
fourth and smallest class; they shall be selected by all, but he who is of the fourth class
shall suffer no penalty, nor he who is of the third, if he be not willing to vote; but he who
is of the first or second class, if he does not vote shall be punished;—he who is of the
second class shall pay a fine of triple the amount which was exacted at first, and he who
is of the first class quadruple. On the fifth day the rulers shall bring out the names noted
down, for all the citizens to see, and every man shall choose out of them, under pain, if
he do not, of suffering the first penalty; and when they have chosen out of each of the
classes, they shall choose one–half of them by lot, who shall undergo a scrutiny:—These
are to form the council for the year.
The mode of election which has been described is in a mean between monarchy and
democracy, and such a mean the state ought always to observe; for servants and masters
never can be friends, nor good and bad, merely because they are declared to have equal
privileges. For to unequals equals become unequal, if they are not harmonized by
measure; and both by reason of equality, and by reason of inequality, cities are filled
with seditions. The old saying, that “equality makes friendship,” is happy and also true;
but there is obscurity and confusion as to what sort of equality is meant. For there are
two equalities which are called by the same name, but are in reality in many ways almost
the opposite of one another; one of them may be introduced without difficulty, by any
state or any legislator in the distribution of honours: this is the rule of measure, weight,
and number, which regulates and apportions them. But there is another equality, of a
better and higher kind, which is not so easily recognized. This is the judgment of Zeus;
among men it avails but little; that little, however, is the source of the greatest good to
individuals and states. For it gives to the greater more, and to the inferior less and in
proportion to the nature of each; and, above all, greater honour always to the greater
virtue, and to the less less; and to either in proportion to their respective measure of
virtue and education. And this is justice, and is ever the true principle of states, at which
we ought to aim, and according to this rule order the new city which is now being
founded, and any other city which may be hereafter founded. To this the legislator
should look—not to the interests of tyrants one or more, or to the power of the people,
but to justice always; which, as I was saying, the distribution of natural equality among
unequals in each case. But there are times at which every state is compelled to use the
words, “just,” “equal,” in a secondary sense, in the hope of escaping in some degree from
factions. For equity and indulgence are infractions of the perfect and strict rule of
justice. And this is the reason why we are obliged to use the equality of the lot, in order
to avoid the discontent of the people; and so we invoke God and fortune in our prayers,
and beg that they themselves will direct the lot with a view to supreme justice. And
therefore, although we are compelled to use both equalities, we should use that into
which the element of chance enters as seldom as possible.
Thus, O my friends, and for the reasons given, should a state act which would endure
and be saved. But as a ship sailing on the sea has to be watched night and day, in like
manner a city also is sailing on a sea of politics, and is liable to all sorts of insidious
assaults; and therefore from morning to night, and from night to morning, rulers must
join hands with rulers, and watchers with watchers, receiving and giving up their trust
in a perpetual succession. Now a multitude can never fulfil a duty of this sort with
anything like energy. Moreover, the greater number of the senators will have to be left
during the greater part of the year to order their concerns at their own homes. They will
therefore have to be arranged in twelve portions, answering to the twelve months, and
furnish guardians of the state, each portion for a single month. Their business is to be at
hand and receive any foreigner or citizen who comes to them, whether to give
information, or to put one of those questions, to which, when asked by other cities, a city
should give an answer, and to which, if she ask them herself, she should receive an
answer; or again, when there is a likelihood of internal commotions, which are always
liable to happen in some form or other, they will, if they can, prevent their occurring; or
if they have already occurred, will lose time in making them known to the city, and
healing the evil. Wherefore, also, this which is the presiding body of the state ought
always to have the control of their assemblies, and of the dissolutions of them, ordinary
as well as extraordinary. All this is to be ordered by the twelfth part of the council, which
is always to keep watch together with the other officers of the state during one portion of
the year, and to rest during the remaining eleven portions.
Thus will the city be fairly ordered. And now, who is to have, the superintendence of the
country, and what shall be the arrangement? Seeing that the whole city and the entire
country have been both of them divided into twelve portions, ought there not to be
appointed superintendents of the streets of the city, and of the houses, and buildings,
and harbours, and the agora, and fountains, and sacred domains, and temples, and the
like?
Cleinias. To be sure there ought.
Athenian. Let us assume, then, that there ought to be servants of the temples, and
priests and priestesses. There must also be superintendents of roads and buddings, who
will have a care of men, that they may do no harm, and also of beasts, both within the
enclosure and in the suburbs. Three kinds of officers will thus have to be appointed, in
order that the city may be suitably provided according to her needs. Those who have the
care of the city shall be called wardens of the city; and those who have the care of the
agora shall be called wardens of the agora; and those who have the care of the temples
shall be called priests. Those who hold hereditary offices as priests or priestesses, shall
not be disturbed; but if there be few or none such, as is probable at the foundation of a
new city, priests and priestesses shall be appointed to be servants of the Gods who have
no servants. Some of our officers shall be elected, and others appointed by lot, those
who are of the people and those who are not of the people mingling in a friendly manner
in every place and city, that the state may be as far as possible of one mind. The officers
of the temples shall be appointed by lot; in this way their election will be committed to
God, that he may do what is agreeable to him. And he who obtains a lot shall undergo a
scrutiny, first, as to whether he is sound of body and of legitimate birth; and in the
second place, in order to show that he is of a perfectly pure family, not stained with
homicide or any similar impiety in his own person, and also that his father and mother
have led a similar unstained life. Now the laws about all divine things should be brought
from Delphi, and interpreters appointed, under whose direction they should be used.
The tenure of the priesthood should always be for a year and no longer; and he who will
duly execute the sacred office, according to the laws of religion, must be not less than
sixty years of age—the laws shall be the same about priestesses. As for the interpreters,
they shall be appointed thus:—Let the twelve tribes be distributed into groups of four,
and let each group select four, one out of each tribe within the group, three times; and
let the three who have the greatest number of votes [out of the twelve appointed by each
group], after undergoing a scrutiny, nine in all, be sent to Delphi, in order that the God
may return one out of each triad; their age shall be the same as that of the priests, and
the scrutiny of them shall be conducted in the same manner; let them be interpreters for
life, and when any one dies let the four tribes select another from the tribe of the
deceased. Moreover, besides priests and interpreters, there must be treasurers, who will
take charge of the property of the several temples, and of the sacred domains, and shall
have authority over the produce and the letting of them; and three of them shall be
chosen from the highest classes for the greater temples, and two for the lesser, and one
for the least of all; the manner of their election and the scrutiny of them shall be the
same as that of the generals. This shall be the order of the temples.
Let everything have a guard as far as possible. Let the defence of the city be commited to
the generals, and taxiarchs, and hipparchs, and phylarchs, and prytanes, and the
wardens of the city, and of the agora, when the election of them has been completed.
The defence of the country shall be provided for as follows:—The entire land has been
already distributed into twelve as nearly as possible equal parts, and let the tribe allotted
to a division provide annually for it five wardens of the country and commanders of the
watch; and let each body of five have the power of selecting twelve others out of the
youth of their own tribe—these shall be not less than twenty–five years of age, and not
more than thirty. And let there be allotted to them severally every month the various
districts, in order that they may all acquire knowledge and experience of the whole
country. The term of service for commanders and for watchers shall continue during two
years. After having had their stations allotted to them, they will go from place to place in
regular order, making their round from left to right as their commanders direct them;
(when I speak of going to the right, I mean that they are to go to the east). And at the
commencement of the second year, in order that as many as possible of the guards may
not only get a knowledge of the country at any one season of the year, but may also have
experience of the manner in which different places are affected at different seasons of
the year, their then commanders shall lead them again towards the left, from place to
place in succession, until they have completed the second year. In the third year other
wardens of the country shall be chosen and commanders of the watch, five for each
division, who are to be the superintendents of the bands of twelve. While on service at
each station, their attention shall be directed to the following points:—In the first place,
they shall see that the country is well protected against enemies; they shall trench and
dig wherever this is required, and, as far as they can, they shall by fortifications keep off
the evil–disposed, in order to prevent them from doing any harm to the country or the
property; they shall use the beasts of burden and the labourers whom they find on the
spot: these will be their instruments whom they will superintend, taking them, as far as
possible, at the times when they are not engaged in their regular business. They shall
make every part of the country inaccessible to enemies, and as accessible as possible to
friends; there shall be ways for man and beasts of burden and for cattle, and they shall
take care to have them always as smooth as they can; and shall provide against the rains
doing harm instead of good to the land, when they come down from the mountains into
the hollow dells; and shall keep in the overflow by the help of works and ditches, in
order that the valleys, receiving and drinking up the rain from heaven, and providing
fountains and streams in the fields and regions which lie underneath, may furnish even
to the dry places plenty of good water. The fountains of water, whether of rivers or of
springs, shall be ornamented with plantations and buildings for beauty; and let them
bring together the streams in subterraneous channels, and make all things plenteous;
and if there be a sacred grove or dedicated precinct in the neighbourhood, they shall
conduct the water to the actual temples of the Gods, and so beautify them at all seasons
of the year. Everywhere in such places the youth shall make gymnasia for themselves,
and warm baths for the aged, placing by them abundance of dry wood, for the benefit of
those labouring under disease—there the weary frame of the rustic, worn with toil, will
receive a kindly welcome, far better than he would at the hands of a not over–wise
doctor.
The building of these and the like works will be useful and ornamental; they will provide
a pleasing amusement, but they will be a serious employment too; for the sixty wardens
will have to guard their several divisions, not only with a view to enemies, but also with
an eye to professing friends. When a quarrel arises among neighbours or citizens, and
any one, whether slave or freeman wrongs another, let the five wardens decide small
matters on their own authority; but where the charge against another relates to greater
matters, the seventeen composed of the fives and twelves, shall determine any charges
which one man brings against another, not involving more than three minae. Every
judge and magistrate shall be liable to give an account of his conduct in office, except
those who, like kings, have the final decision. Moreover, as regards the aforesaid
wardens of the country, if they do any wrong to those of whom they have the care,
whether by imposing upon them unequal tasks, or by taking the produce of the soil or
implements of husbandry without their consent; also if they receive anything in the way
of a bribe, or decide suits unjustly, or if they yield to the influences of flattery, let them
be publicly dishonoured; and in regard to any other wrong which they do to the
inhabitants of the country, if the question be of a mina, let them submit to the decision
of the villagers in the neighbourhood; but in suits of greater amount, or in case of lesser,
if they refuse to submit, trusting that their monthly removal into another part of the
country will enable them to escape—in such cases the injured party may bring his suit in
the common court, and if he obtain a verdict he may exact from the defendant, who
refused to submit, a double penalty.
The wardens and the overseers of the country, while on their two years service, shall
have common meals at their several stations, and shall all live together; and he who is
absent from the common meal, or sleeps out, if only for one day or night, unless by
order of his commanders, or by reason of absolute necessity, if the five denounce him
and inscribe his name the agora as not having kept his guard, let him be deemed to have
betrayed the city, as far as lay in his power, and let him be disgraced and beaten with
impunity by any one who meets him and is willing to punish him. If any of the
commanders is guilty of such an irregularity, the whole company of sixty shall see to it,
and he who is cognizant of the offence, and does not bring the offender to trial, shall be
amenable to the same laws as the younger offender himself, and shall pay a heavier fine,
and be incapable of ever commanding the young. The guardians of the law are to be
careful inspectors of these matters, and shall either prevent or punish offenders. Every
man should remember the universal rule, that he who is not a good servant will not be a
good master; a man should pride himself more upon serving well than upon
commanding well: first upon serving the laws, which is also the service of the Gods; in
the second place, upon having. served ancient and honourable men in the days of his
youth. Furthermore, during the two years in which any one is a warden of the country,
his daily food ought to be of a simple and humble kind. When the twelve have been
chosen, let them and the five meet together, and determine that they will be their own
servants, and, like servants, will not have other slaves and servants for their own use,
neither will they use those of the villagers and husbandmen for their private advantage,
but for the public service only; and in general they should make up their minds to live
independently by themselves, servants of each other and of themselves. Further, at all
seasons of the year, summer and winter alike, let them be under arms and survey
minutely the whole country; thus they will at once keep guard, and at the same time
acquire a perfect knowledge of every locality. There can be no more important kind of
information than the exact knowledge of a man’s own country; and for this as well as for
more general reasons of pleasure and advantage, hunting with dogs and other kinds of
sports should be pursued by the young. The service to whom this is committed may be
called the secret police, or wardens of the country; the name does not much signify, but
every one who has the safety of the state at heart will use his utmost diligence in this
service.
After the wardens of the country, we have to speak of the election of wardens of the
agora and of the city. The wardens of the country were sixty in number, and the wardens
of the city will be three, and will divide the twelve parts of the city into three; like the
former, they shall have care of the ways, and of the different high roads which lead out
of the country into the city, and of the buildings, that they may be all made according to
law;—also of the waters, which the guardians of the supply preserve and convey to them,
care being taken that they may reach the fountains pure and abundant, and be both an
ornament and a benefit to the city. These also should be men of influence, and at leisure
to take care of the public interest. Let every man propose as warden of the city any one
whom he likes out of the highest class, and when the vote has been given on them, and
the number is reduced to the six who have the greatest number of votes, let the electing
officers choose by lot three out of the six, and when they have undergone a scrutiny let
them hold office according to the laws laid down for them. Next, let the wardens of the
agora be elected in like manner, out of the first and second class, five in number: ten are
to be first elected, and out of the ten five are to be chosen by lot, as in the election of the
wardens of the city:—these when they have undergone a scrutiny are to be declared
magistrates. Every one shall vote for every one, and he who will not vote, if he be
informed against before the magistrates, shall be fined fifty drachmae, and shall also be
deemed a bad citizen. Let any one who likes go to the assembly and to the general
council; it shall be compulsory to go on citizens of the first and second class, and they
shall pay a fine of ten drachmae if they be found not answering to their names at the
assembly. the third and fourth class shall be under no compulsion, and shall be let off
without a fine, unless the magistrates have commanded all to be present, in
consequence of some urgent necessity. The wardens of the agora shall observe the order
appointed by law for the agora, and shall have the charge of the temples and fountains
which are in the agora; and they shall see that no one injures anything, and punish him
who does, with stripes and bonds, if he be a slave or stranger; but if he be a citizen who
misbehaves in this way, they shall have the power themselves of inflicting a fine upon
him to the amount of a hundred drachmae, or with the consent of the wardens of the
city up to double that amount. And let the wardens of the city have a similar power of
imposing punishments and fines in their own department; and let them impose fines by
their own department; and let them impose fines by their own authority, up to a mina,
or up to two minae with the consent of the wardens of the agora.
In the next place, it will be proper to appoint directors of music and gymnastic, two
kinds of each—of the one kind the business will be education, of the other, the
superintendence of contests. In speaking of education, the law means to speak of those
who have the care of order and instruction in gymnasia and schools, and of the going to
school, and of school buildings for boys and girls; and in speaking of contests, the law
refers to the judges of gymnastics and of music; these again are divided into two classes,
the one having to do with music, the other with gymnastics; and the same who judge of
the gymnastic contests of men, shall judge of horses; but in music there shall be one set
of judges of solo singing, and of imitation—I mean of rhapsodists, players on the harp,
the flute and the like, and another who shall judge of choral song. First of all, we must
choose directors for the choruses of boys, and men, and maidens, whom they shall
follow in the amusement of the dance, and for our other musical arrangements; —one
director will be enough for the choruses, and he should be not less than forty years of
age. One director will also be enough to introduce the solo singers, and to give judgment
on the competitors, and he ought not to be less than thirty years of age. The director and
manager of the choruses shall be elected after the following manner:—Let any persons
who commonly take an interest in such matters go to the meeting, and be fined if they
do not go (the guardians of the law shall judge of their fault), but those who have no
interest shall not be compelled. The elector shall propose as director some one who
understands music, and he in the scrutiny may be challenged on the one part by those
who say he has no skill, and defended on the other hand by those who say that he has.
Ten are to be elected by vote, and he of the ten who is chosen by lot shall undergo a
scrutiny, and lead the choruses for a year according to law. And in like manner the
competitor who wins the lot shall be leader of the solo and concert music for that year;
and he who is thus elected shall deliver the award to the judges. In the next place, we
have to choose judges in the contests of horses and of men; these shall be selected from
the third and also from the second class of citizens, and three first classes shall be
compelled to go to the election, but the lowest may stay away with impunity; and let
there be three elected by lot out of the twenty who have been chosen previously, and
they must also have the vote and approval of the examiners. But if any one is rejected in
the scrutiny at any ballot or decision, others shall be chosen in the same manner, and
undergo a similar scrutiny.
There remains the minister of the education of youth, male and female; he too will rule
according to law; one such minister will be sufficient, and he must be fifty years old, and
have children lawfully begotten, both boys and girls by preference, at any rate, one or
the other. He who is elected, and he who is the elector, should consider that of all the
great offices of state, this is the greatest; for the first shoot of any plant, if it makes a
good start towards the attainment of its natural excellence, has the greatest effect on its
maturity; and this is not only true of plants, but of animals wild and tame, and also of
men. Man, as we say, is a tame or civilized animal; nevertheless, he requires proper
instruction and a fortunate nature, and then of all animals he becomes the most divine
and most civilized; but if he be insufficiently or ill educated he is the most savage of
earthly creatures. Wherefore the legislator ought not to allow the education of children
to become a secondary or accidental matter. In the first place, he who would be rightly
provident about them, should begin by taking care that he is elected, who of all the
citizens is in every way best; him the legislator shall do his utmost to appoint guardian
and superintendent. To this end all the magistrates, with the exception of the council
and prytanes, shall go to the temple of Apollo, and elect by ballot him of the guardians of
the law whom they severally think will be the best superintendent of education. And he
who has the greatest number of votes, after he has undergone a scrutiny at the hands of
all the magistrates who have been his electors, with the exception of the guardians of the
law—shall hold office for five years; and in the sixth year let another be chosen in like
manner to fill his office.
If any one dies while he is holding a public office, and more than thirty days before his
term of office expires, let those whose business it is elect another to the office in the
same manner as before. And if any one who is entrusted with orphans dies, let the
relations both on the father’s and mother’s side, who are residing at home, including
cousins, appoint another guardian within ten days, or be fined a drachma a day for
neglect to do so.
A city which has no regular courts of law ceases to be a city; and again, if a judge is silent
and says no more in preliminary proceedings than the litigants, as is the case in
arbitrations, he will never be able to decide justly; wherefore a multitude of judges will
not easily judge well, nor a few if they are bad. The point in dispute between the parties
should be made clear; and time, and deliberation, and repeated examination, greatly
tend to clear up doubts. For this reason, he who goes to law with another should go first
of all to his neighbours and friends who know best the questions at issue. And if he be
unable to obtain from them a satisfactory decision, let him have recourse to another
court; and if the two courts cannot settle the matter, let a third put an end to the suit.
Now the establishment of courts of justice may be regarded as a choice of magistrates,
for every magistrate must also be a judge of some things; and the judge, though he be
not a magistrate, yet in certain respects is a very important magistrate on the day on
which he is determining a suit. Regarding then the judges also as magistrates, let us say
who are fit to be judges, and of what they are to be judges, and how many of them are to
judge in each suit. Let that be the supreme tribunal which the litigants appoint in
common for themselves, choosing certain persons by agreement. And let there be two
other tribunals: one for private causes, when a citizen accuses another of wronging him
and wishes to get a decision; the other for public causes, in which some citizen is of
opinion that the public has been wronged by an individual, and is willing to vindicate
the common interests. And we must not forget to mention how the judges are to be
qualified, and who they are to be. In the first place, let there be a tribunal open to all
private persons who are trying causes one against another for the third time, and let this
be composed as follows:—All the officers of state, as well annual as those holding office
for a longer period, when the new year is about to commence, in the month following
after the summer solstice, on the last day but one of the year, shall meet in some temple,
and calling God to witness, shall dedicate one judge from every magistracy to be their
first–fruits, choosing in each office him who seems to them to be the best, and whom
they deem likely to decide the causes of his fellow–citizens during the ensuing year in
the best and holiest manner. And when the election is completed, a scrutiny shall be
held in the presence of the electors themselves, and if any one be rejected another shall
be chosen in the same manner. Those who have undergone the scrutiny shall judge the
causes of those who have declined the inferior courts, and shall give their vote openly.
The councillors and other magistrates who have elected them shall be required to be
hearers and spectators of the causes; and any one else may be present who pleases. If
one man charges another with having intentionally decided wrong, let him go to the
guardians of the law and lay his accusation before them, and he who is found guilty in
such a case shall pay damages to the injured party equal to half the injury; but if he shall
appear to deserve a greater penalty, the judges shall determine what additional
punishment he shall suffer, and how much more he ought to pay to the public treasury,
and to the party who brought the suit.
In the judgment of offences against the state, the people ought to participate, for when
any one wrongs the state all are wronged, and may reasonably complain if they are not
allowed to share in the decision. Such causes ought to originate with the people, and the
ought also to have the final decision of them, but the trial of them shall take place before
three of the highest magistrates, upon whom the plaintiff and the defendant shall agree;
and if they are not able to come to an agreement themselves, the council shall choose
one of the two proposed. And in private suits, too, as far as is possible, all should have a
share; for he who has no share in the administration of justice, is apt to imagine that he
has no share in the state at all. And for this reason there shall be a court of law in every
tribe, and the judges shall be chosen by lot;—they shall give their decisions at once, and
shall be inaccessible to entreaties. The final judgment shall rest with that court which, as
we maintain, has been established in the most incorruptible form of which human
things admit: this shall be the court established for those who are unable to get rid of
their suits either in the courts of neighbours or of the tribes.
Thus much of the courts of law, which, as I was saying, cannot be precisely defined
either as being or not being offices; a superficial sketch has been given of them, in which
some things have been told and others omitted. For the right place of an exact statement
of the laws respecting suits, under their several heads, will be at the end of the body of
legislation;—let us then expect them at the end. Hitherto our legislation has been chiefly
occupied with the appointment of offices. Perfect unity and exactness, extending to the
whole and every particular of political administration, cannot be attained to the full,
until the discussion shall have a beginning, middle, and end, and is complete in every
part. At present we have reached the election of magistrates, and this may be regarded
as a sufficient termination of what preceded. And now there need no longer be any delay
or hesitation in beginning the work of legislation.
Cleinias. I like what you have said, Stranger—and I particularly like your manner of
tacking on the beginning of your new discourse to the end of the former one.
Athenian. Thus far, then, the old men’s rational pastime has gone off well.
Cleinias. You mean, I suppose, their serious and noble pursuit?
Athenian. Perhaps; but I should like to know whether you and I are agreed about a
certain thing.
Cleinias. About what thing?
Athenian. You know. the endless labour which painters expend upon their pictures—
they are always putting in or taking out colours, or whatever be the term which artists
employ; they seem as if they would never cease touching up their works, which are
always being made brighter and more beautiful.
Cleinias. I know something of these matters from report, although I have never had any
great acquaintance with the art.
Athenian. No matter; we may make use of the illustration notwithstanding:—Suppose
that some one had a mind to paint a figure in the most beautiful manner, in the hope
that his work instead of losing would always improve as time went on—do you not see
that being a mortal, unless he leaves some one to succeed him who will correct the flaws
which time may introduce, and be able to add what is left imperfect through the defect
of the artist, and who will further brighten up and improve the picture, all his great
labour will last but a short time?
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. And is not the aim of the legislator similar? First, he desires that his laws
should be written down with all possible exactness; in the second place, as time goes on
and he has made an actual trial of his decrees, will he not find omissions? Do you
imagine that there ever was a legislator so foolish as not to know that many things are
necessarily omitted, which some one coming after him must correct, if the constitution
and the order of government is not to deteriorate, but to improve in the state which he
has established?
Cleinias. Assuredly, that is the sort of thing which every one would desire.
Athenian. And if any one possesses any means of accomplishing this by word or deed, or
has any way great or small by which he can teach a person to understand how he can
maintain and amend the laws, he should finish what he has to say, and not leave the
work incomplete.
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. And is not this what you and I have to do at the present moment?
Cleinias. What have we to do?
Athenian. As we are about to legislate and have chosen our guardians of the law, and are
ourselves in the evening of life, and they as compared with us are young men, we ought
not only to legislate for them, but to endeavour to make them not only guardians of the
law but legislators themselves, as far as this is possible.
Cleinias. Certainly; if we can.
Athenian. At any rate, we must do our best.
Cleinias. Of course.
Athenian. We will say to them—O friends and saviours of our laws, in laying down any
law, there are many particulars which we shall omit, and this cannot be helped; at the
same time, we will do our utmost to describe what is important, and will give an outline
which you shall fill up. And I will explain on what principle you are to act. Megillus and
Cleinias and I have often spoken to one another touching these matters, and we are of
opinion that we have spoken well. And we hope that you will be of the same mind with
us, and become our disciples, and keep in view the things which in our united opinion
the legislator and guardian of the law ought to keep in view. There was one main point
about which we were agreed—that a man’s whole energies throughout life should be
devoted to the acquisition of the virtue proper to a man, whether this was to be gained
by study, or habit, or some mode of acquisition, or desire, or opinion, or knowledge—
and this applies equally to men and women, old and young—the aim of all should always
be such as I have described; anything which may be an impediment, the good man
ought to show that he utterly disregards. And if at last necessity plainly compels him to
be an outlaw from his native land, rather than bow his neck to the yoke of slavery and be
ruled by inferiors, and he has to fly, an exile he must be and endure all such trials, rather
than accept another form of government, which is likely to make men worse. These are
our original principles; and do you now, fixing your eyes upon the standard of what a
man and a citizen ought or ought not to be, praise and blame the laws—blame those
which have not this power of making the citizen better, but embrace those which have;
and with gladness receive and live in them; bidding a long farewell to other institutions
which aim at goods, as they are termed, of a different kind.
Let us proceed to another class of laws, beginning with their foundation in religion. And
we must first return to the number 5040—the entire number had, and has, a great many
convenient divisions, and the number of the tribes which was a twelfth part of the
whole, being correctly formed by 21 X 20 [5040/(21 X 20), i.e., 5040/420=12], also has
them. And not only is the whole number divisible by twelve, but also the number of each
tribe is divisible by twelve. Now every portion should be regarded by us as a sacred gift
of Heaven, corresponding to the months and to the revolution of the universe. Every city
has a guiding and sacred principle given by nature, but in some the division or
distribution has been more right than in others, and has been more sacred and
fortunate. In our opinion, nothing can be more right than the selection of the number
5040, which may be divided by all numbers from one to twelve with the single exception
of eleven, and that admits of a very easy correction; for if, turning to the dividend
(5040), we deduct two families, the defect in the division is cured. And the truth of this
may be easily proved when we have leisure. But for the present, trusting to the mere
assertion of this principle, let us divide the state; and assigning to each portion some
God or son of a God, let us give them altars and sacred rites, and at the altars let us hold
assemblies for sacrifice twice in the month—twelve assemblies for the tribes, and twelve
for the city, according to their divisions; the first in honour of the Gods and divine
things, and the second to promote friendship and “better acquaintance,” as the phrase
is, and every sort of good fellowship with one another. For people must be acquainted
with those into whose families and whom they marry and with those to whom they give
in marriage; in such matters, as far as possible, a man should deem it all important to
avoid a mistake, and with this serious purpose let games be instituted in which youths
and maidens shall dance together, seeing one another and being seen naked, at a proper
age, and on a suitable occasion, not transgressing the rules of modesty.
The directors of choruses will be the superintendents and regulators of these games, and
they, together with the guardians of the law, will legislate in any matters which we have
omitted; for, as we said, where there are numerous and minute details, the legislator
must leave out something. And the annual officers who have experience, and know what
is wanted, must make arrangements and improvements year by year, until such
enactments and provisions are sufficiently determined. A ten years experience of
sacrifices and dances, if extending to all particulars, will be quite sufficient; and if the
legislator be alive they shall communicate with him, but if he be dead then the several
officers shall refer the omissions which come under their notice to the guardians of the
law, and correct them, until all is perfect; and from that time there shall be no more
change, and they shall establish and use the new laws with the others which the
legislator originally gave them, and of which they are never, if they can help, to change
aught; or, if some necessity overtakes them, the magistrates must be called into counsel,
and the whole people, and they must go to all the oracles of the Gods; and if they are all
agreed, in that case they may make the change, but if they are not agreed, by no manner
of means, and any one who dissents shall prevail, as the law ordains.
Whenever any one over twenty–five years of age, having seen and been seen by others,
believes himself to have found a marriage connection which is to his mind, and suitable
for the procreation of children, let him marry if he be still under the age of five–and–
thirty years; but let him first hear how he ought to seek after what is suitable and
appropriate. For, as Cleinias says, every law should have a suitable prelude.
Cleinias. You recollect at the right moment, Stranger, and do not miss the opportunity
which the argument affords of saying a word in season.
Athenian. I thank you. We will say to him who is born of good parents—O my son, you
ought to make such a marriage as wise men would approve. Now they would advise you
neither to avoid a poor marriage, nor specially to desire a rich one; but if other things
are equal, always to honour inferiors, and with them to form connections;—this will be
for the benefit of the city and of the families which are united; for the equable and
symmetrical tends infinitely more to virtue than the unmixed. And he who is conscious
of being too headstrong, and carried away more than is fitting in all his actions, ought to
desire to become the relation of orderly parents; and he who is of the opposite temper
ought to seek the opposite alliance. Let there be one word concerning all marriages:—
Every man shall follow, not after the marriage which is most pleasing to himself, but
after that which is most beneficial to the state. For somehow every one is by nature
prone to that which is likest to himself, and in this way the whole city becomes unequal
in property and in disposition; and hence there arise in most states the very results
which we least desire to happen. Now, to add to the law an express provision, not only
that the rich man shall not marry into the rich family, nor the powerful into the family of
the powerful, but that the slower natures shall be compelled to enter into marriage with
the quicker, and the quicker with the slower, may awaken anger as well as laughter in
the minds of many; for there is a difficulty in perceiving that the city ought to be well
mingled like a cup, in which the maddening wine is hot and fiery, but when chastened
by a soberer God, receives a fair associate and becomes an excellent and temperate
drink. Yet in marriage no one is able to see that the same result occurs. Wherefore also
the law must let alone such matters, but we should try to charm the spirits of men into
believing the equability of their children’s disposition to be of more importance than
equality in excessive fortune when they marry; and him who is too desirous of making a
rich marriage we should endeavour to turn aside by reproaches, not, however, by any
compulsion of written law.
Let this then be our exhortation concerning marriage, and let us remember what was
said before—that a man should cling to immortality, and leave behind him children’s
children to be the servants of God in his place for ever. All this and much more may be
truly said by way of prelude about the duty of marriage. But if a man will not listen and
remains unsocial and alien among his fellow–citizens, and is still unmarried at thirty–
five years of age, let him pay a yearly fine;—he who of the highest class shall pay a fine of
a hundred drachmae, and he who is of the second dass a fine of seventy drachmae; the
third class shall pay sixty drachmae, and the fourth thirty drachmae, and let the money
be sacred to Here; he who does not pay the fine annually shall owe ten times the sum,
which the treasurer of the goddess shall exact; and if he fails in doing so, let him be
answerable and give an account of the. money at his audit. He who refuses to marry
shall be thus punished in money, and also be deprived of all honour which the younger
show to the elder; let no young man voluntarily obey him, and if he attempt to punish
any one, let every one come to the rescue and defend the injured person, and he who is
present and does not come to the rescue, shall be pronounced by the law to be a coward
and a bad citizen. Of the marriage portion I have already spoken; and again I say for the
instruction of poor men that he who neither gives nor receives a dowry on account of
poverty, has a compensation; for the citizens of our state are provided with the
necessaries of life, and wives will be less likely to be insolent, and husbands to be mean
and subservient to them on account of property. And he who obeys this law will do a
noble action; but he who will not obey, and gives or receives more than fifty drachmae as
the price of the marriage garments if he be of the lowest, or more than a mina, or a mina
and–a–half, if he be of the third or second classes, or two minae if he be of the highest
class, shall owe to the public treasury a similar sum, and that which is given or received
shall be sacred to Here and Zeus; and let the treasurers of these Gods exact the money,
as was said before about the unmarried—that the treasurers of Here were to exact the
money, or pay the fine themselves.
The betrothal by a father shall be valid in the first degree, that by a grandfather in the
second degree, and in the third degree, betrothal by brothers who have the same father;
but if there are none of these alive, the betrothal by a mother shall be valid in like
manner; in cases of unexampled fatality, the next of kin and the guardians shall have
authority. What are to be the rites before marriages, or any other sacred acts, relating
either to future, present, or past marriages, shall be referred to the interpreters; and he
who follows their advice may be satisfied. Touching the marriage festival, they shall
assemble not more than five male and five female friends of both families; and a like
number of members of the family of either sex, and no man shall spend more than his
means will allow; he who is of the richest class may spend a mina—he who is of the
second, half a mina, and in the same proportion as the census of each decreases: all men
shall praise him who is obedient to the law; but he who is disobedient shall be punished
by the guardians of the law as a man wanting in true taste, and uninstructed in the laws
of bridal song. Drunkenness is always improper, except at the festivals of the God who
gave wine; and peculiarly dangerous, when a man is engaged in the business of
marriage; at such a crisis of their lives a bride and bridegroom ought to have all their
wits about them—they ought to take care that their offspring may be born of reasonable
beings; for on what day or night Heaven will give them increase, who can say?
Moreover, they ought not to begetting children when their bodies are dissipated by
intoxication, but their offspring should be compact and solid, quiet and compounded
properly; whereas the drunkard is all abroad in all his actions, and beside himself both
in body and soul. Wherefore, also, the drunken man is bad and unsteady in sowing the
seed of increase, and is likely to beget offspring who will be unstable and untrustworthy,
and cannot be expected to walk straight either in body or mind. Hence during the whole
year and all his life long, and especially while he is begetting children, ought to take care
and not intentionally do what is injurious to health, or what involves insolence and
wrong; for he cannot help leaving the impression of himself on the souls and bodies of
his offspring, and he begets children in every way inferior. And especially on the day and
night of marriage should a man abstain from such things. For the beginning, which is
also a God dwelling in man, preserves all things, if it meet with proper respect from each
individual. He who marries is further to consider that one of the two houses in the lot is
the nest and nursery of his young, and there he is to marry and make a home for himself
and bring up his children, going away from his father and mother. For in friendships
there must be some degree of desire, in order to cement and bind together diversities of
character; but excessive intercourse not having the desire which is created by time,
insensibly dissolves friendships from a feeling of satiety; wherefore a man and his wife
shall leave to his and her father and mother their own dwelling–places, and themselves
go as to a colony and dwell there, and visit and be visited by their parents; and they shall
beget and bring up children, handing on the torch of life from one generation to
another, and worshipping the Gods according to law for ever.
In the next place, we have to consider what sort of property will be most convenient.
There is no difficulty either in understanding or acquiring most kinds of property, but
there is great difficulty in what relates to slaves. And the reason is that we speak about
them in a way which is right and which is not right; for what we say about our slaves is
consistent and also inconsistent with our practice about them.
Megillus. I do not understand, Stranger, what you mean.
Athenian. I am not surprised, Megillus, for the state of the Helots among the
Lacedaemonians is of all Hellenic forms of slavery the most controverted and disputed
about, some approving and some condemning it; there is less dispute about the slavery
which exists among the Heracleots, who have subjugated the Mariandynians, and about
the Thessalian Penestae. Looking at these and the like examples, what ought we to do
concerning property in slaves? I made a remark, in passing, which naturally elicited a
question about my meaning from you. It was this:—We know that all would agree that
we should have the best and most attached slaves whom we can get. For many a man
has found his slaves better in every way than brethren or sons, and many times they
have saved the lives and property of their masters and their whole house—such tales are
well known.
Megillus. To be sure.
Athenian. But may we not also say that the soul of the slave is utterly corrupt, and that
no man of sense ought to trust them? And the wisest of our poets, speaking of Zeus,
says:
Far–seeing Zeus takes away half the understanding of men whom the day of slavery
subdues.
Different persons have got these two different notions of slaves in their minds—some of
them utterly distrust their servants, and, as if they were wild beasts, chastise them with
goads and whips, and make their souls three times, or rather many times, as slavish as
they were before;—and others do just the opposite.
Megillus. True.
Cleinias. Then what are we to do in our own country, Stranger, seeing that there are,
such differences in the treatment of slaves by their owners?
Athenian. Well, Cleinias, there can be no doubt that man is a troublesome animal, and
therefore he is not very manageable, nor likely to become so, when you attempt to
introduce the necessary division, slave, and freeman, and master.
Cleinias. That is obvious.
Athenian. He is a troublesome piece of goods, as has been often shown by the frequent
revolts of the Messenians, and the great mischiefs which happen in states having many
slaves who speak the same language, and the numerous robberies and lawless life of the
Italian banditti, as they are called. A man who considers all this is fairly at a loss. Two
remedies alone remain to us—not to have the slaves of the same country, nor if possible,
speaking the same language; in this way they will more easily be held in subjection:
secondly, we should tend them carefully, not only out of regard to them, but yet more
out of respect to ourselves. And the right treatment of slaves is to behave properly to
them, and to do to them, if possible, even more justice than to those who are our equals;
for he who naturally and genuinely reverences justice, and hates injustice, is discovered
in his dealings with any class of men to whom he can easily be unjust. And he who in
regard to the natures and actions of his slaves is undefiled by impiety and injustice, will
best sow the seeds of virtue in them; and this may be truly said of every master, and
tyrant, and of every other having authority in relation to his inferiors. Slaves ought to be
punished as they deserve, and not admonished as if they were freemen, which will only
make them conceited. The language used to a servant ought always to be that of a
command, and we ought not to jest with them, whether they are males or females—this
is a foolish way which many people have of setting up their slaves, and making the life of
servitude more disagreeable both for them and for their masters.
Cleinias. True.
Athenian. Now that each of the citizens is provided, as far as possible, with a sufficient
number of suitable slaves who can help him in what he has to do, we may next proceed
to describe their dwellings.
Cleinias. Very good.
Athenian. The city being new and hitherto uninhabited, care ought to be taken of all the
buildings, and the manner of building each of them, and also of the temples and walls.
These, Cleinias, were matters which properly came before the marriages; but, as we are
only talking, there is no objection to changing the order. If, however, our plan of
legislation is ever to take effect, then the house shall precede the marriage if God so will,
and afterwards we will come to the regulations about marriage; but at present we are
only describing these matters in a general outline.
Cleinias. Quite true.
Athenian. The temples are to be placed all round the agora, and the whole city built on
the heights in a circle, for the sake of defence and for the sake of purity. Near the
temples are to be placed buildings for the magistrates and the courts of law; in these
plaintiff and defendant will receive their due, and the places will be regarded as most
holy, partly because they have to do with the holy things: and partly because they are the
dwelling–places of holy Gods: and in them will be held the courts in which cases of
homicide and other trials of capital offenses may fitly take place. As to the walls,
Megillus, I agree with Sparta in thinking that they should be allowed to sleep in the
earth, and that we should not attempt to disinter them; there is a poetical saying, which
is finely expressed, that “walls ought to be of steel and iron, and not of earth; besides,
how ridiculous of us to be sending out our young men annually into the country to dig
and to trench, and to keep off the enemy by fortifications, under the idea that they are
not to be allowed to set foot in our territory, and then, that we should surround
ourselves with a wall, which, in the first place, is by no means conducive to the health of
cities, and is also apt to produce a certain effeminacy in the minds of the inhabitants,
inviting men to run thither instead of repelling their enemies, and leading them to
imagine that their safety is due not to their keeping guard day and night, but that when
they are protected by walls and gates, then they may sleep in safety; as if they were not
meant to labour, and did not know that true repose comes from labour, and that
disgraceful indolence and a careless temper of mind is only the renewal of trouble. But if
men must have walls, the private houses ought to be so arranged from the first that the
whole city may be one wall, having all the houses capable of defence by reason of their
uniformity and equality towards the streets. The form of the city being that of a single
dwelling will have an agreeable aspect, and being easily guarded will be infinitely better
for security. Until the original building is completed, these should be the principal
objects of the inhabitants; and the wardens of the city should superintend the work, and
should impose a fine on him who is negligent; and in all that relates to the city they
should have a care of cleanliness, and not allow a private person to encroach upon any
public property either by buildings or excavations. Further, they ought to take care that
the rains from heaven flow off easily, and of any other matters which may have to be
administered either within or without the city. The guardians of the law shall pass any
further enactments which their experience may show to be necessary, and supply any
other points in which the law may be deficient. And now that these matters, and the
buildings about the agora, and the gymnasia, and places of instruction, and theatres, are
all ready and waiting for scholars and spectators, let us proceed to the subjects which
follow marriage in the order of legislation.
Cleinias. By all means.
Athenian. Assuming that marriages exist already, Cleinias, the mode of life during the
year after marriage, before children are born, will follow next in order. In what way
bride and bridegroom ought to live in a city which is to be superior to other cities, is a
matter not at all easy for us to determine.

The Complete Works of Plato - Part 6