BOOK I.

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Transcriber’s Note:

This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.

Italics are delimited with the ‘_’ character as _italic_. Superscripted

characters are preceded by ‘^’.

Footnotes have been moved to follow the sections in which they are

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BOHN’S CLASSICAL LIBRARY.

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THE WORKS OF PLATO,

LITERALLY TRANSLATED.

THE

WORKS OF PLATO.

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A NEW AND LITERAL VERSION,

CHIEFLY FROM THE TEXT OF STALLBAUM.

VOL. II.

CONTAINING

THE REPUBLIC, TIMÆUS AND CRITIAS.

BY HENRY DAVIS, M.A.

AUTHOR OF “PROGRESSIVE EXERCISES IN LATIN COMPOSITION FOR THE

USE OF KING’S COLLEGE.“

LONDON:

HENRY G. BOHN, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

MDCCCXLIX.

PRINTED BY

COX (BROTHERS) AND WYMAN, GREAT QUEEN STREET,

LINCOLN’S-INN FIELDS.

CONTENTS.

———●———

PREFACE

GENERAL INTRODUCTION _Page_ i

THE REPUBLIC (_in Ten Books_) 1

INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS 313

TIMÆUS 319

INTRODUCTION TO THE CRITIAS 411

CRITIAS 413

PREFACE.

The present volume comprises three connected dialogues, written no doubt

towards the close of Plato’s life (about 350 B. C.), subsequently to his

travels in Italy, Sicily, and Egypt, and after his philosophic views had

attained their full maturity and developement. Two of them, indeed,—the

Republic and the Timæus,—are among the most important and most carefully

elaborated in the entire series of the Platonic dialogues;—the former

being the summary of Plato’s whole ethical system, and combining the

results of most of the other dialogues,—the latter comprising the full

and almost sole developement of his speculations on the formation of the

Universe and the organization of Man. The Critias can be considered only

as an historical, or rather, mythical supplement to the Timæus;—and it

appears to have been left unfinished at the author’s death.

The translation has been formed, with some few exceptions, on the text

of Stallbaum, now justly reputed as the most correct in existence;—and

great pains have been taken throughout, not only to make it a literally

correct exponent of the original, but also to transfuse into it that

easy flow of language which constitutes the peculiar charm of Plato’s

writing. In both these respects, therefore, it will be found strikingly

to differ from the uncouth, obscure, un-English, and often extremely

erroneous version of Taylor,—the only English dress in which this great

philosopher has till now appeared. Abundant use has been made of the

Latin interpretations dispersed through Stallbaum’s notes;—and the

translator has not scrupled to avail himself of the valuable aid

derivable from the French versions of Leroy, Cousin, and Martin, and the

German versions of Schleiermacher and Schneider, the latter of which,

only recently published, deserves the highest praise for its extreme

correctness and perspicuity.

Notes have been added, where the meaning seemed to require explanation

or illustration, as well as to indicate any variation in the text;—and

when any of the other dialogues have been referred to, the quotation

is given from Serranus’s edition, printed by Henry Stephens, 1578, in

three volumes folio,—the last of which comprises the dialogues here

translated. Separate introductions preface each dialogue;—and the

volume opens with a brief account of the Platonic philosophy

generally,—carefully compiled from the writings of Ritter, Van Heusde,

Trendelenburg, and Bishop Hampden. On the whole, therefore, it is

hoped that this volume will be found acceptable, not only to the

classical student, but also to the general reader, as a correct and

pleasing exposition of pure Platonism.

GENERAL INTRODUCTION.

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PART I.

ON THE PLATONIC PHILOSOPHY GENERALLY.

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Almost contemporaneously among the learned of Europe, there has arisen a

tendency to study the sublime, spiritual philosophy of Plato, in

preference to the cold materialism of Aristotle, on which have been

erected so many of the systems that have risen and had their day in our

literary world. That this has not hitherto been the case, and that

Platonism (which, in its spiritualising and purifying tendency, may be

deemed to approach Christianity,) has not hitherto been exalted to its

true dignity and station in metaphysical history, is chiefly

attributable to the absurd mysticism and fanatical extravagances which

the New Platonists introduced in their interpretations, and which have

too frequently been regarded as true expositions of the great

philosopher, by modern writers either too lazy or too ignorant to go and

drink the clear waters at the fountain-head. Plato himself wrote

wonderfully little that cannot be comprehended by a reflective mind;—and

the more his works are studied in themselves, and apart from false

interpretation, the more will his acute intelligence, practical good

sense, and pure morality, become apparent, and the higher will he rise

in the respect and admiration of the Christian philosopher.

Our present object is, to give a concise view of the philosophic

doctrines of Plato, as a sort of general key to his Dialogues viewed as

a whole;—and we propose to give, by way of introduction, a short account

of the life of this man of mighty mind, this “Maximus philosophorum,” of

whom Eusebius so beautifully observes, that “he alone, of all the

Greeks, reached to the vestibule of truth, and stood upon its

threshold.”

The true moral history of Plato is to be discovered wholly in his

writings. As for the details of his external life, the records of

antiquity furnish information so varying, contradictory, and uncertain,

as to render it difficult to distinguish the true from the false—the

authentic from the fabulous. The following statement, however, may be

relied on, as generally correct.

Plato, the son of Ariston and Perictione or Potona, was born (probably

in the island of Ægina, then occupied by Athenians) in the month

Thargelion (May), _anno_ 429 A. C., in the third year of the

eighty-seventh Olympiad, about the time of Pericles’s death. By his

mother’s side he was descended from Codrus and Solon;—and he was

connected with the most distinguished families and most renowned

political men of his day. His youth falls in the time of the

Peloponnesian war; and his whole life is closely connected with that

brilliant period when the literature of Attica, historical, dramatic,

and rhetorical, was at the zenith of its glory,—at a time, however, (we

must add,) when the seeds of Athenian decay were being rapidly brought

to maturity by the substitution of a base and brutalizing ochlocracy for

the rational government of good and patriotic men,—and by the elevation

of a troop of superficial, seductive, truth-perverting, applause-loving

sophists to the throne of true, noble, elevating, divine philosophy. He

received the best education that Athens could furnish; being taught

reading, writing, and literary knowledge (γράμματα), by Dionysius,

gymnastics by Ariston an Argive wrestler, music by Metellus of

Agrigentum and Draco of Athens, and the elements of the Heracleitean

philosophy by Cratylus and Hermogenes. He had but little inclination for

political life; for, besides being unfitted for it by a retiring habit

and weak voice, he was utterly disgusted by the endless changes that

occurred in the governments of Greece, by the corruptions of the

Athenian democracy, and by the depravity of Athenian manners. His

studies were happily promoted by an early cultivation of poetry, in

which many of his essays were far from unsuccessful; and his works

betray a very considerable acquaintance with mathematical science. It

was by Socrates, however, that his mind was imbued with that true

philosophic spirit, which gave a right direction and exalted object to

all his after-pursuits. His intercourse with this pure, simple-minded

moralist began, when he was twenty years old (B. C. 410), and lasted

nearly eleven years; during which time he carried on his studies and

inquiries by means of books or oral instruction from others, but in all

cases consulting his favourite master, as the interpreter, commentator,

and critic of the various philosophical studies in which he was engaged.

This, indeed, is the view which Plato has given us of Socrates

throughout the Dialogues;—for the latter seldom or never appears in them

as a didactic expounder of truth, but rather as the critic of opinions,

doctrines, and systems,—the judge, in short, to whom everything is to be

submitted for approval, or rejection, or modification, as the case may

be.

After the persecution and death of his divine master (so beautifully and

pathetically related in the Phædo), Plato went to Megara, where he is

said to have attended the Lectures of Euclid; and he then spent several

years in travel, far distant from the past and the future scene of his

philosophical labours:—nor can there be any question, but that they were

years of great importance to him for developing the peculiar character

of his philosophy. He visited Megara, Cyrene, the Greek cities in Magna

Græcia and Sicily, (where he became acquainted with Archytas, Philolaus,

and others of the Pythagorean school;) and he travelled even as far as

Egypt, where he stayed thirteen years in gaining an insight into the

mysterious doctrines and priest-lore of the sacerdotal caste. At three

different periods he visited the court of Dionysius, tyrant of Sicily,

and made several attempts to subdue his haughty spirit. It was during

the first of these residences (B. C. 389), that he was employed in the

instruction of Dion, the king’s brother-in-law; and in his efforts to

rescue his pupil from the general depravity of the court, he was not

disappointed. Dion, inspired with the love of wisdom, was desirous of

introducing his preceptor to Dionysius the tyrant; but Plato’s discourse

with him being levelled against the vices and cruelties of his reign,

the tyrant conceived a violent prejudice against him and formed a design

against his life, which, by the aid of Dion, Plato happily managed to

escape. His captivity in Ægina, which was brought about by the agents of

Dionysius the elder, happily ended in his manumission, through the

kindness of his friend Anicerris; and he then returned to Athens, there

to found his celebrated School in the Academy. Here he lectured during

twenty-two years, and then undertook a second journey to Syracuse at the

instigation of Dion, who hoped, by the philosophical lessons of Plato,

to inform and improve the ill-educated mind of his nephew, the new ruler

of Syracuse—Dionysius the younger. This prince, it is said, had been

brought up by his father wholly destitute of an enlightened education;

and Plato now attempted the improvement of his mind by philosophy. This

second journey is placed B. C. 367; and he stayed four months in Sicily.

It seems to have been a part also of the plan laid down by Dion and

himself, to bring about a wholesome reform in the Sicilian constitution,

and to give it a more aristocratic character. Whatever may have been

their intentions, however, they were all frustrated by the weak and

luxurious character of Dionysius, who, however he might relish for a

time the sage and virtuous lessons of Plato, soon found it more

conformable to his personal interests to follow the counsels of

Philiston, his father’s friend and adviser. Dion thereupon became the

object of his nephew’s jealousy, and was banished on the ground of his

ambitious designs. In this juncture, Plato did not long stay in

Syracuse, where his position would have been, at best, only ambiguous.

He returned once more to Athens; but in consequence of some fresh

disagreements between Dionysius and Dion with respect to the property of

the latter, he was induced (B. C. 361) to take a third journey to

Syracuse. So far, however, from effecting the expected reconciliation,

he came himself to an open rupture with the tyrant, and was in great

personal danger, till relieved by his philosophic friends at Tarentum.

From this time he appears to have passed his old age in tranquillity,

engaged with the instruction of his numerous disciples and the

prosecution of his literary labours. He died, while yet actively

employed in teaching, _Olymp._ 108, _circ. anno_ 348 B. C.

He was succeeded as Lecturer in the Academy, by his nephew Speusippus;

and among his principal followers may be mentioned, Hippothales and

Callippus of Athens, Xenocrates of Chalcedon, Aristotle of Stageira,

Dion of Syracuse, Demosthenes the orator, and the philosopher

Theophrastus.

The works of Plato, it scarcely need be mentioned, consist of a long

series of Dialogues, in all of which, except the Laws, the principal

interlocutor is Socrates. The form of dialogue he was certainly not the

first to introduce into philosophy; and it seems probable, that his

adoption of this form of composition flowed rather out of the subject

than from any desire of direct imitation. The Eleatic dialectics, with

which Platonism is strongly imbued, could only be explained in the form

of question and answer; and besides, that Plato should write in the form

of dialogue seems to be the natural consequence of his wish to

investigate and analyse dialectically, and after the manner of Socrates,

the various questions of philosophy then in vogue. And so Schleiermacher

remarks:—“In every way, not accidentally only or from practice and

tradition, but necessarily and naturally, Plato’s was a Socratic method,

and, indeed, as regards the uninterrupted and progressive reciprocation,

and the deeper impression made upon the mind of the hearer, to be

certainly as much preferred to that of his master, as the scholar

excelled him, as well in constructive dialectics as in richness and

compass of subjective intuition,” And further,—“if we look only to the

immediate purpose, that writing, as regarded by himself and his

followers, was only to be a remembrance of thoughts already current

among them (ἄγραφα γράμματα)—Plato considers all thought so much like

spontaneous activity, that, with him, a remembrance of this kind of what

has been already acquired, must necessarily be so of the first and

original mode of acquisition. Hence, on that account alone, the

dialogistic form, necessary as an imitation of that original and

reciprocal communication, would be as indispensable and natural to his

writings as to his oral instruction.” But, however essentially different

the _form_ of the dialogues adopted by Plato from that pursued by other

writers, they were composed, as respects their matter, with constant

reference to the labours of his predecessors. In fact, his whole system

is rather critical and eclectic than dogmatical; and several of his

dialogues assume the form of criticisms on the notions of former

philosophers, rather than the formal developments of any doctrines of

his own. He was thoroughly conversant not only with the leading

principles and peculiar system of Socrates, but had no mean

acquaintance, besides, with the notions of Pythagoras, Heracleitus,

Parmenides, Empedocles, Zeno, Anaxagoras, and Protagoras,—extracts from

whose writings, with animadversions on their opinions, are abundantly

scattered throughout his works. Yet, however much Plato may have learnt

from the philosophic works of his predecessors, while he borrowed some

of his leading ideas from his great master Socrates, we should

nevertheless be treating him most unjustly, were we to regard him merely

as a compiler and systematiser of what had been before promulgated, and

so deny him all claim to the merit of being a great original thinker.

His entire system is based, in fact, on some grand and novel ideas,

perhaps faintly shadowed forth by others, but never clearly unfolded

till the time of Plato. The opposition between the general law and the

particular facts, between the objects of reflection and the objects of

the senses, between the world of intelligence and the visible world, was

never clearly proclaimed till Plato announced it. Socrates, indeed,

awakened the germ of science, and laid the foundation of dialectics; but

it was Plato who gave system and consistency to the whole. Socrates had

not the mental capacity or education to arrange his thoughts on any

definite plan;—whereas the kindred genius of Plato was happily fostered

by every encouraging influence, and he stepped in to elaborate

completely the plan of which his master had merely sketched the first

rude outline.

We proceed next to consider the chronological arrangement of the

Platonic Dialogues, and the natural division according to which they

should be classified.[1] The most obvious arrangement is according to

their chronological order;—and viewing them in this light, we may divide

them into three classes. In the _first_ are those written by Plato

before he set out on his travels,—namely, the Lysis, Phædrus, Laches,

Hippias major, Protagoras, Charmides, Ion, Menon, Alcibiades i.,

Euthydemus, Euthyphron, Crito, and the Apology of Socrates;—in the

_second_ are those which he drew up on his return from his travels, and

before his second journey to Sicily,—namely, the Gorgias, Theætetus,

Sophistes, Politicus, Cratylus, Parmenides, the Symposium, Menexenus,

Philebus, and Phædo; and in the _third_ we place those written in more

advanced life, when his views had become matured, and his doctrines

thoroughly digested into one harmonious system,—namely, that noble

trilogy comprising the Timæus, Critias, and Republic,—to which may be

added the long dialogue of the Laws, which, though perfectly genuine, is

but loosely connected with the general system of Plato’s philosophy, and

seems to be quite an extraneous section of this part of his writings.

Schleiermacher, however, has presented us with a classification of a

different kind, based on their subject-matter, and on an acute and

careful examination of the connexion of thought running through the

Dialogues. He arranges them under three heads:—1. _Elementary

Dialogues_, containing the germs of all that follows,—of Logic as the

instrument of philosophy, and of Ideas as its proper object,—viz., the

Phædrus, Protagoras, and Parmenides, the Lysis, Laches, Charmides, and

Euthyphron, to which he appends also, the Apology, Crito, Io, and

Hippias minor;—2. _Progressive Dialogues_, which treat of the

distinction between scientific and common knowledge in their united

application to Moral and Physical science,—viz., the Gorgias, Theætetus,

Menon, Euthydemus, Cratylus, Sophistes, Politicus, the Symposium, Phædo,

and Philebus, with an Appendix containing the Erast, first Alcibiades,

Menexenus, and Hippias major;—3. _Constructive Dialogues_, containing an

objective scientific exposition, in which the practical and speculative

are completely united,—viz., the Timæus, the Critias, and the Republic,

with an Appendix comprising the Laws, Epistles, &c. It is clear also

that the Dialogues will allow of yet another mode of arrangement,

according to their contents,—as being either Dialectical, Ethical, or

Physical:—this division, indeed, is clearly discernible in his works,

though several may not be assignable to any one part in

particular:—thus, the Theætetus and its two connected dialogues,—the

Gorgias and Protagoras, with the Cratylus and the Sophistes, are clearly

dialectical; the Phædrus, Philebus, Republic, and Laws are ethical, and

the Timæus is exclusively physical. If, however, we would view the

Dialogues as a whole, with all its parts fully harmonising, we should

inquire what was the philosopher’s great object visible throughout those

writings. Mr. Sewell answers this very satisfactorily;—we shall give his

own expressive, glowing words:—“Plato’s great object was man. He lived

with man, felt as a man, held intercourse with kings, interested himself

deeply in the political revolutions of Sicily, was the pupil of one,

whose boast it was to have brought down philosophy from heaven to earth,

that it might raise man up from earth to heaven; and, above all, he was

a witness and an actor in the midst of that ferment of humanity

exhibited in the democracy of Athens. The object constantly before the

eyes of Plato was the incorporated spirit, the μέγα θρέμμα of human

lawlessness; he saw it, indeed, in an exhausted state, its power passed

away, its splendour torn off, and all the sores and ulcers which former

demagogues had pampered and concealed, now laid bare and beyond cure.”

Indeed, as the same writer well observes;—“the state of the Athenian

democracy is the real clue to the philosophy of Plato. It would be

proved, if by nothing else, by one little touch in the Republic. _The

Republic is the summary of his whole system, and the key-stones of all

the other Dialogues are uniformly let into it._ But the object of the

Republic is to exhibit the misery of man let loose from law, and to

throw out a general plan for making him subject to law, and thus to

perfect his nature. This is exhibited on a large scale in the person of

a State; and in the masterly historical sketch which, in the eighth and

ninth Books, he draws of the changes of society, having painted in the

minutest detail the form of a licentious democracy, he fixes it by the

slightest allusion (it was perhaps all that he could hazard) on the

existing state of Athens; and then passes on to a frightful prophecy of

that tyranny which would inevitably follow. All the other dialogues

bring us to the Republic, and the Republic brings us to this as its end

and aim.”

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Footnote 1:

We have particularised here only those Dialogues which are usually

regarded as genuine. The Hipparchus, Minos, Alcibiades ii, Clitophon,

Theages, Eryxias, Demodocus, Epinomis, and the Letters, are of

disputable origin, and to be assigned, probably, to some of Plato’s

followers.

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We may now proceed to take a general review of the Platonic philosophy,

and his theory of Ideas in particular, an intelligent acquaintance with

which is wholly indispensable to the student of Plato.

The Platonic philosophy, be it understood, begins and ends, as do the

lessons of Socrates, with an acknowledgment of human ignorance,—the

only true starting-place of sound scientific investigation. Imitating

his master’s example, Plato did not so much endeavour to _teach_, in

the strict sense of the word, as to explore men’s minds, and ascertain

how far they really comprehended the doctrines and opinions which they

professed. Taking for granted that all current opinions are true,

_because_ they are current, was the great fault of the Sophists, who

taught entirely πρὸς δόξαν, relative to opinion;—whereas, with

Socrates and Plato, the preliminary investigation respecting their

truth or falsehood was ALL IN ALL,—any prior assumption of their truth

being positively inadmissible; because, without investigation, it was

impossible to _know_ and be sure of the truth of opinions. The method

of Plato, accordingly, is the reverse of the didactic method employed

by the Sophists, who assumed principles as true, and on these grounds

proceeded to argue and persuade. The Socratic method, on the other

hand, consisted in putting questions with the view of eliciting

replies bearing-on the point in debate,—in simply inquiring and

_pronouncing_ so far only as the answer is approved or rejected,—in a

word, educing the truth by simply bringing the answerer to teach

himself:—and hence it was, that the popular opponents of this method

decried it, as one producing doubt, and therefore of dangerous

tendency. With Plato, however, as with Socrates, the awakening of

doubt was not merely a vain display of logical skill and clever

cavilling, but had for its object the removal of the unstable ground

on which opinions may have been rested, and the formation of more

settled convictions:—indeed, it was exalted by him into a regular

discipline of the mind set in operation for the single purpose of

investigating the truth. The method and discipline by which he

accomplishes this object is, what he calls DIALECTIC, which, as

opposed to the plans of the Sophists, may be termed the true art of

Discussion; and, as contrasted with the mere wisdom of opinion, (the

δοξοσοφία of the Sophists,) it was philosophy—real science—the

knowledge of the truth. The ground of his whole proceeding was the

Fallaciousness of Opinion; and hence Plato had to seek some _criterion

of Truth_, apart from mere opinion. Denying the sufficiency of

_subjective_ truth (_i. e._ the assumption that the mental perceptions

are true simply because they take place), he set himself to search

after _objective_ truth—truth independent of the mind of man and not

affected by the variations of human judgment—as a foundation of his

system of knowledge. Involved with the notion of the Fallaciousness of

Opinion, another is closely allied,—_the Fallaciousness of the

Senses_; and it is the joint application of these two fundamental

principles, which unites his method and his philosophy in one

master-science,—Dialectic. True knowledge, unlike that derived through

the senses, is founded purely on the apprehensions of the intellect,

without any intervention whatever of the senses;—and so also

Dialectic, as being philosophy, is occupied about that which exists

(τὸ ὄντως ὄν), or has Being, in opposition to the presentations made

to the senses, which are conversant only with those things that have

the semblance of being (τὰ φαινομένα);—while, as a method, it

investigates the reason or account of the Being of everything,—of

everything as it IS, and not as it APPEARS, not being satisfied with

opinions, of which no account can be given, but bringing all to the

test of exact argument and definition. Plato thought it his first

business, therefore, to give his method a firm basis by establishing

at the outset a sound Theory of Being, as a sure Criterion of

Truth;—and this is his celebrated Theory of IDEAS.

Plato conceived, that Opinion, in contradistinction from Knowledge,

is grounded _on sensation and becoming_ (τὸ γιγνόμενον). To man,

indeed, such sensation is absolutely necessary; because the soul

resides in the body, which is itself a compound thing, subject to

continual decay and reproduction,—the connexion between the two

consisting in the reciprocal communication either of action or

passion by means of their respective faculties. Hence sensation is

clearly regarded as an effect produced by the union of the soul with

the body; and Plato did not fail to observe that although sensation,

strictly speaking, has cognisance only of corporeal qualities, there

are certain internal states of the soul which have no immediate

reference to the corporeal. The soul, in short, receives sensations

through the sensuous mechanism; but it has moreover, (in addition to

the power which it exercises through the instrumentality of the

bodily organs,) a distinct faculty of investigating by itself the

abstract properties of all sensations; “appearing,” as it is said in

the Theætetus (p. 185. b.) “to have the power of inspecting the

common properties of all things.” In accordance with this view,

Plato distinguishes what is apprehended by the senses (τὸ αἰσθητόν)

from that of which we become cognisant by means of reflection

(διάνοια) through the understanding or rational contemplation

(λογισμός or νόησις);—the former being in a continual state of

transition or becoming (τὰ γιγνόμενα), whereas the latter (τὰ ὄντα)

are constant and permanent, unproduced, imperishable, and ever

identical with themselves, belonging to οὐσία and capable of

becoming the objects of science or certain knowledge. Such are the

notions of genus and species, the laws and ends of nature, as also

the principles of cognition and moral action, and the essences of

individual, concrete, thinking souls;—respecting all of which may be

predicted an εἶδος, which closely corresponds with what we now

designate—_a general term_. (Comp. Republ. vii. p. 532, a., with

Phileb. p. 15. a., and Tim. p. 51. c.) It is in this sense, then,

that he says of science in general (which seeks in the ideas to

seize the essence of things), that its object is to exhibit

everything as it is, by itself, absolutely, (τὸ αὐτὸ καθ’ αὑτὸ, or

τὸ αὑτὸ ἕκαστον, as in Republ. vi. p. 494. a.) and that the ideas

themselves invariably maintain their proper nature, character, and

identity. All things else, therefore, besides ideas, have only so

far a reality, as they participate therein;—all being formed out of

ideas and numbers,[2]—sensible things merely resembling ideas and

being, as copies do originals,—just as Plato himself observes in the

tenth Book of the Republic,—speaking of a couch, οὐ τὸ ὃν, ἀλλά τι

τοιοῦτον οἷον τὸ ὂν. Inquiry, however, must necessarily lead men

from one idea to others in connexion therewith; and on this account

Plato regarded individual ideas as hypothetical notions, for which a

true foundation can only be given by an idea not requiring

explanation and confirmed also by some higher supposition or idea.

He wished, indeed, through the realisation of the lower ideas to

rise to a knowledge of the highest, which represents the principle

of all things,—in short, the idea of God,—God, the measure of all

things (not man, as Protagoras held),—God, the beginning, the

middle, and the end of all,—the Supreme Idea, containing in itself

all others, and the unity which in itself comprises the true essence

of all things.

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Footnote 2:

Θεὸς οὕτω δὴ τότε πεφυκότα ταῦτα πρῶτον διεσχηματίσατο εἴδεσί τε καὶ

ἀριθμοῖς. “God thus truly formed these things as they first arose

according to ideas and numbers.”—Tim. p. 53. b.

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In conclusion, as Ritter succinctly and well observes, “Plato attempted

to account for the existence of the sensible world, by the ideas alone,

without recourse to any other nature, alien and foreign to them; and in

this attempt to make the transition from the ideal to the sensible,

there is much that is vague and indeterminate.” The source of this

vagueness lies principally in the insufficiency of the distinction which

he makes between different ideas, as indicating either a substantial and

absolute entity, or a mere relation or property. To this must be added

the vague and indeterminate sense of the Platonic idea of the essence

which is exhibited by the ideas severally. In this respect Aristotle

does not seem to be to blame, when he asks how ideas or lifeless numbers

can possibly have a desire, or longing, notwithstanding that we are

constrained to admit that, according to Plato, some ideas, at least,

that of the soul for instance,—must be supposed to be endued with life.

Again, the distinction which is made between ideas in their unity and

totality, and ideas in their opposition to each other, is extremely

vague; although it is the basis on which the whole theory rests. If

moreover, we admit that, according to man’s true and real nature, the

world of ideas is his proper home, and that he there contemplates the

true essence of things, as is implied in the doctrine of reminiscence,

it becomes difficult to account for his removal from so perfect a state

of being, into the present imperfect existence. Finally, Plato was

forced to have recourse to the notion, that there is an impelling

necessity in the secondary causes, the ground of which was the

supposition, that there must be a something opposite to good. In this

there is undoubtedly contained a very ancient cast of thought, still the

very indefinite nature of this necessity shows that, after all his

attempts to reconcile the supra-sensible with the sensible, Plato still

found in it something inexplicable. Thus much at least is certain, that

on the one hand, the tendency of his views was to refer all real entity

to the immutable ideas, and consequently to consider the sensible more

as an unsubstantial shadow than a reality; while, on the other, he seems

never to have forgotten that the only point of view from which

philosophical speculation is possible, lies on the sensible, and so

again the reality of the sensible appears to be a necessary supposition

of his system. In these two tendencies, we may recognise the

well-balanced and measured character of his mind. To discover their true

connection however, was granted neither to Plato nor his age; nor can we

wonder, then, that he should have had recourse to many vague and loose

conceptions in order to explain it, none of which, however, eventually

satisfied his own mind.

The dialectic of Plato, however great its defects may be estimated,

presents, nevertheless, a worthy image of the pure philosophical

feeling. This Plato assumed to be grounded in love and in a longing

after the eternal ideas, by the contemplation of which the mortal soul

sustains itself, and by perpetual renovation becomes participant in

immortality. Stimulated by such a desire, the philosophical mind or soul

strives to attain, as far as possible, to a perfect remembrance of ideas

which are the eternal essence of things, the memory of them being

awakened by sensible phenomena, which are resemblances of the ideas and

real entity, and thereby serve as means by which the cognition of real

being becomes attainable. But while the sensible, by bringing to mind

this resemblance to real entity, is subservient to the efforts of the

reasonable soul, it also impedes and limits it in its pursuits of the

true, since the sensuous representations contain as much of

irresemblance as of resemblance. But the greatest impediment to

philosophical investigation arises from the constant flux of sensation

which allows it no stability. Flowing on in a continual series of

production and decay, sensible things are constantly changing their

state and never exhibit the full perfection of the subsistent. They

comprise at once entity and non-entity, and it is not the true standard

and the all-sufficient which they represent, but only the relative,

which constantly varies by greater or less from the measure of the true

and substantive entity. It was to this that Plato looked when he thought

he had discovered in the ideas of the other and the relatively great and

little, the grounds of the sensible matter of mutability. But contingent

being is only for the absolute, a mean merely by which the resemblance

to ideas is manifested in sensible things; and, viewed in this light,

ideas must appear as the ends of sensible existence, and as the standard

by which the true therein is to be measured. A multiplicity of ends

having been admitted, it followed that there must also be a last end,—an

ultimatum in the realm of ideas,—therefore a _supreme idea_. This result

follows from the consideration of the mutual relation of ideas, for one

idea must be explained by another, and thus we proceed through a series

of subordinate ideas up to higher and higher, in order to reduce them by

a legitimate synthesis into unity, until at last we arrive at the

highest idea, and then again, by a converse method, to descend by

analysis from the supreme unity to the multiplicity of subordinate

ideas. In this higher and lower ordination, each subordinate idea

requires merely as a supposition until it is shown by the latter to be

legitimate. But from such hypotheses or suppositions the mind must at

last arrive at that which implies nothing else, and is in itself

sufficient; of this kind is the nature of good, which, exhausting all

true entity, is itself in want of nothing, but is desired by all. This

idea of good, or God, is consequently the key-stone of all rational

investigation. It embraces whatever subsists without difference, in time

or space,—all truth and science, all substances and all reason, being

neither reason nor essence, but being superior to, unites both within

itself. It is the source of motion to all, for all has a desire towards

it, and consequently it is the mistress of all generation, in which

nought is true beyond its resemblance of the good. However, from some

impelling necessity, evil, the opposite of good, is in generation mixed

up with it. Man, therefore, as living in this scene of production and

decay, cannot attain to a complete knowledge of the unity of good; for

to him truth, and the science of truth, appear in opposition to each

other, and it is not permitted to mortal nature to contemplate the

eternal, in its absolute essence, but merely as shadowed forth in the

temporal. God, then, is the good itself, of which this sensible world is

only an image. But in the present world it ought to be man’s endeavour

to enlarge and cultivate his science, in order that, by attaining to as

pure a knowledge as possible of the multiplicity of ideas, he may be

able to discern therein, however imperfectly, the unity of truth and

science which subsists in the good.

PART II.

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PLATO’S VIEWS ON ETHICS AND POLITICS.

GENERAL SKETCH OF THE SUBJECT-MATTER OF

THE REPUBLIC.

The notions entertained by Plato on Political Science will be best

understood by viewing them in connexion with his ethical doctrines, from

which, indeed, he considered them inseparable. The two leading

principles on which his moral system reposes, are—first, that no one is

willingly evil (κακὸς μὲν ἑκὼν οὐδεὶς), and, secondly, that _every one

is endued with the power of producing moral changes in his own moral

character_,—which, indeed, are only the counterpart ethical _changes in

his moral character_;—and these are only the corresponding ethical

expressions of the theory of _Immutable Being_, on the one hand, and, on

the other, of _the world of sensible things_ (τὰ γιγνόμενα),—everything

that is born and perishes,—a principle which places in the strongest

possible contrast the mutability and false appearances of this world

with the true and immutable of the Deity, whom Plato conceived to be not

only the measure of all things and the pattern of his own perfections,

having the supreme good for the object of all his operations, but

likewise as the only real Idea of Good, in comparison with which the

best strivings and conceptions of man are but tendencies and

approximations. So truly is it said in the Phædo, that “all things

desire to be of the same quality as the _summum bonum_, but yet are ever

inferior to it.” Philosophy and morals, in fact, perfectly coincide in

their object,—the love of truth being the love of good, and the love of

good the love of truth;—and morality, viewed _per se_, is the one motive

of the love of truth and good predominating over, purifying, and

absorbing into itself every desire of human nature,—is, in fact, the

purifying of the soul, the perfecting of virtue, the discipline of

immortality, the resemblance and participation of the Deity.[3]

-----

Footnote 3:

“As the rational soul can only involuntarily be subject to ignorance,

_it is only against its will that it can be evil_. Every volition, by

its essential nature, pursues the good; no one is willing to be

subject to evil or to become bad, inasmuch as the end of volition is

not the immediate act, but the object for the sake of which the act is

undertaken; and no man enters on any act or undertaking, except for

the sake of ultimate good. Now a man, when engaging in any act

apparently good, may err, and choose the evil instead of the good; but

in that case he labours under _an involuntary error_, and does not

what he really desires, but what, in spite of his wishes, seems to him

either as an immediate good or a mean to ultimate good.”—Ritter’s

History of Philos. (Morrison’s Tr.) ii. 387.

-----

Of Plato’s moral doctrines, the most important are the following:—that,

independently of other ends, virtue is to be pursued as the true good of

the soul,[4] the proper perfection of man’s nature, the power by which

the soul fitly accomplishes its existence,[5] whereas vice is a disease

of the mind (Republ. iv. 444. c.), arising from delusion or imperfect

apprehension of our proper interests;—that the real freedom of a

rational being consists in an ability to regulate his conduct by reason,

and that every one not guided by his reason, encourages insubordination

in the mental faculties, and becomes the slave of caprice or passion;

(πολλῆς μὲν δουλείας τε ϗ̀ ἀνελευθερίας γέμει ἡ ψυχὴ αὐτοῦ. Republ. ix.

577. d.)—that virtuous conduct, apart from its benefits to society, is

advantageous to the individual practising it, inasmuch as it ensures

that regularity of the imagination,—that tranquillity and internal

harmony, which constitutes the mind’s proper happiness.[6] He,

throughout, and with great power, contends for the earnestness of a

virtuous mind in the attainment of truth, and inculcates the propriety

of pursuing the ordinary pleasures of life,[7] only so far as they are

subservient to, or compatible with, man’s higher and nobler duties. In

the fourth Book of the Laws, there is a pretty complete summary of the

salient features in Plato’s theory of morals,—a condensed view of which

will be found in the article “Plato” of the Encyclopædia

Metropolitana:—the remarks with which it closes—on the coincidence of

the precepts of morality with the conclusions of prudence and

enlightened self-love,—are both happily conceived and well expressed.

-----

Footnote 4:

Gorg. p. 506. e.

Footnote 5:

Republ. i. p. 353. d.

Footnote 6:

Republ. ix. p. 591. d.

Footnote 7:

Democritus, Aristippus, and the Sophists had taught that _good

consists in pleasure_;—and Plato, in his refutation of this vicious

doctrine, does not deny that pleasure belongs to the good things of

life, but only seeks to determine its relative value. Pleasures, too,

are of two kinds,—some simple and pure, dependant on the bodily or

intellectual organisation,—others mixed or impure, as being always

combined with more or less of pain. The latter are only relatively

pleasures, inasmuch as they are incapable of affording pleasure except

by the gratification of some want; whereas true enjoyment consists in

those pure delights which do not arise after pain, but which the soul

experiences, when filled with the contemplation of true being.

(Republ. ix. p. 585. d.)—Ritter’s History of Philos. ii. p. 390.

-----

Plato conceived that there were two great causes of human corruption,

viz., _bad or ill-directed education_, and _the corrupt influence of the

body on the soul_. His ethical discussions, therefore, have for their

object, the limiting of the desires, and the cure of the diseases

produced by them in the soul; while his political discussions have for

their immediate object, the laying down of right principles of

education, and enforcing them by the constitution of the laws and the

power of the State. His two great works, in fact,—the Republic and the

Laws,—may be considered as theories and plans of civic education, rather

than schemes of legislation and details of laws. The former, it is true,

inquires more particularly into the principles on which a right

government may be formed, and the latter presents a systematic view of

the principles of legislation:—but, comprising, as both works do, so

much matter of a purely intellectual and ethical character, we are

compelled to conclude that their primary object is, the improvement of

human nature by social institutions expressly formed for that purpose.

We are not to suppose, moreover, that Plato, in his Republic, had in

view the actual foundation of a State, but that he presents rather an

example of the most perfect life—public as well as private—free from

those impediments which all existing governments and laws throw across

the path of the virtuous. Thus, in the Laws (_lib._ vii.), he says—“Our

whole government consists in the imitation of a most excellent and

virtuous life;” and again, “these excellent things are rather as wishes

stated in a fable than actual facts, though it would be best of all if

they could exist in all States.” He thought, in fact, that as Philosophy

is the guide of private life, elevating it to the knowledge of the true

and the good, so it was seated, likewise, on the throne of government,

and exhibited the eternal ideas of social good and truth,—modifying

society after their pattern;—and hence is it, that (as Aristotle

observes in the second Book of his Politics, ch. 2,) Plato overlooks

impossibilities in his arrangements, and sacrifices all to the one great

object of sketching _the idea of good as a social principle_, apart from

the evil influences of society.

We shall now proceed to describe at some length the subject-matter of

the Republic; and we shall just remark, that if the work itself had been

more studied, there would have been far less difference of opinion

respecting the nature and object of this Dialogue. In fact, no

exposition or theory can explain Plato, who is, above all others, a

writer to be studied in his own works; and his character as a writer and

philosopher would have been far higher in general estimation at the

present day, if there had been fewer to pronounce sentence on him

without having read a single syllable of his writings.

The Republic of Plato is _a development of the analogy between the ideas

of the perfect man and the perfect State_,—the two principles being

elaborated throughout the Dialogue, in perfect harmony and mutual

dependance on each other. He exhibits, indeed, the image of perfect and

consummate virtue, such as ought to be seen in the whole life of man,

whether in his private capacity simply, as a sentient and moral agent,

or in his public position as the member of a State. As man, moreover,

has certain special social relations and social functions, he considers

him also collectively, as part of a State, and is hence led to inquire

into the best or pattern form of a State,—a proceeding quite in unison

with the custom of the Greeks, who treated Politics rather as a branch

of Ethics than a separate science. This Dialogue, therefore,—one of that

splendid group of which the Timæus, the Critias, and the Laws are the

other members,—comprises two subjects constantly connected and

cohering,—the contemplation of the perfectly good man, composed of body

and soul on the one hand, and on the other the perfectly good State,

composed of many members in different classes, performing their

respective functions. Justice, then,—the principle, cause, and uniting

bond of all the other virtues,—one, too, that is essentially of a

political character—forms a very suitable discussion by way of

introduction to this Dialogue. The refutation of incorrect or inadequate

definitions of this virtue, occupies a large portion of the first

Book;—and Socrates (the hero of this, as of most other of the Platonic

Dialogues), then proceeds, with the view of educing some abstract

definition of justice, to explain his notion of a perfect State, as one

in which all ranks of its members accurately fulfil their respective

functions, dwelling together in harmony.

Commencing with the consideration of Virtue, (which consists in the

harmonious cultivation of the different intellectual and moral

faculties,) he opens the inquiry with a kind of analysis of the human

mind, which he divides into three parts,—first, _the rational or

reasoning principle_, (τὸ λογιστικὸν),—secondly, _the spirit or will_,

(τὸ θυμικὸν or θυμοειδὲς),—and thirdly, _the appetite or passion_ (τὸ

ἐπιθυμητικὸν),[8]—which last, however, indicates nothing beyond that

vital impulse which leads from one sensation to another. Of these

faculties the most excellent is Reason, whose proper province is to

direct and controul the other faculties; and of the operations of this

faculty Plato forms several divisions (at the close of the sixth Book),

according as the ideas are abstract, mixed, or material,—the νόησις

constituting the knowledge of pure ideas, the διάνοια that of mixed

ideas, πίστις that of actually existing materials and their affections,

and εἰκασία the knowledge of the images or shadows of bodies,[9]—these

divisions including—first, ἐπιστήμη (true science), and secondly,

opinion true or false, (δόξα).[10] So much for Reason (τὸ λογιστικὸν).

Now,—intermediate between Reason and Passion (τὸ ἐπιθυμητικὸν) is the

Will or Spirit, which should be an assistant to Reason (ἐπίκουρον ὂν τῷ

λογιστικῷ φύσει) in the pursuit of virtue, and should oppose the

indulgence of base desires,—all desires being legitimately under the

controul of the Reason and the Will.[11] Furthermore,—from the exercise

and combination of these three faculties there are generated four

principal or cardinal virtues:—1. Prudence or Wisdom (φρόνησις);—2.

Courage or Fortitude (ἀνδρεία), by which Plato means the maintenance of

right opinion as to what is and is not to be feared, (περὶ τῶν δεινῶν,)

_i. e._ as to good and evil;[12]—3. Temperance or Self-controul

(σωφροσύνη);[13]—and 4. Justice (δικαιοσύνη), which, with Plato, does

not simply mean the virtue of rendering to all their due, but stands for

that harmonious and proportional development of the inner man, by means

of which each faculty of his soul performs its own functions without

interfering with the others[14] (μὴ ἐάσαντα τἀλλότρια πράττειν ἕκαστον

ἐν αὑτῷ μηδὲ πολυπραγμονεῖν πρὸς ἄλληλα). Just or virtuous actions,

then, says he, consist in the performance of actions agreeable to the

nature of the soul,[15] whereas the contrary comprise such as are

discordant to a right nature, and productive of mental disturbance and

agitation. In the realization of this Justice, in short, consists Virtue

itself, which Plato defines to be “a certain health and beauty and good

habit of the soul,” exercising the nobler parts of our nature in the

contemplation of philosophy and more particularly the _summum bonum_ (τὸ

ἀγαθόν), the practical realization of which should be the chief aim of

the State constituted in the soul.[16]

-----

Footnote 8:

Ritter, ii. p. 363.

Footnote 9:

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

Footnote 10:

Plato’s system of Ideas (εἴδη) consists, strictly speaking, of what we

now term generalization and abstraction,—the main part of the

definition _real_, and he seems to have constructed his theory as a

mean between the Heraclitean doctrine of a perpetual flux, modified

into the notion of Protagoras, πάντων μέτρον ἄνθρωπος, (which set up

γίγνεσθαι instead of εἶναι,) and the Eleatic doctrine that all is

_one_, without multiplicity, change, augmentation, or decay. He was

convinced of the reality both of the permanent being or genus (οὐσία)

and of the mutable γένεσις of the phenomena:—the science that

contemplates these general terms is called ἡ διαλεκτική—Dialectics.

These ideas are recognized by the νόησις and διάνοια—not by the

senses; and as they belong to οὐσία, they become the objects of true

science or certain knowledge. Everything of this kind is an εἶδος, or

general term, or quiddity. He thought, moreover, that there was a

supreme standard Idea—God—in which were comprised all other

subordinate Ideas, and which contained nothing whatever capable of

being apprehended by the senses. This is not exactly but nearly the

view taken by Ritter, ii. 264—270.

Footnote 11:

Republ. iv. p. 441. a.

Footnote 12:

Ib. iv. 429. b. c.

Footnote 13:

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

Footnote 14:

Republ. iv. 443. e.

Footnote 15:

Ib. iv. 444. e.

Footnote 16:

Ib. ix. 591. e.

-----

The man, then, who studies to produce this harmony in the mental

faculties, is truly consistent with himself,—truly entitled to the

appellation—μουσικὸς and πολιτικὸς,—by which he means far more than is

conveyed by the modern terms, musician and politician. So great, indeed,

is the power and influence of virtue that, without it, there can be

neither true happiness nor mental tranquillity,—all else of the nature

of pleasure being mere shadow and inanity (ἐσκιαγραφημένη τίς.)[17] Now,

with respect to Pleasure, each mental faculty has its own peculiar

species,—the highest as well as purest of all being exclusively enjoyed

by the philosopher, through the exercise of wisdom;[18] and those who

cultivate wisdom and virtue are to be deemed happy, even in the midst of

misfortune, and when it has no probability of proper reward. It is to be

cultivated, indeed, on its own intrinsic merits, without any regard for

expediency—any hope of reward. At the same time, however, it is quite

apparent that good men are praised, loved, and honoured, while the

unjust are eventually exposed and punished;—nay, even by the Deity, good

and just men are not neglected, for God loves and rewards those who

practise virtue and seek to resemble Him. Independently of this, too,

Plato derives another motive to virtue from the immortality of the

soul,—viz., that, if we be not justly and adequately compensated in this

life, we shall meet with perfect and unswerving justice, when arraigned

before the judgment-seat of God.

Having thus far explained Plato’s notions respecting Man’s character

individually, and respecting the dignity and excellence of Virtue—and of

Justice in particular—that union and consummation of all the other

virtues,—we now proceed to shew, how he applied these principles to the

formation of his ideal and perfect Commonwealth (πολιτεία), which he

thought to be analogous to, and a sort of exhibition (παράδειγμα?) of, a

good and virtuous man. Some few incidental remarks occur on the

formation of society for mutual aid and support; and he then proceeds to

classify the members or parts of his ideal Republics.

These he classes under three heads or divisions, corresponding with the

faculties of the soul,—viz., 1. the βουλευτικὸν, (counsellors) those who

employ reason in the contemplation of what best suits the State,—2. the

ἐπικουρικὸν,—those who aid the βουλευταί with a ready will,—3. the

χρηματιστικὸν, who are bent on gain and selfish gratification.[19]

Reason alone is, according to Plato, entitled to and capacitated for the

supreme government (just as reason is the monarch of the properly

energising mind), to the total exclusion of the commonalty

(χρηματισταί), who are totally unacquainted with wisdom or philosophy.

The military class or executive, however, (τὸ ἐπικουρικόν), who are to

be the active guardians (φύλακες) of the State, he requires to be

properly taught and disciplined, so that, while obeying the counsellors,

they may protect the State from both internal and external danger. As

these guardians, therefore, are necessarily to be chosen from the better

class of the citizens, they should be of a philosophic turn, of an

active will, and of a stern determination (φιλόσοφοι καὶ θυμοειδεῖς καὶ

ταχεῖς καὶ [*xviii] ἰσχυροὶ τὴν φύσιν).[20]

As respects the training of the military class, that must be effected by

a thorough discipline,—first, in _Gymnastics_, which includes every

exercise and training of the body, whether patience under hardships, or

endurance of hunger and thirst—cold or heat; and likewise dancing, all

being practised not only to invigorate the body, but to strengthen the

spirit and maintain the entire man—the passions, in particular—in

subjection to reason;—and secondly, in Music,[21] which Plato held to

comprise all imaginative art, the ordinary instruction in grammar, and

also science itself, all of which contribute to elevate and enlarge the

mind, protecting it, at the same time, from all that militates against

virtue. More particularly, the φύλακες must be kept free from all

ambition and avarice, which are unquestionable obstacles to the proper

performance of their civic functions. From these φύλακες the chief

rulers and counsellors of the State (βουλευταί) are to be chosen; to be

chosen, too, for their general fitness and estimation:—and those only

should be placed in charge, who are endowed with high talent, and have

all along maintained a life of virtue, superior to that of the other

citizens. Furthermore, in the same way as human life can only attain to

its highest happiness, under the guidance of reason conducting it to the

highest good,—so also, a State can only attain to consummate virtue and

prosperity, when its rulers apply themselves to the investigation of

eternal truth and the contemplation of the highest good. Hence it is,

that Plato says (v. 473. c.), the rulers must be philosophers,—not,

indeed, necessarily occupied in subtle disputations on general subjects

of investigation, but rather engaged in contemplating the eternal ideas

of things—truth itself; and they must not only admire the beauty of

virtue, but earnestly seek the individual cultivation of it, and teach

it to others also[22] by the exhibition of its development in their own

persons.

Virtue, again, whether exercised by individuals or in communities, is

one and the same,[23] comprising, however, four parts:—first, _Wisdom_,

the essential qualification of rulers;—secondly, _Courage_, the property

of the military class who defend the State;—thirdly, _Temperance_, the

distinctive quality of a well-ordered and obedient commonalty; and,

fourthly, _Justice_, by virtue of which each particular class or

individual energises in his own sphere, without encroaching on that of

his neighbours. The pure exercise of virtue, however, is exceedingly

rare, either in States or individuals; while, on the other hand, errors

and defects are constantly observable and ever likely to interfere with

correct action. Hence, applying this remark to Politics, our pattern

State (ἀριστοκρατία) will insensibly become vitiated; sinking first into

τιμαρχία, and thence into ὀλιγαρχία, δημοκρατία, and lastly downright

τυραννίς, the worst possible mode of social union. No wonder, for if we

compare them with the state of the human soul when reason is on her

throne, and also when she is dethroned by the passions, we discover

between them a close analogy. From the dominance of the will over reason

we realise the idea of _Ambition_; and this seems nearly allied to the

τιμαρχία of the Cretans and Spartans (which Plato greatly preferred to

the democracy of Athens);—again, when rein is given to the appetite,

still other and greater evils arise, and among others, _Avarice_, which

bears a close analogy to ὀλιγαρχία;—thirdly, when the passions are

freely indulged, and in a base manner, without regard to order or

decency, we have before us δημοκρατία or mob-rule;—and lastly, when any

one passion or violent emotion exercises sway to the exclusion of all

the more generous feelings of our nature, we have an exact picture of

τυραννίς, which is the worst species of government, and furthest of all

removed from political perfection.

To return to our pattern State: it must have the principle of permanence

in healthy operation; and this is best effected by harmony, or, as it

were, unity of action in all the members, just as individual virtue

results from the harmonious exercise of the collective mental faculties.

The various establishments in a State, therefore, must so cohere and

harmonise, as mutually to aid each other; and the most anxious pains

must be taken to protect the State from all influences likely to

deteriorate good morals and impair the authority of the government. To

this end, then, care must be observed, that no innovations (τὸ μὴ

νεωτερίζειν, Republ. iv. 424. c.) be introduced in the training of youth

in Gymnastics and Music;—for such innovations, says this ancient

Conservative, have an insidious and destructive tendency. The affairs of

domestic life, also, must be so regulated, that no base desires shall

invade and disturb the State; and to promote this object, as well as to

show that the defenders of the State should consider not so much their

own individual existence, or their own gratifications, as their

inseparable connection and membership with the whole State, to the

welfare of which the individual man is ever subordinate;—on this

principle must be explained those strange views of the community of

wives and children, that have always excited the astonishment of those

not fully acquainted with the moral ends of the Republic. Individuals

are, according to this philosopher, members of, and to be merged in, the

State;—and hence he suggests also, that even the women should undergo

the same kind of training with the young men, as they have their

respective aptitudes. Thus is a State to be maintained in permanent

health, free from the incursions of civil discord. With whatever

ability, however, a State may be formed, it cannot be permanently

prosperous without the constant and active exercise of virtue;—and just

in proportion as sin entails misery and virtue happiness, so, likewise,

Tyranny produces disorder and wretchedness; while Aristocracy, _i. e._,

Plato’s best form of government, will not fail to exalt the State and

its several members to the pinnacle of civil happiness and prosperity.

We have thus briefly sketched the general and ethical system of Plato’s

Philosophy, as well as given a general survey of the subject-matter of

the Republic; and it is presumed that the student will now be enabled to

take up the writings of Plato with improved facilities, and a far

greater probability of getting thoroughly acquainted with the notions of

that great philosopher.

-----

Footnote 17:

Republ. ix. 583. b.

Footnote 18:

The relation which, according to Plato, subsists between knowledge and

pure pleasure, seems to be in general of the following nature.—in the

gradual growth of the human consciousness, pleasure is necessarily

combined with cognition,—so however, as that, at one time pleasure, at

another cognition, is the dominant and determining element. In the

former case, the pleasure is impure and immoderate while in the latter

a pure pleasure arises, measured by the truth of Ideas. To avoid the

former and pursue the latter, ought, therefore, to be the object of a

truly intellectual life.—_Ritter_, ii. p. 396.

Footnote 19:

In other words,—“There should be one part to correspond with the

reason, to whom the sovereignty is to be entrusted,—a second,

answering to spirit, is to assist the sovereign,—and lastly, a third

part is made parallel to the appetite, and intended to supply the

bodily wants of the community. These are the three social classes—the

ruler, the warrior, and the craftsman. Each contributes a peculiar

virtue to the general body: by its ruling class it becomes sagacious,

bold by its warriors, and temperate by the obedience of the artizan to

the orders of his ruler. From the due combination of these virtues in

the whole community, results civil justice.” This explanation, so

happily expressed by Ritter, is fully authorised by the passages, lib.

ii. 427. c.; 433. d.

Footnote 20:

Republ. ii. 376. c.

Footnote 21:

These accomplishments, however, he wished to restrain within due

bounds, lest their simplicity should become luxurious, and lest they

should become incentives to passion and vice. Poetry, in particular,

he desires to restrain, dreading its evil influence on the moral

habits;—and he almost wishes the expulsion of poets from his ideal

State. He looks upon poetry, indeed, as a mere art of imitation,

little better than mere illusion and childishness (x. 602. b.

c.);—useful, perhaps, for education, but to be placed, for fear of

abuse, under the strictest surveillance.

Footnote 22:

Virtue, according to Plato, in the Meno and Protagoras, may be learnt,

so far as it rests on science, in the same sense as science itself is

teachable,—_i. e._, originally and naturally it dwells potentially in

the soul; and for the right attainment of virtue, nothing more is

requisite than a fitting direction of the mind, leading man to

contemplate the good through the medium of reflection and memory.

Footnote 23:

The question, whether virtue is one or many (often raised without

receiving any decisive solution), is connected with the more general

one, whether _the one_ (τὸ ἕν) can be manifold or the manifold _one_.

From the Dialectic, it must be clear, that on this point Plato came to

the conclusion that virtue must both be regarded as one, and in

another respect also as many. In a moral point of view, however, this

question of the unity of virtue must be taken in quite another sense;

for as all good is considered as a due measure and proportion, no

single virtue, by itself and apart from the rest, can be truly

virtuous. Hence Plato often describes some single virtue as comprising

in itself the sum of all virtues. Thus, Justice is often used for

virtue in general, because no action, which is not also just, can be

virtuous;—and similarly with wisdom, temperance, and valour. In the

Protagoras, too, Plato adds a fifth virtue— ὁσιὸτης, or piety, and in

the Republic (iii. 402, b.) he mentions liberality and magnanimity.

-----

THE

REPUBLIC OF PLATO.

==========

BOOK I.

———●———

ARGUMENT.

The _first_ Book opens with a pleasant and highly dramatic dialogue, in

the course of which the happy old Cephalus (a kind of Mæcenas on a

small scale) sings the praises of an independent old age, free from

anxiety and debt; and this leads Socrates to introduce the

discussion of justice, which, by way of provoking inquiry, he first

generally defines, as τὰ ἀληθῆ τε λέγειν καὶ, ἃ ἂν λάβοι τὶς,

ἀποδιδόναι. The more complete definition, however, he first attempts

by the negative process, purposely selecting two species of (false

or inadequate) justice to be refuted,—thus to make way for the basis

of a full and true definition. He then proceeds to consider the

constituents of a state—magistrates and subjects; the former of whom

he cautions against tyranny—the latter against indecent

insubordination; insomuch as neither the one party should have

reference to his own private advantage only, nor should the others

live without care for the general advantage of the state, nor

without a due regard for honest, upright principle.

SOCRATES, ADIMANTUS,

CEPHALUS, POLEMARCHUS,

GLAUCON, THRASYMACHUS.

[_The whole is in the form of a narrative related by Socrates in the

presence of Timæus, Critias, Hermocrates, and another of unknown

name.[24]—The scene is in the house of Cephalus at the Piræus._]

CHAP. I.—I went down yesterday to the Piræus, with Glaucon,[25] son of

Ariston, to pay my devotion to the goddess,—and wishing, at the same

time, to observe in what manner they would celebrate the festival, as

they were now to do so for the first time.[26] The procession of the

natives themselves, indeed, seemed beautiful; yet that which the

Thracians conducted appeared not less elegant. After we had paid our

devotions, and seen the solemnity, we were going back to the city, when

Polemarchus, son of Cephalus, observing us from a distance, hurrying

home, bid his boy run and tell us to wait for him; and the boy, taking

hold of my robe behind, said:—Polemarchus desires you to wait. I turned

then and asked, where he was. He is coming after you, answered he: but

pray wait for him. Yes, we will wait, said Glaucon; and just afterwards

came Polemarchus and Adimantus, the brother of Glaucon, and Niceratus,

son of Nicias[27], and some others, as from the procession. Then said

Polemarchus, Socrates, you seem to me to be hurrying to the city, as on

your return. Aye, you do not make a bad guess, said I. See you, then,

said he, how many we are? Yes, of course. Well, then, said he, you must

either prove yourselves stronger than these, or else remain here. One

expedient, said I, is still left; namely, to persuade you that you

should let us go. How can you possibly persuade such as will not hear?

By no means, said Glaucon. Make up your mind then, that we will not

hear. But know you not, said Adimantus, that in the evening there is to

be a torch-race on horseback to the goddess?[28] On horseback, said I;

surely, this is a novelty. Are they to have torches, and to hand them to

one another, contending together on horseback;—or how do you mean? Just

so, replied Polemarchus. And besides, they will perform a nocturnal

solemnity well worth seeing;—for we shall rise after supper and see it

[the night festival,][29] and shall be there with many of our young

[friends,] and have a chat. Do you also stay and do the same. It is

right, I think, said Glaucon, that we should stay. Well,—if you please,

said I, we will so.

-----

Footnote 24:

See the opening of the Timæus.

Footnote 25:

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

6.

Footnote 26:

The festival here alluded to is the Βενδίδεια, in which Artemis or

Bendis was worshipped agreeably to the custom of the Thracians.

Footnote 27:

Nicias was one of the leading Athenian generals in the Peloponnesian

war.

Footnote 28:

In the Panathenæan, Hephæstian, and Promethean festivals, it was

customary for young men to run with torches or lamps lighted from the

sacrificial altar; and in this contest that person only was

victorious, whose lamp remained unextinguished in the race. We are

here forcibly reminded of the figure used by Plato in the Laws, vi. p.

776 b, and also of Lucretius, ii. verse 78:—

Inque brevi spatio mutantur sæcla animantum,

Et quasi cursores vitaï lampada tradunt.

Footnote 29:

By this nocturnal solemnity are meant the lesser Panathenæa, which, as

the name implies, were sacred to Athena. As in the greater Panathenæa

they carried about the veil of Athena, on which were represented the

giants vanquished by the Olympian gods, so in the lesser Panathenæa

another veil was exhibited, in which the Athenians, who were the

pupils of Athena, were represented victorious in the battle against

the inhabitants of the Atlantic island.

-----

CHAP. II.—We went home therefore to Polemarchus’s [house,] and there we

found, both Lysias and Euthydemus, brothers of Polemarchus,—likewise

Thrasymachus the Chalcedonian, Charmantides the Pæoneian, and Clitiphon

the son of Aristonymus. Cephalus, the father of Polemarchus, was

likewise in the house; and he seemed to me to have become a good deal

aged, for I had not seen him for a long time. He was sitting crowned on

a cushioned seat; for he had been offering sacrifice in the inner court.

So we sat down by him; for some seats stood there in a circle.

Immediately, therefore, on seeing me, Cephalus saluted me, and said:

Socrates, you do not often come down to us to the Piræus, though you

ought; for, could I still easily go up to the city, there would have

been no need for you to come hither, but we should have gone up to you.

As it is, however, you should come hither more frequently; for be

assured that with me, the more bodily pleasures decay, the more also do

the desires and pleasures of conversation increase. Do not then fail us,

but accompany these youths, and resort hither, as to friends, and very

dear friends too. As for me, Cephalus, said I, I am delighted to

converse with persons well advanced in years; for it appears to me a

duty to learn from them, as from persons who have gone before us, on a

road which we too must necessarily travel, what kind of road it

is——whether rough and difficult, or level and easy. Moreover, I would

gladly learn from you (as you are now at that time of life which the

poets call the threshold of old age), what your opinion of it is,

whether it be a burdensome part of life, or how you describe it.

CHAP. III.—By Zeus![30] said he, I will tell you, Socrates, what I, for

my part, think of it; for several of us, who are of the same age,

frequently meet together in the same place, observing the old

proverb.[31] Most of us, therefore, when we are together, complain of

missing the pleasures of youth, calling to remembrance the pleasures of

love, those of drinking and feasting, and such like: and they are

mightily in dudgeon, as being bereaved of some great things,—having once

lived happily, but now scarce living at all. Some of them, too, bemoan

the contempt which old age meets with from intimate friends: and, on

this account, they whine about old age, as being the cause of so many of

their ills. To me, however, Socrates, these men seem not to blame the

[real] cause; for, if this were the cause, I myself likewise should have

suffered these very same things through old age,—and all others,

likewise, who have come to these years. Now I have met with several not

thus affected; and particularly I was once in company with Sophocles the

poet, when he was asked by some one: How, said he, do you feel,

Sophocles, as to the pleasures of love; are you still able to enjoy

them? Softly, friend, replied he;—most gladly, indeed, have I escaped

from these pleasures, as from some furious and savage master.[32] To me,

then, he, at that time, seemed to speak well, and now not less so: for,

on the whole, as respects such things there is in old age great peace

and freedom; because, when the appetites cease to be vehement and have

let go their hold, what Sophocles said, most certainly happens; we are

delivered from very many, and those too, furious masters. With relation

to these things, however, and what concerns our intimates, there is one

and the same cause; which is, not old age, Socrates, but the disposition

of [different] men: for, if they be discreet and moderate, even old age

is but moderately burdensome: but if not, Socrates,—to such an one, both

old age and youth are grievous.

-----

Footnote 30:

The translator wishes it to be understood, that in compliance with a

now pretty general custom, he has preserved the Greek mythological

names; Zeus for Jupiter, Athena for Minerva, Poseidon for Neptune,

Artemis for Diana, and so on.

Footnote 31:

This alludes to the well-known Greek adage—ἥλιξ ἥλικα τέρπει. Nearly

the whole of this and the following chapter is quoted by Cicero, de

Senect. ch. 3.

Footnote 32:

This passage was evidently in the view of Cicero, when he wrote as

follows:—Quum ex eo quidam jam affecto ætate quæreret, utereturne

rebus venereis:—Dii meliora, inquit, s. lubenter verò istinc tanquam à

domino agresti ac furioso profugi.—Cato Maj. ch. 47.

-----

CHAP. IV.—Delighted to hear him say these things, and wishing him to

discourse further, I urged him, and said: I fancy, Cephalus, the

generality will not agree with you in these opinions; but will imagine

that you bear old age easily, not owing to your natural bias, but from

possessing much wealth; for the rich, say they, have many

consolations.[33] True, replied he; they do not agree with me; and there

is something in what they say, yet not so much as they imagine. The

saying of Themistocles, however, is just; who, when the Seriphian[34]

reviled him, and said, that he was honoured, not on his own account, but

on account of his country, replied, that neither would himself have been

renowned, had he been a Seriphian, nor would he, the [Seriphian,] had he

been an Athenian. To those likewise, who are not rich and bear old age

with impatience, the same saying fairly applies;—that neither would the

worthy man bear old age with poverty quite easily, nor would he who is

unworthy, though enriched, ever be agreeable to himself. But, [tell me,]

Cephalus, said I; was the greater part of what you possess, left you, or

did you acquire it [yourself?] Somewhat, Socrates, replied he, I have

acquired: as to money-getting I am in a medium between my grandfather

and my father: for my grandfather of the same name with myself, who was

left almost as much property as I possess at present, increased it

manifold; while my father Lysanias made it yet less than it is now: I,

on the other hand, am content, if I can leave my sons here not less, but

some little more than I received. I asked you, said I, for this

reason,—because you seem to me to have no excessive love for riches; and

this is generally the case with those who have not acquired them; while

those who have acquired them [themselves,] are doubly fond of them:[35]

for, as poets love their own poems, and as parents love their own

children,—in the same manner, too, those who have enriched themselves,

value their wealth, as their own production, as well as for its

utility,—on which ground it is valued by others. True, replied he.

-----

Footnote 33:

This seems to allude to the very common Greek adage—τοῖς πλουσίοις

πόλλ’ ἔστι τὰ παραμύθια.

Footnote 34:

From Seriphus, one of the Cyclades.

Footnote 35:

Aristotle expresses nearly the same sentiments in the Nicom. Eth. iv.

1, and ix. 4.

-----

CHAP. V.—Aye, entirely so, said I. But further, tell me this;—-what do

you conceive to be the greatest good realized through the possession of

extensive property? That, probably, said he, of which I shall not

persuade the generality, were I even to mention it. For, be assured,

Socrates, continued he, that, after a man begins to think he is soon to

die, he becomes inspired with a fear and concern about things, that had

not entered his head before: for those stories concerning a future

state, which tell us, that the man who has been unjust here must be

punished hereafter, have a tendency, much as he formerly ridiculed them,

to trouble his soul at such a time with apprehensions, that they may be

true; and the man, either through the infirmity of old age, or being

now, as it were, in closer proximity to them, views them more

attentively, and consequently becomes full of suspicion and dread, and

reflects and considers whether he has in any thing done any one a wrong.

That man, then, who discovers in his own life much of iniquity, and,

like children, constantly starting in his sleep, is full of terrors, and

lives on with scarce a hope of the future. But with the man who is not

conscious of any such iniquity,

Hope, the solace of old age,

Is ever present,

As Pindar says: for this, Socrates, he has beautifully expressed, that

whoever lives a life of justice and holiness,

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

Sweet hope abides, companion blest, that sways

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

In this he speaks well, and with great elegance. In conformity with this

thought, therefore, I deem the possession of riches to be chiefly

valuable, not to every man indeed, but to the man of worth: for as

respects liberating us from the temptation of cheating or deceiving

against our will,—or again from departing thither in fear, because we

owe either sacrifices to God, or money to man,—for this, indeed, the

possession of money has great advantages. It has many other also;—but

for my part, Socrates, that seems not the least, among all others, which

proves its high advantage to a man of understanding.

You speak admirably, Cephalus, replied I:—but this very thing,

_Justice_,—shall we call it Truth, simply, and the restoring what one

has received from another,—or shall we say, that it is possible to do

the very same things at one time justly and at another unjustly? My

meaning is somewhat as follows: Every one would probably be of opinion,

that if a man received arms from a friend in sound mind, and that person

should demand them back when mad, it would not be proper to restore such

articles, nor would the restorer be just;[37] nor again, [would he] who,

to a man so situated, should willingly tell the whole truth. Right,

replied he. This, then, is not the definition of justice, [namely,] to

speak the truth, and restore what one has received. Of course it is,

Socrates, replied Polemarchus taking up the subject, if at least we are

to believe Simonides. However that be, said Cephalus, I leave this

conversation to you; for I must now go to attend to the sacred

rites.[38] Well then, is not Polemarchus, said I, the heir of your

[argument?] Certainly, replied he, smiling, and went off to the sacred

rites.

-----

Footnote 36:

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

2, p. 682.

Footnote 37:

Comp. Cicero de Off. iii. 25.

Footnote 38:

Cicero very elegantly refers to this passage in his Epistles to

Atticus, iv. 16.

-----

CHAP. VI.—Tell me, then, said I, you who are heir in the conversation,

what is it, that you affirm Simonides to have correctly alleged about

justice? That to restore to each his due, is just, replied he: in saying

this, he seems, to me at least, to speak correctly. Aye, indeed, said I,

we cannot easily discredit Simonides; for he is a wise and divine

man:—but as to his meaning in this passage, you, Polemarchus, are

probably acquainted with it, but I am not; for it is plain he does not

mean what we were saying just now,—that, when one has deposited any

thing with us, we should return it to him, even if he demand it in his

insanity: and yet the thing deposited is in some sense due, is it not?

It is. At least, then, [you will grant] it must on no account whatever

be restored, when a man asks for it in his insanity? True, replied he.

Simonides then, it would seem, has some other meaning than this, in

saying that to deliver up what is due, is just? Yes,—one quite

different, replied he: for he is of opinion, that friends ought to do

their friends good—not ill. I understand, said I;—that man does not give

back what is due, who restores money deposited with him, if the

repayment and receipt be really hurtful, and the receiver and restorer

be friends:—is not this what you allege Simonides to say? Surely. What

then?—are we to give our enemies, also, what may chance to be their due?

By all means, said he, what is really due to them; and from an enemy to

an enemy, there is due, I imagine, what is fitting too,—namely some

evil.

CHAP. VII.—Simonides, then, it would seem, replied I, defined the nature

of justice somewhat enigmatically, and after the manner of the poets;

for it seems he had a notion, that justice consists in giving every one

what was expedient for him; and this he called his due. But what is your

opinion? said he. By Zeus, replied I, if any one then should ask him

thus,—Simonides, what is the art, which, dispensing to certain persons

something fitting and due, is called medicine, what, think you, would he

answer us? That art, surely, replied he, which dispenses drugs to the

body, and also meats and drinks. And what is the art, which, dispensing

to certain things something fitting and due, is called cookery? The art

which gives seasonings to victuals. Granted. What then, is that art,

which may be called justice, as dispensing to certain persons something

fitting and due? If we ought to be at all directed, Socrates, by what

has been said above, [it is] the art which dispenses good offices to

friends, and injuries to enemies. To do good, then, to friends, and ill

to enemies, he calls justice? It seems so. Who then can best serve his

friends, when they are sick, and most ill to his enemies, as either in

sickness or health? A physician. And who to those at sea, as respects

danger on the sea? A pilot. But what as to the just man? In what

business, and with respect to what action, can he most serve his friends

and harm his foes? In fighting in alliance with the one, and against the

other,—so far as I think. Just so; but at any rate, to those who are not

sick, Polemarchus, the physician is useless? Aye. And the pilot, to

those who do not sail? He is. And is the just man, in like manner,

useless to those not engaged in war? This, at any rate, is not at all my

opinion. Is justice, then, useful also in time of peace? Yes, useful,

too. And so is agriculture, is it not? Yes. Towards the getting in of

crops? Yes. And is not shoemaking useful too? Yes. Towards the

possession of shoes, methinks you will say? Certainly. But what then?

For the use or possession of what is it, that would you say justice were

useful in time of peace? For contracts, Socrates! By these contracts do

you mean copartnerships, or what else? Copartnerships, certainly. Well

then; is the just man or the dice-player, a good and useful copartner

for playing at dice? The dice-player. But, in the laying of tiles or

stones, is the just man a more useful and a better partner than the

builder? By no means. In what copartnership then, is the just man a

better copartner than the harper, as the harper is better than the just

man for touching the strings of a harp? In one about money, as I

imagine. And yet perhaps, with regard to the use of money, Polemarchus,

when it is necessary jointly to buy or sell a horse, then, I should

think, the jockey is the better copartner, is he not? He would appear

so. And with respect to a ship, the shipwright or pilot? It seems so.

When is it, then, with respect to the joint application of money, that

the just man is more useful than others? When it is to be deposited and

be safe, Socrates! Do you not mean when there is no need to use it, but

to leave it in deposit? Certainly. When money then, is useless, justice

is still useful with regard to it? It seems likely. When, therefore, one

wants to put by a pruning-hook, justice is useful, both for a community

and for a particular person: but when one wants to use it, then the art

of vine-dressing [is useful.] It seems so. You will say, likewise, that

when a shield or a lyre is to be kept and not used, then justice is

useful; but when they are to be used, then the arts of warfare and

music? Of course. And with reference to all other things, when they are

to be used, justice is useless; but when they are not to be used, it is

useful? It seems so.

CHAP. VIII.—Justice, then, my friend, can be no very important matter,

if it is useful only in respect of things not to be used. But let us

consider this matter:—is not he who is the cleverest at striking in a

fight, whether with the fists or some other way, the cleverest likewise,

in self-defence? Certainly. And as to the person who is clever in

warding off and escaping from a distemper, is he not very clever also in

bringing it on? So I suppose. And he too the best guardian of a camp,

who can steal the counsels, and the other operations of the enemy?

Certainly. Of whatever, then, any one is a good guardian, of that

likewise he is a clever thief. It seems so. If, therefore, the just man

be clever in guarding money, he is clever likewise in stealing. So it

would seem, said he, from this reasoning. The just man, then, has been

shewn to be a sort of thief; and it is likely you have learned this from

Homer; for he not only admires Autolycus, the maternal grandfather of

Ulysses, but says, that he was distinguished beyond all men for

thievishness and swearing.[39] Justice, then, seems in your opinion as

well as in that of Homer and Simonides, to be a sort of thieving carried

on for the benefit of our friends on the one hand, and for the injury of

our enemies on the other:—did not you say so? No, by Zeus, I did not;

nor, indeed, do I any longer know what I was saying:—yet it is still my

opinion, that justice benefits friends, but injures foes. But [tell me,]

whether you pronounce such to be friends, as seem to be honest; or such

merely as are so, though not seeming so;—and in the same way as to

enemies? It is reasonable, said he, to love those whom one deems honest,

and to hate those [one deems] wicked. But do not men fall into error on

this point, so that many appear to them honest who are not so, and many

the contrary? Yes, they do. To such as these, then, the good are

enemies, and the bad friends? Certainly. But still is it, in that case,

just for them to benefit the wicked, and hurt the good? So it seems. The

good, moreover, are just, and incapable of doing any ill. True.

According to your argument, then, is it just to do those harm, who do no

harm [themselves?] By no means [think that,] Socrates, replied he; for

that opinion seems to be vicious. With respect to the unjust, then, said

I, is it right to injure these, but to do good to the just? This opinion

seems fairer than the other. To many, then, it will occur [to think,]

Polemarchus,—that is, to as many as have formed wrong opinions of

men,—that they may justly hurt their friends (for they are wicked to

them), and, on the other hand, benefit their enemies, inasmuch as they

are good:—and thus we shall state the very reverse of what we alleged

Simonides to say. That is precisely the case, said he:—but, let us

change our definition; for we seem not to have rightly defined a friend

and a foe. How were they defined, Polemarchus? That he who seems honest,

is a friend. How then are we now to alter our definition, said I? That

the person, replied he, who seems, and also is honest, is a friend; but

that he who is apparently honest, but not really so, seems to be, yet is

not [really] a friend: the definition, too, respecting an enemy, exactly

corresponds. The good man, according to this reasoning, will, it seems,

be a friend; and the wicked man a foe? Yes. Do you bid us then make an

addition to our former definition of justice, by saying that it is just

to serve a friend and harm a foe:—and are we now to say, in addition to

this, that it is just to serve a friend who is good, but to hurt an

enemy who is bad? This last, said he, seems to me perfectly well

expressed.

-----

Footnote 39:

Μητρὸς ἑῆς πατέρ’ ἐσθλὸν, ὃς ἀνθρώπους ἐκέκαστο

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

His mother’s noble sire, who all mankind

In furtive arts and fraudful oaths excelled.—_Cowper._

-----

CHAP. IX.—Is it the just man’s part, then, said I, to hurt any one

mortal whatever? By all means, said he; the wicked at least, and his

enemies, he ought certainly to injure. And horses, when hurt, do they

become better or worse? Worse. Do they so, as regards the virtue of dogs

or horses? That of horses. And, do not dogs, when hurt, become worse as

regards the virtue of dogs, but not of horses? Necessarily so. As to

men, then, friend, may we not likewise say, that when hurt, they become

worse with reference to man’s virtue? Certainly. But is not justice a

human virtue? This too we must [allow.] It follows, then, friend, that

those men who are hurt become more unjust? It seems so. Can musicians,

then, by music, make men unmusical? Impossible.—Or horsemen, by

horsemanship, make men unskilled in horsemanship? They cannot. Is it

possible, either, that by justice the just [can make men] unjust; or in

general that by virtue, the good can make men wicked? It is impossible.

[Yes,] for it is not, methinks, the effect of heat to make cold, but

[the effect] of its contrary? Yes. Nor of drought to make moist, but

that of its contrary? Certainly. Neither is it the part of a good man to

hurt, but that of his contrary? It appears so. But, at any rate, the

just is good? Certainly. Neither, then, is it the part of a just man,

Polemarchus, to hurt either friend or any other, but [that] of his

contrary, the unjust man. In all respects, Socrates, said he, you seem

to reason truly. If, then, any one affirms it just to give every one his

due, and consequently thinks this within himself, that injury is due

from a just man to enemies, but service to friends,—he was not wise who

said so, for he spoke not the truth:—for in no case has the justice been

proved of injuring any one at all. I agree, said he. You and I then will

jointly dispute the point, said I, if any one allege, that Simonides, or

Bias, or Pittacus, or any other of those wise and happy men said so. I

am ready, for my part, said he, to take part in this discussion. But

know you, said I, whose saying I conceive it to be,—that it is just to

serve friends, and hurt enemies? Whose, said he? I conceive it to be

Periander’s, or Perdiccas’s, or Xerxes’s, or Ismenius’s, the Theban, or

of some other rich man, who thought himself mightily important. You say

most truly, said he. Be it so, said I:—but as this has not been shewn to

be justice nor the just, what else may one say it is?

CHAP. X.—Now Thrasymachus had frequently during our discourse been on

the point of breaking in upon the discussion with some objection,[40]

but was hindered by the sitters-by, who wanted to hear out the

conversation. When, however, we came to a pause, and after my making

these last remarks, he could no longer keep quiet; but, taking his

spring like a wild beast, attacked us, as if he would tear us in pieces.

Both myself and Polemarchus were frightened and terror-struck. But he,

raising his voice in the midst, cried out:—What is this, Socrates, which

has so long possessed you; and why do you thus play the fool together,

conceding mutually to one another? But if in particular you really want

to know the nature of justice, do not only ask questions, and value

yourself in refuting the answers you may get, well knowing that it is

easier to ask than to answer; but answer yourself, and state your own

view of the nature of justice. And [take care] that you do not tell me

that it is what is fit, or what is due, or what is profitable, or what

is gainful, or what is expedient; but, whatever you mean, express it

plainly and accurately; for I will not allow you to utter such trifles

as these. I was astounded on hearing this; and when I looked at him, I

was frightened; and, methinks, had I not perceived him before he

perceived me, I should have become speechless.[41] But just when he

began to grow fierce under our discussion, I observed him first, so that

I was now able to answer him, and said, somewhat in a flutter:—Be not

hard on us, Thrasymachus; if I and he [Polemarchus] err in the working

out of our arguments, be well assured we err unwittingly: for, think

not, that if we were searching for gold, we would ever wittingly yield

to one another in the search, thus frustrating all chance of discovering

it, and yet searching for justice,—a matter far more valuable than gold,

foolishly make concessions to each other, and not labour with the utmost

ardour for its discovery:—think you so, friend? Nay, methinks, we could

not. That we should be sympathized with by your clever[42] persons is

far more to be expected then, than that we should be treated with

contempt.

-----

Footnote 40:

For this sense of ἀντιλαμβάνεσθαι, comp. book vi. p. 497 d, and p.

504; also Gorgias, 506 a.

Footnote 41:

This alludes to the popular belief that men were rendered speechless

by the fixed look of a wolf; but this, they thought, was not the case,

if they saw the wolf first.

Footnote 42:

ὑφ’ ὑμῶν τῶν δεινῶν, alluding of course to the Sophists, who deemed

themselves emphatically δεινοί. Comp. Protagor. p. 341 a.

-----

CHAP. XI.—On hearing this he [Thrasymachus] gave a disdainful sort of

laugh, and said:—By Heracles, this is Socrates’s wonted irony; and this

I both knew, and foretold to these here,—that you never incline to

answer, but use your irony, and do any thing rather than answer, if any

one asks you any thing. Aye; you are a wise man, Thrasymachus, said I;

for you knew well, that if you asked any one, how many make twelve; and,

if asking, you should tell him, you must not tell me, man, that twelve

are twice six,—or three times four,—or four times three; because I will

not admit it, if you are such a trifler; it was plain to you, methinks,

that no man would answer one so inquiring. But if he should say to you,

What mean you, Thrasymachus, may I not answer in any of these ways you

have told me,—not even though the real answer happen to be one of them;

but am I rather to say something else than the truth? Or, how is it you

mean? What would you say to him in reply to these things? If they were

alike, I should give an answer; for the one, forsooth, is like the

other. That is no real objection, said I[43]; but even if it be not

like, but only appears so to him who has been asked, do you think he

would the less readily express his opinion, whether we should forbid him

or not? And, will you do so now? said he. Will you state, in reply, some

of those things which I forbade you to say? I should not wonder, if I

did, said I, if it appeared so to me on inquiry. What, then, said he, if

I should shew you another answer, besides all these about justice, and

better, too, than these,—what will you deserve to suffer? What else,

said I, but what the ignorant ought to suffer?—and it is proper,

perhaps, to learn from a wise man I consequently deserve to suffer this.

You are merry now, said he; but besides learning, you must pay money

too. Aye, when I have it, said I. We have got some, said Glaucon; but,

as for the money, Thrasymachus, say on, for all of us will club for

Socrates. By all means, I think, said he, in order that Socrates may go

on in his usual manner,—not answer himself, but when another answers,

take up the discourse and confute. How, then, in the first place, my

good fellow, said I, can a man answer, when he neither knows, nor

pretends to know; and when, supposing him to have any opinion at all

about these matters, he is forbidden to say what he thinks by no

ordinary person? But it is more reasonable, then, that you speak, as you

say you know, and can tell us. Do not refuse, then, but oblige me by

answering, and do not begrudge instructing Glaucon here, and the rest of

the company.

-----

Footnote 43:

Thrasymachus here alleges with a sneer, that the example adduced by

Socrates had no connection with the subject treated in the last

chapter.

-----

CHAP. XII.—On my saying this, both Glaucon and the rest of the company

entreated him not to decline it:—and Thrasymachus in particular, was

evidently most anxious to speak, in order to gain applause, reckoning he

had a mighty clever answer to make, and pretending to be earnest that I

should be the answerer; but at last he agreed. Now, this, forsooth, said

he, is the wisdom of Socrates, that he himself is unwilling to teach,

but goes about learning from others, and gives no thanks for it. That I

learn from others, Thrasymachus, is quite true, said I; but in saying,

that I do not thank persons for it, you are wrong. I pay as much as I am

able, and I can only give them praise, for money I have none; but how

readily I do this, when any one appears to me to speak well, you shall

perfectly know directly, whenever you make your answer; for methinks you

will speak well. Hear, then, said he, for I say that the just is nothing

else but what is expedient for the strongest.[44] But why do not you

commend?—Ah! you do not like that. Let me learn first, said I, what it

is you are talking about; for as yet I know not. That which is expedient

for the strongest you say, is the just. And what, at all, is it that you

are talking of now, Thrasymachus? for you certainly do not mean any

thing like this. If Polydamas, the wrestler,[45] be stronger than we,

and if beef be better for his body, this food is likewise both just and

beneficial to us, who are weaker than himself. You are a saucy fellow,

Socrates, and lay hold of my argument just on that side where you may

damage it most. By no means, my good fellow, said I; but say more

plainly what is your meaning. Know you not, then, said he, that with

reference to States, some are tyrannical, others democratical, and

others aristocratical? Of course. And is not the governing part of each

State the more powerful? Certainly: and every government makes laws

precisely to suit itself,—a democracy, democratic laws; a tyranny,

tyrannic; and the rest in like manner:—and when they have made them,

they declare that to be just for the governed, which is advantageous for

themselves, and any one who transgresses it, they punish as one acting

contrary both to law and justice. This, then, most excellent Socrates,

is what I say, that in all States the same thing constitutes justice,

viz., what is expedient for the established government. This, then, is

the fact with him who reasons rightly, that in all cases whatever that

same is just which is expedient for the more powerful. Now, said I, I

understand what you mean. But as to its truth or otherwise, I will try

to find out. As for the expedient, then, even you yourself,

Thrasymachus, have affirmed it to be the just; and yet, though you

forbade me to give the answer, still you are adding the expression _of

the more powerful_. Quite a trifling addition, perhaps, said he. It is

not clear yet, whether it is small or great; but it is clear that we

must inquire whether you speak the truth, since I, too, acknowledge that

the just is something that is expedient; but you say, in addition, that

it is that also which belongs to the most powerful. This I am not sure

of; but that is what we have to inquire. Inquire then, said he.

-----

Footnote 44:

The Sophists were used to recommend that the laws of a state should be

made by the most powerful and influential, and that in making them it

was quite right that they should consult their own advantage, there

being no fixed standard for virtue and justice, but only that of

expediency. Comp. Gorgias, p. 483, b, c, d; and Protagor. p. 337.

Footnote 45:

A celebrated wrestler of Scotussa in Thessaly, who won the prize in

the Pancratium, at the Olympic games, B.C. 408. He was of immense

size; and it is related of him, that he killed without arms a huge and

fierce lion on Mount Olympus, and could stop a chariot at full gallop.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—We will do so, said I:—and, tell me,—do you not say, that it

is just to obey governors? Yes, I do. Are the governors in the several

states infallible, or are they capable of erring? Certainly, said he,

they are liable to err. When they set about making laws, then, do they

not make some of them right, and some of them wrong? I think so. To make

them right, then, is to make them expedient for themselves, and to make

them not right, [is that] inexpedient;—or how mean you? Just so. And

what they enact is to be observed by the governed; and this is what is

just? Of course. According to your reasoning, then, it is just, to do

what is expedient to the stronger, while the contrary is what is not

expedient:—what say you, replied he? I am of the same opinion as

yourself. But let us inquire better. Is it not granted, that governors

in bidding the governed do certain things, may sometimes be in error as

to what is best for themselves; and that what the governors enjoin, is

just for the governed to do? Have not these [truths] been granted? I

think so, said he. Consider also, therefore, said I, that you have

allowed it to be just to do what is inexpedient for governors and the

more powerful, whenever governors unwillingly enjoin what is ill for

themselves; and yet you say, that it is just for the others to do what

these enjoin. Must it not necessarily happen, then, most sage

Thrasymachus, that, in this case, it may be just to do the contrary of

what you say; for that which is the disadvantage of the more powerful,

is sometimes enjoined on the inferiors? Yes, by Zeus, said Polemarchus,

these things are quite clear, Socrates. Yes, if you bear him witness,

said Clitiphon in rejoinder. What need, said I, of a witness?—for

Thrasymachus himself acknowledges that governors sometimes order what is

ill for themselves, and that it is just for the governed to do these

things. Aye, Polemarchus; for he laid it down, that it is just to do

what is bidden by the governors, and he has also defined that as just,

Clitiphon, which is expedient for the more powerful; and, having laid

down both these propositions, he has granted that the more powerful

sometimes bid the inferiors and governed to do what is inexpedient for

themselves; and, from these concessions, what is expedient for the more

powerful can no more be just than what is not expedient. But he alleged,

said Clitiphon, that what was expedient for the strongest was what the

strongest judged expedient for himself; this, too, was to be done by the

inferior, and this he defined as the just. Aye,—but that was not stated,

said Polemarchus. There is no difference, Polemarchus, said I; but, if

Thrasymachus says so now, so let us understand him.

CHAP. XIV.—Now tell me, Thrasymachus; was this what you meant by

justice,—namely, the advantage of the more powerful, such as appeared so

to the more powerful, whether it really were so, or not:—shall we say

that you mean this? Not at all, said he:—for, think you, I call him who

errs, the more powerful, at the time he errs? For my part, said I, I

thought you meant this, when you acknowledged that governors were not

infallible, but that in some things even they erred. You are a

sycophant, said he, in reasoning, Socrates![46] For, for instance do you

call him a physician, who errs about the treatment of the sick, in

respect of that very thing in which he errs; or him a reasoner, who errs

in reasoning, at the very time he errs, and with reference to that very

error? But, we say, in common language, I fancy, that the physician

erred, the reasoner erred, and the grammarian likewise; but in fact I

think, each of these, so far as he is what we designate him, never errs;

so that, strictly speaking (especially as you are a strict reasoner), no

artist errs;—for he who errs, errs through defect of science, in what he

is not an artist; and hence no artist, or wise man, or governor, errs,

in so far as he is a governor. Yet every one would say ‘the physician

erred,’ and ‘the governor erred.’ You must understand, then, that it was

in this way I just now answered you. But the most accurate answer is

this:—that the governor, in as far as he is governor, errs not; and as

he does not err, he enacts that which is best for himself, and this must

be observed by the governed. So that as I said at the beginning, I call

justice the doing that which is for the advantage of the strongest [_i.

e._ the best].

-----

Footnote 46:

There was a prevalent corruption in the law-courts of Athens, which at

length gave rise to a separate class,—the infamous sycophants, who

lived by extortion and making criminal charges against the opulent

citizens of timid natures and quiet habits, who were ordinarily led to

purchase the silence of these informers, who hence rose to wealth and

importance.

-----

CHAP. XV.—Be it so, said I, Thrasymachus;—but do I seem to you to act

the sycophant? Aye, surely, said he. Do you think that I insidiously

mislead you in the argument, to put the question to you as I did? I know

it well, said he, and you shall gain nothing by it; for neither shall

you mislead me unawares, nor can you unawares get the better of me in

argument. I shall not attempt it, said I, my excellent friend, but, that

nothing of this kind may happen to us again,—define in which way you

speak of a ruler, and superior, according only to common talk, or in the

strict sense of the word, as you just now said, he, whose advantage, in

that he is the more powerful, it is just for the inferior to observe. [I

speak of him,] who is a ruler in the strictest sense of the word. For

this now abuse and calumniate me, as you like. I do not deprecate your

doing so; but you are quite unable. Do you think me so mad, said I, as

to attempt to shave a lion,[47] and traduce Thrasymachus? You have just

attempted it, said he, but with no effect. Enough of such matters, said

I; but tell me he who is, strictly speaking, a physician, whom you just

now mentioned, is he a gainer of money, or a tender of the sick?—and

mind—tell us of him who is really a physician. A tender of the sick,

said he. But what of the pilot? is he who is really a pilot, a master of

sailors, or a sailor? A master of sailors. It matters not, I fancy, that

he sails in a ship, and is not to be called a sailor; for he it is not

called a pilot from his sailing, but from his art, and his mastery of

the sailors. True, said he. Has not each of these, then, something that

is advantageous for him? Certainly. Was not the art then acquired for

this very purpose, said I, to seek out and supply to each what is

advantageous for him? For that purpose, said he. To each of the arts,

then, is any other advantage wanting, than to be as perfect as

possible?—How mean you by this question? If you were to ask me, said I,

whether it is sufficient for the body to be a body, or whether it needs

something else, I should say, that it certainly does stand in need of

something else. For this reason, indeed, has the medicinal art been

already invented, because the body is infirm, and it is not sufficient

for it to be such as it is:—in order then to supply what is advantageous

for it, art has been provided. Do you think then, said I, that I am

right, or not, in thus speaking? Right, said he. But what then? Is this

very art of medicine, or any other whatever, imperfect, as being

deficient in a certain virtue; just as the eyes, when deficient as to

sight, and the ears as to hearing; and for these reasons need they a

certain additional art to seek out and furnish what is expedient for

these very organs? Is there then in art itself some imperfection, and

does every art need another art, to consider what is expedient for it,

and does that which considers again need another, and so on to infinity;

or will each art consider what is expedient for itself; or will each

need neither itself, nor any other, to consider what is expedient for it

with reference to its own imperfection?—For there is no imperfection nor

error in any art whatever; nor is it the business of art to seek what is

expedient for anything else, but that of which it is the art;—but as for

itself, it is infallible and pure, because it is right, so long as each,

whatever it is, be an accurate whole:—and consider now, in that same

strict sense of the words, whether it be thus or otherwise. It seems so,

said he. The art of medicine, then, said I, does not consider what is

expedient for the art of medicine, but for the body? Yes, said he. Nor

the art of managing horses, what is expedient for that art, but for

horses. Nor any other art for itself (for that is needless), but only

for that of which it is the art? So it appears, he said. However,

Thrasymachus, the arts rule and govern that of which they are arts? He

assented to this, though with great difficulty. No science whatever,

then, either considers or dictates what is expedient for the superior,

but only what is so for the inferior,—that, namely, which is governed by

it? To this also he at length assented, though he attempted to contend

about it. But when he had assented, What else is this, said I, but

saying that no physician, so far as he is a physician, either considers

or dictates what is expedient for the physician, but only what is

expedient for the sick?—For the physician, strictly so called, has been

acknowledged to be one who has charge of the body, and is not an amasser

of wealth.—Has it not been acknowledged? He assented. And likewise that

the pilot, so called, is the master of the sailors, and not a sailor? It

has been acknowledged. Such a pilot and master then, will not consider

and dictate what is expedient for the pilot, but what is so to the

sailor and the governed? He acquiesced, but unwillingly. Nor yet,

Thrasymachus, said I, does any other in any government whatever, so far

as he is a governor, consider or dictate what is expedient for himself,

but only for the governed and those to whom he acts as steward; and,

with an eye to this, and to what is expedient and suitable for this, he

both says what he says, and does what he does.

-----

Footnote 47:

A proverb, meaning—_To undertake any thing above one’s power_. There

is a similar one in Latin.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—When we were at this part of the discussion, and it was

evident to all, that the definition of justice stood now quite contrary

[to that of Thrasymachus,] Thrasymachus, instead of replying, said: Tell

me, Socrates, have you a nurse? What now, said I;—ought you not rather

to answer, than put such questions? Because, forsooth, said he, she

neglects you when your nose is stuffed,[48] and does not wipe it when it

needs it, you, who as well as she, understand neither about sheep nor

shepherd. What is the meaning of all this? said I. Because you think

that shepherds and herdsmen consider the good of the sheep or oxen, to

fatten and tend them, having their eye on something else than their

master’s good and their own; moreover, that those who rule in cities,

those, who rule truly, are somehow differently disposed towards the

governed, than [a shepherd] would be towards sheep, and that they attend

day and night to somewhat else than the question, how they shall be

gainers themselves; and so far are you from the notion of the just and

justice, and the unjust and injustice, that you seem ignorant that both

justice and the just are, in reality, a foreign good, expedient for the

stronger and ruling party, but positively injurious to the subject and

servant,—while injustice, on the contrary, takes the rule of such as are

truly simple and just, and the governed do what is expedient for him,

since he possesses the most power, and promote his happiness, by serving

him, but themselves not at all.—In this case, most simple Socrates, we

should consider, that a just man gets less on all occasions than an

unjust.—First, in mutual contracts with one another, where a certain

party joins with another, you will never find on the dissolution of the

partnership, that the just man gets more than the unjust, but

less:—then, again, in civil affairs, when public imposts are to be paid.

the just man, from equal means, pays more, the other less; and when

anything is to be gained, the one gains nothing, the other much; and

when each of these holds any public office, if no other loss befals the

just man, at any rate his domestic affairs become deteriorated through

neglect, and from the public he derives no benefit, because he is

just;—besides which, he becomes hated by his domestics and acquaintance,

since he will never serve them, beyond what is just.—But with the unjust

man, all the contrary of this occurs; for I maintain, what I lately

said, that such an one has a great power of becoming unfairly

rich.—Consider the case of this man, therefore, if you would discern how

much more it conduces to his private interest to be unjust, rather than

just. This you will most easily of all understand if you come to the

most finished injustice, such as renders the unjust man most happy, but

the injured and those who are unwilling to do injustice, most

wretched.—This, now, is tyranny, which takes away the goods of others,

as well by secret fraud as open violence, both things sacred and holy,

private and public, and these in no small portions, but all at once—In

all particular cases of such crimes, when a man undisguisedly commits

injustice, he is both punished and treated with the greatest ignominy:

and as a proof of this, they are called sacrilegious, kidnappers,

housebreakers, pilferers, and thieves, according to the several kinds of

the wickedness committed. But when a man, in addition to the property of

the citizens, takes prisoners and enslaves the citizens themselves,

instead of these ugly names, he is called happy and blest, not only by

the citizens, but likewise by all the rest, whoever may get informed

that he has committed [such] enormous injustice;—for those who revile

wickedness, revile it—not because they are afraid of doing, but because

they are afraid of suffering what is unjust.—Thus, Socrates, is it, that

injustice, when it attains a certain point, is both more powerful, more

free, and more absolutely despotic than justice: and (as I said at the

beginning) the advantage of the stronger happens to be just, while that

is unjust which profits and benefits one’s self.

-----

Footnote 48:

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

-----

CHAP. XVII.—Saying this, Thrasymachus purposed going off, after pouring

on our ears, as a bath-keeper, this impetuous and lengthened

discourse.[49] Those present, however, would not suffer him, but forced

him to stay and give account of what he had advanced; and I myself,

also, strongly urged him, and said: Oh! wonderful Thrasymachus; do you

purpose, after throwing on us such strange talk, to go away without

rightly instructing us, or informing yourself whether the case be as you

say, or otherwise? Do you think that you are trying to determine some

small matter, and not the guide of life, by which each of us being

conducted may pass his life most profitably? Can I think that the case

is otherwise? said Thrasymachus. You seem, at any rate, said I, to care

nothing at all about us, nor to be any way concerned whether we shall

live well or ill, through our ignorance of what you say you know:—but,

my good friend, be so obliging as to show it to us also; nor will the

favour be ill-placed,[50] whatever you may bestow on so many of us as

are here present. And I, for my part, can say that I am not persuaded,

nor do I think, that injustice is more gainful than justice,—not even

should we allow it play, and not prevent it doing what it likes. But, my

good friend, even supposing him to be unjust and able to do unjustly,

either secretly or by open force, yet I at least am not persuaded that

injustice is more gainful than justice; and on this point probably some

of us here are of the same mind, and not I alone. Persuade us,

therefore, sufficiently, my admirable friend, that we are wrong in

deeming justice of more value than injustice. But how, said he, am I to

persuade you? for if you are not persuaded by what I have said already,

what further can I do for you? Shall I take and implant my arguments in

your very soul? By Zeus, no, said I;—but, first of all, whatever you

have said, abide by it: or, if you do change, change openly, and do not

deceive us. Now, you see, Thrasymachus—(for we will reconsider what has

been above said),—that in first defining the true physician, you did not

think it needful afterwards, that the true shepherd should strictly keep

his flock, but fancy, that so far as he is a shepherd, he may feed his

flock without regarding the best interests of the sheep, but rather as

some glutton going to feast on them at some entertainment, or to dispose

of them as a merchant, and not [care for them] as a shepherd. The

shepherd art, however, has certainly no other care but that for which it

is appointed, namely, to afford it what is best, since its own affairs

are already so sufficiently provided for, as to be in the very best

state without needing any of the shepherd art. So likewise, I, for my

part, conceived that there you must necessarily agree with us in this,

that every government, in as far as it is government, considers what is

best for nothing else but for that which is governed and tended, whether

in political or private government. But with respect to rulers in

cities, think you that such as are really rulers govern willingly? No,

by Zeus, said he, [I do not think so;] but I am quite certain.

-----

Footnote 49:

Lucian must have had this passage in view, when writing Encom.

Demosth. § 16:—ἦ πού γε, ἔφην, διανοεῖ καταχεῖν μου τῶν ὤτων, ὥσπερ

βαλανεὺς καταντλήσας τὸν λοιπὸν λόγον.

Footnote 50:

Analogous phrases are common among the Greek Classics. Comp. Gorg. p.

506 c., and Thucyd. i. c. 129:—Κείσεταί σοι εὐεργεσία ἐν πῷ ἡμετέρῳ

οἴκῳ εἰσαεὶ ἀνάγραπτος.

-----

CHAP. XVIII.—Why now, Thrasymachus, said I, do you not perceive, as

regards all other governments, that no one undertakes them willingly,

but men ask for recompense, since the benefits likely to accrue from

governing are not to come to themselves, but to the governed? Tell me

this, then;—do we not always say that each several art is distinct in

this, in having a distinct function? And my admirable friend, do not

answer contrary to your opinion, that we may make some real progress. In

this respect, at any rate, said he, it is distinct. And does not each of

them afford us some certain peculiar advantage, and not a common

one;—as, for instance, the medicinal, health; the pilot art, safety in

sailing,—and the rest in like manner? Certainly. And has not the

mercenary art mercenary reward? for this is its function. Do you call

both the medicinal art and the pilot art one and the same? Or, if you

mean to define them strictly, as you proposed, though one in piloting

recover his health, on account of the expedience of his going to sea,

you will not at all the more on this account call it the medicinal art?

Not at all, said he. Nor [will you call] the mercenary art the

medicinal, I fancy, though in earning a reward one may recover his

health? No, indeed. What then? Will you call the medicinal the mercenary

art, if, in performing a cure, one earn a reward? No, said he. Have we

not acknowledged, then, that each art has its peculiar advantage?

Granted, said he. Whatever, then, be that advantage, with which all

artists in common are advantaged, it must plainly be by using some same

thing in common to all, that they are advantaged by it. It seems so,

said he. Still, we say that the advantage accruing to artists from

receiving a reward comes to them from the adoption of a mercenary art.

He acquiesced unwillingly. This, then, is not the advantage which each

receives from his own art, [namely,] the receiving a reward?—But if we

strictly consider it, the art of medicine produces health, that of

money-getting a reward, masonry a house, and the mercenary art

accompanying it, a reward; and all the others in like manner,—every one

performs its own work, and confers advantage on that for which it was

designed; but if it meet not with a reward, is the artist benefited at

all by his art? It appears not, said he. But confers he no service when

he works gratuitously? I think he does. This, then, is now evident,

Thrasymachus, that no art or government provides what is advantageous

for itself; but, as we said long ago, it both provides and prescribes

for the governed what is advantageous to him, having in view the

interest of the inferior and not that of the more powerful. For these

reasons, then, friend Thrasymachus, I even just now said, that no one is

willing to govern and undertake the setting right of others’ troubles

without asking a reward; because, whoever intends to practise his art

well, never himself does nor enjoins [on others] what is best for

himself, if he enjoins according to his art, but rather what is best for

the governed; for which reason, therefore, as it seems, a recompense

must be given to those who are likely to be willing governors,—either

money, or honour,—or punishment, on the other hand, if a man will not

govern.

CHAP. XIX.—How say you this, Socrates? said Glaucon:—the two rewards,

indeed, I understand; but the punishment, that you mention, and how you

can speak of it under the head of reward, I know not. As for the reward,

then, of the best of men, said I, do you not understand why the most

worthy govern, when they are willing to govern:—or, do you not know,

that to be ambitious and covetous, is both deemed a reproach, and is so?

I do, said he. For these reasons, then, said I, good men are not willing

to govern, either for money or for honour; inasmuch as they neither wish

to be called mercenary, for openly making gain by governing,—nor

thieves, for taking clandestinely from what belongs to their office:—nor

again [are they willing to govern] for honour, since they are not

ambitious. Hence if they are to be induced to govern willingly, there

must be laid on them both compulsion and punishment; and hence it seems

likely, that a willing undertaking of government, without waiting for

compulsion, has been reckoned dishonourable. The greatest part of the

punishment, however, in case he is not willing to govern himself, is the

being governed by one who is inferior. It is chiefly through fear of

this, methinks, that the good govern, when they do govern: and in that

case they enter on the government, not as on anything good, or as about

to derive any advantage therefrom, but as on a necessary task, and

finding none better than, or even like, themselves, to intrust with the

government. It seems likely, indeed, that if there were a state of good

men, the contest would be, not to govern, as now it is to govern; and,

hence, it would be manifest, that the really true governor does not

naturally aim at his own advantage, but at that of the governed; so that

any one who has sense would rather choose to be benefited by another,

than have trouble in benefiting another. This, therefore, I, for my

part, by no means grant to Thrasymachus; that justice is what is

expedient for the stronger:—but this, indeed, we shall consider again

hereafter.—What Thrasymachus says now, however, seems to me of much more

importance,—when he says, that the life of the unjust man is better than

that of the just. You, then, Glaucon, said I, which opinion do you

choose; and which of the two seems to you most consistent with truth?

The life of the just, said he, is in my opinion the more profitable.

Have you heard, said I, how many good things Thrasymachus just now

enumerated in the life of the unjust? I heard, said he; but I am not

persuaded. Do you wish, then, that we should persuade him (if we can

find any means of doing so), that there is no truth in what he says? How

should I not wish it? said he. If then, by way of opposition, said I, we

advance, as argument against argument, how many good things are involved

in being just,—and again, he on the other side, and we again rejoin, it

will be requisite to compute and estimate what either of us says on

either side; and we shall want also some judges to decide thereon. But

if, as just now, we investigate these matters, by agreeing with each

other, we shall ourselves be both judges and counsel? Certainly, said

he. Which of these plans, then, said I, do you choose? The latter, said

he.

CHAP. XX.—Come then, said I, Thrasymachus;—answer us from the beginning.

Say you, that complete injustice is more profitable than complete

justice? Assuredly, I do say so, replied he;—and why, too, I have

already told you. Come, now, how can you affirm anything like the

following concerning them?—Do you call one of them virtue; and the other

vice? How not? Is not justice, then, a virtue,—and injustice a vice?

Likely, indeed, that I should say so, facetious man; since I say that

injustice is profitable, but justice not so! What then? Quite the

contrary, said he. Do you call justice a vice? No; but a very generous

folly. Do you, then, call injustice a want of principle? No, said he,

but sagacity. Do the unjust, Thrasymachus, seem to you both wise and

good? Such, at least, said he, as are able to do injustice in

perfection, and can subject states and nations to themselves; but you

think, perhaps, that I speak of cut-purses. Even such employment as

this, said he, is profitable, if concealed; but yet is of no value in

comparison with what I just mentioned. I am not ignorant, said I, of

what you mean to say: but at this I am surprised,—that you should reckon

injustice as a part of virtue and wisdom, and justice among their

contraries. But, I certainly do reckon it so. This, my good friend, said

I, is somewhat too hard, and it is no longer easy to know what one can

say: for if you had alleged that injustice is profitable, and had still

allowed it to be a vice, or base, as some others do,—we should have had

something to say, speaking according to received opinions. But now it is

evident that you will say it is beautiful and strong, and will attribute

to it all other properties which we ascribe to the just man, because,

forsooth, you have ventured to class it with virtue and wisdom. You

augur very truly, said he. I must not grudge, however, said I, to pursue

our inquiry, so long as I conceive you speak what you really think; for

you appear to me, Thrasymachus, without doubt, not to be jesting, but

only to speak what you conceive to be the truth. What difference is it

to you, said he, whether I think so, or not;—and why do you not refute

my reasoning? No difference at all, said I:—but try further to reply to

this likewise: does one just man appear to you to wish to have more than

another just man? By no means, said he; for otherwise he would not have

been accommodating and silly, as we just conceived him. What; not even

in a just action? No,—not even in one that is just, said he. But, would

he deem it right to overreach the unjust man, and reckon it just; or

would he not think it just? He would both count it just, said he, and

deem it right; but yet he would not be able [to do it]. That, said I, I

do not ask,—but, whether the just man would neither deem it right, nor

feel a wish to overreach a just man, but yet would do so to the unjust?

Such is the case, said he. What, then, would the unjust man [do?]—Would

he deem it right to overreach the just man, even in a just action? How

not, said he, since he deems it right to overreach all men? With

respect, then, to the unjust man and unjust action, will not the unjust

man desire to overreach both; and eagerly strive himself to receive most

of all? Such is the fact.

CHAP. XXI.—This, then, is what we mean, said I:—the just man does not

try to overreach one like himself, but one that is unlike, while the

unjust man does so both to one like, and one unlike himself. You have

expressed yourself admirably, said he. Well, then, said I, the unjust

man is both wise and good; but the just man is neither. Well, again,

said he. In that case, said I, is not the unjust man like the wise and

the good, and the just man unlike. Of course, said he, a person of a

certain character is likely to resemble one of like character; and he

who is otherwise, not. Well said:—such an one then, of course, is either

of those whom he resembles? Why doubt it? said he. Granted,

Thrasymachus;—now do you call one man musical, and another unmusical? I

do. Which of the two do you call wise, and which unwise? The musical,

surely, wise, and the unmusical unwise. As being wise, then, is he not

good; but as unwise, bad? Yes. And what as to the physician, is it not

the same? The same. Do you think, then, my excellent friend, that any

musician, when he is tuning a harp, wants to overreach, or deems it

right to have more skill than a man who is a musician, in straining and

slackening the strings? Not I. But what with respect to one unmusical?

He could not help it, said he. And what as to the physician? In

prescribing meats or drinks, would he try to overreach either another

physician, or the art he professes? No, indeed. But one who is no

physician [would?] Yes. Just consider then, as respects all science and

ignorance, whether any skilful man, be he who he may, appears to you to

have a desire to grasp at, or do, or say more than another skilful

man,—and not rather to do the same things, in the same business as one

equally skilful with himself? Aye, it seems, it must be so, said he. But

what, as to him who is unskilled, will not he like to overreach both

alike the skilful and the unskilled? Probably. But the skilful man [is]

wise? I admit it.—And the wise, good?—I admit it. Both the good and the

wise, then, will not want to overreach his like, but rather one unlike,

and contrary to himself? It seems so, said he. But the bad and the

ignorant man [will want to overreach] both his like and his contrary? It

appears so. In that case, Thrasymachus, said I;—the unjust man desires

to overreach both one unlike and one like himself:—did not you say so? I

did, said he. The just man, however, on his side, will not overreach his

like, but one unlike? Yes. The just man then, said I, resembles the wise

and the good, but the unjust, the evil and the ignorant? It seems so.

But we agreed, that each of them was such as what he resembled? We did

agree so. The just man, then, has been clearly shown to be good and

wise, but the unjust, ignorant and evil.

CHAP. XXII.—Thrasymachus at last agreed to all these things,—not easily,

as I now narrate them, but dragged to it, and with difficulty, and with

a wondrous deal of sweating, just as if it was summer. Then, indeed, did

I behold—I never did before—Thrasymachus blushing. And after we had

agreed that justice was virtue and wisdom, and injustice, vice and

ignorance,—well, said I, let this be so settled;—but we said also, that

injustice is powerful:—do not you remember, Thrasymachus? I do remember,

said he;—but, to me at least, what you now say is not pleasing, and I

have somewhat to say about it; but should I mention it, I well know you

would say I am declaiming.[51] Either, then, let me say what I please,

or, if you wish to question me, do so, and I will say to you, as to

gossiping old women,[52] “Be it so,” and will assent and dissent. Not by

any means, said I, if against your own opinion. Just to please you, said

he, since you will not let me speak: though what else do you wish?

Nothing, by Zeus, said I: but if you will do this, do it, and I will ask

questions. Ask, then. This, then, I ask, as just now (that we may

regularly examine our argument), of what quality is justice, compared

with injustice? for I think it has been said that injustice was more

powerful and stronger than justice.—But now, at any rate, said I, if

justice be both virtue and wisdom, it will easily, methinks, be seen to

be more powerful also than injustice, since injustice is ignorance; no

one can any longer be ignorant of this—For my part, however,

Thrasymachus, I am not desirous of getting rid of the question at once,

but to consider it somehow thus.—Would you say that a state may be

unjust, and attempt to enslave other states unjustly, and have enslaved

them, and besides that actually hold many in slavery under herself? How

not? said he: and this for the most part the best state will do, and one

that is most completely unjust. I am aware, said I, that this was your

assertion:—but this is what I wish to inquire; whether the state, which

becomes more powerful than another state, is to hold this power without

justice, or must necessarily do so with justice? If indeed, as you now

alleged, said he, justice is wisdom—with justice; but if, as I

said,—with injustice. I am quite delighted, Thrasymachus, said I, that

you not merely assent and dissent; but also that you answer quite

capitally. For I oblige you, he said. Therein doing well: oblige me,

then, in this too, and tell me,—think you that a city, or camp, or

robbers, or thieves, or any other company of men, such as jointly

undertake anything unjustly, can meet with any success, if they injure

one another? No, indeed, said he. But what, if they do no wrong?—-will

they not [get on] better? Certainly. For, somehow or other,

Thrasymachus, injustice induces seditions, and hatreds and contentions

among men,—while justice [brings] harmony and friendship. Does it not?

Granted, said he, that I may not differ from you.

-----

Footnote 51:

A sly hit at the Sophists, of which dogmatic set Thrasymachus is

throughout a very apt representative.

Footnote 52:

The term γραῶν ὕθλος or μῦθος was quite proverbial among the Greeks.

Comp. Gorg. p. 527 a. Τάχα δ’ οὖν ταῦτα μῦθος σοι δοκεῖ λέγεσθαι ὥσπερ

γραός.

-----

CHAP. XXIII.—You are very kind, my excellent friend, then tell me this

too;—if this be the work of injustice to engender hatred wherever it

exists, will it not, when exercised both among freemen and slaves, make

them hate one another, and become seditious, and incapable of doing

anything in concert for the common advantage? Certainly. But what if it

happen in the case of two only; will they not differ, and hate, and

become enemies both to one another and to the just also? They will, said

he. If then, my admirable friend, injustice reside in a person,—will it

lose its power, or still retain it? It will still retain it, he replied.

Seems it not, then, to have some such power as this;—that, in whatever

it exists, whether in a city, or race, or camp, or anywhere else, it

first of all renders it unable to act of itself, owing to seditions and

differences; besides which, it becomes an enemy not only to itself, but

to every opponent, especially to the just—is it not so? Certainly. And,

methinks, when injustice residing in one man will have all these

effects, which it is natural for it to produce, it will, in the first

place, render him unable to act, while at variance and discord with

himself;—and, secondly, as being an enemy both to himself and the

just:—is it not so? Yes. But, at any rate, friend, the gods are just?

Granted, said he. As respects the gods, then, Thrasymachus, the unjust

man will be a foe, but the just man a friend? Feast yourself boldly on

this reasoning, said he; for I will not oppose you, that I may not

render myself odious to those who think so.[53] Come then, said I, and

satiate me with the rest of the feast, by answering as you were doing

just now: for as respects the just appearing wiser and better and more

able to act, but the unjust being capable of doing nothing in concert;

and besides that, as to what we said with reference to the unjust, that

they are ever at any time able strenuously to act in mutual

concert,—this we advanced not quite correctly, for being thoroughly

unjust, they would not spare one another: but yet it was evident that

there was a justice in them, which made them refrain at any rate from

injuring one another and those of their party,—owing to which they

performed what they did; and they rushed into unjust actions, through

injustice, in a kind of half-wicked feeling; for the completely wicked

are both perfectly unjust, and also quite incapable of action:—that this

is really so, I understand, but not in the way that you first defined

it. Besides, whether the just live better than the unjust, and are more

happy (which we proposed to consider afterwards), is now to be

considered:—and, methinks, they appear to do so even at present, from

what we have said:—but let us consider the matter still better; for the

discussion is not about a casual matter, but about the manner in which

we ought to live.

-----

Footnote 53:

A clever way of extricating himself from the dilemma in which his

general scepticism has involved him!

-----

Consider, then, said he. I am considering, said I;—and tell me, does

there seem to you to be any work peculiar to a horse? Yes. Would you not

call that the [peculiar] work both of a horse, and indeed of any being

whatever, which he can do, or best do, with him alone? I do not

understand, said he. But thus;—see you with anything else than the eyes?

Surely not. What then? Could you hear with anything else than the ears?

By no means. Should we not, then, justly call these the works peculiar

to them? Certainly. And what—could you not with a sword, a knife, and

many other things, lop off a vine-branch? How not? But with nothing, at

any rate, methinks, so well as with a pruning-knife made for that

purpose. True. Shall we not then define this to be its [peculiar] work?

We will so define it then.

CHAP. XXIV.—Now, methinks, you may understand better what I was asking,

when I inquired whether the work of each be not that which, of all

others, one performs either alone or in the best manner. I understand

you, said he; and this seems to me to be each one’s peculiar work.

Granted, said I:—and does there not likewise appear to you to be a

virtue belonging to everything, to which a certain work is assigned? But

let us run over the same ground once more:—We say that the eyes have a

certain work? Yes. Is there not then a virtue belonging to the eyes? A

virtue also. Well, then, have the ears a certain work? Yes. And of

course a virtue also? A virtue also. And, about all the rest;—is it not

thus? It is. But, hold:—could the eyes ever cleverly perform their work,

when not possessed of their own proper virtue, but vice instead of

virtue? How could they? said he; for perhaps you mean blindness instead

of sight. Whatever, said I, be their virtue, that I mean,—for I do not

yet enter on this question; but, whether by their own proper virtue they

will perform their own proper work well, whatever they undertake; and by

vice, badly? In this, at least, said he, you speak the truth. And will

not the ears also, when deprived of their virtue, perform their work

ill? Certainly. And, are we to settle all other things by the same

reasoning? So I suppose. Come then, after this, consider what follows:

has the soul a certain work, which you can perform by no other living

thing,—such as this, to take care, to govern, to consult, and all such

[acts?] Is there any other than the soul, to which we can justly ascribe

them, and say they are its proper functions? No other. But what of

this?—To live; shall we say it is the work of the soul? Most assuredly,

said he. Do not we say, then, that there is some virtue, also, peculiar

to the soul? We do. And can the soul, then, Thrasymachus, ever perform

its own works cleverly, whilst deprived of its proper virtue;—or, is

this impossible? Impossible. Of necessity, then, a bad soul must govern

and take care of things badly, and a good soul perform all these things

well? Necessarily so. Did we not then agree, that justice was the virtue

of the soul, and injustice its vice? We did so agree. The just soul,

then, and the just man, will live well, and the unjust ill? It appears

so, said he, according to your reasoning. Surely, then, he who lives

well is both blessed and happy; and he who does not, the opposite? How

not? The just, then, is happy, and the unjust miserable? Granted, said

he. But at any rate, it is not advantageous to be miserable, but happy?

How not? In that case, excellent Thrasymachus, injustice is never more

profitable than justice. Well, now, Socrates, said he, you have been

capitally well feasted at these Bendideia. Aye, by you, Thrasymachus, I

certainly have; for you are grown quite mild, and have ceased to be

troublesome:—and if I have not feasted handsomely, it is owing to

myself, not you.—But just as greedy guests, ever gloating on what is

fresh brought before them, taste thereof, without having properly

enjoyed what went before,—so I, methinks, without having first

ascertained what we were before investigating,—namely the nature of

justice, have omitted this, and rushed eagerly forward to inquire

concerning it, whether it be vice and ignorance, or wisdom and

virtue;—and when an assertion was afterwards introduced, that injustice

is more profitable than justice, I could not refrain from coming to

this, from the other; so that now, from this conversation, I have learnt

nothing at all;—for since I do not know what justice is, I can scarcely

know whether it be a virtue or not,—and whether he who possesses it be

unhappy or happy.

THE END OF THE FIRST BOOK.