BOOK X.

ARGUMENT.

The _concluding book_ of the Republic comprises two main subjects of

inquiry. First, he explains more fully than he had done in the third

book, the reason for excluding from his pattern state the

accomplishment of poetry, so highly prized by the Athenians, but

nevertheless he allows the admission of that chaste and harmless

kind of it; such as hymns to the gods and odes in honour of

celebrated men;—and, lastly, he treats of the rewards both present

and to come, resulting from the practice of justice,—and of the

punishments on the other which attend on injustice, which is totally

opposed to state-happiness.

CHAP. I.—Moreover, remarked I, both in many other respects, I observe

that we have been rightly establishing our state, better indeed than all

others; and not least so do I say, as regards our sentiments concerning

poetry. What are they? said he. That no part of it which is imitative

should by any means be admitted;—for that it must not be admitted

appears now, methinks, exceedingly clear, since the several forms of the

soul have been distinguished apart from one another. How do you mean?

That I may tell it to you,—(for you will not denounce me to the

composers of tragedy, and the rest of the imitative class),—all such

things as these seem to be the ruin of the intellect of the

hearers,—that is, of such of them as have not a test to enable them to

discern their peculiar nature. What consideration, said he, leads you to

say this? It must be stated, said I; although a certain friendship, at

least, and reverence for Homer, which I have had from my childhood,

almost restrains me from telling it; for he seems truly both to have

been the first leader and teacher of all the good composers of tragedy;

but still the man must not be honoured in preference to truth. But what

I mean must be spoken. By all means, said he. Hear me then, or rather

answer me. Put your question then. Can you tell me perfectly, what is

the nature of imitation?—for I do not myself altogether understand its

meaning. Is it possible then, said he, that I shall any how understand

it? That would be no way strange, said I; since those who are

dim-sighted perceive many things sooner than those who see more clearly.

The case is so, said he; but while you are present, I would not venture

to tell, even though I had some inkling of it, but consider it yourself.

Do you wish then, that we hence begin our inquiry in our usual method?

for we used to suppose a certain idea relating to many individuals, to

which we give the same name;—do you not understand? I do understand. Let

us suppose now any one you please among the many, as for example, if you

will, there are many beds and tables. Of course. But the ideas, at least

respecting these pieces of furniture, are two, one of bed, and one of

table. Yes. And do we not usually say, that the workman of each of these

pieces of furniture, looking towards the idea, makes them thus—one of

them the beds, and the other the tables which we use;—and all other

things in like manner?—for surely not one of the artificers makes the

idea itself; for how can he? By no means. See now then, what kind of an

artificer do you call this? Which? He who makes all things which each

several artificer makes. You are alluding to some skilful and wonderful

person. Not yet, at least; but you will much more say so presently; for

this same mechanic is not only able to make all sorts of utensils, but

makes everything also which springs from the earth, and he makes all

sorts of animals, himself as well as others; and besides these things,

he makes the earth, the heaven and the gods, and all things in heaven,

and in Hades under the earth. You are speaking, said he, of a perfectly

wonderful sophist. Do you disbelieve me? said I; but tell me, do you not

think that there is such an artificer; or that in one respect, he is the

maker of all these things, and in another not so?—or do you not

perceive, that even you yourself might be able to make all these things,

in a certain manner at least? And what, said he, is this manner? It is

not difficult, said I, but is done in many ways, and quickly too; but in

the quickest way of all, if I mistake not, if you please to make a

mirror, and carry it round everywhere; for then you will very quickly

make the sun, and the heavenly bodies, the earth, yourself, and the

other animals and utensils and plants, and all that we have just now

mentioned. Yes, said he, the appearances, but not surely the realities.

You come in, said I, both well and seasonably, with your remark; for the

painter too, methinks, is an artificer of this kind;—is he not? He

cannot possibly be otherwise. You will say then, I suppose, that he does

not make what he makes real and true, although the painter too, in a

certain manner at least, makes a bed, does he not? Aye, said he; but he

too makes only the appearance.

CHAP. II.—But what as to the bed-maker?—did you not just now say, that

he does not make the idea which we say exists, and is a bed, but only a

particular bed? I did say so. If then he does not make that which really

exists, he does not make real being, but something resembling being,

though not being itself: but if any one should say that the work of the

bed-maker, or any other craftsman, were real being, it seems he would

not say what is true. He would not, said he, as it should seem to those

who are acquainted with such discussions. We must not then be surprised

if this likewise should seem somewhat obscure compared with the truth.

Certainly not. Are you willing then, said I, that as regards these very

things we inquire concerning the real nature of their imitator? If you

please, he replied. Are there not then these three sorts of beds:—one

existing in nature, and which we may say, I suppose, God made, or who

else? No one, I think. And another which the joiner makes? Yes, said he.

And a third which the painter makes:—is it not so? Granted. Now the

painter, the bed-maker, God, these three are the masters of three

species of beds? They are three indeed. But God, whether it were that he

was unwilling, or whether there was some necessity that he should only

make one bed in nature, made this one only, which is really a bed; while

two or more of such other species have never been produced, nor ever

will be produced by God. How so? said he. Because, said I, if he had

made but two, one again would have appeared, the idea of which both

these two would have possessed, and that idea would be that of a bed,

and not those two. Right, said he. God then, methinks, being aware of

these things, and willing to be the maker of a bed really, and having

real being, though of no one particular bed, and not to be any

particular bed-maker, produced but one in nature? It seems so. Are you

willing then that we should call him the producer of this, or of

something of a similar nature? It is just, said he, since he has in

their essential nature created this, as well as all other things. But

what as to the joiner?—is not he the maker of a bed? Yes. And is the

painter, too, the workman and maker of something similar? By no means.

But what will you say he has to do with a bed? This, as I think, we may

most reasonably call him, said he, an imitator of what the others

actually make and contrive. Be it so, said I; then him you call the

imitator who makes what is generated the third from nature? Quite so, he

replied. And this composer of tragedy will in like manner, as being an

imitator, rise as a sort of third from the king and the truth; and so

likewise all other imitators? Aye, so it seems. We have agreed, then, as

to the imitator?—but tell me this concerning the painter, whether you

think he undertakes to imitate each particular thing in nature, or the

works of artificers? The works of artificers, said he. Whether, such as

they really are, or such only as they appear? for this we must define

more correctly. How say you? said he. Thus; does a bed differ at all in

itself, whether a man view it obliquely or directly opposite, or in any

particular position?—or, is it not at all different, but only apparently

different, and so on as respects other things? Thus it appears, said he,

yet it does not really differ. Consider this too, with reference to

which of the two does painting work, in each particular work; whether

with reference to real being, to imitate it as it really is, or with

reference to what is apparent, as it appears; and whether is it the

imitation of appearance, or of truth? Only of appearance, said he. The

imitative art, then, is far from the truth: and on this account it

seems, he is able to make these things, because he is able to attain

only to some small part of each particular, and that but an image. Thus

we say that a painter will paint us a shoemaker, a joiner, and other

craftsmen, though having no acquaintance with any of these arts; yet he

will be able to deceive children and ignorant people, if he be a good

painter, when he paints a joiner, and shows him at a distance, so far as

to make them imagine he is a real joiner. Of course. But this, I think,

my friend, we must take into consideration in connexion with all these

things; that when any one tells us of any one, that he has met with a

man skilled in all kinds of workmanship, and everything else which each

particular artist understands, and that he knows everything whatever

more accurately than any one else, we ought to reply to such an one,

that he is a simpleton, and that it seems, he has been deceived by

falling in with some conjurer, or imitator, so as to seem to himself, to

know everything owing to his very incapacity of distinguishing between

science and ignorance and imitation. Most true, said he.

CHAP. III.—Ought we not then next, said I, to consider tragedy and its

leader, Homer?—Since from some we hear that these poets understand all

arts, and all human affairs, respecting virtue and vice, and likewise

all divine things; for a good poet must necessarily compose with

knowledge, if he means what he composes to compose well,—else he is not

able to compose. It is our business then to consider whether those who

have fallen in with these imitators have been deceived, and on viewing

their works have not perceived that they are the third distant from real

being, and their works such as can easily be made by one not knowing the

truth (for they make phantasms, and not real beings); or whether do they

say something to the purpose, and do the good poets really know the

things about which the multitude think they speak well. This, said he,

is by all means to be inquired into. Think you then, that if any one

could make both of these, that which is imitated, and likewise the

original idea, he would allow himself seriously to apply to the

workmanship of the images, and propose that to himself as the best thing

in life? I do not. But if he were really intelligent in these things

which he imitates, he would, I think, far more seriously study the

things themselves than the imitations, and would try to leave behind him

many and beautiful actions, as monuments of himself, and rather study to

be himself the person commended than the mere eulogist. I think so, said

he; for neither is the honour nor the profit equal. As to other things,

then, let us not call them to account,—asking Homer or any other of the

poets, whether they were skilled in medicine, and not mere imitators of

medical discourses;—for which of the ancient or more recent poets is

said to have restored any to health, as Æsculapius did? or what

disciples of medical science has any of them left behind, such as he

left his descendants?—Neither let us ask them about the other arts, but

leave them out of the question; and with reference to those greatest and

most beautiful things on which Homer tries to discourse,—about wars and

armies, and civic constitutions, and human education, it is just,

perhaps, to question and inquire of him: Friend Homer, if you be not the

third from the truth with regard to virtue, as being the artificer of an

image (for thus we have defined an imitator), but rather the second, and

can discern what pursuits render men better or worse, in private as well

as public, tell us which of the states has been better constituted by

you, as Lacedæmon was by Lycurgus, and great and small cities by many

others;—but as respects yourself, what state is it that acknowledges you

to have been a good lawgiver, and to have done them good service? Italy

and Sicily acknowledge Charondas, and we Solon; but who acknowledges

you? Will he be able to mention any one? I think not, said Glaucon. That

is not pretended even by the Homeridæ themselves. But what war in

Homer’s days is recorded to have been conducted by him as general, or

adviser? Not one. What then are his discoveries?—since among the works

of a wise man there are many discoveries and inventions mentioned, that

concern the arts, and other affairs; as of Thales the Milesian, and of

Anacharsis the Scythian. There is not any one such to be found. But if

not in a public manner, has Homer the repute of having lived as a

private instructor to any who delighted in his conversation, and to have

delivered down to posterity a certain Homeric manner of life,—just as

Pythagoras was remarkably beloved on this account, and, as even to this

day, such as denominate themselves Pythagoræans appear to be somehow

eminent beyond others in their manner of life? Neither, said he, is

there anything of this kind related about Homer:—for Creophilus,[252]

Socrates, the friend of Homer, may probably appear even still more

ridiculous in his education, than in his name, if what is said of Homer

be true:—for it is said that he was greatly neglected by him when he

lived.

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Footnote 252:

According to the Greek scholiast, Creophilus was an epic poet of

Chios. Homer, it is said, married his daughter, and dwelling in his

house, had from him the poem of the Iliad. His name, to which Socrates

alludes, signifies a lover of flesh.

-----

CHAP. IV.—It is said so indeed, I replied:—but think you, Glaucon, that

if Homer had really been able to educate men, and to make them better,

as being capable not only of imitating in these matters, but of

understanding them likewise, he would not then have won many intimate

friends, and have been loved and honoured by them? Whereas on the other

hand, Protagoras of Abdera, and Prodicus of Ceos, and many others, have

the power of persuading the men of their day, by private conversation,

that they will neither be able to govern their family or the state,

unless they themselves direct their education; and for this wisdom of

theirs, they are so exceedingly beloved, that their friends almost carry

them about on their heads. Would then the men of Homer’s time have left

either him or Hesiod to go about singing their songs, if he could have

done men service in the way of virtue, and not rather have kept him with

offers of gold, and so obliged him to stay with them; or,—had they been

unable to prevail on him, would they not as disciples have followed him

everywhere, till they had gained a sufficient education? Assuredly,

Socrates, said he, you appear to me to say what is true. Shall we not

then establish this point,—that all the poets, beginning from Homer, are

imitators of the images of virtue, and of other things about which they

compose, but yet do not attain to the real truth; but, as we just now

said, a painter, who himself knows nothing about the making of shoes,

will draw a shoemaker, apparently real only to such as are not

intelligent, but look at him only as to colour and figures? Certainly.

In the same manner, I think, we shall say that the poet colours over

with his names and words certain colours of the several arts, without

understanding anything himself, but merely imitating, so that to others

such as himself who view things in his compositions, he has the

appearance of possessing knowledge: and if he says anything about

shoemaking in measure, rhythm, and harmony, he seems to speak perfectly

well, whether it be respecting the art of a general or any other

subject; so great is the enchantment which these things naturally have,

because you know, I think, in what manner poetry appears when stript of

the colour of music, and expressed apart,—for you have somewhere beheld

it. I have, said he. Do they not, said I, resemble the faces of people

who are in the prime of their life, but yet not beautiful, such as they

appear when their bloom forsakes them? Quite so, said he. Come then,

consider this:—the maker of the image, whom we call the imitator, knows

nothing of real being, but only of that which is apparent:—is it not so?

Yes. Let us not then leave it expressed by halves, but let us examine it

fully. Say on, replied he. A painter, we say, will paint reins and a

bridle. Yes. And the leather-cutter, and the smith, will make them.

Certainly. Does the painter then understand what kind of reins and

bridle there ought to be;—or not even he who makes them, the smith, nor

the leather-cutter, but he who knows how to use them, the horseman

alone? Most true. Shall we not say that this is the case in everything

else? How? That with reference to each particular thing there are these

three arts:—that which is to use it, that which is to make it, and that

which is to imitate it? Yes. Are then the virtue, and the beauty, and

the rectitude of every utensil, and animal, and action, for nothing else

but for the use for which each particular was made, or generated? Just

so. Very necessarily, then, must he who uses each particular, be the

most skilful, and most able to tell the maker what he makes good or bad,

with regard to the use in which he employs it: thus, for example, a

flute-player will tell the flute-maker concerning flutes, what things

are expedient for playing on the flute, and will give orders how he

ought to make them, but the latter will attend to his directions. Of

course. Will not the one then, being intelligent, pronounce concerning

good and bad flutes, and the other, believing him, make them

accordingly? Yes. With reference then to one and the same instrument,

the maker will form a correct opinion concerning its beauty or

deformity, while he is conversant with one who is intelligent, and is

obliged to hear from the intelligent; but he who uses it must have

science. Certainly. But will the imitator have science from using the

things he paints, whether handsome and correct, or otherwise? or will he

form a correct opinion from being necessarily conversant with the

intelligent, and from being ordered how he ought to paint? Neither of

the two. The imitator then will neither know nor form a correct opinion

about what he imitates with reference to beauty or deformity? It seems

not. The imitator then will be very skilful in his imitation, with

regard to wisdom, concerning what he paints? Not wholly so. Nevertheless

he will at least imitate, without knowing about each particular in what

respect it is bad or good; and he will probably imitate such as appears

to be beautiful to the multitude, and those who know nothing? Of course.

We have now, indeed, sufficiently, as it appears, at least, settled

these things;—that the imitator knows nothing worth mentioning in those

things which he imitates, but imitation is a sort of amusement, and no

serious business:—and likewise, that those who apply to tragic poetry in

iambics and epics, are all imitators in the highest degree? Certainly.

CHAP. V.—By Zeus, though, said I, this business of imitation is placed

somehow in the third degree from the truth:—is it not? Yes. To what part

then of man does it belong, having the power that it has? What part do

you speak of? Of such as this:—the same magnitude perceived by sight,

does not appear in the same manner, both near and at a distance. It does

not. And the same things appear crooked and straight, when we look at

them in water, and out of the water, and concave and convex, through

error of the sight, as to colours. All this disturbance is manifest in

the soul; and it is this infirmity of our nature which painting attacks,

leaving nothing of magical seduction unattempted, as well as the

wonder-working art, and many other such-like devices. True. And have not

the arts of measure, number, and weight been deemed in these matters

most ingenious helps, that so the apparent greater or less, the apparent

more or heavier, may not govern us, but that which numbers, measures,

and weighs? It must be so. But this again is, at least, the work of the

rational part in the soul. It is so, indeed. But while reason often

measures and pronounces some things to be greater or less than other

things, or equal, the contrary appears at the same time as regards these

things? Yes. But did not we say that it was impossible for the same

person to have contrary opinions about the same things at the same time?

Thus far indeed we said rightly. That part of the soul, then, which

judges contrary to the measure, would seem not to be the same with that

which judges according to the measure. It would not. But surely that, at

least, which trusts to measure and computation would seem to be the best

part of the soul? Of course. That then which opposes itself to this will

be one of our depraved parts. Necessarily so. It was this then I wished

should be agreed upon, when I said that painting, and imitation, in

general, being far from the truth, delights in its own work, conversing

with that part in us which is far from wisdom, and is its companion and

friend, to no sound nor genuine purpose. Entirely so, said he.

Imitation, then, being depraved in itself, and joining with that which

is depraved, generates depraved things. It seems so. Whether, said I, is

the case thus, with reference to the imitation which is by the sight

only, or is it likewise so with reference to that by hearing, which we

call poetry? Probably as to this also, said he. We shall not therefore,

said I, trust to the appearance in painting, but we shall proceed to the

consideration of the intellectual part with which the imitation through

poetry is conversant, and see whether it is depraved or worthy. It must

be done. Let us proceed then thus: Poetic imitation, we say, imitates

men acting either voluntarily or involuntarily; and imagining that in

their acting they have done either well or ill, and in all these cases

receiving either pain or pleasure: is the case any otherwise than this?

Not at all. In all these, now, does the man agree with himself? or, as

he disagreed with reference to sight, and had contrary opinions in

himself of the same things at one and the same time, does he, in the

same manner, disagree likewise in his actions, and fight with himself?

But I recollect that there is no occasion for us to settle this at

least; for, in our previous discussion, we sufficiently determined all

this,—that our soul is full of a thousand such internal contrarieties.

Right, said he. Right indeed, said I, but it appears to me necessary to

discuss now, what was then omitted. What is that? said he. We said

somewhere formerly, said I, that a good man, when he meets with such a

misfortune as the loss of a son, or of anything else which he values the

most, will bear it of all men the easiest. Certainly. But let us now

consider this further,—whether will he not grieve at all, or is this

indeed impossible, but will he moderate his grief? The truth, said he,

is rather this last. But tell me this now concerning him, whether do you

think that he will struggle more with grief and oppose it, when he is

observed by his equals, or when he is in solitude, alone by himself?

Much more, said he, when he is observed. But when alone, he will

venture, I think, to utter many things, which, if any one heard him, he

would be ashamed of, and he will do many things which he would not wish

any one saw him doing. Aye, such is the case, said he.

CHAP. VI.—Do not then reason and law command him to restrain his

grief,—while it is the passion itself that excites grief? True. As then

there is a twofold inducement for man’s conduct, with regard to the same

thing, at one and the same time, we must necessarily say that he has two

conductors. Of course. And shall we not say that one of them is ready to

obey the law wherever law leads him? How? Law in a manner says that it

is best to maintain the greatest possible tranquillity in misfortunes,

and not to bear them ill; since the good or evil of such things as these

is not manifest, and since no advantage follows the bearing these things

ill; and as nothing of human affairs deserves great interest; and,

besides this, their grief proves a hinderance to that within them which

we ought to have most at hand. What is it, said he, you here mean?

Deliberating on the event, said I; and, as on the throw of the dice,

regulating our affairs according to what turns up, in whatever way

reason shall dictate as best; and not as children, when they fall, to

lie still, and waste the time in crying; but always to accustom the soul

to apply in the speediest manner to heal and raise up what was fallen

and sick, putting an end to lamentation by medicine. One would thus,

said he, behave in the best manner in every condition. And did not we

say that the best part is willing to follow this which is rational?

Plainly so. And shall we not say that the part which leads to the

remembrance of affliction and to wailings, and is insatiably given to

these, is irrational, and idle, and a friend to cowardice? We shall,

indeed, say so. Is not the grieving part then that which admits of much

and various imitation? But the prudent and tranquil part, which is ever

uniform with itself, is neither easily imitated, nor, when imitated,

easily understood, especially by a popular assembly, where all sorts of

men are assembled together in a theatre. For surely it is the imitation

of a disposition which is foreign to them. Entirely so. It is plain,

then, that the imitative poet is not made for such a part of the soul as

this:—nor is his skill fitted to please it, if he means to gain the

applause of the multitude; but he applies to the passionate and the

multiform part, as it is easily imitated. It is plain. May we not then,

with justice, lay hold of the imitative poet, and place him in

correspondence with the painter? for he resembles him, both because, as

to truth, he effects but depraved things, and resembles him too in this

being conversant with a different part of the soul from that which is

best:—and thus we may, with justice, not admit him into our city which

is to be well regulated, because he excites and nurtures this part of

the soul, and, by strengthening this, destroys the rational:—and just as

he, who in a state gives power to the wicked, betrays the state, and

ruins the best men, we may in like manner say that the imitative poet

establishes a bad republic in the soul of each individual, gratifying

the foolish part of it, which neither discerns what is great, nor what

is little, but deems the same things sometimes great, and sometimes

small, forming little images in its own imagination, altogether remote

from the truth? Certainly.

CHAP. VII.—Still we have not yet brought the greatest accusation against

it: for that is, somehow, a very dreadful one, that it has the power of

corrupting even the good, except only a very few. It must, if it acts in

this manner. But hear now, and consider; for somehow, the best of us,

when we hear Homer, or any of the tragic writers, imitating some of the

heroes when in grief, pouring forth long speeches in their sorrow,

bewailing and beating their breasts, you know are delighted; and,

yielding ourselves, we follow along, and, sympathizing with them,

seriously commend him as an able poet whoever most affects us in this

manner. I know it, of course. But when any domestic grief befals any of

us, you perceive, on the other hand, that we value ourselves on the

opposite behaviour, if we can be quiet and endure, this being the part

of a man, but that of a woman, which in the other case we commended. I

perceive it, said he. Is this commendation proper, then, said I, when we

see such a man as one would not deign to be oneself, but would be

ashamed of, not to abominate but to delight in and commend him? No, by

Zeus, said he; it appears unreasonable. Certainly, said I, if you

consider the matter thus. How? If you reflect that the part of us, which

in our private misfortunes is forcibly restrained, and is kept from

weeping and bewailing to the full, being by nature of such a kind as

desires these, is the very part which by the poets is filled and

gratified; but that part in us, which is naturally the best, being not

sufficiently instructed, either by reason or habit, grows remiss in its

guardianship over the bewailing part, by attending to the sufferings of

others, and deems it no way disgraceful to itself, to commend and pity

one who grieves immoderately, whilst he professes to be a good man;—but

this it thinks it gains, even pleasure, which it would not choose to be

deprived of, by despising the whole of the poem:—for, methinks, it falls

to the share of few to be able to consider, that what we feel for

others’ misfortunes must necessarily be felt with respect to our

own,—because it is no easy matter for a man to bear up under his own

troubles, who strongly cherishes the bewailing disposition over those of

others. Most true, said he. And is not the reasoning the same with

reference to the ridiculous?—For when you hear, by comic imitation, or

in private conversation, what you would be ashamed to do yourself to

excite laughter, and are delighted with it, and imitate it, you do the

same thing here as in tragedy: for that part, which, when it wanted to

excite laughter, was formerly restrained by reason from a fear of

incurring the character of scurrility, by now letting loose, and

allowing there to grow vigorous, you are often imperceptibly brought to

be in your own conduct a buffoon. Extremely so, said he. And with

respect to venereal pleasures, and anger, and the whole of the passions,

as well the sorrowful as the joyful in the soul, which truly, we have

said, attend us in every action; the poetical imitation of these has the

same effect upon us; for it nurtures and irrigates them, whereas they

ought to be dried up, and makes them govern us, whereas they ought to be

governed, in order to our becoming better and happier, instead of being

worse and more miserable. I can say no otherwise, said he. When

therefore, Glaucon, said I, you find the eulogists of Homer saying that

this poet instructed Greece, and that he deserves to be taken as a

master to teach both the management and the knowledge of human affairs,

and that a man should regulate the whole of his life by the rules of

this poet, we should indeed love and embrace such people, as being as

good as they can be; and agree with them that Homer is a fine poet, and

the first of tragic writers:—yet they must know, that hymns to the gods,

and the praises of worthy actions, are alone to be admitted into our

state:—for if you were to admit the pleasurable muse likewise, in songs,

or verses, we should have pleasure and pain reigning in our state

instead of law, and that reason which always appears best to the

community. Most true, said he.

CHAP. VIII.—Let these things now, said I, be our apology, when we

recollect what we have said with reference to poetry, that we then very

properly dismissed it from our republic, since it is such as is now

described: for reason obliged us. And let us address it further, that it

may not accuse us of a certain roughness and rusticity, that there is an

ancient variance between philosophy and poetry; for such verses as

these,

That brawling whelp, which at her mistress barks,

And

He apes the great with empty eloquence,

And

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

and a thousand such-like, are marks of an ancient opposition between

them. Notwithstanding, however, it may be said, that if any one can

assign a reason why the poetry and the imitation which are calculated

for pleasure ought to be in a well-regulated city, we, for our part,

shall gladly admit them, as we are at least conscious to ourselves that

we are charmed by them. But to betray what appears to be truth, were an

unholy thing. For are not you yourself, my friend, charmed by this

imitation, and most especially when you see it performed by Homer? Very

much so. Is it not just, then, that we introduce it as speaking its own

defence, either in song, or in any other measure? By all means. And we

may at least grant, even to its defenders, such as are not poets, but

lovers of poetry, to speak in its behalf, without verse, and show that

it is not only pleasant, but profitable for states, and human life also;

for surely we shall derive some benefit if it shall be found to be not

only pleasant but profitable. How can we do otherwise than derive

benefit from it? said he. And if it happen otherwise, my friend, we

shall do as those who have been in love, when they deem their love

unprofitable,—they desist, though with violence; so we in like manner,

through this innate love of such poetry that prevails in our best forms

of government, shall be well pleased to see it appear to be the best and

truest; and we shall hear it till it is able to make no further apology.

But we shall take along with us this discourse which we have held, as a

counter-charm, and incantation, being afraid to fall back again into a

childish and vulgar love. We may perceive then that we are not to be

much in earnest about such poetry as this, as if it were a serious

affair, and approached to the truth; but the hearer is to beware of it,

and to be afraid for the republic within himself, and to entertain those

opinions of poetry which we mentioned. I entirely agree, said he. For

great is the contest, friend Glaucon, said I, great not such as it

appears, to become a good or a bad man: wherefore it is not right to be

moved, either by honour, or riches, or any magistracy whatever, or

poetry, so to neglect justice, and the other virtues. I agree with you,

from what we have argued, and so I think will any one else.

CHAP. IX.—However, we have not yet, said I, discussed the greatest prize

of virtue, and the rewards laid up for her. You speak of some prodigious

greatness, said he, if there be other greater than those mentioned. But

what is there, said I, can be great in a little time? for all this

period from infancy to old age is but little in respect of the whole.

Nothing at all indeed, said he. What then? Do you think an immortal

being ought to be much concerned about such a period, and not about the

whole of time? I think, said he, about the whole. But why do you mention

this? Have you not perceived, said I, that our soul is immortal, and

never perishes? On which he, looking at me, and wondering, said, By

Jupiter, not I indeed. But are you able to show this? I should otherwise

act unjustly, said I. And I think you yourself can show it, for it is

not at all difficult. To me at least, said he, it is difficult; but I

would willingly hear from you this which is not difficult. You shall

hear then, said I. Only speak, he replied. Is there not something, said

I, which you call good, and something which you call evil? I own it. Do

you conceive of them, then, just in the way that I do? How? That which

destroys and corrupts everything is the evil, and what preserves and

profits it is the good. I do, said he. But what? Do you say, that there

is something which is good, and something which is bad, to each

particular? as blindness to the eyes, and disease to every animal body,

blasting to corn, rottenness to wood, rust to brass and iron, and, as I

say almost every thing to its connate evil and disease? I do, he

replied. And when anything of this kind befals anything, does it not

render that which it befals base, and in the end dissolve and destroy

it? How should it not? Its own connate evil then and baseness destroys

each particular; or, if this does not destroy it, nothing else can ever

destroy it:—because that which is good can never destroy anything, nor

yet that which is neither good nor evil. How can they? said he. If then

we shall be able to find among beings, any one which has indeed some

evil which renders it base, but is not however able to dissolve and

destroy it, shall we not then know that a being thus constituted cannot

be destroyed at all? So it seems, replied he. What then? said I:—is

there not something which renders the soul evil? Certainly, he replied;

all these things which we have now mentioned,—injustice, intemperance,

cowardice, ignorance. But does any of these then dissolve and destroy

it?—And attend now, that we may not be imposed on, in thinking that an

unjust and foolish man, when detected acting unjustly, is then destroyed

through his injustice, which is the baseness of his soul: but consider

it thus:—As disease, which is the baseness of animal body, dissolves and

destroys body, and reduces it to be no longer that body; so all those

things we mentioned, being destroyed by their own proper evil adhering

to them and possessing them, are reduced to non-existence. Is it not so?

Yes. Consider now the soul in the same manner. Does injustice, and the

rest of vice, possessing it, by possessing, and adhering to it, corrupt

and deface it, till, bringing it to death, it separates it from the

body? By no means, said he. But it were absurd, said I, that anything

should be destroyed by the baseness of another, but not by its own.

Absurd. For you must reflect, Glaucon, said I, that neither by the

baseness of victuals, whether owing to mouldiness, or rottenness, or

whatever else, do we think our body can be destroyed; but if this

baseness in them create in the body a depravity of the body, we may

allege, that through their means, the body is destroyed by its own evil,

which is disease. But we will never allow that by the baseness of food,

which is one thing, the body, which is another thing, can ever by this

foreign evil, without creating in it its own peculiar evil, be at any

time destroyed. You speak most correctly, he replied.

CHAP. X.—According to the same reasoning, then, said I, unless the

baseness of the body create a baseness of the soul, let us never allow

that the soul can be destroyed by an evil which is foreign, without its

own peculiar evil, one thing by the evil of another. There is reason for

it, said he. Let us, then, either refute these things as not good

reasoning; or, so long as they are unrefuted, let us at no time say,

that the soul shall be ever in any degree the more destroyed, either by

burning fever, or by any other disease, or by slaughter, not even though

a man should cut the whole body into the smallest parts possible, till

some one show that, through these sufferings of the body, the soul

herself becomes more unjust and unholy. But we will never allow it to be

said, that when a foreign evil befals anything, whilst its own proper

evil is not within it, either the soul or anything else is destroyed.

But this, at least, said he, no one can ever show, that the souls of

those who die are by death rendered more unjust. But if any one, replied

I, shall dare to contend with us in reasoning; and, in order that he may

not be obliged to own that souls are immortal, should say, that when a

man dies he becomes more wicked and unjust, we shall surely require if

he who says this speaks truly, that injustice is deadly to the

possessor, as a disease; and that those who embrace it are destroyed by

it as by a disease destructive in its own nature,—those most speedily

who embrace it most, and those more slowly who embrace it less. And not

as at present, where the unjust die having this punishment inflicted on

them by others. By Jupiter, said he, injustice would not appear

perfectly dreadful, if it were deadly to him who practises it (for that

were a deliverance from evil); but I rather think it will appear to be

altogether the reverse, destroying others as far as it can, but

rendering the unjust extremely alive, and, in conjunction with being

alive, wakeful likewise; so far, as it seems, does it dwell from being

deadly. You say well, replied I; for, when a man’s own wickedness and

peculiar evil is not sufficient to kill and destroy the soul, that evil,

which aims at the destruction of another, can scarcely destroy a soul,

or anything else but that against which it is aimed. Hardly, indeed,

said he, as I think at least. Since, therefore, it is destroyed by no

one evil, neither peculiar nor foreign, is it not plain that, of

necessity, it always is? and, if it always is, it is immortal?

Necessarily so, he replied.

CHAP XI.—Let this then, said I, be so settled:—and if it be, you will

perceive that the same souls will always remain, for their number will

never become less, none being destroyed, nor will it become greater; for

if, anyhow, the number of immortals was made greater, you know it would

take from the mortal, and in the end all would be immortal. You say

true. But let us not, said I, think that this will be the case (for

reason will not allow of it), nor yet that the soul in its truest nature

is of such a kind as to be full of much variety, dissimilitude, and

difference considered in itself. How mean you? said he. That cannot

easily, said I, be eternal which is compounded of many things, and which

has not the most beautiful composition, as hath now appeared to us to be

the case with reference to the soul. It is not likely. That the soul

then is something immortal, both our present reasonings, and others too,

may oblige us to own: but in order to know what kind of being the soul

is, in truth, one ought not to contemplate it as it is damaged both by

its conjunction with the body and by other evils, as we now behold it,

but such as it is when become pure, such it must by reasoning be fully

contemplated; and he (who does this) will find it far more beautiful at

least, and will more plainly see through justice, and injustice, and

everything which we have now discussed. We are now telling the truth

concerning it, such as it appears at present. We have seen it, indeed,

in the same condition in which they see the marine Glaucus,[253] where

they cannot easily perceive his ancient nature, because the ancient

members of his body are partly broken off, and others are worn away; and

he is altogether damaged by the waves: and, besides this, other things

are grown to him, such as shellfish, seaweed, and stones: so that he in

every respect resembles a beast, rather than what he naturally was. In

such a condition do we behold the soul under a thousand evils. But we

ought to behold it there, Glaucon. Where? said he. In its philosophy;

and to observe to what it applies, and what intimacies it professes, as

being allied to that which is divine, immortal, and eternal; and what it

would become, if it wholly pursued a thing of this kind, and were by

this pursuit brought out of that sea in which it now is, and had the

stones and shellfish shaken off from it, which, at present, as it is fed

on earth, render its nature, to a great extent, earthy, stony, and

savage, through those aliments, which are said to procure felicity: and

then one might behold its true nature, whether multiform, or uniform,

and everything concerning it. But we have, I think, sufficiently

discussed its passions, and forms in human life. Assuredly, he replied.

-----

Footnote 253:

According to the Greek Scholiast, Glaucus is said to have been the son

of Sisyphus and Merope, and to have become a marine demon. For,

meeting with an immortal fountain, and descending into it, he became

immortal. Not being able, however, to point out this fountain to

certain persons, he threw himself into the sea; and once every year

coursed round all shores and islands in conjunction with whales.

-----

CHAP. XII.—Have we not now, said I, discussed everything else in our

reasonings, though we have not produced those rewards and honours of

justice (as you say Hesiod and Homer do)? but we find justice itself to

be the best reward to the soul; and that it ought to do what is just,

whether it have or have not Gyges’ ring, and, together with such a ring,

the helmet[254] likewise of Pluto. You say most true, said he. Will it

not now, then, Glaucon, said I, be attended with no envy, if, besides

these, we add those rewards to justice and the other virtues, which are

bestowed on the soul by men and gods, both whilst the man is alive, and

after he is dead? By all means, said he. Will you, then, restore me what

you borrowed in the reasoning? What, chiefly? I granted you, that the

just man should be deemed unjust, and the unjust be deemed to be just.

For you were of opinion, that though it were not possible that these

things should be concealed from gods and men, it should, however, be

granted, for the sake of the argument, that justice in itself might be

compared with injustice in itself; do you not remember it? I should,

indeed, be unjust, said he, if I did not.

-----

Footnote 254:

The helmet of Pluto is said to be an immortal and invisible cloud,

with which the gods are invested when they wish not to be known to

each other. And it is applied as a proverb to those that do anything

secretly.—Schol. Græc. in Plat. p. 197.

-----

Now after the judgment is over, I demand again, in behalf of justice,

that as you allow it to be indeed esteemed both by gods and men, you

likewise allow it to have the same good reputation, that it may also

receive those prizes of victory, which it acquires from the reputation

of justice, and bestows on those who possess it; since it has already

appeared to bestow those good things which arise from really being just,

and that it does not deceive those who truly embrace it. You demand what

is just, said he. Will you not, then, said I, in the first place,

restore me this? That it is not concealed from the gods, what kind of

man each of the two is. We will grant it, said he. And if they be not

concealed, one of them will be beloved of the gods, and one of them

hated,[255] as we agreed in the beginning. Such is the case. And shall

we not agree, that as to the man who is beloved of the gods, whatever

comes to him from the gods, will all be the best possible, unless he has

some necessary ill from former miscarriage? Certainly. We are then to

think thus of the just man. That if he happen to be in poverty, or in

diseases, or in any other of those seeming evils, these things to him

issue in something good, either whilst alive or dead. For never at any

time is he neglected by the gods, who inclines earnestly to endeavour to

become just, and practises virtue as far as it is possible for man to

resemble God. It is reasonable, replied he, that such an one should not

be neglected by him whom he resembles. And are we not to think the

reverse of these things concerning the unjust man? Certainly. Such,

then, would seem to be the prizes which the just man receives from the

gods. Such they are, indeed, in my opinion, said he. But what, said I,

do they receive from men? Is not the case thus (if we are to suppose the

truth)? Do not cunning and unjust men do the same thing as those racers,

who run well at the beginning, but not so at the end? for at the first

they briskly leap forward, but in the end they become ridiculous, and,

with their ears on their neck, they run off without any reward. But such

as are true racers, arriving at the end, both receive the prizes, and

are crowned. Does it not happen thus, for the most part, as to just men;

that at the end of every action and intercourse of life they are both

held in esteem, and receive rewards from men? Entirely so. You will then

suffer me to say of these what you yourself said of the unjust. For I

will aver now, that the just, when they are grown up, shall arrive at

power if they desire magistracies, they shall marry where they incline,

and shall settle their children in marriage agreeably to their wishes;

and everything else you mentioned concerning the others, I now say

concerning these. And on the other hand, I will say of the unjust, that

the most of them, though they may remain concealed while young, yet,

being caught at the end of the race, are ridiculous; and, when they

become old, are wretched and ridiculed, and shall be scourged both by

foreigners and citizens, and afterwards tortured and burnt; which you

said were terrible things;—and you spoke the truth. You may suppose that

you hear from me that they suffer all these things. But see if you will

admit what I say. Certainly, said he, for you say what is just.

-----

Footnote 255:

That is to say, one of these through aptitude will receive the

illuminations of divinity, and the other through inaptitude will

subject himself to the power of avenging demons.

-----

CHAP. XIII.—These then, said I, are the prizes, the rewards and gifts,

which a just man receives during life, both from gods and men; besides

those good things which justice contains in itself. And they are

extremely beautiful, said he, and permanent. But these now, said I, are

nothing in number or magnitude, when compared with those which await

each of the two at death. And these things must likewise be heard, that

each of them may completely have what is their due in the reasoning. You

may say on, he replied, as to one who would not listen to many other

things with greater pleasure. But, however, I will not, said I, tell you

the apologue of Alcinous; but that, indeed, of a brave man, Er, the son

of Armenius, by descent a Pamphylian; who happening on a time to die in

battle, when the dead were on the tenth day carried off, already

corrupted, was taken up sound; and being carried home, as he was about

to be buried on the twelfth day, when laid on the funeral pile, revived;

and being revived, he told what he saw in the other state, and said,

that after his soul left the body, it went with many others, and that

they came to a certain mysterious, hallowed place, where there were two

chasms in the earth, near to each other, and two other openings in the

heavens opposite on them, and that the judges sat between these;—that

when they gave judgment, they commanded the just to go on the right

hand, and upwards through the heaven, having fitted marks on the front

of those that had been judged; but the unjust they commanded to the

left, and downwards, and these likewise had behind them marks of all

that they had done. But when he came before the judges, they said he

ought to be a messenger to men concerning things there, and they

commanded him to hear, and contemplate everything therein;—and that he

saw there, through two openings, one of the heaven, and one of the

earth, the souls departing, after they were there judged; and through

the other two openings he saw, rising through the one out of the earth,

souls full of squalidness and dust; and through the other, he saw other

souls descending pure from heaven; and that on their arrival from time

to time they seemed as if they came from a long journey, and that they

gladly went to rest themselves in the meadow, as in a public assembly,

and such as were acquainted saluted one another, and those who rose out

of the earth asked the others concerning the things above, and those

from heaven asked them concerning the things below, and that they told

one another: those wailing and weeping whilst they called to mind, what

and how many things they suffered and saw in their journey under the

earth (for it was a journey of a thousand years); and that these again

from heaven explained their enjoyments, and spectacles of amazing

beauty.—To narrate many of them, Glaucon, would occupy much time; but

this, he said, was the sum, that whatever unjust actions a man had

committed, and whatever injuries a man had committed, they were punished

for all these separately tenfold, and that it was in each, according to

the rate of a hundred years (the life of man being considered as so

long), that they might suffer tenfold punishment for the injustice they

had done;—so that if any had been the cause of many deaths, either by

betraying cities or armies, or bringing men into slavery, or being

confederates in any other wickedness, for each of all these they reaped

tenfold sufferings; and if, again, they had benefited any by good deeds,

and had been just and holy, they were rewarded according to their

deserts. Of those who died very young, and lived but a little time, he

related other things not worth mentioning;—but of impiety and piety

towards the gods and parents, and of suicide, he told the more

remarkable retributions; for he said he was present when one was asked

by another, where the great Aridæus was? This Aridæus had been tyrant in

a certain city of Pamphylia a thousand years before that time, and had

killed his aged father and elder brother, and had done many other

unhallowed deeds, as was reported: and he said, that the one who was

asked, replied: He neither comes, nor ever will come hither.

CHAP. XIV.—Well then we saw this likewise, among other dreadful

spectacles: When we were near the mouth of the opening, and were about

to ascend after having suffered everything else, we on a sudden beheld

both him, and others likewise, most of whom were tyrants, and there were

some private persons who had committed great iniquity, whom, when they

thought they were to ascend, the mouth of the opening did not admit, but

bellowed when any of those who were so polluted with wickedness, or who

had not been sufficiently punished, attempted to ascend. And then, said

he, fierce men, and fiery to look on, standing by, and perceiving the

bellowing, took some of them and led them apart, but Aridæus and the

rest, having bound their hands and feet, and head, they thrust down and

flayed, and then dragged them to an outer road, tearing them on thorns;

declaring always to those who passed by, on what accounts they suffered

these things, and that they were carrying them to be thrown into

Tartarus. And hence, he said, that amidst all their various terrors,

this terror surpassed, lest the mouth should bellow, and that when it

was silent every one most gladly ascended; and that the punishments and

torments were such as these, and their rewards were the reverse of

these. He also added, that every one arising thence, after they had been

seven days in the meadow, was required to depart on the eighth day, and

arrive at another place on the fourth day after, whence they perceived

from above through the whole heaven and earth, a light extended as a

pillar, mostly resembling the rainbow, but more splendid and pure; at

which they arrived in one day’s journey; and thence they perceived,

through the middle of the light from heaven, the extremities of its

ligatures extended; as this light was the belt of heaven, like the

transverse beams of ships keeping the whole circumference united;—that

from the extremities the distaff of Necessity is extended, by which all

the revolutions were turned round, whose spindle and point were both of

adamant, but its whirl commingled both with this and other things; and

that the nature of the whirl was of such a kind, as to its figure, as is

any one we see here. But you must conceive it, from what he said, to be

of such a kind as this: as if in some great hollow whirl, carved

throughout, there was such another, but lesser, within it, adapted to

it, like casks fitted one within another; and in the same manner a

third, and a fourth, and four others, for that the whirls were

eight[256] in all, as circles one within another, having their lips

appearing upwards, and forming round the spindle one united convexity of

one whirl; that the spindle was driven through the middle of the eight;

and that the first and outmost whirl had the widest circumference in the

lip, that the sixth had the second wide, and that of the fourth the

third wide, and the fourth that of the eighth, and the fifth that of the

seventh, the sixth that of the fifth, and the seventh that of the third,

and the eighth that of the second. Likewise that the circle of the

largest is variegated, that of the seventh is the brightest, and that of

the eighth has its colour from the shining of the seventh; those of the

second and fifth resemble each other, but are more yellow than the rest.

But the third is bright white, the fourth reddish, the second in

whiteness surpasses the sixth; and the distaff must turn round in a

circle with the whole that it carries; and while the whole is turning

round, the seven inner circles are gently turned round in a contrary

motion to the whole;—again, that of these, the eighth moves the

swiftest; and next to it, and equal to one another, the seventh, the

sixth, and the fifth; and that the third went in a motion which as

appeared to them completed its circle in the same way as the fourth. The

fourth in swiftness was the third, and the fifth was the second, and it

was turned round on the knees of Necessity;—and that on each of its

circles there was seated a Siren on the upper side, carried round, and

uttering one voice variegated by diverse modulations; but that the whole

of them, being eight, composed one harmony;—that there were other three

sitting round at equal distance one from another, each on a throne, the

daughters of Necessity, the Fates, clothed in white vestments, and

having crowns on their heads; Lachesis, Clotho, and Atropos, singing to

the harmony of the Sirens; Lachesis singing the past, Clotho the

present, and Atropos the future. And that Clotho, at certain intervals,

with her right hand laid hold of the spindle, and along with her mother

turned about the outer circle;—and Atropos, in like manner, turned the

inner ones with her left hand,—and that Lachesis touched both of these,

severally, with either hand.

-----

Footnote 256:

By the eight whirls, we must understand the eight starry spheres, viz.

the sphere of the fixed stars, and the spheres of the seven planets.

-----

CHAP. XV.—After they arrive here, it is necessary for them to go

directly to Lachesis. That then a certain prophet first of all ranges

them in order, and afterwards taking the lots, and the models of lives,

from the knees of Lachesis, and ascending a lofty tribunal, he says:—The

speech of the virgin Lachesis, the daughter of Necessity: Souls of a

day! The beginning of another period of men of mortal race:—the demon

shall not receive you as his lot, but you shall choose the demon: he who

draws the first, let him first make choice of a life, to which he must

of necessity adhere: Virtue is independent, of which every one shall

partake, more or less, according as he honours or dishonours her: the

cause is in him who makes the choice, and the Deity is blameless;—that

when he had said these things, he threw the lots on all of them, and

that each took up the one which fell beside him, except himself, for he

was not permitted; and that when each had taken it, he knew what number

he had drawn;—that after this he placed on the ground before them the

models of lives, many more than those we see at present;—and that they

were all various,—for there were lives of all sorts of animals, and

human lives of every kind;—and that among these there were tyrannies

also, some of them perpetual, and others destroyed in the midst of their

greatness, and ending in poverty, banishment, and want. That there were

also lives of renowned men, some for their appearance as to beauty,

strength, and agility; and others for their descent, and the virtues of

their ancestors. There were the lives of renowned women in the same

manner. But that there was no disposition of soul among these models,

because of necessity, on choosing a different life, it becomes different

itself. As to other things, riches and poverty, sickness and health,

they were mixed with one another, and some were in a middle station

between these.

There then, as it seems, friend Glaucon, is the whole danger of man. And

hence this of all things is most to be attended to, how each of us,

omitting other studies, is to become an inquirer and learner in this

study, in order to be able to learn and find out who will make him

expert and intelligent to discern a good life, and a bad; and to choose

everywhere, and at all times the best of what is possible, considering

all that we have mentioned, both compounded and separated from one

another, what they are with respect to the virtue of life; and to

understand what good or evil beauty produces when mixed with poverty, or

riches, and with this or the other habit of soul; and what is effected

by noble and ignoble descent, by privacy, and by public station, by

strength and weakness, docility and indocility, and everything else of

the kind which naturally pertains to the soul, and likewise of what is

acquired, when blended one with another, so as to be able from all these

things to compute, and, having an eye to the nature of the soul, to

comprehend both the worse and the better life, pronouncing that to be

the worse which shall lead the soul to become more unjust, and that to

be the better life which shall lead it to become more just, and to

dismiss every other consideration:—for we have seen, that in life, and

in death, this is the best choice. It is necessary, therefore, that a

man should have this opinion firm as an adamant in him, when he departs

to Hades, that there also he may be unmoved by riches, or any such

evils, and may not, falling into tyrannies, and other such practices, do

many and incurable mischiefs, and himself suffer still greater: but may

know how to choose always the middle life, as to these things, and to

shun the extremes on either hand, both in this life as far as is

possible, and in the whole future. For thus man becomes happy.

CHAP. XVI.—At that time, therefore, the messenger from the other world

further told how that the prophet spoke thus: Even to him who comes

last, if he chooses with judgment, and lives consistently, there is

prepared a desirable life; not bad. Let neither him who is first be

negligent in his choice, not let him who is last despair. He said, that

when the prophet had spoken these things, the first who drew a lot ran

instantly and chose the greatest tyranny, but through folly and

insatiableness had not sufficiently examined all things on making his

choice, but was ignorant that in this life there was this destiny, the

devouring of his own children, and other evils; and that afterwards,

when he had considered it at leisure, he wailed and lamented his choice,

not having observed the admonitions of the prophet above

mentioned;—inasmuch as he did not accuse himself, as the author of his

misfortunes, but fortune and the demons, and everything rather than

himself. He added, that he was one of those who came from heaven, who

had in his former life lived in a regulated republic, and had been

virtuous by custom without philosophy; and that, in short, among these

there were not a few who came from heaven, as being unexercised in

trials; but most of those who came from earth, as they had endured

hardships themselves, and had seen others in hardships, did not

precipitately make their choice. And hence, and through the fortune of

the lot, to most souls there was an exchange of good and evil things.

Since, if one should always, whenever he comes into this life, soundly

philosophize, and the lot of election should not fall on him the very

last, it would seem, from what has been told us from thence, that he

shall be happy not only here, but when he goes hence, and his journey

hither back again shall not be earthy, and rugged, but smooth and

heavenly. This spectacle, he said, was worthy to behold, in what manner

the several souls made choice of their lives; for it was pitiful and

ridiculous and wonderful to behold, as each for the most part chose

according to the habit of his former life; for he alleged, that he saw

the soul which was formerly the soul of Orpheus making choice of the

life of a swan, through hatred of womankind, being unwilling to be born

of woman on account of the death he suffered from them. He saw likewise

the soul of Thamyris making choice of the life of a nightingale. And he

saw also a swan turning to the choice of human life; and other musical

animals in a similar manner, as is likely;—and he saw also one soul,

while making its choices, choosing the life of a lion; and it was the

soul of Telamonian Ajax, unwilling to become a man, because it

recollected the judgment given with reference to the armour;—that he

then saw the soul of Agamemnon, which, in hatred also of the human kind,

through his misfortunes, exchanged it for the life of an eagle: and that

the soul of Atalante, choosing her lot amidst the rest, and, having

attentively observed the great honours paid to an athletic man, was

unable to pass by this lot, but took it. Next to this, he saw the soul

of Epeus the Panopean going into the nature of a skilful workwoman; and

that far off, among the last, he saw the soul of the buffoon Thersites

assuming the ape. And that by chance he saw the soul of Ulysses, who had

drawn its lot last of all, going to make its choice: that in remembrance

of its former toils, and tired of ambition, it went about a long time

seeking the life of a private man of no business, and with difficulty

found it lying somewhere, neglected by the rest. And that on seeing this

life, it said, that it would have made the same choice even if it had

obtained the first lot,—and joyfully chose it. That in like manner the

souls of wild beasts went into men, and men again into beasts: the

unjust changing into wild beasts, and the just into tame; and that they

were blended by all sorts of mixtures. After, therefore, all the souls

had chosen their lives according as they drew their lots, they all went

in order to Lachesis, and that she gave to every one the demon he chose,

and sent him along with him to be the guardian of his life, and the

accomplisher of what he had chosen.—That, first of all, he conducts the

soul to Clotho, to ratify under her hand, and by the whirl of the vortex

of her spindle, the destiny it had chosen by lot: and, after being with

her, he leads it back again to the spinning of Atropos, who makes the

destinies irreversible. And that from hence they proceed directly under

the throne of Necessity; and that, after he had passed by it, as all the

others passed, they all of them marched into the plain of Lethe amidst

dreadful heat and scorching, for he said that it is void of trees and

everything that the earth produces;—that when night came on, they

encamped beside the river Amelete, whose water no vessel contains.—Of

this water all of them must necessarily drink a certain quantity, and

such as are not kept by prudence drink more than they ought, and that he

who from time to time drinks forgets everything.—And, after they were

laid asleep, and midnight was approaching, there was thunder, and an

earthquake, and they were thence on a sudden carried upwards, some one

way, and some another, approaching to generation like stars. And he

himself was forbidden to drink of the water. Where, however, and in what

manner, he came into his body, he was entirely ignorant; but, suddenly

looking up in the morning, he saw himself already laid on the funeral

pile. And this fable, Glaucon, has been preserved, and is not lost, and

it will preserve us, too, if we be persuaded thereby, for thus we shall

happily pass over the river Lethe, and shall not pollute our souls.

But if the company will be persuaded by me; considering the soul to be

immortal, and able to bear all evil and good, we shall always persevere

in the road which leads upwards, and shall by all means pursue justice

in unison with prudence, that so we may be friends both to ourselves and

the gods, both whilst we remain here, and when we afterwards receive its

rewards, like victors assembled together; and so, both here, and in that

journey of a thousand years, which we have described, we shall be happy.

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

INTRODUCTION TO THE TIMÆUS.

The following Dialogue, _which comprises the detailed evolution of the

physical or cosmological doctrines of Plato_, is supposed to have taken

place on the day following that on which Socrates had been discussing

with the same party the nature of an ideal or pattern Republic; and

there is so far an internal connexion between the two dialogues, that

both will be found to contain the same doctrines of the Ideas (εἴδη or

ἰδέαι) and the _Summum bonum_ (viz. τὸ ἕν in contradistinction to τὸ

γιγνόμενον. Comp. Tim. ch. ix.), though presented under different

aspects,—the former treating them in their relation to moral and

political perfection, the latter physically and cosmologically,

displaying the beauty, perfection, and benevolence of the Divine work in

the formation of the Universe and the organization of Man. The dialogue

opens with a lively conversation on the political notions set forth by

Socrates (or rather elicited by him from the rest) on the preceding day,

more especially with reference to their practicability in real life (ch.

i.-iii.):—and Critias, to gratify Socrates, introduces the narrative of

a long interview between Solon and some Egyptian priests, about the

relative antiquity of the Grecian and Egyptian annals, the object of

which is to prove, that the state of Athens, in very remote times,

corresponded mainly with the picture of a perfect republic, as exhibited

by Socrates (ch. iv.-vii.). The subject, however, is deemed worthy of

still further investigation by the different parties present; and the

first turn is unanimously conceded to Timæus, the Pythagorean, on

account of his profound knowledge of physics and astronomy, who

accordingly entertains them with a long and learned discourse on the

origin of the Universe and the formation of Man,—Critias following him

in the succeeding dialogue called by his name, wherein he tries to show

that the men here ideally created (τῷ λόγῳ γεγονότας) by Timæus, and

brought into civil training by Socrates in the Republic, actually

corresponded in character with the citizens of primitive Athens (ch.

vii., viii.).

It is necessary to premise, however, before we enter into any analysis

of Timæus’s discourse, that Plato, regarded as a _physical theorist_,

was not so much the propounder of new and original views, as a critic

and eclecticist, reviewing the various systems that had preceded him,

opposing what he deemed false or vicious, and adopting what he thought

good and solid in each. Now all the earlier philosophers, whether of

Ionia or Magna Græcia, had made it their first business to start

different theories, more or less visionary, on the origin of the

Universe. Thales held the primary element to be _water_, Anaximenes and

Diogenes _air_, Anaximander a vast _chaos_, and Heraclitus _fire_,—to

whom at length succeeded Anaxagoras, the first to recognise a _Supreme

Intelligence_ (νοῦς) as the principle of life and arranger of the

primitive chaotic atoms (and from whom Plato undoubtedly took some of

his leading notions). Widely differing from the above, Xenophanes

maintained _unity_ (τὸ ἕν)—_the Universe, to be God_,—a notion, which

elicited from Parmenides the atheistic dogma, that, as existence is

conceivable, and non-existence is not so, _creation is impossible_, as

it pre-supposes non-existence; and in this view he was followed by

Empedocles, who regarded all things as alike uncreated and

indestructible. When such notions were current, it can scarcely be

matter for surprise that Heraclitus should have put forth the doctrine

(equally atheistical) of _a perpetual flux_, and been followed by the

sophist Protagoras, who stated that _all knowledge is sensation_, and

that _man is the measure of all existing things whatever_. And lastly,

it was the notion of Pythagoras (with whose views Plato was beyond all

doubt deeply imbued), that _numbers_ and _music_ are the principles of

the entire universe, and that the world is regulated by _numerical

harmony_.[257] With all these conflicting views before him, and having

at the same time a strong internal conviction of one grand,

comprehensive, and intelligent Unity,—in other words, God,—Plato at once

boldly impugned the doctrine of the Eleatics, that the world around was

an eternal, immutable essence;—maintaining, on the other hand, that, as

it was sensible, it must have been produced, and was in fact the

necessary result of an effective cause,—_the work of a rational,

intelligent, and benevolent Architect_.

Timæus, therefore, in this dialogue,—after stating _in limine_ that

there are two classes of things, the one eternal, _constant_ (ταὐτόν),

and not subject to change; the other _mutable_ (θάτερον), generated, and

liable to decay: the former of which is comprehended by the intellect,

the latter by the senses,—broadly sets forth the grand doctrine of

Theism, that whatever is generated must proceed from some cause, namely

God, who formed the sensible universe, the most perfect of things

generated, according to an eternal pattern existing in the Divine Mind

(ch. ix.). The whole, indeed, was the work of the Creator’s goodness;

and the universe itself likewise was very good,—as it were, an ensouled,

rational, living being,—perfect in unity, and composed of four elements

indissolubly united,—earth and fire, air and water,—its shape being that

of a perfect sphere moving in a circular orbit, and its soul emanating

from its abode in the centre to all the other parts, including even the

external surface,—in fine, it came forth from its Maker deficient in no

single respect, “a blessed God” (ch. x.-xii.).

He next proceeds to unfold the nature and structure of the Universe in

its several parts. And first, he assumes it to consist of two parts,—one

eternal and fixed, because related to the world of intellect; the other

corporeal, mutable, and capable of division,—both of which are so united

on the principles of number and music, as to produce a happy and

well-settled harmony both in structure and motion. This universal soul,

moreover, pervades even the distant orbits of the fixed stars and

planets, all of which depend for their life and circular motion on the

eternal and constant principles of number and harmony,—the fixed stars

moving _westward_ on the eternal principle of sameness, the planets

_eastward_ on that of mutability and difference (ch. xii.). But in

connexion with this soul, the universe possesses also a material body,

whereby it becomes cognizant of material things,—the subjects of opinion

and persuasion, as well as of the abstract truths that form the

groundwork of reasoning and science (ch. xiii.).[258] Next came the

creation of _time_, which was effected by the formation of the sun,

moon, and five planets, whose motion, particularly that of the first,

creates, determines, and watches over, the several divisions of days and

nights, months and perfect years (ch. xiv.). The form and motions of the

world thus once arranged, the Creator proceeds to people it with living

beings,—first, the heavenly gods (_i. e._ the stars and other celestial

bodies); secondly, airy and winged creatures; thirdly, those living in

the water; and lastly, those moving on the earth. The stars, indeed, are

termed a race of heavenly gods, yet generated and visible, endowed with

fiery, spherical bodies, and called immortal, as not being subject to

dissolution or decay (ch. xv.); but whether the earth itself is, like

the other bodies, to be considered an ensouled, generated god, and

whether at rest or in motion, is not exactly certain.

Next follows a narrative, almost purely mythical, of the formation of

the mortal races of animals (ch. xvi.-xviii.), which the Supreme himself

does not deign personally to create, but commits that task to the lower

gods, reserving only the office of imparting to these new creatures

whatever was to be immortal in their constitution. A like number of

these perishable animals is assigned to each of the stars; and the first

birth being the same in all,—that of the human male; nor was it till

after a fixed period, that the female and all other animals,—beasts,

fishes, and birds,—issued from this mortal form. Of this being, Man,

consisting, like the universe, of body and soul mysteriously conjoined,

Timæus next gives a detailed description, beginning with the head, which

contains the leading organs of sense (ch. xix., xx.); and he then

diverges into a long investigation of the elements of earthly bodies,

particularly as respects their geometric forms, as well also, as of

their various affections, viz. motion or rest, heat or cold, heaviness

or lightness, smell, colour, &c., the discussion of which must

necessarily precede any satisfactory account of the intellectual and

physical man (ch. xxi.-xlii.). Man, he proceeds to observe, is composed

of a corruptible body enshrining an immortal soul; but besides this, he

possesses an inferior sort of soul, whereby he becomes cognizant of the

various passions and emotions, viz., pleasure and pain, hope, fear,

anger, desire, &c.; and all the parts of his body are composed with

wonderful skill, and yet kept in constant subjection to the dominance of

reason and intellect:—and he now parenthetically intimates the existence

of two sets of causes,—the _divine_ and _necessary_,—as constantly

operating together; of the former of which we can gain only a very

imperfect knowledge (though for our happiness’ sake we should ever

aspire thereto), while the latter we should investigate for the sake of

getting at the former (ch. xliii.).

Next succeed separate and particular (though somewhat fanciful)

descriptions of the heart, lungs, stomach, liver, spleen, intestines,

spinal marrow and brain, skull and bones, ligaments and tendons, muscles

and flesh, the nerves round the head, teeth, tongue, lips, hair, skin,

pores, &c. &c., all of which are kept in healthy action by the united

operation of the alimentary and respiratory systems (ch.

xliv.-lxii.),—the object of the whole of these speculations being to

show the existence of design and the adaptation of means to ends

throughout the work of creation. Now the regular, unimpeded, action of

all these organs and component parts constitutes bodily health; whereas

the disorders and decay of the component elements of life are either

productive of disease or else slowly bring on old age and bodily decay

(ch. lxii.). Then follow some curious details respecting the diseases of

the body, which are ascribed to many various causes, mostly

fanciful,—some few only real, formed on a knowledge of the human frame

(ch. lxiii.-lxviii.). Far more important, however, and far more severe,

are the diseases of the soul; and these are assigned to two

causes,—first, bodily infirmity, and secondly, improper training, it

being a vulgar error to suppose that any one is willingly evil. The

great, and indeed only disease of the soul, is madness, which assumes

two forms,—madness (μανία), and folly or idiocy (ἀμαθία), both caused by

the unhealthy predominance of the animal passions over the reason and

conscience. Great care must therefore be observed constantly to maintain

the _mens sana in corpore sano_, to attend diligently to both, without

neglecting either,—to form the body by constant and suitable exercise as

well as strict temperance, and to cultivate the soul by engaging the

intellect in the contemplation of divine things and eternal truth,

including those heavenly revolutions with which the human soul also has

a close relation and harmony (ch. lxix.-lxxi.).

The concluding chapters of the dialogue comprise some observations on

the origin of the lower animals, from which it appears that Plato

entertained the Pythagorean doctrine of the transmigration of souls; for

he thinks it probable that those who have lived unrighteously and

effeminately will, at their second birth, be changed into women,—those

of both sexes who have lived innocently but frivolously, foolishly

believing that heavenly things could be seen by mortal eye, being

changed into birds of the air; those, thirdly, who have been totally

estranged from philosophy, into beasts of the earth; and those,

fourthly, who are to the last degree foolish and ignorant, becoming mere

fishes, creatures of the water, to whom the gods that formed them have

denied even the privilege of breathing a thin and pure atmosphere (ch.

lxxii., lxxiii., compared with ch. xvii., where he touches, though more

briefly, on the same philosophic dogma). Lastly, the whole dialogue

concludes with a brief, but elegant summary of the great doctrine, of

which the philosopher has exhibited throughout it so many satisfactory

proofs,—that “this world, which comprises and is filled with all kinds

of living beings, both mortal and immortal, thus becomes a visible

animal embracing visible natures,—an image of the great Intelligence,—a

sensible god,—the greatest and best, the fairest and most perfect,—this

the one and only begotten Universe.”

Such is a succinct account of the leading arguments of the Timæus,

which, both as respects language and deep philosophic matter, is by far

the most difficult of any of Plato’s dialogues,—there being many

passages in it, which still in fact puzzle even the most ingenious of

its commentators. The reader who would seek further information than can

be afforded within the limits of a translation, is referred to

Tiedemann’s Introductions to the Platonic Dialogues, to Stallbaum’s

Prolegomena and notes to his edition of the Timæus, to Ritter’s remarks

on the physical doctrines of Plato (vol. ii. pp. 338-384), and, above

all, to the valuable notes and dissertations in Martin’s _Etudes sur le

Timée de Platon_, 2 vols. 8vo. 1842.

-----

Footnote 257:

The reader is referred for further information on the pre-Socratic

theories of nature, to Stallbaum’s Prolegomena to the Timæus, pp.

48-54; as well as to Introductions to the Protagoras and Theœtetus, in

vol. i. of this translation.

Footnote 258:

Plato, in ch. xxiii. designates _matter_ as the receptacle, and, as it

were, the nurse (ὑποδοχὴν, οἷον τιθήνην) of all production; while God,

on the other hand,—the sum of all ideas,—is the Father and fashioner

of the Universe. In ch. xxvi. also, it is described as one and the

same with space, which furnishes a place for all generated things.

This principle of nature, therefore, is without form,—without _an

idea_; and it is only in the productions of the creative energy and

the all-susceptible nature,—that is, in the son of the father and

mother,—that there is form and determinate idea. This is clearly laid

down in ch. xxiv.; and Ritter accordingly very rightly

observes:—“Matter is nothing more than the condition of all human

existence, which, however, is a necessary condition, and so causes the

_natural_ itself to appear as _necessary_; whereas the shape received

from the good is that which under this condition comes into being and

has its actual existence in nature.”—(Ritter, ii. p. 341, compared

with ch. xliii. of this Dialogue.)

-----

THE TIMÆUS.

———●———

SOCRATES, TIMÆUS, CRITIAS, HERMOCRATES.

I.—SOC. One, two, three:—but where, dear Timæus, is that fourth of us

who yesterday were your guests, but are entertainers now?

TIM. Some illness has befallen him, Socrates; for he would not willingly

have missed such a meeting as the present.

SOC. It is your business, then, of yourself, and [that of] these

present, to fill up the place of the absent guest.

TIM. Quite so, Socrates; and, as far as we can, we will not fail to do

so: for it would be unjust for the rest of us, whom you yesterday so

handsomely entertained, not to treat you with readiness in return.

SOC. Do you recollect, then, the magnitude and nature of the things on

which I charged you to speak?

TIM. Some, indeed, we do recollect; but what we do not, you, who were

present, can recal to our memory: or rather, if it be not too much

trouble, once more briefly run over the whole from the beginning, that

it may be the more firmly established in our minds.

SOC. Be it so. The sum of yesterday’s discussion respecting a republic

was, what form I thought the best, and of what sort of men it should be

composed.

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

mind.

SOC. Did we not in the first place separate the class of husbandmen, and

ever so many other artificers, from that of those who fight in defence

of the state?

TIM. Yes.

SOC. And when we had assigned to every one that single employment which

was suited to his own nature, and had prescribed to each his particular

art, we bade the military caste confine themselves to the simple duty of

protecting the state from the hostile incursions both of internal and

external foes;—mildly to administer justice to their subjects, as being

naturally friends, but fiercely to combat with such foes as might fall

in their way.

TIM. Quite so, of course.

SOC. We asserted, I think, that the souls of the guardians should be

naturally high-spirited, and at the same time remarkably philosophic, so

as to enable them towards either friends or foes respectively to be

gentle or severe.

TIM. You did so.

SOC. But what about their training? Did we not say that they ought to be

instructed in gymnastic exercises, music, and other suitable branches of

science?

TIM. Yes.

SOC. With respect at least to those thus trained, it was somehow said,

that they should regard neither gold nor silver nor any such property,

as their own private possession, but rather, like subordinates, should

receive the wages of their guardianship from those whom they defend and

preserve, their recompense being no more than sufficient for temperate

men, and that they should spend their income in common, with a view only

to mutual subsistence, bestowing their attention wholly on virtue, in

preference to every other pursuit.

TIM. This too was so stated.

II.--SOC. Respecting women, too, we asserted that their nature should be

aptly conformed to resemble that of men, and that they should all engage

in common with them, both in the duties of war and the other employments

of life.

TIM. This too you alleged.

SOC. But what about the procreation of children? This perhaps you easily

remember, on account of the novelty of the proposal; for we ordered that

marriage-unions and children should be in common to all persons

whatsoever, special care being taken also that no one should be able to

distinguish his own children individually, but all consider all as their

kindred; regarding those of an equal age, and in the prime of life, as

their brothers and sisters,—those prior to them, and yet further back,

as parents and grandsires,—and those below them, as their children and

grandchildren.[259]

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

remembered.

SOC. That they might at once acquire then the best possible natural

disposition, I recollect that we decreed that the rulers, male and

female, whom we placed over the marriage contract, should secretly

contrive, through certain lots, that the worthy should assort only with

the worthy, the base with the base,—and that no discord might arise from

this connexion, we should refer all the blame of the union to fortune

alone.

TIM. This, too, we remember.

SOC. We ordered, moreover, that the children of the good should be

properly trained, but those of the bad secretly sent to the other part

of the state, while of those who are constantly arriving at manhood,

such as are found to be of a good disposition, should be recalled from

exile; those, among them, on the contrary, who have proved themselves

unworthy, being in their turn banished to the place occupied by those

just promoted.

TIM. Just so.

SOC. Have we, then, sufficiently summed up yesterday’s discussion; or do

we need anything further, friend Timæus, that has been omitted?

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

III.—SOC. You shall now hear some further details respecting the

republic that we have described, and how I feel towards it. The feeling,

then, seems to me somewhat similar to this,—as if some one, on beholding

beautiful animals, either wrought by the graver’s art, or really alive,

but in a state of perfect rest, were to entertain a desire to behold

them in motion, struggling, as it were, in those exercises which seem

best suited to their bodies. Just the same do I feel towards that form

of state which we have described; for I should gladly listen to any one

who recited the story of the contests that one state engages in with

others, when it ventures becomingly on war, and exhibits in the course

of it a conduct worthy of its nurture and training, as regards both

active encounters and verbal negotiations with individual states. On

these points, indeed, Critias and Hermocrates, I am conscious of my own

inability to praise the men and the state according to their desert; and

that I should be so incapable is no wonder, as I have formed the same

opinion respecting the poets both of the past and present age;—not that

I despise the poet-tribe, but still every one must see, that being an

imitative race, they most easily and in the best manner imitate those

things in which they have been trained; while, on the contrary, whatever

is unconnected with their training, is hard for them to imitate well

even in actions, and in words even yet more difficult. And as for the

tribe of Sophists, I deem them indeed mighty clever, both in multiplying

words and many other fine accomplishments; yet I fear, as they have no

settled abode, but wander through various cities, and dwell in no abode

of their own, they will form false conjectures respecting both

philosophers and politicians, as to the magnitude and nature both of the

actions which they achieve in war, and of the words they employ in their

mutual intercourse. The only people remaining, then, to whom I can

apply, are those of your character and habit, versed both by nature and

training in philosophy and political science. For Timæus here of Locris,

in Italy, which is governed by the best of laws,[260] being withal not

inferior to any of his fellow-citizens in wealth and nobility, has in

his own state attained to the highest official honours, and has likewise

in my opinion reached the summit of all philosophy. Critias, too, as we

all know, is not ignorant of the particulars that we are now

mentioning;—and respecting Hermocrates also, we have ample testimony for

the belief that he is both by nature and education well suited to all

these pursuits.[261] Hence, when I perceived yesterday your great

anxiety to discuss the formation of a republic, I was much pleased at

it, being well aware, that if you pleased, none could better unfold the

successive points for discussion;—inasmuch as, by properly adapting the

state for warlike purposes, you would be the only person in the present

age who could supply it with all things becoming its constitution.

Having spoken, then, in compliance with your request, I now require you,

in your turn, to comply with mine; and, as a matter of course, you have

agreed to carry on the discussion among yourselves in common and so

forthwith repay my hospitality with the feast of reasoning. Here,

therefore, am I arrayed for the purpose, and readiest of all to partake

of the promised banquet.

-----

Footnote 259:

This subject is considered at some length in the third, fourth, and

fifth books of the Republic, as well as in the Laws, v. 739, b.

Footnote 260:

Its code was formed by Zaleucus, and it was said by the Syracusans to

be the best governed of all the Greek cities of Italy. Comp. the Laws,

i. 638.

Footnote 261:

Critias was a man of a generous, vigorous-minded disposition, who was

so fond of the company of philosophers, that he was said to be ἰδιώτης

μὲν ἐν φιλοσόφοις, φιλόσοφος δὲ ἐν ἰδιώταις. He was afterwards one of

the thirty tyrants, and Socrates’ most bitter enemy. Hermocrates was a

celebrated Syracusan general, several times alluded to by Thucydides

and Xenophon, and who made a vow to live by certain rules (κατὰ νόμον

ζῆν ἐφιέμενος).

-----

IV.—HERM. Aye, truly, Socrates, as Timæus here just observed, neither

will we lack zeal in fulfilling your desire; nor will we offer any

excuse for neglecting it; since only yesterday, just after leaving this,

when we went to the lodging of Critias, where both there and before that

on the way thither, we discussed this very subject. He here then

unfolded to us a story from ancient tradition, which—prythee, Critias,

even now repeat to Socrates, that he may judge whether or not it

concerns his demand.

CRI. This we must surely do, if agreeable to Timæus, our third partner

in this discussion.

TIM. I, for my part, fully consent.

CRI. Listen now then, Socrates, to a story very strange indeed, yet in

every respect true, as it was once related by Solon, the wisest of the

seven [sages of Greece]. He was the kinsman and intimate friend of our

great-grandfather Dropides, as he himself often tells us in his poems;

and he (Dropides) informed our grandfather Critias (as the old man

himself in turn told us), that this state had formerly achieved great

and admirable actions, the knowledge of which nevertheless had been lost

through lapse of time and the decay of mankind,—one act in particular

being more illustrious than the rest,—in remembrance of which it were

fitting, that we should not only return you thanks, but also in full

assembly hymn forth to the goddess our true and just acclaim of praise.

SOC. Well observed:—but what is this achievement, which Critias

described as having been not only related by Solon, but really

accomplished by this state in days of yore?

CRI. I will acquaint you with that ancient story, which I indeed

received from no mere youth; for at that time Critias, as he himself

said, was almost ninety years old, and I myself about ten; and it

chanced then to be the time of the _Cureotis Apaturiorum_.[262] The boys

indeed were then going through the ceremonies customary with them at

this festival;—for our parents proposed prizes for singing verses; and

therefore a multitude of verses of many poets were recited, and many of

us especially sang the poems of Solon, as being at that time new. Then

one of our tribe, whether it was his real opinion or he wished to

gratify Critias, said he thought Solon not only the wisest of men in

matters generally, but as regards poetry the most noble of all poets. On

hearing this, the old man (for I well remember it) was exceedingly

pleased, and said, laughing—‘If Solon, oh Amynander, had not considered

poetry as a mere amusement, but made it, as others do, a serious

employment, and so completed the history which he had brought from

Egypt; and, had not been forced to relinquish it by the seditions and

numerous other troubles in which he found his country involved, I do not

think that either Hesiod, Homer, or any other poet, would have acquired

more distinguished renown.’ ‘And what was that story, Critias?’ asked

he. ‘One about an action,’ replied he, ‘the greatest and most

celebrated, which this state ever achieved; although, through lapse of

time and the death of those by whom it was undertaken, its fame has not

descended to our own day.’ ‘Tell it,’ said he, ‘from the beginning; and

say what that was, which Solon asserted as true, as well as how and from

whom he heard it.’

-----

Footnote 262:

The _Apaturia_, according to Proclus and Suidas, were festivals in

honour of Dionysus, publicly celebrated for the space of three days;

and they were assigned this name, δι’ ἀπάτην, that is, on account of

the deception through which Poseidon is reported to have vanquished

Xanthus. The first day of these festivals was called δόρπεια, in

which, as the name indicates, those of the same tribe feasted

together; and hence (says Proclus) on this day εὐωχίαι καὶ δεῖπνα

πολλά, splendid banquets and much feasting took place:—the second day

was called ἀνάῥῥυσις, _a sacrifice_, because many victims were

sacrificed in it; the victims being called ἀναῤῥύματα:—the third day,

of which Plato speaks in this place, was called κουρεώτης, because on

this day κοῦροι, that is, boys or girls, were collected to have their

names registered in their tribes (φρατρίαι:)—to these some add a

fourth day, which they call ἐπίβδα, or _the day after_.

-----

V.—‘In Egypt,’ said he, ‘in the Delta, about the summit of which the

streams of the Nile are divided, is the district (νομός) surnamed

Saitical; the chief city of which is Sais, whence also came the king

Amasis; and it had a presiding divinity, whose name is in the Egyptian

tongue _Neith_, which they say corresponds with the Greek _Athena_; and

the people profess to be great friends of the Athenians, and united with

them in a sort of close alliance. Solon said that on his arrival

thither, he was very honourably received; and, especially, on his

inquiring about ancient affairs of those priests who possessed superior

knowledge in such matters, he perceived that neither himself nor any one

of the Greeks (so to speak) had any antiquarian knowledge at all. And

once on a time desirous of inducing them to narrate their ancient

stories, he undertook to describe those events which had formerly

happened among us in days of yore,—those about the first Phoroneus and

Niobe, and again after the deluge of Deucalion and Pyrrha (as described

by the mythologists), together with their posterity, paying due

attention to the different ages in which these events are said to have

occurred:—on which one of their extremely ancient priests exclaimed,

“Solon, Solon, you Greeks are always children, and aged Greek there is

none.” Solon, on hearing this, replied, “How can you say this?” To whom

the priest, “You are all youths in intelligence; for you hold no ancient

opinions derived from remote tradition, nor any system of discipline

that can boast of a hoary old age:—and the cause of this is the

multitude and variety of destructions that have been and will be

undergone by the human race, the greater indeed arising from fire and

water, others of less importance from ten thousand other contingencies.

The story, for instance, that is current among you, that Phaeton, the

offspring of the Sun, once attempting to drive his father’s chariot, and

not being able to keep the track observed by his parent, burnt up the

surface of the earth, and perished himself, blasted by lightning, is

generally regarded as fabulous, but in point of fact it refers to a

declination (or parallax) of the heavenly bodies revolving round the

earth, and indicates that, at certain long intervals of time, the

earth’s surface is destroyed by mighty fires.[263] When this occurs,

then those who dwell either on mountains, or in lofty and dry places,

perish in greater numbers than those dwelling near rivers, or on the

sea-shore;—whereas to us the Nile is not only our safeguard from all

other troubles, but liberates and preserves us also from this in

particular;—and again when the gods, to purify the earth, deluge its

surface with water, then the herdsmen and shepherds on the mountains are

preserved in safety, while the inhabitants of your cities are hurried

away to the sea, by the impetuosity of the rivers. In this our country,

on the other hand, the waters neither then fell, nor ever have fallen

from above upon the plains, but on the contrary are naturally driven

upwards from the earth’s interior:—and to these causes it is owing, that

the most ancient things are said to be here preserved. The truth is,

however, that in all places where there is neither intense cold nor

immoderate heat, the race of man is always found to exist, sometimes in

less, sometimes in greater number. And all the noble, great, or

otherwise distinguished achievements, performed either by ourselves, or

by you, or elsewhere, of which we have heard the report,—all these have

been engraven in our temples in very remote times, and preserved to the

present day; while, on the contrary, with you and all other nations,

they are only just committed to writing, and all other modes of

transmission which states require,—when again, at the usual period, a

current from heaven rushes on them like a pestilence, and leaves the

survivors among you both destitute of literary attainments and

unacquainted with music;—and thus you become young again, as at first,

knowing nothing of the events of ancient times, either in our country or

yours. As for the transactions, indeed, Solon, which you have just

related from your antiquities, they differ but little from puerile

fables:—for in the first place you only mention one deluge of the earth,

whereas there had been many before; and in the next place you are

unacquainted with that most noble and excellent race of men, who once

inhabited your country, from whom you and your whole present state are

descended, though only a small remnant of this admirable people is now

remaining,—your ignorance in this matter resulting from the fact that

their posterity for many generations died without the power of speech

through the medium of letters;[264] for long before the chief deluge, a

city of Athenians existed, regulated by the best laws both in military

and all other matters, whose noble deeds and civil institutions are said

to have been the most excellent of all that we have heard to exist under

heaven.”

-----

Footnote 263:

It was the opinion of Heraclitus and many of the old philosophers,

that the earth would be periodically destroyed by fire or water. The

notion was borrowed, perhaps, from the Egyptians. (Comp. Herod. ii.

ch. 142.)

-----

VI.—‘Solon, on hearing this, expressed his admiration, and exhibited the

most ardent desire, entreating the priests to relate to him accurately

and in order the whole history of his ancient fellow-citizens. And then

one of the priests replied, “I have no objection, Solon; and for your

sake, and that of your city, I will relate the whole, and more

particularly on account of that goddess, to whom is assigned the

guardianship both of your state and ours, and by whom both have been

founded and fostered; yours indeed having a priority over ours of a

thousand years, from having received its origin from Hephæstus and the

Earth; and the annals even of our own city [Sais] have been preserved

eight thousand years in our sacred writings. I will briefly describe,

then, the laws and more illustrious actions of those states which have

existed nine thousand years; and when we are more at leisure, we will

take the sacred writings themselves, and recount an exact history of

every particular.

‘“Now, consider the laws of these people, as compared with those

prevailing here; for you will find here even at the present day many

examples of institutions that formerly existed in your city. First of

all, the priests passed their life separate from all the rest; and next,

the artificers so exercised their crafts, that each followed his own

employment without mingling with any other class of workmen. The same

method was likewise adopted with shepherds, hunters, and husbandmen. The

soldiers, too, you will find, were separated from other kinds of men,

and were enjoined by the laws to engage in nothing but war. The armour,

too, which each employed, such as shields and darts, resembled that

which we used first of all the Asiatics,—the goddess in those places, as

she did to you, first pointing out their use. Again, with respect to

wisdom, you may perceive what attention the law paid to it even from the

first, as likewise to all that respects the universe, including even

divination and medicine, that conduces to the preservation of health;

and from these, which are divine things, the inquiry proceeds to human

affairs and all other branches of learning therewith connected. Such

then was the principle of distribution and arrangement on which the

goddess first founded and established your state, choosing for that

purpose the place in which you were born; because she foresaw that from

its excellent temperature, the region would produce men of the most

consummate wisdom; and, the goddess, of course, being a lover both of

wisdom and war, selected a spot likely to produce men most resembling

herself; and fixed on this first as their settled abode. You proceeded

to settle, then, under the protection of such like laws, and what is

more, under good government, surpassing all men likewise in every

virtue, as becomes the descendants and disciples of the gods.

‘“Many and mighty deeds of your state, then, are here recorded in

writing [in our sacred records,] and call forth our admiration;

nevertheless there is one in particular, which in magnitude and valour

surpasses them all;—for these writings relate what a prodigious force

your city once overcame, when a mighty warlike power, rushing from the

Atlantic sea, spread itself with hostile fury over all Europe and Asia.

That sea indeed was then navigable, and had an island fronting that

mouth which you in your tongue call the Pillars of Hercules; and this

island was larger than Libya and Asia put together; and there was a

passage hence for travellers of that day to the rest of the islands, as

well as from those islands to the whole opposite continent that

surrounds that the real sea. For as respects what is within the mouth

here mentioned, it appears to be a bay with a kind of narrow entrance;

and that sea is indeed a true sea, and the land that entirely surrounds

it may truly and most correctly be called a continent. In this Atlantic

island, then, was formed a powerful league of kings, who subdued the

entire island, together with many others, and parts also of the

continent; besides which they subjected to their rule the inland parts

of Libya, as far as Egypt, and Europe also, as far as Tyrrhenia. The

whole of this force, then, being collected in a powerful league,

undertook at one blow to enslave both your country and ours, and all the

land besides that lies within the mouth. This was the period, Solon,

when the power of your state was universally celebrated for its virtue

and strength;—for, surpassing all others both in magnanimity and

military skill, sometimes taking the lead of the Greek nation, at others

left to itself by the defection of the rest, and brought into the most

extreme danger, it still prevailed, raised the trophy over its

assailants, kept from slavery those not as yet enslaved, insured

likewise the most ample liberty for all of us without exception who

dwell within the Pillars of Hercules. Subsequently, however, through

violent earthquakes and deluges which brought desolation in a single day

and night, the whole of your warlike race[265] was at once merged under

the earth; and the Atlantic island itself was plunged beneath the sea,

and entirely disappeared;—whence even now that sea is neither navigable

nor to be traced out, being blocked up by the great depth of mud[266]

which the subsiding island produced.’”[267]

-----

Footnote 264:

Gr. γράμμασι τελευτᾶν ἀφώνους, which can only be paraphrastically

rendered.

Footnote 265:

τὸ παρ’ ὑμῖν μάχιμον. So reads Stallbaum, on the authority of several

MSS., the old reading being παρ’ ὑμῶν, which is retained by Bekker.

Footnote 266:

Gr. πηλοῦ κάρτα βαθέος ἐμποδὼν ὄντος. The old reading is καταβραχέος.

We have here followed Bekker’s emendation.

Footnote 267:

The whole of the story about the Atlantic isles, so much canvassed by

the critics, is so improbable and so at variance with the geographical

knowledge of the Greeks, even in Plato’s time, that it can only be

considered as a mere myth. See Martin’s admirable remarks, _Études sur

le Timée_.

-----

VII.—The above, O Socrates, is the sum of what the elder Critias

repeated from the narration of Solon:—and when yesterday you were

discoursing about a republic and the citizens composing it, I was

reminded to my surprise of what I have now mentioned; for I perceived

how divinely, as it were, by a kind of good luck, and without wandering

from the mark, you in most respects coincided with Solon’s statement.

Still I was unwilling to disclose these particulars immediately; since,

from the long lapse of time since I first heard them, I did not remember

them with sufficient accuracy [for repetition]. I considered, therefore,

that I ought, before relating it, first of all to rehearse the whole

diligently to myself. And this was why I yesterday speedily complied

with your demands, conceiving, as is most important in such matters,

that we ought not to lack ability to present a discourse suited to the

object in view. Hence was it, as Hermocrates here observed, that as soon

as we left here yesterday, I brought up the subject before my friends

here, in order to refresh my memory; and by afterwards meditating on it

at night, I acquired nearly a complete recollection of the whole story.

According to the proverb, indeed, what we learn in childhood takes a

wonderful hold on the memory:—for with respect to myself, for instance,

I am not certain that I could recall the whole of yesterday’s discourse,

though I should be very much astonished if anything that I had heard a

very long time ago were to escape my remembrance. What I then heard,

indeed, was listened to with great pleasure and delight; and the old man

very readily recounted it, even when I frequently asked for a

repetition; and thus the story became like the brands of indelible

writing fixed in my memory. Well then, as soon as it was day I repeated

the narrative to my friends, that they might aid me in fairly recounting

my story. Now, therefore, as respects the object of all that has been

said, Socrates, I am prepared to relate, not only the general heads, but

the particulars also of all that I heard. As for the citizens and state

which you described to us yesterday as in a fable, we will now convert

it into a reality, and consider the state established by you as no other

than this [of Athens,] and the citizens which you described as no other

than those real ancestors of ours, alluded to by the Egyptian priests.

Indeed they will harmonize in every respect; and we shall not be far

from the mark[268] in asserting that your citizens are the very people

who existed at that time. Each taking our share then in this discussion,

we will try our utmost to bestow suitable attention to the task that you

have assigned us. It is requisite therefore to consider, O Socrates,

whether this narrative answers our purpose,[269] or we should seek some

other in its stead.

SOC. And what other, O Critias, can we receive in preference to this,

which, from its affinity, is extremely suitable to the festival of the

goddess, and has the all-important merit of being not a cunningly

devised fable, but a true history? It is impossible, therefore, to say,

how and whence, if we abandon your narrative, we should find another

more suitable. We cannot; but must acknowledge that you have been happy

in your narration; and, as for me, after my discourse of yesterday, I

will now rest, and be in my turn a listener.

-----

Footnote 268:

Gr. οὐκ ἀπᾳσόμεθα, _lit. we shall not sing out of tune_. The old

reading is ἀπωσόμεθα, which is untranslatable.

Footnote 269:

Gr. εἰ κατὰ νοῦν ὁ λόγος ἡμῖν οὗτος.

-----

VIII.—CRI. Consider then, Socrates, the arrangement of this banquet of

yours, how we settled it. For we think it right that Timæus, who is the

most astronomical of us all, and has bestowed much pains in acquainting

himself with the nature of the universe, should be the first to

discourse to us, beginning from the creation of the world, and ending

with the nature of men;—and also that I after him, receiving from him,

as it were, the men which have been ideally produced—and some of them,

too, excellently educated by you,—should introduce them among us here,

according to the word and law of Solon, as to proper judges, and make

them members of this city; as being really those very Athenians of

bygone days, which were described as unknown to us in the report of the

sacred writings;—and so, in future, we will treat them in our discourse

as citizens and Athenians.

SOC. I am now, it seems, to be plentifully and splendidly entertained in

my turn with a banquet of arguments:—it is for you, then, O Timæus, to

begin the discourse, having first of all invoked the gods according to

the usual custom.

TIM. Well, Socrates, this at any rate is true,—that those who have even

the least share of wisdom, always invoke the deity on entering every

undertaking, whether small or great; and so we likewise (unless we be in

every respect unwise) who are now about to speak concerning the

universe, whether it be generated or without generation, shall (if we be

not very unwise) make it our first duty to invoke the gods and

goddesses, and pray that what we speak may be first of all pleasing to

them, and also in consistence with ourselves. And as respects the

invocation of the gods, so have I acted for myself; while as respects

ourselves, we must lead you by that way which you may most easily

understand, and which will best enable me to explain my meaning about

the proposed subjects of discussion.

IX.—I think we ought, in the first place, to define what that is which

is _ever-existent_, and has no generation; and what that is which is _in

a state of generation_ or becoming, but never really _is_. The former of

these, indeed, which is apprehended by reflection united with reason,

always subsists according to _sameness_;[270]—while the latter is

perceived by opinion united with irrational perception; since it

subsists in a state of generation and corruption, and never really is.

And, again, whatever is generated is necessarily generated from a

certain cause; for it is wholly impossible that anything should be

generated without a cause. An artificer, therefore, of anything, if he

looks to that which always subsists according to sameness, and from this

as a sort of pattern, works out the form and nature of his work, he must

thus, necessarily, produce something wholly beautiful:—but where he

employs for his pattern only what is generated, it cannot be beautiful.

Let this universe then be called _heaven_, or _the world_, or by any

other name that it usually receives; and let us, in the first place,

consider respecting it, what ought to be investigated at the very outset

of our proposed inquiry about the universe,—whether it always existed,

having no beginning, or was generated, beginning from some certain

commencement. It is generated;—for this universe is palpable, and has a

body; and all such things are perceptible (_i. e._ are to be apprehended

by the senses); and things perceptible being apprehended by opinion, in

conjunction with perception, appear to be in a state of becoming, and

subject to generation. Again, with reference to what exists, it must

necessarily have arisen from some cause.

To discover then the _Creator_ and _Father_ of this universe, as well as

his work, is indeed difficult; and when discovered, it is impossible to

reveal him to mankind at large. And this too, we must consider

respecting him, according to which of two patterns he modelled the

world; whether with reference to one subsisting ever in a state of

sameness and similarly affected, or with reference to one that is only

generated. If this world then is beautiful and its artificer good, he

evidently looked to an eternal pattern; but if it be without beauty, and

what it is not lawful to mention, he must have looked to one that is

generated. It is evident, however, to every one that he looked to one

that was eternal;—for the universe is the most beautiful of generated

things, and its artificer the best of causes. Being thus generated,

then, it has been framed according to principles that can be

comprehended by reason and reflection, and ever abides in sameness of

being. This, then, being the case, this world must necessarily be the

resemblance of something;—although to describe its origin according to

nature is the greatest of all undertakings. We should distinguish

between an image and its pattern; just as words are connected with the

things of which they are the interpreters:—and so when we speak of that

which is stable and firm, and mentally intelligible, our language should

be in like manner stable and immutable, and as far as possible

unrefutable and immovable, having in this respect no deficiency;

whereas, in speaking concerning its image only, and as compared to it,

we should use probable arguments, that are in strict analogy thereto.

Moreover, precisely as essence (or true being) is to generation, so is

truth to faith (or mere conjecture). You must not wonder, then, O

Socrates, since different people differ so much in opinion about the

gods and the formation of the universe, if I should be unable to put

forth generally approved and scrupulously exact statements on so

difficult a subject; but even if we should only advance reasons not less

probable than those of others, you should still be content, remembering

that both I who am speaking, and you who are my judges, possess a common

human nature; and you must be satisfied therefore, if my assertions are

but probable statements, and should inquire no farther.

SOC. Capitally well said, Timæus; and we must proceed wholly as you

recommend. As regards the prelude then of your discourse, we wonderfully

approve of it: and now proceed to the strain (or main subject) itself.

X.—TIM. Let us declare then on what account the framing Artificer

settled the formation of this universe.[271] He was good; and in the

good, envy is never engendered about anything whatever. Hence, being

free from this (envy), he desired that all things should as much as

possible resemble himself. Any one, therefore, who receives this as the

leading principle of generation and the universe from intelligent men,

will receive it most correctly. For as the deity desired, as far as

possible, that all things should be good, and nothing evil,—he

accordingly took everything that was visible and not in a state of rest,

but in excessive agitation and disorder, and then reduced it from

disorder into order, conceiving the latter to be far better than the

former. It is not, indeed, and never was, lawful to do anything else but

what is most honourable; and accordingly, he found by reasoning that of

things naturally visible, nothing without intelligence could be more

beautiful than what is wholly endowed with intellect, and besides this,

that apart from the soul no one could possess intelligence.[272] In

pursuance of this reasoning, placing intellect in soul and soul in body,

he constructed the universe; that thus it might be a work naturally the

most beautiful and the best. Hence, therefore, we have a reasonable

motive for calling the world an animal with a soul, truly intellectual,

and created through the providence of the deity.

-----

Footnote 270:

The terms ταὐτόν—θάτερον, ὅμοιον—ἀνόμοιον, so constantly met with in

this dialogue, express _eternal constancy_, as contrasted with

_mutability_; and they are found among the ten pairs of opposites

which, according to the Pythagoreans, constituted the _elements_ of

the universe.

Footnote 271:

Gr. γένεσιν καὶ τὸ πᾶν τόδε.

Footnote 272:

Plato seems, therefore, to regard the soul (ψυχή) as an intermediate

agent and uniting bond between perishable bodies and the eternal and

indestructible intellect, powerfully acting on matter; but yet, on the

other hand, closely and necessarily connected with intellect; though

not like the latter, naturally eternal and indestructible, but the

best of things generated and constituted eternal by the divine

decrees.

-----

XI.—This being the case, let us next consider, in the likeness of what

animals the composing artificer framed the universe. We must by no means

then think, that he would deign to fashion it like animals subsisting as

a part of anything (_i. e._ in an incomplete form): for nothing

resembling an imperfect animal can possibly be beautiful. But we may

consider it on the other hand, as most nearly of all resembling what

contains the other animals both separately and collectively as parts [of

a whole:]—for it (the universe) comprises within itself all intelligible

animals, just as this world contains us and all other visible

creatures.[273] The deity, indeed, desirous of making it in all respects

resemble the most beautiful and entirely perfect of intelligible

objects, formed it into one visible animal, _containing within itself

all the other_ animals with which it is naturally allied. Are we not,

then, right in concluding that there is but one heaven (or universe); or

is it more correct to assert that there are many and infinite? One only,

[I answer,] if it has been fabricated according to the original pattern.

For that which comprehends all intelligible animals whatever, can never

be second to any other:—for there would be need of another animal again

to comprise these two, of which they would both be parts; and it would

be more proper to assert that the universe resembles this comprehending

third, rather than the other two. In order, therefore, that the world

may in its substantive existence [κατὰ τὴν μόνωσιν] resemble the

all-perfect animal—on this account the framer of the worlds produced

neither two nor an infinite number; but this, the solely-begotten heaven

(or universe) having been generated, now exists and ever will exist.

Now, whatever has been generated, must necessarily have bodily shape,

and be visible as well as tangible. But nothing can be visible without

the aid of fire, and nothing tangible without something solid, and

nothing solid without earth,—owing to which, the deity at the beginning

of his constructive labour composed the body of the universe from fire

and earth. But it is not possible for two things alone to cohere,

without the intervention of a third; for a certain bond is necessary

between the two. And the best of all bonds is that, which, as nearly as

possible, unites into one both itself and the natures bound with it. But

proportion will naturally best show this effect;[274]—for whenever,

either in three numbers, or solids, or powers, the middle bears the same

ratio to the last, as the first to the middle—and again also, as the

last is to the middle, so is the middle to the first; then the middle

(or mean) term becoming both first and last, and the last and first

again each become means, they must thus all necessarily become the same

relatively to each other, and having become the same with each other,

will all be one. If then the body of the universe had been a superficies

only without thickness, one medium alone would have sufficed, both for

binding it and all that belongs to it;—but in the present case, as it

was doomed to be a solid—and solids are never one only, but always

jointed together by two media,—whence the deity placed water and air

between fire and earth;—and by thus placing them as far as possible in

proportion to each other, so that fire should be to air as air to water,

and as air to water so water to earth,—he thus bound and framed together

the world visible and tangible. On this account also, and from such

elements, which are four in number, the body of the universe was

confessedly generated by a certain proportion; and hence has resulted

such an intimacy, that all its parts aptly cohere, and are indissoluble

except by its uniting artificer.

Of these four elements, then, the composition of the world received one

_whole_ of each:[275]—for its composing artificer constituted it from

entire elements of fire, water, air, and earth; leaving no part of any

one of them, nor any extraneous power,—considering that it would thus be

a whole animal, in the highest degree perfect and of perfect parts; and

besides this, that it would be one, as nothing would be left, from which

any other such element could be produced; and lastly, that it would be

free from old age and disease,—and perceiving also that the principles

composing bodies, as heat and cold, and all possess vigorous powers,

when they surround bodies externally and interfere with them

unseasonably, dissolve their union, and bring on diseases and old age,

whereby they decay and perish. Owing to such causes and reasonings,

then, he framed this universe, as one whole, an united series of perfect

wholes, perfect, undecaying, and without disease. He gave it also a

figure becoming and allied to its nature;—and to the animal destined to

comprehend all others within itself, that figure as the most becoming,

which includes within itself every sort of figure whatever. Hence he

fashioned it in the shape of a sphere, perfectly round, having its

centre everywhere equally distant from the bounding extremities, as

being the most perfect of all figures, and most resembling himself;—and

he did this, considering the similar to be infinitely more beautiful

than the dissimilar.

Next, he most carefully polished the external circumference of this

sphere,—and this for many reasons. It needed, indeed, neither eyes,

nor ears, as there was nothing externally either visible or

audible:—neither was it surrounded with air, as if it required

respiration;—nor, again, did it require any organ, through which it

might receive its nutriment, and discharge it again when digested: for

nothing was either added to or taken from it, that being impossible.

Indeed the universe is artfully made to provide itself with nutriment

through its own decay, as well as to suffer and do all things in

itself, and by its own operations;—because, indeed, its creator

conceived that it would be much more excellent, if independent in

action, than if it required extraneous aid. And he did not think fit

to give it hands either, as it had nothing either to receive or

reject; nor yet of feet, or any other members suited to

locomotion:—for he assigned to it a motion peculiar to itself, being

that of all the seven kinds of motion,[276] which chiefly belongs to

intellect and reflection. Hence, making the world to turn constantly

on itself and on the same point, he gave it a circular motion, and

took from it all the other six, without giving it any power of

progression: and as this revolution required no feet, he created the

world without legs and feet.

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Footnote 273:

Gr. οὗ δ’ ἔστι τἄλλα ζῶα καθ’ ἓν καὶ κατὰ γένη μόρια, τούτῳ πάντων

ὁμοιότατον αὐτὸν εἶναι τιθῶμεν. The meaning is somewhat obscure: the

above is Stallbaum’s interpretation. Compare also, ch. xv. at the

beginning. It may be observed, as regards intelligible and sensible

objects, that Empedocles had laid down that the universe is

_νοητός_,—although the παράδειγμα ἀρχέτυπον κόσμου αἰσθητοῦ.

Footnote 274: