Chapter XX: Book X: Argument (1)

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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