Chapter VIII: Book III: Argument (1)

In the _third book_ he continues to dilate on music and gymnastics, and
then proceeds to treat of the talents, habits, and education
suitable for the inferior magistrates of a state. Lastly, from the
interpretation of a certain Phœnician fable, he demonstrates the
need of a community and general harmony between citizens, as being
truly brethren and members of the same family. It is quite
necessary, however, that there should be a distinct and well-ordered
εὐταξία, because some are capable of being χρύσος, others only
ἄργυρος, and so on, according to caste, talent, and conduct, all
together composing the state;—and lastly, he expresses
disapprobation at the great weight given to the sayings of poets,
whom accordingly he wishes to be excluded from his ideal republic,
though he willingly accords them honour on account of their great
learning.

CHAP. I.—Concerning the gods, then, said I, such things as these are, it seems, to be both heard, and not heard, from childhood upwards, by those who will honour the gods and parents, and not lightly esteem mutual friendship. Aye,—and methinks, said he, these things are rightly so understood. But what then?—If men are to be brave, must not these things be told them, and such others likewise, as may make them least of all afraid of death; or, think you, that any one can ever be brave, who has this fear within him? Not I, truly, said he. But what? think you any one can be free from the fear of death, while he conceives that there is Hades—and a dreadful place, too,—and that in battles he will choose death in preference to defeat and slavery? Surely not.

We ought then, it seems, to take the command, also, of those who undertake to discourse about these fables, and entreat them not so sweepingly to abuse what is in Hades, but rather to praise it;—since they neither speak what is true, nor what is expedient for those who mean to be soldiers. We ought indeed, said he. Beginning then, said I, at this verse, we will omit all such as these:—

I had rather live
The servile hind for hire, and eat the bread
Of some man scantily, himself sustained,
Than sovereign empire hold o’er all the shades;[92]—

And this—

Lest Neptune o’er his head
Shattering the vaulted earth, should wide disclose
To mortal and immortal eyes his realm
Terrible, squalid, to the gods themselves
A dreaded spectacle;—

And—

Oh, then, ye gods! there doubtless are below,
The soul and semblance both, but empty forms;[93]—

And—

He’s wise alone, the rest are flutt’ring shades;[94]—

And—

Down into Hades from his limbs dismiss’d
His spirit fled sorrowful, of youth’s prime
And vigorous manhood suddenly bereft;[95]—

And—

... His soul, like smoke, down to the shades
Fled howling....[96]

And—

As when the bats within some hallow’d cave
Flit screaming all around; for if but one
Fall from the rock, the rest all follow him;
In such connexion mutual they adhere;
So ... the ghosts
Troop’d downward, gibbering all the dreary way.[97]

As to these and all such like passages, we must request Homer and the other poets not to be offended at our erasing them,—not as unpoetical and displeasing to the ears of the multitude;—for the more poetical they are, the less should they be listened to by children, or men either, who would be free, and fear slavery more than death. Aye, by all means.

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Footnote 92:

Odyss. xi. v. 488-91.

Footnote 93:

Il. xxiii. v. 103.

Footnote 94:

Il. xxii. v. 265.

Footnote 95:

Il. xvi. v. 856.

Footnote 96:

Il. xxii. v. 100.

Footnote 97:

Odyss. xxiv. v. 6.

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CHAP. II.—Further, are not all dreadful and frightful titles also, about these things, to be rejected;—Cocytus and Styx, the infernals, the life-lorn, and many other appellations of this character, such as make all hearers shudder?—and perhaps they may well serve some other purpose; but we fear for our guardians, lest by such terror they be made more effeminate and soft than is fitting. We are in the right too, to be afraid of that, said he. Are these then to be suppressed? Yes. And must they speak, then, and compose on a contrary model to these? Plainly so. And are we likewise to suppress the wailings and lamentations of illustrious men? We must, said he, if we do the former. Consider then, said I, whether we shall suppress them rightly or not,—and do we say, that the virtuous man to another virtuous man—whose friend he is—deems death dreadful? We do. He would not then, at any rate, lament over him, as if he had suffered something dreadful? No, indeed. And we say this likewise, that such an one is most of all self-sustained as regards living happily, and distinctively above all others, least in need of foreign aid. True, said he. To him, then, it is least dreadful to be deprived of a son, a brother, or property, or other like things? Aye, least of all so. Least of all then will he lament, but rather endure with the utmost meekness whatever trouble may befal him? Certainly. We should be right then in suppressing the lamentations of famous men, and should assign them to women, (and among these even not to the better sort), and to such men as are cowards; in order that, as regards those whom we propose to educate for the guardianship of the country, they may disdain to act thus. Right, said he. Again, then, we will entreat Homer and the rest of the poets not to say in their compositions about Achilles, the son of a goddess, that

Now on his side he lay, now lay supine,
Now prone; then starting from his couch he roam’d
Forlorn the beach....[98]

Nor how—

... grasping with both hands the ashes,
Down he pour’d them burning on his head....[99]

Nor the rest of his lamentation and wailing,—of whatever kind and quantity he made them;—nor Priam, near as he was to the gods, who—

... to all—kneel’d
In turn, then roll’d himself in dust, and each
By name solicited to give him way.[100]

Still much more must we entreat them not to represent the gods as bewailing, and saying,

Ah me, forlorn! ah me, parent in vain
Of an illustrious birth.[101]

And if they are not thus to introduce the gods, far less should they dare thus unbecomingly to represent the greatest of those gods:

Ah! I behold a warrior dear to me,
Around the walls of Ilium driven, and grieve
For Hector,—

And again,—

Alas, he falls! my most beloved of men,
Sarpedon, vanquished by Patroclus, falls:
So will the Fates![102]

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Footnote 98:

Il. xxiv. v. 10.

Footnote 99:

Il. xviii. v. 23, 24.

Footnote 100:

Il. xxii. v. 414.

Footnote 101:

Il. xviii. v. 54.

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CHAP. III.—Supposing then, friend Adimantus, our youths should seriously hear such things as these, and not ridicule them as spoken unworthily,—hardly any one would think it unworthy of himself as a man, or reprove himself [for it,] if he should chance either to say or do anything of the kind,—but would rather, without shame or endurance, sing many lamentations and moanings over trifling sufferings. You speak most truly, replied he. But they must not,—as our argument has just evinced; which we must believe, till some one persuades us by some better. They must not, of course. Neither ought we, moreover, to be over fond of laughing:—for commonly where a man gives himself to violent laughter, such a disposition requires a violent change. I think so, said he. Neither, if any one should represent worthy men as overcome by laughter, should we allow it, much less if [he thus represent] the gods. Much, indeed, said he. Neither, then, ought we to receive such statements as these of Homer concerning the gods:—

Heaven rang with laughter inextinguishable—
Peal after peal, such pleasure all conceived
At sight of Vulcan in his new employ.[103]

This cannot be admitted, according to your reasoning. If you please to call it my reasoning, said he,—this, indeed, cannot be admitted. Besides this, however, the truth must be held of great importance:—for if we just now argued rightly,[104] and falsehood be really of no service to the gods, but useful to men, in the form of a drug, it is plain that such a thing should be trusted only to physicians, but not meddled with by private persons. Quite plain, said he. To the governors of the state, then, if to any, it especially belongs to speak falsely either about enemies or citizens, for the good of the state; whereas, for all the rest, they must venture on no such a thing. For a private person, moreover, to speak falsely against such governors, we shall deem the same and even a greater offence, than for a patient not to speak the truth to his physician, or for one who is learning his exercises to his gymnastic master about the ailments of his body,—or for one not to tell the pilot the real state of what concerns the ship and sailors, how himself and the other sailors are performing their duty. Most true, said he. If, however, he should detect any other citizen in a falsehood—

... of those, who by profession serve
The public, prophet, healer of disease,
Or him who makes the shafts of spears,[105]

he will punish him; as introducing a practice subversive and destructive of the city, as well as of a ship. If, at least, it is on speech that actions are completed.[106] But what;—will our youths have no need of temperance? Certainly. And are not such as these in general the principal parts of temperance; namely, obedience to governors,—and also, that the governors themselves be temperate in drinking, feasting, and pleasures of love? I am quite of that opinion. And we shall say, I believe, that such views are just,—just as in Homer Diomedes says:

Sit thou in silence, and obey my speech,[107]—

and what is in connexion therewith,—thus:

So moved the Greeks successive, ev’ry chief
His loud command proclaiming, while the rest,
As voice in all those thousands none had been,
Heard mute....[108]

and so on. Well spoken. But what of such as these?—

Oh! charged with wine, in steadfastness of face.
Dog unabash’d, and yet at heart a deer,[109]—

and as respects what follows, and whatever other childish effusions are uttered in prose or verse by private individuals, are they well [pronounced]? No, not well:—for, methinks, even as respects temperance, such [discourses] are not fit for the young to hear; and supposing they do afford some other sort of pleasure, it is no wonder:—but what is your notion of the matter? The same as your own, said he.

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Footnote 102:

Il. xxii. v. 168.

Footnote 103:

Namely as cupbearer to the gods.—Il. i. v. 599.

Footnote 104:

Comp. B. ii. ch. 21.

Footnote 105:

Hom. Od. xvii. v. 383.

Footnote 106:

Gr. ἐάνπερ ἐπί γε λόγῳ ἔργα τελῆται.

Footnote 107:

Il. iv. v. 412.

Footnote 108:

Il. iv. v. 431.

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CHAP. IV.—What?—To make the wisest man say, that it appears to him supremely beautiful, when

... the steaming table’s spread
With plenteous viands, while the cups, with wine
From brimming beakers fill’d, pass brisk around,[110]—

does it seem proper to you that a youth should hear, in order to obtain a command over himself;—or yet this:—

... most miserable it is,
To die of famine and have adverse fate;[111]—

or that Zeus, through desire for the pleasures of love, could easily forget all that in solitary watching he had revolved in his mind, while other gods and men were asleep, and could be so struck on seeing Hera, as not even to care to enter his chamber, but to desire connexion with her on the very spot, to embrace her on the ground, and at the same time to declare that he was possessed with a desire, exceeding even what he felt on their first acquaintance,

... Hidden from their parents dear;[112]—

nor yet how Ares and Aphrodite were bound by Hephæstus,[113] and other such things? No, by Zeus, said he; these seem quite unfit. But if, said I, any instances of self-denial in all matters are both to be spoken of and practised by men of eminence, these should be held up for a spectacle and celebrated in verse,—such as this:[114]—

... Smiting on his breast, thus he reproved
The mutinous inhabitant within.[115]

Just so, by all means, said he. Of course, then, we cannot by any means allow men to receive bribes, or be covetous. By no means. Neither must we sing to them, that

Gifts gain the gods and venerable kings;[116]—

neither can we commend Phœnix, the tutor of Achilles, as if he spoke correctly, when counselling him to accept of presents and assist the Greeks, but, without presents, not to desist from his wrath:[117]—nor again, should we commend Achilles himself, or approve of his being so covetous as to receive presents from Agamemnon, and, likewise for giving up the dead body of Hector, on receiving a ransom, when otherwise he would not do so. Of course it is not right, said he, to commend such conduct as this. I am loath, said I, for Homer’s sake, to say, that it is not allowable to allege these things against Achilles, or to believe them, when said by others; nor, again, that he spoke thus to Apollo:—

Oh! of all the powers above,
To me most adverse, archer of the skies!
Thou hast beguiled me, leading me away ...
And hast defrauded me of great renown.
Ah! had I power, I would requite thee well,[118]—

and how he disobeyed the river [Xanthus,] though a divinity, and was ready to fight; and again, how he says to that other river, Spercheius, with his sacred locks,

Thy lock to great Patroclus I could give,
Who now is dead...[119]

Now, that he actually did this, we cannot believe. And again, the dragging of Hector round the tomb of Patroclus, and the murder of the captives at his funeral pile,—we shall deny that all this is spoken truly; nor shall we suffer our people to believe, that Achilles, the son of a goddess, and of Peleus, the most wise of men, and the third from Jupiter, educated also by that sage Chiron, could be of so disordered a constitution as to have within him two positively opposite moral ailments,—illiberality and covetousness, and moreover a contempt both of gods and men. You say right, replied he.

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Footnote 109:

Il. i. v. 225.

Footnote 110:

Od. ix. v. 8.

Footnote 111:

Od. xi. v. 342.

Footnote 112:

Il. xiv. v. 291.

Footnote 113:

Od. viii. v. 266.

Footnote 114:

θεατέον τε καὶ ἀκουστέον, which we have somewhat paraphrastically
rendered, in order to give the full meaning of the words.

Footnote 115:

Od. xx. v. 17.

Footnote 116:

This verse is not to be found in any of Homer’s writings; and Suidas
ascribes it to Hesiod. Euripides has a similar sentiment, Med. v. 934.

Footnote 117:

Comp. Il. xix. v. 278, &c. with Il. xxiv. v. 175, &c.

Footnote 118:

Il. xxii. v. 15, 16.

Footnote 119:

Il. xxiii. v. 151.

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CHAP. V.—Let us not then believe these things, said I, nor yet suffer any to say, that Theseus, son of Poseidon, and Pirithous, son of Zeus, were impelled to such dire abductions; nor that any other son of a deity, or hero either, would dare to commit horrible and impious deeds, such as now they falsely ascribe to them; but let us compel the poets to say, either that the actions do not belong to these persons, or that these persons are not the children of gods,—but not to say both, nor yet try to persuade our youth that the gods are the origin of evil, and heroes no better than men:—for just as we said before, these [statements] are neither holy nor true; inasmuch as we have somewhere or other shown, that evils cannot possibly proceed from the gods. Of course not. But, besides this, they are hurtful to the hearers also; for every one will pardon his own depravity, through the persuasion that even the near relatives of the gods, near to Zeus himself, do, and have done, things of a similar nature, of whom it has been written,—

They, on the top of Ida, have uprear’d
To parent Jupiter an altar;—

And,

Whose blood derived from gods is not extinct.

Wherefore, we should suppress all such fables, lest they create in our youth a great readiness for committing wickedness. We should so, of course, replied he. What other species of argument, then, said I,—since we are speaking about arguments,—have we still remaining, which ought, or ought not, to be maintained?—For in what manner we ought to speak of the gods we have already mentioned, and likewise of demons and heroes, and those too in Hades. Certainly. Does it not remain, then, to speak concerning men? Clearly so. Still it is impossible for us, my friend, to regulate this at present. How? Because we shall say, I think, that the poets and orators speak amiss in most important respects concerning mankind, as [for instance,] that many are unjust, and yet happy, while the just are miserable; and that injustice is profitable, if it escape observation, while justice is another’s gain indeed, but injury to one’s self; such things, as these, we must forbid them to say, but yet bid them sing and compose in fable the very contrary. Do you not think so? I know it well, said he. If then you acknowledge that I am right, shall I conclude that you have admitted what all along we were seeking for? You judge right, said he. Shall we not allow, then, that such arguments may be stated about men, whenever we shall have discovered the nature of justice,—and how it is naturally profitable for the just man to be such, whether he seem so or not? Most true, replied he.

CHAP. VI.—Concerning the arguments, then, let what we have said suffice, and now we should consider, methinks, the manner of stating them; and then we shall have completely considered, both what is to be spoken, and the manner how. Adimantus here said;—What you now say, I do not understand. Nevertheless, replied I, it needs you should.—Perhaps then you will understand it better in this way:—is not everything told by the mythologists or poets, a narrative of the past, present, or future?[120] Of course, replied he. And do not they execute it, either in simple narrative, or through the medium of imitation, or both? This too, replied he, I yet require to understand more plainly. I appear, said I, to be a ridiculous and dull instructor:—like those, then, who are unable to speak, I will endeavour to explain my meaning,—not the whole generally, but by a particular case. And tell me,—are you acquainted with the opening of the Iliad, where the poet says, Chryses entreated Agamemnon to ransom his daughter; but that he was angry, whereupon the former, since he did not obtain his request, besought the god, against the Greeks? I know it. You know, then, that down to these verses,—

His supplication was at large to all
The host of Greece; but most of all to two,
The sons of Atreus, highest in command,—

the poet himself speaks, and does not attempt to divert our attention elsewhere, as if any other person were speaking except himself; but as to what he says after this, he speaks as though he himself were Chryses, and tries all he can to make us think that the speaker is not Homer, but the priest, an old man:—and thus he has composed nearly all the rest of the narrative of what happened at Troy, and in Ithaca, and the adventures throughout the Odyssey. Yes, certainly, replied he. Is it not narrative, then, when he recites the several speeches, and also when [he recites] what intervenes between the speeches? Of course. But when he speaks in the person of another, do we not say, that then he assimilates his speech as much as possible to each person whom he introduces as speaking? We will grant it;—why not? And is not [a poet’s] assimilation of himself to another, either in voice or figure, an imitation of that person to whom he assimilates himself? Of course. In such a case as this, then, it seems, both he and the other poets execute their narrative by means of imitation? Certainly. But if the poet were not to conceal himself at all, his whole action and narrative would be without imitation.—That you may not say, however, that you do not again understand how this can be, I will tell you.—If, for instance, in relating how Chryses came with his daughter’s ransom, beseeching the Greeks, but chiefly the kings, Homer had subsequently spoken, not in the character of Chryses, but still as Homer, you know it would not be imitation, but only simple narrative:—and it would have been somehow thus (I shall speak without metre, for I am no poet):—“The priest came and prayed, that the gods would allow them to take Troy, and return in safety; and begged them also to restore him his daughter, and accept the presents, out of respect to the god. When he had said this, all the rest showed respect, and consented; but Agamemnon became enraged, and charged him to depart instantly, and not return, lest his sceptre and the garlands of the god should not avail him, and added also, that, before his daughter should be ransomed she should grow old with him in Argos; and he ordered him to be gone, and not irritate him, if he would get home in safety. The old man on hearing this was terrified and went away in silence. And after his retiring from the camp he offered numerous prayers to Apollo, calling on the god by his various names, and reminding as well as imploring him, that, if ever, either in the building of temples, or the offering of sacrifices, he had made any acceptable presents,—for the sake of these then, he besought him, to avenge with his shafts on the Greeks the tears [that had been shed] by himself.”[121]—Thus far, said I, friend, the narrative is simple, without imitation. I understand, said he.

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Footnote 120:

This threefold distinction of poetry is mentioned likewise by
Aristotle; Poet. ch. iii. § 2.

Footnote 121:

The Greek form—τὰ ἃ δάκρυα is unquestionably archaic; but, as
Stallbaum well observes, was still extant among the Athenians in
colloquial language.

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CHAP. VII.—Understand, then, said I, that the opposite of this happens, when one takes out the poet’s words between the speeches, and leaves only the dialogue. This too, said he, I understand, that something like this takes place with tragedies. You have apprehended my meaning quite correctly, said I. And methinks, I can now make plain to you what before I could not,—that in poetry, and all fabulous writing, one species of it is wholly imitative, as, for instance (just as you say), tragedy and comedy; another species employs the narration of the poet himself, (you will find this chiefly in dithyrambics;) and another again by both, as in epic poetry, and many other kinds besides:—if you understand me. Aye,—I now understand, replied he, what you meant before. Remember, too, that we were before saying, that it had already been settled what were to be the subjects of speech, but it yet remained to be considered how they should be spoken. I do remember. This then, is the very thing that I was saying,—namely, that we ought to have agreed, whether we will allow the poets to make us narratives wholly through the medium of imitation, or partly through imitation, partly not so,—and, of what kind in each,—or lastly whether they are not to employ imitation at all. I guess, said he, you are inquiring, whether we are to receive tragedy and comedy into our state, or not. Perhaps so, said I, and something more too,—for I as yet know not; but wherever our reason, wind-like, carries us, there must we go. You say well, said he. Let us then consider, Adimantus, whether our guardians ought to be practised imitators or not:—does not this follow, from what has been above stated, that each may exercise one business well, but many, not,—and should he attempt it, that, in grasping at many things, he will fail in all, and excel, perhaps, in none?[122] Of course he will. Well then, does not the same reasoning apply to imitation, that the same man cannot so well imitate many things as one? Of course he cannot. In that case he can perform scarcely any of the more eminent employments, and at the same time imitate many things, and be an apt imitator,—since the same persons cannot well execute two different sorts of imitations, apparently similar to each other; as, for instance, comedy and tragedy:—and as for that, did you not, just now, call both of these imitations? I did; and you are right in saying, that the same persons cannot succeed [in both]. Nor can they, at the same time, be rhapsodists and actors? True. Nor can the same persons be actors in comedies and in tragedies:—and all these are imitations, are they not? Aye,—surely. The genius of man, Adimantus, seems to have been cut up even into a still greater number of minute particles,—so much so, indeed,[123] that it cannot properly imitate many things, or perform [in earnest] those very things, of which even the imitations are the resemblances. Most true, said he.

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Footnote 122:

Gr. ὥστ’ εἶναι ἐλλόγιμος.

Footnote 123:

Gr. εἰς ἀμικρότερα κατακεκερματίσθαι.

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CHAP. VIII.—If we are to hold to our first reasoning, therefore, that our guardians, though unoccupied in any productive art whatever, ought to be the most skilful labourers for the liberty of the state, and to mind nothing but what refers thereto, it were surely proper that they should neither perform nor imitate anything else,—but, should they imitate at all, to imitate from their childhood upwards just what correspond with these,—brave, temperate, pious, generous-hearted men, and the like;—but neither to perform, nor desire to imitate what is illiberal or base, lest from the very imitation they come to experience the positive reality.[124] Have you not also observed, that imitations, if from earliest youth onwards they be long continued, become established in the manners and natural temper, both as to body and voice, and intellect too? Very much so, replied he. Surely we are not to allow those, said I, for whom we profess to be anxious, and who ought to be good men, to imitate a woman either young or old, whether reviling her husband, or contending against the gods, and speaking boastingly from the idea of her own happiness;—neither should we imitate her in her misfortunes, sorrows, and lamentations, when sick, or in love, or in the throes of child-birth; we shall be far from allowing this. By all means, replied he. Nor to imitate male or female servants in doing servants’ duties? Nor this either. Nor yet, it seems, depraved men, dastards, and those who do the contrary of what has been just mentioned, who revile and rail at one another; and speak abominable things, whether drunk or sober, or [do] any other misdeeds, such as this class of persons are guilty of, either in words or actions, either as respects themselves or others?—I think too, that they should not even accustom themselves to resemble madmen, in words or actions, for one may know both the mad and wicked, whether men or women;—yet we must not either do or imitate any one of their actions. Most true, said he. But what, said I;—are braziers or other craftsmen, or such as row vessels, or pilot the sailors, or any others connected therewith to be imitated? How can it be so, said he, by those at least who are not allowed to give their mind up to those pursuits? But what,—are they to imitate horses neighing, or bulls lowing, or rivers murmuring, or the sea roaring, or thunder, and all such like things? No surely, said he:—we have forbidden them either to get mad, or resemble madmen. If then I understand what you mean, replied I, there is a sort of speech and narrative in which the truly good and worthy man expresses himself, when required to say anything,—and another again quite dissimilar, to which a person quite oppositely born and bred always adheres, and in which [he always] expresses himself. But what sorts are they? asked he. That man, said I, seems a worthy man, who on coming in his narrative to any speech or action of a good man, will willingly tell it, as if he were himself the man, and not be ashamed of such an imitation,—the more especially, if he be imitating a good man acting cautiously and sensibly, one who is seldom and but little led astray through ailments, or love, or drink, or any other mishap. But when there arises [in his narrative] anything unworthy of himself, he will not be in any hurry to assimilate himself to one that is worse, except it be for a short time when he is doing some good; and besides, he will be ashamed of it, both as being unpractised in the imitation of such characters, and also, as unwilling to mould himself, and stand among the models of baser men, whom all the while he despises in his heart, [bearing with them] only for mere amusement. Probably, said he.

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Footnote 124:

Gr. ἵνα μὴ ἐκ τῆς μιμήσεως τοῦ εἶναι ἀπολαύσωσιν.

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CHAP. IX.—Will he employ a narrative such as that we not long since described in the case of Homer’s poems; and will his language partake both of imitation and simple narrative, but have only a small portion of imitation inserted in a great quantity [of plain narrative?]—Do you think I speak to the purpose or not? Yes, certainly, replied he; that must needs be the type of such an orator. In that case, said I, will not such a man, the more he is depraved, the more readily narrate any matter whatever, thinking nothing unworthy of him,—so much so, indeed, that he will undertake to imitate everything zealously and in public, and such especially as we just mentioned, thunderings and noises of winds and tempests, and of axles and wheels, and of trumpets, pipes, whistles, and sounds of all kinds of instruments, and the cries of dogs likewise, and sheep, and birds?—and of course the whole expression of this is to be by imitation, both in voice and gestures, partaking but slightly of narrative. This too, said he, is a matter of course. These, said I, are what I termed the two kinds of diction. Yes, they are, replied he. Has not one of the two, then, very trifling variations; and to give the diction a becoming harmony and rhythm, he who would speak correctly must always speak in the same style, in one harmony,—for the variations are but trifling,—and of course in a rhythm closely corresponding?[125] It is so, clearly, replied he. But as to the other kind, does it not require the contrary,—all kinds of harmonies, and all kinds of rhythms, if, indeed, it is to be naturally expressed, on account of its having all sorts and shades of variation? That is precisely the case. Do not, then, all the poets, and writers of narrative generally,[126] use one or other of these models of diction, or a blending of the other two? They must, replied he. What are we to do then, said I:—shall we admit into our state all of these [models,] or only one of the unmixed, or the one compounded? If my opinion, replied he, is to prevail, [you should employ] that uncompounded one, which imitates only what is worthy. But surely, Adimantus, the mixed is at least pleasant:—the most pleasant of all, both to children and pedagogues, is the opposite of what you choose, and it is so to the crowd likewise. Yes, it is the most pleasant. But probably, said I, you will not deem it suited to our civil establishment, because with us no man can be engaged in two or more occupations, but each individual is employed in one only? Of course, it is not fit. Shall we not find then, that in such a state alone, a shoemaker is only a shoemaker, and not a pilot as well as a shoemaker; and that the husbandman is only a husbandman, and not a judge as well as a husbandman; and that the soldier is a soldier, and not a money-maker as well; and so with the rest? True, replied he. With respect to the man then, who is enabled by his talents to become everything and imitate everything, if that person were to come into our state and wish to show us his poems, we should respect him as a pious, wonderful, and pleasant person, but would say that we have no such person in our state, nor could such be allowed; and then we should send him to some other state, pouring oil on his head, and crowning him with a woollen chaplet,[127] while we ourselves would call in, to our advantage, a more austere and less pleasing poet and mythologist, to imitate for us the diction of what is becoming, and say whatever he says, in accordance with those models which we regularly set forth on first undertaking the education of our soldiers. So we should do, replied he, if it depended on us. Now then, friend, it seems that we have thoroughly discussed that part of music which concerns oratory and fable; for what is to be spoken, and how spoken, we have already considered. I think so too, observed he.

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Footnote 125:

Gr. καὶ δὴ ἐν ῥυθμῷ ὡσαύτως παραπλησίῳ τινί.

Footnote 126:

Gr. καὶ οἵ τι λέγοντες.

Footnote 127:

Gr. ἀποπέμποιμέν τε ἂν εἰς ἄλλην πόλιν μύρον κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς
καταχέαντες καὶ ἐρίῳ στέψαντες. This passage with all its beauty is
somewhat obscure. It plainly refers to that kind of poet, who was used
to treat all kinds of characters and subjects;—and yet the ancient
writers evidently understood it, as referring to Homer. Comp. Dion.
Halic. Epist. de Plat. vol. vi. d. 756:—ἦν τῇ Πλάτωνος φύσει πολλὰς
ἀρετὰς ἐχούσῃ τὸ φιλότιμον· ἐδήλωσε δὲ τοῦτο μάλιστα διὰ τῆς πρὸς
Ὅμηρον ζηλοτυπίας, ὃν ἐκ τῆς κατασκευαζομένης ὑπ’ αὐτοῦ πολιτείας
ἐκβάλλει, στεφανώσας καὶ μύρῳ χρίσας. So also Aristides, Orat. Plat.
111; vol. ii. p. 326:—Ὅμηρον μύρῳ χρίσας ἐκπέμπει χελιδόνος τιμὴν
καταθείς. Josephus, Minucius Felix, Theodoret, and Chrysostom bear
similar testimony to its meaning.

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CHAP. X.—Are we not next to speak, said I, about the style of song and melody?[128] Clearly so. Cannot one already find out, then, what we ought to say about these things, and of what kind they should be, if we would be consistent with what we have above said? Here Glaucon, smiling, said,—I seem, indeed, Socrates, to be a stranger to the whole business, for I cannot at present conceive what we ought to say, though I have some inkling. You can, surely, said I, at any rate, fully state this much,—that melody has three constituents,—sentiment, harmony, and rhythm?[129] Yes, replied he, this much, at any rate. And as concerns the sentiment,—that differs in nothing from the sentiment which is not sung, inasmuch as it ought to be performed on the same models, as we just said, and after the same fashion. True, said he. Surely, then, the harmony and rhythm should correspond with the sentiment? Of course. But yet we said there was no need for wailings and lamentations in written compositions? None, certainly. Which then are the querulous harmonies?[130] Tell me,—for you are a musician. The mixed Lydian,[131] replied he, and the sharp Lydian, and some others of this kind. Are not these, then, said I, to be rejected, as being useless even to well-conducted women, not to speak of men? Certainly. Drunkenness, moreover, is highly unbecoming in our guardians, as well as effeminacy and idleness? Of course. Which then are the effeminate and convivial harmonies? The Ionic, replied he, and the Lydian, which are called relaxing. Can you use these, my friend, for military men? By no means, replied he; but it seems you have yet the Doric remaining, and the Phrygian. I am not learned, said I, in harmonies; but let us put out of the question that harmony, which would fitly imitate the voice and accents of a brave man, engaged in military action, and every sort of rough adventure, and, should he fail of success, rushing on wounds or death, or any other distress, all the while regularly and resolutely battling with fortune:—let us put out of the question, also, that kind of harmony which suits what is peaceable, where there is no violence, but everything is voluntary, where a man either persuades or beseeches any one, about anything,—either God by prayer, or man by instruction and admonition; or, on the other hand, where one submits to another’s entreaties, instructions, or persuasion, and in all these points acts in accordance with intellect, and does not behave haughtily, but demeans himself soberly and moderately, gladly embracing whatever may happen:—put out of the question, too, these two harmonies, the vehement and the voluntary,[132] which so capitally imitate the voice both of the unfortunate and fortunate,—the moderate and brave. Aye, you are anxious, replied he, to leave no others but those I now mentioned. We shall have no need, then, said I, in our songs and melodies, for many strings or instruments expressive of all the harmonies. We shall not, it seems, replied he. We are not to maintain, then, such craftsmen, as make harps and spinets, and instruments of many strings that produce a variety of harmony. We are not, it seems. But what,—will you admit into your city flute-makers or flute-players? for, are not those instruments which consist of the greatest number of strings,[133] and those that produce all kinds of harmony, imitations of the flute? Plainly so, replied he. There are still left you, then, said I, the lyre and the harp, as useful for your city; and, as respects the fields again, a reed or so for the shepherds? This is quite reasonable, said he. We are doing nothing new then, replied I, in preferring Apollo and Apollo’s instruments, to Marsyas[134] and his instruments. Truly not, it seems, replied he. By the dog, too, said I, we have been once more unconsciously cleansing our city, which, we just now said, had become luxurious. Aye; we were wise to do so, replied he.

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Footnote 128:

It has been rightly stated by Ger. Voss. in his Institut. Poet. ii.
ch. ix. § 2, that the word μέλος is equivalent to λόγος ᾀδόμενος.
Comp. also Plato de Legg. ii. p. 655 a.

Footnote 129:

The distinction between harmony and rhythm is well explained in the
Laws, ii. p. 655 a:—τῇ δὲ τῆς κινήσεως τάξει ῥυθμὸς ὄνομα· τῇ δ’ αὖ
τῆς φωνῆς, τοῦ τε ὀξέος ἅμα καὶ βαρέος συκεραννυμένων, ἁρμονίας ὄνομα
προσαγορεύοιτο.

Footnote 130:

On the power and character of the several kinds of melody, comp.
Heraclides Ponticus in Athenæus, xiv. p. 624 d, and Aristotle’s Polit.
viii. ch. 5-7. Boeckh also in his work on the metres of Pindar (vol.
i. pt. 2), has learnedly discussed the variety of ancient Greek
melodies.

Footnote 131:

Aristoxenus quoted by Plutarch (de Musicâ, p. 1136 d), thus explains
the word μιξολυδιστί:—καὶ ἡ μιξολύδιος δὲ παθητική τίς ἐστι,
τραγῳδίαις ἁρμόζουσα. Ἀριστόξενος δέ φησι Σαπφὼ πρώτην εὕρασθαι τὴν
μιξολυδιστί, παρ’ ἧς τοὺς τραγῳδοποιοὺς μαθεῖν.

Footnote 132:

A harmony is here termed βίαιος, which (to use the words in the Laws,
viii. 814 e):—ἐν βιαίῳ ἐργασίᾳ πρεπόντως ἂν μιμήσαιτο φθόγγους τε καὶ
προσῳδίας, &c.;—and that is called ἑκούσιος, which becomes a man who
is engaged ἐν ἑκουσίῳ πράξει.

Footnote 133:

All musical instruments are here rejected, which, from having many
chords, have the power of soothing the ear with a variety of
harmonies, and yet do not improve the mind, but rather render it
effeminate and fill it with sensual desires. Among these is classed
the lyre,—which is rejected also by Pythagoras, who (according to
Iamblichus) τοὺς αὐλοὺς ὑπελάμβανεν ὑβριστικόν τε καὶ πανηγυρικὸν καὶ
οὐδαμῶς ἐλευθέριον τὸν ἦχον ἔχειν. See also Plato’s Gorgias, p. 501 e,
where he conceives the art of flute-playing—τὴν ἡδονὴν ἡμῶν μόνον
διώκειν, ἄλλο δ’ οὐδὲν φροντίζειν.

Footnote 134:

On the contest of Marsyas with Apollo, comp. Herodot. vii. 26, and
Diodor. Sic. iii. p. 192.

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CHAP. XI.—Come then, said I, and let us cleanse the remainder; for what concerns rhythm will follow after harmonies,—namely, that our citizens pursue not ever-varying rhythms having a variety of cadences, but observe what are the rhythms of an orderly and manly life; and observing these, should compel the time and the melody to subserve the sentiment, and not the sentiment to subserve the time and melody.—Now, what these rhythms are, it is your business to tell, as you did with the harmonies. Nay, by Zeus, replied he, I cannot tell:—so far, indeed, as that there are three forms from which all measures are composed, just as there are four primitive sounds, from which all harmony is derived, this I can say from observation; but what kind of imitations they are, and of what kind of life, I am not able to tell. These things, however, said I, with Damon’s[135] aid we will consider,—what measures suit illiberality and insolence, or madness and any other ill disposition,—and what rhythms also must be left for their opposites. And I have a confused recollection of having heard him call a certain [measure] enoplion, which was compound, another a dactyl, and a third an heroic measure,—embellishing them I know not how,—making them equal above and below, in breadth and length: and methinks he called one an iambus, and another a trochee, and regulated also the long and short measures. In some of these, too, I fancy, he both blamed and praised the measure of the foot, no less than the numbers themselves, or something compounded of both. As for these matters, however, as I said, let them be thrown on Damon: for to define them distinctly, indeed, would require no small discourse: do not you think so? No small one, truly. But as for this point,—whether the propriety or impropriety is dependent on the good or ill rhythm,—can you at all discern that? Of course. Moreover, with respect to good or ill rhythm, the one depends on elegant expression, and conforms to it, while the other is the reverse; and, in the same way, as to the harmonious and discordant, the rhythm and harmony being subservient to the sentiment, as we just said, and not the sentiment to the former. These, indeed, said he, should subserve the sentiment. And what, said I, as to the manner of expression, and as to the sentiment itself, must it not be suited to the temper of the soul? Of course. And all the rest to the expression? Yes. Well then, fine expression, fine harmony, perfect propriety, and perfect rhythm, are dependent on good disposition,—not that dulness which in flattering language we call good temper, but the intellect itself, adorned with excellent and amiable moral feelings? Surely, altogether so, replied he. Must not all these then be always pursued by the youth, if they would perform their duties? They should, indeed, be so pursued. Painting, indeed, is, somehow, full of these things, and so is every other such kind of craftsmanship; and weaving, too, is full thereof, and embroidery and architecture, and all craftship of all kinds of implements; and yet further, the nature of animal bodies and of all plants,—for in all these is found either propriety or impropriety: and moreover, impropriety, want of rhythm, and want of harmony, are close akin to bad language and depraved manners,—their opposites being likewise related, and imitations of discretion and good morals. Entirely so, replied he.

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Footnote 135:

A celebrated musician who instructed Pericles in that art. Comp. Rep.
iv. ch. 3, p. 424 c. See also Plutarch, Life of Pericles, ch. 4.

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CHAP. XII.—Must we, then, merely superintend the poets, and oblige them to present in their poems the idea of good morals, or else not write at all with us;—or should we superintend all other craftsmen also, and restrain this immoral, undisciplined, illiberal, indecent style, so as not to exhibit it either in the representation of animals, or in buildings, or in any other craftsmanship,—so that he who cannot do this may not be suffered to work with us?—[This we must do,] for fear that our guardians, being trained by images of evil, as in bad pasture-land, by every day plucking and eating many different things, should establish imperceptibly, by little and little, some mighty evil in their soul;—but rather should we seek for such craftsmen, as, by the help of a good natural genius, can investigate the nature of the beautiful and becoming,—in order that our youths, dwelling, as it were, in a healthful place, may receive advantage on all sides, and so receive some service, either by sight or hearing, from fine productions, just as a breeze brings health from healthy places, and imperceptibly lead them from childhood onwards to resemblance, friendship, and harmony with right reason. Thus indeed, said he, they would be brought up in the best possible manner. In this case, then, Glaucon, said I;—is not musical training of the utmost importance, inasmuch as rhythm and harmony enter largely into the inward part of the soul, and most powerfully affect it, at the same time introducing decorum, and rendering every one becoming, if properly trained, and, if not so, the reverse?—Moreover, the man, who has thus been brought up as he ought, very soon perceives whatever workmanship is defective and badly executed, or what productions are of such description,—and through a right feeling of disgust will praise and rejoice in the beautiful, and receiving it in his soul will be fostered thereby, and thus become a worthy, good man,—while, as to all that is base, he will rightly despise and hate it, even from early youth, and before he can partake of reason; and again, when reason comes, having been thus trained, he will heartily embrace it, because he clearly recognises it from its intimate familiarity with himself. This appears to me, replied he, the very reason, why there should be musical training. Just as in learning our letters, said I, we are only then sufficiently instructed, when we are acquainted, on meeting them, with the few elementary letters through their various combinations, and do not more or less despise them as unnecessary to be learnt, but take all pains to understand them thoroughly,—as we cannot be good grammarians till we do so. True. And supposing the images of letters were seen anywhere, either in water or in mirrors, should we not recognise them before the letters themselves?—or is this a part of the same art and study? Surely. Is it then true, what I say, by the gods, that in this case we shall never become musicians, neither ourselves nor the guardians we talk of training, unless we understand the ideas of temperance, fortitude, liberality, and magnificence, and whatever are akin to these, are acquainted also with their contraries, so familiar to all, and unless, wheresoever they are, we observe both the virtues themselves and the images thereof, and despise them neither in small nor great instances, but conceive them to be rather a part of the same art and study. It must be so, said he. Must not that person, then, said I, whose lot it is to have virtuous habits in his soul, and what is proportioned and corresponding thereto in his appearance, partake of the same impression and be a fine spectacle to any one who is able to behold him? Quite so. Yet, what is most beautiful is most lovely? Of course. He, then, who is most musical should surely love those men, who are most eminent in this way; but if a man be unmusical, he will not love them? He will not, replied he, if he be at all defective in his soul: still, if it were in his body, he would bear with it, and be willing to associate with him. I understand, said I, that your favourites are or have been of this kind: and I too agree to that; but tell me this,—is there any communion between temperance and excessive pleasure? How can there? said he, for such pleasure causes a privation of intellect, not less than grief. But has it communion with any other virtue? Not at all. What then,—has it communion with insolence and intemperance? Most certainly. Can you mention a greater and more acute pleasure than what respects the matters of love? I cannot, said he, nor yet one that is more insane. But right love is of a nature to love the beautiful and the good temperately and harmoniously? Certainly. Nothing, then, which is mad, or allied to intemperance, may approach real and right love. It may not approach it. Nor may pleasure approach it; neither may the lover and the person he loves have communion with it, if they are rightly to love and be beloved? No, truly, said he; they may not, Socrates. Thus, then, it seems, you will lay down a law in the city you are establishing, that the lover shall love, converse, and associate with the objects of his love, as with a son,—from a virtuous motive and with his consent; and as to everything else, every one will so converse with him whose love he solicits, as never to wish to associate for any other purpose but what we have said;—for otherwise he would undergo the reproach of being unmusical and unacquainted with the beautiful. It must be so, replied he. Do not you think then, said I, that our discourse concerning music is now concluded?—For it has now terminated where it ought,—as what is concerned with the art of music somehow ought to terminate in the love of the beautiful. I agree, said he.