The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
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.
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.
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.
That if he happen to be in poverty, or in diseases, or in any other of those seeming evils, these things to him issue in something good, either whilst alive or dead. For never at any time is he neglected by the gods, who inclines earnestly to endeavour to become just, and practises virtue as far as it is possible for man to resemble God. It is reasonable, replied he, that such an one should not be neglected by him whom he resembles. And are we not to think the reverse of these things concerning the unjust man? Certainly. Such, then, would seem to be the prizes which the just man receives from the gods. Such they are, indeed, in my opinion, said he. But what, said I, do they receive from men? Is not the case thus (if we are to suppose the truth)? Do not cunning and unjust men do the same thing as those racers, who run well at the beginning, but not so at the end? for at the first they briskly leap forward, but in the end they become ridiculous, and, with their ears on their neck, they run off without any reward. But such as are true racers, arriving at the end, both receive the prizes, and are crowned.
Does it not happen thus, for the most part, as to just men; that at the end of every action and intercourse of life they are both held in esteem, and receive rewards from men? Entirely so. You will then suffer me to say of these what you yourself said of the unjust. For I will aver now, that the just, when they are grown up, shall arrive at power if they desire magistracies, they shall marry where they incline, and shall settle their children in marriage agreeably to their wishes; and everything else you mentioned concerning the others, I now say concerning these. And on the other hand, I will say of the unjust, that the most of them, though they may remain concealed while young, yet, being caught at the end of the race, are ridiculous; and, when they become old, are wretched and ridiculed, and shall be scourged both by foreigners and citizens, and afterwards tortured and burnt; which you said were terrible things;—and you spoke the truth. You may suppose that you hear from me that they suffer all these things. But see if you will admit what I say. Certainly, said he, for you say what is just. ----- Footnote 255: That is to say, one of these through aptitude will receive the illuminations of divinity, and the other through inaptitude will subject himself to the power of avenging demons.
But when he came before the judges, they said he ought to be a messenger to men concerning things there, and they commanded him to hear, and contemplate everything therein;—and that he saw there, through two openings, one of the heaven, and one of the earth, the souls departing, after they were there judged; and through the other two openings he saw, rising through the one out of the earth, souls full of squalidness and dust; and through the other, he saw other souls descending pure from heaven; and that on their arrival from time to time they seemed as if they came from a long journey, and that they gladly went to rest themselves in the meadow, as in a public assembly, and such as were acquainted saluted one another, and those who rose out of the earth asked the others concerning the things above, and those from heaven asked them concerning the things below, and that they told one another: those wailing and weeping whilst they called to mind, what and how many things they suffered and saw in their journey under the earth (for it was a journey of a thousand years); and that these again from heaven explained their enjoyments, and spectacles of amazing beauty.—To narrate many of them, Glaucon, would occupy much time; but this, he said, was the sum, that whatever unjust actions a man had committed, and whatever injuries a man had committed, they were punished for all these separately tenfold, and that it was in each, according to the rate of a hundred years (the life of man being considered as so long), that they might suffer tenfold punishment for the injustice they had done;—so that if any had been the cause of many deaths, either by betraying cities or armies, or bringing men into slavery, or being confederates in any other wickedness, for each of all these they reaped tenfold sufferings; and if, again, they had benefited any by good deeds, and had been just and holy, they were rewarded according to their deserts.
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