The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
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]
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]
Il. xxii. v. 15, 16. Footnote 119: Il. xxiii. v. 151. ----- 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. ----- 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. ----- 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. ----- 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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