“Concerning the gods then,” said I, “this is the sort of thing that we must allow or not allow them to hear from childhood up, if they are to honor the gods1 and their fathers and mothers, and not to hold their friendship with one another in light esteem.” “That was our view and I believe it right.” “What then of this? If they are to be brave, must we not extend our prescription to include also the sayings that will make them least likely [386b] to fear death? Or do you suppose that anyone could ever become brave who had that dread in his heart?” “No indeed, I do not,” he replied. “And again if he believes in the reality of the underworld and its terrors,2 do you think that any man will be fearless of death and in battle will prefer death to defeat and slavery?” “By no means.” “Then it seems we must exercise supervision3 also, in the matter of such tales as these, over those who undertake to supply them and request them not to dispraise in this undiscriminating fashion the life in Hades but rather praise it, [386c] since what they now tell us is neither true nor edifying to men who are destined to be warriors.” “Yes, we must,” he said. “Then,” said I, “beginning with this verse we will expunge everything of the same kind:“ Liefer were I in the fields up above to be serf to another
Tiller of some poor plot which yields him a scanty subsistence,
Than to be ruler and king over all the dead who have perished,
”Aesch. Frag. 3504 and this: [386d] “ Lest unto men and immortals the homes of the dead be uncovered
Horrible, noisome, dank, that the gods too hold in abhorrence,
”Hom. Il. 20.645 and:“ Ah me! so it is true that e'en in the dwellings of Hades
Spirit there is and wraith, but within there is no understanding,
”Hom. Il. 10.4956 and this: “ Sole to have wisdom and wit, but the others are shadowy phantoms,
”Hom. Il. 23.1037 and:“ Forth from his limbs unwilling his spirit flitted to Hades,
Wailing its doom and its lustihood lost and the May of its manhood,
”Hom. Il. 16.8568 [387a] and:“ Under the earth like a vapor vanished the gibbering soul,
”Hom. Il. 23.100and:“ Even as bats in the hollow of some mysterious grotto
Fly with a flittermouse shriek when one of them falls from the cluster
Whereby they hold to the rock and are clinging the one to the other,
Flitted their gibbering ghosts.
”Hom. Od. 24.6-109 [387b] We will beg Homer and the other poets not to be angry if we cancel those and all similar passages, not that they are not poetic and pleasing10 to most hearers, but because the more poetic they are the less are they suited to the ears of boys and men who are destined to be free and to be more afraid of slavery than of death.” “By all means.”“Then we must further taboo in these matters the entire vocabulary of terror and fear, Cocytus11 [387c] named of lamentation loud, abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate, the people of the infernal pit and of the charnel-house, and all other terms of this type, whose very names send a shudder12 through all the hearers every year. And they may be excellent for other purposes,13 but we are in fear for our guardians lest the habit of such thrills make them more sensitive14 and soft than we would have them.” “And we are right in so fearing.” “We must remove those things then?” “Yes.” “And the opposite type to them is what we must require in speech and in verse?” “Obviously.” “And shall we also do away with the [387d] wailings and lamentations of men of repute?” “That necessarily follows,” he said, “from the other.” “Consider,” said I, “whether we shall be right in thus getting rid of them or not. What we affirm is that a good man15 will not think that for a good man, whose friend he also is, death is a terrible thing.” “Yes, we say that.” “Then it would not be for his friend's16 sake as if he had suffered something dreadful that he would make lament.” “Certainly not.” “But we also say this, that such a one is most of all men sufficient unto himself17 [387e] for a good life and is distinguished from other men in having least need of anybody else.” “True,” he replied. “Least of all then to him is it a terrible thing to lose son18 or brother or his wealth or anything of the sort.” “Least of all.” “Then he makes the least lament and bears it most moderately when any such misfortune overtakes him.” “Certainly.” “Then we should be right in doing away with the lamentations of men of note and in attributing them to women,19 [388a] and not to the most worthy of them either, and to inferior men, in that those whom we say we are breeding for the guardianship of the land may disdain to act like these.” “We should be right,” said he. “Again then we shall request Homer and the other poets not to portray Achilles, the son of a goddess, as,“ Lying now on his side, and then again on his back,
And again on his face,
”Hom. Il. 24.10-1220 and then rising up and “‘Drifting distraught on the shore of the waste unharvested ocean,’”Hom. Il. 24.10-1221 [388b] nor ““clutching with both hands the sooty dust and strewing it over his head,””22 nor as weeping and lamenting in the measure and manner attributed to him by the poet; nor yet Priam,23 near kinsman of the gods, making supplication and rolling in the dung,“ Calling aloud unto each, by name to each man appealing.
”Hom. Il. 22.414-415And yet more than this shall we beg of them at least not to describe the gods as lamenting and crying, [388c] “ Ah, woe is me, woeful mother who bore to my sorrow the bravest,
”Hom. Il. 18.5424and if they will so picture the gods at least not to have the effrontery to present so unlikely a likeness25 of the supreme god as to make him say:“ Out on it, dear to my heart is the man whose pursuit around Troy-town
I must behold with my eyes while my spirit is grieving within me,
”Hom. Il. 22.16826and:“ Ah, woe is me! of all men to me is Sarpedon the dearest,
27“For if, dear Adeimantus, our young men should seriously incline to listen to such tales and not laugh at them as unworthy utterances, still less surely would any man be to think such conduct unworthy of himself and to rebuke himself if it occurred to him to do or say anything of that kind, but without shame or restraint full many a dirge for trifles would he chant28 and many a lament.” [388e] “You say most truly,” he replied. “But that must not be, as our reasoning but now showed us, in which we must put our trust until someone convinces with a better reason.” “No, it must not be.” “Again, they must not be prone to laughter.29 For ordinarily when one abandons himself to violent laughter his condition provokes a violent reaction.30” “I think so,” he said. “Then if anyone represents men of worth as overpowered [389a] by laughter we must accept it, much less if gods.” “Much indeed,” he replied. “Then we must not accept from Homer such sayings as these either about the gods:“ Quenchless then was the laughter31 that rose from the blessed immortals
“ Fated to fall by the hands of Patroclus, Menoitius' offspring.
”Hom. Il. 16.433-434
When they beheld Hephaestus officiously puffing and panting.
”Hom. Il. 1.599-600—we must not accept it on your view.” “If it pleases you [389b] to call it mine,32” he said; “at any rate we must not accept it.” “But further we must surely prize truth most highly. For if we were right in what we were just saying and falsehood is in very deed useless to gods, but to men useful as a remedy or form of medicine,33 it is obvious that such a thing must be assigned to physicians and laymen should have nothing to do with it.” “Obviously,” he replied. “The rulers then of the city may, if anybody, fitly lie on account of enemies or citizens for the benefit34 of the state; no others may have anything to do with it, [389c] but for a layman to lie to rulers of that kind we shall affirm to be as great a sin, nay a greater, than it is for a patient not to tell physician or an athlete his trainer the truth about his bodily condition, or for a man to deceive the pilot about the ship and the sailors as to the real condition of himself or a fellow-sailor, and how they fare.” “Most true,” he replied. “If then [389d] the ruler catches anybody else in the city lying, any of the craftsmen“ Whether a prophet or healer of sickness or joiner of timbers,
”Hom. Od. 17.383-384he will chastise him for introducing a practice as subversive35 and destructive of a state as it is of a ship.” “He will,” he said, “if deed follows upon word.36” “Again, will our lads not need the virtue of self-control?” “Of course.” “And for the multitude37 are not the main points of self-control these—to be obedient to their rulers and themselves to be rulers38 [389e] over the bodily appetites and pleasures of food, drink, and the rest?” “I think so.” “Then, I take it, we will think well said such sayings as that of Homer's Diomede:“ Friend, sit down and be silent and hark to the word of my bidding,
”Hom. Il. 4.41239and what follows:“ Breathing high spirit the Greeks marched silently fearing their captains,
”Hom. Il. 3.840 [390a] and all similar passages.” “Yes, well said.” “But what of this sort of thing?“ Heavy with wine with the eyes of a dog and the heart of a fleet deer,
”Hom. Il. 1.22541and the lines that follow,42 are these well—and other impertinences43 in prose or verse of private citizens to their rulers?” “They are not well.” “They certainly are not suitable for youth to hear for the inculcation of self-control. But if from another point of view they yield some pleasure we must not be surprised, or what is your view of it?” “This,” he said.“Again, to represent the wisest man as saying that this seems to him the fairest thing in the world,“ When the bounteous tables are standing
44—do you think the hearing of that sort of thing will conduce to a young man's temperance or self-control? or this:“ Hunger is the most piteous death that a mortal may suffer.
“ Laden with bread and with meat and the cupbearer ladles the sweet wine
Out of the mixer and bears it and empties it into the beakers.
”Hom. Od. 9.8-10
”Hom. Od. 12.34245 Or to hear how Zeus46 lightly forgot all the designs which he devised, [390c] watching while the other gods slept, because of the excitement of his passions, and was so overcome by the sight of Hera that he is not even willing to go to their chamber, but wants to lie with her there on the ground and says that he is possessed by a fiercer desire than when they first consorted with one another, “‘Deceiving their dear parents.’”Hom. Il. 14.296 Nor will it profit them to hear of Hephaestus's fettering Ares and Aphrodite47 for a like motive.” “No, by Zeus,” he said, [390d] “I don't think it will.” “But any words or deeds of endurance in the face of all odds48 attributed to famous men are suitable for our youth to see represented and to hear, such as:“ He smote his breast and chided thus his heart,
“Endure, my heart, for worse hast thou endured.”
”Hom. Od. 20.17-1849 “By all means,” he said. “It is certain that we cannot allow our men to be acceptors of bribes or greedy for gain.” [390e] “By no means.” “Then they must not chant:“ Gifts move the gods and gifts persuade dread kings.
”unknown50 Nor should we approve Achilles' attendant Phoenix51 as speaking fairly when he counselled him if he received gifts for it to defend the Achaeans, but without gifts not to lay aside his wrath; nor shall we think it proper nor admit that Achilles52 himself was so greedy as to accept gifts from Agamemnon and again to give up a dead body after receiving payment53 [391a] but otherwise to refuse.” “It is not right,” he said, “to commend such conduct.” “But, for Homer's sake,” said I, “I hesitate to say that it is positively impious54 to affirm such things of Achilles and to believe them when told by others; or again to believe that he said to Apollo “ Me thou hast baulked, Far-darter, the most pernicious of all gods,
Mightily would I requite thee if only my hands had the power.
”Hom. Il. 22.1555 [391b] And how he was disobedient to the river,56 who was a god and was ready to fight with him, and again that he said of the locks of his hair, consecrated to her river Spercheius: “‘This let me give to take with him my hair to the hero, Patroclus,’”Hom. Il. 23.15157 who was a dead body, and that he did so we must believe. And again the trailings58 of Hector's body round the grave of Patroclus and the slaughter59 of the living captives upon his pyre, all these we will affirm to be lies, [391c] nor will we suffer our youth to believe that Achilles, the son of a goddess and of Peleus the most chaste60 of men, grandson61 of Zeus, and himself bred under the care of the most sage Cheiron, was of so perturbed a spirit as to be affected with two contradictory maladies, the greed that becomes no free man and at the same time overweening arrogance towards gods and men.” “You are right,” he said.“Neither, then,” said I, “must we believe this or suffer it to be said, that Theseus, the son of Poseidon, [391d] and Peirithous, the son of Zeus, attempted such dreadful rapes,62 nor that any other child of a god and hero would have brought himself to accomplish the terrible and impious deeds that they now falsely relate of him. But we must constrain the poets either to deny that these are their deeds or that they are the children of gods, but not to make both statements or attempt to persuade our youth that the gods are the begetters of evil, and that heroes are no better than men. [391e] For, as we were saying, such utterances are both impious and false. For we proved, I take it, that for evil to arise from gods is an impossibility.” “Certainly.” “And they are furthermore harmful to those that hear them. For every man will be very lenient with his own misdeeds if he is convinced that such are and were the actions of“ The near-sown seed of gods,
Close kin to Zeus, for whom on Ida's top
Ancestral altars flame to highest heaven,
Nor in their life-blood fails63 the fire divine.
”Aesch. Niobe Fr.For which cause we must put down such fables, lest they breed [392a] in our youth great laxity64 in turpitude.” “Most assuredly.” “What type of discourse remains for our definition of our prescriptions and proscriptions?” “We have declared the right way of speaking about gods and daemons and heroes and that other world.” “We have.” “Speech, then, about men would be the remainder.” “Obviously.” “It is impossible for us, my friend, to place this here.65” “Why?” “Because I presume we are going to say that so it is that both poets [392b] and writers of prose speak wrongly about men in matters of greatest moment, saying that there are many examples of men who, though unjust, are happy, and of just men who are wretched, and that there is profit in injustice if it be concealed, and that justice is the other man's good and your own loss; and I presume that we shall forbid them to say this sort of thing and command them to sing and fable the opposite. Don't you think so?” “Nay, I well know it,” he said. “Then, if you admit that I am right, I will say that you have conceded the original point of our inquiry?” [392c] “Rightly apprehended,” he said. “Then, as regards men that speech must be of this kind, that is a point that we will agree upon when we have discovered the nature of justice and the proof that it is profitable to its possessor whether he does or does not appear to be just.” “Most true,” he replied.“So this concludes the topic of tales.66 That of diction, I take it, is to be considered next. So we shall have completely examined both the matter and the manner of speech.” And Adeimantus said, “I don't understand what [392d] you mean by this.” “Well,” said I, “we must have you understand. Perhaps you will be more likely to apprehend it thus. Is not everything that is said by fabulists or poets a narration of past, present, or future things?” “What else could it be?” he said. “Do not they proceed67 either by pure narration or by a narrative that is effected through imitation,68 or by both?” “This too,” he said, “I still need to have made plainer.” “I seem to be a ridiculous and obscure teacher,69” I said; “so like men who are unable to express themselves [392e] I won't try to speak in wholes70 and universals but will separate off a particular part and by the example of that try to show you my meaning. Tell me. Do you know the first lines if the Iliad in which the poet says that Chryses implored Agamemnon to release his daughter, and that the king was angry and that Chryses, [393a] failing of his request, imprecated curses on the Achaeans in his prayers to the god?” “I do.” “You know then that as far as these verses,“ And prayed unto all the Achaeans,
Chiefly to Atreus' sons, twin leaders who marshalled the people,
”Hom. Il. 1.15the poet himself is the speaker and does not even attempt to suggest to us that anyone but himself is speaking. [393b] But what follows he delivers as if he were himself Chryses and tries as far as may be to make us feel that not Homer is the speaker, but the priest, an old man. And in this manner he has carried in nearly all the rest of his narration about affairs in Ilion, all that happened in Ithaca, and the entire Odyssey.” “Quite so,” he said. “Now, it is narration, is it not, both when he presents the several speeches and the matter between the speeches?” “Of course.” “But when he delivers a speech [393c] as if he were someone else, shall we not say that he then assimilates thereby his own diction is far as possible to that of the person whom he announces as about to speak?” “We shall obviously.” “And is not likening one's self to another speech or bodily bearing an imitation of him to whom one likens one's self?” “Surely.” “In such case then it appears he and the other poets effect their narration through imitation.” “Certainly.” “But if the poet should conceal himself nowhere, then his entire poetizing and narration would have been accomplished without imitation.71 [393d] And lest you may say again that you don't understand, I will explain to you how this would be done. If Homer, after telling us that Chryses came with the ransom of his daughter and as a suppliant of the Achaeans but chiefly of the kings, had gone on speaking not as if made or being Chryses72 but still as Homer, you are aware that it would not be imitation but narration, pure and simple. It would have been somewhat in this wise. I will state it without meter for I am not a poet:73 [393e] the priest came and prayed that to them the gods should grant to take Troy and come safely home, but that they should accept the ransom and release his daughter, out of reverence for the god, and when he had thus spoken the others were of reverent mind and approved, but Agamemnon was angry and bade him depart and not come again lest the scepter and the fillets of the god should not avail him. And ere his daughter should be released, he said, she would grow old in Argos with himself, and he ordered him to be off and not vex him if he wished to get home safe. [394a] And the old man on hearing this was frightened and departed in silence, and having gone apart from the camp he prayed at length to Apollo, invoking the appellations of the god, and reminding him of and asking requital for any of his gifts that had found favor whether in the building of temples or the sacrifice of victims. In return for these things he prayed that the Achaeans should suffer for his tears by the god's shafts. It is in this way, my dear fellow,” I said, “that [394b] without imitation simple narration results.” “I understand,” he said.“Understand then,” said I, “that the opposite of this arises when one removes the words of the poet between and leaves the alternation of speeches.” “This too I understand,” he said, “—it is what happens in tragedy.” “You have conceived me most rightly,” I said, “and now I think I can make plain to you what I was unable to before, that there is one kind of poetry and tale-telling which works wholly through imitation, [394c] as you remarked, tragedy and comedy; and another which employs the recital of the poet himself, best exemplified, I presume, in the dithyramb74; and there is again that which employs both, in epic poetry and in many other places, if you apprehend me.” “I understand now,” he said, “what you then meant.” “Recall then also the preceding statement that we were done with the 'what' of speech and still had to consider the 'how.'” “I remember.” [394d] “What I meant then was just this, that we must reach a decision whether we are to suffer our poets to narrate as imitators or in part as imitators and in part not, and what sort of things in each case, or not allow them to imitate75 at all.” “I divine,” he said, “that you are considering whether we shall admit tragedy and comedy into our city or not.” “Perhaps,” said I, “and perhaps even more than that.76 For I certainly do not yet know myself, but whithersoever the wind, as it were, of the argument blows,77 there lies our course.” [394e] “Well said,” he replied. “This then, Adeimantus, is the point we must keep in view, do we wish our guardians to be good mimics or not? Or is this also a consequence of what we said before, that each one could practise well only one pursuit and not many, but if he attempted the latter, dabbling in many things, he would fail of distinction in all?” “Of course it is.” “And does not the same rule hold for imitation, that the same man is not able to imitate many things well as he can one?” “No, he is not.” “Still less, then, will he be able to combine [395a] the practice of any worthy pursuit with the imitation of many things and the quality of a mimic; since, unless I mistake, the same men cannot practise well at once even the two forms of imitation that appear most nearly akin, as the writing of tragedy and comedy78? Did you not just now call these two imitations?” “I did, and you are right in saying that the same men are not able to succeed in both, nor yet to be at once good rhapsodists79 and actors.” “True.” “But [395b] neither can the same men be actors for tragedies and comedies80—and all these are imitations, are they not?” “Yes, imitations.” “And to still smaller coinage81 than this, in my opinion, Adeimantus, proceeds the fractioning of human faculty, so as to be incapable of imitating many things or of doing the things themselves of which the imitations are likenesses.” “Most true,” he replied.“If, then, we are to maintain our original principle, that our guardians, released from all other crafts, [395c] are to be expert craftsmen of civic liberty,82 and pursue nothing else that does not conduce to this, it would not be fitting for these to do nor yet to imitate anything else. But if they imitate they should from childhood up83 imitate what is appropriate to them84—men, that is, who are brave, sober, pious, free and all things of that kind; but things unbecoming the free man they should neither do nor be clever at imitating, nor yet any other shameful thing, lest from the imitation [395d] they imbibe the reality.85 Or have you not observed that imitations, if continued from youth far into life, settle down into habits and (second) nature86 in the body, the speech, and the thought?” “Yes, indeed,” said he. “We will not then allow our charges, whom we expect to prove good men, being men, to play the parts of women and imitate a woman young or old wrangling with her husband, defying heaven, loudly boasting, fortunate in her own conceit, or involved in misfortune [395e] and possessed by grief and lamentation—still less a woman that is sick, in love, or in labor.” “Most certainly not,” he replied. “Nor may they imitate slaves, female and male, doing the offices of slaves.” “No, not that either.” “Nor yet, as it seems, bad men who are cowards and who do the opposite of the things we just now spoke of, reviling and lampooning one another, speaking foul words in their cups or when sober [396a] and in other ways sinning against themselves and others in word and deed after the fashion of such men. And I take it they must not form the habit of likening themselves to madmen either in words nor yet in deeds. For while knowledge they must have87 both of mad and bad men and women, they must do and imitate nothing of this kind.” “Most true,” he said. “What of this?” I said, “—are they to imitate smiths and other craftsmen or the rowers of triremes and those who call the time to them or other things [396b] connected therewith?” “How could they,” he said, “since it will be forbidden them even to pay any attention to such things?” “Well, then, neighing horses88 and lowing bulls, and the noise of rivers and the roar of the sea and the thunder and everything of that kind—will they imitate these?” “Nay, they have been forbidden,” he said, “to be mad or liken themselves to madmen.” “If, then, I understand your meaning,” said I, “there is a form of diction and narrative in which [396c] the really good and true man would narrate anything that he had to say, and another form unlike this to which the man of the opposite birth and breeding would cleave and which he would tell his story.” “What are these forms?” he said. “A man of the right sort, I think, when he comes in the course of his narrative to some word or act of a good man will be willing to impersonate the other in reporting it, and will feel no shame at that kind of mimicry, by preference imitating the good man [396d] when he acts steadfastly and sensibly, and less and more reluctantly when he is upset by sickness or love or drunkenness or any other mishap. But when he comes to someone unworthy of himself, he will not wish to liken himself in earnest to one who is inferior,89 except in the few cases where he is doing something good, but will be embarrassed both because he is unpractised in the mimicry of such characters, and also because he shrinks in distaste from molding and fitting himself the types of baser things. [396e] His mind disdains them, unless it be for jest.90” “Naturally,” he said. “Then the narrative that he will employ will be the kind that we just now illustrated by the verses of Homer, and his diction will be one that partakes of both, of imitation and simple narration, but there will be a small portion of imitation in a long discourse—or is there nothing in what I say?” “Yes, indeed,91” he said, that is the type and pattern of such a speaker.” “Then,” said I, [397a] “the other kind speaker, the more debased he is the less will he shrink from imitating anything and everything. He will think nothing unworthy of himself, so that he will attempt, seriously and in the presence of many,92 to imitate all things, including those we just now mentioned—claps of thunder, and the noise of wind and hail and axles and pulleys, and the notes of trumpets and flutes and pan-pipes, and the sounds of all instruments, and the cries of dogs, sheep, and birds; and so his style will depend wholly on imitation [397b] in voice and gesture, or will contain but a little of pure narration.” “That too follows of necessity,” he said. “These, then,” said I, “were the two types of diction of which I was aking.” “There are those two,” he replied. “Now does not one of the two involve slight variations,93 and if we assign a suitable pitch and rhythm to the diction, is not the result that the right speaker speaks almost on the same note and in one cadence—for the changes are slight— [397c] and similarly in a rhythm of nearly the same kind?” “Quite so.” “But what of the other type? Does it not require the opposite, every kind of pitch and all rhythms, if it too is to have appropriate expression, since it involves manifold forms of variation?” “Emphatically so.” “And do all poets and speakers hit upon one type or the other of diction or some blend which they combine of both?” [397d] “They must,” he said. “What, then,” said I, are we to do? Shall we admit all of these into the city, or one of the unmixed types, or the mixed type?” “If my vote prevails,” he said, “the unmixed imitator of the good.” “Nay, but the mixed type also is pleasing, Adeimantus, and far most pleasing to boys and their tutors and the great mob is the opposite of your choice.” “Most pleasing it is.” “But perhaps,” said I, “you would affirm it to be ill-suited [397e] to our polity, because there is no twofold or manifold man94 among us, since every man does one thing.” “It is not suited.” “And is this not the reason why such a city is the only one in which we shall find the cobbler a cobbler and not a pilot in addition to his cobbling, and the farmer a farmer and not a judge added to his farming, and the soldier a soldier and not a money-maker in addition to his soldiery, and so of all the rest?” “True,” he said.95 “If a man, then, it seems, [398a] who was capable by his cunning of assuming every kind of shape and imitating all things should arrive in our city, bringing with himself96 the poems which he wished to exhibit, we should fall down and worship him as a holy and wondrous and delightful creature, but should say to him that there is no man of that kind among us in our city, nor is it lawful for such a man to arise among us, and we should send him away to another city, after pouring myrrh down over his head and crowning him with fillets of wool, but we ourselves, for our souls' good, should continue to employ [398b] the more austere97 and less delightful poet and tale-teller, who would imitate the diction of the good man and would tell his tale in the patterns which we prescribed in the beginning,98 when we set out to educate our soldiers.” “We certainly should do that if it rested with us.” “And now, my friend,” said I, “we may say that we have completely finished the part of music that concerns speeches and tales. For we have set forth what is to be said and how it is to be said.” “I think so too,” he replied. [398c] “After this, then,” said I, “comes the manner of song and tunes?” “Obviously.” “And having gone thus far, could not everybody discover what we must say of their character in order to conform to what has already been said?” “I am afraid that 'everybody' does not include me,” laughed Glaucon99; “I cannot sufficiently divine off-hand what we ought to say, though I have a suspicion.” “You certainly, I presume,” said I, [398d] “have sufficient a understanding of this—that the song100 is composed of three things, the words, the tune, and the rhythm?” “Yes,” said he, “that much.” “And so far as it is words, it surely in no manner differs from words not sung in the requirement of conformity to the patterns and manner that we have prescribed?” “True,” he said. “And again, the music and the rhythm must follow the speech.101” “Of course.” “But we said we did not require dirges and lamentations in words.” “We do not.” “What, then, [398e] are the dirge-like modes of music? Tell me, for you are a musician.” “The mixed Lydian,102” he said, “and the tense or higher Lydian, and similar modes.” “These, then,” said I, “we must do away with. For they are useless even to women103 who are to make the best of themselves, let alone to men.” “Assuredly.” “But again, drunkenness is a thing most unbefitting guardians, and so is softness and sloth.” “Yes.” “What, then, are the soft and convivial modes?” “There are certain Ionian and also Lydian modes [399a] that are called lax.” “Will you make any use of them for warriors?” “None at all,” he said; “but it would seem that you have left the Dorian and the Phrygian.” “I don't know104 the musical modes,” I said, “but leave us that mode105 that would fittingly imitate the utterances and the accents of a brave man who is engaged in warfare or in any enforced business, and who, when he has failed, either meeting wounds or death or having fallen into some other mishap, [399b] in all these conditions confronts fortune with steadfast endurance and repels her strokes. And another for such a man engaged in works of peace, not enforced but voluntary,106 either trying to persuade somebody of something and imploring him—whether it be a god, through prayer, or a man, by teaching and admonition—or contrariwise yielding himself to another who petitioning or teaching him or trying to change his opinions, and in consequence faring according to his wish, and not bearing himself arrogantly, but in all this acting modestly and moderately [399c] and acquiescing in the outcome. Leave us these two modes—the forced and the voluntary—that will best imitate the utterances of men failing or succeeding, the temperate, the brave—leave us these.” “Well,” said he, “you are asking me to leave none other than those I just spoke of.” “Then,” said I, “we shall not need in our songs and airs instruments of many strings or whose compass includes all the harmonies.” “Not in my opinion,” said he. “Then we shall not maintain makers of triangles and harps and all other [399d] many stringed and poly-harmonic107 instruments.” “Apparently not.” “Well, will you admit to the city flute-makers and flute-players? Or is not the flute the most 'many-stringed' of instruments and do not the pan-harmonics108 themselves imitate it?” “Clearly,” he said. “You have left,” said I, “the lyre and the cither. These are useful109 in the city, and in the fields the shepherds would have a little piccolo to pipe on.110” “So our argument indicates,” he said. [399e] “We are not innovating, my friend, in preferring Apollo and the instruments of Apollo to Marsyas and his instruments.” “No, by heaven!” he said, “I think not.” “And by the dog,111” said I, “we have all unawares purged the city which a little while ago we said was wanton.112” “In that we show our good sense,” he said.“Come then, let us complete the purification. For upon harmonies would follow the consideration of rhythms: we must not pursue complexity nor great variety in the basic movements,113 but must observe what are the rhythms of a life that is orderly and brave, and after observing them [400a] require the foot and the air to conform to that kind of man's speech and not the speech to the foot and the tune. What those rhythms would be, it is for you to tell us as you did the musical modes.” “Nay, in faith,” he said, “I cannot tell. For that there are some three forms114 from which the feet are combined, just as there are four115 in the notes of the voice whence come all harmonies, is a thing that I have observed and could tell. But which are imitations of which sort of life, I am unable to say.116” [400b] “Well,” said I, “on this point we will take counsel with Damon,117 too, as to which are the feet appropriate to illiberality, and insolence or madness or other evils, and what rhythms we must leave for their opposites; and I believe I have heard him obscurely speaking118 of a foot that he called the enoplios, a composite foot, and a dactyl and an heroic119 foot, which he arranged, I know not how, to be equal up and down120 in the interchange of long and short,121 and unless I am mistaken he used the term iambic, and there was another foot that he called the trochaic, [400c] and he added the quantities long and short. And in some of these, I believe, he censured and commended the tempo of the foot no less than the rhythm itself, or else some combination of the two; I can't say. But, as I said, let this matter be postponed for Damon's consideration. For to determine the truth of these would require no little discourse. Do you think otherwise?” “No, by heaven, I do not.” “But this you are able to determine—that seemliness and unseemliness are attendant upon the good rhythm and the bad.” “Of course.” “And, further,122 that [400d] good rhythm and bad rhythm accompany, the one fair diction, assimilating itself thereto, and the other the opposite, and so of the apt and the unapt, if, as we were just now saying, the rhythm and harmony follow the words and not the words these.” “They certainly must follow the speech,” he said. “And what of the manner of the diction, and the speech?” said I. “Do they not follow and conform to the disposition of the soul?” “Of course.” “And all the rest to the diction?” “Yes.” “Good speech, then, good accord, and good grace, [400e] and good rhythm wait upon good disposition, not that weakness of head which we euphemistically style goodness of heart, but the truly good and fair disposition of the character and the mind.123” “By all means,” he said. “And must not our youth pursue these everywhere124 if they are to do what it is truly theirs to do125?” “They must indeed.” “And there is surely much of these qualities in painting [401a] and in all similar craftsmanship126—weaving is full of them and embroidery and architecture and likewise the manufacture of household furnishings and thereto the natural bodies of animals and plants as well. For in all these there is grace or gracelessness. And gracelessness and evil rhythm and disharmony are akin to evil speaking and the evil temper but the opposites are the symbols and the kin of the opposites, the sober and good disposition.” “Entirely so,” he said. [401b] “Is it, then, only the poets that we must supervise and compel to embody in their poems the semblance of the good character or else not write poetry among us, or must we keep watch over the other craftsmen, and forbid them to represent the evil disposition, the licentious, the illiberal, the graceless, either in the likeness of living creatures or in buildings or in any other product of their art, on penalty, if unable to obey, of being forbidden to practise their art among us, that our guardians may not be bred among symbols of evil, as it were [401c] in a pasturage of poisonous herbs, lest grazing freely and cropping from many such day by day they little by little and all unawares accumulate and build up a huge mass of evil in their own souls. But we must look for those craftsmen who by the happy gift of nature are capable of following the trail of true beauty and grace, that our young men, dwelling as it were in a salubrious region, may receive benefit from all things about them, whence the influence that emanates from works of beauty may waft itself to eye or ear like a breeze that brings from wholesome places health, [401d] and so from earliest childhood insensibly guide them to likeness, to friendship, to harmony with beautiful reason.” “Yes,” he said, “that would be far the best education for them.” “And is it not for this reason, Glaucon,” said I, “that education in music is most sovereign,127 because more than anything else rhythm and harmony find their way to the inmost soul and take strongest hold upon it, bringing with them and imparting grace, if one is rightly trained, [401e] and otherwise the contrary? And further, because omissions and the failure of beauty in things badly made or grown would be most quickly perceived by one who was properly educated in music, and so, feeling distaste128 rightly, he would praise beautiful things and take delight in them and receive them into his soul to foster its growth and become himself beautiful and good. [402a] The ugly he would rightly disapprove of and hate while still young and yet unable to apprehend the reason, but when reason came129 the man thus nurtured would be the first to give her welcome, for by this affinity he would know her.” “I certainly think,” he said, “that such is the cause of education in music.” “It is, then,” said I, “as it was when we learned our letters and felt that we knew them sufficiently only when the separate letters did not elude us, appearing as few elements in all the combinations that convey them, and when we did not disregard them [402b] in small things or great130 and think it unnecessary to recognize them, but were eager to distinguish them everywhere, in the belief that we should never be literate and letter-perfect till we could do this.” “True.” “And is it not also true that if there are any likenesses131 of letters reflected in water or mirrors, we shall never know them until we know the originals, but such knowledge belongs to the same art and discipline132?” “By all means.” “Then, by heaven, am I not right in saying that by the same token we shall never be true musicians, either— [402c] neither we nor the guardians that we have undertaken to educate—until we are able to recognize the forms of soberness, courage, liberality,133 and high-mindedness and all their kindred and their opposites, too, in all the combinations that contain and convey them, and to apprehend them and their images wherever found, disregarding them neither in trifles nor in great things, but believing the knowledge of them to belong to the same art and discipline?” “The conclusion is inevitable,” he said. [402d] “Then,” said I, “when there is a coincidence134 of a beautiful disposition in the soul and corresponding and harmonious beauties of the same type in the bodily form—is not this the fairest spectacle for one who is capable of its contemplation135?” “Far the fairest.” “And surely the fairest is the most lovable.” “Of course.” “The true musician, then, would love by preference persons of this sort; but if there were disharmony he would not love this.” “No,” he said, “not if there was a defect in the soul; but if it were in the body he would bear with it and still be willing to bestow his love.” [402e] “I understand,” I said, “that you have or have had favorites of this sort and I grant your distinction. But tell me this—can there be any communion between soberness and extravagant pleasure136?” “How could there be,” he said, “since such pleasure puts a man beside himself [403a] no less than pain?” “Or between it and virtue generally?” “By no means.” “But is there between pleasure and insolence and licence?” “Most assuredly.” “Do you know of greater or keener pleasure than that associated with Aphrodite?” “I don't,” he said, “nor yet of any more insane.” “But is not the right love a sober and harmonious love of the orderly and the beautiful?” “It is indeed,” said he. “Then nothing of madness, nothing akin to licence, must be allowed to come nigh the right love?” “No.” “Then this kind of pleasure [403b] may not come nigh, nor may lover and beloved who rightly love and are loved have anything to do with it?” “No, by heaven, Socrates,” he said, “it must not come nigh them.” “Thus, then, as it seems, you will lay down the law in the city that we are founding, that the lover may kiss137 and pass the time with and touch the beloved as a father would a son, for honorable ends, if he persuade him. But otherwise he must so associate with the objects of his care that there should never be any suspicion of anything further, [403c] on penalty of being stigmatized for want of taste and true musical culture.” “Even so,” he said. “Do you not agree, then, that our discourse on music has come to an end? It has certainly made a fitting end, for surely the end and consummation of culture be love of the beautiful.” “I concur,” he said.“After music our youth are to be educated by gymnastics?” “Certainly.” “In this too they must be carefully trained [403d] from boyhood through life, and the way of it is this, I believe; but consider it yourself too. For I, for my part, do not believe that a sound body by its excellence makes the soul good, but on the contrary that a good soul by its virtue renders the body the best that is possible.138 What is your opinion?” “I think so too.” “Then if we should sufficiently train the mind and turn over to it the minutiae of the care of the body, [403e] and content ourselves with merely indicating the norms or patterns, not to make a long story of it, we should acting rightly?” “By all means.” “From intoxication139 we said that they must abstain. For a guardian is surely the last person in the world to whom it is allowable to get drunk and not know where on earth he is.” “Yes,” he said, “it would absurd that a guardian140 should need a guard.” “What next about their food? These men are athletes in the greatest of contests,141 are they not?” “Yes.” “Is, then, the bodily habit of the athletes we see about us suitable for such?” [404a] “Perhaps.” “Nay,” said I, “that is a drowsy habit and precarious for health. Don't you observe that they sleep away their lives,142 and that if they depart ever so little from their prescribed regimen these athletes are liable to great and violent diseases?” “I do.” “Then,” said I, “we need some more ingenious form of training for our athletes of war, since these must be as it were sleepless hounds, and have the keenest possible perceptions of sight and hearing, and in their campaigns undergo many changes143 [404b] in their drinking water, their food, and in exposure to the heat of the sun and to storms,144 without disturbance of their health.” “I think so.” “Would not, then, the best gymnastics be akin to the music that we were just now describing?” “What do you mean?” “It would be a simple and flexible145 gymnastic, and especially so in the training for war.” “In what way?” “One could learn that,” said I, “even from Homer.146 For you are aware that in the banqueting of the heroes on campaign he does not [404c] feast them on fish,147 nor on boiled meat, but only on roast, which is what soldiers could most easily procure. For everywhere, one may say, it is of easier provision to use the bare fire than to convey pots and pans148 along.” “Indeed it is.” “Neither, as I believe, does Homer ever make mention of sweet meats. Is not that something which all men in training understand—that if one is to keep his body in good condition he must abstain from such things altogether?” “They are right,” [404d] he said, “in that they know it and do abstain.” “Then, my friend, if you think this is the right way, you apparently do not approve of a Syracusan table149 and Sicilian variety of made dishes.” “I think not.” “You would frown, then, on a little Corinthian maid as the chère amie of men who were to keep themselves fit?” “Most certainly.” “And also on the seeming delights of Attic pastry?” “Inevitably.” “In general, I take it, if we likened that kind of food and regimen to music and song expressed in the pan-harmonic mode and [404e] in every variety of rhythm it would be a fair comparison.” “Quite so.” “And here variety engendered licentiousness, did it not, but here disease? While simplicity in music begets sobriety in the souls, and in gymnastic training it begets health in bodies.” “Most true,” he said. “And when licentiousness [405a] and disease multiply in a city, are not many courts of law and dispensaries opened, and the arts of chicane150 and medicine give themselves airs when even free men in great numbers take them very seriously?” “How can they help it?” he said.“Will you be able to find a surer proof of an evil and shameful state of education in a city than the necessity of first-rate physicians and judges, not only for the base and mechanical, but for those who claim to have been bred in the fashion of free men? Do you not think [405b] it disgraceful and a notable mark of bad breeding to have to make use of a justice imported from others, who thus become your masters and judges, from lack of such qualities in yourself151?” “The most shameful thing in the world.” “Is it?” said I, “or is this still more shameful152—when a man only wears out the better part of his days in the courts of law as defendant or accuser, but from the lack of all true sense of values153 is led to plume himself on this very thing, as being a smart fellow to 'put over' an unjust act [405c] and cunningly to try every dodge and practice,154 every evasion, and wriggle155 out of every hold in defeating justice, and that too for trifles and worthless things, because he does not know how much nobler and better it is to arrange his life so as to have no need156 of a nodding juryman?” “That is,” said he, “still more shameful than the other.” “And to require medicine,” said I, “not merely for wounds or the incidence of some seasonal maladies, [405d] but, because of sloth and such a regimen as we described, to fill one's body up with winds and humors like a marsh and compel the ingenious sons of Aesculapius to invent for diseases such names as fluxes and flatulences—don't you think that disgraceful?157” “Those surely are,” he said, “new-fangled and monstrous strange names of diseases.” “There was nothing of the kind, I fancy,” said I, “in the days of Aesculapius. I infer this from the fact that at Troy his sons [405e] did not find fault with the damsel who gave to the wounded Eurypylus158 to drink a posset of Pramnian wine plentifully sprinkled with barley and gratings of cheese, [406a] inflammatory ingredients of a surety, nor did they censure Patroclus, who was in charge of the case.” “It was indeed,” said he, “a strange potion for a man in that condition.” “Not strange,” said I, “if you reflect that the former Asclepiads made no use of our modern coddling159 medication of diseases before the time of Herodicus. But Herodicus160 was a trainer and became a valetudinarian, and blended [406b] gymnastics and medicine, for the torment first and chiefly of himself and then of many successors.” “How so?” he said. “By lingering out his death,” said I; “for living in perpetual observance of his malady, which was incurable, he was not able to effect a cure, but lived through his days unfit for the business of life, suffering the tortures of the damned if he departed a whit from his fixed regimen, and struggling against death by reason of his science he won the prize of a doting old age.161” “A noble prize162 indeed for his science,” he said. [406c] “The appropriate one,” said I, “for a man who did not know that it was not from ignorance or inacquaintance with this type of medicine that Aesculapius did not discover it to his descendants, but because he knew that for all well-governed peoples there is a work assigned to each man in the city which he must perform, and no one has leisure to be sick163 and doctor himself all his days. And this we absurdly enough perceive in the case of a craftsman, but don't see in the case of the rich and so-called fortunate.” “How so?” he said. [406d] “A carpenter,” said I, “when he is sick expects his physician to give him a drug which will operate as an emetic on the disease, or to get rid of it by purging164 or the use of cautery or the knife. But if anyone prescribes for him a long course of treatment with swathings165 about the head and their accompaniments, he hastily says that he has no leisure to be sick and that such a life of preoccupation with his illess and neglect of the work that lies before him isn't worth living. And thereupon he bids farewell to that kind of physician, [406e] enters upon his customary way of life, regains his health, and lives attending to his affairs—or, if his body is not equal to strain, he dies and is freed from all his troubles.166” “For such a man,” he said, “that appears to be the right use of medicine.” “And is not the reason,” I said, [407a] “that he had a task and that life wasn't worth acceptance on condition of not doing his work?” “Obviously,” he said. “But the rich man, we say, has no such appointed task, the necessity of abstaining from which renders life intolerable.” “I haven't heard of any.” “Why, haven't you heard that saying of Phocylides,167 that after a man has 'made his pile' he ought to practice virtue?” “Before, too, I fancy,” he said. “Let us not quarrel with him on that point,” I said, “but inform ourselves whether this virtue is something for the rich man to practise, [407b] and life is intolerable if he does not, or whether we are to suppose that while valetudinarianism is a hindrance to single-minded attention to carpentry and the other arts, it is no obstacle to the fulfilment of Phocylides' exhortation.” “Yes, indeed,” he said, “this excessive care for the body that goes beyond simple gymnastics168 is the greatest of all obstacles. For it is troublesome in household affairs and military service and sedentary offices in the city.” “And, chief of all, it puts difficulties in the way of any kind of instruction, thinking, or private meditation, [407c] forever imagining headaches169 and dizziness and attributing their origin to philosophy. So that wherever this kind of virtue is practiced170 and tested it is in every way a hindrance.171 For it makes the man always fancy himself sick and never cease from anguishing about his body.” “Naturally,” he said. “Then, shall we not say that it was because Asclepius knew this—that for those who were by nature and course of life sound of body [407d] but had some localized disease, that for such, I say, and for this habit he revealed the art of medicine, and, driving out their disease by drugs and surgery, prescribed for them their customary regimen in order not to interfere with their civic duties, but that, when bodies were diseased inwardly and throughout, he did not attempt by diet and by gradual evacuations and infusions to prolong a wretched existence for the man and have him beget in all likelihood similar wretched offspring? [407e] But if a man was incapable of living in the established round172 and order of life, he did not think it worth while to treat him, since such a fellow is of no use either to himself or to the state.” “A most politic Asclepius you're telling us of,173” he said. “Obviously,” said I, “that was his character. And his sons too, don't you in see that at Troy they approved [408a] themselves good fighting-men and practised medicine as I described it? Don't you remember174 that in the case of Menelaus too from the wound that Pandarus inflicted “‘They sucked the blood, and soothing simples sprinkled?’”Hom. Il. 4.218175 But what he was to eat or drink thereafter they no more prescribed than for Eurypylus, taking it for granted that the remedies sufficed to heal men who before their wounds were healthy and temperate in diet [408b] even if they did happen for the nonce to drink a posset; but they thought that the life of a man constitutionally sickly and intemperate was of no use to himself or others, and that the art of medicine should not be for such nor should they be given treatment even if they were richer than Midas.176” “Very ingenious fellows,” he said, “you make out these sons of Asclepius to be.”“'Tis fitting,” said I; “and yet in disregard of our principles the tragedians and Pindar177 affirm that Asclepius, though he was the son of Apollo, was bribed by gold [408c] to heal a man already at the point of death, and that for this cause he was struck by the lightning. But we in accordance with the aforesaid principles178 refuse to believe both statements, but if he was the son of a god he was not avaricious, we will insist, and if he was greedy of gain he was not the son of a god.” “That much,” said he, “is most certainly true. But what have you to say to this, Socrates, must we not have good physicians in our city? And they would be the most likely to be good who had treated the greatest number of healthy and diseased men, [408d] and so good judges would be those who had associated with all sorts and conditions of men.” “Most assuredly I want them good,” I said; “but do you know whom I regard as such?” “I'll know if you tell,179” he said. “Well, I will try,” said I. “You, however, have put unlike cases in one question.” “How so?” said he. “Physicians, it is true,” I said, “would prove most skilled if, from childhood up, in addition to learning the principles of the art they had familiarized themselves with the greatest possible number of the most sickly bodies, [408e] and if they themselves had suffered all diseases and were not of very healthy constitution. For you see they do not treat the body by the body.180 If they did, it would not be allowable for their bodies to be or to have been in evil condition. But they treat the body with the mind—and it is not competent for a mind that is or has been evil to treat anything well.” “Right,” he said. “But a judge, mark you, my friend, [409a] rules soul with soul and it is not allowable for a soul to have been bred from youth up among evil souls and to have grown familiar with them, and itself to have run the gauntlet of every kind of wrong-doing and injustice so as quickly to infer from itself the misdeeds of others as it might diseases in the body, but it must have been inexperienced in evil natures and uncontaminated by them while young, if it is to be truly fair and good and judge soundly of justice. For which cause the better sort seem to be simple-minded in youth and are easily deceived by the wicked, [409b] since they do not have within themselves patterns answering to the affections of the bad.” “That is indeed their experience,” he said. “Therefore it is,” said I, that the good judge must not be a youth but an old man, a late learner181 of the nature of injustice, one who has not become aware of it as a property in his own soul, but one who has through the long years trained himself to understand it as an alien thing in alien souls, and to discern how great an evil it is [409c] by the instrument of mere knowledge and not by experience of his own.” “That at any rate,” he said, “appears to be the noblest kind of judge.” “And what is more, a good one,” I said, “which was the gist of your question. For he who has a good soul is good. But that cunning fellow quick to suspect evil,182 and who has himself done many unjust acts and who thinks himself a smart trickster, when he associates with his like does appear to be clever, being on his guard and fixing his eyes on the patterns within himself. But when the time comes for him to mingle with the good and his elders, [409d] then on the contrary he appears stupid. He is unseasonably distrustful and he cannot recognize a sound character because he has no such pattern in himself. But since he more often meets with the bad than the good, he seems to himself and to others to be rather wise than foolish.” “That is quite true,” he said.“Well then,” said I, “such a one must not be our ideal of the good and wise judge but the former. For while badness could never come to know both virtue and itself, native virtue through education [409e] will at last acquire the science both of itself and badness.183 This one, then, as I think, is the man who proves to be wise and not the bad man.184” “And I concur,” he said. “Then will you not establish by law in your city such an art of medicine as we have described in conjunction with this kind of justice? And these arts will care for the bodies and souls of such of your citizens as are truly well born, [410a] but of those who are not, such as are defective in body they will suffer to die and those who are evil-natured and incurable185 in soul they will themselves186 put to death.” “This certainly,” he said, “has been shown to be the best thing for the sufferers themselves and for the state.” “And so your youths,” said I, “employing that simple music which we said engendered sobriety will, it is clear, guard themselves against falling into the need of the justice of the court-room.” “Yes,” he said. “And will not our musician, pursuing the same trail [410b] in his use of gymnastics, if he please, get to have no need of medicine save when indispensable187?” “I think so.” “And even the exercises and toils of gymnastics he will undertake with a view to the spirited part of his nature188 to arouse that rather than for mere strength, unlike ordinary athletes, who treat189 diet and exercise only as a means to muscle.” “Nothing could be truer,” he said. “Then may we not say, Glaucon,” said I, “that those who established190 an education in music and gymnastics [410c] had not the purpose in view that some attribute to them in so instituting, namely to treat the body by one and the soul by the other?” “But what?” he said. “It seems likely,” I said, “that they ordained both chiefly for the soul's sake.” “How so?” “Have you not observed,” said I, “the effect on the disposition of the mind itself191 of lifelong devotion to gymnastics with total neglect of music? Or the disposition of those of the opposite habit?” “In what respect do you mean?” he said. [410d] “In respect of savagery and hardness or, on the other hand, of softness and gentleness?” “I have observed,” he said, “that the devotees of unmitigated gymnastics turn out more brutal than they should be and those of music softer than is good for them.” “And surely,” said I, “this savagery is a quality derived from the high-spirited element in our nature, which, if rightly trained, becomes brave, but if overstrained, would naturally become hard and harsh.” “I think so,” he said. “And again, is not the gentleness [410e] a quality which the philosophic nature would yield? This if relaxed too far would be softer than is desirable but if rightly trained gentle and orderly?” “That is so.” “But our requirement, we say,192 is that the guardians should possess both natures.” “It is.” “And must they not be harmoniously adjusted to one another?” “Of course.” “And the soul of the man thus attuned is sober and brave?” [411a] “Certainly.” “And that of the ill adjusted is cowardiy and rude?” “It surely is.”“Now when a man abandons himself to music to play193 upon him and pour194 into his soul as it were through the funnel of his ears those sweet, soft, and dirge-like airs of which we were just now195 speaking, and gives his entire time to the warblings and blandishments of song, the first result is that the principle of high spirit, if he had it, [411b] is softened like iron196 and is made useful instead of useless and brittle. But when he continues197 the practice without remission and is spellbound, the effect begins to be that he melts and liquefies198 till he completely dissolves away his spirit, cuts out as it were the very sinews of his soul and makes of himself a 'feeble warrior.'199” “Assuredly,” he said. “And if,” said I, “he has to begin with a spiritless200 nature he reaches this result quickly, but if high-spirited, by weakening the spirit he makes it unstable, [411c] quickly irritated by slight stimuli, and as quickly quelled. The outcome is that such men are choleric and irascible instead of high-spirited, and are peevish and discontented.” “Precisely so.” “On the other hand, if a man toils hard at gymnastics and eats right lustily and holds no truck with music and philosophy, does he not at first get very fit and full of pride and high spirit and become more brave and bold than he was?” “He does indeed.” “But what if he does nothing but this and has no contact with the Muse in any way, [411d] is not the result that even if there was some principle of the love of knowledge in his soul, since it tastes of no instruction nor of any inquiry and does not participate in any discussion or any other form of culture, it becomes feeble, deaf, and blind, because it is not aroused or fed nor are its perceptions purified and quickened?” “That is so,” he said. “And so such a man, I take it, becomes a misologist201 and stranger to the Muses. He no longer makes any use of persuasion by speech but achieves all his ends [411e] like a beast by violence and savagery, and in his brute ignorance and ineptitude lives a life of disharmony and gracelessness.” “That is entirely true,” he said. “For these two, then, it seems there are two arts which I would say some god gave to mankind, music and gymnastics for the service of the high-spirited principle and the love of knowledge in them—not for the soul and the body except incidentally, but for the harmonious adjustment of these two principles [412a] by the proper degree of tension and relaxation of each.” “Yes, so it appears,” he said. “Then he who best blends gymnastics with music and applies them most suitably to the soul is the man whom we should most rightly pronounce to be the most perfect and harmonious musician, far rather than the one who brings the strings into unison with one another.202” “That seems likely, Socrates,” he said. “And shall we not also need in our city, Glaucon, a permanent overseer203 of this kind if its constitution is to be preserved?” [412b] “We most certainly shall.”“Such would be the outlines of their education and breeding. For why204 should one recite the list of the dances of such citizens, their hunts and chases with hounds, their athletic contests and races? It is pretty plain that they must conform to these principles and there is no longer any difficulty in discovering them.” “There is, it may be, no difficulty,” he said. “Very well,” said I; “what, then, have we next to determine? Is it not which ones among them205 shall be [412c] the rulers and the ruled?” “Certainly.” “That the rulers must be the elder and the ruled the younger is obvious.” “It is.” “And that the rulers must be their best?” “This too.” “And do not the best of the farmers prove the best farmers?” “Yes.” “And in this case, since we want them to be the best of the guardians, must they not be the best guardians, the most regardful of the state?” “Yes.” “They must then to begin with be intelligent in such matters and capable, [412d] and furthermore careful206 of the interests of the state?” “That is so.” “But one would be most likely to be careful of that which he loved.” “Necessarily.” “And again, one would be most likely to love that whose interests he supposed to coincide with his own, and thought that when it prospered, he too would prosper and if not, the contrary.” “So it is,” he said. “Then we must pick out from the other guardians such men as to our observation appear most inclined through the entire course of their lives to be zealous to do what they think [412e] for the interest of the state, and who would be least likely to consent to do the opposite.” “That would be a suitable choice,” he said. “I think, then, we shall have to observe them at every period of life, to see if they are conservators and guardians of this conviction in their minds and never by sorcery nor by force can be brought to expel207 from their souls unawares this conviction that they must do what is best for the state.” “What do you mean by the 'expelling'?” he said. “I will tell you, said I; “it seems to me that the exit of a belief from the mind is either voluntary or involuntary. [413a] Voluntary is the departure of the false belief from one who learns better, involuntary that of every true belief.” “The voluntary,” he said, “I understand, but I need instruction about the involuntary.” “How now,” said I, “don't you agree with me in thinking that men are unwillingly deprived of good things but willingly of evil? Or is it not an evil to be deceived in respect of the truth and a good to possess truth? And don't you think that to opine the things that are is to possess the truth?” “Why, yes,” said he, “you are right, and I agree that men are unwillingly deprived of true opinions.208” “And doesn't this happen to them by theft, by the spells of sorcery or by force?” “I don't understand now either,” he said. “I must be talking in high tragic style,209” I said; [413b] “by those who have their opinions stolen from them I mean those who are over-persuaded and those who forget, because in the one case time, in the other argument strips them unawares of their beliefs. Now I presume you understand, do you not?” “Yes.” “Well, then, by those who are constrained or forced I mean those whom some pain or suffering compels210 to change their minds.” “That too I understand and you are right.” “And the victims of sorcery211 [413c] I am sure you too would say are they who alter their opinions under the spell of pleasure or terrified by some fear.” “Yes,” he said: “everything that deceives appears to cast a spell upon the mind.”“Well then, as I was just saying, we must look for those who are the best guardians of the indwelling conviction that what they have to do is what they at any time believe to be best for the state. Then we must observe them from childhood up and propose them tasks in which one would be most likely to forget this principle or be deceived, and he whose memory is sure [413d] and who cannot be beguiled we must accept and the other kind we must cross off from our list. Is not that so?” “Yes.” “And again we must subject them to toils and pains and competitions in which we have to watch for the same traits.” “Right,” he said. “Then,” said I, “must we not institute a third kind of competitive test with regard to sorcery and observe them in that? Just as men conduct colts to noises and uproar to see if they are liable to take fright, so we must bring these lads while young into fears [413e] and again pass them into pleasures, testing them much more carefully than men do gold in the fire, to see if the man remains immune to such witchcraft and preserves his composure throughout, a good guardian of himself and the culture which he has received, maintaining the true rhythm and harmony of his being in all those conditions, and the character that would make him most useful to himself and to the state. And he who as boy, lad, and man endures the test [414a] and issues from it unspoiled we must establish as ruler over our city and its guardian, and bestow rewards upon him in life, and in death the allotment of the supreme honors of burial-rites and other memorials. But the man of the other type we must reject. Such,” said I, “appears to me, Glaucon, the general notion of our selection and appointment of rulers and guardians as sketched in outline, but not drawn out in detail.” “I too,” he said, “think much the same.” “Then would it not truly [414b] be most proper to designate these as guardians in the full sense of the word, watchers against foemen without and friends within, so that the latter shall not wish and the former shall not be able to work harm, but to name those youths whom we were calling guardians just now, helpers and aids for the decrees of the rulers?” “I think so,” he replied.“How, then,” said I, “might we contrive212 one of those opportune falsehoods213 of which we were just now214 speaking, [414c] so as by one noble lie to persuade if possible the rulers themselves, but failing that the rest of the city?” “What kind of a fiction do you mean?” said he. “Nothing unprecedented,” said I, “but a sort of Phoenician tale,215 something that has happened ere now in many parts of the world, as the poets aver and have induced men to believe, but that has not happened and perhaps would not be likely to happen in our day216 and demanding no little persuasion to make it believable.” “You act like one who shrinks from telling his thought,” he said. “You will think that I have right good reason217 for shrinking when I have told,” I said. [414d] “Say on,” said he, “and don't be afraid.” “Very well, I will. And yet I hardly know how to find the audacity or the words to speak and undertake to persuade first the rulers themselves and the soldiers and then the rest of the city, that in good sooth218 all our training and educating of them were things that they imagined and that happened to them as it were in a dream; but that in reality at that time they were down within the earth being molded and fostered themselves while [414e] their weapons and the rest of their equipment were being fashioned. And when they were quite finished the earth as being their mother219 delivered them, and now as if their land were their mother and their nurse they ought to take thought for her and defend her against any attack and regard the other citizens as their brothers and children of the self-same earth.” “It is not for nothing,220” he said, “that you were so bashful about coming out with your lie.” “It was quite natural that I should be,” [415a] I said; “but all the same hear the rest of the story. While all of you in the city are brothers, we will say in our tale, yet God in fashioning those of you who are fitted to hold rule mingled gold in their generation,221 for which reason they are the most precious—but in the helpers silver, and iron and brass in the farmers and other craftsmen. And as you are all akin, though for the most part you will breed after your kinds,222 [415b] it may sometimes happen that a golden father would beget a silver son and that a golden offspring would come from a silver sire and that the rest would in like manner be born of one another. So that the first and chief injunction that the god lays upon the rulers is that of nothing else223 are they to be such careful guardians and so intently observant as of the intermixture of these metals in the souls of their offspring, and if sons are born to them with an infusion of brass or iron [415c] they shall by no means give way to pity in their treatment of them, but shall assign to each the status due to his nature and thrust them out224 among the artisans or the farmers. And again, if from these there is born a son with unexpected gold or silver in his composition they shall honor such and bid them go up higher, some to the office of guardian, some to the assistanceship, alleging that there is an oracle225 that the state shall then be overthrown when the man of iron or brass is its guardian. Do you see any way of getting them to believe this tale?” [415d] “No, not these themselves,” he said, “but I do, their sons and successors and the rest of mankind who come after.226” “Well,” said I, “even that would have a good effect making them more inclined to care for the state and one another. For I think I apprehend your meaning. XXII. And this shall fall out as tradition227 guides.”“But let us arm these sons of earth and conduct them under the leadership of their rulers. And when they have arrived they must look out for the fairest site in the city for their encampment,228 [415e] a position from which they could best hold down rebellion against the laws from within and repel aggression from without as of a wolf against the fold. And after they have encamped and sacrificed to the proper gods229 they must make their lairs, must they not?” “Yes,” he said. “And these must be of a character keep out the cold in winter and be sufficient in summer?” “Of course. For I presume you are speaking of their houses.” “Yes,” said I, “the houses of soldiers230 not of money-makers.” [416a] “What distinction do you intend by that?” he said. “I will try to tell you,” I said. “It is surely the most monstrous and shameful thing in the world for shepherds to breed the dogs who are to help them with their flocks in such wise and of such a nature that from indiscipline or hunger or some other evil condition the dogs themselves shall attack the sheep and injure them and be likened to wolves231 instead of dogs.” “A terrible thing, indeed,” he said. [416b] “Must we not then guard by every means in our power against our helpers treating the citizens in any such way and, because they are the stronger, converting themselves from benign assistants into savage masters?” “We must,” he said. “And would they not have been provided with the chief safeguard if their education has really been a good one?” “But it surely has,” he said. “That,” said I, “dear Glaucon, we may not properly affirm,232 but what we were just now saying we may, [416c] that they must have the right education, whatever it is, if they are to have what will do most to make them gentle to one another and to their charges.” “That is right,” he said. “In addition, moreover, to such an education a thoughtful man would affirm that their houses and the possessions provided for them ought to be such as not to interfere with the best performance of their own work as guardians and not to incite them to wrong the other citizens.” [416d] “He will rightly affirm that.” “Consider then,” said I, “whether, if that is to be their character, their habitations and ways of life must not be something after this fashion. In the first place, none must possess any private property233 save the indispensable. Secondly, none must have any habitation or treasure-house which is not open for all to enter at will. Their food, in such quantities as are needful for athletes of war234 sober and brave, [416e] they must receive as an agreed235 stipend236 from the other citizens as the wages of their guardianship, so measured that there shall be neither superfluity at the end of the year nor any lack.237 And resorting to a common mess238 like soldiers on campaign they will live together. Gold and silver, we will tell them, they have of the divine quality from the gods always in their souls, and they have no need of the metal of men nor does holiness suffer them to mingle and contaminate that heavenly possession with the acquisition of mortal gold, since many impious deeds have been done about [417a] the coin of the multitude, while that which dwells within them is unsullied. But for these only of all the dwellers in the city it is not lawful to handle gold and silver and to touch them nor yet to come under the same roof239 with them, nor to hang them as ornaments on their limbs nor to drink from silver and gold. So living they would save themselves and save their city.240 But whenever they shall acquire for themselves land of their own and houses and coin, they will be house-holders and farmers instead of guardians, and will be transformed [417b] from the helpers of their fellow citizens to their enemies and masters,241 and so in hating and being hated,242 plotting and being plotted against they will pass their days fearing far more and rather243 the townsmen within than the foemen without—and then even then laying the course244 of near shipwreck for themselves and the state. For all these reasons,” said I, “let us declare that such must be the provision for our guardians in lodging and other respects and so legislate. Shall we not?” “By all means,” said Glaucon.