Introduction
In several of the dialogues of Plato, doubts have arisen among his interpreters as to which of the various subjects discussed in them is the main thesis. The speakers have the freedom of conversation; no severe rules of art restrict them, and sometimes we are inclined to think, with one of the dramatis personae in the Theaetetus, that the digressions have the greater interest. Yet in the most irregular of the dialogues there is also a certain natural growth or unity; the beginning is not forgotten at the end, and numerous allusions and references are interspersed, which form the loose connecting links of the whole. We must not neglect this unity, but neither must we attempt to confine the Platonic dialogue on the Procrustean bed of a single idea. (Compare Introduction to the Phaedrus.)
In several of Plato’s dialogues, interpreters have disagreed about which of the subjects discussed is the main theme. The speakers can talk freely, without strict artistic rules to limit them. Sometimes we are inclined to agree with one of the characters in the Theaetetus that the digressions are more interesting. Yet even the least structured dialogues develop naturally or have a certain unity. The beginning is not forgotten at the end. Numerous allusions and references throughout provide loose connections between the parts. We must not overlook this unity. But neither should we force a Platonic dialogue into the Procrustean bed of a single idea. (Compare the Introduction to the Phaedrus.)
Two tendencies seem to have beset the interpreters of Plato in this matter. First, they have endeavoured to hang the dialogues upon one another by the slightest threads; and have thus been led to opposite and contradictory assertions respecting their order and sequence. The mantle of Schleiermacher has descended upon his successors, who have applied his method with the most various results. The value and use of the method has been hardly, if at all, examined either by him or them. Secondly, they have extended almost indefinitely the scope of each separate dialogue; in this way they think that they have escaped all difficulties, not seeing that what they have gained in generality they have lost in truth and distinctness. Metaphysical conceptions easily pass into one another; and the simpler notions of antiquity, which we can only realize by an effort, imperceptibly blend with the more familiar theories of modern philosophers. An eye for proportion is needed (his own art of measuring) in the study of Plato, as well as of other great artists. We may hardly admit that the moral antithesis of good and pleasure, or the intellectual antithesis of knowledge and opinion, being and appearance, are never far off in a Platonic discussion. But because they are in the background, we should not bring them into the foreground, or expect to discern them equally in all the dialogues.
Two tendencies seem to have troubled Plato’s interpreters on this issue. First, they have tried to link the dialogues together on the slightest evidence. This has led them to opposing and contradictory claims about the dialogues’ order and sequence. Schleiermacher’s successors have taken up his approach, applying his method with widely varying results. Neither Schleiermacher nor his successors have examined the method’s value and usefulness much, if at all. Second, these interpreters have expanded the scope of each dialogue almost without limit. They think this lets them escape all difficulties. They do not see that what they have gained in generality, they have lost in truth and clarity. Metaphysical concepts easily merge into one another. The simpler ideas of antiquity require an effort for us to grasp. Yet these ideas blend imperceptibly with the more familiar theories of modern philosophers. Studying Plato, like studying other great artists, requires a sense of proportion (his own art of measurement). We may hardly accept that certain moral and intellectual contrasts are never far away in a discussion by Plato. These are the moral contrast between goodness and pleasure, and the intellectual contrasts between knowledge and opinion, being and appearance. But because these contrasts are in the background, we should not bring them to the foreground. Nor should we expect to see them equally clearly in all the dialogues.
There may be some advantage in drawing out a little the main outlines of the building; but the use of this is limited, and may be easily exaggerated. We may give Plato too much system, and alter the natural form and connection of his thoughts. Under the idea that his dialogues are finished works of art, we may find a reason for everything, and lose the highest characteristic of art, which is simplicity. Most great works receive a new light from a new and original mind. But whether these new lights are true or only suggestive, will depend on their agreement with the spirit of Plato, and the amount of direct evidence which can be urged in support of them. When a theory is running away with us, criticism does a friendly office in counselling moderation, and recalling us to the indications of the text.
There may be some value in sketching the work’s main structure in a little more detail. But the value of such an outline is limited and easily overstated. We may make Plato’s thinking seem too systematic and distort the natural shape and connections of his ideas. If we treat his dialogues as finished works of art, we may find a reason for everything. In doing so, we may lose sight of art’s highest quality: simplicity. Most great works take on new meaning when viewed by a fresh and original mind. But whether these new interpretations are true or merely suggestive depends on their agreement with the spirit of Plato’s thought. It also depends on how much direct evidence can be offered to support them. When we get carried away by a theory, criticism helps by urging moderation and bringing us back to the text’s clues.
Like the Phaedrus, the Gorgias has puzzled students of Plato by the appearance of two or more subjects. Under the cover of rhetoric higher themes are introduced; the argument expands into a general view of the good and evil of man. After making an ineffectual attempt to obtain a sound definition of his art from Gorgias, Socrates assumes the existence of a universal art of flattery or simulation having several branches:—this is the genus of which rhetoric is only one, and not the highest species. To flattery is opposed the true and noble art of life which he who possesses seeks always to impart to others, and which at last triumphs, if not here, at any rate in another world. These two aspects of life and knowledge appear to be the two leading ideas of the dialogue. The true and the false in individuals and states, in the treatment of the soul as well as of the body, are conceived under the forms of true and false art. In the development of this opposition there arise various other questions, such as the two famous paradoxes of Socrates (paradoxes as they are to the world in general, ideals as they may be more worthily called): (1) that to do is worse than to suffer evil; and (2) that when a man has done evil he had better be punished than unpunished; to which may be added (3) a third Socratic paradox or ideal, that bad men do what they think best, but not what they desire, for the desire of all is towards the good. That pleasure is to be distinguished from good is proved by the simultaneousness of pleasure and pain, and by the possibility of the bad having in certain cases pleasures as great as those of the good, or even greater. Not merely rhetoricians, but poets, musicians, and other artists, the whole tribe of statesmen, past as well as present, are included in the class of flatterers. The true and false finally appear before the judgment-seat of the gods below.
Like the Phaedrus, the Gorgias has puzzled students of Plato because it seems to address two or more subjects. Under the cover of rhetoric, deeper themes emerge. The argument broadens into a general view of human good and evil. Socrates first tries unsuccessfully to get Gorgias to give a sound definition of his art. Socrates then assumes that there is a general art of flattery or imitation, with several branches. Rhetoric is only one branch, and not the highest. Opposed to flattery is the true and noble art of living. Anyone who possesses this art always seeks to pass it on to others. This art ultimately triumphs, if not in this world, then at least in another. These two approaches to life and knowledge seem to be the dialogue’s two main ideas. Truth and falsehood, in individuals and states, are understood as true and false arts. This distinction applies to the treatment of both the soul and the body. As this contrast develops, various other questions arise, including two famous paradoxes of Socrates. The world generally regards these ideas as paradoxes, though they may more fittingly be called ideals: (1) doing wrong is worse than suffering wrong. (2) When someone has done wrong, being punished is better for that person than going unpunished. To these we may add (3) a third Socratic paradox or ideal. Bad people do what they think best, but not what they desire, because everyone desires the good. Pleasure is shown to differ from good because pleasure and pain can occur together. Further proof comes from bad people sometimes enjoying pleasures as great as those of good people, or even greater. The class of flatterers includes not only rhetoricians but also poets, musicians, other artists, and all statesmen, past and present. Finally, the true and the false come before the judgment seat of the gods in the underworld.
The dialogue naturally falls into three divisions, to which the three characters of Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles respectively correspond; and the form and manner change with the stages of the argument. Socrates is deferential towards Gorgias, playful and yet cutting in dealing with the youthful Polus, ironical and sarcastic in his encounter with Callicles. In the first division the question is asked—What is rhetoric? To this there is no answer given, for Gorgias is soon made to contradict himself by Socrates, and the argument is transferred to the hands of his disciple Polus, who rushes to the defence of his master. The answer has at last to be given by Socrates himself, but before he can even explain his meaning to Polus, he must enlighten him upon the great subject of shams or flatteries. When Polus finds his favourite art reduced to the level of cookery, he replies that at any rate rhetoricians, like despots, have great power. Socrates denies that they have any real power, and hence arise the three paradoxes already mentioned. Although they are strange to him, Polus is at last convinced of their truth; at least, they seem to him to follow legitimately from the premises. Thus the second act of the dialogue closes. Then Callicles appears on the scene, at first maintaining that pleasure is good, and that might is right, and that law is nothing but the combination of the many weak against the few strong. When he is confuted he withdraws from the argument, and leaves Socrates to arrive at the conclusion by himself. The conclusion is that there are two kinds of statesmanship, a higher and a lower—that which makes the people better, and that which only flatters them, and he exhorts Callicles to choose the higher. The dialogue terminates with a mythus of a final judgment, in which there will be no more flattery or disguise, and no further use for the teaching of rhetoric.
The dialogue naturally falls into three parts, corresponding to the three characters: Gorgias, Polus, and Callicles. Its form and style change as the argument develops. Socrates treats Gorgias with respect. With the young Polus, he is playful but sharp. With Callicles, he is ironic and sarcastic. The first part asks: What is rhetoric? No answer is given, because Socrates soon makes Gorgias contradict himself. The argument then passes to Gorgias’s student Polus, who rushes to defend his teacher. Socrates must finally give the answer himself. But before he can even explain his meaning to Polus, he must explain the larger subject of pretence and flattery. When Polus finds his favourite art reduced to the level of cooking, he offers a reply. At least rhetoricians, like tyrants, have great power. Socrates denies that either group has any real power. This denial leads to the three paradoxes mentioned earlier. Although these ideas seem strange to Polus, he is finally convinced they are true. At least, he thinks they follow logically from the premises. So the dialogue’s second act ends. Then Callicles enters the scene. At first, he argues that pleasure is good and might is right. He also claims that law is nothing but an alliance of the many weak against the few strong. When his arguments are refuted, he withdraws from the debate and leaves Socrates to reach the conclusion alone. The conclusion is that there are two kinds of statesmanship, a higher and a lower. The higher kind makes people better, while the lower kind merely flatters them. Socrates urges Callicles to choose the higher kind. The dialogue ends with a myth about a final judgment. At that judgment, there will be no more flattery or disguise, and no further use for teaching rhetoric.
The characters of the three interlocutors also correspond to the parts which are assigned to them. Gorgias is the great rhetorician, now advanced in years, who goes from city to city displaying his talents, and is celebrated throughout Greece. Like all the Sophists in the dialogues of Plato, he is vain and boastful, yet he has also a certain dignity, and is treated by Socrates with considerable respect. But he is no match for him in dialectics. Although he has been teaching rhetoric all his life, he is still incapable of defining his own art. When his ideas begin to clear up, he is unwilling to admit that rhetoric can be wholly separated from justice and injustice, and this lingering sentiment of morality, or regard for public opinion, enables Socrates to detect him in a contradiction. Like Protagoras, he is described as of a generous nature; he expresses his approbation of Socrates’ manner of approaching a question; he is quite “one of Socrates’ sort, ready to be refuted as well as to refute,” and very eager that Callicles and Socrates should have the game out. He knows by experience that rhetoric exercises great influence over other men, but he is unable to explain the puzzle how rhetoric can teach everything and know nothing.
The personalities of the three speakers also fit their assigned roles. Gorgias is the great rhetorician, now an old man, who travels from city to city displaying his talents. He is famous throughout Greece. Like all the Sophists in Plato’s dialogues, he is vain and boastful, yet he also has a certain dignity. Socrates treats him with considerable respect. But Gorgias is no match for Socrates in logical debate. Although Gorgias has taught rhetoric all his life, he still cannot define his own art. As his ideas become clearer, he is unwilling to admit that rhetoric can be entirely separated from justice and injustice. This lingering moral feeling, or concern for public opinion, allows Socrates to catch him contradicting himself. Like Protagoras, Gorgias is portrayed as generous by nature. He approves of the way Socrates approaches a question. He is very much “one of Socrates’ sort, ready to be refuted as well as to refute,” and eagerly wants Callicles and Socrates to finish their debate. He knows from experience that rhetoric has great influence over other people. But he cannot explain the puzzle of how rhetoric can teach everything and know nothing.
Polus is an impetuous youth, a runaway “colt,” as Socrates describes him, who wanted originally to have taken the place of Gorgias under the pretext that the old man was tired, and now avails himself of the earliest opportunity to enter the lists. He is said to be the author of a work on rhetoric, and is again mentioned in the Phaedrus, as the inventor of balanced or double forms of speech (compare Gorg.; Symp.). At first he is violent and ill-mannered, and is angry at seeing his master overthrown. But in the judicious hands of Socrates he is soon restored to good-humour, and compelled to assent to the required conclusion. Like Gorgias, he is overthrown because he compromises; he is unwilling to say that to do is fairer or more honourable than to suffer injustice. Though he is fascinated by the power of rhetoric, and dazzled by the splendour of success, he is not insensible to higher arguments. Plato may have felt that there would be an incongruity in a youth maintaining the cause of injustice against the world. He has never heard the other side of the question, and he listens to the paradoxes, as they appear to him, of Socrates with evident astonishment. He can hardly understand the meaning of Archelaus being miserable, or of rhetoric being only useful in self-accusation. When the argument with him has fairly run out.
Polus is a reckless young man, a runaway “colt,” as Socrates calls him. He originally wanted to take Gorgias’s place, using the old man’s tiredness as an excuse. Now he takes the first opportunity to join the debate. He is said to have written a work on rhetoric. He is mentioned again in the Phaedrus as the inventor of balanced or paired forms of speech (compare Gorg.; Symp.). At first he is aggressive and rude, and angry at seeing his teacher defeated. But Socrates handles him skillfully, soon restoring his good mood and making him accept the required conclusion. Like Gorgias, he is defeated because he makes a concession. He is unwilling to say that doing injustice is nobler or more honorable than suffering injustice. Though rhetoric’s power fascinates him and the splendor of success dazzles him, he is not deaf to higher arguments. Plato may have felt that a young man defending injustice against the whole world would seem out of place. Polus has never heard the other side of the question. He listens with clear astonishment to Socrates’ arguments, which seem like paradoxes to him. He can hardly understand how Archelaus could be miserable, or how rhetoric could be useful only for accusing oneself. When the argument with him has fully run its course.
Callicles, in whose house they are assembled, is introduced on the stage: he is with difficulty convinced that Socrates is in earnest; for if these things are true, then, as he says with real emotion, the foundations of society are upside down. In him another type of character is represented; he is neither sophist nor philosopher, but man of the world, and an accomplished Athenian gentleman. He might be described in modern language as a cynic or materialist, a lover of power and also of pleasure, and unscrupulous in his means of attaining both. There is no desire on his part to offer any compromise in the interests of morality; nor is any concession made by him. Like Thrasymachus in the Republic, though he is not of the same weak and vulgar class, he consistently maintains that might is right. His great motive of action is political ambition; in this he is characteristically Greek. Like Anytus in the Meno, he is the enemy of the Sophists; but favours the new art of rhetoric, which he regards as an excellent weapon of attack and defence. He is a despiser of mankind as he is of philosophy, and sees in the laws of the state only a violation of the order of nature, which intended that the stronger should govern the weaker (compare Republic). Like other men of the world who are of a speculative turn of mind, he generalizes the bad side of human nature, and has easily brought down his principles to his practice. Philosophy and poetry alike supply him with distinctions suited to his view of human life. He has a good will to Socrates, whose talents he evidently admires, while he censures the puerile use which he makes of them. He expresses a keen intellectual interest in the argument. Like Anytus, again, he has a sympathy with other men of the world; the Athenian statesmen of a former generation, who showed no weakness and made no mistakes, such as Miltiades, Themistocles, Pericles, are his favourites. His ideal of human character is a man of great passions and great powers, which he has developed to the utmost, and which he uses in his own enjoyment and in the government of others. Had Critias been the name instead of Callicles, about whom we know nothing from other sources, the opinions of the man would have seemed to reflect the history of his life.
Callicles now enters the scene. The gathering is taking place in his house. He can hardly be convinced that Socrates is serious. For if these things are true, society’s foundations are turned upside down, as he says with genuine emotion. Callicles represents another type of character. He is neither a sophist nor a philosopher, but a man of the world and a cultured Athenian gentleman. In modern terms, he might be called a cynic or materialist. He loves both power and pleasure, and has no scruples about how he gains them. He has no wish to compromise for morality’s sake, and makes no concessions. Like Thrasymachus in the Republic, he consistently argues that might is right. Yet he does not belong to the same weak and vulgar class. His main driving force is political ambition, and in this respect he is typically Greek. Like Anytus in the Meno, he is an enemy of the Sophists. But he supports the new art of rhetoric, seeing it as an excellent weapon for attack and defense. He despises humanity as much as philosophy. He sees the state’s laws as nothing but a violation of nature’s order. Nature intended the stronger to rule the weaker (compare Republic). Like other worldly men with a taste for abstract thought, he treats humanity’s worst traits as universal. He has easily lowered his principles to match his behavior. Both philosophy and poetry provide him with distinctions that suit his view of human life. He feels goodwill toward Socrates and clearly admires his talents. But he criticizes Socrates for using those talents in a childish way. He takes a keen intellectual interest in the argument. Again like Anytus, he feels an affinity with other men of the world. His favorites are Athenian statesmen of an earlier generation, such as Miltiades, Themistocles, and Pericles. These men showed no weakness and made no mistakes. His ideal person has great passions and abilities, developed to their fullest. Such a man uses those passions and abilities for his own enjoyment and to govern others. We know nothing about Callicles from other sources. Had his name been Critias instead, the man’s opinions would have seemed to reflect his life’s history.
And now the combat deepens. In Callicles, far more than in any sophist or rhetorician, is concentrated the spirit of evil against which Socrates is contending, the spirit of the world, the spirit of the many contending against the one wise man, of which the Sophists, as he describes them in the Republic, are the imitators rather than the authors, being themselves carried away by the great tide of public opinion. Socrates approaches his antagonist warily from a distance, with a sort of irony which touches with a light hand both his personal vices (probably in allusion to some scandal of the day) and his servility to the populace. At the same time, he is in most profound earnest, as Chaerephon remarks. Callicles soon loses his temper, but the more he is irritated, the more provoking and matter of fact does Socrates become. A repartee of his which appears to have been really made to the “omniscient” Hippias, according to the testimony of Xenophon (Mem.), is introduced. He is called by Callicles a popular declaimer, and certainly shows that he has the power, in the words of Gorgias, of being “as long as he pleases,” or “as short as he pleases” (compare Protag.). Callicles exhibits great ability in defending himself and attacking Socrates, whom he accuses of trifling and word-splitting; he is scandalized that the legitimate consequences of his own argument should be stated in plain terms; after the manner of men of the world, he wishes to preserve the decencies of life. But he cannot consistently maintain the bad sense of words; and getting confused between the abstract notions of better, superior, stronger, he is easily turned round by Socrates, and only induced to continue the argument by the authority of Gorgias. Once, when Socrates is describing the manner in which the ambitious citizen has to identify himself with the people, he partially recognizes the truth of his words.
And now the conflict deepens. Callicles embodies the spirit of evil that Socrates is fighting, far more than any sophist or rhetorician does. This is the spirit of the world, of the many opposing the one wise man. As Socrates describes the Sophists in the Republic, they imitate this spirit rather than create it. They themselves are swept along by the great tide of public opinion. Socrates approaches his opponent cautiously, keeping his distance. With gentle irony, he touches on both Callicles’ personal vices and his slavish obedience to the public. The references to his vices probably allude to some scandal of the day. At the same time, Socrates is deeply serious, as Chaerephon remarks. Callicles soon loses his temper. But the more irritated he becomes, the more provoking and matter-of-fact Socrates becomes. One of Socrates’ witty replies is introduced here. According to Xenophon’s testimony (Mem.), Socrates apparently addressed this reply to the “omniscient” Hippias in real life. Callicles calls Socrates a speaker who plays to the crowd. Socrates certainly shows his ability, in Gorgias’ words, to speak “as long as he pleases,” or “as short as he pleases” (compare Protag.). Callicles shows great skill in defending himself and attacking Socrates, whom he accuses of playing games and splitting hairs. He is shocked when the logical consequences of his own argument are stated plainly. Like worldly men generally, he wants to preserve the appearance of decency. But he cannot consistently defend the morally bad meanings he gives to words. He becomes confused over the abstract ideas of better, superior, and stronger, so Socrates easily turns his argument around. Only Gorgias’ authority persuades Callicles to continue the discussion. At one point, Socrates describes how an ambitious citizen must make himself like the people. Here Callicles partly recognizes the truth of Socrates’ words.
The Socrates of the Gorgias may be compared with the Socrates of the Protagoras and Meno. As in other dialogues, he is the enemy of the Sophists and rhetoricians; and also of the statesmen, whom he regards as another variety of the same species. His behaviour is governed by that of his opponents; the least forwardness or egotism on their part is met by a corresponding irony on the part of Socrates. He must speak, for philosophy will not allow him to be silent. He is indeed more ironical and provoking than in any other of Plato’s writings: for he is “fooled to the top of his bent” by the worldliness of Callicles. But he is also more deeply in earnest. He rises higher than even in the Phaedo and Crito: at first enveloping his moral convictions in a cloud of dust and dialectics, he ends by losing his method, his life, himself, in them. As in the Protagoras and Phaedrus, throwing aside the veil of irony, he makes a speech, but, true to his character, not until his adversary has refused to answer any more questions. The presentiment of his own fate is hanging over him. He is aware that Socrates, the single real teacher of politics, as he ventures to call himself, cannot safely go to war with the whole world, and that in the courts of earth he will be condemned. But he will be justified in the world below. Then the position of Socrates and Callicles will be reversed; all those things “unfit for ears polite” which Callicles has prophesied as likely to happen to him in this life, the insulting language, the box on the ears, will recoil upon his assailant. (Compare Republic, and the similar reversal of the position of the lawyer and the philosopher in the Theaetetus).
The Socrates of the Gorgias may be compared with the Socrates of the Protagoras and Meno. As in other dialogues, he is the enemy of the Sophists and rhetoricians. He also opposes statesmen, whom he sees as another kind of the same breed. His behavior responds to that of his opponents. The slightest pushiness or self-importance on their part draws a matching dose of irony from Socrates. He must speak, because philosophy will not let him remain silent. Indeed, he is more ironic and provocative than in any other of Plato’s writings. The worldliness of Callicles provokes him to indulge his irony to the fullest. But he is also more deeply serious. He reaches greater heights than even in the Phaedo and Crito. At first, he hides his moral convictions in a cloud of dust and logical argument. By the end, he loses his method, his life, and himself in those convictions. As in the Protagoras and Phaedrus, he drops his ironic mask and makes a speech. But, true to his character, he does so only after his opponent refuses to answer any more questions. A sense of his own approaching fate hangs over him. He dares to call himself the only true teacher of politics. Yet he knows he cannot safely go to war with the whole world. He knows, too, that earthly courts will condemn him. But in the world below, he will be vindicated. Then Socrates and Callicles will exchange places. Callicles has predicted that Socrates will suffer all those things “too offensive for polite ears” in this life. The insults and the slap in the face will instead fall on Callicles, his attacker. (Compare Republic, and the similar reversal of the lawyer’s and philosopher’s positions in the Theaetetus).
There is an interesting allusion to his own behaviour at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae, which he ironically attributes to his ignorance of the manner in which a vote of the assembly should be taken. This is said to have happened “last year” (B.C. 406), and therefore the assumed date of the dialogue has been fixed at 405 B.C., when Socrates would already have been an old man. The date is clearly marked, but is scarcely reconcilable with another indication of time, viz. the “recent” usurpation of Archelaus, which occurred in the year 413; and still less with the “recent” death of Pericles, who really died twenty-four years previously (429 B.C.) and is afterwards reckoned among the statesmen of a past age; or with the mention of Nicias, who died in 413, and is nevertheless spoken of as a living witness. But we shall hereafter have reason to observe, that although there is a general consistency of times and persons in the Dialogues of Plato, a precise dramatic date is an invention of his commentators (Preface to Republic).
There is an interesting reference to Socrates’ own behaviour at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae. He ironically puts his behaviour down to ignorance of how to conduct a vote in the assembly. The trial is said to have happened “last year” (406 B.C.). So the dialogue has been dated to 405 B.C., when Socrates would already have been an old man. The date is clearly indicated, but it is hard to reconcile with another time reference. Archelaus’ seizure of power is called “recent”, although it occurred in 413 B.C. The date is even harder to reconcile with the “recent” death of Pericles. He had actually died twenty-four years earlier (429 B.C.) and is later counted among the statesmen of a past age. The mention of Nicias is still harder to reconcile with the date. He died in 413 B.C., yet is spoken of as a living witness. But we will later have reason to note a distinction. Although times and people are generally consistent in Plato’s Dialogues, a precise date for the action is his commentators’ invention (Preface to Republic).
The conclusion of the Dialogue is remarkable, (1) for the truly characteristic declaration of Socrates that he is ignorant of the true nature and bearing of these things, while he affirms at the same time that no one can maintain any other view without being ridiculous. The profession of ignorance reminds us of the earlier and more exclusively Socratic Dialogues. But neither in them, nor in the Apology, nor in the Memorabilia of Xenophon, does Socrates express any doubt of the fundamental truths of morality. He evidently regards this “among the multitude of questions” which agitate human life “as the principle which alone remains unshaken.” He does not insist here, any more than in the Phaedo, on the literal truth of the myth, but only on the soundness of the doctrine which is contained in it, that doing wrong is worse than suffering, and that a man should be rather than seem; for the next best thing to a man’s being just is that he should be corrected and become just; also that he should avoid all flattery, whether of himself or of others; and that rhetoric should be employed for the maintenance of the right only. The revelation of another life is a recapitulation of the argument in a figure.
The Dialogue’s conclusion is remarkable, (1) for a declaration typical of Socrates. He says he does not know the true nature or significance of these matters. Yet he also insists that no one can hold any other view without being ridiculous. His admission of ignorance recalls the earlier Dialogues, which focus more exclusively on Socrates’ approach. But Socrates never doubts the basic truths of morality in those works, the Apology, or Xenophon’s Memorabilia. He clearly sees morality, “among the multitude of questions” that trouble human life, “as the principle which alone remains unshaken.” Here, as in the Phaedo, he does not insist that the myth is literally true. He insists only that its teaching is sound: doing wrong is worse than suffering wrong. A person should be good rather than merely seem good. For the next best thing to being just is to be corrected and become just. A person should also avoid all flattery, whether directed at himself or others. And rhetoric should be used only to uphold what is right. The vision of another life restates the argument through an image.
(2) Socrates makes the singular remark, that he is himself the only true politician of his age. In other passages, especially in the Apology, he disclaims being a politician at all. There he is convinced that he or any other good man who attempted to resist the popular will would be put to death before he had done any good to himself or others. Here he anticipates such a fate for himself, from the fact that he is “the only man of the present day who performs his public duties at all.” The two points of view are not really inconsistent, but the difference between them is worth noticing: Socrates is and is not a public man. Not in the ordinary sense, like Alcibiades or Pericles, but in a higher one; and this will sooner or later entail the same consequences on him. He cannot be a private man if he would; neither can he separate morals from politics. Nor is he unwilling to be a politician, although he foresees the dangers which await him; but he must first become a better and wiser man, for he as well as Callicles is in a state of perplexity and uncertainty. And yet there is an inconsistency: for should not Socrates too have taught the citizens better than to put him to death?
(2) Socrates makes the striking claim that he is the only true politician of his time. Elsewhere, especially in the Apology, he denies being a politician at all. There he is convinced that any good man, including himself, who opposed the people's will would be killed. Such a man would die before doing any good for himself or others. Here he expects the same fate because he is “the only man of the present day who performs his public duties at all.” These two views do not really contradict each other, but the difference is worth noting. Socrates both is and is not a public figure. He is not one in the ordinary sense, like Alcibiades or Pericles, but in a higher sense. Sooner or later, his public role will bring the same consequences upon him. He cannot remain a private citizen even if he wants to. Nor can he separate morality from politics. He is not unwilling to be a politician, although he foresees the dangers awaiting him. But first he must become a better and wiser man. Like Callicles, he is confused and uncertain. Yet a contradiction remains: should Socrates not also have taught the citizens to know better than to put him to death?
And now, as he himself says, we will “resume the argument from the beginning.”
And now, as he himself says, we will “start the argument again from the beginning.”
Socrates, who is attended by his inseparable disciple, Chaerephon, meets Callicles in the streets of Athens. He is informed that he has just missed an exhibition of Gorgias, which he regrets, because he was desirous, not of hearing Gorgias display his rhetoric, but of interrogating him concerning the nature of his art. Callicles proposes that they shall go with him to his own house, where Gorgias is staying. There they find the great rhetorician and his younger friend and disciple Polus.
Socrates meets Callicles in the streets of Athens, accompanied by his inseparable student, Chaerephon. Socrates learns that he has just missed a demonstration by Gorgias. He regrets missing it, not because he wanted to hear Gorgias show off his rhetoric. Instead, he wanted to question Gorgias about the nature of his art. Callicles suggests that they go with him to his house, where Gorgias is staying. There they find the great rhetorician and his younger friend and student, Polus.
SOCRATES: Put the question to him, Chaerephon.
SOCRATES: Ask him the question, Chaerephon.
CHAEREPHON: What question?
CHAEREPHON: What question?
SOCRATES: Who is he?—such a question as would elicit from a man the answer, “I am a cobbler.”
SOCRATES: Who is he? The kind of question that would get a man to answer, “I am a shoemaker.”
Polus suggests that Gorgias may be tired, and desires to answer for him. “Who is Gorgias?” asks Chaerephon, imitating the manner of his master Socrates. “One of the best of men, and a proficient in the best and noblest of experimental arts,” etc., replies Polus, in rhetorical and balanced phrases. Socrates is dissatisfied at the length and unmeaningness of the answer; he tells the disconcerted volunteer that he has mistaken the quality for the nature of the art, and remarks to Gorgias, that Polus has learnt how to make a speech, but not how to answer a question. He wishes that Gorgias would answer him. Gorgias is willing enough, and replies to the question asked by Chaerephon,—that he is a rhetorician, and in Homeric language, “boasts himself to be a good one.” At the request of Socrates he promises to be brief; for “he can be as long as he pleases, and as short as he pleases.” Socrates would have him bestow his length on others, and proceeds to ask him a number of questions, which are answered by him to his own great satisfaction, and with a brevity which excites the admiration of Socrates. The result of the discussion may be summed up as follows:—
Polus suggests that Gorgias may be tired and offers to answer for him. “Who is Gorgias?” asks Chaerephon, imitating his master Socrates. “One of the best men, skilled in the best and noblest practical arts,” and so on, replies Polus. His phrases are polished and carefully balanced. Socrates is dissatisfied with the answer’s length and lack of meaning. He tells the embarrassed volunteer that he has described the art’s quality, not what the art is. He remarks to Gorgias that Polus has learned how to make a speech, but not how to answer a question. Socrates wants Gorgias himself to answer. Gorgias is quite willing and answers Chaerephon’s question by saying that he is a rhetorician. In Homer’s language, he “boasts of being a good one.” At Socrates’ request, Gorgias promises to be brief. After all, “he can speak at whatever length he pleases, and as briefly as he pleases.” Socrates would rather Gorgias save his lengthy speeches for others. He then asks Gorgias a series of questions. Gorgias answers to his own great satisfaction, and his brief replies win Socrates’ admiration. The discussion’s result can be summed up as follows:
Rhetoric treats of discourse; but music and medicine, and other particular arts, are also concerned with discourse; in what way then does rhetoric differ from them? Gorgias draws a distinction between the arts which deal with words, and the arts which have to do with external actions. Socrates extends this distinction further, and divides all productive arts into two classes: (1) arts which may be carried on in silence; and (2) arts which have to do with words, or in which words are coextensive with action, such as arithmetic, geometry, rhetoric. But still Gorgias could hardly have meant to say that arithmetic was the same as rhetoric. Even in the arts which are concerned with words there are differences. What then distinguishes rhetoric from the other arts which have to do with words? “The words which rhetoric uses relate to the best and greatest of human things.” But tell me, Gorgias, what are the best? “Health first, beauty next, wealth third,” in the words of the old song, or how would you rank them? The arts will come to you in a body, each claiming precedence and saying that her own good is superior to that of the rest—How will you choose between them? “I should say, Socrates, that the art of persuasion, which gives freedom to all men, and to individuals power in the state, is the greatest good.” But what is the exact nature of this persuasion?—is the persevering retort: You could not describe Zeuxis as a painter, or even as a painter of figures, if there were other painters of figures; neither can you define rhetoric simply as an art of persuasion, because there are other arts which persuade, such as arithmetic, which is an art of persuasion about odd and even numbers. Gorgias is made to see the necessity of a further limitation, and he now defines rhetoric as the art of persuading in the law courts, and in the assembly, about the just and unjust. But still there are two sorts of persuasion: one which gives knowledge, and another which gives belief without knowledge; and knowledge is always true, but belief may be either true or false,—there is therefore a further question: which of the two sorts of persuasion does rhetoric effect in courts of law and assemblies? Plainly that which gives belief and not that which gives knowledge; for no one can impart a real knowledge of such matters to a crowd of persons in a few minutes. And there is another point to be considered:—when the assembly meets to advise about walls or docks or military expeditions, the rhetorician is not taken into counsel, but the architect, or the general. How would Gorgias explain this phenomenon? All who intend to become disciples, of whom there are several in the company, and not Socrates only, are eagerly asking:—About what then will rhetoric teach us to persuade or advise the state?
Rhetoric deals with speech. But music, medicine, and other specialized arts also involve speech. How, then, does rhetoric differ from those arts? Gorgias distinguishes between arts that work through words and arts that involve outward actions. Socrates takes this distinction further and divides all productive arts into two groups: (1) arts that can be practiced in silence, and (2) arts that work through words, or whose activity consists entirely of words, such as arithmetic, geometry, and rhetoric. But Gorgias could hardly have meant that arithmetic was the same as rhetoric. Even arts that work through words differ from one another. What, then, sets rhetoric apart from the other arts that use words? “The words rhetoric uses concern the best and greatest things in human life.” But tell me, Gorgias, what are the best things? “Health first, beauty next, wealth third,” as the old song says, or how would you rank them? The arts will come before you together, each claiming first place and declaring her own good superior to the others. How will you choose between them? “I would say, Socrates, that the art of persuasion is the greatest good. It gives freedom to all people and gives individuals power in the state.” But what exactly is this persuasion? Socrates keeps pressing the question. You could not adequately describe Zeuxis as a painter, or even a painter of figures, if other painters also painted figures. Likewise, you cannot define rhetoric simply as an art of persuasion, because other arts also persuade. Arithmetic, for example, is an art of persuasion about odd and even numbers. Gorgias is led to see that he must narrow his definition further. He now defines rhetoric as the art of persuading people in law courts and the assembly about justice and injustice. But there are still two kinds of persuasion. One produces knowledge, while the other produces belief without knowledge. Knowledge is always true, but belief may be true or false. So another question remains: which kind of persuasion does rhetoric produce in law courts and assemblies? Clearly, rhetoric produces belief, not knowledge. For no one can give a crowd real knowledge of such matters in a few minutes. There is another point to consider. When the assembly meets to discuss walls, docks, or military expeditions, it does not consult the rhetorician. Instead, it consults the architect or the general. How would Gorgias explain this? Everyone who intends to become a pupil is eagerly asking the same question, not just Socrates. Several such people are present. What, then, will rhetoric teach us to persuade the state about, or to advise the state on?
Gorgias illustrates the nature of rhetoric by adducing the example of Themistocles, who persuaded the Athenians to build their docks and walls, and of Pericles, whom Socrates himself has heard speaking about the middle wall of the Piraeus. He adds that he has exercised a similar power over the patients of his brother Herodicus. He could be chosen a physician by the assembly if he pleased, for no physician could compete with a rhetorician in popularity and influence. He could persuade the multitude of anything by the power of his rhetoric; not that the rhetorician ought to abuse this power any more than a boxer should abuse the art of self-defence. Rhetoric is a good thing, but, like all good things, may be unlawfully used. Neither is the teacher of the art to be deemed unjust because his pupils are unjust and make a bad use of the lessons which they have learned from him.
Gorgias explains the nature of rhetoric through the example of Themistocles, who persuaded the Athenians to build their docks and walls. He also cites Pericles, whom Socrates himself has heard speaking about the middle wall of the Piraeus. Gorgias adds that he has used similar powers of persuasion on the patients of his brother Herodicus. If Gorgias wished, the assembly could choose him as a physician. For no physician could compete with a rhetorician in popularity and influence. Through rhetoric, he could persuade the crowd of anything. But a rhetorician should no more abuse this power than a boxer should abuse the art of self-defense. Rhetoric is a good thing, but like all good things, it may be used unlawfully. Nor should a teacher of rhetoric be considered unjust because his pupils are unjust and misuse his lessons.
Socrates would like to know before he replies, whether Gorgias will quarrel with him if he points out a slight inconsistency into which he has fallen, or whether he, like himself, is one who loves to be refuted. Gorgias declares that he is quite one of his sort, but fears that the argument may be tedious to the company. The company cheer, and Chaerephon and Callicles exhort them to proceed. Socrates gently points out the supposed inconsistency into which Gorgias appears to have fallen, and which he is inclined to think may arise out of a misapprehension of his own. The rhetorician has been declared by Gorgias to be more persuasive to the ignorant than the physician, or any other expert. And he is said to be ignorant, and this ignorance of his is regarded by Gorgias as a happy condition, for he has escaped the trouble of learning. But is he as ignorant of just and unjust as he is of medicine or building? Gorgias is compelled to admit that if he did not know them previously he must learn them from his teacher as a part of the art of rhetoric. But he who has learned carpentry is a carpenter, and he who has learned music is a musician, and he who has learned justice is just. The rhetorician then must be a just man, and rhetoric is a just thing. But Gorgias has already admitted the opposite of this, viz. that rhetoric may be abused, and that the rhetorician may act unjustly. How is the inconsistency to be explained?
Before replying, Socrates wants to know whether Gorgias will argue with him if he points out a slight inconsistency. Or is Gorgias, like Socrates himself, someone who welcomes being proved wrong? Gorgias says he is just such a person, but fears the discussion may bore the audience. The audience cheers, and Chaerephon and Callicles urge them to continue. Socrates gently points out the apparent inconsistency in Gorgias’s argument. He is inclined to think it may come from his own misunderstanding. Gorgias has said that a rhetorician persuades an ignorant audience more effectively than a physician or any other expert. The rhetorician is also said to be ignorant. Gorgias considers this ignorance an advantage, since the rhetorician has avoided the trouble of learning. But is the rhetorician as ignorant of justice and injustice as he is of medicine or building? Gorgias is forced to admit that, if the rhetorician does not already understand justice and injustice, he must learn them. His teacher must teach him about them as part of the art of rhetoric. But someone who has learned carpentry is a carpenter, and someone who has learned music is a musician. Likewise, someone who has learned justice is just. The rhetorician, then, must be a just person, and rhetoric must be just. But Gorgias has already admitted the opposite: rhetoric can be misused, and a rhetorician can act unjustly. How can this inconsistency be explained?
The fallacy of this argument is twofold; for in the first place, a man may know justice and not be just—here is the old confusion of the arts and the virtues;—nor can any teacher be expected to counteract wholly the bent of natural character; and secondly, a man may have a degree of justice, but not sufficient to prevent him from ever doing wrong. Polus is naturally exasperated at the sophism, which he is unable to detect; of course, he says, the rhetorician, like every one else, will admit that he knows justice (how can he do otherwise when pressed by the interrogations of Socrates?), but he thinks that great want of manners is shown in bringing the argument to such a pass. Socrates ironically replies, that when old men trip, the young set them on their legs again; and he is quite willing to retract, if he can be shown to be in error, but upon one condition, which is that Polus studies brevity. Polus is in great indignation at not being allowed to use as many words as he pleases in the free state of Athens. Socrates retorts, that yet harder will be his own case, if he is compelled to stay and listen to them. After some altercation they agree (compare Protag.), that Polus shall ask and Socrates answer.
The argument is flawed in two ways. First, a man may know what justice is without being just. Here again is the old confusion between skills and virtues. Nor can any teacher be expected to overcome a person’s natural character completely. Second, a man may be just to some degree, but not enough to prevent him from ever doing wrong. Polus is understandably infuriated by the faulty reasoning, though he cannot identify the flaw. Of course, he says, the rhetorician, like everyone else, will admit that he knows what justice is. (How could he do otherwise when pressed by Socrates’ questions?) But Polus thinks it very rude to push the argument to that point. Socrates replies ironically that when old men stumble, the young help them back onto their feet. He is quite willing to take back what he said if he can be shown to be wrong. But he has one condition: Polus must keep his remarks brief. Polus is outraged at not being allowed to use as many words as he pleases in the free state of Athens. Socrates replies that his own situation would be even worse if he were forced to stay and listen. After some arguing, they agree that Polus will ask questions and Socrates will answer (compare Protag.).
“What is the art of Rhetoric?” says Polus. Not an art at all, replies Socrates, but a thing which in your book you affirm to have created art. Polus asks, “What thing?” and Socrates answers, An experience or routine of making a sort of delight or gratification. “But is not rhetoric a fine thing?” I have not yet told you what rhetoric is. Will you ask me another question—What is cookery? “What is cookery?” An experience or routine of making a sort of delight or gratification. Then they are the same, or rather fall under the same class, and rhetoric has still to be distinguished from cookery. “What is rhetoric?” asks Polus once more. A part of a not very creditable whole, which may be termed flattery, is the reply. “But what part?” A shadow of a part of politics. This, as might be expected, is wholly unintelligible, both to Gorgias and Polus; and, in order to explain his meaning to them, Socrates draws a distinction between shadows or appearances and realities; e.g. there is real health of body or soul, and the appearance of them; real arts and sciences, and the simulations of them. Now the soul and body have two arts waiting upon them, first the art of politics, which attends on the soul, having a legislative part and a judicial part; and another art attending on the body, which has no generic name, but may also be described as having two divisions, one of which is medicine and the other gymnastic. Corresponding with these four arts or sciences there are four shams or simulations of them, mere experiences, as they may be termed, because they give no reason of their own existence. The art of dressing up is the sham or simulation of gymnastic, the art of cookery, of medicine; rhetoric is the simulation of justice, and sophistic of legislation. They may be summed up in an arithmetical formula:—
“What is the art of rhetoric?” asks Polus. It is not an art at all, Socrates replies. It is something that, in your book, you say created art. Polus asks, “What thing?” Socrates answers: Experience or routine in producing a kind of pleasure or satisfaction. “But is not rhetoric a fine thing?” I have not yet told you what rhetoric is. Will you ask me another question: What is cooking? “What is cooking?” Experience or routine in producing a kind of pleasure or satisfaction. So rhetoric and cooking are the same, or rather belong to the same category. Rhetoric still needs to be distinguished from cooking. “What is rhetoric?” asks Polus once more. The reply is: A part of a rather disreputable whole, which may be called flattery. “But what part?” An imitation of one part of politics. As might be expected, this answer makes no sense at all to either Gorgias or Polus. To explain his meaning, Socrates distinguishes between appearances and realities. For example, there is genuine health of body or soul, and there is the appearance of health. There are genuine arts and sciences, and there are imitations of them. Now, two arts care for the soul and body. The first is politics, which cares for the soul and has two branches: lawmaking and administering justice. The other art cares for the body and has no general name. But this art, too, may be divided into two branches: medicine and physical training. Each of these four arts or sciences has a corresponding sham or imitation. These imitations may be called mere routines because they cannot explain the reasons for what they do. The art of dressing up imitates physical training, and cooking imitates medicine. Rhetoric imitates justice, and sophistry imitates lawmaking. These relationships may be summed up in an arithmetic formula:
Tiring: gymnastic:: cookery: medicine:: sophistic: legislation.
Cosmetics are to physical training as cooking is to medicine, and as sophistry is to lawmaking.
And,
And,
Cookery: medicine:: rhetoric: the art of justice.
Cooking is to medicine as rhetoric is to the art of justice.
And this is the true scheme of them, but when measured only by the gratification which they procure, they become jumbled together and return to their aboriginal chaos. Socrates apologizes for the length of his speech, which was necessary to the explanation of the subject, and begs Polus not unnecessarily to retaliate on him.
And this is their true arrangement. But when judged only by the pleasure they provide, they become mixed together and return to their original chaos. Socrates apologizes for his long speech, explaining that its length was necessary to explain the subject. He asks Polus not to respond with an equally long speech unless necessary.
“Do you mean to say that the rhetoricians are esteemed flatterers?” They are not esteemed at all. “Why, have they not great power, and can they not do whatever they desire?” They have no power, and they only do what they think best, and never what they desire; for they never attain the true object of desire, which is the good. “As if you, Socrates, would not envy the possessor of despotic power, who can imprison, exile, kill any one whom he pleases.” But Socrates replies that he has no wish to put any one to death; he who kills another, even justly, is not to be envied, and he who kills him unjustly is to be pitied; it is better to suffer than to do injustice. He does not consider that going about with a dagger and putting men out of the way, or setting a house on fire, is real power. To this Polus assents, on the ground that such acts would be punished, but he is still of opinion that evil-doers, if they are unpunished, may be happy enough. He instances Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, the usurper of Macedonia. Does not Socrates think him happy?—Socrates would like to know more about him; he cannot pronounce even the great king to be happy, unless he knows his mental and moral condition. Polus explains that Archelaus was a slave, being the son of a woman who was the slave of Alcetas, brother of Perdiccas king of Macedon—and he, by every species of crime, first murdering his uncle and then his cousin and half-brother, obtained the kingdom. This was very wicked, and yet all the world, including Socrates, would like to have his place. Socrates dismisses the appeal to numbers; Polus, if he will, may summon all the rich men of Athens, Nicias and his brothers, Aristocrates, the house of Pericles, or any other great family—this is the kind of evidence which is adduced in courts of justice, where truth depends upon numbers. But Socrates employs proof of another sort; his appeal is to one witness only,—that is to say, the person with whom he is speaking; him he will convict out of his own mouth. And he is prepared to show, after his manner, that Archelaus cannot be a wicked man and yet happy.
“Do you mean that rhetoricians are respected as flatterers?” They are not respected at all. “But don’t they have great power? Can’t they do whatever they want?” They have no power. They only do what they think best, never what they truly want. For they never achieve the true object of desire, which is the good. “As if you, Socrates, would not envy an absolute ruler who can imprison, exile, or kill anyone he pleases.” But Socrates replies that he has no wish to put anyone to death. Someone who kills another person, even justly, is not to be envied. Someone who kills unjustly is to be pitied. It is better to suffer injustice than to commit it. Socrates does not regard carrying a dagger and killing people, or setting a house on fire, as real power. Polus agrees, because such acts would be punished. But he still believes that wrongdoers may be happy enough if they go unpunished. Polus gives the example of Archelaus, son of Perdiccas, who seized the throne of Macedonia. Doesn’t Socrates think Archelaus is happy? Socrates would like to know more about him. He cannot call even the great king happy without knowing the king’s mental and moral state. Polus explains that Archelaus was a slave because his mother was a slave belonging to Alcetas. Alcetas was the brother of Perdiccas, king of Macedon. Archelaus gained the kingdom through every kind of crime, first murdering his uncle, then his cousin and half-brother. These deeds were very wicked, yet everyone, including Socrates, would like to be in Archelaus’s place. Socrates rejects this appeal to numbers. If Polus wishes, he may call on all the rich men of Athens. He may call Nicias and his brothers, Aristocrates, the house of Pericles, or any other great family. This is the kind of evidence presented in courts of justice, where truth depends on numbers. But Socrates uses a different kind of proof. He appeals to only one witness, the person he is speaking with. He will prove that person wrong through that person’s own words. And he is ready to show, in his own way, that Archelaus cannot be wicked and yet happy.
The evil-doer is deemed happy if he escapes, and miserable if he suffers punishment; but Socrates thinks him less miserable if he suffers than if he escapes. Polus is of opinion that such a paradox as this hardly deserves refutation, and is at any rate sufficiently refuted by the fact. Socrates has only to compare the lot of the successful tyrant who is the envy of the world, and of the wretch who, having been detected in a criminal attempt against the state, is crucified or burnt to death. Socrates replies, that if they are both criminal they are both miserable, but that the unpunished is the more miserable of the two. At this Polus laughs outright, which leads Socrates to remark that laughter is a new species of refutation. Polus replies, that he is already refuted; for if he will take the votes of the company, he will find that no one agrees with him. To this Socrates rejoins, that he is not a public man, and (referring to his own conduct at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae) is unable to take the suffrages of any company, as he had shown on a recent occasion; he can only deal with one witness at a time, and that is the person with whom he is arguing. But he is certain that in the opinion of any man to do is worse than to suffer evil.
A wrongdoer is considered happy if he escapes punishment, and miserable if he is punished. But Socrates thinks he is less miserable if he is punished than if he escapes. Polus thinks such a paradox hardly deserves a response. In any case, he believes the facts are enough to disprove it. Socrates need only compare two people’s fates. One is a successful tyrant whom the whole world envies. The other is an unfortunate man caught attempting a crime against the state, then crucified or burned to death. Socrates replies that if both men are criminals, both are miserable. But the man who goes unpunished is the more miserable of the two. Polus laughs outright at this reply. Socrates remarks that laughter is a new kind of refutation. Polus replies that Socrates has already been proved wrong. If Socrates asks everyone present to vote, he will find that no one agrees with him. Socrates answers that he is not a public figure and cannot manage a vote among a group. He had shown this inability on a recent occasion. He is referring to his own conduct at the trial of the generals after the battle of Arginusae. He can deal with only one witness at a time: the person he is arguing with. But he is certain that, in anyone’s judgment, doing wrong is worse than suffering wrong.
Polus, though he will not admit this, is ready to acknowledge that to do evil is considered the more foul or dishonourable of the two. But what is fair and what is foul; whether the terms are applied to bodies, colours, figures, laws, habits, studies, must they not be defined with reference to pleasure and utility? Polus assents to this latter doctrine, and is easily persuaded that the fouler of two things must exceed either in pain or in hurt. But the doing cannot exceed the suffering of evil in pain, and therefore must exceed in hurt. Thus doing is proved by the testimony of Polus himself to be worse or more hurtful than suffering.
Although Polus will not admit this, he is ready to acknowledge that doing evil is considered more shameful than suffering evil. But what makes something beautiful or ugly? Whether we describe bodies, colors, shapes, laws, habits, or studies, must we not define beauty and ugliness through pleasure and usefulness? Polus agrees with this view. He is easily persuaded that the uglier of two things must cause either greater pain or greater harm. But doing evil cannot cause more pain than suffering evil, so doing evil must cause greater harm. Thus, Polus’s own admissions prove that doing evil is worse, or more harmful, than suffering evil.
There remains the other question: Is a guilty man better off when he is punished or when he is unpunished? Socrates replies, that what is done justly is suffered justly: if the act is just, the effect is just; if to punish is just, to be punished is just, and therefore fair, and therefore beneficent; and the benefit is that the soul is improved. There are three evils from which a man may suffer, and which affect him in estate, body, and soul;—these are, poverty, disease, injustice; and the foulest of these is injustice, the evil of the soul, because that brings the greatest hurt. And there are three arts which heal these evils—trading, medicine, justice—and the fairest of these is justice. Happy is he who has never committed injustice, and happy in the second degree he who has been healed by punishment. And therefore the criminal should himself go to the judge as he would to the physician, and purge away his crime. Rhetoric will enable him to display his guilt in proper colours, and to sustain himself and others in enduring the necessary penalty. And similarly if a man has an enemy, he will desire not to punish him, but that he shall go unpunished and become worse and worse, taking care only that he does no injury to himself. These are at least conceivable uses of the art, and no others have been discovered by us.
One question remains: Is a guilty man better off being punished or going unpunished? Socrates replies that when someone acts justly, the person affected is treated justly. If the act is just, its effect is just. If punishing is just, being punished is just, and therefore good, and therefore beneficial. The benefit is that punishment improves the soul. A man may suffer three kinds of evil, affecting his wealth, body, and soul: poverty, disease, and injustice. The worst of these is injustice, the evil of the soul, because injustice causes the greatest harm. Three arts cure these evils: trade, medicine, and justice. The finest of these is justice. A man who has never committed injustice is happy. Next happiest is the man who has been cured by punishment. So a criminal should go to the judge himself, just as he would go to a doctor, to cleanse himself of his crime. Rhetoric will help him present his guilt in its true light. Rhetoric will also help him support himself and others in enduring the necessary punishment. Similarly, if a man has an enemy, he will want his enemy to go unpunished rather than be punished. He will want his enemy to grow worse and worse, taking care only that his enemy does not harm him. These are at least conceivable uses of rhetoric, and we have discovered no others.
Here Callicles, who has been listening in silent amazement, asks Chaerephon whether Socrates is in earnest, and on receiving the assurance that he is, proceeds to ask the same question of Socrates himself. For if such doctrines are true, life must have been turned upside down, and all of us are doing the opposite of what we ought to be doing.
Callicles has been listening in silent amazement. Now he asks Chaerephon whether Socrates is serious. When Chaerephon assures him that Socrates is serious, Callicles asks Socrates himself the same question. For if these ideas are true, life must have been turned upside down. And all of us are doing the opposite of what we ought to be doing.
Socrates replies in a style of playful irony, that before men can understand one another they must have some common feeling. And such a community of feeling exists between himself and Callicles, for both of them are lovers, and they have both a pair of loves; the beloved of Callicles are the Athenian Demos and Demos the son of Pyrilampes; the beloved of Socrates are Alcibiades and philosophy. The peculiarity of Callicles is that he can never contradict his loves; he changes as his Demos changes in all his opinions; he watches the countenance of both his loves, and repeats their sentiments, and if any one is surprised at his sayings and doings, the explanation of them is, that he is not a free agent, but must always be imitating his two loves. And this is the explanation of Socrates’ peculiarities also. He is always repeating what his mistress, Philosophy, is saying to him, who unlike his other love, Alcibiades, is ever the same, ever true. Callicles must refute her, or he will never be at unity with himself; and discord in life is far worse than the discord of musical sounds.
Socrates replies with playful irony that people must share some feeling before they can understand one another. He and Callicles share such a feeling, since both are lovers, and each has two loves. Callicles loves the Athenian Demos and Demos the son of Pyrilampes. Socrates loves Alcibiades and philosophy. What is peculiar about Callicles is that he can never contradict those he loves. He changes all his opinions as his Demos changes his. He watches the faces of both his loves and repeats their views. If anyone is surprised by his words and actions, the explanation is that he cannot act freely. He must always imitate his two loves. The same explanation accounts for Socrates’ peculiarities. He is always repeating what his mistress, Philosophy, tells him. Unlike his other love, Alcibiades, Philosophy is always the same and always true. Callicles must prove her wrong, or he will never be at peace with himself. And disharmony in life is far worse than disharmony in music.
Callicles answers, that Gorgias was overthrown because, as Polus said, in compliance with popular prejudice he had admitted that if his pupil did not know justice the rhetorician must teach him; and Polus has been similarly entangled, because his modesty led him to admit that to suffer is more honourable than to do injustice. By custom “yes,” but not by nature, says Callicles. And Socrates is always playing between the two points of view, and putting one in the place of the other. In this very argument, what Polus only meant in a conventional sense has been affirmed by him to be a law of nature. For convention says that “injustice is dishonourable,” but nature says that “might is right.” And we are always taming down the nobler spirits among us to the conventional level. But sometimes a great man will rise up and reassert his original rights, trampling under foot all our formularies, and then the light of natural justice shines forth. Pindar says, “Law, the king of all, does violence with high hand;” as is indeed proved by the example of Heracles, who drove off the oxen of Geryon and never paid for them.
Callicles replies that Gorgias lost the argument because, as Polus said, he gave in to popular prejudice. Gorgias admitted that a teacher of rhetoric must teach justice if his pupil does not know it. Polus was caught in a similar trap because his modesty led him to make another admission. He admitted that suffering injustice is more honorable than committing it. By custom, “yes,” says Callicles, but not by nature. And Socrates is always switching between these two viewpoints, substituting one for the other. In this very argument, Socrates has turned what Polus meant only as a social convention into a law of nature. For convention says that “injustice is dishonorable,” but nature says that “might is right.” And we are always taming the nobler spirits among us, bringing them down to the level set by convention. But sometimes a great man will rise up and reclaim his original rights, trampling all our formal rules underfoot. Then the light of natural justice shines out. Pindar says, “Law, the king of all, commits violence with a mighty hand.” Indeed, Heracles proves this point: he drove off Geryon’s oxen and never paid for them.
This is the truth, Socrates, as you will be convinced, if you leave philosophy and pass on to the real business of life. A little philosophy is an excellent thing; too much is the ruin of a man. He who has not “passed his metaphysics” before he has grown up to manhood will never know the world. Philosophers are ridiculous when they take to politics, and I dare say that politicians are equally ridiculous when they take to philosophy: “Every man,” as Euripides says, “is fondest of that in which he is best.” Philosophy is graceful in youth, like the lisp of infancy, and should be cultivated as a part of education; but when a grown-up man lisps or studies philosophy, I should like to beat him. None of those over-refined natures ever come to any good; they avoid the busy haunts of men, and skulk in corners, whispering to a few admiring youths, and never giving utterance to any noble sentiments.
This is the truth, Socrates. You will be convinced if you leave philosophy behind and turn to the real business of life. A little philosophy is excellent. Too much ruins a man. A man who has not “finished with metaphysics” before reaching adulthood will never understand the world. Philosophers look ridiculous when they enter politics. I dare say politicians look equally ridiculous when they take up philosophy. As Euripides says, “Every man is fondest of what he does best.” Philosophy is charming in the young, like a baby's lisp, and should be encouraged as part of education. But when a grown man lisps or studies philosophy, I feel like beating him. None of these overly refined men ever amount to anything. They avoid the busy places where men gather and hide in corners, whispering to a few admiring young men. They never express any noble thoughts.
For you, Socrates, I have a regard, and therefore I say to you, as Zethus says to Amphion in the play, that you have “a noble soul disguised in a puerile exterior.” And I would have you consider the danger which you and other philosophers incur. For you would not know how to defend yourself if any one accused you in a law-court,—there you would stand, with gaping mouth and dizzy brain, and might be murdered, robbed, boxed on the ears with impunity. Take my advice, then, and get a little common sense; leave to others these frivolities; walk in the ways of the wealthy and be wise.
I care about you, Socrates, so I say to you what Zethus says to Amphion in the play. You have “a noble soul hidden behind a childish exterior.” And I want you to consider the danger you and other philosophers face. For if anyone accused you in court, you would not know how to defend yourself. You would stand there with your mouth hanging open and your head spinning. And you might be murdered, robbed, or slapped in the face without anyone being punished. So take my advice and get some common sense. Leave these frivolous pursuits to others. Follow the ways of the wealthy and be wise.
Socrates professes to have found in Callicles the philosopher’s touchstone; and he is certain that any opinion in which they both agree must be the very truth. Callicles has all the three qualities which are needed in a critic—knowledge, good-will, frankness; Gorgias and Polus, although learned men, were too modest, and their modesty made them contradict themselves. But Callicles is well-educated; and he is not too modest to speak out (of this he has already given proof), and his good-will is shown both by his own profession and by his giving the same caution against philosophy to Socrates, which Socrates remembers hearing him give long ago to his own clique of friends. He will pledge himself to retract any error into which he may have fallen, and which Callicles may point out. But he would like to know first of all what he and Pindar mean by natural justice. Do they suppose that the rule of justice is the rule of the stronger or of the better?” “There is no difference.” Then are not the many superior to the one, and the opinions of the many better? And their opinion is that justice is equality, and that to do is more dishonourable than to suffer wrong. And as they are the superior or stronger, this opinion of theirs must be in accordance with natural as well as conventional justice. “Why will you continue splitting words? Have I not told you that the superior is the better?” But what do you mean by the better? Tell me that, and please to be a little milder in your language, if you do not wish to drive me away. “I mean the worthier, the wiser.” You mean to say that one man of sense ought to rule over ten thousand fools? “Yes, that is my meaning.” Ought the physician then to have a larger share of meats and drinks? or the weaver to have more coats, or the cobbler larger shoes, or the farmer more seed? “You are always saying the same things, Socrates.” Yes, and on the same subjects too; but you are never saying the same things. For, first, you defined the superior to be the stronger, and then the wiser, and now something else;—what DO you mean? “I mean men of political ability, who ought to govern and to have more than the governed.” Than themselves? “What do you mean?” I mean to say that every man is his own governor. “I see that you mean those dolts, the temperate. But my doctrine is, that a man should let his desires grow, and take the means of satisfying them. To the many this is impossible, and therefore they combine to prevent him. But if he is a king, and has power, how base would he be in submitting to them! To invite the common herd to be lord over him, when he might have the enjoyment of all things! For the truth is, Socrates, that luxury and self-indulgence are virtue and happiness; all the rest is mere talk.”
Socrates claims to have found in Callicles a touchstone for testing a philosopher’s ideas. He is certain that any opinion they both agree on must be the truth. Callicles has all three qualities a critic needs: knowledge, goodwill, and frankness. Although Gorgias and Polus were learned men, they were too modest, and their modesty led them to contradict themselves. But Callicles is well educated and not too modest to speak openly. He has already proved his frankness. He has also declared his goodwill and shown it by warning Socrates against philosophy. Socrates remembers hearing him give the same warning long ago to his own circle of friends. Socrates promises to take back any mistaken view Callicles may point out. But first, Socrates would like to know what Callicles and Pindar mean by natural justice. Do they think justice means rule by the stronger or by the better?” “There is no difference.” Then aren't the many stronger than one person, and aren't their opinions better? Their opinion is that justice means equality, and that doing wrong is more shameful than suffering it. Since the many are superior or stronger, their opinion must agree with both natural justice and justice established by convention. “Why do you keep quibbling over words? Haven't I told you that the superior person is the better person?” But what do you mean by better? Tell me, and please speak a little more gently, unless you want to drive me away. “I mean the worthier, the wiser.” Do you mean that one sensible man ought to rule ten thousand fools? “Yes, that is what I mean.” Then should a doctor get a larger share of food and drink? Should a weaver have more coats, a shoemaker larger shoes, or a farmer more seed? “You are always saying the same things, Socrates.” Yes, and about the same subjects too. But you never say the same things. First you defined the superior person as the stronger, then as the wiser, and now as something else. What DO you mean? “I mean men with political ability, who ought to govern and have more than the people they govern.” More than themselves? “What do you mean?” I mean that every man governs himself. “I see you mean those fools who practice self-control. But my view is that a man should let his desires grow and find the means to satisfy them. Most people cannot do so, and therefore they join forces to stop him. But if he is a king and has power, how shameful it would be for him to submit to them! Imagine inviting the common herd to rule him when he could enjoy everything! For the truth, Socrates, is that luxury and self-indulgence are virtue and happiness. All the rest is mere talk.”
Socrates compliments Callicles on his frankness in saying what other men only think. According to his view, those who want nothing are not happy. “Why,” says Callicles, “if they were, stones and the dead would be happy.” Socrates in reply is led into a half-serious, half-comic vein of reflection. “Who knows,” as Euripides says, “whether life may not be death, and death life?” Nay, there are philosophers who maintain that even in life we are dead, and that the body (soma) is the tomb (sema) of the soul. And some ingenious Sicilian has made an allegory, in which he represents fools as the uninitiated, who are supposed to be carrying water to a vessel, which is full of holes, in a similarly holey sieve, and this sieve is their own soul. The idea is fanciful, but nevertheless is a figure of a truth which I want to make you acknowledge, viz. that the life of contentment is better than the life of indulgence. Are you disposed to admit that? “Far otherwise.” Then hear another parable. The life of self-contentment and self-indulgence may be represented respectively by two men, who are filling jars with streams of wine, honey, milk,—the jars of the one are sound, and the jars of the other leaky; the first fills his jars, and has no more trouble with them; the second is always filling them, and would suffer extreme misery if he desisted. Are you of the same opinion still? “Yes, Socrates, and the figure expresses what I mean. For true pleasure is a perpetual stream, flowing in and flowing out. To be hungry and always eating, to be thirsty and always drinking, and to have all the other desires and to satisfy them, that, as I admit, is my idea of happiness.” And to be itching and always scratching? “I do not deny that there may be happiness even in that.” And to indulge unnatural desires, if they are abundantly satisfied? Callicles is indignant at the introduction of such topics. But he is reminded by Socrates that they are introduced, not by him, but by the maintainer of the identity of pleasure and good. Will Callicles still maintain this? “Yes, for the sake of consistency, he will.” The answer does not satisfy Socrates, who fears that he is losing his touchstone. A profession of seriousness on the part of Callicles reassures him, and they proceed with the argument. Pleasure and good are the same, but knowledge and courage are not the same either with pleasure or good, or with one another. Socrates disproves the first of these statements by showing that two opposites cannot coexist, but must alternate with one another—to be well and ill together is impossible. But pleasure and pain are simultaneous, and the cessation of them is simultaneous; e.g. in the case of drinking and thirsting, whereas good and evil are not simultaneous, and do not cease simultaneously, and therefore pleasure cannot be the same as good.
Socrates praises Callicles for openly saying what other men only think. In Callicles’ view, people who want nothing are not happy. “Why,” says Callicles, “if they were, stones and the dead would be happy.” In reply, Socrates begins reflecting in a half-serious, half-comic way. “Who knows,” as Euripides says, “whether life may not be death, and death life?” Indeed, some philosophers claim that even while alive, we are dead. They say the body (soma) is the tomb (sema) of the soul. And some clever Sicilian has created an allegory that presents fools as people uninitiated into religious mysteries. These people supposedly carry water to a vessel full of holes, using a sieve equally full of holes. The sieve represents their own soul. The idea is fanciful, but it illustrates a truth I want you to accept. A life of contentment is better than a life of indulgence. Are you willing to admit that? “Not at all.” Then listen to another parable. A contented life and a self-indulgent life can be represented by two men filling jars with wine, honey, and milk. One man’s jars are sound, while the other’s leak. The first man fills his jars and has no more trouble with them. The second must keep filling his jars and would suffer terribly if he stopped. Do you still hold the same opinion? “Yes, Socrates, and your comparison expresses what I mean. For true pleasure is a constant stream, flowing in and flowing out. Being hungry and always eating, being thirsty and always drinking, and having and satisfying all the other desires. That, as I admit, is my idea of happiness.” And being itchy and always scratching? “I do not deny that there may be happiness even in that.” And indulging unnatural desires, if those desires are amply satisfied? Callicles is outraged that Socrates has brought up such subjects. But Socrates reminds him that these subjects arise from Callicles’ claim that pleasure and goodness are identical, not from Socrates. Will Callicles still stand by that claim? “Yes, for the sake of consistency, he will.” The answer does not satisfy Socrates, who fears he is losing his reliable standard for testing his ideas. Callicles assures Socrates that he is serious. Reassured, Socrates continues the argument with him. Pleasure and goodness are the same. But knowledge and courage are not the same as either pleasure or goodness, nor are they the same as each other. Socrates disproves the first claim by showing that two opposites cannot exist together but must take turns. Being well and ill at the same time is impossible. But pleasure and pain occur together and stop together, as when someone drinks while thirsty. Good and evil, however, do not occur together or stop together. Therefore, pleasure cannot be the same as goodness.
Callicles has already lost his temper, and can only be persuaded to go on by the interposition of Gorgias. Socrates, having already guarded against objections by distinguishing courage and knowledge from pleasure and good, proceeds:—The good are good by the presence of good, and the bad are bad by the presence of evil. And the brave and wise are good, and the cowardly and foolish are bad. And he who feels pleasure is good, and he who feels pain is bad, and both feel pleasure and pain in nearly the same degree, and sometimes the bad man or coward in a greater degree. Therefore the bad man or coward is as good as the brave or may be even better.
Callicles has already lost his temper. Only Gorgias’s intervention can persuade Callicles to continue. Socrates has already headed off objections by distinguishing courage and knowledge from pleasure and goodness. Socrates continues: Good people are good because goodness is present in them, and bad people are bad because evil is present in them. Brave and wise people are good, while cowardly and foolish people are bad. And anyone who feels pleasure is good, while anyone who feels pain is bad. Both groups feel pleasure and pain to nearly the same degree. Sometimes the bad person or coward feels pleasure and pain to a greater degree. Therefore, the bad person or coward is as good as the brave person, or may be even better.
Callicles endeavours now to avert the inevitable absurdity by affirming that he and all mankind admitted some pleasures to be good and others bad. The good are the beneficial, and the bad are the hurtful, and we should choose the one and avoid the other. But this, as Socrates observes, is a return to the old doctrine of himself and Polus, that all things should be done for the sake of the good.
Callicles now tries to avoid the inevitable absurdity. He claims that he and all humanity accept some pleasures as good and others as bad. Good pleasures are beneficial, and bad pleasures are harmful. We should choose the good pleasures and avoid the bad ones. But Socrates points out that this distinction returns to the earlier view he and Polus held. Everything should be done for the sake of what is good.
Callicles assents to this, and Socrates, finding that they are agreed in distinguishing pleasure from good, returns to his old division of empirical habits, or shams, or flatteries, which study pleasure only, and the arts which are concerned with the higher interests of soul and body. Does Callicles agree to this division? Callicles will agree to anything, in order that he may get through the argument. Which of the arts then are flatteries? Flute-playing, harp-playing, choral exhibitions, the dithyrambics of Cinesias are all equally condemned on the ground that they give pleasure only; and Meles the harp-player, who was the father of Cinesias, failed even in that. The stately muse of Tragedy is bent upon pleasure, and not upon improvement. Poetry in general is only a rhetorical address to a mixed audience of men, women, and children. And the orators are very far from speaking with a view to what is best; their way is to humour the assembly as if they were children.
Callicles agrees to this, and Socrates finds that they agree on the distinction between pleasure and good. So Socrates returns to his earlier distinction between habits based on experience, or shams, or forms of flattery, and true arts. The former aim only at pleasure. The true arts serve the higher interests of the soul and body. Does Callicles agree with this division? Callicles will agree to anything just to get through the argument. Which of the arts, then, are forms of flattery? Flute-playing, harp-playing, choral performances, and the dithyrambic poems of Cinesias are all equally condemned because they provide only pleasure. And Meles the harp-player, the father of Cinesias, failed even to provide pleasure. The dignified muse of Tragedy aims at pleasure, not improvement. Poetry in general is merely a rhetorical speech to a mixed audience of men, women, and children. And the orators are far from speaking with what is best in mind. Instead, they tell the assembly what it wants to hear, as if its members were children.
Callicles replies, that this is only true of some of them; others have a real regard for their fellow-citizens. Granted; then there are two species of oratory; the one a flattery, another which has a real regard for the citizens. But where are the orators among whom you find the latter? Callicles admits that there are none remaining, but there were such in the days when Themistocles, Cimon, Miltiades, and the great Pericles were still alive. Socrates replies that none of these were true artists, setting before themselves the duty of bringing order out of disorder. The good man and true orator has a settled design, running through his life, to which he conforms all his words and actions; he desires to implant justice and eradicate injustice, to implant all virtue and eradicate all vice in the minds of his citizens. He is the physician who will not allow the sick man to indulge his appetites with a variety of meats and drinks, but insists on his exercising self-restraint. And this is good for the soul, and better than the unrestrained indulgence which Callicles was recently approving.
Callicles replies that this is true of only some orators. Others genuinely care about their fellow citizens. Granted, then there are two kinds of public speaking. One is flattery, while the other shows genuine concern for the citizens. But where can we find orators who show this concern? Callicles admits that none remain. But such orators existed when Themistocles, Cimon, Miltiades, and the great Pericles were still alive. Socrates replies that none of these men were true masters of their art, committed to bringing order out of disorder. The good man and true orator has a clear purpose throughout his life. All his words and actions follow that purpose. He wants to establish justice and root out injustice in the minds of his fellow citizens. He wants to establish all virtue and root out all vice in their minds. He is like a doctor who refuses to let a sick man indulge his appetites with various foods and drinks. Instead, the doctor insists that the sick man practice self-control. And self-control is good for the soul. It is better than the unchecked indulgence Callicles was approving of just a little earlier.
Here Callicles, who had been with difficulty brought to this point, turns restive, and suggests that Socrates shall answer his own questions. “Then,” says Socrates, “one man must do for two;” and though he had hoped to have given Callicles an “Amphion” in return for his “Zethus,” he is willing to proceed; at the same time, he hopes that Callicles will correct him, if he falls into error. He recapitulates the advantages which he has already won:—
At this point, Callicles grows restless, after being persuaded only with difficulty to go this far. He suggests that Socrates answer his own questions. “Then,” says Socrates, “one man must do the work of two.” Socrates had hoped to offer Callicles an “Amphion” in return for his “Zethus,” but he is willing to continue. At the same time, he hopes Callicles will correct him if he makes a mistake. He sums up the points he has already established:
The pleasant is not the same as the good—Callicles and I are agreed about that,—but pleasure is to be pursued for the sake of the good, and the good is that of which the presence makes us good; we and all things good have acquired some virtue or other. And virtue, whether of body or soul, of things or persons, is not attained by accident, but is due to order and harmonious arrangement. And the soul which has order is better than the soul which is without order, and is therefore temperate and is therefore good, and the intemperate is bad. And he who is temperate is also just and brave and pious, and has attained the perfection of goodness and therefore of happiness, and the intemperate whom you approve is the opposite of all this and is wretched. He therefore who would be happy must pursue temperance and avoid intemperance, and if possible escape the necessity of punishment, but if he have done wrong he must endure punishment. In this way states and individuals should seek to attain harmony, which, as the wise tell us, is the bond of heaven and earth, of gods and men. Callicles has never discovered the power of geometrical proportion in both worlds; he would have men aim at disproportion and excess. But if he be wrong in this, and if self-control is the true secret of happiness, then the paradox is true that the only use of rhetoric is in self-accusation, and Polus was right in saying that to do wrong is worse than to suffer wrong, and Gorgias was right in saying that the rhetorician must be a just man. And you were wrong in taunting me with my defenceless condition, and in saying that I might be accused or put to death or boxed on the ears with impunity. For I may repeat once more, that to strike is worse than to be stricken—to do than to suffer. What I said then is now made fast in adamantine bonds. I myself know not the true nature of these things, but I know that no one can deny my words and not be ridiculous. To do wrong is the greatest of evils, and to suffer wrong is the next greatest evil. He who would avoid the last must be a ruler, or the friend of a ruler; and to be the friend he must be the equal of the ruler, and must also resemble him. Under his protection he will suffer no evil, but will he also do no evil? Nay, will he not rather do all the evil which he can and escape? And in this way the greatest of all evils will befall him. “But this imitator of the tyrant,” rejoins Callicles, “will kill any one who does not similarly imitate him.” Socrates replies that he is not deaf, and that he has heard that repeated many times, and can only reply, that a bad man will kill a good one. “Yes, and that is the provoking thing.” Not provoking to a man of sense who is not studying the arts which will preserve him from danger; and this, as you say, is the use of rhetoric in courts of justice. But how many other arts are there which also save men from death, and are yet quite humble in their pretensions—such as the art of swimming, or the art of the pilot? Does not the pilot do men at least as much service as the rhetorician, and yet for the voyage from Aegina to Athens he does not charge more than two obols, and when he disembarks is quite unassuming in his demeanour? The reason is that he is not certain whether he has done his passengers any good in saving them from death, if one of them is diseased in body, and still more if he is diseased in mind—who can say? The engineer too will often save whole cities, and yet you despise him, and would not allow your son to marry his daughter, or his son to marry yours. But what reason is there in this? For if virtue only means the saving of life, whether your own or another’s, you have no right to despise him or any practiser of saving arts. But is not virtue something different from saving and being saved? I would have you rather consider whether you ought not to disregard length of life, and think only how you can live best, leaving all besides to the will of Heaven. For you must not expect to have influence either with the Athenian Demos or with Demos the son of Pyrilampes, unless you become like them. What do you say to this?
Pleasure is not the same as goodness. Callicles and I agree on that. But we should pursue pleasure for the sake of goodness. Goodness is what makes us good when we possess it. We and all other good things have acquired some virtue or other. And virtue, whether in bodies or souls, things or people, does not come about by chance. It comes from order and harmony. A well-ordered soul is better than a disordered soul. It therefore has self-control and is therefore good. A soul without self-control is bad. Someone with self-control is also just, brave, and pious. Such a person has achieved complete goodness and therefore happiness. The person without self-control whom you admire is the opposite in every way and is miserable. So anyone who wants to be happy must pursue self-control and avoid its opposite. If possible, that person must avoid needing punishment. But anyone who has done wrong must submit to punishment. In this way, states and individuals should seek harmony. As the wise tell us, harmony binds together heaven and earth, gods and humans. Callicles has never discovered the power of geometrical proportion in either the divine or the human world. He would have people aim at imbalance and excess. But suppose he is wrong, and self-control really is the secret of happiness. Then the paradox is true: rhetoric is useful only for accusing ourselves. And Polus was right to say that doing wrong is worse than suffering wrong. Gorgias was also right to say that a speaker trained in rhetoric must be just. And you were wrong to mock my inability to defend myself. You said someone could accuse me, put me to death, or slap my ears without facing punishment. For I can repeat once more that striking someone is worse than being struck. Doing wrong is worse than suffering it. The argument I made then is now secured by unbreakable bonds. I do not myself know the true nature of these things. But I know that no one can deny what I say without looking ridiculous. Doing wrong is the greatest evil, and suffering wrong is the next greatest. Anyone who wants to avoid suffering wrong must be a ruler or a ruler’s friend. To be the ruler’s friend, that person must be the ruler’s equal and must also resemble him. Under the ruler’s protection, his friend will suffer no evil. But will his friend also do no evil? On the contrary, will he not do all the evil he can get away with? And in this way, the greatest of all evils will fall upon him. “But this imitator of the tyrant,” Callicles replies, “will kill anyone who does not imitate the tyrant as he does.” Socrates replies that he is not deaf and has heard that claim repeated many times. He can only answer that a bad man will kill a good one. “Yes, and that is the infuriating thing.” But it is not infuriating to a sensible person who is not studying skills to keep himself safe. And keeping people safe, as you say, is the purpose of rhetoric in the courts. But many other skills also save people from death, yet make very modest claims. Swimming and navigating a ship are examples. Does a ship’s pilot not serve people at least as well as a speaker trained in rhetoric? Yet he charges no more than two obols for the voyage from Aegina to Athens. And when he goes ashore, he behaves quite modestly. The reason is that he cannot be certain he has benefited his passengers by saving them from death. If a passenger has a diseased body, who can say whether being saved has benefited him? And who can say, still more, if the passenger has a diseased mind? An engineer, too, will often save whole cities. Yet you despise him. You would not let your son marry his daughter, or his son marry yours. But what reason is there for your attitude? For suppose virtue means only saving lives, whether your own or someone else’s. Then you have no right to despise the engineer or anyone else who practices a lifesaving skill. But is virtue not something different from saving others and being saved? Instead, I would have you consider whether you should disregard how long you live. Should you not think only about how to live best, leaving everything else to the will of Heaven? For you must not expect to influence either the Athenian Demos or Demos the son of Pyrilampes unless you become like them. What do you say to this?
“There is some truth in what you are saying, but I do not entirely believe you.”
“There’s some truth in what you’re saying, but I don’t fully believe you.”
That is because you are in love with Demos. But let us have a little more conversation. You remember the two processes—one which was directed to pleasure, the other which was directed to making men as good as possible. And those who have the care of the city should make the citizens as good as possible. But who would undertake a public building, if he had never had a teacher of the art of building, and had never constructed a building before? or who would undertake the duty of state-physician, if he had never cured either himself or any one else? Should we not examine him before we entrusted him with the office? And as Callicles is about to enter public life, should we not examine him? Whom has he made better? For we have already admitted that this is the statesman’s proper business. And we must ask the same question about Pericles, and Cimon, and Miltiades, and Themistocles. Whom did they make better? Nay, did not Pericles make the citizens worse? For he gave them pay, and at first he was very popular with them, but at last they condemned him to death. Yet surely he would be a bad tamer of animals who, having received them gentle, taught them to kick and butt, and man is an animal; and Pericles who had the charge of man only made him wilder, and more savage and unjust, and therefore he could not have been a good statesman. The same tale might be repeated about Cimon, Themistocles, Miltiades. But the charioteer who keeps his seat at first is not thrown out when he gains greater experience and skill. The inference is, that the statesman of a past age were no better than those of our own. They may have been cleverer constructors of docks and harbours, but they did not improve the character of the citizens. I have told you again and again (and I purposely use the same images) that the soul, like the body, may be treated in two ways—there is the meaner and the higher art. You seemed to understand what I said at the time, but when I ask you who were the really good statesmen, you answer—as if I asked you who were the good trainers, and you answered, Thearion, the baker, Mithoecus, the author of the Sicilian cookery-book, Sarambus, the vintner. And you would be affronted if I told you that these are a parcel of cooks who make men fat only to make them thin. And those whom they have fattened applaud them, instead of finding fault with them, and lay the blame of their subsequent disorders on their physicians. In this respect, Callicles, you are like them; you applaud the statesmen of old, who pandered to the vices of the citizens, and filled the city with docks and harbours, but neglected virtue and justice. And when the fit of illness comes, the citizens who in like manner applauded Themistocles, Pericles, and others, will lay hold of you and my friend Alcibiades, and you will suffer for the misdeeds of your predecessors. The old story is always being repeated—“after all his services, the ungrateful city banished him, or condemned him to death.” As if the statesman should not have taught the city better! He surely cannot blame the state for having unjustly used him, any more than the sophist or teacher can find fault with his pupils if they cheat him. And the sophist and orator are in the same case; although you admire rhetoric and despise sophistic, whereas sophistic is really the higher of the two. The teacher of the arts takes money, but the teacher of virtue or politics takes no money, because this is the only kind of service which makes the disciple desirous of requiting his teacher.
That is because you are in love with Demos. But let us talk a little more. You remember the two approaches. One aimed at pleasure, the other at making people as good as possible. Those responsible for the city should make its citizens as good as possible. But who would take on a public building project without ever learning construction from a teacher or building anything before? Or who would take on the role of state physician without ever curing himself or anyone else? Should we not examine such a person before trusting him with the office? And since Callicles is about to enter public life, should we not examine him? Whom has he made better? We have already agreed that improving people is the statesman’s proper job. And we must ask the same question about Pericles, Cimon, Miltiades, and Themistocles. Whom did they make better? In fact, did Pericles not make the citizens worse? For he gave them pay, and at first he was very popular with them. But in the end, they condemned him to death. Surely an animal trainer would be bad at his job if he took gentle animals and taught them to kick and butt. And human beings are animals. Pericles was responsible for people, but only made them wilder, more savage, and more unjust. So he could not have been a good statesman. The same story could be told about Cimon, Themistocles, and Miltiades. But a charioteer who stays in his seat at first does not get thrown out as his skill and experience grow. So the statesmen of the past were no better than those of our own time. They may have been more skilled at building docks and harbours, but they did not improve the citizens’ character. I have told you again and again that the soul, like the body, can be treated in two ways. There is an inferior art and a higher one. I deliberately keep using the same comparisons. You seemed to understand me at the time. But when I ask who the truly good statesmen were, consider how you answer. It is as if I asked who the good physical trainers were, and you named Thearion, the baker. Or Mithoecus, the author of the Sicilian cookbook, or Sarambus, the wine merchant. And you would be offended if I called them a bunch of cooks who fatten people only to make them thin. The people they have fattened praise them instead of finding fault with them. And those people blame their doctors for the illnesses that follow. In this respect, Callicles, you are like those people. You praise the statesmen of the past, who catered to the citizens’ vices. Those statesmen filled the city with docks and harbours but neglected virtue and justice. And when the city falls ill, the citizens will seize you and my friend Alcibiades. Those citizens likewise praised Themistocles, Pericles, and the others. You will suffer for your predecessors’ wrongdoing. The old story keeps repeating itself: “after all his services, the ungrateful city banished him, or condemned him to death.” As if the statesman should not have taught the city better! Surely he cannot blame the state for treating him unjustly. A sophist or teacher can no more blame his pupils if they cheat him. And the sophist and the orator are in the same position. Yet you admire rhetoric and despise sophistic, the sophists’ art of teaching, although sophistic is really the higher art. A teacher of practical skills takes money, but a teacher of virtue or politics takes none. For teaching virtue or politics is the only service that makes the pupil want to repay his teacher.
Socrates concludes by finally asking, to which of the two modes of serving the state Callicles invites him:—“to the inferior and ministerial one,” is the ingenuous reply. That is the only way of avoiding death, replies Socrates; and he has heard often enough, and would rather not hear again, that the bad man will kill the good. But he thinks that such a fate is very likely reserved for him, because he remarks that he is the only person who teaches the true art of politics. And very probably, as in the case which he described to Polus, he may be the physician who is tried by a jury of children. He cannot say that he has procured the citizens any pleasure, and if any one charges him with perplexing them, or with reviling their elders, he will not be able to make them understand that he has only been actuated by a desire for their good. And therefore there is no saying what his fate may be. “And do you think that a man who is unable to help himself is in a good condition?” Yes, Callicles, if he have the true self-help, which is never to have said or done any wrong to himself or others. If I had not this kind of self-help, I should be ashamed; but if I die for want of your flattering rhetoric, I shall die in peace. For death is no evil, but to go to the world below laden with offences is the worst of evils. In proof of which I will tell you a tale:—
Socrates ends by asking which of the two ways of serving the state Callicles urges him to follow. “The inferior one, serving the state’s wishes,” Callicles frankly replies. Socrates answers that this is the only way to avoid death. He has heard often enough that a bad man will kill a good one, and would rather not hear it again. But he thinks such a fate very likely awaits him. For, he observes, he is the only person who teaches the true art of politics. And he may very probably be like the doctor tried by a jury of children, as he described to Polus. He cannot say he has given the citizens any pleasure. Someone may accuse him of confusing them or insulting their elders. If so, he will be unable to make them understand that he acted only out of concern for their good. So there is no telling what his fate may be. “And do you think a man who cannot help himself is in a good position?” Yes, Callicles, if he has the true power to help himself: never having said or done anything wrong to himself or others. If I lacked this kind of self-help, I would be ashamed. But if I die because I lack your flattering rhetoric, I will die in peace. For death is not an evil. But going to the world below burdened with wrongdoing is the worst of evils. To prove this, I will tell you a tale:
Under the rule of Cronos, men were judged on the day of their death, and when judgment had been given upon them they departed—the good to the islands of the blest, the bad to the house of vengeance. But as they were still living, and had their clothes on at the time when they were being judged, there was favouritism, and Zeus, when he came to the throne, was obliged to alter the mode of procedure, and try them after death, having first sent down Prometheus to take away from them the foreknowledge of death. Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus were appointed to be the judges; Rhadamanthus for Asia, Aeacus for Europe, and Minos was to hold the court of appeal. Now death is the separation of soul and body, but after death soul and body alike retain their characteristics; the fat man, the dandy, the branded slave, are all distinguishable. Some prince or potentate, perhaps even the great king himself, appears before Rhadamanthus, and he instantly detects him, though he knows not who he is; he sees the scars of perjury and iniquity, and sends him away to the house of torment.
Under the rule of Cronos, people were judged on the day of their death. After judgment, the good went to the islands of the blessed, and the bad went to the house of vengeance. But people were judged while still alive and wearing their clothes, so there was favoritism. When Zeus came to the throne, he had to change the process and have people judged after death. First, he sent Prometheus down to take away their ability to know when they would die. Minos, Rhadamanthus, and Aeacus were appointed as judges. Rhadamanthus judged people from Asia, Aeacus judged people from Europe, and Minos heard appeals. Now death is the separation of soul and body, but after death both soul and body retain their characteristics. The fat man, the finely dressed man, and the branded slave can all still be recognized. Some prince or powerful ruler, perhaps even the great king himself, appears before Rhadamanthus. Rhadamanthus immediately sees what kind of man the ruler is, though he does not know who the ruler is. He sees the scars left by lying under oath and wrongdoing, and sends the ruler to the house of torment.
For there are two classes of souls who undergo punishment—the curable and the incurable. The curable are those who are benefited by their punishment; the incurable are such as Archelaus, who benefit others by becoming a warning to them. The latter class are generally kings and potentates; meaner persons, happily for themselves, have not the same power of doing injustice. Sisyphus and Tityus, not Thersites, are supposed by Homer to be undergoing everlasting punishment. Not that there is anything to prevent a great man from being a good one, as is shown by the famous example of Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus. But to Rhadamanthus the souls are only known as good or bad; they are stripped of their dignities and preferments; he despatches the bad to Tartarus, labelled either as curable or incurable, and looks with love and admiration on the soul of some just one, whom he sends to the islands of the blest. Similar is the practice of Aeacus; and Minos overlooks them, holding a golden sceptre, as Odysseus in Homer saw him
For there are two kinds of souls who face punishment: those who can be cured and those who cannot. Souls who can be cured benefit from their punishment. Those who cannot, like Archelaus, benefit others by serving as a warning. These incurable souls are generally kings and rulers. People of lower status, fortunately for themselves, lack the same power to do wrong. In Homer, Sisyphus and Tityus, not Thersites, are shown suffering eternal punishment. Still, nothing prevents a powerful man from being good. The famous example of Aristeides, the son of Lysimachus, shows this. But Rhadamanthus knows souls only as good or bad, stripped of their honors and high positions. He sends the bad souls to Tartarus, marked as either curable or incurable. When he sees the soul of a just person, he looks on it with love and admiration. He sends that soul to the islands of the blessed. Aeacus follows a similar practice. Minos oversees them, holding a golden sceptre, just as Odysseus saw him in Homer.
“Wielding a sceptre of gold, and giving laws to the dead.”
“Holding a golden sceptre and making laws for the dead.”
My wish for myself and my fellow-men is, that we may present our souls undefiled to the judge in that day; my desire in life is to be able to meet death. And I exhort you, and retort upon you the reproach which you cast upon me,—that you will stand before the judge, gaping, and with dizzy brain, and any one may box you on the ear, and do you all manner of evil.
My wish for myself and everyone else is that we may stand before the judge that day with untainted souls. My aim in life is to be ready to face death. And I urge you to do the same, turning your own accusation back on you. You will stand before the judge with your mouth hanging open and your head spinning. And anyone may slap you in the face and do you all kinds of harm.
Perhaps you think that this is an old wives’ fable. But you, who are the three wisest men in Hellas, have nothing better to say, and no one will ever show that to do is better than to suffer evil. A man should study to be, and not merely to seem. If he is bad, he should become good, and avoid all flattery, whether of the many or of the few.
Perhaps you think this is just an old wives’ tale. But you, the three wisest men in Hellas, have nothing better to say. And no one will ever show that doing evil is better than suffering it. A man should work to be good, not merely to seem good. If he is bad, he should become good and avoid all flattery, whether of the many or the few.
Follow me, then; and if you are looked down upon, that will do you no harm. And when we have practised virtue, we will betake ourselves to politics, but not until we are delivered from the shameful state of ignorance and uncertainty in which we are at present. Let us follow in the way of virtue and justice, and not in the way to which you, Callicles, invite us; for that way is nothing worth.
Follow me, then. If others look down on you, their contempt will do you no harm. And when we have practiced virtue, we will enter politics. But we must first escape our current shameful state of ignorance and uncertainty. Let us follow the path of virtue and justice, not the path you invite us to follow, Callicles. For the path you offer is worthless.
We will now consider in order some of the principal points of the dialogue. Having regard (1) to the age of Plato and the ironical character of his writings, we may compare him with himself, and with other great teachers, and we may note in passing the objections of his critics. And then (2) casting one eye upon him, we may cast another upon ourselves, and endeavour to draw out the great lessons which he teaches for all time, stripped of the accidental form in which they are enveloped.
We will now consider some of the dialogue’s main points in order. (1) We will take into account Plato’s time and the irony in his writings. With these in mind, we may compare Plato’s writings with one another and compare him with other great teachers. We may also briefly note his critics’ objections. Then (2), while keeping one eye on Plato, we may turn the other toward ourselves. We may try to draw out the great lessons he teaches for all time, beyond their historically specific form.
(1) In the Gorgias, as in nearly all the other dialogues of Plato, we are made aware that formal logic has as yet no existence. The old difficulty of framing a definition recurs. The illusive analogy of the arts and the virtues also continues. The ambiguity of several words, such as nature, custom, the honourable, the good, is not cleared up. The Sophists are still floundering about the distinction of the real and seeming. Figures of speech are made the basis of arguments. The possibility of conceiving a universal art or science, which admits of application to a particular subject-matter, is a difficulty which remains unsolved, and has not altogether ceased to haunt the world at the present day (compare Charmides). The defect of clearness is also apparent in Socrates himself, unless we suppose him to be practising on the simplicity of his opponent, or rather perhaps trying an experiment in dialectics. Nothing can be more fallacious than the contradiction which he pretends to have discovered in the answers of Gorgias (see above). The advantages which he gains over Polus are also due to a false antithesis of pleasure and good, and to an erroneous assertion that an agent and a patient may be described by similar predicates;—a mistake which Aristotle partly shares and partly corrects in the Nicomachean Ethics. Traces of a “robust sophistry” are likewise discernible in his argument with Callicles.
(1) In the Gorgias, as in nearly all Plato’s other dialogues, we see that formal logic does not yet exist. The old difficulty of forming a definition returns. So does the misleading analogy between the arts and the virtues. Words such as nature, custom, the honourable, and the good remain ambiguous. The Sophists still struggle to distinguish reality from appearance. Figures of speech serve as the basis for arguments. One unresolved difficulty is whether we can conceive of a universal art or science applicable to a particular subject. This difficulty has not entirely stopped troubling the world even today (compare Charmides). Socrates himself also lacks clarity, unless we suppose he is exploiting his opponent’s simplicity. Or perhaps, rather, he is experimenting with dialectic. Nothing could be more misleading than the contradiction he claims to have found in Gorgias’s answers (see above). His advantages over Polus also depend on a false opposition between pleasure and good. They also depend on his mistaken claim that similar qualities can describe someone acting and someone being acted upon. Aristotle partly shares and partly corrects this mistake in the Nicomachean Ethics. Traces of a “robust sophistry” can also be seen in his argument with Callicles.
(2) Although Socrates professes to be convinced by reason only, yet the argument is often a sort of dialectical fiction, by which he conducts himself and others to his own ideal of life and action. And we may sometimes wish that we could have suggested answers to his antagonists, or pointed out to them the rocks which lay concealed under the ambiguous terms good, pleasure, and the like. But it would be as useless to examine his arguments by the requirements of modern logic, as to criticise this ideal from a merely utilitarian point of view. If we say that the ideal is generally regarded as unattainable, and that mankind will by no means agree in thinking that the criminal is happier when punished than when unpunished, any more than they would agree to the stoical paradox that a man may be happy on the rack, Plato has already admitted that the world is against him. Neither does he mean to say that Archelaus is tormented by the stings of conscience; or that the sensations of the impaled criminal are more agreeable than those of the tyrant drowned in luxurious enjoyment. Neither is he speaking, as in the Protagoras, of virtue as a calculation of pleasure, an opinion which he afterwards repudiates in the Phaedo. What then is his meaning? His meaning we shall be able to illustrate best by parallel notions, which, whether justifiable by logic or not, have always existed among mankind. We must remind the reader that Socrates himself implies that he will be understood or appreciated by very few.
(2) Although Socrates claims that only reason convinces him, his argument is often a kind of fiction built through debate. Through this fiction, he guides himself and others toward his own ideal of life and action. We may sometimes wish we could suggest answers to his opponents. Or we may wish we could warn them of hidden dangers in ambiguous terms such as good and pleasure. But judging his arguments by modern logic would be as pointless as criticizing his ideal from a purely utilitarian perspective. We might say that people generally regard his ideal as impossible to achieve. We might also say that people will certainly not agree that a criminal is happier punished than unpunished. They would no more accept this claim than the Stoic paradox that someone can be happy on the rack. But Plato has already admitted that the world is against him. Nor does he mean that Archelaus is tormented by guilt. He does not claim that an impaled criminal feels more pleasure than a tyrant immersed in luxury. Nor is he describing virtue as a calculation of pleasure, as he does in the Protagoras. He later rejects that view in the Phaedo. What, then, does he mean? We can best explain his meaning through similar ideas that have always existed among human beings. Such ideas have existed whether or not logic can justify them. We must remind the reader that Socrates himself suggests very few people will understand or appreciate him.
He is speaking not of the consciousness of happiness, but of the idea of happiness. When a martyr dies in a good cause, when a soldier falls in battle, we do not suppose that death or wounds are without pain, or that their physical suffering is always compensated by a mental satisfaction. Still we regard them as happy, and we would a thousand times rather have their death than a shameful life. Nor is this only because we believe that they will obtain an immortality of fame, or that they will have crowns of glory in another world, when their enemies and persecutors will be proportionably tormented. Men are found in a few instances to do what is right, without reference to public opinion or to consequences. And we regard them as happy on this ground only, much as Socrates’ friends in the opening of the Phaedo are described as regarding him; or as was said of another, “they looked upon his face as upon the face of an angel.” We are not concerned to justify this idealism by the standard of utility or public opinion, but merely to point out the existence of such a sentiment in the better part of human nature.
He is speaking not of feeling happy, but of the idea of happiness. When a martyr dies for a good cause or a soldier falls in battle, we do not assume either escapes pain. Nor do we assume that inner satisfaction always makes up for their physical suffering. Still, we regard them as happy. We would a thousand times rather die as they did than live a shameful life. Nor is our judgment based only on believing that their fame will make them immortal. Nor is it based only on believing they will receive crowns of glory in another world. In that world, their enemies and persecutors would suffer torment in proportion to their victims’ glory. In a few cases, people do what is right without regard for public opinion or the consequences. We regard these people as happy for that reason alone. Socrates’ friends are described as seeing him much this way at the beginning of the Phaedo. Or, as was said of another, “they looked upon his face as upon the face of an angel.” We are not trying to justify this idealism by measuring it against practical usefulness or public opinion. We only want to point out that such a feeling exists in the better part of human nature.
The idealism of Plato is founded upon this sentiment. He would maintain that in some sense or other truth and right are alone to be sought, and that all other goods are only desirable as means towards these. He is thought to have erred in “considering the agent only, and making no reference to the happiness of others, as affected by him.” But the happiness of others or of mankind, if regarded as an end, is really quite as ideal and almost as paradoxical to the common understanding as Plato’s conception of happiness. For the greatest happiness of the greatest number may mean also the greatest pain of the individual which will procure the greatest pleasure of the greatest number. Ideas of utility, like those of duty and right, may be pushed to unpleasant consequences. Nor can Plato in the Gorgias be deemed purely self-regarding, considering that Socrates expressly mentions the duty of imparting the truth when discovered to others. Nor must we forget that the side of ethics which regards others is by the ancients merged in politics. Both in Plato and Aristotle, as well as in the Stoics, the social principle, though taking another form, is really far more prominent than in most modern treatises on ethics.
Plato’s idealism rests on this feeling. He would argue that, in some sense, truth and right alone should be sought. All other goods are desirable only as means to truth and right. He is thought to have been wrong in “considering only the person acting, without considering how his actions affect others’ happiness.” But suppose the happiness of others, or of humanity, is treated as an end in itself. That goal is really just as ideal as Plato’s idea of happiness, and almost as contrary to common sense. For the greatest happiness of the greatest number may also mean the greatest pain for an individual. That individual’s pain would secure the greatest pleasure for the greatest number. Ideas of usefulness, like ideas of duty and right, can lead to unpleasant consequences. Nor can Plato’s position in the Gorgias be considered purely concerned with oneself. Socrates explicitly mentions the duty to share truth with others once it has been discovered. We must also remember that ancient thinkers treated the part of ethics concerned with others as part of politics. In Plato, Aristotle, and the Stoics, concern for society takes a different form. Yet that concern is really far more prominent than in most modern works on ethics.
The idealizing of suffering is one of the conceptions which have exercised the greatest influence on mankind. Into the theological import of this, or into the consideration of the errors to which the idea may have given rise, we need not now enter. All will agree that the ideal of the Divine Sufferer, whose words the world would not receive, the man of sorrows of whom the Hebrew prophets spoke, has sunk deep into the heart of the human race. It is a similar picture of suffering goodness which Plato desires to pourtray, not without an allusion to the fate of his master Socrates. He is convinced that, somehow or other, such an one must be happy in life or after death. In the Republic, he endeavours to show that his happiness would be assured here in a well-ordered state. But in the actual condition of human things the wise and good are weak and miserable; such an one is like a man fallen among wild beasts, exposed to every sort of wrong and obloquy.
Idealizing suffering is one of the ideas that have most deeply influenced humanity. We need not now explore its theological meaning or the errors the idea may have caused. All will agree that the ideal of the Divine Sufferer has sunk deep into the human heart. The world would not accept his words. He is the man of sorrows spoken of by the Hebrew prophets. Plato seeks to paint a similar picture of goodness suffering, with a reference to the fate of his teacher Socrates. He is convinced that, somehow, such a person must be happy in life or after death. In the Republic, Plato tries to show that a well-ordered state would guarantee such a person's happiness in this life. But as human affairs actually stand, the wise and good are weak and miserable. Such a person is like a man who has fallen among wild beasts, exposed to every kind of injustice and abuse.
Plato, like other philosophers, is thus led on to the conclusion, that if “the ways of God” to man are to be “justified,” the hopes of another life must be included. If the question could have been put to him, whether a man dying in torments was happy still, even if, as he suggests in the Apology, “death be only a long sleep,” we can hardly tell what would have been his answer. There have been a few, who, quite independently of rewards and punishments or of posthumous reputation, or any other influence of public opinion, have been willing to sacrifice their lives for the good of others. It is difficult to say how far in such cases an unconscious hope of a future life, or a general faith in the victory of good in the world, may have supported the sufferers. But this extreme idealism is not in accordance with the spirit of Plato. He supposes a day of retribution, in which the good are to be rewarded and the wicked punished. Though, as he says in the Phaedo, no man of sense will maintain that the details of the stories about another world are true, he will insist that something of the kind is true, and will frame his life with a view to this unknown future. Even in the Republic he introduces a future life as an afterthought, when the superior happiness of the just has been established on what is thought to be an immutable foundation. At the same time he makes a point of determining his main thesis independently of remoter consequences.
Plato, like other philosophers, is thus led to a conclusion about how “the ways of God” toward humanity might be “justified.” If those ways are to be justified, hope for another life must be included. Suppose Plato had been asked whether a man dying in agony was still happy, even if “death be only a long sleep.” Plato suggests this possibility in the Apology. We can hardly tell what his answer would have been. A few people have been willing to sacrifice their lives for the good of others, regardless of rewards or punishments. They have also acted independently of their reputation after death or any other influence of public opinion. It is difficult to say how far an unconscious hope of a future life may have sustained such sufferers. The same uncertainty applies to a general faith that good will triumph in the world. But this extreme idealism does not fit Plato’s outlook. He assumes a day of judgment, when the good will be rewarded and the wicked punished. Yet, as he says in the Phaedo, no sensible person will claim that stories about another world are accurate in detail. Still, a sensible person will insist that something like those stories is true, and live with that unknown future in mind. Even in the Republic, Plato introduces a future life as an afterthought. By then, he has established the greater happiness of the just on what he considers an unshakable foundation. At the same time, he takes care to establish his main argument independently of more distant consequences.
(3) Plato’s theory of punishment is partly vindictive, partly corrective. In the Gorgias, as well as in the Phaedo and Republic, a few great criminals, chiefly tyrants, are reserved as examples. But most men have never had the opportunity of attaining this pre-eminence of evil. They are not incurable, and their punishment is intended for their improvement. They are to suffer because they have sinned; like sick men, they must go to the physician and be healed. On this representation of Plato’s the criticism has been made, that the analogy of disease and injustice is partial only, and that suffering, instead of improving men, may have just the opposite effect.
(3) Plato’s theory of punishment is partly about retribution and partly about reform. In the Gorgias, as in the Phaedo and Republic, a few great criminals, mainly tyrants, are singled out as examples. But most people have never had the chance to reach such heights of evil. They are not beyond reform, and their punishment is meant to improve them. They must suffer because they have sinned. Like sick people, they must go to the doctor and be healed. Critics have argued that Plato’s comparison between disease and injustice holds only in part. They have also argued that suffering may have the opposite effect, rather than improving people.
Like the general analogy of the arts and the virtues, the analogy of disease and injustice, or of medicine and justice, is certainly imperfect. But ideas must be given through something; the nature of the mind which is unseen can only be represented under figures derived from visible objects. If these figures are suggestive of some new aspect under which the mind may be considered, we cannot find fault with them for not exactly coinciding with the ideas represented. They partake of the imperfect nature of language, and must not be construed in too strict a manner. That Plato sometimes reasons from them as if they were not figures but realities, is due to the defective logical analysis of his age.
Like the general comparison between the arts and the virtues, the comparisons between disease and injustice, or medicine and justice, are certainly imperfect. But ideas must be expressed through something. The mind is invisible, so its nature can only be represented through images drawn from visible objects. If these images suggest some new way of considering the mind, we cannot fault them for not matching the ideas exactly. These images share the imperfections of language and must not be taken too literally. Plato sometimes reasons from these images as if they were realities rather than figures of speech. This is because the logical analysis of his time was flawed.
Nor does he distinguish between the suffering which improves and the suffering which only punishes and deters. He applies to the sphere of ethics a conception of punishment which is really derived from criminal law. He does not see that such punishment is only negative, and supplies no principle of moral growth or development. He is not far off the higher notion of an education of man to be begun in this world, and to be continued in other stages of existence, which is further developed in the Republic. And Christian thinkers, who have ventured out of the beaten track in their meditations on the “last things,” have found a ray of light in his writings. But he has not explained how or in what way punishment is to contribute to the improvement of mankind. He has not followed out the principle which he affirms in the Republic, that “God is the author of evil only with a view to good,” and that “they were the better for being punished.” Still his doctrine of a future state of rewards and punishments may be compared favourably with that perversion of Christian doctrine which makes the everlasting punishment of human beings depend on a brief moment of time, or even on the accident of an accident. And he has escaped the difficulty which has often beset divines, respecting the future destiny of the meaner sort of men (Thersites and the like), who are neither very good nor very bad, by not counting them worthy of eternal damnation.
He also fails to distinguish between suffering that improves people and suffering that only punishes and deters them. He applies to ethics an idea of punishment actually drawn from criminal law. He does not see that such punishment is purely negative and offers no basis for moral growth or development. He comes close to a higher idea: human education begins in this world and continues in other stages of existence. This idea is developed further in the Republic. And Christian thinkers who have explored unconventional ideas about the “last things” have found a ray of light in his writings. But he has not explained how punishment is supposed to help humanity improve. He has not fully developed the principle he states in the Republic: “God is the author of evil only with a view to good,” and “they were the better for being punished.” Still, his teaching about rewards and punishments after death compares favorably with a distorted version of Christian teaching. That distortion makes the eternal punishment of human beings depend on a brief moment, or even on a chance within a chance. And he has avoided a difficulty that has often troubled theologians: the future fate of people of lesser character. Such people (Thersites and the like) are neither very good nor very bad. He avoids the difficulty by not considering them deserving of eternal damnation.
We do Plato violence in pressing his figures of speech or chains of argument; and not less so in asking questions which were beyond the horizon of his vision, or did not come within the scope of his design. The main purpose of the Gorgias is not to answer questions about a future world, but to place in antagonism the true and false life, and to contrast the judgments and opinions of men with judgment according to the truth. Plato may be accused of representing a superhuman or transcendental virtue in the description of the just man in the Gorgias, or in the companion portrait of the philosopher in the Theaetetus; and at the same time may be thought to be condemning a state of the world which always has existed and always will exist among men. But such ideals act powerfully on the imagination of mankind. And such condemnations are not mere paradoxes of philosophers, but the natural rebellion of the higher sense of right in man against the ordinary conditions of human life. The greatest statesmen have fallen very far short of the political ideal, and are therefore justly involved in the general condemnation.
We misrepresent Plato when we push his figures of speech or lines of argument too far. We do the same when we ask questions beyond his outlook or outside his intended scope. The main purpose of the Gorgias is not to answer questions about a future world. Instead, it sets the true and false ways of life against each other. It also contrasts human judgments and opinions with judgment based on truth. Plato may be accused of describing a virtue beyond human reach in his portrait of the just man in the Gorgias. The same accusation may apply to his companion portrait of the philosopher in the Theaetetus. At the same time, he may seem to condemn human conditions that have always existed and always will. But such ideals have a powerful effect on the human imagination. And such condemnations are not merely philosophers' paradoxes. They express the natural rebellion of humanity's higher sense of right against the ordinary conditions of human life. Even the greatest statesmen have fallen far short of the political ideal. They therefore rightly share in the general condemnation.
Subordinate to the main purpose of the dialogue are some other questions, which may be briefly considered:—
Some other questions are secondary to the dialogue’s main purpose. These questions may be considered briefly:
a. The antithesis of good and pleasure, which as in other dialogues is supposed to consist in the permanent nature of the one compared with the transient and relative nature of the other. Good and pleasure, knowledge and sense, truth and opinion, essence and generation, virtue and pleasure, the real and the apparent, the infinite and finite, harmony or beauty and discord, dialectic and rhetoric or poetry, are so many pairs of opposites, which in Plato easily pass into one another, and are seldom kept perfectly distinct. And we must not forget that Plato’s conception of pleasure is the Heracleitean flux transferred to the sphere of human conduct. There is some degree of unfairness in opposing the principle of good, which is objective, to the principle of pleasure, which is subjective. For the assertion of the permanence of good is only based on the assumption of its objective character. Had Plato fixed his mind, not on the ideal nature of good, but on the subjective consciousness of happiness, that would have been found to be as transient and precarious as pleasure.
a. The contrast between good and pleasure rests on their supposed difference in permanence, as in other dialogues. Good is seen as permanent, while pleasure is temporary and relative. Plato uses many pairs of opposites: good and pleasure, knowledge and sense, truth and opinion, essence and becoming. Others include virtue and pleasure, the real and the apparent, the infinite and the finite, harmony or beauty and discord. There are also dialectic and rhetoric or poetry. In Plato, these pairs easily merge into one another and are seldom kept completely distinct. We must also remember that Plato’s idea of pleasure applies the Heracleitean flux to human conduct. There is some unfairness in contrasting the objective principle of good with the subjective principle of pleasure. For the claim that good is permanent rests only on the assumption that good is objective. Had Plato focused on the subjective experience of happiness rather than the ideal nature of good, the result would differ. He would have found happiness just as temporary and uncertain as pleasure.
b. The arts or sciences, when pursued without any view to truth, or the improvement of human life, are called flatteries. They are all alike dependent upon the opinion of mankind, from which they are derived. To Plato the whole world appears to be sunk in error, based on self-interest. To this is opposed the one wise man hardly professing to have found truth, yet strong in the conviction that a virtuous life is the only good, whether regarded with reference to this world or to another. Statesmen, Sophists, rhetoricians, poets, are alike brought up for judgment. They are the parodies of wise men, and their arts are the parodies of true arts and sciences. All that they call science is merely the result of that study of the tempers of the Great Beast, which he describes in the Republic.
b. Arts or sciences pursued without concern for truth or the improvement of human life are called flatteries. All these arts depend on public opinion and come from it. To Plato, the whole world seems sunk in error rooted in self-interest. Against this world stands the one wise man, who hardly claims to have found truth. Yet he firmly believes that a virtuous life is the only good, whether in this world or another. Statesmen, Sophists, rhetoricians, and poets are all put on trial. They are parodies of wise men, and their arts are parodies of true arts and sciences. Everything they call science is merely the result of studying the moods of the Great Beast, as Plato describes in the Republic.
c. Various other points of contact naturally suggest themselves between the Gorgias and other dialogues, especially the Republic, the Philebus, and the Protagoras. There are closer resemblances both of spirit and language in the Republic than in any other dialogue, the verbal similarity tending to show that they were written at the same period of Plato’s life. For the Republic supplies that education and training of which the Gorgias suggests the necessity. The theory of the many weak combining against the few strong in the formation of society (which is indeed a partial truth), is similar in both of them, and is expressed in nearly the same language. The sufferings and fate of the just man, the powerlessness of evil, and the reversal of the situation in another life, are also points of similarity. The poets, like the rhetoricians, are condemned because they aim at pleasure only, as in the Republic they are expelled by the State, because they are imitators, and minister to the weaker side of human nature. That poetry is akin to rhetoric may be compared with the analogous notion, which occurs in the Protagoras, that the ancient poets were the Sophists of their day. In some other respects the Protagoras rather offers a contrast than a parallel. The character of Protagoras may be compared with that of Gorgias, but the conception of happiness is different in the two dialogues; being described in the former, according to the old Socratic notion, as deferred or accumulated pleasure, while in the Gorgias, and in the Phaedo, pleasure and good are distinctly opposed.
c. Several other connections naturally suggest themselves between the Gorgias and other dialogues, especially the Republic, the Philebus, and the Protagoras. The Republic resembles the Gorgias more closely in spirit and language than any other dialogue does. The similar wording suggests that Plato wrote both works during the same period of his life. For the Republic provides the education and training that the Gorgias suggests are necessary. Both dialogues present a similar theory of society’s formation: the many weak people unite against the few strong people. This theory is indeed partly true, and both dialogues express it in nearly the same language. Other similarities include the just man’s suffering and fate, evil’s powerlessness, and the reversal of circumstances in another life. The poets, like the rhetoricians, are condemned because they aim only to give pleasure. Similarly, in the Republic, the State expels poets because they are imitators and serve the weaker side of human nature. The idea that poetry resembles rhetoric may be compared with a similar idea in the Protagoras. There, the ancient poets are described as the Sophists of their day. In some other respects, however, the Protagoras offers more of a contrast than a parallel. The character of Protagoras may be compared with that of Gorgias, but the two dialogues understand happiness differently. In the Protagoras, happiness is described, following the old Socratic idea, as pleasure postponed or accumulated. In the Gorgias and the Phaedo, by contrast, pleasure and goodness are clearly opposed.
This opposition is carried out from a speculative point of view in the Philebus. There neither pleasure nor wisdom are allowed to be the chief good, but pleasure and good are not so completely opposed as in the Gorgias. For innocent pleasures, and such as have no antecedent pains, are allowed to rank in the class of goods. The allusion to Gorgias’ definition of rhetoric (Philebus; compare Gorg.), as the art of persuasion, of all arts the best, for to it all things submit, not by compulsion, but of their own free will—marks a close and perhaps designed connection between the two dialogues. In both the ideas of measure, order, harmony, are the connecting links between the beautiful and the good.
This contrast is explored in theoretical terms in the Philebus. There, neither pleasure nor wisdom is accepted as the highest good. But pleasure and goodness are not as sharply opposed as in the Gorgias. For innocent pleasures, and pleasures not preceded by pain, are counted among good things. The Philebus refers to Gorgias’ definition of rhetoric as the art of persuasion (compare Gorg.). In this definition, rhetoric is the best of all arts, because all things submit to it freely, not under compulsion. This reference points to a close and perhaps deliberate connection between the two dialogues. In both dialogues, the ideas of measure, order, and harmony link beauty and goodness.
In general spirit and character, that is, in irony and antagonism to public opinion, the Gorgias most nearly resembles the Apology, Crito, and portions of the Republic, and like the Philebus, though from another point of view, may be thought to stand in the same relation to Plato’s theory of morals which the Theaetetus bears to his theory of knowledge.
In its overall spirit and character, the Gorgias most closely resembles the Apology, Crito, and parts of the Republic. The similarities lie in its irony and opposition to public opinion. Like the Philebus, though from a different perspective, the Gorgias may be seen as having a similar role in Plato’s thought. Its relation to Plato’s theory of morality parallels the Theaetetus’s relation to his theory of knowledge.
d. A few minor points still remain to be summed up: (1) The extravagant irony in the reason which is assigned for the pilot’s modest charge; and in the proposed use of rhetoric as an instrument of self-condemnation; and in the mighty power of geometrical equality in both worlds. (2) The reference of the mythus to the previous discussion should not be overlooked: the fate reserved for incurable criminals such as Archelaus; the retaliation of the box on the ears; the nakedness of the souls and of the judges who are stript of the clothes or disguises which rhetoric and public opinion have hitherto provided for them (compare Swift’s notion that the universe is a suit of clothes, Tale of a Tub). The fiction seems to have involved Plato in the necessity of supposing that the soul retained a sort of corporeal likeness after death. (3) The appeal of the authority of Homer, who says that Odysseus saw Minos in his court “holding a golden sceptre,” which gives verisimilitude to the tale.
d. A few minor points remain to be summed up: (1) There is extravagant irony in the reason given for the pilot’s modest fee. The same irony appears in the proposal to use rhetoric as a tool for condemning oneself. It also appears in the mighty power of geometrical equality in both worlds. (2) We should not overlook the myth’s connections to the earlier discussion. These include the fate awaiting criminals beyond reform, such as Archelaus, and the repayment of a slap on the ears. Another connection is the nakedness of the souls and the judges. They are stripped of the clothes or disguises that rhetoric and public opinion have provided until now. (Compare Swift’s idea that the universe is a suit of clothes, Tale of a Tub). This fiction seems to have forced Plato to suppose that the soul retained a kind of bodily likeness after death. (3) The appeal to Homer’s authority makes the tale seem credible. Homer says that Odysseus saw Minos in his court “holding a golden sceptre.”
It is scarcely necessary to repeat that Plato is playing “both sides of the game,” and that in criticising the characters of Gorgias and Polus, we are not passing any judgment on historical individuals, but only attempting to analyze the “dramatis personae’ as they were conceived by him. Neither is it necessary to enlarge upon the obvious fact that Plato is a dramatic writer, whose real opinions cannot always be assumed to be those which he puts into the mouth of Socrates, or any other speaker who appears to have the best of the argument; or to repeat the observation that he is a poet as well as a philosopher; or to remark that he is not to be tried by a modern standard, but interpreted with reference to his place in the history of thought and the opinion of his time.
There is hardly any need to repeat that Plato is playing “both sides of the game.” In criticizing the characters of Gorgias and Polus, we are not judging the historical individuals. We are only trying to analyze the “dramatis personae” as Plato imagined them. Nor do we need to dwell on the obvious fact that Plato is a dramatic writer. We cannot always assume that Socrates expresses Plato’s real opinions. The same applies to any other speaker who seems to win the argument. Nor need we repeat that Plato is a poet as well as a philosopher. Nor need we point out that Plato should not be judged by modern standards. Instead, we should interpret Plato in light of his place in the history of thought and his time’s opinions.
It has been said that the most characteristic feature of the Gorgias is the assertion of the right of dissent, or private judgment. But this mode of stating the question is really opposed both to the spirit of Plato and of ancient philosophy generally. For Plato is not asserting any abstract right or duty of toleration, or advantage to be derived from freedom of thought; indeed, in some other parts of his writings (e.g. Laws), he has fairly laid himself open to the charge of intolerance. No speculations had as yet arisen respecting the “liberty of prophesying;’ and Plato is not affirming any abstract right of this nature: but he is asserting the duty and right of the one wise and true man to dissent from the folly and falsehood of the many. At the same time he acknowledges the natural result, which he hardly seeks to avert, that he who speaks the truth to a multitude, regardless of consequences, will probably share the fate of Socrates.
Some have said that the Gorgias is most distinctive for defending the right to dissent, or to judge for oneself. But framing the issue this way goes against the spirit of both Plato and ancient philosophy generally. Plato is not defending an abstract right or duty to tolerate others, or the benefits of freedom of thought. Indeed, some of his other writings (for example, Laws) have left him fairly open to the charge of intolerance. Thinkers had not yet begun debating the “liberty of prophesying,” or freedom to express religious views. Plato is not asserting any abstract right of this kind. Instead, he asserts that the one wise and truthful man has a duty and right to reject the majority’s foolishness and falsehood. At the same time, he recognizes the natural consequence, which he hardly tries to prevent. Anyone who tells a crowd the truth, regardless of the consequences, will probably share the fate of Socrates.
The irony of Plato sometimes veils from us the height of idealism to which he soars. When declaring truths which the many will not receive, he puts on an armour which cannot be pierced by them. The weapons of ridicule are taken out of their hands and the laugh is turned against themselves. The disguises which Socrates assumes are like the parables of the New Testament, or the oracles of the Delphian God; they half conceal, half reveal, his meaning. The more he is in earnest, the more ironical he becomes; and he is never more in earnest or more ironical than in the Gorgias. He hardly troubles himself to answer seriously the objections of Gorgias and Polus, and therefore he sometimes appears to be careless of the ordinary requirements of logic. Yet in the highest sense he is always logical and consistent with himself. The form of the argument may be paradoxical; the substance is an appeal to the higher reason. He is uttering truths before they can be understood, as in all ages the words of philosophers, when they are first uttered, have found the world unprepared for them. A further misunderstanding arises out of the wildness of his humour; he is supposed not only by Callicles, but by the rest of mankind, to be jesting when he is profoundly serious. At length he makes even Polus in earnest. Finally, he drops the argument, and heedless any longer of the forms of dialectic, he loses himself in a sort of triumph, while at the same time he retaliates upon his adversaries. From this confusion of jest and earnest, we may now return to the ideal truth, and draw out in a simple form the main theses of the dialogue.
Plato’s irony sometimes hides from us the heights of his idealism. When stating truths that most people will not accept, he puts on armor they cannot pierce. He takes away their weapons of ridicule and turns the laughter against them. The disguises Socrates adopts are like the parables of the New Testament or the oracles of the Delphian God. They half conceal and half reveal his meaning. The more serious he is, the more ironic he becomes. He is never more serious or more ironic than in the Gorgias. He hardly bothers to answer the objections of Gorgias and Polus seriously. As a result, he sometimes seems to disregard the ordinary rules of logic. Yet in the highest sense, he is always logical and consistent with himself. His argument may take a paradoxical form, but its substance appeals to a higher reason. He states truths before people can understand them. In every age, the world has been unprepared for philosophers’ words when first spoken. Another misunderstanding comes from his wild humor. Not only Callicles but the rest of humanity assumes he is joking when he is deeply serious. Eventually, he makes even Polus take things seriously. Finally, he abandons the argument and no longer pays attention to the rules of dialectic. He loses himself in a kind of triumph while also striking back at his opponents. From this mixture of joking and seriousness, we may now return to the ideal truth. We may set out the dialogue’s main claims in a simple form.
First Thesis:—
First argument:
It is a greater evil to do than to suffer injustice.
Doing injustice is worse than suffering injustice.
Compare the New Testament—
Compare the New Testament:
“It is better to suffer for well doing than for evil doing.”—1 Pet.
“It is better to suffer for doing good than for doing evil.” (1 Pet.)
And the Sermon on the Mount—
And the Sermon on the Mount...
“Blessed are they that are persecuted for righteousness’ sake.”—Matt.
“Blessed are those who are persecuted for doing what is right.” (Matt.)
The words of Socrates are more abstract than the words of Christ, but they equally imply that the only real evil is moral evil. The righteous may suffer or die, but they have their reward; and even if they had no reward, would be happier than the wicked. The world, represented by Polus, is ready, when they are asked, to acknowledge that injustice is dishonourable, and for their own sakes men are willing to punish the offender (compare Republic). But they are not equally willing to acknowledge that injustice, even if successful, is essentially evil, and has the nature of disease and death. Especially when crimes are committed on the great scale—the crimes of tyrants, ancient or modern—after a while, seeing that they cannot be undone, and have become a part of history, mankind are disposed to forgive them, not from any magnanimity or charity, but because their feelings are blunted by time, and “to forgive is convenient to them.” The tangle of good and evil can no longer be unravelled; and although they know that the end cannot justify the means, they feel also that good has often come out of evil. But Socrates would have us pass the same judgment on the tyrant now and always; though he is surrounded by his satellites, and has the applauses of Europe and Asia ringing in his ears; though he is the civilizer or liberator of half a continent, he is, and always will be, the most miserable of men. The greatest consequences for good or for evil cannot alter a hair’s breadth the morality of actions which are right or wrong in themselves. This is the standard which Socrates holds up to us. Because politics, and perhaps human life generally, are of a mixed nature we must not allow our principles to sink to the level of our practice.
Socrates’ words are more abstract than Christ’s, but both imply that the only real evil is moral evil. The righteous may suffer or die, but they have their reward. Even without a reward, the righteous would be happier than the wicked. The world, represented by Polus, is ready to admit, when asked, that injustice is shameful. And people are willing to punish offenders for their own sake (compare Republic). But people are less willing to admit that injustice, even when successful, is evil in itself, like disease and death. This reluctance is especially strong when crimes are committed on a vast scale, as by tyrants, ancient or modern. After a while, people see that these crimes cannot be undone and have become part of history. People then tend to forgive these crimes, not out of generosity or charity. Instead, time has dulled their feelings, and “to forgive is convenient to them.” Good and evil have become too tangled to separate. And although people know that the end cannot justify the means, they also feel that good has often come from evil. But Socrates would have us judge the tyrant in the same way, now and always. Though the tyrant is surrounded by followers and hears applause ringing in his ears from Europe and Asia, nothing changes. Though he brings civilization or freedom to half a continent, he is, and always will be, the most miserable person. Even the greatest consequences, good or bad, cannot change in the slightest the morality of actions right or wrong in themselves. This is the standard Socrates sets before us. Politics, and perhaps human life generally, involve a mixture of good and evil. But we must not let that mixture bring our principles down to the level of our practice.
And so of private individuals—to them, too, the world occasionally speaks of the consequences of their actions:—if they are lovers of pleasure, they will ruin their health; if they are false or dishonest, they will lose their character. But Socrates would speak to them, not of what will be, but of what is—of the present consequence of lowering and degrading the soul. And all higher natures, or perhaps all men everywhere, if they were not tempted by interest or passion, would agree with him—they would rather be the victims than the perpetrators of an act of treachery or of tyranny. Reason tells them that death comes sooner or later to all, and is not so great an evil as an unworthy life, or rather, if rightly regarded, not an evil at all, but to a good man the greatest good. For in all of us there are slumbering ideals of truth and right, which may at any time awaken and develop a new life in us.
The same applies to private individuals. The world sometimes warns them, too, about the consequences of their actions. If they devote themselves to pleasure, they will ruin their health. If they are deceitful or dishonest, they will lose their good name. But Socrates would speak to them about what is happening now, not what will happen later. He would speak of the immediate harm they do by lowering and degrading their souls. All people of higher character would agree with him if self-interest or passion did not tempt them. Perhaps all people everywhere would agree under those conditions. They would rather suffer betrayal or tyranny than commit such acts themselves. Reason tells them that everyone dies sooner or later. Death is not as great an evil as an unworthy life. Or rather, properly understood, death is no evil at all, but the greatest good for a good person. For ideals of truth and right lie dormant in all of us. These ideals may awaken at any time and bring new life within us.
Second Thesis:—
Second Thesis:
It is better to suffer for wrong doing than not to suffer.
It is better to be punished for doing wrong than to go unpunished.
There might have been a condition of human life in which the penalty followed at once, and was proportioned to the offence. Moral evil would then be scarcely distinguishable from physical; mankind would avoid vice as they avoid pain or death. But nature, with a view of deepening and enlarging our characters, has for the most part hidden from us the consequences of our actions, and we can only foresee them by an effort of reflection. To awaken in us this habit of reflection is the business of early education, which is continued in maturer years by observation and experience. The spoilt child is in later life said to be unfortunate—he had better have suffered when he was young, and been saved from suffering afterwards. But is not the sovereign equally unfortunate whose education and manner of life are always concealing from him the consequences of his own actions, until at length they are revealed to him in some terrible downfall, which may, perhaps, have been caused not by his own fault? Another illustration is afforded by the pauper and criminal classes, who scarcely reflect at all, except on the means by which they can compass their immediate ends. We pity them, and make allowances for them; but we do not consider that the same principle applies to human actions generally. Not to have been found out in some dishonesty or folly, regarded from a moral or religious point of view, is the greatest of misfortunes. The success of our evil doings is a proof that the gods have ceased to strive with us, and have given us over to ourselves. There is nothing to remind us of our sins, and therefore nothing to correct them. Like our sorrows, they are healed by time;
Human life might have been arranged so that punishment followed immediately and matched the offense. Moral evil would then be almost indistinguishable from physical harm. People would avoid wrongdoing as they avoid pain or death. But nature has mostly hidden the consequences of our actions from us, to deepen and broaden our character. We can foresee those consequences only by making an effort to reflect. Early education should develop this habit of reflection. Observation and experience continue that education as we grow older. A spoiled child is later said to have been unlucky. The child would have been better off suffering when young and being spared suffering later. But isn't a ruler equally unlucky when his education and way of life keep hiding the consequences of his actions? Eventually, those consequences become clear to him in some terrible downfall. Perhaps that downfall was not his own fault. The poor and criminal classes offer another example. They hardly reflect at all, except on how to achieve their immediate aims. We pity them and make allowances for them. But we fail to see that the same principle applies to human actions in general. From a moral or religious viewpoint, escaping discovery after some dishonest or foolish act is the greatest misfortune. The success of our wrongdoing proves that the gods have stopped struggling with us and left us to ourselves. Nothing reminds us of our sins, so nothing corrects them. Like our sorrows, our sins are healed by time.
“While rank corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen.”
“While rampant corruption eats away at everything inside, And spreads infection unseen.”
The “accustomed irony” of Socrates adds a corollary to the argument:—“Would you punish your enemy, you should allow him to escape unpunished”—this is the true retaliation. (Compare the obscure verse of Proverbs, “Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him,” etc., quoted in Romans.)
Socrates’ “usual irony” adds a further conclusion to the argument: “If you want to punish your enemy, let him escape punishment.” Letting him escape punishment is true revenge. (Compare the puzzling verse from Proverbs, “So if your enemy is hungry, feed him,” etc., quoted in Romans.)
Men are not in the habit of dwelling upon the dark side of their own lives: they do not easily see themselves as others see them. They are very kind and very blind to their own faults; the rhetoric of self-love is always pleading with them on their own behalf. Adopting a similar figure of speech, Socrates would have them use rhetoric, not in defence but in accusation of themselves. As they are guided by feeling rather than by reason, to their feelings the appeal must be made. They must speak to themselves; they must argue with themselves; they must paint in eloquent words the character of their own evil deeds. To any suffering which they have deserved, they must persuade themselves to submit. Under the figure there lurks a real thought, which, expressed in another form, admits of an easy application to ourselves. For do not we too accuse as well as excuse ourselves? And we call to our aid the rhetoric of prayer and preaching, which the mind silently employs while the struggle between the better and the worse is going on within us. And sometimes we are too hard upon ourselves, because we want to restore the balance which self-love has overthrown or disturbed; and then again we may hear a voice as of a parent consoling us. In religious diaries a sort of drama is often enacted by the consciences of men “accusing or else excusing them.” For all our life long we are talking with ourselves:—What is thought but speech? What is feeling but rhetoric? And if rhetoric is used on one side only we shall be always in danger of being deceived. And so the words of Socrates, which at first sounded paradoxical, come home to the experience of all of us.
People do not usually dwell on the dark side of their own lives. They do not easily see themselves as others see them. They are very forgiving of their own faults and very blind to them. The rhetoric of self-love is always arguing in their favor. Using a similar figure of speech, Socrates would have people use rhetoric to accuse themselves, not defend themselves. Since people are guided by feeling rather than reason, the appeal must be to their feelings. They must speak to themselves. They must argue with themselves. They must describe their own evil deeds in eloquent words. They must persuade themselves to accept any suffering they have deserved. Behind this figure of speech lies a real idea. Put another way, the idea readily applies to us. For don't we too accuse ourselves as well as excuse ourselves? And we draw on the rhetoric of prayer and preaching. Our minds silently use this rhetoric as the struggle between our better and worse sides goes on within us. And sometimes we are too hard on ourselves because we want to restore the balance that self-love has upset. Then again, we may hear a voice like a parent's, comforting us. In religious diaries, people's consciences often act out a kind of drama, “accusing or else excusing them.” For throughout our lives, we are talking to ourselves. What is thought but speech? What is feeling but rhetoric? And if rhetoric serves only one side, we will always risk being deceived. So the words of Socrates, which at first seemed contradictory, turn out to reflect the experience of us all.
Third Thesis:—
Third claim:
We do not what we will, but what we wish.
We don't do what we intend to do, but what we wish to do.
Socrates would teach us a lesson which we are slow to learn—that good intentions, and even benevolent actions, when they are not prompted by wisdom, are of no value. We believe something to be for our good which we afterwards find out not to be for our good. The consequences may be inevitable, for they may follow an invariable law, yet they may often be the very opposite of what is expected by us. When we increase pauperism by almsgiving; when we tie up property without regard to changes of circumstances; when we say hastily what we deliberately disapprove; when we do in a moment of passion what upon reflection we regret; when from any want of self-control we give another an advantage over us—we are doing not what we will, but what we wish. All actions of which the consequences are not weighed and foreseen, are of this impotent and paralytic sort; and the author of them has “the least possible power” while seeming to have the greatest. For he is actually bringing about the reverse of what he intended. And yet the book of nature is open to him, in which he who runs may read if he will exercise ordinary attention; every day offers him experiences of his own and of other men’s characters, and he passes them unheeded by. The contemplation of the consequences of actions, and the ignorance of men in regard to them, seems to have led Socrates to his famous thesis:—“Virtue is knowledge;” which is not so much an error or paradox as a half truth, seen first in the twilight of ethical philosophy, but also the half of the truth which is especially needed in the present age. For as the world has grown older men have been too apt to imagine a right and wrong apart from consequences; while a few, on the other hand, have sought to resolve them wholly into their consequences. But Socrates, or Plato for him, neither divides nor identifies them; though the time has not yet arrived either for utilitarian or transcendental systems of moral philosophy, he recognizes the two elements which seem to lie at the basis of morality. (Compare the following: “Now, and for us, it is a time to Hellenize and to praise knowing; for we have Hebraized too much and have overvalued doing. But the habits and discipline received from Hebraism remain for our race an eternal possession. And as humanity is constituted, one must never assign the second rank to-day without being ready to restore them to the first to-morrow.” Sir William W. Hunter, Preface to Orissa.)
Socrates would teach us a lesson we are slow to learn. Good intentions, and even kind actions, have no value unless guided by wisdom. We believe something is good for us, only to discover later that it is not. The consequences may be inevitable because they may follow an unchanging law. Yet those consequences may often be the exact opposite of what we expect. We may increase poverty by giving to the poor. We may restrict how property can be used without considering changing circumstances. We may speak hastily and say something we reject when we think carefully. We may act in anger and regret our actions on reflection. Through any failure of self-control, we may give someone else an advantage over us. In all these cases, we do not act according to our considered will, but according to our immediate wishes. All actions whose consequences are neither weighed nor foreseen are powerless and paralyzed in this way. The person who acts like this has “the least possible power” while seeming to have the greatest. For that person is actually bringing about the opposite of what they intended. Yet the book of nature lies open before such a person. Anyone can read its lessons, even in passing, by paying ordinary attention. Every day offers opportunities to learn about their own character and other people’s characters, but they ignore those opportunities. Thinking about the consequences of actions, and people’s ignorance of those consequences, seems to have led Socrates to his famous claim: “Virtue is knowledge.” This claim is less an error or a paradox than a half-truth, first glimpsed in the dawn of moral philosophy. But it is also the half of the truth especially needed in the present age. For as the world has grown older, people have too often imagined right and wrong as separate from consequences. A few, on the other hand, have tried to explain right and wrong entirely through consequences. But Socrates, or Plato speaking for him, neither separates right and wrong from consequences nor treats them as identical. The time has not yet come for either utilitarian or transcendental systems of moral philosophy. Yet he recognizes the two elements that seem to form the basis of morality. (Compare the following: “Now, for us, it is time to Hellenize and value knowledge, following the Greek emphasis on understanding. For we have Hebraized too much, following the Hebrew emphasis on conduct, and have valued doing too highly. But the habits and discipline gained from Hebraism remain an eternal possession of our people. And given human nature, we must never rank those habits and that discipline second today unless prepared to rank them first tomorrow.” Sir William W. Hunter, Preface to Orissa.)
Fourth Thesis:—
Fourth Claim:
To be and not to seem is the end of life.
The goal of life is to be, not just to seem.
The Greek in the age of Plato admitted praise to be one of the chief incentives to moral virtue, and to most men the opinion of their fellows is a leading principle of action. Hence a certain element of seeming enters into all things; all or almost all desire to appear better than they are, that they may win the esteem or admiration of others. A man of ability can easily feign the language of piety or virtue; and there is an unconscious as well as a conscious hypocrisy which, according to Socrates, is the worst of the two. Again, there is the sophistry of classes and professions. There are the different opinions about themselves and one another which prevail in different ranks of society. There is the bias given to the mind by the study of one department of human knowledge to the exclusion of the rest; and stronger far the prejudice engendered by a pecuniary or party interest in certain tenets. There is the sophistry of law, the sophistry of medicine, the sophistry of politics, the sophistry of theology. All of these disguises wear the appearance of the truth; some of them are very ancient, and we do not easily disengage ourselves from them; for we have inherited them, and they have become a part of us. The sophistry of an ancient Greek sophist is nothing compared with the sophistry of a religious order, or of a church in which during many ages falsehood has been accumulating, and everything has been said on one side, and nothing on the other. The conventions and customs which we observe in conversation, and the opposition of our interests when we have dealings with one another (“the buyer saith, it is nought—it is nought,” etc.), are always obscuring our sense of truth and right. The sophistry of human nature is far more subtle than the deceit of any one man. Few persons speak freely from their own natures, and scarcely any one dares to think for himself: most of us imperceptibly fall into the opinions of those around us, which we partly help to make. A man who would shake himself loose from them, requires great force of mind; he hardly knows where to begin in the search after truth. On every side he is met by the world, which is not an abstraction of theologians, but the most real of all things, being another name for ourselves when regarded collectively and subjected to the influences of society.
Greeks in Plato’s time accepted praise as one of the chief incentives to moral virtue. For most people, the opinions of others are a leading guide to action. So an element of keeping up appearances enters into everything. All or almost all people want to seem better than they are, to win others’ respect or admiration. A capable person can easily imitate the language of religious devotion or virtue. Hypocrisy can also be unconscious as well as conscious. According to Socrates, unconscious hypocrisy is the worse of the two. Then there are the misleading arguments of social classes and professions. People in different ranks of society hold different opinions about themselves and one another. Studying one field of human knowledge while ignoring the rest creates a mental bias. Far stronger prejudices arise when people have a financial or political stake in certain beliefs. Law, medicine, politics, and theology all have their own misleading arguments. All these disguises look like truth. Some are very old, and we do not easily free ourselves from them. We have inherited these disguises, and they have become part of us. The misleading arguments of an ancient Greek sophist are nothing compared with those of a religious order or church. In such an institution, falsehood has accumulated over many centuries. Everything has been said for one side, and nothing for the other. The conventions and customs we follow in conversation constantly cloud our sense of truth and right. So do our conflicting interests when we deal with one another (“the buyer says, it is worthless, it is worthless,” etc.). The ways human nature misleads us are far subtler than any one person’s deceit. Few people speak freely from their own nature, and hardly anyone dares to think independently. Most of us gradually adopt the opinions of those around us without noticing, and we partly help shape those opinions. Anyone who wants to break free from these opinions needs great strength of mind. Such a person hardly knows where to begin searching for truth. On every side, that person encounters the world. This world is not an abstract idea invented by theologians, but the most real of all things. For “the world” is another name for ourselves, viewed collectively and subject to society’s influences.
Then comes Socrates, impressed as no other man ever was, with the unreality and untruthfulness of popular opinion, and tells mankind that they must be and not seem. How are they to be? At any rate they must have the spirit and desire to be. If they are ignorant, they must acknowledge their ignorance to themselves; if they are conscious of doing evil, they must learn to do well; if they are weak, and have nothing in them which they can call themselves, they must acquire firmness and consistency; if they are indifferent, they must begin to take an interest in the great questions which surround them. They must try to be what they would fain appear in the eyes of their fellow-men. A single individual cannot easily change public opinion; but he can be true and innocent, simple and independent; he can know what he does, and what he does not know; and though not without an effort, he can form a judgment of his own, at least in common matters. In his most secret actions he can show the same high principle (compare Republic) which he shows when supported and watched by public opinion. And on some fitting occasion, on some question of humanity or truth or right, even an ordinary man, from the natural rectitude of his disposition, may be found to take up arms against a whole tribe of politicians and lawyers, and be too much for them.
Then comes Socrates, more deeply struck than anyone ever was by the emptiness and falsehood of popular opinion. He tells humanity that people must be what they seem to be, not merely appear so. How can they do this? At the very least, they must have the will and desire to do so. If they are ignorant, they must admit their ignorance to themselves. If they know they are doing wrong, they must learn to do right. If they are weak and have no character they can call their own, they must develop firmness and consistency. If they are indifferent, they must begin to care about the great questions around them. They must try to be what they wish to appear to others. One person cannot easily change public opinion. But he can be honest and innocent, straightforward and independent. He can know what he knows and what he does not know. And though it takes effort, he can form his own judgment, at least about everyday matters. In his most private actions, he can show the same high principles he shows when public opinion supports and watches him. (Compare Republic.) And on some suitable occasion, even an ordinary man may stand against a whole group of politicians and lawyers. On some question of humanity, truth, or justice, his naturally upright character may lead him to oppose and defeat them.
Who is the true and who the false statesman?—
Who is a true statesman, and who is a false one?
The true statesman is he who brings order out of disorder; who first organizes and then administers the government of his own country; and having made a nation, seeks to reconcile the national interests with those of Europe and of mankind. He is not a mere theorist, nor yet a dealer in expedients; the whole and the parts grow together in his mind; while the head is conceiving, the hand is executing. Although obliged to descend to the world, he is not of the world. His thoughts are fixed not on power or riches or extension of territory, but on an ideal state, in which all the citizens have an equal chance of health and life, and the highest education is within the reach of all, and the moral and intellectual qualities of every individual are freely developed, and “the idea of good” is the animating principle of the whole. Not the attainment of freedom alone, or of order alone, but how to unite freedom with order is the problem which he has to solve.
The true statesman brings order out of disorder. He first organizes his country’s government, then runs it. Having built a nation, he seeks to reconcile its interests with those of Europe and humanity. He is neither a mere theorist nor someone who relies on short-term fixes. The whole and its parts develop together in his mind. While his mind makes plans, his hands put them into action. Although he must engage with the world, he does not share its values. His thoughts focus not on power, wealth, or expanding territory, but on an ideal state. In this state, all citizens have an equal chance at health and life. The highest level of education is within everyone’s reach. Every individual’s moral and intellectual qualities develop freely, and “the idea of good” gives life to the whole. The problem he must solve is not simply how to achieve freedom alone or order alone. He must find how to unite freedom with order.
The statesman who places before himself these lofty aims has undertaken a task which will call forth all his powers. He must control himself before he can control others; he must know mankind before he can manage them. He has no private likes or dislikes; he does not conceal personal enmity under the disguise of moral or political principle: such meannesses, into which men too often fall unintentionally, are absorbed in the consciousness of his mission, and in his love for his country and for mankind. He will sometimes ask himself what the next generation will say of him; not because he is careful of posthumous fame, but because he knows that the result of his life as a whole will then be more fairly judged. He will take time for the execution of his plans; not hurrying them on when the mind of a nation is unprepared for them; but like the Ruler of the Universe Himself, working in the appointed time, for he knows that human life, “if not long in comparison with eternity” (Republic), is sufficient for the fulfilment of many great purposes. He knows, too, that the work will be still going on when he is no longer here; and he will sometimes, especially when his powers are failing, think of that other “city of which the pattern is in heaven” (Republic).
The statesman who sets himself these high goals has taken on a task that will demand all his abilities. He must control himself before he can control others. He must understand people before he can lead them. He does not let personal likes or dislikes guide him. He does not disguise personal hatred as a moral or political principle. People too often slip into such pettiness without intending to. But his sense of purpose and love for his country and humanity leave no room for such feelings. He will sometimes ask himself what the next generation will say about him. He does not ask because he cares about his reputation after death. Rather, he knows that the overall results of his life will be judged more fairly then. He will take time to carry out his plans. He will not rush them forward when the nation is not ready for them. Instead, like the Ruler of the Universe himself, he will work at the appointed time. For he knows that human life, “if not long in comparison with eternity” (Republic), allows many great purposes to be fulfilled. He also knows that the work will continue after he is gone. Sometimes, especially when his strength is failing, he will think of that other “city of which the pattern is in heaven” (Republic).
The false politician is the serving-man of the state. In order to govern men he becomes like them; their “minds are married in conjunction;” they “bear themselves” like vulgar and tyrannical masters, and he is their obedient servant. The true politician, if he would rule men, must make them like himself; he must “educate his party” until they cease to be a party; he must breathe into them the spirit which will hereafter give form to their institutions. Politics with him are not a mechanism for seeming what he is not, or for carrying out the will of the majority. Himself a representative man, he is the representative not of the lower but of the higher elements of the nation. There is a better (as well as a worse) public opinion of which he seeks to lay hold; as there is also a deeper current of human affairs in which he is borne up when the waves nearer the shore are threatening him. He acknowledges that he cannot take the world by force—two or three moves on the political chess board are all that he can fore see—two or three weeks moves on the political chessboard are all that he can foresee—two or three weeks or months are granted to him in which he can provide against a coming struggle. But he knows also that there are permanent principles of politics which are always tending to the well-being of states—better administration, better education, the reconciliation of conflicting elements, increased security against external enemies. These are not “of to-day or yesterday,” but are the same in all times, and under all forms of government. Then when the storm descends and the winds blow, though he knows not beforehand the hour of danger, the pilot, not like Plato’s captain in the Republic, half-blind and deaf, but with penetrating eye and quick ear, is ready to take command of the ship and guide her into port.
The false politician is the state’s servant. To govern people, he becomes like them. Their “minds are joined together.” They “behave” like crude, tyrannical masters, and he is their obedient servant. The true politician, if he wants to rule people, must make them like himself. He must “educate his party” until its members stop being a faction. He must inspire them with the spirit that will later shape their institutions. For him, politics is not a way to appear to be something he is not. Nor is it a way to carry out the majority’s will. He embodies the nation, but represents its higher qualities, not its lower ones. Public opinion has a better side as well as a worse one, and he seeks to draw on the better side. A deeper current in human affairs also keeps him afloat when waves nearer the shore threaten him. He recognizes that he cannot force the world to follow his will. He can foresee only two or three moves on the political chessboard. He has only two or three weeks or months to prepare for a coming struggle. But he also knows that lasting political principles always work toward the well-being of states. These include better administration, better education, reconciliation between conflicting groups, and greater security against foreign enemies. These principles are not “from today or yesterday.” They remain the same in all times and under all forms of government. Then the storm breaks and the winds blow. Although the pilot cannot know beforehand when danger will come, he is ready to take command. Unlike Plato’s half-blind, deaf captain in the Republic, this pilot has sharp eyes and keen hearing. He is ready to guide the ship into port.
The false politician asks not what is true, but what is the opinion of the world—not what is right, but what is expedient. The only measures of which he approves are the measures which will pass. He has no intention of fighting an uphill battle; he keeps the roadway of politics. He is unwilling to incur the persecution and enmity which political convictions would entail upon him. He begins with popularity, and in fair weather sails gallantly along. But unpopularity soon follows him. For men expect their leaders to be better and wiser than themselves: to be their guides in danger, their saviours in extremity; they do not really desire them to obey all the ignorant impulses of the popular mind; and if they fail them in a crisis they are disappointed. Then, as Socrates says, the cry of ingratitude is heard, which is most unreasonable; for the people, who have been taught no better, have done what might be expected of them, and their statesmen have received justice at their hands.
The false politician asks not what is true, but what the world thinks. He asks not what is right, but what serves his purposes. He approves only of measures that will pass. He has no intention of fighting an uphill battle. He sticks to the well-worn political path. He is unwilling to face the persecution and hostility that firm political convictions would bring him. He starts out popular, and while conditions are favorable, he sails confidently along. But he soon becomes unpopular. For people expect their leaders to be better and wiser than themselves. They expect leaders to guide them through danger and save them in desperate situations. They do not really want their leaders to follow all the public’s ignorant impulses. And if their leaders fail them in a crisis, the people are disappointed. Then, as Socrates says, the leaders cry out against the people’s ingratitude. This complaint is most unreasonable. For the people, who have been taught no better, have acted just as one might expect. And their political leaders have received the treatment they deserve.
The true statesman is aware that he must adapt himself to times and circumstances. He must have allies if he is to fight against the world; he must enlighten public opinion; he must accustom his followers to act together. Although he is not the mere executor of the will of the majority, he must win over the majority to himself. He is their leader and not their follower, but in order to lead he must also follow. He will neither exaggerate nor undervalue the power of a statesman, neither adopting the “laissez faire” nor the “paternal government” principle; but he will, whether he is dealing with children in politics, or with full-grown men, seek to do for the people what the government can do for them, and what, from imperfect education or deficient powers of combination, they cannot do for themselves. He knows that if he does too much for them they will do nothing; and that if he does nothing for them they will in some states of society be utterly helpless. For the many cannot exist without the few, if the material force of a country is from below, wisdom and experience are from above. It is not a small part of human evils which kings and governments make or cure. The statesman is well aware that a great purpose carried out consistently during many years will at last be executed. He is playing for a stake which may be partly determined by some accident, and therefore he will allow largely for the unknown element of politics. But the game being one in which chance and skill are combined, if he plays long enough he is certain of victory. He will not be always consistent, for the world is changing; and though he depends upon the support of a party, he will remember that he is the minister of the whole. He lives not for the present, but for the future, and he is not at all sure that he will be appreciated either now or then. For he may have the existing order of society against him, and may not be remembered by a distant posterity.
The true statesman knows he must adapt to the times and circumstances. He must have allies if he is to stand against the world. He must help the public understand the issues and train his followers to work together. Although he does not simply carry out the majority’s wishes, he must win the majority over. He is their leader, not their follower, but to lead he must also follow. He will neither overestimate nor underestimate a statesman’s power. He will adopt neither the “laissez faire” principle of leaving people alone nor the “paternal government” principle of managing their lives. Whether people are politically inexperienced or mature, he will seek to do for them what government can do. He will provide the help they cannot provide for themselves because they lack education or the ability to organize. He knows that if he does too much for them, they will do nothing. But if he does nothing for them, they will be completely helpless in some kinds of society. For the many cannot manage without the few. While a country’s physical strength comes from below, wisdom and experience come from above. Kings and governments cause or cure a substantial share of human suffering. The statesman knows that a great goal pursued steadily over many years will finally be achieved. He is playing for an outcome that chance may partly determine. So he will make generous allowances for the unknown in politics. But this game combines chance and skill, and if he plays long enough, he is certain to win. He will not always be consistent, because the world is changing. And although he relies on a party’s support, he will remember that he serves everyone. He lives not for the present but for the future. Yet he is far from certain that he will be appreciated either now or in the future. For the existing social order may oppose him, and distant generations may not remember him.
There are always discontented idealists in politics who, like Socrates in the Gorgias, find fault with all statesmen past as well as present, not excepting the greatest names of history. Mankind have an uneasy feeling that they ought to be better governed than they are. Just as the actual philosopher falls short of the one wise man, so does the actual statesman fall short of the ideal. And so partly from vanity and egotism, but partly also from a true sense of the faults of eminent men, a temper of dissatisfaction and criticism springs up among those who are ready enough to acknowledge the inferiority of their own powers. No matter whether a statesman makes high professions or none at all—they are reduced sooner or later to the same level. And sometimes the more unscrupulous man is better esteemed than the more conscientious, because he has not equally deceived expectations. Such sentiments may be unjust, but they are widely spread; we constantly find them recurring in reviews and newspapers, and still oftener in private conversation.
There are always dissatisfied idealists in politics who, like Socrates in the Gorgias, criticize all statesmen, past and present. Even the greatest names in history are not spared. People have an uneasy feeling that they ought to be better governed than they are. Just as real philosophers fall short of the perfectly wise person, real statesmen fall short of the ideal. So a spirit of dissatisfaction and criticism develops even among people who readily admit their own abilities are inferior. This comes partly from vanity and self-importance, but partly also from a genuine awareness of great men’s faults. Whether a statesman makes grand promises or none at all, all are sooner or later judged on the same level. Sometimes the less principled man is held in higher regard than the more conscientious one. This is because he has not disappointed expectations as much. Such feelings may be unjust, but they are widespread. We constantly encounter them in reviews and newspapers, and even more often in private conversation.
We may further observe that the art of government, while in some respects tending to improve, has in others a tendency to degenerate, as institutions become more popular. Governing for the people cannot easily be combined with governing by the people: the interests of classes are too strong for the ideas of the statesman who takes a comprehensive view of the whole. According to Socrates the true governor will find ruin or death staring him in the face, and will only be induced to govern from the fear of being governed by a worse man than himself (Republic). And in modern times, though the world has grown milder, and the terrible consequences which Plato foretells no longer await an English statesman, any one who is not actuated by a blind ambition will only undertake from a sense of duty a work in which he is most likely to fail; and even if he succeed, will rarely be rewarded by the gratitude of his own generation.
We may also observe that governing tends to improve in some ways and decline in others as institutions become more democratic. Governing for the people cannot easily be combined with governing by the people. The interests of social classes are too powerful for the ideas of a statesman considering society as a whole. According to Socrates, a true ruler will face ruin or death. He will agree to govern only for fear of being governed by someone worse than himself (Republic). And in modern times, although the world has become gentler, governing remains a task most likely to end in failure. The terrible consequences Plato predicts no longer await an English statesman. Yet anyone not driven by blind ambition will undertake the task only out of duty. And even if he succeeds, he will rarely receive the gratitude of his own generation.
Socrates, who is not a politician at all, tells us that he is the only real politician of his time. Let us illustrate the meaning of his words by applying them to the history of our own country. He would have said that not Pitt or Fox, or Canning or Sir R. Peel, are the real politicians of their time, but Locke, Hume, Adam Smith, Bentham, Ricardo. These during the greater part of their lives occupied an inconsiderable space in the eyes of the public. They were private persons; nevertheless they sowed in the minds of men seeds which in the next generation have become an irresistible power. “Herein is that saying true, One soweth and another reapeth.” We may imagine with Plato an ideal statesman in whom practice and speculation are perfectly harmonized; for there is no necessary opposition between them. But experience shows that they are commonly divorced—the ordinary politician is the interpreter or executor of the thoughts of others, and hardly ever brings to the birth a new political conception. One or two only in modern times, like the Italian statesman Cavour, have created the world in which they moved. The philosopher is naturally unfitted for political life; his great ideas are not understood by the many; he is a thousand miles away from the questions of the day. Yet perhaps the lives of thinkers, as they are stiller and deeper, are also happier than the lives of those who are more in the public eye. They have the promise of the future, though they are regarded as dreamers and visionaries by their own contemporaries. And when they are no longer here, those who would have been ashamed of them during their lives claim kindred with them, and are proud to be called by their names. (Compare Thucyd.)
Socrates, who is not a politician at all, tells us he is the only real politician of his time. Let us explain his meaning by applying his words to our own country’s history. He would have said the real politicians were not Pitt or Fox, Canning or Sir R. Peel. Instead, they were Locke, Hume, Adam Smith, Bentham, and Ricardo. For most of their lives, these thinkers received little public attention. They held no public office. Nevertheless, they planted ideas in people’s minds that became an irresistible force in the next generation. “Here the saying holds true: One sows and another reaps.” Like Plato, we may imagine an ideal statesman who perfectly combines practical action with theoretical thought. There is no necessary conflict between the two. But experience shows that practice and theory are usually separated. The ordinary politician interprets or carries out other people’s ideas and hardly ever creates a new political idea. Only one or two in modern times, like the Italian statesman Cavour, have created the world in which they acted. The philosopher is naturally unsuited to political life. Most people do not understand his great ideas. He is a thousand miles away from the issues of the day. Yet perhaps thinkers’ lives are happier than those of people in the public eye, being quieter and deeper. The future holds promise for thinkers, though their contemporaries regard them as dreamers and visionaries. After these thinkers die, people who would have been ashamed of them during their lives claim a connection with them. Those people are proud to be known by the thinkers’ names. (Compare Thucyd.)
Who is the true poet?
Who is the true poet?
Plato expels the poets from his Republic because they are allied to sense; because they stimulate the emotions; because they are thrice removed from the ideal truth. And in a similar spirit he declares in the Gorgias that the stately muse of tragedy is a votary of pleasure and not of truth. In modern times we almost ridicule the idea of poetry admitting of a moral. The poet and the prophet, or preacher, in primitive antiquity are one and the same; but in later ages they seem to fall apart. The great art of novel writing, that peculiar creation of our own and the last century, which, together with the sister art of review writing, threatens to absorb all literature, has even less of seriousness in her composition. Do we not often hear the novel writer censured for attempting to convey a lesson to the minds of his readers?
Plato banishes poets from his Republic because they appeal to the senses and stir the emotions. He also banishes them because they are three steps removed from ideal truth. In the same spirit, he declares in the Gorgias that the grand muse of tragedy serves pleasure, not truth. In modern times, we almost ridicule the idea that poetry can have a moral lesson. In early antiquity, the poet and the prophet, or preacher, are one and the same. But in later ages, these roles seem to separate. The great art of novel writing is a distinctive creation of our own century and the previous one. Together with the related art of review writing, novel writing threatens to take over all literature. Yet novel writing has even less seriousness in its makeup. Do we not often hear novelists criticized for trying to teach their readers a lesson?
Yet the true office of a poet or writer of fiction is not merely to give amusement, or to be the expression of the feelings of mankind, good or bad, or even to increase our knowledge of human nature. There have been poets in modern times, such as Goethe or Wordsworth, who have not forgotten their high vocation of teachers; and the two greatest of the Greek dramatists owe their sublimity to their ethical character. The noblest truths, sung of in the purest and sweetest language, are still the proper material of poetry. The poet clothes them with beauty, and has a power of making them enter into the hearts and memories of men. He has not only to speak of themes above the level of ordinary life, but to speak of them in a deeper and tenderer way than they are ordinarily felt, so as to awaken the feeling of them in others. The old he makes young again; the familiar principle he invests with a new dignity; he finds a noble expression for the common-places of morality and politics. He uses the things of sense so as to indicate what is beyond; he raises us through earth to heaven. He expresses what the better part of us would fain say, and the half-conscious feeling is strengthened by the expression. He is his own critic, for the spirit of poetry and of criticism are not divided in him. His mission is not to disguise men from themselves, but to reveal to them their own nature, and make them better acquainted with the world around them. True poetry is the remembrance of youth, of love, the embodiment in words of the happiest and holiest moments of life, of the noblest thoughts of man, of the greatest deeds of the past. The poet of the future may return to his greater calling of the prophet or teacher; indeed, we hardly know what may not be effected for the human race by a better use of the poetical and imaginative faculty. The reconciliation of poetry, as of religion, with truth, may still be possible. Neither is the element of pleasure to be excluded. For when we substitute a higher pleasure for a lower we raise men in the scale of existence. Might not the novelist, too, make an ideal, or rather many ideals of social life, better than a thousand sermons? Plato, like the Puritans, is too much afraid of poetic and artistic influences. But he is not without a true sense of the noble purposes to which art may be applied (Republic).
Yet the true role of a poet or fiction writer is not merely to entertain. Nor is it simply to express human feelings, good or bad, or even to deepen our knowledge of human nature. Some modern poets, such as Goethe or Wordsworth, have not forgotten their high calling as teachers. And the two greatest Greek dramatists owe their greatness to the moral character of their work. The noblest truths, expressed in the purest and sweetest language, remain the proper subjects of poetry. The poet gives these truths beauty and can make them enter people's hearts and memories. The poet must not only address themes above ordinary life. He must also express those themes with greater depth and tenderness than people usually feel, awakening those feelings in others. He makes the old young again and gives familiar principles a new dignity. He finds noble language for the everyday truths of morality and politics. He uses what we perceive through our senses to point beyond it. He lifts us through earth to heaven. He expresses what the better part of us longs to say. By expressing feelings we only half recognize, he strengthens them. He is his own critic, because the spirit of poetry and the spirit of criticism are united in him. His mission is not to hide people from themselves, but to reveal their own nature to them. He also helps them understand the world around them better. True poetry recalls youth and love. It puts into words life's happiest and holiest moments, humanity's noblest thoughts, and the greatest deeds of the past. The poet of the future may return to his higher calling as a prophet or teacher. Indeed, we hardly know the limits of what a better use of poetic and imaginative powers might achieve for humanity. Poetry, like religion, may still be reconciled with truth. Nor should pleasure be excluded. For when we replace a lower pleasure with a higher one, we raise people to a higher level of existence. Might not the novelist also present an ideal of social life, or rather many ideals, better than a thousand sermons? Plato, like the Puritans, is too afraid of the influence of poetry and art. But he does have a true understanding of the noble purposes art can serve (Republic).
Modern poetry is often a sort of plaything, or, in Plato’s language, a flattery, a sophistry, or sham, in which, without any serious purpose, the poet lends wings to his fancy and exhibits his gifts of language and metre. Such an one seeks to gratify the taste of his readers; he has the “savoir faire,” or trick of writing, but he has not the higher spirit of poetry. He has no conception that true art should bring order out of disorder; that it should make provision for the soul’s highest interest; that it should be pursued only with a view to “the improvement of the citizens.” He ministers to the weaker side of human nature (Republic); he idealizes the sensual; he sings the strain of love in the latest fashion; instead of raising men above themselves he brings them back to the “tyranny of the many masters,” from which all his life long a good man has been praying to be delivered. And often, forgetful of measure and order, he will express not that which is truest, but that which is strongest. Instead of a great and nobly-executed subject, perfect in every part, some fancy of a heated brain is worked out with the strangest incongruity. He is not the master of his words, but his words—perhaps borrowed from another—the faded reflection of some French or German or Italian writer, have the better of him. Though we are not going to banish the poets, how can we suppose that such utterances have any healing or life-giving influence on the minds of men?
Modern poetry is often a kind of plaything or, in Plato’s words, a form of flattery, sophistry, or deception. With no serious purpose, the poet lets his imagination soar and displays his skill with language and metre. Such a poet seeks to please his readers’ tastes. He has the “savoir faire,” or knack for writing, but lacks the higher spirit of poetry. He has no idea that true art should bring order out of disorder and serve the soul’s highest interests. Nor does he understand that art should be pursued only for “the improvement of the citizens.” He caters to the weaker side of human nature (Republic). He idealizes sensual pleasure and sings of love in the latest fashion. Instead of lifting people above themselves, he returns them to the “tyranny of the many masters.” A good man has prayed all his life to be freed from that tyranny. And often, forgetting restraint and order, the poet expresses not what is truest, but what is most forceful. Instead of developing a great subject, nobly handled and perfect in every part, he develops some feverish fantasy. The result is a bizarre jumble of mismatched parts. He does not control his words. Instead, his words control him, perhaps borrowed from someone else, a faded echo of some French, German, or Italian writer. Though we are not going to banish the poets, how can we suppose such words heal or renew people’s minds?
“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:” Art then must be true, and politics must be true, and the life of man must be true and not a seeming or sham. In all of them order has to be brought out of disorder, truth out of error and falsehood. This is what we mean by the greatest improvement of man. And so, having considered in what way “we can best spend the appointed time, we leave the result with God.” Plato does not say that God will order all things for the best (compare Phaedo), but he indirectly implies that the evils of this life will be corrected in another. And as we are very far from the best imaginable world at present, Plato here, as in the Phaedo and Republic, supposes a purgatory or place of education for mankind in general, and for a very few a Tartarus or hell. The myth which terminates the dialogue is not the revelation, but rather, like all similar descriptions, whether in the Bible or Plato, the veil of another life. For no visible thing can reveal the invisible. Of this Plato, unlike some commentators on Scripture, is fully aware. Neither will he dogmatize about the manner in which we are “born again” (Republic). Only he is prepared to maintain the ultimate triumph of truth and right, and declares that no one, not even the wisest of the Greeks, can affirm any other doctrine without being ridiculous.
“Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter:” Art, then, must be genuine, and so must politics and human life. None can be mere appearance or a sham. In all three, order must emerge from disorder, and truth from error and falsehood. This is what we mean by the greatest improvement in human beings. And so, after considering how “we can best spend the time given to us, we leave the result with God.” Plato does not say that God will arrange everything for the best (compare Phaedo). But he indirectly suggests that the evils of this life will be corrected in another. And since our present world is far from the best imaginable, Plato assumes a purgatory for humanity in general. This purgatory is a place of education, as it is in the Phaedo and Republic. For a very few, he assumes a Tartarus, or hell. The myth that ends the dialogue does not reveal another life but instead veils it. The same is true of all similar descriptions, whether in the Bible or Plato. For nothing visible can reveal the invisible. Plato fully understands this limitation, unlike some commentators on Scripture. Nor will Plato make definite claims about how we are “born again” (Republic). He is prepared only to defend the ultimate triumph of truth and right. He declares that no one, not even the wisest of the Greeks, can claim otherwise without being ridiculous.
There is a further paradox of ethics, in which pleasure and pain are held to be indifferent, and virtue at the time of action and without regard to consequences is happiness. From this elevation or exaggeration of feeling Plato seems to shrink: he leaves it to the Stoics in a later generation to maintain that when impaled or on the rack the philosopher may be happy (compare Republic). It is observable that in the Republic he raises this question, but it is not really discussed; the veil of the ideal state, the shadow of another life, are allowed to descend upon it and it passes out of sight. The martyr or sufferer in the cause of right or truth is often supposed to die in raptures, having his eye fixed on a city which is in heaven. But if there were no future, might he not still be happy in the performance of an action which was attended only by a painful death? He himself may be ready to thank God that he was thought worthy to do Him the least service, without looking for a reward; the joys of another life may not have been present to his mind at all. Do we suppose that the mediaeval saint, St. Bernard, St. Francis, St. Catharine of Sienna, or the Catholic priest who lately devoted himself to death by a lingering disease that he might solace and help others, was thinking of the “sweets” of heaven? No; the work was already heaven to him and enough. Much less will the dying patriot be dreaming of the praises of man or of an immortality of fame: the sense of duty, of right, and trust in God will be sufficient, and as far as the mind can reach, in that hour. If he were certain that there were no life to come, he would not have wished to speak or act otherwise than he did in the cause of truth or of humanity. Neither, on the other hand, will he suppose that God has forsaken him or that the future is to be a mere blank to him. The greatest act of faith, the only faith which cannot pass away, is his who has not known, but yet has believed. A very few among the sons of men have made themselves independent of circumstances, past, present, or to come. He who has attained to such a temper of mind has already present with him eternal life; he needs no arguments to convince him of immortality; he has in him already a principle stronger than death. He who serves man without the thought of reward is deemed to be a more faithful servant than he who works for hire. May not the service of God, which is the more disinterested, be in like manner the higher? And although only a very few in the course of the world’s history—Christ himself being one of them—have attained to such a noble conception of God and of the human soul, yet the ideal of them may be present to us, and the remembrance of them be an example to us, and their lives may shed a light on many dark places both of philosophy and theology.
There is another ethical paradox: pleasure and pain are neither good nor bad in themselves. Virtuous action is itself happiness, regardless of its consequences. Plato seems to draw back from this heightened or exaggerated feeling. He leaves later generations of Stoics to argue that a philosopher can be happy even when impaled or tortured on the rack (compare Republic). In the Republic, he raises this question but does not really discuss it. The question disappears behind the veil of the ideal state and the shadow of another life. A martyr who suffers for justice or truth is often imagined dying in ecstasy, gazing toward a city in heaven. But suppose there were no future life. Might the martyr still be happy performing an action that brought nothing but a painful death? He may gladly thank God for finding him worthy to offer even the smallest service, without expecting a reward. The joys of another life may never have entered his mind. Consider the medieval saints, St. Bernard, St. Francis, and St. Catharine of Sienna. Or consider the Catholic priest who recently accepted death from a lingering disease so he could comfort and help others. Do we suppose any of them was thinking of the “sweets” of heaven? No, the work itself was already heaven to each of them, and that was enough. Still less will a dying patriot dream of human praise or lasting fame. A sense of duty and justice, together with trust in God, will be enough. In that hour, these will fill his mind as far as his thoughts can reach. Even if he knew there was no life to come, he would not wish to have spoken or acted differently. He would stand by what he had done for truth or humanity. Yet he will not suppose that God has abandoned him, or that nothing lies ahead. The greatest act of faith belongs to someone who has not known, yet has believed. Such faith alone cannot pass away. Very few human beings have freed themselves from dependence on circumstances, whether past, present, or future. Anyone who reaches this state of mind already has eternal life within him. He needs no arguments to convince him of immortality. He already carries within him a principle stronger than death. Someone who serves others without expecting a reward is considered more faithful than someone who works for pay. Might service to God likewise be higher when it is more selfless? Only very few people throughout history, Christ himself among them, have reached so noble an understanding of God and the human soul. Yet we may keep their ideal before us and take their memory as an example. Their lives may also shed light on many dark places in both philosophy and theology.
THE MYTHS OF PLATO.
PLATO'S MYTHS.
The myths of Plato are a phenomenon unique in literature. There are four longer ones: these occur in the Phaedrus, Phaedo, Gorgias, and Republic. That in the Republic is the most elaborate and finished of them. Three of these greater myths, namely those contained in the Phaedo, the Gorgias and the Republic, relate to the destiny of human souls in a future life. The magnificent myth in the Phaedrus treats of the immortality, or rather the eternity of the soul, in which is included a former as well as a future state of existence. To these may be added, (1) the myth, or rather fable, occurring in the Statesman, in which the life of innocence is contrasted with the ordinary life of man and the consciousness of evil: (2) the legend of the Island of Atlantis, an imaginary history, which is a fragment only, commenced in the Timaeus and continued in the Critias: (3) the much less artistic fiction of the foundation of the Cretan colony which is introduced in the preface to the Laws, but soon falls into the background: (4) the beautiful but rather artificial tale of Prometheus and Epimetheus narrated in his rhetorical manner by Protagoras in the dialogue called after him: (5) the speech at the beginning of the Phaedrus, which is a parody of the orator Lysias; the rival speech of Socrates and the recantation of it. To these may be added (6) the tale of the grasshoppers, and (7) the tale of Thamus and of Theuth, both in the Phaedrus: (8) the parable of the Cave (Republic), in which the previous argument is recapitulated, and the nature and degrees of knowledge having been previously set forth in the abstract are represented in a picture: (9) the fiction of the earth-born men (Republic; compare Laws), in which by the adaptation of an old tradition Plato makes a new beginning for his society: (10) the myth of Aristophanes respecting the division of the sexes, Sym.: (11) the parable of the noble captain, the pilot, and the mutinous sailors (Republic), in which is represented the relation of the better part of the world, and of the philosopher, to the mob of politicians: (12) the ironical tale of the pilot who plies between Athens and Aegina charging only a small payment for saving men from death, the reason being that he is uncertain whether to live or die is better for them (Gor.): (13) the treatment of freemen and citizens by physicians and of slaves by their apprentices,—a somewhat laboured figure of speech intended to illustrate the two different ways in which the laws speak to men (Laws). There also occur in Plato continuous images; some of them extend over several pages, appearing and reappearing at intervals: such as the bees stinging and stingless (paupers and thieves) in the Eighth Book of the Republic, who are generated in the transition from timocracy to oligarchy: the sun, which is to the visible world what the idea of good is to the intellectual, in the Sixth Book of the Republic: the composite animal, having the form of a man, but containing under a human skin a lion and a many-headed monster (Republic): the great beast, i.e. the populace: and the wild beast within us, meaning the passions which are always liable to break out: the animated comparisons of the degradation of philosophy by the arts to the dishonoured maiden, and of the tyrant to the parricide, who “beats his father, having first taken away his arms”: the dog, who is your only philosopher: the grotesque and rather paltry image of the argument wandering about without a head (Laws), which is repeated, not improved, from the Gorgias: the argument personified as veiling her face (Republic), as engaged in a chase, as breaking upon us in a first, second and third wave:—on these figures of speech the changes are rung many times over. It is observable that nearly all these parables or continuous images are found in the Republic; that which occurs in the Theaetetus, of the midwifery of Socrates, is perhaps the only exception. To make the list complete, the mathematical figure of the number of the state (Republic), or the numerical interval which separates king from tyrant, should not be forgotten.
Plato’s myths are unique in literature. There are four longer myths, found in the Phaedrus, Phaedo, Gorgias, and Republic. The myth in the Republic is the most elaborate and polished. Three of these longer myths concern the fate of human souls in a future life. They appear in the Phaedo, Gorgias, and Republic. The magnificent myth in the Phaedrus concerns the soul’s immortality, or rather its eternal existence. This includes existence before the present life as well as after it. Several other stories may be added to this list. (1) The myth, or rather fable, in the Statesman contrasts innocent life with ordinary human life and awareness of evil. (2) The legend of the Island of Atlantis is an imaginary history that survives only as a fragment. It begins in the Timaeus and continues in the Critias. (3) The much less artistic story of the founding of the Cretan colony appears in the introduction to the Laws. But the story soon fades into the background. (4) Protagoras tells the beautiful but rather artificial story of Prometheus and Epimetheus in the dialogue named after him. He tells it in his rhetorical style. (5) The opening speech in the Phaedrus parodies the orator Lysias. Socrates’ competing speech and his retraction of it also belong here. To these may be added (6) the tale of the grasshoppers and (7) the tale of Thamus and Theuth. Both appear in the Phaedrus. (8) The parable of the Cave in the Republic sums up the preceding argument. It pictures the nature and levels of knowledge, previously explained in abstract terms. (9) The story of the earth-born men appears in the Republic (compare the Laws). By adapting an old tradition, Plato gives his society a new beginning. (10) Aristophanes’ myth about the division of the sexes appears in the Symposium. (11) The Republic contains the parable of the noble captain, the pilot, and the mutinous sailors. It represents how the better part of the world, and the philosopher, relate to the mob of politicians. (12) The Gorgias contains the ironic tale of the pilot who sails between Athens and Aegina. He charges only a small fee for saving people from death. His reason is that he cannot tell whether living or dying is better for them. (13) The Laws contrasts physicians’ treatment of freemen and citizens with their apprentices’ treatment of slaves. This somewhat strained comparison illustrates the two different ways laws address people. Plato also uses sustained images. Some extend over several pages, returning at intervals. One example is the bees with and without stings, representing thieves and paupers, in Book Eight of the Republic. These bees emerge during the transition from timocracy to oligarchy. Another is the sun in Book Six of the Republic. The sun relates to the visible world as the idea of good relates to the world of thought. Another image in the Republic is the composite animal shaped like a man. Beneath its human skin are a lion and a many-headed monster. There is also the great beast, representing the populace. And there is the wild beast within us, representing passions always liable to break out. Other vivid comparisons liken philosophy, degraded by the arts, to a dishonoured maiden. They also liken the tyrant to a man who kills his father, who “beats his father, having first taken away his arms”. Then there is the dog, your only philosopher. The Laws offers the grotesque and rather feeble image of an argument wandering around without a head. This repeats an image from the Gorgias without improving it. Argument is also personified as a woman veiling her face in the Republic. Elsewhere, argument takes part in a chase or breaks over us in a first, second, and third wave. These figures of speech are repeated in many variations. Nearly all these parables or sustained images, it is worth noting, appear in the Republic. Socrates’ midwifery in the Theaetetus is perhaps the only exception. To complete the list, we should remember the mathematical figure of the state’s number in the Republic. Nor should we forget the numerical distance separating king from tyrant.
The myth in the Gorgias is one of those descriptions of another life which, like the Sixth Aeneid of Virgil, appear to contain reminiscences of the mysteries. It is a vision of the rewards and punishments which await good and bad men after death. It supposes the body to continue and to be in another world what it has become in this. It includes a Paradiso, Purgatorio, and Inferno, like the sister myths of the Phaedo and the Republic. The Inferno is reserved for great criminals only. The argument of the dialogue is frequently referred to, and the meaning breaks through so as rather to destroy the liveliness and consistency of the picture. The structure of the fiction is very slight, the chief point or moral being that in the judgments of another world there is no possibility of concealment: Zeus has taken from men the power of foreseeing death, and brings together the souls both of them and their judges naked and undisguised at the judgment-seat. Both are exposed to view, stripped of the veils and clothes which might prevent them from seeing into or being seen by one another.
The myth in the Gorgias is one of those accounts of an afterlife that seem to recall the ancient mysteries. In this respect, it resembles the Sixth Aeneid of Virgil. The myth presents a vision of the rewards and punishments awaiting good and bad people after death. It assumes that the body continues to exist in the next world as it has become in this one. Like the related myths in the Phaedo and the Republic, it includes a Paradiso, Purgatorio, and Inferno. The Inferno is reserved only for great criminals. The myth frequently refers to the dialogue’s argument. Its underlying meaning comes through so strongly that it tends to undermine the picture’s vividness and consistency. The story has very little structure. Its main point or moral is that no one can hide anything when judged in the next world. Zeus has taken away people’s ability to foresee death. At the judgment seat, he brings together their souls and those of their judges, all naked and undisguised. Both the judged and their judges are fully exposed. They are stripped of the veils and clothes that might prevent them from seeing into one another or being seen.
The myth of the Phaedo is of the same type, but it is more cosmological, and also more poetical. The beautiful and ingenious fancy occurs to Plato that the upper atmosphere is an earth and heaven in one, a glorified earth, fairer and purer than that in which we dwell. As the fishes live in the ocean, mankind are living in a lower sphere, out of which they put their heads for a moment or two and behold a world beyond. The earth which we inhabit is a sediment of the coarser particles which drop from the world above, and is to that heavenly earth what the desert and the shores of the ocean are to us. A part of the myth consists of description of the interior of the earth, which gives the opportunity of introducing several mythological names and of providing places of torment for the wicked. There is no clear distinction of soul and body; the spirits beneath the earth are spoken of as souls only, yet they retain a sort of shadowy form when they cry for mercy on the shores of the lake; and the philosopher alone is said to have got rid of the body. All the three myths in Plato which relate to the world below have a place for repentant sinners, as well as other homes or places for the very good and very bad. It is a natural reflection which is made by Plato elsewhere, that the two extremes of human character are rarely met with, and that the generality of mankind are between them. Hence a place must be found for them. In the myth of the Phaedo they are carried down the river Acheron to the Acherusian lake, where they dwell, and are purified of their evil deeds, and receive the rewards of their good. There are also incurable sinners, who are cast into Tartarus, there to remain as the penalty of atrocious crimes; these suffer everlastingly. And there is another class of hardly-curable sinners who are allowed from time to time to approach the shores of the Acherusian lake, where they cry to their victims for mercy; which if they obtain they come out into the lake and cease from their torments.
The myth in the Phaedo is of the same kind, but it is more cosmological and more poetic. Plato imagines, beautifully and ingeniously, that the upper atmosphere is both earth and heaven. It is a glorified earth, more beautiful and purer than the earth where we live. Just as fish live in the ocean, humans live in a lower realm. From there, humans lift their heads for a moment or two and glimpse a world beyond. Our earth is a deposit of coarser particles that fall from the world above. Our earth stands in the same relation to that heavenly earth as deserts and ocean shores do to our world. Part of the myth describes the earth’s interior. This description allows Plato to introduce several mythological names and provide places of torment for the wicked. There is no clear distinction between soul and body. The spirits beneath the earth are described only as souls. Yet these spirits retain a kind of shadowy form as they cry for mercy on the lake’s shores. Only the philosopher is said to have freed himself from the body. All three of Plato’s myths about the underworld have a place for repentant sinners. They also provide other homes or places for the very good and the very bad. Elsewhere, Plato makes the natural observation that the two extremes of human character are rare. Most people fall between those extremes, so a place must be found for them. In the myth in the Phaedo, these people are carried down the river Acheron to the Acherusian lake. There they live, are purified of their evil deeds, and receive rewards for their good deeds. There are also sinners beyond reform, who are thrown into Tartarus as punishment for terrible crimes. These sinners remain there and suffer forever. Another group consists of sinners who can hardly be reformed. From time to time, these sinners are allowed to approach the shores of the Acherusian lake. There they cry out to their victims for mercy. If their victims grant mercy, these sinners enter the lake, and their torment ends.
Neither this, nor any of the three greater myths of Plato, nor perhaps any allegory or parable relating to the unseen world, is consistent with itself. The language of philosophy mingles with that of mythology; abstract ideas are transformed into persons, figures of speech into realities. These myths may be compared with the Pilgrim’s Progress of Bunyan, in which discussions of theology are mixed up with the incidents of travel, and mythological personages are associated with human beings: they are also garnished with names and phrases taken out of Homer, and with other fragments of Greek tradition.
Neither this myth nor any of Plato’s three greater myths is internally consistent. Perhaps no allegory or parable about the unseen world is internally consistent either. The language of philosophy mixes with the language of mythology. Abstract ideas become people, and figures of speech become realities. These myths may be compared with Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress. In that work, theological discussions mix with events on a journey, and mythological figures appear alongside human beings. Plato’s myths are also decorated with names and phrases from Homer and other fragments of Greek tradition.
The myth of the Republic is more subtle and also more consistent than either of the two others. It has a greater verisimilitude than they have, and is full of touches which recall the experiences of human life. It will be noticed by an attentive reader that the twelve days during which Er lay in a trance after he was slain coincide with the time passed by the spirits in their pilgrimage. It is a curious observation, not often made, that good men who have lived in a well-governed city (shall we say in a religious and respectable society?) are more likely to make mistakes in their choice of life than those who have had more experience of the world and of evil. It is a more familiar remark that we constantly blame others when we have only ourselves to blame; and the philosopher must acknowledge, however reluctantly, that there is an element of chance in human life with which it is sometimes impossible for man to cope. That men drink more of the waters of forgetfulness than is good for them is a poetical description of a familiar truth. We have many of us known men who, like Odysseus, have wearied of ambition and have only desired rest. We should like to know what became of the infants “dying almost as soon as they were born,” but Plato only raises, without satisfying, our curiosity. The two companies of souls, ascending and descending at either chasm of heaven and earth, and conversing when they come out into the meadow, the majestic figures of the judges sitting in heaven, the voice heard by Ardiaeus, are features of the great allegory which have an indescribable grandeur and power. The remark already made respecting the inconsistency of the two other myths must be extended also to this: it is at once an orrery, or model of the heavens, and a picture of the Day of Judgment.
The myth in the Republic is more subtle and more consistent than either of the other two myths. It is also more believable, with many details that recall the experiences of human life. An attentive reader will notice that Er lay in a trance for twelve days after he was killed. Those twelve days match the time the spirits spent on their pilgrimage. One curious point is rarely noted. Good men who have lived in a well-governed city are more likely to choose their next life badly. Shall we say a religious and respectable society? Those with more experience of the world and of evil are less likely to make such mistakes. A more familiar observation is that we constantly blame others when we have only ourselves to blame. And philosophers must admit, however reluctantly, that human life contains an element of chance that people sometimes cannot overcome. People drink more of the waters of forgetfulness than is good for them. This is a poetic description of a familiar truth. Many of us have known men who, like Odysseus, grew tired of ambition and wanted only rest. We would like to know what became of the infants “dying almost as soon as they were born.” But Plato only arouses our curiosity without satisfying it. Two groups of souls ascend and descend at the openings in heaven and earth. When the souls emerge into the meadow, they talk together. The majestic judges sit in heaven, and Ardiaeus hears a voice. These features of the great allegory have an indescribable grandeur and power. Yet the earlier point about the inconsistency of the other two myths also applies to this one. It is both an orrery, or model of the heavens, and a picture of the Day of Judgment.
The three myths are unlike anything else in Plato. There is an Oriental, or rather an Egyptian element in them, and they have an affinity to the mysteries and to the Orphic modes of worship. To a certain extent they are un-Greek; at any rate there is hardly anything like them in other Greek writings which have a serious purpose; in spirit they are mediaeval. They are akin to what may be termed the underground religion in all ages and countries. They are presented in the most lively and graphic manner, but they are never insisted on as true; it is only affirmed that nothing better can be said about a future life. Plato seems to make use of them when he has reached the limits of human knowledge; or, to borrow an expression of his own, when he is standing on the outside of the intellectual world. They are very simple in style; a few touches bring the picture home to the mind, and make it present to us. They have also a kind of authority gained by the employment of sacred and familiar names, just as mere fragments of the words of Scripture, put together in any form and applied to any subject, have a power of their own. They are a substitute for poetry and mythology; and they are also a reform of mythology. The moral of them may be summed up in a word or two: After death the Judgment; and “there is some better thing remaining for the good than for the evil.”
The three myths are unlike anything else in Plato. They contain an Eastern, or more precisely Egyptian, element. They also have links to the mystery religions and Orphic forms of worship. To some extent, they are un-Greek. At any rate, hardly anything like them appears in other Greek writings with a serious purpose. Their spirit is medieval. They resemble what might be called the underground religion of all ages and countries. The myths are told vividly and with striking detail, but they are never presented as certainly true. The only claim is that nothing better can be said about a future life. Plato seems to use these myths when he has reached the limits of human knowledge. Or, to borrow his own expression, he is standing outside the intellectual world. Their style is very simple. A few details bring the scene vividly before our minds. The myths also gain a kind of authority from their use of sacred and familiar names. In the same way, even fragments of Scripture have a power of their own. They retain that power however they are put together and whatever subject they are applied to. The myths replace poetry and mythology, but they also reform mythology. Their moral can be summed up briefly: After death comes Judgment, and “there is some better thing remaining for the good than for the evil.”
All literature gathers into itself many elements of the past: for example, the tale of the earth-born men in the Republic appears at first sight to be an extravagant fancy, but it is restored to propriety when we remember that it is based on a legendary belief. The art of making stories of ghosts and apparitions credible is said to consist in the manner of telling them. The effect is gained by many literary and conversational devices, such as the previous raising of curiosity, the mention of little circumstances, simplicity, picturesqueness, the naturalness of the occasion, and the like. This art is possessed by Plato in a degree which has never been equalled.
All literature draws on many elements of the past. For example, the story of the earth-born men in the Republic seems at first like a wild fantasy. But the story seems more fitting when we remember that it rests on a legendary belief. The art of making stories about ghosts and apparitions believable is said to lie in how they are told. Writers and speakers achieve this effect through many techniques. They first arouse curiosity, mention small details, and use simplicity, vivid descriptions, naturally arising occasions, and similar devices. Plato’s skill in this art has never been equalled.
The myth in the Phaedrus is even greater than the myths which have been already described, but is of a different character. It treats of a former rather than of a future life. It represents the conflict of reason aided by passion or righteous indignation on the one hand, and of the animal lusts and instincts on the other. The soul of man has followed the company of some god, and seen truth in the form of the universal before it was born in this world. Our present life is the result of the struggle which was then carried on. This world is relative to a former world, as it is often projected into a future. We ask the question, Where were men before birth? As we likewise enquire, What will become of them after death? The first question is unfamiliar to us, and therefore seems to be unnatural; but if we survey the whole human race, it has been as influential and as widely spread as the other. In the Phaedrus it is really a figure of speech in which the “spiritual combat” of this life is represented. The majesty and power of the whole passage—especially of what may be called the theme or proem (beginning “The mind through all her being is immortal”)—can only be rendered very inadequately in another language.
The myth in the Phaedrus is even greater than the myths already described, but differs in character. It concerns a past life rather than a future one. It portrays a conflict between reason, aided by passion or righteous anger, and animal desires and instincts. Before birth into this world, the human soul followed some god and saw truth in its universal form. Our present life is the result of the struggle that took place then. This world is understood in relation to a past world, just as it is often projected into a future one. We ask, Where were people before birth? Likewise, we ask, What will become of them after death? The first question is unfamiliar to us and therefore seems unnatural. But across the whole human race, that question has been as influential and widespread as the question about life after death. In the Phaedrus, the account of life before birth is really a metaphor for the “spiritual combat” of this life. The majesty and power of the whole passage can be conveyed only very inadequately in another language. This is especially true of what may be called its theme or introduction, beginning “The mind through all her being is immortal”.
The myth in the Statesman relates to a former cycle of existence, in which men were born of the earth, and by the reversal of the earth’s motion had their lives reversed and were restored to youth and beauty: the dead came to life, the old grew middle-aged, and the middle-aged young; the youth became a child, the child an infant, the infant vanished into the earth. The connection between the reversal of the earth’s motion and the reversal of human life is of course verbal only, yet Plato, like theologians in other ages, argues from the consistency of the tale to its truth. The new order of the world was immediately under the government of God; it was a state of innocence in which men had neither wants nor cares, in which the earth brought forth all things spontaneously, and God was to man what man now is to the animals. There were no great estates, or families, or private possessions, nor any traditions of the past, because men were all born out of the earth. This is what Plato calls the “reign of Cronos;” and in like manner he connects the reversal of the earth’s motion with some legend of which he himself was probably the inventor.
The myth in the Statesman describes an earlier cycle of existence, when humans were born from the earth. As the earth’s motion reversed, their lives also ran backward, restoring their youth and beauty. The dead came to life, the old became middle-aged, and the middle-aged became young. Young people became children, children became infants, and infants vanished into the earth. Of course, the connection between the earth’s reversed motion and human lives running backward exists only in words. Yet Plato, like theologians in other ages, argues that the story’s internal consistency makes it true. The new world order was governed directly by God. It was a state of innocence, where people had no needs or worries, and the earth produced everything spontaneously. God was to humans what humans now are to animals. There were no great estates, families, private possessions, or traditions handed down from the past, because everyone was born from the earth. Plato calls this the “reign of Cronos;” and similarly connects the earth’s reversed motion with a legend he probably invented himself.
The question is then asked, under which of these two cycles of existence was man the happier,—under that of Cronos, which was a state of innocence, or that of Zeus, which is our ordinary life? For a while Plato balances the two sides of the serious controversy, which he has suggested in a figure. The answer depends on another question: What use did the children of Cronos make of their time? They had boundless leisure and the faculty of discoursing, not only with one another, but with the animals. Did they employ these advantages with a view to philosophy, gathering from every nature some addition to their store of knowledge? or, Did they pass their time in eating and drinking and telling stories to one another and to the beasts?—in either case there would be no difficulty in answering. But then, as Plato rather mischievously adds, “Nobody knows what they did,” and therefore the doubt must remain undetermined.
The question then arises: In which of these two cycles of existence were humans happier? Was it the age of Cronos, a state of innocence, or the age of Zeus, our ordinary life? For a while, Plato weighs both sides of the serious debate he has introduced through this image. The answer depends on another question: How did the children of Cronos use their time? They had unlimited leisure and could talk not only with one another but also with animals. Did they use these advantages to pursue philosophy, learning something from every kind of being to expand their knowledge? Or did they spend their time eating, drinking, and telling stories to one another and to the animals? In either case, the answer would be easy. But then, as Plato adds rather mischievously, “Nobody knows what they did,” so the question must remain unresolved.
To the first there succeeds a second epoch. After another natural convulsion, in which the order of the world and of human life is once more reversed, God withdraws his guiding hand, and man is left to the government of himself. The world begins again, and arts and laws are slowly and painfully invented. A secular age succeeds to a theocratical. In this fanciful tale Plato has dropped, or almost dropped, the garb of mythology. He suggests several curious and important thoughts, such as the possibility of a state of innocence, the existence of a world without traditions, and the difference between human and divine government. He has also carried a step further his speculations concerning the abolition of the family and of property, which he supposes to have no place among the children of Cronos any more than in the ideal state.
A second era follows the first. After another upheaval in nature, the order of the world and human life is once again reversed. God then withdraws his guiding hand, leaving humanity to govern itself. The world begins again, and people slowly and painfully develop arts and laws. A secular age follows an age of divine rule. In this imaginative tale, Plato has dropped, or almost dropped, the trappings of mythology. He suggests several intriguing and important ideas. These include the possibility of a state of innocence and the existence of a world without traditions. He also considers the difference between human and divine government. He takes his thinking about abolishing the family and property a step further. He imagines that neither has a place among the children of Cronos, any more than in the ideal state.
It is characteristic of Plato and of his age to pass from the abstract to the concrete, from poetry to reality. Language is the expression of the seen, and also of the unseen, and moves in a region between them. A great writer knows how to strike both these chords, sometimes remaining within the sphere of the visible, and then again comprehending a wider range and soaring to the abstract and universal. Even in the same sentence he may employ both modes of speech not improperly or inharmoniously. It is useless to criticise the broken metaphors of Plato, if the effect of the whole is to create a picture not such as can be painted on canvas, but which is full of life and meaning to the reader. A poem may be contained in a word or two, which may call up not one but many latent images; or half reveal to us by a sudden flash the thoughts of many hearts. Often the rapid transition from one image to another is pleasing to us: on the other hand, any single figure of speech if too often repeated, or worked out too much at length, becomes prosy and monotonous. In theology and philosophy we necessarily include both “the moral law within and the starry heaven above,” and pass from one to the other (compare for examples Psalms xviii. and xix.). Whether such a use of language is puerile or noble depends upon the genius of the writer or speaker, and the familiarity of the associations employed.
Plato and others of his age typically move from the abstract to the concrete, from poetry to reality. Language expresses both the seen and the unseen, and moves between them. A great writer knows how to strike both these notes. Sometimes he stays within the visible world. At other times, he takes in a wider range, soaring to the abstract and universal. Even within one sentence, he may use both ways of speaking appropriately and harmoniously. There is no point in criticizing Plato’s mixed metaphors if their overall effect is to create a vivid, meaningful picture. Such a picture cannot be painted on canvas, but it comes alive for the reader. A word or two may contain a poem, calling up not one but many hidden images. Or those words may suddenly offer a glimpse into the thoughts of many hearts. Often, a quick shift from one image to another pleases us. On the other hand, any single figure of speech becomes dull and monotonous if repeated too often or developed at too much length. In theology and philosophy, we necessarily include both “the moral law within and the starry heaven above.” We move from one to the other (compare, for examples, Psalms xviii. and xix.). Whether this use of language is childish or noble depends on the talent of the writer or speaker. It also depends on how familiar the associations are.
In the myths and parables of Plato the ease and grace of conversation is not forgotten: they are spoken, not written words, stories which are told to a living audience, and so well told that we are more than half-inclined to believe them (compare Phaedrus). As in conversation too, the striking image or figure of speech is not forgotten, but is quickly caught up, and alluded to again and again; as it would still be in our own day in a genial and sympathetic society. The descriptions of Plato have a greater life and reality than is to be found in any modern writing. This is due to their homeliness and simplicity. Plato can do with words just as he pleases; to him they are indeed “more plastic than wax” (Republic). We are in the habit of opposing speech and writing, poetry and prose. But he has discovered a use of language in which they are united; which gives a fitting expression to the highest truths; and in which the trifles of courtesy and the familiarities of daily life are not overlooked.
Plato’s myths and parables retain the ease and grace of conversation. They are spoken words, not written ones, stories told to a living audience. They are so well told that we are more than half inclined to believe them (compare Phaedrus). As in conversation, a striking image or figure of speech is not forgotten. Instead, it is quickly picked up and referred to again and again. The same would still happen today in warm, friendly company. Plato’s descriptions have more life and reality than those found in any modern writing. Their power comes from their everyday character and simplicity. Plato can do whatever he likes with words. To him, words are indeed “more plastic than wax” (Republic). We tend to see speech and writing, poetry and prose, as opposites. But Plato has discovered a way of using language that brings them together. His language gives fitting expression to the highest truths without overlooking small courtesies and the familiar details of daily life.