Dialogues

and the music was of various kinds: there was one kind which consisted of hymns, another of lamentations; there was also the paean and the dithyramb, and the so-called “laws” (νόμοι) or strains, which were played upon the harp. The regulation of such matters was not left to the whistling and clapping of the crowd; there was silence while the judges decided, and the boys, and the audience in general, were kept in order by raps of a stick. But after a while there arose a new race of poets, men of genius certainly, however careless of musical truth and propriety, who made pleasure the only criterion of excellence. That was a test which the spectators could apply for themselves; the whole audience, instead of being mute, became vociferous, and a theatrocracy took the place of an aristocracy. Could the judges have been free, there would have been no great harm done; a musical democracy would have been well enough⁠—but conceit has been our ruin. Everybody knows everything, and is ready to say anything; the age of reverence is gone, and the age of irreverence and licentiousness has succeeded. “Most true.” And with this freedom comes disobedience to rulers, parents, elders⁠—in the latter days to the law also; the end returns to the beginning, and the old Titanic nature reappears⁠—men have no regard for the Gods or for oaths; and the evils of the human race seem as if they would never cease. Whither are we running away? Once more we must pull up the argument with bit and curb, lest, as the proverb says, we should fall off our ass. “Good.” Our purpose in what we have been saying is to prove that the legislator ought to aim at securing for a state three things⁠—freedom, friendship, wisdom. And we chose two states;⁠—one was the type of freedom, and the other of despotism; and we showed that when in a mean they attained their highest perfection. In a similar spirit we spoke of the Dorian expedition, and of the settlement on the hills and in the plains of Troy; and of music, and the use of wine, and of all that preceded.

And now, has our discussion been of any use? “Yes, stranger; for by a singular coincidence the Cretans are about to send out a colony, of which the settlement has been confided to the Cnosians. Ten commissioners, of whom I am one, are to give laws to the colonists, and we may give any which we please⁠—Cretan or foreign. And therefore let us make a selection from what has been said, and then proceed with the construction of the state.” Very good: I am quite at your service. “And I too,” says Megillus.

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Book IV. And now, what is this city? I do not want to know what is to be the name of the place (for some accident⁠—a river or a local deity, will determine that), but what the situation is, whether maritime or inland. “The city will be about eleven miles from the sea.” Are there harbours? “Excellent.” And is the surrounding country self-supporting? “Almost.” Any neighbouring states? “No; and that is the reason for choosing the place, which has been deserted from time immemorial.” And is there a fair proportion of hill and plain and wood? “Like Crete in general, more hill than plain.” Then there is some hope for your citizens; had the city been on the sea, and dependent for support on other countries, no human power could have preserved you from corruption. Even the distance of eleven miles is hardly enough. For the sea, although an agreeable, is a dangerous companion, and a highway of strange morals and manners as well as of commerce. But as the country is only moderately fertile there will be no great export trade and no great returns of gold and silver, which are the ruin of states. Is there timber for shipbuilding? “There is no pine, nor much cypress; and very little stone-pine or plane wood for the interior of ships.” That is good. “Why?” Because the city will not be able to imitate the bad ways of her enemies. “What is the bearing of that remark?” To explain my meaning, I would ask you to remember what we said about the Cretan laws, that they had an eye to war only; whereas I maintained that they ought to have included all virtue. And I hope that you in your turn will retaliate upon me if I am false to my own principle. For I consider that the lawgiver should go straight to the mark of virtue and justice, and disregard wealth and every other good when separated from virtue. What further I mean, when I speak of the imitation of enemies, I will illustrate by the story of Minos, if our Cretan friend will allow me to mention it. Minos, who was a great sea-king, imposed upon the Athenians a cruel tribute, for in those days they were not a maritime power; they had no timber for shipbuilding, and therefore they could not “imitate their enemies”; and better far, as I maintain, would it have been for them to have lost many times over the lives which they devoted to the tribute than to have turned soldiers into sailors. Naval warfare is not a very praiseworthy art; men should not be taught to leap on shore, and then again to hurry back to their ships, or to find specious excuses for throwing away their arms; bad customs ought not to be gilded with fine words. And retreat is always bad, as we are taught in Homer, when he introduces Odysseus, setting forth to Agamemnon the danger of ships being at hand when soldiers are disposed to fly. An army of lions trained in such ways would fly before a herd of deer. Further, a city which owes its preservation to a crowd of pilots and oarsmen and other undeserving persons, cannot bestow rewards of