1. Plato expressly says that he is intending to found an Hellenic State (Book V). Many of his regulations are characteristically Spartan5; such as the prohibition6 of gold and silver, the common meals of the men, the military training of the youth, the gymnastic exercises of the women. The life of Sparta was the life of a camp (Laws), enforced even more rigidly7 in time of peace than in war; the citizens of Sparta, like Plato’s, were forbidden to trade — they were to be soldiers and not shopkeepers. Nowhere else in Greece was the individual so completely subjected to the State; the time when he was to marry, the education of his children, the clothes which he was to wear, the food which he was to eat, were all prescribed by law. Some of the best enactments9 in the Republic, such as the reverence10 to be paid to parents and elders, and some of the worst, such as the exposure of deformed11 children, are borrowed from the practice of Sparta. The encouragement of friendships between men and youths, or of men with one another, as affording incentives12 to bravery, is also Spartan; in Sparta too a nearer approach was made than in any other Greek State to equality of the sexes, and to community of property; and while there was probably less of licentiousness13 in the sense of immorality15, the tie of marriage was regarded more lightly than in the rest of Greece. The ‘suprema lex’ was the preservation17 of the family, and the interest of the State. The coarse strength of a military government was not favourable18 to purity and refinement19; and the excessive strictness of some regulations seems to have produced a reaction. Of all Hellenes the Spartans20 were most accessible to bribery21; several of the greatest of them might be described in the words of Plato as having a ‘fierce secret longing22 after gold and silver.’ Though not in the strict sense communists, the principle of communism was maintained among them in their division of lands, in their common meals, in their slaves, and in the free use of one another’s goods. Marriage was a public institution: and the women were educated by the State, and sang and danced in public with the men.
Many traditions were preserved at Sparta of the severity with which the magistrates23 had maintained the primitive24 rule of music and poetry; as in the Republic of Plato, the new-fangled poet was to be expelled. Hymns25 to the Gods, which are the only kind of music admitted into the ideal State, were the only kind which was permitted at Sparta. The Spartans, though an unpoetical race, were nevertheless lovers of poetry; they had been stirred by the Elegiac strains of Tyrtaeus, they had crowded around Hippias to hear his recitals27 of Homer; but in this they resembled the citizens of the timocratic rather than of the ideal State. The council of elder men also corresponds to the Spartan gerousia; and the freedom with which they are permitted to judge about matters of detail agrees with what we are told of that institution. Once more, the military rule of not spoiling the dead or offering arms at the temples; the moderation in the pursuit of enemies; the importance attached to the physical well-being28 of the citizens; the use of warfare29 for the sake of defence rather than of aggression30 — are features probably suggested by the spirit and practice of Sparta.
To the Spartan type the ideal State reverts31 in the first decline; and the character of the individual timocrat is borrowed from the Spartan citizen. The love of Lacedaemon not only affected33 Plato and Xenophon, but was shared by many undistinguished Athenians; there they seemed to find a principle which was wanting in their own democracy. The (Greek) of the Spartans attracted them, that is to say, not the goodness of their laws, but the spirit of order and loyalty35 which prevailed. Fascinated by the idea, citizens of Athens would imitate the Lacedaemonians in their dress and manners; they were known to the contemporaries of Plato as ‘the persons who had their ears bruised,’ like the Roundheads of the Commonwealth36. The love of another church or country when seen at a distance only, the longing for an imaginary simplicity37 in civilized38 times, the fond desire of a past which never has been, or of a future which never will be — these are aspirations40 of the human mind which are often felt among ourselves. Such feelings meet with a response in the Republic of Plato.
But there are other features of the Platonic41 Republic, as, for example, the literary and philosophical42 education, and the grace and beauty of life, which are the reverse of Spartan. Plato wishes to give his citizens a taste of Athenian freedom as well as of Lacedaemonian discipline. His individual genius is purely43 Athenian, although in theory he is a lover of Sparta; and he is something more than either — he has also a true Hellenic feeling. He is desirous of humanizing the wars of Hellenes against one another; he acknowledges that the Delphian God is the grand hereditary44 interpreter of all Hellas. The spirit of harmony and the Dorian mode are to prevail, and the whole State is to have an external beauty which is the reflex of the harmony within. But he has not yet found out the truth which he afterwards enunciated45 in the Laws — that he was a better legislator who made men to be of one mind, than he who trained them for war. The citizens, as in other Hellenic States, democratic as well as aristocratic, are really an upper class; for, although no mention is made of slaves, the lower classes are allowed to fade away into the distance, and are represented in the individual by the passions. Plato has no idea either of a social State in which all classes are harmonized, or of a federation46 of Hellas or the world in which different nations or States have a place. His city is equipped for war rather than for peace, and this would seem to be justified47 by the ordinary condition of Hellenic States. The myth of the earth-born men is an embodiment of the orthodox tradition of Hellas, and the allusion48 to the four ages of the world is also sanctioned by the authority of Hesiod and the poets. Thus we see that the Republic is partly founded on the ideal of the old Greek polis, partly on the actual circumstances of Hellas in that age. Plato, like the old painters, retains the traditional form, and like them he has also a vision of a city in the clouds.
There is yet another thread which is interwoven in the texture49 of the work; for the Republic is not only a Dorian State, but a Pythagorean league. The ‘way of life’ which was connected with the name of Pythagoras, like the Catholic monastic orders, showed the power which the mind of an individual might exercise over his contemporaries, and may have naturally suggested to Plato the possibility of reviving such ‘mediaeval institutions.’ The Pythagoreans, like Plato, enforced a rule of life and a moral and intellectual training. The influence ascribed to music, which to us seems exaggerated, is also a Pythagorean feature; it is not to be regarded as representing the real influence of music in the Greek world. More nearly than any other government of Hellas, the Pythagorean league of three hundred was an aristocracy of virtue50. For once in the history of mankind the philosophy of order or (Greek), expressing and consequently enlisting51 on its side the combined endeavours of the better part of the people, obtained the management of public affairs and held possession of it for a considerable time (until about B.C. 500). Probably only in States prepared by Dorian institutions would such a league have been possible. The rulers, like Plato’s (Greek), were required to submit to a severe training in order to prepare the way for the education of the other members of the community. Long after the dissolution of the Order, eminent52 Pythagoreans, such as Archytas of Tarentum, retained their political influence over the cities of Magna Graecia. There was much here that was suggestive to the kindred spirit of Plato, who had doubtless meditated53 deeply on the ‘way of life of Pythagoras’ (Rep.) and his followers54. Slight traces of Pythagoreanism are to be found in the mystical number of the State, in the number which expresses the interval56 between the king and the tyrant57, in the doctrine58 of transmigration, in the music of the spheres, as well as in the great though secondary importance ascribed to mathematics in education.
But as in his philosophy, so also in the form of his State, he goes far beyond the old Pythagoreans. He attempts a task really impossible, which is to unite the past of Greek history with the future of philosophy, analogous59 to that other impossibility, which has often been the dream of Christendom, the attempt to unite the past history of Europe with the kingdom of Christ. Nothing actually existing in the world at all resembles Plato’s ideal State; nor does he himself imagine that such a State is possible. This he repeats again and again; e.g. in the Republic, or in the Laws where, casting a glance back on the Republic, he admits that the perfect state of communism and philosophy was impossible in his own age, though still to be retained as a pattern. The same doubt is implied in the earnestness with which he argues in the Republic that ideals are none the worse because they cannot be realized in fact, and in the chorus of laughter, which like a breaking wave will, as he anticipates, greet the mention of his proposals; though like other writers of fiction, he uses all his art to give reality to his inventions. When asked how the ideal polity can come into being, he answers ironically, ‘When one son of a king becomes a philosopher’; he designates the fiction of the earth-born men as ‘a noble lie’; and when the structure is finally complete, he fairly tells you that his Republic is a vision only, which in some sense may have reality, but not in the vulgar one of a reign61 of philosophers upon earth. It has been said that Plato flies as well as walks, but this falls short of the truth; for he flies and walks at the same time, and is in the air and on firm ground in successive instants.
Niebuhr has asked a trifling62 question, which may be briefly63 noticed in this place — Was Plato a good citizen? If by this is meant, Was he loyal to Athenian institutions? — he can hardly be said to be the friend of democracy: but neither is he the friend of any other existing form of government; all of them he regarded as ‘states of faction’ (Laws); none attained65 to his ideal of a voluntary rule over voluntary subjects, which seems indeed more nearly to describe democracy than any other; and the worst of them is tyranny. The truth is, that the question has hardly any meaning when applied66 to a great philosopher whose writings are not meant for a particular age and country, but for all time and all mankind. The decline of Athenian politics was probably the motive67 which led Plato to frame an ideal State, and the Republic may be regarded as reflecting the departing glory of Hellas. As well might we complain of St. Augustine, whose great work ‘The City of God’ originated in a similar motive, for not being loyal to the Roman Empire. Even a nearer parallel might be afforded by the first Christians69, who cannot fairly be charged with being bad citizens because, though ‘subject to the higher powers,’ they were looking forward to a city which is in heaven.
2. The idea of the perfect State is full of paradox2 when judged of according to the ordinary notions of mankind. The paradoxes of one age have been said to become the commonplaces of the next; but the paradoxes of Plato are at least as paradoxical to us as they were to his contemporaries. The modern world has either sneered70 at them as absurd, or denounced them as unnatural71 and immoral16; men have been pleased to find in Aristotle’s criticisms of them the anticipation72 of their own good sense. The wealthy and cultivated classes have disliked and also dreaded73 them; they have pointed74 with satisfaction to the failure of efforts to realize them in practice. Yet since they are the thoughts of one of the greatest of human intelligences, and of one who had done most to elevate morality and religion, they seem to deserve a better treatment at our hands. We may have to address the public, as Plato does poetry, and assure them that we mean no harm to existing institutions. There are serious errors which have a side of truth and which therefore may fairly demand a careful consideration: there are truths mixed with error of which we may indeed say, ‘The half is better than the whole.’ Yet ‘the half’ may be an important contribution to the study of human nature.
(a) The first paradox is the community of goods, which is mentioned slightly at the end of the third Book, and seemingly, as Aristotle observes, is confined to the guardians75; at least no mention is made of the other classes. But the omission76 is not of any real significance, and probably arises out of the plan of the work, which prevents the writer from entering into details.
Aristotle censures77 the community of property much in the spirit of modern political economy, as tending to repress industry, and as doing away with the spirit of benevolence78. Modern writers almost refuse to consider the subject, which is supposed to have been long ago settled by the common opinion of mankind. But it must be remembered that the sacredness of property is a notion far more fixed79 in modern than in ancient times. The world has grown older, and is therefore more conservative. Primitive society offered many examples of land held in common, either by a tribe or by a township, and such may probably have been the original form of landed tenure80. Ancient legislators had invented various modes of dividing and preserving the divisions of land among the citizens; according to Aristotle there were nations who held the land in common and divided the produce, and there were others who divided the land and stored the produce in common. The evils of debt and the inequality of property were far greater in ancient than in modern times, and the accidents to which property was subject from war, or revolution, or taxation81, or other legislative82 interference, were also greater. All these circumstances gave property a less fixed and sacred character. The early Christians are believed to have held their property in common, and the principle is sanctioned by the words of Christ himself, and has been maintained as a counsel of perfection in almost all ages of the Church. Nor have there been wanting instances of modern enthusiasts84 who have made a religion of communism; in every age of religious excitement notions like Wycliffe’s ‘inheritance of grace’ have tended to prevail. A like spirit, but fiercer and more violent, has appeared in politics. ‘The preparation of the Gospel of peace’ soon becomes the red flag of Republicanism.
We can hardly judge what effect Plato’s views would have upon his own contemporaries; they would perhaps have seemed to them only an exaggeration of the Spartan commonwealth. Even modern writers would acknowledge that the right of private property is based on expediency85, and may be interfered86 with in a variety of ways for the public good. Any other mode of vesting property which was found to be more advantageous87, would in time acquire the same basis of right; ‘the most useful,’ in Plato’s words, ‘would be the most sacred.’ The lawyers and ecclesiastics88 of former ages would have spoken of property as a sacred institution. But they only meant by such language to oppose the greatest amount of resistance to any invasion of the rights of individuals and of the Church.
When we consider the question, without any fear of immediate90 application to practice, in the spirit of Plato’s Republic, are we quite sure that the received notions of property are the best? Is the distribution of wealth which is customary in civilized countries the most favourable that can be conceived for the education and development of the mass of mankind? Can ‘the spectator of all time and all existence’ be quite convinced that one or two thousand years hence, great changes will not have taken place in the rights of property, or even that the very notion of property, beyond what is necessary for personal maintenance, may not have disappeared? This was a distinction familiar to Aristotle, though likely to be laughed at among ourselves. Such a change would not be greater than some other changes through which the world has passed in the transition from ancient to modern society, for example, the emancipation91 of the serfs in Russia, or the abolition92 of slavery in America and the West Indies; and not so great as the difference which separates the Eastern village community from the Western world. To accomplish such a revolution in the course of a few centuries, would imply a rate of progress not more rapid than has actually taken place during the last fifty or sixty years. The kingdom of Japan underwent more change in five or six years than Europe in five or six hundred. Many opinions and beliefs which have been cherished among ourselves quite as strongly as the sacredness of property have passed away; and the most untenable propositions respecting the right of bequests93 or entail94 have been maintained with as much fervour as the most moderate. Some one will be heard to ask whether a state of society can be final in which the interests of thousands are perilled95 on the life or character of a single person. And many will indulge the hope that our present condition may, after all, be only transitional, and may conduct to a higher, in which property, besides ministering to the enjoyment96 of the few, may also furnish the means of the highest culture to all, and will be a greater benefit to the public generally, and also more under the control of public authority. There may come a time when the saying, ‘Have I not a right to do what I will with my own?’ will appear to be a barbarous relic97 of individualism; — when the possession of a part may be a greater blessing98 to each and all than the possession of the whole is now to any one.
Such reflections appear visionary to the eye of the practical statesman, but they are within the range of possibility to the philosopher. He can imagine that in some distant age or clime, and through the influence of some individual, the notion of common property may or might have sunk as deep into the heart of a race, and have become as fixed to them, as private property is to ourselves. He knows that this latter institution is not more than four or five thousand years old: may not the end revert32 to the beginning? In our own age even Utopias affect the spirit of legislation, and an abstract idea may exercise a great influence on practical politics.
The objections that would be generally urged against Plato’s community of property, are the old ones of Aristotle, that motives99 for exertion100 would be taken away, and that disputes would arise when each was dependent upon all. Every man would produce as little and consume as much as he liked. The experience of civilized nations has hitherto been adverse101 to Socialism. The effort is too great for human nature; men try to live in common, but the personal feeling is always breaking in. On the other hand it may be doubted whether our present notions of property are not conventional, for they differ in different countries and in different states of society. We boast of an individualism which is not freedom, but rather an artificial result of the industrial state of modern Europe. The individual is nominally102 free, but he is also powerless in a world bound hand and foot in the chains of economic necessity. Even if we cannot expect the mass of mankind to become disinterested103, at any rate we observe in them a power of organization which fifty years ago would never have been suspected. The same forces which have revolutionized the political system of Europe, may effect a similar change in the social and industrial relations of mankind. And if we suppose the influence of some good as well as neutral motives working in the community, there will be no absurdity104 in expecting that the mass of mankind having power, and becoming enlightened about the higher possibilities of human life, when they learn how much more is attainable105 for all than is at present the possession of a favoured few, may pursue the common interest with an intelligence and persistency106 which mankind have hitherto never seen.
Now that the world has once been set in motion, and is no longer held fast under the tyranny of custom and ignorance; now that criticism has pierced the veil of tradition and the past no longer overpowers the present — the progress of civilization may be expected to be far greater and swifter than heretofore. Even at our present rate of speed the point at which we may arrive in two or three generations is beyond the power of imagination to foresee. There are forces in the world which work, not in an arithmetical, but in a geometrical ratio of increase. Education, to use the expression of Plato, moves like a wheel with an ever-multiplying rapidity. Nor can we say how great may be its influence, when it becomes universal — when it has been inherited by many generations — when it is freed from the trammels of superstition107 and rightly adapted to the wants and capacities of different classes of men and women. Neither do we know how much more the co-operation of minds or of hands may be capable of accomplishing, whether in labour or in study. The resources of the natural sciences are not half-developed as yet; the soil of the earth, instead of growing more barren, may become many times more fertile than hitherto; the uses of machinery108 far greater, and also more minute than at present. New secrets of physiology109 may be revealed, deeply affecting human nature in its innermost recesses110. The standard of health may be raised and the lives of men prolonged by sanitary111 and medical knowledge. There may be peace, there may be leisure, there may be innocent refreshments112 of many kinds. The ever-increasing power of locomotion113 may join the extremes of earth. There may be mysterious workings of the human mind, such as occur only at great crises of history. The East and the West may meet together, and all nations may contribute their thoughts and their experience to the common stock of humanity. Many other elements enter into a speculation114 of this kind. But it is better to make an end of them. For such reflections appear to the majority far-fetched, and to men of science, commonplace.
(b) Neither to the mind of Plato nor of Aristotle did the doctrine of community of property present at all the same difficulty, or appear to be the same violation115 of the common Hellenic sentiment, as the community of wives and children. This paradox he prefaces by another proposal, that the occupations of men and women shall be the same, and that to this end they shall have a common training and education. Male and female animals have the same pursuits — why not also the two sexes of man?
But have we not here fallen into a contradiction? for we were saying that different natures should have different pursuits. How then can men and women have the same? And is not the proposal inconsistent with our notion of the division of labour? — These objections are no sooner raised than answered; for, according to Plato, there is no organic difference between men and women, but only the accidental one that men beget116 and women bear children. Following the analogy of the other animals, he contends that all natural gifts are scattered117 about indifferently among both sexes, though there may be a superiority of degree on the part of the men. The objection on the score of decency118 to their taking part in the same gymnastic exercises, is met by Plato’s assertion that the existing feeling is a matter of habit.
That Plato should have emancipated119 himself from the ideas of his own country and from the example of the East, shows a wonderful independence of mind. He is conscious that women are half the human race, in some respects the more important half (Laws); and for the sake both of men and women he desires to raise the woman to a higher level of existence. He brings, not sentiment, but philosophy to bear upon a question which both in ancient and modern times has been chiefly regarded in the light of custom or feeling. The Greeks had noble conceptions of womanhood in the goddesses Athene and Artemis, and in the heroines Antigone and Andromache. But these ideals had no counterpart in actual life. The Athenian woman was in no way the equal of her husband; she was not the entertainer of his guests or the mistress of his house, but only his housekeeper120 and the mother of his children. She took no part in military or political matters; nor is there any instance in the later ages of Greece of a woman becoming famous in literature. ‘Hers is the greatest glory who has the least renown121 among men,’ is the historian’s conception of feminine excellence122. A very different ideal of womanhood is held up by Plato to the world; she is to be the companion of the man, and to share with him in the toils123 of war and in the cares of government. She is to be similarly trained both in bodily and mental exercises. She is to lose as far as possible the incidents of maternity125 and the characteristics of the female sex.
The modern antagonist126 of the equality of the sexes would argue that the differences between men and women are not confined to the single point urged by Plato; that sensibility, gentleness, grace, are the qualities of women, while energy, strength, higher intelligence, are to be looked for in men. And the criticism is just: the differences affect the whole nature, and are not, as Plato supposes, confined to a single point. But neither can we say how far these differences are due to education and the opinions of mankind, or physically127 inherited from the habits and opinions of former generations. Women have been always taught, not exactly that they are slaves, but that they are in an inferior position, which is also supposed to have compensating128 advantages; and to this position they have conformed. It is also true that the physical form may easily change in the course of generations through the mode of life; and the weakness or delicacy129, which was once a matter of opinion, may become a physical fact. The characteristics of sex vary greatly in different countries and ranks of society, and at different ages in the same individuals. Plato may have been right in denying that there was any ultimate difference in the sexes of man other than that which exists in animals, because all other differences may be conceived to disappear in other states of society, or under different circumstances of life and training.
The first wave having been passed, we proceed to the second — community of wives and children. ‘Is it possible? Is it desirable?’ For as Glaucon intimates, and as we far more strongly insist, ‘Great doubts may be entertained about both these points.’ Any free discussion of the question is impossible, and mankind are perhaps right in not allowing the ultimate bases of social life to be examined. Few of us can safely enquire130 into the things which nature hides, any more than we can dissect131 our own bodies. Still, the manner in which Plato arrived at his conclusions should be considered. For here, as Mr. Grote has remarked, is a wonderful thing, that one of the wisest and best of men should have entertained ideas of morality which are wholly at variance133 with our own. And if we would do Plato justice, we must examine carefully the character of his proposals. First, we may observe that the relations of the sexes supposed by him are the reverse of licentious14: he seems rather to aim at an impossible strictness. Secondly134, he conceives the family to be the natural enemy of the state; and he entertains the serious hope that an universal brotherhood135 may take the place of private interests — an aspiration39 which, although not justified by experience, has possessed136 many noble minds. On the other hand, there is no sentiment or imagination in the connections which men and women are supposed by him to form; human beings return to the level of the animals, neither exalting137 to heaven, nor yet abusing the natural instincts. All that world of poetry and fancy which the passion of love has called forth138 in modern literature and romance would have been banished139 by Plato. The arrangements of marriage in the Republic are directed to one object — the improvement of the race. In successive generations a great development both of bodily and mental qualities might be possible. The analogy of animals tends to show that mankind can within certain limits receive a change of nature. And as in animals we should commonly choose the best for breeding, and destroy the others, so there must be a selection made of the human beings whose lives are worthy140 to be preserved.
We start back horrified141 from this Platonic ideal, in the belief, first, that the higher feelings of humanity are far too strong to be crushed out; secondly, that if the plan could be carried into execution we should be poorly recompensed by improvements in the breed for the loss of the best things in life. The greatest regard for the weakest and meanest of human beings — the infant, the criminal, the insane, the idiot, truly seems to us one of the noblest results of Christianity. We have learned, though as yet imperfectly, that the individual man has an endless value in the sight of God, and that we honour Him when we honour the darkened and disfigured image of Him (Laws). This is the lesson which Christ taught in a parable143 when He said, ‘Their angels do always behold144 the face of My Father which is in heaven.’ Such lessons are only partially145 realized in any age; they were foreign to the age of Plato, as they have very different degrees of strength in different countries or ages of the Christian68 world. To the Greek the family was a religious and customary institution binding146 the members together by a tie inferior in strength to that of friendship, and having a less solemn and sacred sound than that of country. The relationship which existed on the lower level of custom, Plato imagined that he was raising to the higher level of nature and reason; while from the modern and Christian point of view we regard him as sanctioning murder and destroying the first principles of morality.
The great error in these and similar speculations147 is that the difference between man and the animals is forgotten in them. The human being is regarded with the eye of a dog — or bird-fancier, or at best of a slave-owner; the higher or human qualities are left out. The breeder of animals aims chiefly at size or speed or strength; in a few cases at courage or temper; most often the fitness of the animal for food is the great desideratum. But mankind are not bred to be eaten, nor yet for their superiority in fighting or in running or in drawing carts. Neither does the improvement of the human race consist merely in the increase of the bones and flesh, but in the growth and enlightenment of the mind. Hence there must be ‘a marriage of true minds’ as well as of bodies, of imagination and reason as well as of lusts149 and instincts. Men and women without feeling or imagination are justly called brutes150; yet Plato takes away these qualities and puts nothing in their place, not even the desire of a noble offspring, since parents are not to know their own children. The most important transaction of social life, he who is the idealist philosopher converts into the most brutal151. For the pair are to have no relation to one another, except at the hymeneal festival; their children are not theirs, but the state’s; nor is any tie of affection to unite them. Yet here the analogy of the animals might have saved Plato from a gigantic error, if he had ‘not lost sight of his own illustration.’ For the ‘nobler sort of birds and beasts’ nourish and protect their offspring and are faithful to one another.
An eminent physiologist152 thinks it worth while ‘to try and place life on a physical basis.’ But should not life rest on the moral rather than upon the physical? The higher comes first, then the lower, first the human and rational, afterwards the animal. Yet they are not absolutely divided; and in times of sickness or moments of self-indulgence they seem to be only different aspects of a common human nature which includes them both. Neither is the moral the limit of the physical, but the expansion and enlargement of it — the highest form which the physical is capable of receiving. As Plato would say, the body does not take care of the body, and still less of the mind, but the mind takes care of both. In all human action not that which is common to man and the animals is the characteristic element, but that which distinguishes him from them. Even if we admit the physical basis, and resolve all virtue into health of body ‘la facon que notre sang circule,’ still on merely physical grounds we must come back to ideas. Mind and reason and duty and conscience, under these or other names, are always reappearing. There cannot be health of body without health of mind; nor health of mind without the sense of duty and the love of truth (Charm).
That the greatest of ancient philosophers should in his regulations about marriage have fallen into the error of separating body and mind, does indeed appear surprising. Yet the wonder is not so much that Plato should have entertained ideas of morality which to our own age are revolting, but that he should have contradicted himself to an extent which is hardly credible153, falling in an instant from the heaven of idealism into the crudest animalism. Rejoicing in the newly found gift of reflection, he appears to have thought out a subject about which he had better have followed the enlightened feeling of his own age. The general sentiment of Hellas was opposed to his monstrous154 fancy. The old poets, and in later time the tragedians, showed no want of respect for the family, on which much of their religion was based. But the example of Sparta, and perhaps in some degree the tendency to defy public opinion, seems to have misled him. He will make one family out of all the families of the state. He will select the finest specimens156 of men and women and breed from these only.
Yet because the illusion is always returning (for the animal part of human nature will from time to time assert itself in the disguise of philosophy as well as of poetry), and also because any departure from established morality, even where this is not intended, is apt to be unsettling, it may be worth while to draw out a little more at length the objections to the Platonic marriage. In the first place, history shows that wherever polygamy has been largely allowed the race has deteriorated157. One man to one woman is the law of God and nature. Nearly all the civilized peoples of the world at some period before the age of written records, have become monogamists; and the step when once taken has never been retraced158. The exceptions occurring among Brahmins or Mahometans or the ancient Persians, are of that sort which may be said to prove the rule. The connexions formed between superior and inferior races hardly ever produce a noble offspring, because they are licentious; and because the children in such cases usually despise the mother and are neglected by the father who is ashamed of them. Barbarous nations when they are introduced by Europeans to vice159 die out; polygamist peoples either import and adopt children from other countries, or dwindle160 in numbers, or both. Dynasties and aristocracies which have disregarded the laws of nature have decreased in numbers and degenerated161 in stature162; ‘mariages de convenance’ leave their enfeebling stamp on the offspring of them (King Lear). The marriage of near relations, or the marrying in and in of the same family tends constantly to weakness or idiocy163 in the children, sometimes assuming the form as they grow older of passionate164 licentiousness. The common prostitute rarely has any offspring. By such unmistakable evidence is the authority of morality asserted in the relations of the sexes: and so many more elements enter into this ‘mystery’ than are dreamed of by Plato and some other philosophers.
Recent enquirers have indeed arrived at the conclusion that among primitive tribes there existed a community of wives as of property, and that the captive taken by the spear was the only wife or slave whom any man was permitted to call his own. The partial existence of such customs among some of the lower races of man, and the survival of peculiar166 ceremonies in the marriages of some civilized nations, are thought to furnish a proof of similar institutions having been once universal. There can be no question that the study of anthropology167 has considerably168 changed our views respecting the first appearance of man upon the earth. We know more about the aborigines of the world than formerly169, but our increasing knowledge shows above all things how little we know. With all the helps which written monuments afford, we do but faintly realize the condition of man two thousand or three thousand years ago. Of what his condition was when removed to a distance 200,000 or 300,000 years, when the majority of mankind were lower and nearer the animals than any tribe now existing upon the earth, we cannot even entertain conjecture170. Plato (Laws) and Aristotle (Metaph.) may have been more right than we imagine in supposing that some forms of civilisation171 were discovered and lost several times over. If we cannot argue that all barbarism is a degraded civilization, neither can we set any limits to the depth of degradation172 to which the human race may sink through war, disease, or isolation173. And if we are to draw inferences about the origin of marriage from the practice of barbarous nations, we should also consider the remoter analogy of the animals. Many birds and animals, especially the carnivorous, have only one mate, and the love and care of offspring which seems to be natural is inconsistent with the primitive theory of marriage. If we go back to an imaginary state in which men were almost animals and the companions of them, we have as much right to argue from what is animal to what is human as from the barbarous to the civilized man. The record of animal life on the globe is fragmentary — the connecting links are wanting and cannot be supplied; the record of social life is still more fragmentary and precarious174. Even if we admit that our first ancestors had no such institution as marriage, still the stages by which men passed from outer barbarism to the comparative civilization of China, Assyria, and Greece, or even of the ancient Germans, are wholly unknown to us.
Such speculations are apt to be unsettling, because they seem to show that an institution which was thought to be a revelation from heaven, is only the growth of history and experience. We ask what is the origin of marriage, and we are told that like the right of property, after many wars and contests, it has gradually arisen out of the selfishness of barbarians175. We stand face to face with human nature in its primitive nakedness. We are compelled to accept, not the highest, but the lowest account of the origin of human society. But on the other hand we may truly say that every step in human progress has been in the same direction, and that in the course of ages the idea of marriage and of the family has been more and more defined and consecrated177. The civilized East is immeasurably in advance of any savage178 tribes; the Greeks and Romans have improved upon the East; the Christian nations have been stricter in their views of the marriage relation than any of the ancients. In this as in so many other things, instead of looking back with regret to the past, we should look forward with hope to the future. We must consecrate176 that which we believe to be the most holy, and that ‘which is the most holy will be the most useful.’ There is more reason for maintaining the sacredness of the marriage tie, when we see the benefit of it, than when we only felt a vague religious horror about the violation of it. But in all times of transition, when established beliefs are being undermined, there is a danger that in the passage from the old to the new we may insensibly let go the moral principle, finding an excuse for listening to the voice of passion in the uncertainty180 of knowledge, or the fluctuations181 of opinion. And there are many persons in our own day who, enlightened by the study of anthropology, and fascinated by what is new and strange, some using the language of fear, others of hope, are inclined to believe that a time will come when through the self-assertion of women, or the rebellious182 spirit of children, by the analysis of human relations, or by the force of outward circumstances, the ties of family life may be broken or greatly relaxed. They point to societies in America and elsewhere which tend to show that the destruction of the family need not necessarily involve the overthrow183 of all morality. Wherever we may think of such speculations, we can hardly deny that they have been more rife184 in this generation than in any other; and whither they are tending, who can predict?
To the doubts and queries185 raised by these ‘social reformers’ respecting the relation of the sexes and the moral nature of man, there is a sufficient answer, if any is needed. The difference about them and us is really one of fact. They are speaking of man as they wish or fancy him to be, but we are speaking of him as he is. They isolate186 the animal part of his nature; we regard him as a creature having many sides, or aspects, moving between good and evil, striving to rise above himself and to become ‘a little lower than the angels.’ We also, to use a Platonic formula, are not ignorant of the dissatisfactions and incompatibilities of family life, of the meannesses of trade, of the flatteries of one class of society by another, of the impediments which the family throws in the way of lofty aims and aspirations. But we are conscious that there are evils and dangers in the background greater still, which are not appreciated, because they are either concealed188 or suppressed. What a condition of man would that be, in which human passions were controlled by no authority, divine or human, in which there was no shame or decency, no higher affection overcoming or sanctifying the natural instincts, but simply a rule of health! Is it for this that we are asked to throw away the civilization which is the growth of ages?
For strength and health are not the only qualities to be desired; there are the more important considerations of mind and character and soul. We know how human nature may be degraded; we do not know how by artificial means any improvement in the breed can be effected. The problem is a complex one, for if we go back only four steps (and these at least enter into the composition of a child), there are commonly thirty progenitors189 to be taken into account. Many curious facts, rarely admitting of proof, are told us respecting the inheritance of disease or character from a remote ancestor. We can trace the physical resemblances of parents and children in the same family —
‘Sic oculos, sic ille manus, sic ora ferebat’;
but scarcely less often the differences which distinguish children both from their parents and from one another. We are told of similar mental peculiarities190 running in families, and again of a tendency, as in the animals, to revert to a common or original stock. But we have a difficulty in distinguishing what is a true inheritance of genius or other qualities, and what is mere148 imitation or the result of similar circumstances. Great men and great women have rarely had great fathers and mothers. Nothing that we know of in the circumstances of their birth or lineage will explain their appearance. Of the English poets of the last and two preceding centuries scarcely a descendant remains191 — none have ever been distinguished34. So deeply has nature hidden her secret, and so ridiculous is the fancy which has been entertained by some that we might in time by suitable marriage arrangements or, as Plato would have said, ‘by an ingenious system of lots,’ produce a Shakespeare or a Milton. Even supposing that we could breed men having the tenacity192 of bulldogs, or, like the Spartans, ‘lacking the wit to run away in battle,’ would the world be any the better? Many of the noblest specimens of the human race have been among the weakest physically. Tyrtaeus or Aesop, or our own Newton, would have been exposed at Sparta; and some of the fairest and strongest men and women have been among the wickedest and worst. Not by the Platonic device of uniting the strong and fair with the strong and fair, regardless of sentiment and morality, nor yet by his other device of combining dissimilar natures (Statesman), have mankind gradually passed from the brutality193 and licentiousness of primitive marriage to marriage Christian and civilized.
Few persons would deny that we bring into the world an inheritance of mental and physical qualities derived194 first from our parents, or through them from some remoter ancestor, secondly from our race, thirdly from the general condition of mankind into which we are born. Nothing is commoner than the remark, that ‘So and so is like his father or his uncle’; and an aged155 person may not unfrequently note a resemblance in a youth to a long-forgotten ancestor, observing that ‘Nature sometimes skips a generation.’ It may be true also, that if we knew more about our ancestors, these similarities would be even more striking to us. Admitting the facts which are thus described in a popular way, we may however remark that there is no method of difference by which they can be defined or estimated, and that they constitute only a small part of each individual. The doctrine of heredity may seem to take out of our hands the conduct of our own lives, but it is the idea, not the fact, which is really terrible to us. For what we have received from our ancestors is only a fraction of what we are, or may become. The knowledge that drunkenness or insanity196 has been prevalent in a family may be the best safeguard against their recurrence197 in a future generation. The parent will be most awake to the vices198 or diseases in his child of which he is most sensible within himself. The whole of life may be directed to their prevention or cure. The traces of consumption may become fainter, or be wholly effaced199: the inherent tendency to vice or crime may be eradicated200. And so heredity, from being a curse, may become a blessing. We acknowledge that in the matter of our birth, as in our nature generally, there are previous circumstances which affect us. But upon this platform of circumstances or within this wall of necessity, we have still the power of creating a life for ourselves by the informing energy of the human will.
There is another aspect of the marriage question to which Plato is a stranger. All the children born in his state are foundlings. It never occurred to him that the greater part of them, according to universal experience, would have perished. For children can only be brought up in families. There is a subtle sympathy between the mother and the child which cannot be supplied by other mothers, or by ‘strong nurses one or more’ (Laws). If Plato’s ‘pen’ was as fatal as the Creches of Paris, or the foundling hospital of Dublin, more than nine-tenths of his children would have perished. There would have been no need to expose or put out of the way the weaklier children, for they would have died of themselves. So emphatically does nature protest against the destruction of the family.
What Plato had heard or seen of Sparta was applied by him in a mistaken way to his ideal commonwealth. He probably observed that both the Spartan men and women were superior in form and strength to the other Greeks; and this superiority he was disposed to attribute to the laws and customs relating to marriage. He did not consider that the desire of a noble offspring was a passion among the Spartans, or that their physical superiority was to be attributed chiefly, not to their marriage customs, but to their temperance and training. He did not reflect that Sparta was great, not in consequence of the relaxation201 of morality, but in spite of it, by virtue of a political principle stronger far than existed in any other Grecian state. Least of all did he observe that Sparta did not really produce the finest specimens of the Greek race. The genius, the political inspiration of Athens, the love of liberty — all that has made Greece famous with posterity202, were wanting among the Spartans. They had no Themistocles, or Pericles, or Aeschylus, or Sophocles, or Socrates, or Plato. The individual was not allowed to appear above the state; the laws were fixed, and he had no business to alter or reform them. Yet whence has the progress of cities and nations arisen, if not from remarkable203 individuals, coming into the world we know not how, and from causes over which we have no control? Something too much may have been said in modern times of the value of individuality. But we can hardly condemn204 too strongly a system which, instead of fostering the scattered seeds or sparks of genius and character, tends to smother205 and extinguish them.
Still, while condemning206 Plato, we must acknowledge that neither Christianity, nor any other form of religion and society, has hitherto been able to cope with this most difficult of social problems, and that the side from which Plato regarded it is that from which we turn away. Population is the most untameable force in the political and social world. Do we not find, especially in large cities, that the greatest hindrance207 to the amelioration of the poor is their improvidence208 in marriage? — a small fault truly, if not involving endless consequences. There are whole countries too, such as India, or, nearer home, Ireland, in which a right solution of the marriage question seems to lie at the foundation of the happiness of the community. There are too many people on a given space, or they marry too early and bring into the world a sickly and half-developed offspring; or owing to the very conditions of their existence, they become emaciated209 and hand on a similar life to their descendants. But who can oppose the voice of prudence210 to the ‘mightiest passions of mankind’ (Laws), especially when they have been licensed211 by custom and religion? In addition to the influences of education, we seem to require some new principles of right and wrong in these matters, some force of opinion, which may indeed be already heard whispering in private, but has never affected the moral sentiments of mankind in general. We unavoidably lose sight of the principle of utility, just in that action of our lives in which we have the most need of it. The influences which we can bring to bear upon this question are chiefly indirect. In a generation or two, education, emigration, improvements in agriculture and manufactures, may have provided the solution. The state physician hardly likes to probe the wound: it is beyond his art; a matter which he cannot safely let alone, but which he dare not touch:
‘We do but skin and film the ulcerous212 place.’
When again in private life we see a whole family one by one dropping into the grave under the Ate of some inherited malady213, and the parents perhaps surviving them, do our minds ever go back silently to that day twenty-five or thirty years before on which under the fairest auspices214, amid the rejoicings of friends and acquaintances, a bride and bridegroom joined hands with one another? In making such a reflection we are not opposing physical considerations to moral, but moral to physical; we are seeking to make the voice of reason heard, which drives us back from the extravagance of sentimentalism on common sense. The late Dr. Combe is said by his biographer to have resisted the temptation to marriage, because he knew that he was subject to hereditary consumption. One who deserved to be called a man of genius, a friend of my youth, was in the habit of wearing a black ribbon on his wrist, in order to remind him that, being liable to outbreaks of insanity, he must not give way to the natural impulses of affection: he died unmarried in a lunatic asylum215. These two little facts suggest the reflection that a very few persons have done from a sense of duty what the rest of mankind ought to have done under like circumstances, if they had allowed themselves to think of all the misery216 which they were about to bring into the world. If we could prevent such marriages without any violation of feeling or propriety217, we clearly ought; and the prohibition in the course of time would be protected by a ‘horror naturalis’ similar to that which, in all civilized ages and countries, has prevented the marriage of near relations by blood. Mankind would have been the happier, if some things which are now allowed had from the beginning been denied to them; if the sanction of religion could have prohibited practices inimical to health; if sanitary principles could in early ages have been invested with a superstitious218 awe219. But, living as we do far on in the world’s history, we are no longer able to stamp at once with the impress of religion a new prohibition. A free agent cannot have his fancies regulated by law; and the execution of the law would be rendered impossible, owing to the uncertainty of the cases in which marriage was to be forbidden. Who can weigh virtue, or even fortune against health, or moral and mental qualities against bodily? Who can measure probabilities against certainties? There has been some good as well as evil in the discipline of suffering; and there are diseases, such as consumption, which have exercised a refining and softening220 influence on the character. Youth is too inexperienced to balance such nice considerations; parents do not often think of them, or think of them too late. They are at a distance and may probably be averted221; change of place, a new state of life, the interests of a home may be the cure of them. So persons vainly reason when their minds are already made up and their fortunes irrevocably linked together. Nor is there any ground for supposing that marriages are to any great extent influenced by reflections of this sort, which seem unable to make any head against the irresistible222 impulse of individual attachment223.
Lastly, no one can have observed the first rising flood of the passions in youth, the difficulty of regulating them, and the effects on the whole mind and nature which follow from them, the stimulus224 which is given to them by the imagination, without feeling that there is something unsatisfactory in our method of treating them. That the most important influence on human life should be wholly left to chance or shrouded225 in mystery, and instead of being disciplined or understood, should be required to conform only to an external standard of propriety — cannot be regarded by the philosopher as a safe or satisfactory condition of human things. And still those who have the charge of youth may find a way by watchfulness226, by affection, by the manliness227 and innocence228 of their own lives, by occasional hints, by general admonitions which every one can apply for himself, to mitigate229 this terrible evil which eats out the heart of individuals and corrupts230 the moral sentiments of nations. In no duty towards others is there more need of reticence231 and self-restraint. So great is the danger lest he who would be the counsellor of another should reveal the secret prematurely232, lest he should get another too much into his power; or fix the passing impression of evil by demanding the confession233 of it.
Nor is Plato wrong in asserting that family attachments234 may interfere83 with higher aims. If there have been some who ‘to party gave up what was meant for mankind,’ there have certainly been others who to family gave up what was meant for mankind or for their country. The cares of children, the necessity of procuring235 money for their support, the flatteries of the rich by the poor, the exclusiveness of caste, the pride of birth or wealth, the tendency of family life to divert men from the pursuit of the ideal or the heroic, are as lowering in our own age as in that of Plato. And if we prefer to look at the gentle influences of home, the development of the affections, the amenities236 of society, the devotion of one member of a family for the good of the others, which form one side of the picture, we must not quarrel with him, or perhaps ought rather to be grateful to him, for having presented to us the reverse. Without attempting to defend Plato on grounds of morality, we may allow that there is an aspect of the world which has not unnaturally237 led him into error.
We hardly appreciate the power which the idea of the State, like all other abstract ideas, exercised over the mind of Plato. To us the State seems to be built up out of the family, or sometimes to be the framework in which family and social life is contained. But to Plato in his present mood of mind the family is only a disturbing influence which, instead of filling up, tends to disarrange the higher unity4 of the State. No organization is needed except a political, which, regarded from another point of view, is a military one. The State is all-sufficing for the wants of man, and, like the idea of the Church in later ages, absorbs all other desires and affections. In time of war the thousand citizens are to stand like a rampart impregnable against the world or the Persian host; in time of peace the preparation for war and their duties to the State, which are also their duties to one another, take up their whole life and time. The only other interest which is allowed to them besides that of war, is the interest of philosophy. When they are too old to be soldiers they are to retire from active life and to have a second novitiate of study and contemplation. There is an element of monasticism even in Plato’s communism. If he could have done without children, he might have converted his Republic into a religious order. Neither in the Laws, when the daylight of common sense breaks in upon him, does he retract238 his error. In the state of which he would be the founder239, there is no marrying or giving in marriage: but because of the infirmity of mankind, he condescends240 to allow the law of nature to prevail.
(c) But Plato has an equal, or, in his own estimation, even greater paradox in reserve, which is summed up in the famous text, ‘Until kings are philosophers or philosophers are kings, cities will never cease from ill.’ And by philosophers he explains himself to mean those who are capable of apprehending241 ideas, especially the idea of good. To the attainment242 of this higher knowledge the second education is directed. Through a process of training which has already made them good citizens they are now to be made good legislators. We find with some surprise (not unlike the feeling which Aristotle in a well-known passage describes the hearers of Plato’s lectures as experiencing, when they went to a discourse243 on the idea of good, expecting to be instructed in moral truths, and received instead of them arithmetical and mathematical formulae) that Plato does not propose for his future legislators any study of finance or law or military tactics, but only of abstract mathematics, as a preparation for the still more abstract conception of good. We ask, with Aristotle, What is the use of a man knowing the idea of good, if he does not know what is good for this individual, this state, this condition of society? We cannot understand how Plato’s legislators or guardians are to be fitted for their work of statesmen by the study of the five mathematical sciences. We vainly search in Plato’s own writings for any explanation of this seeming absurdity.
The discovery of a great metaphysical conception seems to ravish the mind with a prophetic consciousness which takes away the power of estimating its value. No metaphysical enquirer165 has ever fairly criticised his own speculations; in his own judgment244 they have been above criticism; nor has he understood that what to him seemed to be absolute truth may reappear in the next generation as a form of logic245 or an instrument of thought. And posterity have also sometimes equally misapprehended the real value of his speculations. They appear to them to have contributed nothing to the stock of human knowledge. The IDEA of good is apt to be regarded by the modern thinker as an unmeaning abstraction; but he forgets that this abstraction is waiting ready for use, and will hereafter be filled up by the divisions of knowledge. When mankind do not as yet know that the world is subject to law, the introduction of the mere conception of law or design or final cause, and the far-off anticipation of the harmony of knowledge, are great steps onward246. Even the crude generalization247 of the unity of all things leads men to view the world with different eyes, and may easily affect their conception of human life and of politics, and also their own conduct and character (Tim). We can imagine how a great mind like that of Pericles might derive195 elevation248 from his intercourse249 with Anaxagoras (Phaedr.). To be struggling towards a higher but unattainable conception is a more favourable intellectual condition than to rest satisfied in a narrow portion of ascertained250 fact. And the earlier, which have sometimes been the greater ideas of science, are often lost sight of at a later period. How rarely can we say of any modern enquirer in the magnificent language of Plato, that ‘He is the spectator of all time and of all existence!’
Nor is there anything unnatural in the hasty application of these vast metaphysical conceptions to practical and political life. In the first enthusiasm of ideas men are apt to see them everywhere, and to apply them in the most remote sphere. They do not understand that the experience of ages is required to enable them to fill up ‘the intermediate axioms.’ Plato himself seems to have imagined that the truths of psychology251, like those of astronomy and harmonics, would be arrived at by a process of deduction252, and that the method which he has pursued in the Fourth Book, of inferring them from experience and the use of language, was imperfect and only provisional. But when, after having arrived at the idea of good, which is the end of the science of dialectic, he is asked, What is the nature, and what are the divisions of the science? He refuses to answer, as if intending by the refusal to intimate that the state of knowledge which then existed was not such as would allow the philosopher to enter into his final rest. The previous sciences must first be studied, and will, we may add, continue to be studied tell the end of time, although in a sense different from any which Plato could have conceived. But we may observe, that while he is aware of the vacancy253 of his own ideal, he is full of enthusiasm in the contemplation of it. Looking into the orb8 of light, he sees nothing, but he is warmed and elevated. The Hebrew prophet believed that faith in God would enable him to govern the world; the Greek philosopher imagined that contemplation of the good would make a legislator. There is as much to be filled up in the one case as in the other, and the one mode of conception is to the Israelite what the other is to the Greek. Both find a repose254 in a divine perfection, which, whether in a more personal or impersonal255 form, exists without them and independently of them, as well as within them.
There is no mention of the idea of good in the Timaeus, nor of the divine Creator of the world in the Republic; and we are naturally led to ask in what relation they stand to one another. Is God above or below the idea of good? Or is the Idea of Good another mode of conceiving God? The latter appears to be the truer answer. To the Greek philosopher the perfection and unity of God was a far higher conception than his personality, which he hardly found a word to express, and which to him would have seemed to be borrowed from mythology256. To the Christian, on the other hand, or to the modern thinker in general, it is difficult, if not impossible, to attach reality to what he terms mere abstraction; while to Plato this very abstraction is the truest and most real of all things. Hence, from a difference in forms of thought, Plato appears to be resting on a creation of his own mind only. But if we may be allowed to paraphrase257 the idea of good by the words ‘intelligent principle of law and order in the universe, embracing equally man and nature,’ we begin to find a meeting-point between him and ourselves.
The question whether the ruler or statesman should be a philosopher is one that has not lost interest in modern times. In most countries of Europe and Asia there has been some one in the course of ages who has truly united the power of command with the power of thought and reflection, as there have been also many false combinations of these qualities. Some kind of speculative258 power is necessary both in practical and political life; like the rhetorician in the Phaedrus, men require to have a conception of the varieties of human character, and to be raised on great occasions above the commonplaces of ordinary life. Yet the idea of the philosopher-statesman has never been popular with the mass of mankind; partly because he cannot take the world into his confidence or make them understand the motives from which he acts; and also because they are jealous of a power which they do not understand. The revolution which human nature desires to effect step by step in many ages is likely to be precipitated260 by him in a single year or life. They are afraid that in the pursuit of his greater aims he may disregard the common feelings of humanity, he is too apt to be looking into the distant future or back into the remote past, and unable to see actions or events which, to use an expression of Plato’s ‘are tumbling out at his feet.’ Besides, as Plato would say, there are other corruptions261 of these philosophical statesmen. Either ‘the native hue263 of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,’ and at the moment when action above all things is required he is undecided, or general principles are enunciated by him in order to cover some change of policy; or his ignorance of the world has made him more easily fall a prey264 to the arts of others; or in some cases he has been converted into a courtier, who enjoys the luxury of holding liberal opinions, but was never known to perform a liberal action. No wonder that mankind have been in the habit of calling statesmen of this class pedants265, sophisters, doctrinaires, visionaries. For, as we may be allowed to say, a little parodying267 the words of Plato, ‘they have seen bad imitations of the philosopher-statesman.’ But a man in whom the power of thought and action are perfectly142 balanced, equal to the present, reaching forward to the future, ‘such a one,’ ruling in a constitutional state, ‘they have never seen.’
But as the philosopher is apt to fail in the routine of political life, so the ordinary statesman is also apt to fail in extraordinary crises. When the face of the world is beginning to alter, and thunder is heard in the distance, he is still guided by his old maxims268, and is the slave of his inveterate269 party prejudices; he cannot perceive the signs of the times; instead of looking forward he looks back; he learns nothing and forgets nothing; with ‘wise saws and modern instances’ he would stem the rising tide of revolution. He lives more and more within the circle of his own party, as the world without him becomes stronger. This seems to be the reason why the old order of things makes so poor a figure when confronted with the new, why churches can never reform, why most political changes are made blindly and convulsively. The great crises in the history of nations have often been met by an ecclesiastical positiveness, and a more obstinate270 reassertion of principles which have lost their hold upon a nation. The fixed ideas of a reactionary271 statesman may be compared to madness; they grow upon him, and he becomes possessed by them; no judgement of others is ever admitted by him to be weighed in the balance against his own.
(d) Plato, labouring under what, to modern readers, appears to have been a confusion of ideas, assimilates the state to the individual, and fails to distinguish Ethics272 from Politics. He thinks that to be most of a state which is most like one man, and in which the citizens have the greatest uniformity of character. He does not see that the analogy is partly fallacious, and that the will or character of a state or nation is really the balance or rather the surplus of individual wills, which are limited by the condition of having to act in common. The movement of a body of men can never have the pliancy273 or facility of a single man; the freedom of the individual, which is always limited, becomes still more straitened when transferred to a nation. The powers of action and feeling are necessarily weaker and more balanced when they are diffused274 through a community; whence arises the often discussed question, ‘Can a nation, like an individual, have a conscience?’ We hesitate to say that the characters of nations are nothing more than the sum of the characters of the individuals who compose them; because there may be tendencies in individuals which react upon one another. A whole nation may be wiser than any one man in it; or may be animated275 by some common opinion or feeling which could not equally have affected the mind of a single person, or may have been inspired by a leader of genius to perform acts more than human. Plato does not appear to have analysed the complications which arise out of the collective action of mankind. Neither is he capable of seeing that analogies, though specious276 as arguments, may often have no foundation in fact, or of distinguishing between what is intelligible277 or vividly278 present to the mind, and what is true. In this respect he is far below Aristotle, who is comparatively seldom imposed upon by false analogies. He cannot disentangle the arts from the virtues279 — at least he is always arguing from one to the other. His notion of music is transferred from harmony of sounds to harmony of life: in this he is assisted by the ambiguities280 of language as well as by the prevalence of Pythagorean notions. And having once assimilated the state to the individual, he imagines that he will find the succession of states paralleled in the lives of individuals.
Still, through this fallacious medium, a real enlargement of ideas is attained. When the virtues as yet presented no distinct conception to the mind, a great advance was made by the comparison of them with the arts; for virtue is partly art, and has an outward form as well as an inward principle. The harmony of music affords a lively image of the harmonies of the world and of human life, and may be regarded as a splendid illustration which was naturally mistaken for a real analogy. In the same way the identification of ethics with politics has a tendency to give definiteness to ethics, and also to elevate and ennoble men’s notions of the aims of government and of the duties of citizens; for ethics from one point of view may be conceived as an idealized law and politics; and politics, as ethics reduced to the conditions of human society. There have been evils which have arisen out of the attempt to identify them, and this has led to the separation or antagonism281 of them, which has been introduced by modern political writers. But we may likewise feel that something has been lost in their separation, and that the ancient philosophers who estimated the moral and intellectual wellbeing of mankind first, and the wealth of nations and individuals second, may have a salutary influence on the speculations of modern times. Many political maxims originate in a reaction against an opposite error; and when the errors against which they were directed have passed away, they in turn become errors.
3. Plato’s views of education are in several respects remarkable; like the rest of the Republic they are partly Greek and partly ideal, beginning with the ordinary curriculum of the Greek youth, and extending to after-life. Plato is the first writer who distinctly says that education is to comprehend the whole of life, and to be a preparation for another in which education begins again. This is the continuous thread which runs through the Republic, and which more than any other of his ideas admits of an application to modern life.
He has long given up the notion that virtue cannot be taught; and he is disposed to modify the thesis of the Protagoras, that the virtues are one and not many. He is not unwilling282 to admit the sensible world into his scheme of truth. Nor does he assert in the Republic the involuntariness of vice, which is maintained by him in the Timaeus, Sophist, and Laws (Protag., Apol., Gorg.). Nor do the so-called Platonic ideas recovered from a former state of existence affect his theory of mental improvement. Still we observe in him the remains of the old Socratic doctrine, that true knowledge must be elicited284 from within, and is to be sought for in ideas, not in particulars of sense. Education, as he says, will implant285 a principle of intelligence which is better than ten thousand eyes. The paradox that the virtues are one, and the kindred notion that all virtue is knowledge, are not entirely286 renounced287; the first is seen in the supremacy288 given to justice over the rest; the second in the tendency to absorb the moral virtues in the intellectual, and to centre all goodness in the contemplation of the idea of good. The world of sense is still depreciated289 and identified with opinion, though admitted to be a shadow of the true. In the Republic he is evidently impressed with the conviction that vice arises chiefly from ignorance and may be cured by education; the multitude are hardly to be deemed responsible for what they do. A faint allusion to the doctrine of reminiscence occurs in the Tenth Book; but Plato’s views of education have no more real connection with a previous state of existence than our own; he only proposes to elicit283 from the mind that which is there already. Education is represented by him, not as the filling of a vessel290, but as the turning the eye of the soul towards the light.
He treats first of music or literature, which he divides into true and false, and then goes on to gymnastics; of infancy291 in the Republic he takes no notice, though in the Laws he gives sage179 counsels about the nursing of children and the management of the mothers, and would have an education which is even prior to birth. But in the Republic he begins with the age at which the child is capable of receiving ideas, and boldly asserts, in language which sounds paradoxical to modern ears, that he must be taught the false before he can learn the true. The modern and ancient philosophical world are not agreed about truth and falsehood; the one identifies truth almost exclusively with fact, the other with ideas. This is the difference between ourselves and Plato, which is, however, partly a difference of words. For we too should admit that a child must receive many lessons which he imperfectly understands; he must be taught some things in a figure only, some too which he can hardly be expected to believe when he grows older; but we should limit the use of fiction by the necessity of the case. Plato would draw the line differently; according to him the aim of early education is not truth as a matter of fact, but truth as a matter of principle; the child is to be taught first simple religious truths, and then simple moral truths, and insensibly to learn the lesson of good manners and good taste. He would make an entire reformation of the old mythology; like Xenophanes and Heracleitus he is sensible of the deep chasm292 which separates his own age from Homer and Hesiod, whom he quotes and invests with an imaginary authority, but only for his own purposes. The lusts and treacheries of the gods are to be banished; the terrors of the world below are to be dispelled293; the misbehaviour of the Homeric heroes is not to be a model for youth. But there is another strain heard in Homer which may teach our youth endurance; and something may be learnt in medicine from the simple practice of the Homeric age. The principles on which religion is to be based are two only: first, that God is true; secondly, that he is good. Modern and Christian writers have often fallen short of these; they can hardly be said to have gone beyond them.
The young are to be brought up in happy surroundings, out of the way of sights or sounds which may hurt the character or vitiate the taste. They are to live in an atmosphere of health; the breeze is always to be wafting294 to them the impressions of truth and goodness. Could such an education be realized, or if our modern religious education could be bound up with truth and virtue and good manners and good taste, that would be the best hope of human improvement. Plato, like ourselves, is looking forward to changes in the moral and religious world, and is preparing for them. He recognizes the danger of unsettling young men’s minds by sudden changes of laws and principles, by destroying the sacredness of one set of ideas when there is nothing else to take their place. He is afraid too of the influence of the drama, on the ground that it encourages false sentiment, and therefore he would not have his children taken to the theatre; he thinks that the effect on the spectators is bad, and on the actors still worse. His idea of education is that of harmonious295 growth, in which are insensibly learnt the lessons of temperance and endurance, and the body and mind develope in equal proportions. The first principle which runs through all art and nature is simplicity; this also is to be the rule of human life.
The second stage of education is gymnastic, which answers to the period of muscular growth and development. The simplicity which is enforced in music is extended to gymnastic; Plato is aware that the training of the body may be inconsistent with the training of the mind, and that bodily exercise may be easily overdone296. Excessive training of the body is apt to give men a headache or to render them sleepy at a lecture on philosophy, and this they attribute not to the true cause, but to the nature of the subject. Two points are noticeable in Plato’s treatment of gymnastic:— First, that the time of training is entirely separated from the time of literary education. He seems to have thought that two things of an opposite and different nature could not be learnt at the same time. Here we can hardly agree with him; and, if we may judge by experience, the effect of spending three years between the ages of fourteen and seventeen in mere bodily exercise would be far from improving to the intellect. Secondly, he affirms that music and gymnastic are not, as common opinion is apt to imagine, intended, the one for the cultivation297 of the mind and the other of the body, but that they are both equally designed for the improvement of the mind. The body, in his view, is the servant of the mind; the subjection of the lower to the higher is for the advantage of both. And doubtless the mind may exercise a very great and paramount298 influence over the body, if exerted not at particular moments and by fits and starts, but continuously, in making preparation for the whole of life. Other Greek writers saw the mischievous299 tendency of Spartan discipline (Arist. Pol; Thuc.). But only Plato recognized the fundamental error on which the practice was based.
The subject of gymnastic leads Plato to the sister subject of medicine, which he further illustrates300 by the parallel of law. The modern disbelief in medicine has led in this, as in some other departments of knowledge, to a demand for greater simplicity; physicians are becoming aware that they often make diseases ‘greater and more complicated’ by their treatment of them (Rep.). In two thousand years their art has made but slender progress; what they have gained in the analysis of the parts is in a great degree lost by their feebler conception of the human frame as a whole. They have attended more to the cure of diseases than to the conditions of health; and the improvements in medicine have been more than counterbalanced by the disuse of regular training. Until lately they have hardly thought of air and water, the importance of which was well understood by the ancients; as Aristotle remarks, ‘Air and water, being the elements which we most use, have the greatest effect upon health’ (Polit.). For ages physicians have been under the dominion301 of prejudices which have only recently given way; and now there are as many opinions in medicine as in theology, and an equal degree of scepticism and some want of toleration about both. Plato has several good notions about medicine; according to him, ‘the eye cannot be cured without the rest of the body, nor the body without the mind’ (Charm.). No man of sense, he says in the Timaeus, would take physic; and we heartily302 sympathize with him in the Laws when he declares that ‘the limbs of the rustic303 worn with toil124 will derive more benefit from warm baths than from the prescriptions304 of a not over wise doctor.’ But we can hardly praise him when, in obedience305 to the authority of Homer, he depreciates306 diet, or approve of the inhuman307 spirit in which he would get rid of invalid308 and useless lives by leaving them to die. He does not seem to have considered that the ‘bridle of Theages’ might be accompanied by qualities which were of far more value to the State than the health or strength of the citizens; or that the duty of taking care of the helpless might be an important element of education in a State. The physician himself (this is a delicate and subtle observation) should not be a man in robust309 health; he should have, in modern phraseology, a nervous temperament310; he should have experience of disease in his own person, in order that his powers of observation may be quickened in the case of others.
The perplexity of medicine is paralleled by the perplexity of law; in which, again, Plato would have men follow the golden rule of simplicity. Greater matters are to be determined311 by the legislator or by the oracle312 of Delphi, lesser313 matters are to be left to the temporary regulation of the citizens themselves. Plato is aware that laissez faire is an important element of government. The diseases of a State are like the heads of a hydra314; they multiply when they are cut off. The true remedy for them is not extirpation315 but prevention. And the way to prevent them is to take care of education, and education will take care of all the rest. So in modern times men have often felt that the only political measure worth having — the only one which would produce any certain or lasting316 effect, was a measure of national education. And in our own more than in any previous age the necessity has been recognized of restoring the ever-increasing confusion of law to simplicity and common sense.
When the training in music and gymnastic is completed, there follows the first stage of active and public life. But soon education is to begin again from a new point of view. In the interval between the Fourth and Seventh Books we have discussed the nature of knowledge, and have thence been led to form a higher conception of what was required of us. For true knowledge, according to Plato, is of abstractions, and has to do, not with particulars or individuals, but with universals only; not with the beauties of poetry, but with the ideas of philosophy. And the great aim of education is the cultivation of the habit of abstraction. This is to be acquired through the study of the mathematical sciences. They alone are capable of giving ideas of relation, and of arousing the dormant317 energies of thought.
Mathematics in the age of Plato comprehended a very small part of that which is now included in them; but they bore a much larger proportion to the sum of human knowledge. They were the only organon of thought which the human mind at that time possessed, and the only measure by which the chaos318 of particulars could be reduced to rule and order. The faculty319 which they trained was naturally at war with the poetical26 or imaginative; and hence to Plato, who is everywhere seeking for abstractions and trying to get rid of the illusions of sense, nearly the whole of education is contained in them. They seemed to have an inexhaustible application, partly because their true limits were not yet understood. These Plato himself is beginning to investigate; though not aware that number and figure are mere abstractions of sense, he recognizes that the forms used by geometry are borrowed from the sensible world. He seeks to find the ultimate ground of mathematical ideas in the idea of good, though he does not satisfactorily explain the connexion between them; and in his conception of the relation of ideas to numbers, he falls very far short of the definiteness attributed to him by Aristotle (Met.). But if he fails to recognize the true limits of mathematics, he also reaches a point beyond them; in his view, ideas of number become secondary to a higher conception of knowledge. The dialectician is as much above the mathematician320 as the mathematician is above the ordinary man. The one, the self-proving, the good which is the higher sphere of dialectic, is the perfect truth to which all things ascend321, and in which they finally repose.
This self-proving unity or idea of good is a mere vision of which no distinct explanation can be given, relative only to a particular stage in Greek philosophy. It is an abstraction under which no individuals are comprehended, a whole which has no parts (Arist., Nic. Eth.). The vacancy of such a form was perceived by Aristotle, but not by Plato. Nor did he recognize that in the dialectical process are included two or more methods of investigation322 which are at variance with each other. He did not see that whether he took the longer or the shorter road, no advance could be made in this way. And yet such visions often have an immense effect; for although the method of science cannot anticipate science, the idea of science, not as it is, but as it will be in the future, is a great and inspiring principle. In the pursuit of knowledge we are always pressing forward to something beyond us; and as a false conception of knowledge, for example the scholastic323 philosophy, may lead men astray during many ages, so the true ideal, though vacant, may draw all their thoughts in a right direction. It makes a great difference whether the general expectation of knowledge, as this indefinite feeling may be termed, is based upon a sound judgment. For mankind may often entertain a true conception of what knowledge ought to be when they have but a slender experience of facts. The correlation324 of the sciences, the consciousness of the unity of nature, the idea of classification, the sense of proportion, the unwillingness325 to stop short of certainty or to confound probability with truth, are important principles of the higher education. Although Plato could tell us nothing, and perhaps knew that he could tell us nothing, of the absolute truth, he has exercised an influence on the human mind which even at the present day is not exhausted326; and political and social questions may yet arise in which the thoughts of Plato may be read anew and receive a fresh meaning.
The Idea of good is so called only in the Republic, but there are traces of it in other dialogues of Plato. It is a cause as well as an idea, and from this point of view may be compared with the creator of the Timaeus, who out of his goodness created all things. It corresponds to a certain extent with the modern conception of a law of nature, or of a final cause, or of both in one, and in this regard may be connected with the measure and symmetry of the Philebus. It is represented in the Symposium327 under the aspect of beauty, and is supposed to be attained there by stages of initiation328, as here by regular gradations of knowledge. Viewed subjectively329, it is the process or science of dialectic. This is the science which, according to the Phaedrus, is the true basis of rhetoric259, which alone is able to distinguish the natures and classes of men and things; which divides a whole into the natural parts, and reunites the scattered parts into a natural or organized whole; which defines the abstract essences or universal ideas of all things, and connects them; which pierces the veil of hypotheses and reaches the final cause or first principle of all; which regards the sciences in relation to the idea of good. This ideal science is the highest process of thought, and may be described as the soul conversing331 with herself or holding communion with eternal truth and beauty, and in another form is the everlasting332 question and answer — the ceaseless interrogative of Socrates. The dialogues of Plato are themselves examples of the nature and method of dialectic. Viewed objectively, the idea of good is a power or cause which makes the world without us correspond with the world within. Yet this world without us is still a world of ideas. With Plato the investigation of nature is another department of knowledge, and in this he seeks to attain64 only probable conclusions (Timaeus).
If we ask whether this science of dialectic which Plato only half explains to us is more akin60 to logic or to metaphysics, the answer is that in his mind the two sciences are not as yet distinguished, any more than the subjective330 and objective aspects of the world and of man, which German philosophy has revealed to us. Nor has he determined whether his science of dialectic is at rest or in motion, concerned with the contemplation of absolute being, or with a process of development and evolution. Modern metaphysics may be described as the science of abstractions, or as the science of the evolution of thought; modern logic, when passing beyond the bounds of mere Aristotelian forms, may be defined as the science of method. The germ of both of them is contained in the Platonic dialectic; all metaphysicians have something in common with the ideas of Plato; all logicians have derived something from the method of Plato. The nearest approach in modern philosophy to the universal science of Plato, is to be found in the Hegelian ‘succession of moments in the unity of the idea.’ Plato and Hegel alike seem to have conceived the world as the correlation of abstractions; and not impossibly they would have understood one another better than any of their commentators333 understand them (Swift’s Voyage to Laputa. ‘Having a desire to see those ancients who were most renowned334 for wit and learning, I set apart one day on purpose. I proposed that Homer and Aristotle might appear at the head of all their commentators; but these were so numerous that some hundreds were forced to attend in the court and outward rooms of the palace. I knew, and could distinguish these two heroes, at first sight, not only from the crowd, but from each other. Homer was the taller and comelier335 person of the two, walked very erect336 for one of his age, and his eyes were the most quick and piercing I ever beheld337. Aristotle stooped much, and made use of a staff. His visage was meagre, his hair lank338 and thin, and his voice hollow. I soon discovered that both of them were perfect strangers to the rest of the company, and had never seen or heard of them before. And I had a whisper from a ghost, who shall be nameless, “That these commentators always kept in the most distant quarters from their principals, in the lower world, through a consciousness of shame and guilt339, because they had so horribly misrepresented the meaning of these authors to posterity.” I introduced Didymus and Eustathius to Homer, and prevailed on him to treat them better than perhaps they deserved, for he soon found they wanted a genius to enter into the spirit of a poet. But Aristotle was out of all patience with the account I gave him of Scotus and Ramus, as I presented them to him; and he asked them “whether the rest of the tribe were as great dunces as themselves?”’). There is, however, a difference between them: for whereas Hegel is thinking of all the minds of men as one mind, which developes the stages of the idea in different countries or at different times in the same country, with Plato these gradations are regarded only as an order of thought or ideas; the history of the human mind had not yet dawned upon him.
Many criticisms may be made on Plato’s theory of education. While in some respects he unavoidably falls short of modern thinkers, in others he is in advance of them. He is opposed to the modes of education which prevailed in his own time; but he can hardly be said to have discovered new ones. He does not see that education is relative to the characters of individuals; he only desires to impress the same form of the state on the minds of all. He has no sufficient idea of the effect of literature on the formation of the mind, and greatly exaggerates that of mathematics. His aim is above all things to train the reasoning faculties340; to implant in the mind the spirit and power of abstraction; to explain and define general notions, and, if possible, to connect them. No wonder that in the vacancy of actual knowledge his followers, and at times even he himself, should have fallen away from the doctrine of ideas, and have returned to that branch of knowledge in which alone the relation of the one and many can be truly seen — the science of number. In his views both of teaching and training he might be styled, in modern language, a doctrinaire266; after the Spartan fashion he would have his citizens cast in one mould; he does not seem to consider that some degree of freedom, ‘a little wholesome341 neglect,’ is necessary to strengthen and develope the character and to give play to the individual nature. His citizens would not have acquired that knowledge which in the vision of Er is supposed to be gained by the pilgrims from their experience of evil.
On the other hand, Plato is far in advance of modern philosophers and theologians when he teaches that education is to be continued through life and will begin again in another. He would never allow education of some kind to cease; although he was aware that the proverbial saying of Solon, ‘I grow old learning many things,’ cannot be applied literally342. Himself ravished with the contemplation of the idea of good, and delighting in solid geometry (Rep.), he has no difficulty in imagining that a lifetime might be passed happily in such pursuits. We who know how many more men of business there are in the world than real students or thinkers, are not equally sanguine343. The education which he proposes for his citizens is really the ideal life of the philosopher or man of genius, interrupted, but only for a time, by practical duties — a life not for the many, but for the few.
Yet the thought of Plato may not be wholly incapable344 of application to our own times. Even if regarded as an ideal which can never be realized, it may have a great effect in elevating the characters of mankind, and raising them above the routine of their ordinary occupation or profession. It is the best form under which we can conceive the whole of life. Nevertheless the idea of Plato is not easily put into practice. For the education of after life is necessarily the education which each one gives himself. Men and women cannot be brought together in schools or colleges at forty or fifty years of age; and if they could the result would be disappointing. The destination of most men is what Plato would call ‘the Den’ for the whole of life, and with that they are content. Neither have they teachers or advisers345 with whom they can take counsel in riper years. There is no ‘schoolmaster abroad’ who will tell them of their faults, or inspire them with the higher sense of duty, or with the ambition of a true success in life; no Socrates who will convict them of ignorance; no Christ, or follower55 of Christ, who will reprove them of sin. Hence they have a difficulty in receiving the first element of improvement, which is self-knowledge. The hopes of youth no longer stir them; they rather wish to rest than to pursue high objects. A few only who have come across great men and women, or eminent teachers of religion and morality, have received a second life from them, and have lighted a candle from the fire of their genius.
The want of energy is one of the main reasons why so few persons continue to improve in later years. They have not the will, and do not know the way. They ‘never try an experiment,’ or look up a point of interest for themselves; they make no sacrifices for the sake of knowledge; their minds, like their bodies, at a certain age become fixed. Genius has been defined as ‘the power of taking pains’; but hardly any one keeps up his interest in knowledge throughout a whole life. The troubles of a family, the business of making money, the demands of a profession destroy the elasticity346 of the mind. The waxen tablet of the memory which was once capable of receiving ‘true thoughts and clear impressions’ becomes hard and crowded; there is not room for the accumulations of a long life (Theaet.). The student, as years advance, rather makes an exchange of knowledge than adds to his stores. There is no pressing necessity to learn; the stock of Classics or History or Natural Science which was enough for a man at twenty-five is enough for him at fifty. Neither is it easy to give a definite answer to any one who asks how he is to improve. For self-education consists in a thousand things, commonplace in themselves — in adding to what we are by nature something of what we are not; in learning to see ourselves as others see us; in judging, not by opinion, but by the evidence of facts; in seeking out the society of superior minds; in a study of lives and writings of great men; in observation of the world and character; in receiving kindly347 the natural influence of different times of life; in any act or thought which is raised above the practice or opinions of mankind; in the pursuit of some new or original enquiry; in any effort of mind which calls forth some latent power.
If any one is desirous of carrying out in detail the Platonic education of after-life, some such counsels as the following may be offered to him:— That he shall choose the branch of knowledge to which his own mind most distinctly inclines, and in which he takes the greatest delight, either one which seems to connect with his own daily employment, or, perhaps, furnishes the greatest contrast to it. He may study from the speculative side the profession or business in which he is practically engaged. He may make Homer, Dante, Shakespeare, Plato, Bacon the friends and companions of his life. He may find opportunities of hearing the living voice of a great teacher. He may select for enquiry some point of history or some unexplained phenomenon of nature. An hour a day passed in such scientific or literary pursuits will furnish as many facts as the memory can retain, and will give him ‘a pleasure not to be repented348 of’ (Timaeus). Only let him beware of being the slave of crotchets, or of running after a Will o’ the Wisp in his ignorance, or in his vanity of attributing to himself the gifts of a poet or assuming the air of a philosopher. He should know the limits of his own powers. Better to build up the mind by slow additions, to creep on quietly from one thing to another, to gain insensibly new powers and new interests in knowledge, than to form vast schemes which are never destined349 to be realized. But perhaps, as Plato would say, ‘This is part of another subject’ (Tim.); though we may also defend our digression by his example (Theaet.).
4. We remark with surprise that the progress of nations or the natural growth of institutions which fill modern treatises350 on political philosophy seem hardly ever to have attracted the attention of Plato and Aristotle. The ancients were familiar with the mutability of human affairs; they could moralize over the ruins of cities and the fall of empires (Plato, Statesman, and Sulpicius’ Letter to Cicero); by them fate and chance were deemed to be real powers, almost persons, and to have had a great share in political events. The wiser of them like Thucydides believed that ‘what had been would be again,’ and that a tolerable idea of the future could be gathered from the past. Also they had dreams of a Golden Age which existed once upon a time and might still exist in some unknown land, or might return again in the remote future. But the regular growth of a state enlightened by experience, progressing in knowledge, improving in the arts, of which the citizens were educated by the fulfilment of political duties, appears never to have come within the range of their hopes and aspirations. Such a state had never been seen, and therefore could not be conceived by them. Their experience (Aristot. Metaph.; Plato, Laws) led them to conclude that there had been cycles of civilization in which the arts had been discovered and lost many times over, and cities had been overthrown352 and rebuilt again and again, and deluges354 and volcanoes and other natural convulsions had altered the face of the earth. Tradition told them of many destructions of mankind and of the preservation of a remnant. The world began again after a deluge353 and was reconstructed out of the fragments of itself. Also they were acquainted with empires of unknown antiquity355, like the Egyptian or Assyrian; but they had never seen them grow, and could not imagine, any more than we can, the state of man which preceded them. They were puzzled and awestricken by the Egyptian monuments, of which the forms, as Plato says, not in a figure, but literally, were ten thousand years old (Laws), and they contrasted the antiquity of Egypt with their own short memories.
The early legends of Hellas have no real connection with the later history: they are at a distance, and the intermediate region is concealed from view; there is no road or path which leads from one to the other. At the beginning of Greek history, in the vestibule of the temple, is seen standing356 first of all the figure of the legislator, himself the interpreter and servant of the God. The fundamental laws which he gives are not supposed to change with time and circumstances. The salvation357 of the state is held rather to depend on the inviolable maintenance of them. They were sanctioned by the authority of heaven, and it was deemed impiety358 to alter them. The desire to maintain them unaltered seems to be the origin of what at first sight is very surprising to us — the intolerant zeal359 of Plato against innovators in religion or politics (Laws); although with a happy inconsistency he is also willing that the laws of other countries should be studied and improvements in legislation privately360 communicated to the Nocturnal Council (Laws). The additions which were made to them in later ages in order to meet the increasing complexity361 of affairs were still ascribed by a fiction to the original legislator; and the words of such enactments at Athens were disputed over as if they had been the words of Solon himself. Plato hopes to preserve in a later generation the mind of the legislator; he would have his citizens remain within the lines which he has laid down for them. He would not harass362 them with minute regulations, he would have allowed some changes in the laws: but not changes which would affect the fundamental institutions of the state, such for example as would convert an aristocracy into a timocracy, or a timocracy into a popular form of government.
Passing from speculations to facts, we observe that progress has been the exception rather than the law of human history. And therefore we are not surprised to find that the idea of progress is of modern rather than of ancient date; and, like the idea of a philosophy of history, is not more than a century or two old. It seems to have arisen out of the impression left on the human mind by the growth of the Roman Empire and of the Christian Church, and to be due to the political and social improvements which they introduced into the world; and still more in our own century to the idealism of the first French Revolution and the triumph of American Independence; and in a yet greater degree to the vast material prosperity and growth of population in England and her colonies and in America. It is also to be ascribed in a measure to the greater study of the philosophy of history. The optimist363 temperament of some great writers has assisted the creation of it, while the opposite character has led a few to regard the future of the world as dark. The ‘spectator of all time and of all existence’ sees more of ‘the increasing purpose which through the ages ran’ than formerly: but to the inhabitant of a small state of Hellas the vision was necessarily limited like the valley in which he dwelt. There was no remote past on which his eye could rest, nor any future from which the veil was partly lifted up by the analogy of history. The narrowness of view, which to ourselves appears so singular, was to him natural, if not unavoidable.
5. For the relation of the Republic to the Statesman and the Laws, and the two other works of Plato which directly treat of politics, see the Introductions to the two latter; a few general points of comparison may be touched upon in this place.
And first of the Laws.
(1) The Republic, though probably written at intervals364, yet speaking generally and judging by the indications of thought and style, may be reasonably ascribed to the middle period of Plato’s life: the Laws are certainly the work of his declining years, and some portions of them at any rate seem to have been written in extreme old age.
(2) The Republic is full of hope and aspiration: the Laws bear the stamp of failure and disappointment. The one is a finished work which received the last touches of the author: the other is imperfectly executed, and apparently365 unfinished. The one has the grace and beauty of youth: the other has lost the poetical form, but has more of the severity and knowledge of life which is characteristic of old age.
(3) The most conspicuous366 defect of the Laws is the failure of dramatic power, whereas the Republic is full of striking contrasts of ideas and oppositions368 of character.
(4) The Laws may be said to have more the nature of a sermon, the Republic of a poem; the one is more religious, the other more intellectual.
(5) Many theories of Plato, such as the doctrine of ideas, the government of the world by philosophers, are not found in the Laws; the immortality369 of the soul is first mentioned in xii; the person of Socrates has altogether disappeared. The community of women and children is renounced; the institution of common or public meals for women (Laws) is for the first time introduced (Ar. Pol.).
(6) There remains in the Laws the old enmity to the poets, who are ironically saluted370 in high-flown terms, and, at the same time, are peremptorily371 ordered out of the city, if they are not willing to submit their poems to the censorship of the magistrates (Rep.).
(7) Though the work is in most respects inferior, there are a few passages in the Laws, such as the honour due to the soul, the evils of licentious or unnatural love, the whole of Book x. (religion), the dishonesty of retail372 trade, and bequests, which come more home to us, and contain more of what may be termed the modern element in Plato than almost anything in the Republic.
The relation of the two works to one another is very well given:
(1) by Aristotle in the Politics from the side of the Laws:—
‘The same, or nearly the same, objections apply to Plato’s later work, the Laws, and therefore we had better examine briefly the constitution which is therein described. In the Republic, Socrates has definitely settled in all a few questions only; such as the community of women and children, the community of property, and the constitution of the state. The population is divided into two classes — one of husbandmen, and the other of warriors373; from this latter is taken a third class of counsellors and rulers of the state. But Socrates has not determined whether the husbandmen and artists are to have a share in the government, and whether they too are to carry arms and share in military service or not. He certainly thinks that the women ought to share in the education of the guardians, and to fight by their side. The remainder of the work is filled up with digressions foreign to the main subject, and with discussions about the education of the guardians. In the Laws there is hardly anything but laws; not much is said about the constitution. This, which he had intended to make more of the ordinary type, he gradually brings round to the other or ideal form. For with the exception of the community of women and property, he supposes everything to be the same in both states; there is to be the same education; the citizens of both are to live free from servile occupations, and there are to be common meals in both. The only difference is that in the Laws the common meals are extended to women, and the warriors number about 5000, but in the Republic only 1000.’
(2) by Plato in the Laws (Book v.), from the side of the Republic:—
‘The first and highest form of the state and of the government and of the law is that in which there prevails most widely the ancient saying that “Friends have all things in common.” Whether there is now, or ever will be, this communion of women and children and of property, in which the private and individual is altogether banished from life, and things which are by nature private, such as eyes and ears and hands, have become common, and all men express praise and blame, and feel joy and sorrow, on the same occasions, and the laws unite the city to the utmost — whether all this is possible or not, I say that no man, acting374 upon any other principle, will ever constitute a state more exalted375 in virtue, or truer or better than this. Such a state, whether inhabited by Gods or sons of Gods, will make them blessed who dwell therein; and therefore to this we are to look for the pattern of the state, and to cling to this, and, as far as possible, to seek for one which is like this. The state which we have now in hand, when created, will be nearest to immortality and unity in the next degree; and after that, by the grace of God, we will complete the third one. And we will begin by speaking of the nature and origin of the second.’
The comparatively short work called the Statesman or Politicus in its style and manner is more akin to the Laws, while in its idealism it rather resembles the Republic. As far as we can judge by various indications of language and thought, it must be later than the one and of course earlier than the other. In both the Republic and Statesman a close connection is maintained between Politics and Dialectic. In the Statesman, enquiries into the principles of Method are interspersed376 with discussions about Politics. The comparative advantages of the rule of law and of a person are considered, and the decision given in favour of a person (Arist. Pol.). But much may be said on the other side, nor is the opposition367 necessary; for a person may rule by law, and law may be so applied as to be the living voice of the legislator. As in the Republic, there is a myth, describing, however, not a future, but a former existence of mankind. The question is asked, ‘Whether the state of innocence which is described in the myth, or a state like our own which possesses art and science and distinguishes good from evil, is the preferable condition of man.’ To this question of the comparative happiness of civilized and primitive life, which was so often discussed in the last century and in our own, no answer is given. The Statesman, though less perfect in style than the Republic and of far less range, may justly be regarded as one of the greatest of Plato’s dialogues.
6. Others as well as Plato have chosen an ideal Republic to be the vehicle of thoughts which they could not definitely express, or which went beyond their own age. The classical writing which approaches most nearly to the Republic of Plato is the ‘De Republica’ of Cicero; but neither in this nor in any other of his dialogues does he rival the art of Plato. The manners are clumsy and inferior; the hand of the rhetorician is apparent at every turn. Yet noble sentiments are constantly recurring377: the true note of Roman patriotism378 —‘We Romans are a great people’— resounds379 through the whole work. Like Socrates, Cicero turns away from the phenomena380 of the heavens to civil and political life. He would rather not discuss the ‘two Suns’ of which all Rome was talking, when he can converse381 about ‘the two nations in one’ which had divided Rome ever since the days of the Gracchi. Like Socrates again, speaking in the person of Scipio, he is afraid lest he should assume too much the character of a teacher, rather than of an equal who is discussing among friends the two sides of a question. He would confine the terms King or State to the rule of reason and justice, and he will not concede that title either to a democracy or to a monarchy382. But under the rule of reason and justice he is willing to include the natural superior ruling over the natural inferior, which he compares to the soul ruling over the body. He prefers a mixture of forms of government to any single one. The two portraits of the just and the unjust, which occur in the second book of the Republic, are transferred to the state — Philus, one of the interlocutors, maintaining against his will the necessity of injustice383 as a principle of government, while the other, Laelius, supports the opposite thesis. His views of language and number are derived from Plato; like him he denounces the drama. He also declares that if his life were to be twice as long he would have no time to read the lyric384 poets. The picture of democracy is translated by him word for word, though he had hardly shown himself able to ‘carry the jest’ of Plato. He converts into a stately sentence the humorous fancy about the animals, who ‘are so imbued385 with the spirit of democracy that they make the passers-by get out of their way.’ His description of the tyrant is imitated from Plato, but is far inferior. The second book is historical, and claims for the Roman constitution (which is to him the ideal) a foundation of fact such as Plato probably intended to have given to the Republic in the Critias. His most remarkable imitation of Plato is the adaptation of the vision of Er, which is converted by Cicero into the ‘Somnium Scipionis’; he has ‘romanized’ the myth of the Republic, adding an argument for the immortality of the soul taken from the Phaedrus, and some other touches derived from the Phaedo and the Timaeus. Though a beautiful tale and containing splendid passages, the ‘Somnium Scipionis; is very inferior to the vision of Er; it is only a dream, and hardly allows the reader to suppose that the writer believes in his own creation. Whether his dialogues were framed on the model of the lost dialogues of Aristotle, as he himself tells us, or of Plato, to which they bear many superficial resemblances, he is still the Roman orator386; he is not conversing, but making speeches, and is never able to mould the intractable Latin to the grace and ease of the Greek Platonic dialogue. But if he is defective387 in form, much more is he inferior to the Greek in matter; he nowhere in his philosophical writings leaves upon our minds the impression of an original thinker.
Plato’s Republic has been said to be a church and not a state; and such an ideal of a city in the heavens has always hovered388 over the Christian world, and is embodied389 in St. Augustine’s ‘De Civitate Dei,’ which is suggested by the decay and fall of the Roman Empire, much in the same manner in which we may imagine the Republic of Plato to have been influenced by the decline of Greek politics in the writer’s own age. The difference is that in the time of Plato the degeneracy, though certain, was gradual and insensible: whereas the taking of Rome by the Goths stirred like an earthquake the age of St. Augustine. Men were inclined to believe that the overthrow of the city was to be ascribed to the anger felt by the old Roman deities390 at the neglect of their worship. St. Augustine maintains the opposite thesis; he argues that the destruction of the Roman Empire is due, not to the rise of Christianity, but to the vices of Paganism. He wanders over Roman history, and over Greek philosophy and mythology, and finds everywhere crime, impiety and falsehood. He compares the worst parts of the Gentile religions with the best elements of the faith of Christ. He shows nothing of the spirit which led others of the early Christian Fathers to recognize in the writings of the Greek philosophers the power of the divine truth. He traces the parallel of the kingdom of God, that is, the history of the Jews, contained in their scriptures392, and of the kingdoms of the world, which are found in gentile writers, and pursues them both into an ideal future. It need hardly be remarked that his use both of Greek and of Roman historians and of the sacred writings of the Jews is wholly uncritical. The heathen mythology, the Sybilline oracles393, the myths of Plato, the dreams of Neo-Platonists are equally regarded by him as matter of fact. He must be acknowledged to be a strictly394 polemical or controversial writer who makes the best of everything on one side and the worst of everything on the other. He has no sympathy with the old Roman life as Plato has with Greek life, nor has he any idea of the ecclesiastical kingdom which was to arise out of the ruins of the Roman empire. He is not blind to the defects of the Christian Church, and looks forward to a time when Christian and Pagan shall be alike brought before the judgment-seat, and the true City of God shall appear . . . The work of St. Augustine is a curious repertory of antiquarian learning and quotations395, deeply penetrated396 with Christian ethics, but showing little power of reasoning, and a slender knowledge of the Greek literature and language. He was a great genius, and a noble character, yet hardly capable of feeling or understanding anything external to his own theology. Of all the ancient philosophers he is most attracted by Plato, though he is very slightly acquainted with his writings. He is inclined to believe that the idea of creation in the Timaeus is derived from the narrative397 in Genesis; and he is strangely taken with the coincidence (?) of Plato’s saying that ‘the philosopher is the lover of God,’ and the words of the Book of Exodus398 in which God reveals himself to Moses (Exod.) He dwells at length on miracles performed in his own day, of which the evidence is regarded by him as irresistible. He speaks in a very interesting manner of the beauty and utility of nature and of the human frame, which he conceives to afford a foretaste of the heavenly state and of the resurrection of the body. The book is not really what to most persons the title of it would imply, and belongs to an age which has passed away. But it contains many fine passages and thoughts which are for all time.
The short treatise351 de Monarchia of Dante is by far the most remarkable of mediaeval ideals, and bears the impress of the great genius in whom Italy and the Middle Ages are so vividly reflected. It is the vision of an Universal Empire, which is supposed to be the natural and necessary government of the world, having a divine authority distinct from the Papacy, yet coextensive with it. It is not ‘the ghost of the dead Roman Empire sitting crowned upon the grave thereof,’ but the legitimate399 heir and successor of it, justified by the ancient virtues of the Romans and the beneficence of their rule. Their right to be the governors of the world is also confirmed by the testimony400 of miracles, and acknowledged by St. Paul when he appealed to Caesar, and even more emphatically by Christ Himself, Who could not have made atonement for the sins of men if He had not been condemned401 by a divinely authorized402 tribunal. The necessity for the establishment of an Universal Empire is proved partly by a priori arguments such as the unity of God and the unity of the family or nation; partly by perversions403 of Scripture391 and history, by false analogies of nature, by misapplied quotations from the classics, and by odd scraps404 and commonplaces of logic, showing a familiar but by no means exact knowledge of Aristotle (of Plato there is none). But a more convincing argument still is the miserable405 state of the world, which he touchingly406 describes. He sees no hope of happiness or peace for mankind until all nations of the earth are comprehended in a single empire. The whole treatise shows how deeply the idea of the Roman Empire was fixed in the minds of his contemporaries. Not much argument was needed to maintain the truth of a theory which to his own contemporaries seemed so natural and congenial. He speaks, or rather preaches, from the point of view, not of the ecclesiastic89, but of the layman407, although, as a good Catholic, he is willing to acknowledge that in certain respects the Empire must submit to the Church. The beginning and end of all his noble reflections and of his arguments, good and bad, is the aspiration ‘that in this little plot of earth belonging to mortal man life may pass in freedom and peace.’ So inextricably is his vision of the future bound up with the beliefs and circumstances of his own age.
The ‘Utopia’ of Sir Thomas More is a surprising monument of his genius, and shows a reach of thought far beyond his contemporaries. The book was written by him at the age of about 34 or 35, and is full of the generous sentiments of youth. He brings the light of Plato to bear upon the miserable state of his own country. Living not long after the Wars of the Roses, and in the dregs of the Catholic Church in England, he is indignant at the corruption262 of the clergy408, at the luxury of the nobility and gentry409, at the sufferings of the poor, at the calamities410 caused by war. To the eye of More the whole world was in dissolution and decay; and side by side with the misery and oppression which he has described in the First Book of the Utopia, he places in the Second Book the ideal state which by the help of Plato he had constructed. The times were full of stir and intellectual interest. The distant murmur411 of the Reformation was beginning to be heard. To minds like More’s, Greek literature was a revelation: there had arisen an art of interpretation412, and the New Testament413 was beginning to be understood as it had never been before, and has not often been since, in its natural sense. The life there depicted414 appeared to him wholly unlike that of Christian commonwealths415, in which ‘he saw nothing but a certain conspiracy416 of rich men procuring their own commodities under the name and title of the Commonwealth.’ He thought that Christ, like Plato, ‘instituted all things common,’ for which reason, he tells us, the citizens of Utopia were the more willing to receive his doctrines417 (‘Howbeit, I think this was no small help and furtherance in the matter, that they heard us say that Christ instituted among his, all things common, and that the same community doth yet remain in the rightest Christian communities’ (Utopia).). The community of property is a fixed idea with him, though he is aware of the arguments which may be urged on the other side (‘These things (I say), when I consider with myself, I hold well with Plato, and do nothing marvel418 that he would make no laws for them that refused those laws, whereby all men should have and enjoy equal portions of riches and commodities. For the wise men did easily foresee this to be the one and only way to the wealth of a community, if equality of all things should be brought in and established’ (Utopia).). We wonder how in the reign of Henry VIII, though veiled in another language and published in a foreign country, such speculations could have been endured.
He is gifted with far greater dramatic invention than any one who succeeded him, with the exception of Swift. In the art of feigning419 he is a worthy disciple420 of Plato. Like him, starting from a small portion of fact, he founds his tale with admirable skill on a few lines in the Latin narrative of the voyages of Amerigo Vespucci. He is very precise about dates and facts, and has the power of making us believe that the narrator of the tale must have been an eyewitness421. We are fairly puzzled by his manner of mixing up real and imaginary persons; his boy John Clement422 and Peter Giles, citizen of Antwerp, with whom he disputes about the precise words which are supposed to have been used by the (imaginary) Portuguese423 traveller, Raphael Hythloday. ‘I have the more cause,’ says Hythloday, ‘to fear that my words shall not be believed, for that I know how difficultly and hardly I myself would have believed another man telling the same, if I had not myself seen it with mine own eyes.’ Or again: ‘If you had been with me in Utopia, and had presently seen their fashions and laws as I did which lived there five years and more, and would never have come thence, but only to make the new land known here,’ etc. More greatly regrets that he forgot to ask Hythloday in what part of the world Utopia is situated424; he ‘would have spent no small sum of money rather than it should have escaped him,’ and he begs Peter Giles to see Hythloday or write to him and obtain an answer to the question. After this we are not surprised to hear that a Professor of Divinity (perhaps ‘a late famous vicar of Croydon in Surrey,’ as the translator thinks) is desirous of being sent thither425 as a missionary426 by the High Bishop427, ‘yea, and that he may himself be made Bishop of Utopia, nothing doubting that he must obtain this Bishopric with suit; and he counteth that a godly suit which proceedeth not of the desire of honour or lucre428, but only of a godly zeal.’ The design may have failed through the disappearance429 of Hythloday, concerning whom we have ‘very uncertain news’ after his departure. There is no doubt, however, that he had told More and Giles the exact situation of the island, but unfortunately at the same moment More’s attention, as he is reminded in a letter from Giles, was drawn430 off by a servant, and one of the company from a cold caught on shipboard coughed so loud as to prevent Giles from hearing. And ‘the secret has perished’ with him; to this day the place of Utopia remains unknown.
The words of Phaedrus, ‘O Socrates, you can easily invent Egyptians or anything,’ are recalled to our mind as we read this lifelike fiction. Yet the greater merit of the work is not the admirable art, but the originality431 of thought. More is as free as Plato from the prejudices of his age, and far more tolerant. The Utopians do not allow him who believes not in the immortality of the soul to share in the administration of the state (Laws), ‘howbeit they put him to no punishment, because they be persuaded that it is in no man’s power to believe what he list’; and ‘no man is to be blamed for reasoning in support of his own religion (‘One of our company in my presence was sharply punished. He, as soon as he was baptised, began, against our wills, with more earnest affection than wisdom, to reason of Christ’s religion, and began to wax so hot in his matter, that he did not only prefer our religion before all other, but also did despise and condemn all other, calling them profane432, and the followers of them wicked and devilish, and the children of everlasting damnation. When he had thus long reasoned the matter, they laid hold on him, accused him, and condemned him into exile, not as a despiser of religion, but as a seditious person and a raiser up of dissension among the people’).’ In the public services ‘no prayers be used, but such as every man may boldly pronounce without giving offence to any sect132.’ He says significantly, ‘There be that give worship to a man that was once of excellent virtue or of famous glory, not only as God, but also the chiefest and highest God. But the most and the wisest part, rejecting all these, believe that there is a certain godly power unknown, far above the capacity and reach of man’s wit, dispersed433 throughout all the world, not in bigness, but in virtue and power. Him they call the Father of all. To Him alone they attribute the beginnings, the increasings, the proceedings434, the changes, and the ends of all things. Neither give they any divine honours to any other than him.’ So far was More from sharing the popular beliefs of his time. Yet at the end he reminds us that he does not in all respects agree with the customs and opinions of the Utopians which he describes. And we should let him have the benefit of this saving clause, and not rudely withdraw the veil behind which he has been pleased to conceal187 himself.
Nor is he less in advance of popular opinion in his political and moral speculations. He would like to bring military glory into contempt; he would set all sorts of idle people to profitable occupation, including in the same class, priests, women, noblemen, gentlemen, and ‘sturdy and valiant435 beggars,’ that the labour of all may be reduced to six hours a day. His dislike of capital punishment, and plans for the reformation of offenders436; his detestation of priests and lawyers (Compare his satirical observation: ‘They (the Utopians) have priests of exceeding holiness, and therefore very few.); his remark that ‘although every one may hear of ravenous437 dogs and wolves and cruel man-eaters, it is not easy to find states that are well and wisely governed,’ are curiously438 at variance with the notions of his age and indeed with his own life. There are many points in which he shows a modern feeling and a prophetic insight like Plato. He is a sanitary reformer; he maintains that civilized states have a right to the soil of waste countries; he is inclined to the opinion which places happiness in virtuous439 pleasures, but herein, as he thinks, not disagreeing from those other philosophers who define virtue to be a life according to nature. He extends the idea of happiness so as to include the happiness of others; and he argues ingeniously, ‘All men agree that we ought to make others happy; but if others, how much more ourselves!’ And still he thinks that there may be a more excellent way, but to this no man’s reason can attain unless heaven should inspire him with a higher truth. His ceremonies before marriage; his humane440 proposal that war should be carried on by assassinating441 the leaders of the enemy, may be compared to some of the paradoxes of Plato. He has a charming fancy, like the affinities442 of Greeks and barbarians in the Timaeus, that the Utopians learnt the language of the Greeks with the more readiness because they were originally of the same race with them. He is penetrated with the spirit of Plato, and quotes or adapts many thoughts both from the Republic and from the Timaeus. He prefers public duties to private, and is somewhat impatient of the importunity443 of relations. His citizens have no silver or gold of their own, but are ready enough to pay them to their mercenaries. There is nothing of which he is more contemptuous than the love of money. Gold is used for fetters444 of criminals, and diamonds and pearls for children’s necklaces (When the ambassadors came arrayed in gold and peacocks’ feathers ‘to the eyes of all the Utopians except very few, which had been in other countries for some reasonable cause, all that gorgeousness of apparel seemed shameful445 and reproachful. In so much that they most reverently446 saluted the vilest447 and most abject448 of them for lords — passing over the ambassadors themselves without any honour, judging them by their wearing of golden chains to be bondmen. You should have seen children also, that had cast away their pearls and precious stones, when they saw the like sticking upon the ambassadors’ caps, dig and push their mothers under the sides, saying thus to them —“Look, though he were a little child still.” But the mother; yea and that also in good earnest: “Peace, son,” saith she, “I think he be some of the ambassadors’ fools.”’)
Like Plato he is full of satirical reflections on governments and princes; on the state of the world and of knowledge. The hero of his discourse (Hythloday) is very unwilling to become a minister of state, considering that he would lose his independence and his advice would never be heeded449 (Compare an exquisite450 passage, of which the conclusion is as follows: ‘And verily it is naturally given . . . suppressed and ended.’) He ridicules451 the new logic of his time; the Utopians could never be made to understand the doctrine of Second Intentions (‘For they have not devised one of all those rules of restrictions452, amplifications, and suppositions, very wittily453 invented in the small Logicals, which here our children in every place do learn. Furthermore, they were never yet able to find out the second intentions; insomuch that none of them all could ever see man himself in common, as they call him, though he be (as you know) bigger than was ever any giant, yea, and pointed to of us even with our finger.’) He is very severe on the sports of the gentry; the Utopians count ‘hunting the lowest, the vilest, and the most abject part of butchery.’ He quotes the words of the Republic in which the philosopher is described ‘standing out of the way under a wall until the driving storm of sleet454 and rain be overpast,’ which admit of a singular application to More’s own fate; although, writing twenty years before (about the year 1514), he can hardly be supposed to have foreseen this. There is no touch of satire455 which strikes deeper than his quiet remark that the greater part of the precepts456 of Christ are more at variance with the lives of ordinary Christians than the discourse of Utopia (‘And yet the most part of them is more dissident from the manners of the world now a days, than my communication was. But preachers, sly and wily men, following your counsel (as I suppose) because they saw men evil-willing to frame their manners to Christ’s rule, they have wrested457 and wried458 his doctrine, and, like a rule of lead, have applied it to men’s manners, that by some means at the least way, they might agree together.’)
The ‘New Atlantis’ is only a fragment, and far inferior in merit to the ‘Utopia.’ The work is full of ingenuity459, but wanting in creative fancy, and by no means impresses the reader with a sense of credibility. In some places Lord Bacon is characteristically different from Sir Thomas More, as, for example, in the external state which he attributes to the governor of Solomon’s House, whose dress he minutely describes, while to Sir Thomas More such trappings appear simple ridiculous. Yet, after this programme of dress, Bacon adds the beautiful trait, ‘that he had a look as though he pitied men.’ Several things are borrowed by him from the Timaeus; but he has injured the unity of style by adding thoughts and passages which are taken from the Hebrew Scriptures.
The ‘City of the Sun’ written by Campanella (1568-1639), a Dominican friar, several years after the ‘New Atlantis’ of Bacon, has many resemblances to the Republic of Plato. The citizens have wives and children in common; their marriages are of the same temporary sort, and are arranged by the magistrates from time to time. They do not, however, adopt his system of lots, but bring together the best natures, male and female, ‘according to philosophical rules.’ The infants until two years of age are brought up by their mothers in public temples; and since individuals for the most part educate their children badly, at the beginning of their third year they are committed to the care of the State, and are taught at first, not out of books, but from paintings of all kinds, which are emblazoned on the walls of the city. The city has six interior circuits of walls, and an outer wall which is the seventh. On this outer wall are painted the figures of legislators and philosophers, and on each of the interior walls the symbols or forms of some one of the sciences are delineated. The women are, for the most part, trained, like the men, in warlike and other exercises; but they have two special occupations of their own. After a battle, they and the boys soothe460 and relieve the wounded warriors; also they encourage them with embraces and pleasant words. Some elements of the Christian or Catholic religion are preserved among them. The life of the Apostles is greatly admired by this people because they had all things in common; and the short prayer which Jesus Christ taught men is used in their worship. It is a duty of the chief magistrates to pardon sins, and therefore the whole people make secret confession of them to the magistrates, and they to their chief, who is a sort of Rector Metaphysicus; and by this means he is well informed of all that is going on in the minds of men. After confession, absolution is granted to the citizens collectively, but no one is mentioned by name. There also exists among them a practice of perpetual prayer, performed by a succession of priests, who change every hour. Their religion is a worship of God in Trinity, that is of Wisdom, Love and Power, but without any distinction of persons. They behold in the sun the reflection of His glory; mere graven images they reject, refusing to fall under the ‘tyranny’ of idolatry.
Many details are given about their customs of eating and drinking, about their mode of dressing461, their employments, their wars. Campanella looks forward to a new mode of education, which is to be a study of nature, and not of Aristotle. He would not have his citizens waste their time in the consideration of what he calls ‘the dead signs of things.’ He remarks that he who knows one science only, does not really know that one any more than the rest, and insists strongly on the necessity of a variety of knowledge. More scholars are turned out in the City of the Sun in one year than by contemporary methods in ten or fifteen. He evidently believes, like Bacon, that henceforward natural science will play a great part in education, a hope which seems hardly to have been realized, either in our own or in any former age; at any rate the fulfilment of it has been long deferred462.
There is a good deal of ingenuity and even originality in this work, and a most enlightened spirit pervades463 it. But it has little or no charm of style, and falls very far short of the ‘New Atlantis’ of Bacon, and still more of the ‘Utopia’ of Sir Thomas More. It is full of inconsistencies, and though borrowed from Plato, shows but a superficial acquaintance with his writings. It is a work such as one might expect to have been written by a philosopher and man of genius who was also a friar, and who had spent twenty-seven years of his life in a prison of the Inquisition. The most interesting feature of the book, common to Plato and Sir Thomas More, is the deep feeling which is shown by the writer, of the misery and ignorance prevailing464 among the lower classes in his own time. Campanella takes note of Aristotle’s answer to Plato’s community of property, that in a society where all things are common, no individual would have any motive to work (Arist. Pol.): he replies, that his citizens being happy and contented465 in themselves (they are required to work only four hours a day), will have greater regard for their fellows than exists among men at present. He thinks, like Plato, that if he abolishes private feelings and interests, a great public feeling will take their place.
Other writings on ideal states, such as the ‘Oceana’ of Harrington, in which the Lord Archon, meaning Cromwell, is described, not as he was, but as he ought to have been; or the ‘Argenis’ of Barclay, which is an historical allegory of his own time, are too unlike Plato to be worth mentioning. More interesting than either of these, and far more Platonic in style and thought, is Sir John Eliot’s ‘Monarchy of Man,’ in which the prisoner of the Tower, no longer able ‘to be a politician in the land of his birth,’ turns away from politics to view ‘that other city which is within him,’ and finds on the very threshold of the grave that the secret of human happiness is the mastery of self. The change of government in the time of the English Commonwealth set men thinking about first principles, and gave rise to many works of this class . . . The great original genius of Swift owes nothing to Plato; nor is there any trace in the conversation or in the works of Dr. Johnson of any acquaintance with his writings. He probably would have refuted Plato without reading him, in the same fashion in which he supposed himself to have refuted Bishop Berkeley’s theory of the non-existence of matter. If we except the so-called English Platonists, or rather Neo-Platonists, who never understood their master, and the writings of Coleridge, who was to some extent a kindred spirit, Plato has left no permanent impression on English literature.
7. Human life and conduct are affected by ideals in the same way that they are affected by the examples of eminent men. Neither the one nor the other are immediately applicable to practice, but there is a virtue flowing from them which tends to raise individuals above the common routine of society or trade, and to elevate States above the mere interests of commerce or the necessities of self-defence. Like the ideals of art they are partly framed by the omission of particulars; they require to be viewed at a certain distance, and are apt to fade away if we attempt to approach them. They gain an imaginary distinctness when embodied in a State or in a system of philosophy, but they still remain the visions of ‘a world unrealized.’ More striking and obvious to the ordinary mind are the examples of great men, who have served their own generation and are remembered in another. Even in our own family circle there may have been some one, a woman, or even a child, in whose face has shone forth a goodness more than human. The ideal then approaches nearer to us, and we fondly cling to it. The ideal of the past, whether of our own past lives or of former states of society, has a singular fascination466 for the minds of many. Too late we learn that such ideals cannot be recalled, though the recollection of them may have a humanizing influence on other times. But the abstractions of philosophy are to most persons cold and vacant; they give light without warmth; they are like the full moon in the heavens when there are no stars appearing. Men cannot live by thought alone; the world of sense is always breaking in upon them. They are for the most part confined to a corner of earth, and see but a little way beyond their own home or place of abode467; they ‘do not lift up their eyes to the hills’; they are not awake when the dawn appears. But in Plato we have reached a height from which a man may look into the distance and behold the future of the world and of philosophy. The ideal of the State and of the life of the philosopher; the ideal of an education continuing through life and extending equally to both sexes; the ideal of the unity and correlation of knowledge; the faith in good and immortality — are the vacant forms of light on which Plato is seeking to fix the eye of mankind.
8. Two other ideals, which never appeared above the horizon in Greek Philosophy, float before the minds of men in our own day: one seen more clearly than formerly, as though each year and each generation brought us nearer to some great change; the other almost in the same degree retiring from view behind the laws of nature, as if oppressed by them, but still remaining a silent hope of we know not what hidden in the heart of man. The first ideal is the future of the human race in this world; the second the future of the individual in another. The first is the more perfect realization468 of our own present life; the second, the abnegation of it: the one, limited by experience, the other, transcending469 it. Both of them have been and are powerful motives of action; there are a few in whom they have taken the place of all earthly interests. The hope of a future for the human race at first sight seems to be the more disinterested, the hope of individual existence the more egotistical, of the two motives. But when men have learned to resolve their hope of a future either for themselves or for the world into the will of God —‘not my will but Thine,’ the difference between them falls away; and they may be allowed to make either of them the basis of their lives, according to their own individual character or temperament. There is as much faith in the willingness to work for an unseen future in this world as in another. Neither is it inconceivable that some rare nature may feel his duty to another generation, or to another century, almost as strongly as to his own, or that living always in the presence of God, he may realize another world as vividly as he does this.
The greatest of all ideals may, or rather must be conceived by us under similitudes derived from human qualities; although sometimes, like the Jewish prophets, we may dash away these figures of speech and describe the nature of God only in negatives. These again by degrees acquire a positive meaning. It would be well, if when meditating470 on the higher truths either of philosophy or religion, we sometimes substituted one form of expression for another, lest through the necessities of language we should become the slaves of mere words.
There is a third ideal, not the same, but akin to these, which has a place in the home and heart of every believer in the religion of Christ, and in which men seem to find a nearer and more familiar truth, the Divine man, the Son of Man, the Saviour471 of mankind, Who is the first-born and head of the whole family in heaven and earth, in Whom the Divine and human, that which is without and that which is within the range of our earthly faculties, are indissolubly united. Neither is this divine form of goodness wholly separable from the ideal of the Christian Church, which is said in the New Testament to be ‘His body,’ or at variance with those other images of good which Plato sets before us. We see Him in a figure only, and of figures of speech we select but a few, and those the simplest, to be the expression of Him. We behold Him in a picture, but He is not there. We gather up the fragments of His discourses472, but neither do they represent Him as He truly was. His dwelling473 is neither in heaven nor earth, but in the heart of man. This is that image which Plato saw dimly in the distance, which, when existing among men, he called, in the language of Homer, ‘the likeness474 of God,’ the likeness of a nature which in all ages men have felt to be greater and better than themselves, and which in endless forms, whether derived from Scripture or nature, from the witness of history or from the human heart, regarded as a person or not as a person, with or without parts or passions, existing in space or not in space, is and will always continue to be to mankind the Idea of Good.
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1
intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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paradoxes
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| n.似非而是的隽语，看似矛盾而实际却可能正确的说法( paradox的名词复数 )；用于语言文学中的上述隽语；有矛盾特点的人[事物，情况] | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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prohibition
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| n.禁止；禁令，禁律 | |
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rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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orb
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| n.太阳；星球；v.弄圆；成球形 | |
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enactments
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| n.演出( enactment的名词复数 )；展现；规定；通过 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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deformed
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| adj.畸形的；变形的；丑的，破相了的 | |
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incentives
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| 激励某人做某事的事物( incentive的名词复数 )； 刺激； 诱因； 动机 | |
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licentiousness
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| n.放肆，无法无天 | |
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licentious
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| adj.放纵的，淫乱的 | |
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immorality
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| n. 不道德, 无道义 | |
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immoral
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| adj.不道德的，淫荡的，荒淫的，有伤风化的 | |
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preservation
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| n.保护，维护，保存，保留，保持 | |
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favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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refinement
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| n.文雅；高尚；精美；精制；精炼 | |
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spartans
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| n.斯巴达（spartan的复数形式） | |
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bribery
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| n.贿络行为，行贿，受贿 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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magistrates
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| 地方法官，治安官( magistrate的名词复数 ) | |
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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hymns
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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aggression
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| n.进攻，侵略，侵犯，侵害 | |
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reverts
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| 恢复( revert的第三人称单数 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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revert
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| v.恢复，复归，回到 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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commonwealth
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| n.共和国，联邦，共同体 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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aspiration
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| n.志向，志趣抱负；渴望；(语)送气音；吸出 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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hereditary
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| adj.遗传的，遗传性的，可继承的，世袭的 | |
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enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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federation
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| n.同盟，联邦，联合，联盟，联合会 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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enlisting
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| v.（使）入伍， （使）参军( enlist的现在分词 )；获得（帮助或支持） | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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follower
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| n.跟随者；随员；门徒；信徒 | |
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interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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analogous
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| adj.相似的；类似的 | |
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akin
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| adj.同族的，类似的 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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sneered
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| 讥笑，冷笑( sneer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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omission
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| n.省略，删节；遗漏或省略的事物，冗长 | |
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censures
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| v.指责，非难，谴责( censure的第三人称单数 ) | |
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benevolence
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| n.慈悲，捐助 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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tenure
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| n.终身职位；任期；(土地)保有权，保有期 | |
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taxation
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| n.征税，税收，税金 | |
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legislative
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| n.立法机构，立法权；adj.立法的，有立法权的 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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abolition
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| n.废除，取消 | |
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bequests
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| n.遗赠( bequest的名词复数 )；遗产，遗赠物 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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perilled
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| 置…于危险中（peril的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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relic
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| n.神圣的遗物，遗迹，纪念物 | |
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blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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100
exertion
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| n.尽力，努力 | |
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101
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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102
nominally
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| 在名义上，表面地； 应名儿 | |
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103
disinterested
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| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
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104
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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105
attainable
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| a.可达到的，可获得的 | |
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106
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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107
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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108
machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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109
physiology
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| n.生理学，生理机能 | |
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110
recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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111
sanitary
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| adj.卫生方面的，卫生的，清洁的，卫生的 | |
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112
refreshments
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| n.点心,便餐;(会议后的)简单茶点招 待 | |
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113
locomotion
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| n.运动，移动 | |
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114
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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115
violation
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| n.违反(行为)，违背(行为)，侵犯 | |
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116
beget
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| v.引起；产生 | |
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117
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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118
decency
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| n.体面，得体，合宜，正派，庄重 | |
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119
emancipated
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| adj.被解放的，不受约束的v.解放某人（尤指摆脱政治、法律或社会的束缚）( emancipate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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120
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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121
renown
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| n.声誉，名望 | |
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122
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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123
toils
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| 网 | |
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124
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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125
maternity
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| n.母性，母道，妇产科病房；adj.孕妇的，母性的 | |
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126
antagonist
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| n.敌人，对抗者，对手 | |
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127
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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128
compensating
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| 补偿，补助，修正 | |
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129
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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130
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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131
dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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132
sect
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| n.派别，宗教，学派，派系 | |
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133
variance
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| n.矛盾，不同 | |
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134
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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135
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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136
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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137
exalting
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| a.令人激动的，令人喜悦的 | |
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138
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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139
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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140
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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141
horrified
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| a.(表现出)恐惧的 | |
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142
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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143
parable
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| n.寓言，比喻 | |
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144
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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145
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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146
binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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147
speculations
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| n.投机买卖( speculation的名词复数 )；思考；投机活动；推断 | |
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148
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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149
lusts
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| 贪求（lust的第三人称单数形式） | |
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150
brutes
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| 兽( brute的名词复数 )； 畜生； 残酷无情的人； 兽性 | |
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151
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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152
physiologist
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| n.生理学家 | |
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153
credible
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|
| adj.可信任的，可靠的 | |
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154
monstrous
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| adj.巨大的；恐怖的；可耻的，丢脸的 | |
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155
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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156
specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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157
deteriorated
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| 恶化，变坏( deteriorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
retraced
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| v.折回( retrace的过去式和过去分词 )；回忆；回顾；追溯 | |
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159
vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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160
dwindle
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| v.逐渐变小（或减少） | |
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161
degenerated
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| 衰退，堕落，退化( degenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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162
stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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163
idiocy
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| n.愚蠢 | |
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164
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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165
enquirer
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| 寻问者，追究者 | |
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166
peculiar
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|
| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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167
anthropology
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| n.人类学 | |
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168
considerably
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|
| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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169
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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170
conjecture
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|
| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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171
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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172
degradation
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| n.降级；低落；退化；陵削；降解；衰变 | |
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173
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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174
precarious
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|
| adj.不安定的，靠不住的；根据不足的 | |
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175
barbarians
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|
| n.野蛮人( barbarian的名词复数 )；外国人；粗野的人；无教养的人 | |
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176
consecrate
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|
| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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177
consecrated
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|
| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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178
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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179
sage
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|
| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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180
uncertainty
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|
| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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181
fluctuations
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| 波动，涨落，起伏( fluctuation的名词复数 ) | |
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182
rebellious
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|
| adj.造反的，反抗的，难控制的 | |
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183
overthrow
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| v.推翻，打倒，颠覆；n.推翻，瓦解，颠覆 | |
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184
rife
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| adj.(指坏事情)充斥的，流行的，普遍的 | |
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185
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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186
isolate
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| vt.使孤立，隔离 | |
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187
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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188
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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189
progenitors
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| n.祖先( progenitor的名词复数 )；先驱；前辈；原本 | |
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190
peculiarities
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| n. 特质, 特性, 怪癖, 古怪 | |
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191
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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192
tenacity
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| n.坚韧 | |
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193
brutality
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| n.野蛮的行为，残忍，野蛮 | |
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194
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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195
derive
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| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
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196
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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197
recurrence
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| n.复发，反复，重现 | |
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198
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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199
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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200
eradicated
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| 画着根的 | |
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201
relaxation
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| n.松弛，放松；休息；消遣；娱乐 | |
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202
posterity
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| n.后裔，子孙，后代 | |
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203
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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204
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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205
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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206
condemning
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的现在分词 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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207
hindrance
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| n.妨碍，障碍 | |
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208
improvidence
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| n.目光短浅 | |
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209
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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210
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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211
licensed
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| adj.得到许可的v.许可，颁发执照(license的过去式和过去分词) | |
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212
ulcerous
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|
| adj.溃疡性的，患溃疡的 | |
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213
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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214
auspices
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| n.资助，赞助 | |
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215
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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216
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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217
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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218
superstitious
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| adj.迷信的 | |
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219
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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220
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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221
averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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222
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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223
attachment
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| n.附属物，附件；依恋；依附 | |
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224
stimulus
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| n.刺激，刺激物，促进因素，引起兴奋的事物 | |
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225
shrouded
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| v.隐瞒( shroud的过去式和过去分词 )；保密 | |
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226
watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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227
manliness
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| 刚毅 | |
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228
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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229
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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230
corrupts
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的第三人称单数 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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231
reticence
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| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
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232
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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233
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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234
attachments
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| n.（用电子邮件发送的）附件( attachment的名词复数 )；附着；连接；附属物 | |
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235
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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236
amenities
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| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
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237
unnaturally
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| adv.违反习俗地；不自然地；勉强地；不近人情地 | |
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238
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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239
Founder
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| n.创始者，缔造者 | |
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240
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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241
apprehending
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| 逮捕，拘押( apprehend的现在分词 )； 理解 | |
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242
attainment
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| n.达到，到达；［常pl.］成就，造诣 | |
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243
discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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244
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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245
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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246
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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247
generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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248
elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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249
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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250
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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252
deduction
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| n.减除，扣除，减除额；推论，推理，演绎 | |
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253
vacancy
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| n.（旅馆的）空位，空房，（职务的）空缺 | |
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254
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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255
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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256
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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257
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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258
speculative
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|
| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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259
rhetoric
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|
| n.修辞学，浮夸之言语 | |
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260
precipitated
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|
| v.（突如其来地）使发生( precipitate的过去式和过去分词 )；促成；猛然摔下；使沉淀 | |
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261
corruptions
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|
| n.堕落( corruption的名词复数 )；腐化；腐败；贿赂 | |
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262
corruption
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|
| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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263
hue
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|
| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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264
prey
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| n.被掠食者，牺牲者，掠食；v.捕食，掠夺，折磨 | |
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265
pedants
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| n.卖弄学问的人，学究，书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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266
doctrinaire
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|
| adj.空论的 | |
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267
parodying
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|
| v.滑稽地模仿，拙劣地模仿( parody的现在分词 ) | |
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268
maxims
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|
| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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269
inveterate
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|
| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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270
obstinate
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|
| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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271
reactionary
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|
| n.反动者，反动主义者；adj.反动的，反动主义的，反对改革的 | |
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272
ethics
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|
| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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273
pliancy
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| n.柔软，柔顺 | |
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274
diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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275
animated
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|
| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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276
specious
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|
| adj.似是而非的；adv.似是而非地 | |
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277
intelligible
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|
| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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278
vividly
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|
| adv.清楚地，鲜明地，生动地 | |
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279
virtues
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|
| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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280
ambiguities
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|
| n.歧义( ambiguity的名词复数 )；意义不明确；模棱两可的意思；模棱两可的话 | |
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281
antagonism
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|
| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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282
unwilling
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|
| adj.不情愿的 | |
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283
elicit
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|
| v.引出,抽出,引起 | |
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284
elicited
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|
| 引出，探出( elicit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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285
implant
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|
| vt.注入，植入，灌输 | |
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286
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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287
renounced
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|
| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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288
supremacy
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|
| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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289
depreciated
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|
| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的过去式和过去分词 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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290
vessel
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|
| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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291
infancy
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|
| n.婴儿期；幼年期；初期 | |
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292
chasm
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|
| n.深坑，断层，裂口，大分岐，利害冲突 | |
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293
dispelled
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|
| v.驱散，赶跑( dispel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294
wafting
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|
| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的现在分词 ) | |
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295
harmonious
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|
| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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296
overdone
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|
| v.做得过分( overdo的过去分词 )；太夸张；把…煮得太久；（工作等）过度 | |
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297
cultivation
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|
| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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298
paramount
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|
| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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299
mischievous
|
|
| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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300
illustrates
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|
| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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301
dominion
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|
| n.统治，管辖，支配权；领土，版图 | |
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302
heartily
|
|
| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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303
rustic
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|
| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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304
prescriptions
|
|
| 药( prescription的名词复数 )； 处方； 开处方； 计划 | |
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305
obedience
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|
| n.服从，顺从 | |
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306
depreciates
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|
| v.贬值，跌价，减价( depreciate的第三人称单数 )；贬低，蔑视，轻视 | |
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307
inhuman
|
|
| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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308
invalid
|
|
| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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309
robust
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|
| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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310
temperament
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|
| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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311
determined
|
|
| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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312
oracle
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|
| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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313
lesser
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|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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314
hydra
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|
| n.水螅；难于根除的祸患 | |
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315
extirpation
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|
| n.消灭，根除，毁灭；摘除 | |
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316
lasting
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|
| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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317
dormant
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|
| adj.暂停活动的；休眠的；潜伏的 | |
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318
chaos
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|
| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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319
faculty
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|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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320
mathematician
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|
| n.数学家 | |
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321
ascend
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|
| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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322
investigation
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|
| n.调查，调查研究 | |
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323
scholastic
|
|
| adj.学校的，学院的，学术上的 | |
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324
correlation
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|
| n.相互关系，相关，关连 | |
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325
unwillingness
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|
| n. 不愿意，不情愿 | |
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326
exhausted
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|
| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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327
symposium
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|
| n.讨论会，专题报告会；专题论文集 | |
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328
initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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329
subjectively
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| 主观地； 臆 | |
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330
subjective
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| a.主观(上)的，个人的 | |
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331
conversing
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|
| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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332
everlasting
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|
| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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333
commentators
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|
| n.评论员( commentator的名词复数 )；时事评论员；注释者；实况广播员 | |
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334
renowned
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|
| adj.著名的，有名望的，声誉鹊起的 | |
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335
comelier
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|
| adj.英俊的，好看的( comely的比较级 ) | |
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336
erect
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|
| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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337
beheld
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|
| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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338
lank
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|
| adj.瘦削的；稀疏的 | |
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339
guilt
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|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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340
faculties
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|
| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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341
wholesome
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|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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342
literally
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|
| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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343
sanguine
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|
| adj.充满希望的，乐观的，血红色的 | |
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344
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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345
advisers
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|
| 顾问，劝告者( adviser的名词复数 )； （指导大学新生学科问题等的）指导教授 | |
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346
elasticity
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|
| n.弹性，伸缩力 | |
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347
kindly
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|
| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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348
repented
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|
| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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349
destined
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|
| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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350
treatises
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|
| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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351
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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352
overthrown
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|
| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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353
deluge
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|
| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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354
deluges
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|
| v.使淹没( deluge的第三人称单数 )；淹没；被洪水般涌来的事物所淹没；穷于应付 | |
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355
antiquity
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|
| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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356
standing
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|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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357
salvation
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|
| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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358
impiety
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|
| n.不敬；不孝 | |
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359
zeal
|
|
| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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360
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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361
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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362
harass
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| vt.使烦恼，折磨，骚扰 | |
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363
optimist
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| n.乐观的人，乐观主义者 | |
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364
intervals
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|
| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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365
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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366
conspicuous
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|
| adj.明眼的，惹人注目的；炫耀的，摆阔气的 | |
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367
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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368
oppositions
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| （强烈的）反对( opposition的名词复数 )； 反对党； （事业、竞赛、游戏等的）对手； 对比 | |
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369
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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370
saluted
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|
| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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371
peremptorily
|
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| adv.紧急地，不容分说地，专横地 | |
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372
retail
|
|
| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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373
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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374
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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375
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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376
interspersed
|
|
| adj.[医]散开的；点缀的v.intersperse的过去式和过去分词 | |
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377
recurring
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|
| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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378
patriotism
|
|
| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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379
resounds
|
|
| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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380
phenomena
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|
| n.现象 | |
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381
converse
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|
| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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382
monarchy
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| n.君主，最高统治者；君主政体，君主国 | |
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383
injustice
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|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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384
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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385
imbued
|
|
| v.使（某人/某事）充满或激起（感情等）( imbue的过去式和过去分词 )；使充满；灌输；激发（强烈感情或品质等） | |
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386
orator
|
|
| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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387
defective
|
|
| adj.有毛病的，有问题的，有瑕疵的 | |
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388
hovered
|
|
| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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389
embodied
|
|
| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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390
deities
|
|
| n.神，女神( deity的名词复数 )；神祗；神灵；神明 | |
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391
scripture
|
|
| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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392
scriptures
|
|
| 经文，圣典( scripture的名词复数 )； 经典 | |
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393
oracles
|
|
| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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394
strictly
|
|
| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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395
quotations
|
|
| n.引用( quotation的名词复数 )；[商业]行情（报告）；（货物或股票的）市价；时价 | |
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396
penetrated
|
|
| adj. 击穿的，鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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397
narrative
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|
| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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398
exodus
|
|
| v.大批离去，成群外出 | |
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399
legitimate
|
|
| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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400
testimony
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|
| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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401
condemned
|
|
| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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402
authorized
|
|
| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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403
perversions
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|
| n.歪曲( perversion的名词复数 )；变坏；变态心理 | |
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404
scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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405
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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406
touchingly
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|
| adv.令人同情地，感人地，动人地 | |
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407
layman
|
|
| n.俗人，门外汉，凡人 | |
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408
clergy
|
|
| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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409
gentry
|
|
| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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410
calamities
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|
| n.灾祸，灾难( calamity的名词复数 )；不幸之事 | |
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411
murmur
|
|
| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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412
interpretation
|
|
| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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413
testament
|
|
| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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414
depicted
|
|
| 描绘，描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 )； 描述 | |
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415
commonwealths
|
|
| n.共和国( commonwealth的名词复数 )；联邦；团体；协会 | |
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416
conspiracy
|
|
| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
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417
doctrines
|
|
| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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418
marvel
|
|
| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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419
feigning
|
|
| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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420
disciple
|
|
| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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421
eyewitness
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|
| n.目击者，见证人 | |
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422
clement
|
|
| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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423
Portuguese
|
|
| n.葡萄牙人；葡萄牙语 | |
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424
situated
|
|
| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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425
thither
|
|
| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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426
missionary
|
|
| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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427
bishop
|
|
| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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428
lucre
|
|
| n.金钱，财富 | |
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429
disappearance
|
|
| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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430
drawn
|
|
| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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431
originality
|
|
| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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432
profane
|
|
| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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433
dispersed
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|
| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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434
proceedings
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|
| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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435
valiant
|
|
| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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436
offenders
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|
| n.冒犯者( offender的名词复数 )；犯规者；罪犯；妨害…的人（或事物） | |
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437
ravenous
|
|
| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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438
curiously
|
|
| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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439
virtuous
|
|
| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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440
humane
|
|
| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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441
assassinating
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|
| v.暗杀( assassinate的现在分词 )；中伤；诋毁；破坏 | |
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442
affinities
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|
| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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443
importunity
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|
| n.硬要，强求 | |
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444
fetters
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|
| n.脚镣( fetter的名词复数 )；束缚v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的第三人称单数 ) | |
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445
shameful
|
|
| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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446
reverently
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|
| adv.虔诚地 | |
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447
vilest
|
|
| adj.卑鄙的( vile的最高级 )；可耻的；极坏的；非常讨厌的 | |
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448
abject
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|
| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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449
heeded
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|
| v.听某人的劝告，听从( heed的过去式和过去分词 )；变平，使（某物）变平( flatten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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450
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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451
ridicules
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|
| n.嘲笑( ridicule的名词复数 )；奚落；嘲弄；戏弄v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的第三人称单数 ) | |
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452
restrictions
|
|
| 约束( restriction的名词复数 )； 管制； 制约因素； 带限制性的条件（或规则） | |
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453
wittily
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|
| 机智地，机敏地 | |
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454
sleet
|
|
| n.雨雪；v.下雨雪，下冰雹 | |
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455
satire
|
|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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456
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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457
wrested
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|
| （用力）拧( wrest的过去式和过去分词 )； 费力取得； （从…）攫取； （ 从… ） 强行取去… | |
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458
wried
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|
| 歪曲，扭曲（wry的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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459
ingenuity
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|
| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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460
soothe
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|
| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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461
dressing
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|
| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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462
deferred
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|
| adj.延期的，缓召的v.拖延，延缓，推迟( defer的过去式和过去分词 )；服从某人的意愿，遵从 | |
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463
pervades
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|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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464
prevailing
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|
| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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465
contented
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|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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466
fascination
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|
| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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467
abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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468
realization
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|
| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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469
transcending
|
|
| 超出或超越（经验、信念、描写能力等）的范围( transcend的现在分词 )； 优于或胜过… | |
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470
meditating
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|
| a.沉思的，冥想的 | |
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471
saviour
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|
| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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472
discourses
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|
| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
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473
dwelling
|
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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474
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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