Kabanata Kabanata 12 · Many things pleased me in the order of our State, but there was（3）

But there are other features of the Platonic Republic, as, for example,

the literary and philosophical 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 purely 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 hereditary 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 enunciated 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 federation 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 justified 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 allusion 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 texture 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 virtue. For

once in the history of mankind the philosophy of order or (Greek),

expressing and consequently enlisting 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, eminent

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

meditated deeply on the ‘way of life of Pythagoras’ (Rep.) and his

followers. Slight traces of Pythagoreanism are to be found in the

mystical number of the State, in the number which expresses the

interval between the king and the tyrant, in the doctrine 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, analogous 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 reign 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 trifling question, which may be briefly 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

attained 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 applied 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 motive

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

Christians, 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 paradox 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 sneered at them as

absurd, or denounced them as unnatural and immoral; men have been

pleased to find in Aristotle’s criticisms of them the anticipation of

their own good sense. The wealthy and cultivated classes have disliked

and also dreaded them; they have pointed 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 guardians; at least no mention is made of

the other classes. But the omission 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 censures 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 benevolence. 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 fixed 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 tenure. 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 taxation, or other legislative 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 enthusiasts 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 expediency,

and may be interfered with in a variety of ways for the public good.

Any other mode of vesting property which was found to be more

advantageous, would in time acquire the same basis of right; ‘the most

useful,’ in Plato’s words, ‘would be the most sacred.’ The lawyers and

ecclesiastics 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 immediate

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 emancipation of the serfs in Russia, or the

abolition 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 bequests or entail 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 perilled 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

enjoyment 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 relic of individualism;—when the possession of

a part may be a greater blessing 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 revert 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 motives for exertion

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

adverse 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 nominally 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

disinterested, 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 absurdity 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

attainable for all than is at present the possession of a favoured few,

may pursue the common interest with an intelligence and persistency

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 superstition

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 machinery far

greater, and also more minute than at present. New secrets of

physiology may be revealed, deeply affecting human nature in its

innermost recesses. The standard of health may be raised and the lives

of men prolonged by sanitary and medical knowledge. There may be peace,

there may be leisure, there may be innocent refreshments of many kinds.

The ever-increasing power of locomotion 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

speculation 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 violation 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 beget and

women bear children. Following the analogy of the other animals, he

contends that all natural gifts are scattered 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 decency 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 emancipated 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 housekeeper 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

renown among men,’ is the historian’s conception of feminine

excellence. 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 toils 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 maternity and the characteristics

of the female sex.

The modern antagonist 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 physically 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 compensating 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 delicacy, 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

enquire into the things which nature hides, any more than we can

dissect 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 variance 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 licentious:

he seems rather to aim at an impossible strictness. Secondly, he

conceives the family to be the natural enemy of the state; and he

entertains the serious hope that an universal brotherhood may take the

place of private interests—an aspiration which, although not justified

by experience, has possessed 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 exalting to heaven, nor yet abusing the natural

instincts. All that world of poetry and fancy which the passion of love

has called forth in modern literature and romance would have been

banished 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 worthy to be preserved.

We start back horrified 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 parable when He said, ‘Their angels do

always behold the face of My Father which is in heaven.’ Such lessons

are only partially 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 Christian world. To the Greek the family was a

religious and customary institution binding 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 speculations 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 lusts and instincts.

Men and women without feeling or imagination are justly called brutes;

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 brutal. 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 physiologist 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 credible, 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 monstrous 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 specimens 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

deteriorated. 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 retraced. 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 vice die

out; polygamist peoples either import and adopt children from other

countries, or dwindle in numbers, or both. Dynasties and aristocracies

which have disregarded the laws of nature have decreased in numbers and

degenerated in stature; ‘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 idiocy in the children, sometimes assuming

the form as they grow older of passionate 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.