Book 8, Part 2

‍

Socrates - Glaucon (continued)

Noo, I said, let's consider whit kin o' man comes fae a democracy, or rather, hoo he comes tae be, juist like we did for the state.

Sounds braw, he said.

Isnae this hoo it happens? He's the son o' the miserly an' oligarchic faither wha brocht him up wi' his ain habbits?

Exactly.

An', juist like his faither, he keeps the pleasures that involve spendin' siller, rather than makin' it, unner ticht control. Thir are the yins they call unnceremonious pleasures, richt?

Obviously.

Wid ye like me tae expound, for the sake o' clarity, which pleasures are necessar an' which are unnceremonious?

I would.

Necessar pleasures arenae the yins we cannae get shot o', an' the yins that gie us some kind o' benefit whan we satisfy them? An' that maks sense, acause we're naturally programmed tae desire baith things that are guid for us an' things we need, an' we cannae help oorsels.

Absolutely true.

Sae we're richt then callin' them necessar pleasures.

We are richt.

An' ony desires that a man can get shot o', if he puts in the effort frae a young age – yins that dinnae dae him ony guid, an' in fact micht even dae him harm – widnae we be richt in sayin' that aw o' these are unnceremonious?

Aye, definitely.

Maybe we should pick oot an example o' ilk kin, so we can get a general idea o' whit they're like?

Sounds braw.

Widnae the desire for food, like simple meals an' seasonings, be a necessar yin, as lang as it's needit for health an' streength?

That's whit I wid think.

The pleasure o' eatin' is necessar in twa weys; it dis us guid an' it keeps us alive, richt?

Aye.

But fancy extras an' mair delicate foods, or ither luxuries that maist fowk could get shot o' if they learned some self-control whan they were young, an' that can actually skaith the body an' hinder the saul's pursuit o' wisdom an' virtue, can aw be rightly called unnceremonious desires.

Absolutely true.

We could say that thir unnceremonious desires are scunners an' the ithers mak siller acause they help us produce things, richt?

Certainly.

An' the same gangs for the pleasures o' luve, an' aw ither pleasures?

True.

An' the lazy scunnerheid we were crackin' on aboot afore wis the yin wha wis owerlaid wi' thir sorts o' pleasures an' desires, an' wis a slave tae the unnceremonious yins. Whereas the fella wha juist haed the necessar desires wis the miserly an' oligarchic yin.

Exactly richt.

Noo, let's see hoo the democratic man develops fae the oligarchic yin. Here's whit I wid expect usually happens.

What happens?

Whin a young man wha's been brocht up in this mean an' miserly wey, as we juist described, gets a taste o' the guid life an' starts hingin' oot wi' wild an' cunning fowk wha can provide him wi' aw sorts o' fancy an' varied pleasures – then, as ye can imagine, the hale oligarchic wey o' thinkin' inside him will start tae chynge intae a democratic yin.

Absolutely, it's inevitable.

An' juist like in the city whaur similar fowk helped similar fowk, an' the chynge happened acause yin group o' citizens jyned forces wi' somedy fae ootside tae help them, so too the young man chynges acause a hale new set o' desires comes fae ootside tae jyne forces wi' the yins he already has. It's like things that are similar an' alike naturally helpin' ither things that are similar an' alike.

Certainly.

An' if there's ony influence that tries tae help the oligarchical side o' him, maybe fae his faither or his faimily, advisin' him or tellin' him aff, then a battle starts inside his soul atween twa different factions. He's at war wi' himsel.

That maun be true.

An' there are times whan the democratic wey o' thinkin' gies wey tae the oligarchic yin, an' some o' his bad desires dee off, an' ithers get kicked oot. A sense o' respect an' order comes back intae the young man's soul.

Aye, he said, that sometimes happens.

But then again, efter the auld bad desires hae been chased oot, new yins that are similar tae them sprunk up, an' acause he, their faither, disnae ken hoo tae properly raise them, they grow fierce an' become even mair numerous.

Aye, he said, that tends tae be the wey.

They draw him back tae his auld weans, an' bi screetly meetin' wi' them, they grow stronger an' multiply inside him.

Absolutely true.

Eventually they tak ower the maist important pairt o' the young man's soul, the pairt that they see is teuchterless o' ony accomplishments, noble pursuits, or truthful words. Thir things are whit live in the minds o' fowk wha are loved bi the gods, an' are the best guards an' protectors a person can hae.

None better.

False ideas an' boasty claver tak ower an' fill that empty space.

They're boond tae dae that.

An' so the young man gangs back tae the land o' the lotus-eaters, an' chooses tae live there for everyone tae see. An' if ony help is sent bi his friends tae the oligarchic pairt o' him, thir new vain ideas steek the yetts o' the king's fortress. They winnae let the embassy itsel in, even if it's juist private advisors offerin' the faitherly advice o' aulder fowk. They winnae listen tae them or receive them. There's a battle an' the bad desires win the day. Then modesty, which they ca' foolishness, is shamefully thrown oot bi them, an' self-control, which they gie the by-name o' weakness, is trampled in the mud an' cast aside. They convince him that moderation an' sensible spendin' are juist dreich an' mean, an' so, wi' the help o' a hale crowd o' evil appetences, they drive them oot completely.

Aye, absolutely.

An' yince they've emptiet oot an' cleaned the soul o' the fella they noo control, wha they're initiatin' intae their braw mysteries, the next thing they dae is bring back tae his life arrogance an' chaos an' wastefulness an' shamelessness, aw dressed up fancy wi' garlands on their heids, an' a hale wheen o' fowk wi' them, singin' their praises an' callin' them by sweet names. They ca' arrogance "guid breedin'", an' chaos "liberty", an' wastefulness "magnificence", an' shamelessness "courage". An' so the young man completely chynges fae his original nature, which wis trained in the schule o' necessity, intae the freedom an' debauchery o' useless an' unnceremonious pleasures.

Aye, he said, the chynge in him is clear tae see.

Efter this he lives on, spendin' his siller an' effort an' time on unnceremonious pleasures juist as much as the necessar yins. But if he's lucky, an' his wits hinnae been completely scrambled, then whan a fiew year hae passed, an' the heicht o' his passions is ower – suppose he then lets some o' the exiled virtues back intae his life, an' disnae completely gie himsel ower tae the yins that replaced them – in that case he tries tae balance oot his pleasures an' lives in a kind o' equilibrium, pittin' the government o' himsel in the haunds o' whichever pleasure comes first an' wins. An' whan he's had enough o' that yin, then he haunds ower control tae anither. He disnae look doon on ony o' them, he encourages them aw equally.

Absolutely true, he said.

He disnae listen tae or accept ony real advice intae his fortress either. If onydy tells him that some pleasures come fae guid an' noble desires, an' ithers come fae evil desires, an' that he should cultivate an' respect some o' them an' control an' maister the ithers – whaniver somedy tells him this, he juist shakes his heid an' says that they're aw the same, an' there's nae difference atween them.

Aye, he said; that's exactly hoo he is.

Aye, I said, he lives fae day tae day indulgin' in whatever pleasure he fancies at the time. Sometimes he's pished an' fillin' the place wi' the sound o' the flute; then he becomes a teetotaler an' tries tae lose weight. Then he taks a turn at exercise; sometimes he's juist lyin' aboot an' neglectin' everythin', then aw o' a sudden he's livin' the life o' a philosopher. Often he gets involved in politics an' jumps up an' says an' does whitver pops intae his heid. An' if he admires somedy wha's a warrior, aff he goes tae be a sodjer, or if he admires businessmen, then he goes an' does that instead. There's nae law or order tae his life; an' this scattered existence he calls joy an' happiness an' freedom. An' so he goes on.

Aye, he replied, he's aw aboot liberty an' equality.

Aye, I said; his life is a braw an' varied mix, an' an example o' mony different lives rolled intae yin. He's juist like the state we described as beautiful an' spanglit wi' aw sorts o' things. An' mony a man an' mony a wumman will see him as a role model, an' there are mony constitutions an' weys o' behavin' wrapped up inside him.

Aye, that's richt.

Weel then, let's pit him up against democracy; he can truly be cried the democratic chiel.

Lat that be his place, he says.

Last o' aw comes the bonniest o' the hale lot, baith man and state, tyranny and the tyrant; these we need to be thinkin' on noo.

Richt ye are, says he.

Tell me then, my friend, hoo dae ye suppose tyranny comes aboot? It's clear it has a democratic ootset.

Aye, that's clear.

An' disna tyranny spring fae democracy in the same wey that democracy comes fae oligarchy – efter a fashioun, ye ken?

Hoo's that?

The guid that oligarchy set for itsel an' the means it uised tae haud itself up wis ower muckle riches – am I no richt?

Aye.

An' the unquenchable desire for siller an' the negleck o' aw ither things for the sake o' gettin' rich wis whit brocht oligarchy doon as weel?

True.

An' democracy has her ain guid thing, an insatiable desire for whilk brings her tae her end?

Whit guid thing?

Freedom, I says; whilk, as they tell ye in a democracy, is the brawness o' the state – an' that for that reason anerly in a democracy will the free man o' nature bide.

Aye; that's whit they aa say.

I wis gaun tae say, that the unquenchable desire for this an' the negleck o' ither things brings aboot the chynge in democracy, whilk maks wey for a wantin' o' a tyrant.

Fit like?

Whun a democracy that's pishin' for freedom has some eevil scunners pourin' the bevvy at the feast, and they've supped ower deep o' the strong watter o' liberty, then, unless her rulers are richt canny and gie her a hale wheen, she starts dingin' them in and giein' them their comeuppance, cryin' they're some gowked-up oligarchs.

Aye, he says, that's a richt common thing.

Aye, says I, and leal fowk get ca'd slavering slaves that cuddle their chains and nincompoops by sic a democracy. It wants subjects that are like rulers, and rulers that are like subjects: thir are the chiels it fancies, the ones it loons and gies honour tae in private and public baith. Now, in sic a state, can liberty hae ony limits?

Nae chance.

Wee by wee, the hale anarchy wimples its wey intae fowk's hames, and ends up amang the beasts, fecklin' them an aw.

Fit d'ye mean?

Weel, I mean the faither gets used tae bummin' aboot wi' his sons and bein' fleyed o' them, and the son acts like his faither's equal, haein' nae respect or reverence for ony o' his parents; and this is his freedom, and the foreigner is the same as the citizan, and the citizan the same as the foreigner, and the stranger is jist as guid as either.

Aye, he says, that's the wey o' it.

And thir's no just the main problems, says I - there's a wheen wee yin an aw. In sic a ramshackle society, the maister fears and flatters his scholars, and the scholars scorn their maisters and tutors; young and auld are aw the same; and the young man thinks he's the same as the auld yin, and is aye ready tae argue wi' him in word or deed; and auld men try tae seem like the young yins and are aye jokin' and gaein' on; they dinnae want tae be thocht o' as dour and bossy, and so they act like weans.

Richt eneuch. 

The verra heicht o' liberty for the fowk is whin the slave bocht wi' siller, be it man or wife, is juist as free as the yin that bocht them; an' I cannae forget tae speyk o' the liberty an' equality atween the twa sexes theirsels.

Weesh na, as Aeschylus says, juist blaw oot the word that's comin' tae oor lips? 

That's whit I'm daein', an' I hiv tae add that nae yin wha disnae ken wad believe hoo much mair liberty the beasts unner a man's control hae in a democracy than ony ither state: for true eneuch, the quines o' the doggies, as the sayin' goes, are jist as guid as their mistresses, an' the horses an aw the cuddies hae a wey o' marchin' alang wi' aw the richts an' grawities o' free men; an' they'll gie a wheesh tae onybody wha comes in their gait gin they disnae leave the road clear for them: an' a' things are juist aboot tae burst open wi' liberty.

Whilk gaun for a wander in the landwart, he says, I often come across whit ye describe. We twa hae dreamt the same dream.

An abune a' that, I says, an as a result o' it aw, see hoo sensitive the fowk get; they cannae bide ony wee touch o authority an in the lang run, as ye ken, they stop carin aboot the laws, written or no written; they winna hae nae yin abune them.

Aye, he says, I ken that ower weel.

That, my friend, I says, is the braw an glorious beginnin that brings aboot tyranny.

Glorious it is for sure, he says, But whit comes niest?

The ruin o an oligarchy is the ruin o a democracy; the same sickness made waur an stronger bi liberty taks ower a democracy - the truth o the matter is that ower much o onything can often cause a turn the other wey; an this happens no jist wi the seasons an plants an beasts, but mair than onything else wi how governments are run.

Richt.

An owerabundance o liberty, whether in countries or wee folk, seems only tae turn intae ower muckle slavery.

Aye, the natural wey o things.

An so tyranny juist comes aboot naturally oot o democracy, an the warst kind o tyranny an slavery comes oot o the maist extreme liberty?

As we micht expect.

That, however, wisnae, as I believe, yer question - ye mair wished tae ken whit that disorder is that's creatit in baith oligarchies an democracies, an is the ruin o them baith?

Juist sae, he says back.

Weel, I says, I meant tae refer to the class o idle scroungers, o wha the mair courageous are the leaders an the mair timid the followers, the same folk we were comparin tae drones, some stingless, an ithers havin stings.

Aye, that's richt.

An' in a democracy, these problems are certainly mair waur.

Hoo come?

Weel, in an oligarchy, folk who cause trouble are kicked oot o' their positions an' cannae get stronger or train others. But in a democracy, they're practically the whole government! The clever ones speak up an' act, while the rest jist buzz aboot like gadflies (keep buzzing about the bema) an' dinna let anyone else get a word in. So, in democracies, it's mostly the drones runnin' things.

Very true, he said.

An' there's another group that keeps gettin' separated oot.

Whit dae ye mean?

The rich folk, the ones that are aye makin' mair siller in a country full o' traders.

Of course.

They're the easiest tae squeeze for cash, like bees makin' honey for the drones.

Weel, there's nae point squeezin' someone wha's already got nothin', said him.

These rich folk are whit ye micht call the 'honey pots,' an' the drones jist feed aff them.

That sounds aboot richt, he said.

Then there's the commoners, the folk that work wi' their hands. They're no politicians an' barely hae enough tae get by. But when they aw come together, this lot is the biggest an' maist powerful group in a democracy.

True enough, he said, but the crowd usually cannae be bothered tae gather unless they get a wee bit o' the honey themsels.

An' dinna they get a share? I said. Dinna their leaders tak' the rich folk's land an' gie it oot tae the crowd, keepin' a hefty chunk for themsels o' course?

Aye, that happens a wee bit, he said, the commoners dae get some.

An' the folk that lose their land, they gottae defend themsels in front o' the crowd as best they can?

What ither choice dae they hae? 

An' then, even if they dinna want things tae change, the others accuse them o' plottin' against the folk an' bein' pals wi' oligarchs.

An' in the end, whin they see the crowd, no on their ain accord, but juist bein' daft an' misled by blabs wantin' tae hurt them, then they're eventually forced tae become oligarchs themsels, even though they never wanted it. It's the sting o' the drones that drives them tae it, like a boil festerin' intae revolution.

That's spot-on, absolutely true.

Then come the witch-hunts an' trials, them accusin' each other.

The crowd always seems tae prop up some champion an' mak' him a big man. 

An' that, an' nothin' else, is the seed that grows intae a tyrant. At first, he appears as a protector.

Aye, that's clear as day.

So, how dis this protector turn intae a tyrant? Weel, it happens when he dis somethin' like whit they say happens in the tale o' the Arcadian temple o' Lycaean Zeus.

Whit tale is that?

The tale says that if someone eats the innards o' a single human mixed in wi' the innards o' ithers, they're doomed tae turn intae a wolf. Ye never heard that?

Oh, aye, I ken that story.

An' the protector o' the people is the same. Wi' a whole mob at his beck an' call, he has nae qualms aboot spillin' the bluid o' his ain kin. He throws them intae court based on lies an' murders them, makin' life cheap. Wi' a wicked tongue, he feasts on the bluid o' his fellow citizens, killin' some an' banishin' others, all the while whisperin' aboot forgivin' debts an' dividin' up the land. But what happens tae him efter that? Does he no either get killed by his enemies, or turn from a man intae a wolf - a tyrant?

Nae doot aboot it.

This chiel, then, is the yin that starts gatherin' a team against the rich folk?

That's the same one.

Efter a wee while, they kick him oot, but he aye manages tae come back, even stronger an' a fully-fledged tyrant, despite his enemies. 

Aye, that much is clear.

An' if they cannae chuck him oot or get him condemned tae die in public, they plot tae kill him. 

Aye, that's how it usually goes, he said. 

Then comes the classic plea for bodyguards, whit every tyrant on the rise uses - "Dinna let oor pal, the champion o' the folk, get bumped off!" they say. 

Exactly.

The crowd readily agrees; they're only worried aboot him - they dinnae fash themsels ower their ain safety. 

Very true.

An' whin a wealthy chiel gets accused o' bein' an enemy o' the people an' sees this happen, then, ma friend, juist like the oracle telt Croesus.

He scoots aff tae the banks o' the pebbly Hermus, never stoppin' an' no ashamed tae be a coward.

An' richtly so, he said, for if he didnae flee, he'd never get a chance tae be ashamed again! 

But if they catch him, he's deid. 

Och aye. 

An' this protector fella we were talkin' aboot, instead o' "lairdin' the plain" wi' his bulk, he turns intae the one knockin' folk ower. He stands up in the chariot o' state, reins in his hand, no longer a protector but an absolute tyrant.  

There's nae doubt aboot that, he said. (

An' now let us consider the happiness o' the man, an' also o' the State  in which a creature like him is generated.

Aye, he said, let us consider that.

At first, in the early days o' his power, he is full o' smiles, an'  he salutes every one whom he meets; --he to be called a tyrant, wha is  makin' promises in public an' also in private! liberatin' debtors, an'  distributin' land tae the people an' his followers, an' wantin' tae be so  kind an' good tae every one!

Of course, he said.

But whin he has disposed o' foreign enemies by conquest or treaty,  an' there is nothin' tae fear frae them, then he is always stirrin' up some  war or other, in order that the people may require a leader.

To be sure.

Has he not also another object, which is that they may be impoverished  by payment o' taxes, an' thus compelled tae devote themsels tae their daily  wants an' therefore less likely tae conspire against him?  Clearly.

An' if any o' them are suspected by him o' havin' notions o' freedom,  an' o' resistance tae his authority, he will have a good pretext for destroyin'  them by plac in' them at the mercy o' the enemy; an' for all these reasons  the tyrant must be always gettin' up a war.

Aye, he maun dae that.

Nae wonder folk start dislikin' him then. 

Aye, that's bound tae happen. 

Then some o' the folk wha helped put him in power, the ones that are still powerful, start speakin' their minds tae him an' each other. The braver ones yell at him aboot whit he's doin'. 

Aye, that's only to be expected. 

An' if he wants tae stay in control, the tyrant needs tae get rid o' them. He cannae stop while there's any decent folk around, friend or foe. 

That's true, he cannae. 

So he needs tae keep an eye oot for the brave ones, the honourable ones, the clever ones, the rich ones. Happy days for them, they're all enemies in his eyes. He's gottae find a reason tae attack them, willin' or not, until there's nothin' left but his own folk in charge. 

Aye, that's some purgation, alright, said him. A right strange yin. 

Aye, I said, it's no like how a doctor cleans oot the body, takin' oot the bad bits an' leavin' the good. He dis the opposite.

If he wants tae rule, I suppose he disnae hae much choice. 

What a lousy choice, I said: bein' forced tae live only with a bunch o' bad folk, an' bein' hated by them, or just no bein' alive at all! 

Aye, that's the choice alright. 

An' the nastier his actions are tae the folk, the mair hangers-on an' the stronger their loyalty will need tae be, wouldn't ye say? 

Certainly.

An' wha are these loyal wee chums o' his, an' where will he find them? 

They'll come flockin' tae him on their own, said him, if he pays them enough. 

By the dug! I said, here are even mair drones, every kind an' frae every land! 

Aye, that's true eneuch 

But wad he no want them close by? 

Whit dae ye mean? 

He'll nick the slaves aff the folk in the city; then he'll set them free an' stick them in his bodyguard. 

Och aye, that makes sense; an' they'll be the ones he can trust the maist. 

Whit a braw life this tyrant must hae; he's killed aff aw the decent folk an' noo he's got these scallywags as his best mates! 

Aye, they're a perfect match for him 

Aye, an' these are the fancy new citizens he's made up, folk that admire him an' are his pals, while the good folk hate him an' steer well clear.

Of course.

Weel then, tragedy truly is a wise thing, an' Euripides a top-notch tragedian.

Whit maks ye say that? 

Because o' his clever sayin', full o' meanin', "Tyrants are wise by living with the wise"; an' it's clear he meant tae say that the wise folk a tyrant keeps around him are only wise because he made them that way.

Aye, that's true, an' there's plenty o' other things like that said by him an' ither poets. 

An' that bein' the case, the tragic poets bein' wise men themsels will hopefully forgive us an' anyone else that lives like us if we dinnae let them intae oor state, since they spend their time praisin' tyranny. 

Aye, the clever ones will understand for sure 

But they'll still be traipsin' roon tae other cities, stirrin' up the mobs, an' hirin' folk wi' sweet, loud, persuasive voices tae win them ower tae tyrannies an' democracies. 

Very true.

An' on top o' that, they get paid for it an' are showered wi' honours - the greatest honours, as ye might expect, frae the tyrants, an' the next best frae democracies; but the further they climb up oor hill o' a government, the less respect they get, an' they seem tae run out o' puff an' cannae get any further. 

True enough. 

But we're wanderin' aff the point here: so let's get back on track an' see how the tyrant's gonna keep this fancy, big, mixed-up army o' his fed an' happy. 

If, he said, there are holy treasures in the city, he'll nick them an' spend them hissel; an' whit's left o' the gear o' folk wha've been condemned micht be enough tae let him ease off on the taxes he'd otherwise need tae stick on the folk.

An' whin that runs oot?

Och, weel then, clearly, him an' his cronies, baith men an' wimmen, will just be living off his faither's estate.

Ye mean tae say the folk, wha gied him life tae begin wi', are noo gonnae hae tae keep him an' his pals?

Aye, that's right, he said; they cannae dae much aboot it.

But whit if the folk get in a right state an' say a grown-up son shouldn't be keepit by his faither, it should be the other way roon? The faither didnae bring him intae the world or set him up in life jist so his grown-up son could turn roon an' be a servant tae his ain servants an' keep him an' his whole rabble o' slaves an' pals. The idea wis for the son tae protect his faither, an' wi' his help, maybe get free o' bein' ruled by the rich folk an' the posh ones, as they're ca'd. So the folk tell him an' his pals tae get oot, juist like any other faither micht chuck a riotous son an' his dodgy pals oot o' the hoose.

By the braw wee heavens! he says, then the auld yin will finally see whit a monstrosity he's been raisin' a' this time. An' whin he tries tae kick him oot, he'll find himsel weak an' the son strong.

Whit dae ye mean? Youse are no tellin' me the tyrant will turn violent? That he'd gie his ain faither a clobberin' if he disnae agree?

Aye, that's exactly whit he'll dae, after takin' awa his weapons first.

Then he's a murderer o' his ain kin, an' a cruel warden tae his auld fella. This is real tyranny, nae doot aboot it: like the sayin' goes, the folk wha thocht they were escapin' the smoke o' bein' slaves tae free men hae juist landed themsels in the fire o' bein' slaves tae a tyrant. Sae liberty, gaun oot o' control an' aw reason, turns intae the worst an' bittrest kind o' slavery.

True enough, he said.

Weel then, can we no say we've discussed tyranny enough, an' hoo a democracy turns intae a tyranny?

Aye, that's plenty, he said.

‍