l any one be able to imitate the
human body, if he does not know the number, proportion, colour, or
figure of the limbs? 'How can he?' But suppose we know some picture or
figure to be an exact resemblance of a man, should we not also require
to know whether the picture is beautiful or not? 'Quite right.' The
judge of the imitation is required to know, therefore, first the
original, secondly the truth, and thirdly the merit of the execution?
'True.' Then let us not weary in the attempt to bring music to the
standard of the Muses and of truth. The Muses are not like human poets;
they never spoil or mix rhythms or scales, or mingle instruments and
human voices, or confuse the manners and strains of men and women, or of
freemen and slaves, or of rational beings and brute animals. They do
not practise the baser sorts of musical arts, such as the 'matured
judgments,' of whom Orpheus speaks, would ridicule. But modern poets
separate metre from music, and melody and rhythm from words, and use the
instrument alone without the voice. The consequence is, that the meaning
of the rhythm and of the time are not understood. I am endeavouring to
show how our fifty-year-old choristers are to be trained, and what
they are to avoid. The opinion of the multitude about these matters is
worthless; they who are only made to step in time by sheer force cannot
be critics of music. 'Impossible.' Then our newly-appointed minstrels
must be trained in music sufficiently to understand the nature of
rhythms and systems; and they should select such as are suitable to
men of their age, and will enable them to give and receive innocent
pleasure. This is a knowledge which goes beyond that either of the poets
or of their auditors in general. For although the poet must understand
rhythm and music, he need not necessarily know whether the imitation
is good or not, which was the third point required in a judge; but our
chorus of elders must know all three, if they are to be the instructors
of youth.

And now we will resume the original argument, which may be summed up as
follows: A convivial meeting is apt to grow tumultuous as the drinking
proceeds; every man becomes light-headed, and fancies that he can rule
the whole world. 'Doubtless.' And did we not say that the souls of the
drinkers, when subdued by wine, are made softer and more malleable at
the hand of the legislator? the docility of childhood returns to them.
At times however they become too valiant