nment, but in the administration
of justice; the desire to make laws, not with a view to courage only,
but to all virtue; the clear perception that education begins with
birth, or even, as he would say, before birth; the attempt to purify
religion; the modern reflections, that punishment is not vindictive, and
that limits must be set to the power of bequest; the impossibility of
undeceiving the victims of quacks and jugglers; the provision for water,
and for other requirements of health, and for concealing the bodies
of the dead with as little hurt as possible to the living; above all,
perhaps, the distinct consciousness that under the actual circumstances
of mankind the ideal cannot be carried out, and yet may be a guiding
principle--will appear to us, if we remember that we are still in the
dawn of politics, to show a great depth of political wisdom.

IV. The Laws of Plato contain numerous passages which closely resemble
other passages in his writings. And at first sight a suspicion arises
that the repetition shows the unequal hand of the imitator. For why
should a writer say over again, in a more imperfect form, what he had
already said in his most finished style and manner? And yet it may
be urged on the other side that an author whose original powers
are beginning to decay will be very liable to repeat himself, as in
conversation, so in books. He may have forgotten what he had written
before; he may be unconscious of the decline of his own powers. Hence
arises a question of great interest, bearing on the genuineness of
ancient writers. Is there any criterion by which we can distinguish
the genuine resemblance from the spurious, or, in other words, the
repetition of a thought or passage by an author himself from the
appropriation of it by another? The question has, perhaps, never been
fully discussed; and, though a real one, does not admit of a precise
answer. A few general considerations on the subject may be offered:--

(a) Is the difference such as might be expected to arise at different
times of life or under different circumstances?--There would be nothing
surprising in a writer, as he grew older, losing something of his own
originality, and falling more and more under the spirit of his
age. 'What a genius I had when I wrote that book!' was the pathetic
exclamation of a famous English author, when in old age he chanced to
take up one of his early works. There would be nothing surprising again
in his losing som