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 and disorderly, drinking out of their turn, and interrupting one another.  And the business of the legislator is to infuse into them that divine fear, which we call shame, in opposition to this disorderly boldness.  But in order to discipline them there must be guardians of the law of drinking, and sober generals who shall take charge of the private soldiers; they are as necessary in drinking as in fighting, and he who disobeys these Dionysiac commanders will be equally disgraced.  ‘Very good.’  If a drinking festival were well regulated, men would go away, not as they now do, greater enemies, but better friends.  Of the greatest gift of Dionysus I hardly like to speak, lest I should be misunderstood.  ‘What is that?’ According to tradition