THE THOMIST
A SPECULATIVE QUARTERLY REVIEW
OF THEOLOGY AND PHILOSOPHY

EDIToRs:

THE DoMINICAN FATHERS oF THE PRoVINCE oF ST. JosEPH
Publishers: Sheed and Ward, Inc., New York City

VoL. VII

JANUARY, 1944

No.1

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM*

D

ESPITE the lamentable dearth of authentic historical
data at our disposal for studying the origins of the
philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, we are certain of one
incontrovertible fact, namely that, at the point of origin, their
philosophies are closely linked to the work of Socrates, and that
Socrates, furthermore, marks a decisive turning point in the
course of the thought of the Greek world and. of all Europe as
well. But, on turning to Socrates, we find his work shrouded,
not so much in obscurity as in the almost complete anonymity
of his disciples. Our only direct evidence is that of Plato, Aristotle, and Xenophon; and, at best, each of them was primarily
concerned with his own particular objectives rather than with
Socrates. As is largely the case with the pre-Socratics, the
thought of Socrates is known to us only through what is reflected in Plato and Aristotle. We must consequently abandon
*EDITORs' NoTE: Although use of articles previously published elsewhere is
contrary to the policy of THE TBoMIST, the Editors make an exception in the
present case in view of the small American circulation this noteworthy study
received in its original Spanish form as printed in Escorial, 1940. The Editors are
indebted to PRoF. R. S. WILLrs, JR., of Princeton, for the translation.

1

XAVIER ZUBIRI

all attempts to paint positively and directly a complete picture
of Socrates' system of thought, and instead we must be satisfied
with a less ambitious undertaking, but under the circumstances
the only feasible one, that of seeking to ascertain those aspects
of Socrates' thought which gave rise to the reflection of Plato
and Aristotle. An interpretation of Socrates hinges ultimately
upon an interpretation of the origins of the philosophy of the
Academy and the Lyceum. The two questions are substan.:.
tially identical.
The earliest testimonies all agree that Socrates was concerned only with ethics and that he introduced dialogue as a
method for ascertaining something ·universal about things.
Countless interpretations have been offered of this testimony.
In the opinion of some, Socrates was an Athenian intellectual,
a martyr to science. In the opinion of others, he devoted
himself solely to ethical problems. But, while in both of these
interpretations Socrates is regarded as a
in still
interpretations he appears simply as a man animated by
a desire for personal perfection, and altogether devoid of
philosophical embellishments.
On the other hand, no matter how we interpret the rOle of
Socrates, Plato is a continuator of Socrates, and Aristotle of
Plato. To be sure, modern philology has been compelled to
introduce important modifications in this general picture when
dealing with details; but nevertheless the main fact remains
true.
This does not necessarily mean that one must conceive of
the line "Socrates-Plato-Aristotle"
as continuous. We
should slightly modify the geometrical image of a trajectory,
and, instead, conceive of radii, whose focus is located precisely
in Socrates. Aristotle, rather than continuing Plato, took philosophical problems from the same source whence Plato took
them and restated them. If there was iri any sense a continuation, it was above all the continuation of an attitude and a concern rather than of a system of problems and concepts. It goes
without saying that the continuity of attitude carried with it
a partial identity of problems and a community of methods of

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

3

approaching .these problems. But in Aristotle what matters
most is that he worked out the same problems as Plato from
the same point of departure. Plato likewise worked on the
basis of what he had learned from his master Socrates, and set
out from the same point. Socrates, Plato and Aristotle are, as
I have said, three radii with a common focus emerging from a
finite point in history. Our problem is to establish the position
of this point. What Socrates ·introduced into Greece was a
new trend of wisdom. The demonstration of this fact would
require a long explanation, and the character of this essay permits me only to set down a few general ideas. To this end we
must give a precise picture of what has been called pre-Socratic
philosophy. And this in turn requires a few preliminary remarks concerning the historical interpretation of a philosophy.

I
THE SUPPOSITIONS

OF A PHILOSOPHY

Every system of philosophy has at its roots, as its ,supposition, a certain experience. To be sure, absolute idealists claim
that philosophy begets itself, but this is demonstrably false:
first, because if this were true, one could not explain why fully
developed systems of philosophy have not existed in all corners
of the world since the very dawn of history; in the second place,
because philosophy offers a variable content of problems and
concepts; finally, and above all, because the very position of
philosophy within the human spirit has undergone perceptible
changes. We shall have occasion in this study to point out
that philosophy, which in its beginnings denoted something
closely akin to religious wisdom, since it was concerned with
the profound and enduring questions of the destiny of the
world and of life, became a way of being aware of the realities
of the universe, which was called "theory," and that subsequently it led to an investigation of things insofar as they have
being. The series could, of course, be prolonged.
But the fact that all philosophy sets out from an experience

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XAVIER ZUBIRI

does not signify that it is confined within it, or, in other words,
that it is a theory of this experience. Not all experience is so
rich that philosophy can limit itself to being its conceptual
mould. Nor is all philosophy sufficiently original to suppose an
experience irreducible to other experiences. Moreover, in no
manner whatsoever can it be said that the philosophy must
be-even partially or remotely-a conceptual prolongation of
the basic experience. Philosophy can contradict and annihilate
the experience which serves as its basis, can disregard it, and
can even anticipate new forms of experience. But none of
these operations would be possible without a secure foothold
on a basic experience serving as a point of departure for further philosophic development. This means that a philosophy
acquires
outlines only against the background of its basic
expenence.
Experience signifies something acquired in the actual course
of life. It is not an ensemble of thoughts, truthful or untruthful, constructed by the intellect; rather it is the capital which
the spirit accumulates during its intercourse with things. Experience is in this sense where reality naturally resides. Consequently, any other reality, if it is to be rationally acceptable,
must be contained within and based upon experience. Let us
not here prejudge the nature of this experience; it is especially
necessary to eradicate any conception of experience as the sum
total of some supposed data of consciousness. In all probability, reality as a datum of consciousness forms no part of this
basic experience. We are dealing, rather, as I said, with the
experience which man acquires in his intercourse with real
things.
It would be a grave error to identify this experience with
personal experience. In all probability, there is an extremely
limited number of men who possess a personal experience in
the full sense of the word. But even admitting that all men
have this personal experience in some measure, even in the
richest and most favorable case this experience constitutes an
extremely small and intimate nucleus within a much vaster
area of non-personal experience. This non-personal experience

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

5

is composed primarily of an enormous layer of experience
which reaches man through his intercourse with other men,
sometimes in the precise form of the e.xperience of others, sometimes in the form of the grey precipitate of impersonal experience which is the sum total of the customs, manners, and so on,
of the men around him. In a more peripheral, and enormously
broader zone, extends still further that form of experience
which constitutes the world, the epoch, and the time in which
a man lives.
A part of this experience is composed not only of contact
with objects, but also of the consciousness which it has of itself.
This consciousness is threefold: first, it is a repertory of what
men have thought abo;ut things-their opinions and ideas about
them; second, it is the particular manner in which each epoch
feels its own situation in time, that is, its historical consciousness; finally, it is the convictions which man holds deep within
him regarding the origin, the meaning, and the destiny of his
own person and that of his fellows.
It is extremely important to emphasize the peculiar relationship between these several layers of experience. It is not possible to do so here. But it is imperative to state here that each
of these zones, within the framework of its solidarity with the
others, possesses, as moments of a unique experience, a structure peculiar to itself and to a certain extent wholly independent. Thus experience, in the sense of the structure of the
world at a given epoch, can at times even be in opposition to
the content of the other zones of experience. The Jew and the
heretic lived during the Middle Ages in a Christian world
within which they were therefore truly heterodox. Today we
are almost at the point where the Catholics are the truly
heterodox in relation to our " de-Christianized " world. In the
Middle Ages there were, to be sure, heretical minds; nevertheless, the mentality was Christian. As far as this study is concerned, what matters is for us to set as our goal the basic
experience of a philosophy, in the modest sense of coming into
contact with the mentality whence it emerged.
Analysis of this basic experience reveals, first of all, what is

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XAVIER ZUBIRI

most obvious: its peculiar content. Actually, this is what, at
certain moments, has been formally regarded as history: i. e.
the collection of so-called historical facts. But if history would
be something more than a mere documentary file, it must
attempt to make intelligible the content of a world and of an
epoch.
And in order to do this, we must understand that all experience arises only because of a situation. Man's experience, as I
have said, is the natural location of reality, and it is so precisely because of an inner limitation, which allows man to
apprehend only some things and some aspects of them, to the
exclusion of others. Every experience has its own particular
profile. And this profile is objectively correlated to the situation in which man finds himself. According as he is situated,
so are the things in his experience situated. History must seek
to install our mind in the situation of the men of the epoch
under examination, not to lose itself in dark depths, but in
order to try to repeat mentally the experience of that epoch,
in order to see the accumulated facts " from within." N aturally this requires a strenuous effort, difficult and prolonged.
The intellectual discipline which helps us accomplish it is called
philology.
To continue: experience is always experience of the world
and of things, not excluding man himself; but it presupposes
that man lives within things and among them; experience consists of the peculiar manner in which things place their reality
in man's hands. Experience, then, supposes something previous. Something, as it were, like the existence of a visual field
within which various perspectives are possible. - The analogy
shows that man's existence within and among things is not
comparable to the existence of a point lost in the infinity of
space. Even in this sense, apparently so vague and primary,
man's existence is limited, as is the visual field for the eye.
This limitation is therefore called horizon. The horizon is not a
mere external limitation of the field of vision; it is rather something which, while limiting the field of vision, constitutes it,
and which consequently performs with respect to it the func-

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

7

tion of a positive principle, so positive that it leaves before our
very eyes what lies outside it_:_a "beyond," as it were. We
cannot see what it is; it extends without limits, constantly provoking man's most profound curiosity. Because in addition to
the things which are born and die within the world, there are
other things which come into the world, approaching from the
horizon, or which recede and vanish beyond it. In any event,
the relationships of remoteness and proximity within the
horizon endow things with their first aspect of reality. And,
being a limitant, the horizon must be constituted by something
from which it issues. Without eyes there would be no horizon.
Every horizon implies a constituent principle, a basis peculiar
to it.
These three factors of the experience of an epoch-its content, its situation, and its horizon (together with its basis)are three aspects of experience which possess different degrees
of mobility. The maximum mobility appertains to the content
of experience; much slower, but nevertheless extremely variable,
is the movement of the situation; the horizon moves with tremendous slowness, so slowly that men are scarcely aware of its
change and tend to believe that it is fixed, or rather, precisely
because the change is so slow, they barely realize its existence.
Compare, for example, the experience of the man who travels in
an airplane: for him the change of panorama is as imperceptible as the movement of the hands on his watch. 1 This
change-and here we must pause to refute the long-held belief
that the Darwinian principles of biological evolution are applicable to history-this change is by no means identical with
a kind of growth, maturity, and death of· epochs, or cultures,
as they used to be called. Such an idea is the basis of Spengler's
book, and is its most untenable point. The experience which
makes up a historical epoch, although it is the natural place of
reality, is no more than that. But man's existence is not confined to one place, even though it be a real place. The " reality
1 The variations of the horizon are not always changes of zone; they may be
expansions or contractions of a single field. The point made here must be borne in
mind when we come to the problem of truth in the history of philosophy.

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XAVIER ZUlURI

of the world," on its part, is not the reality of life: it can only
offer to that other reality, called man, a finite ensemble of
possibilities of existence. Things are situated in that sediment
of reality which is called experience primarily by virtue of being
possibilities offered to man for existing. From among them,
man accepts some and rejects others. His decision is what
transforms the possible into the real, insofar as his life is concerned. Thus man is subjected to a constant change, because
that new real dimension which he adds to his life modifies the
"picture" of his experience, and, consequently, the aggregate
of possibilities which the following instant offers him. By his
decision man undertakes a determined course, and because of
his decision he is never assured of not having irrevocably
wasted in one moment perhaps the best possibilities of his
existence. The next moment offers a completely different scene,
with some po'ssibilities blocked off, with others diminished, and
with still others perhaps enormously enhanced, but with few
new and original possibilities. And since what makes actual
the possible (insofar as it is possible) is movement, as Aristotle
long since told us, thus likewise the being whose reality emerges
from its possibilities is a mobile being. As such, it changes in
time and does not repose in any state. Things are not in movement because they change; on the contrary, they change because they are in movement. When the actualization of these
possibilities is the result of one's own decision, there are not
only states of movement, but also occurrences. Man is a being
that "occurs," and this "occurring" is called history.
Long ago a precise definition was given to the free being, the
being which is its own cause (Thomas Aquinas). Thus it results that, in man, the seed of history is freedom. What is not
freedom is nature. The error of idealism consists in confusing
freedom with total indetermination. Man's freedom is one
which, like God's, only exists formally in the manner that it is
determined. But, unlike divine freedom, the creator of things,
human freedom is determined only by choosing from among
several possibilities. Since these possibilities are "offered" to
man, and since this" offering" depends partially, in turn, upon

SOCRATES

AND GREEK WISDOM

9

his own decisions, man's freedom assumes the form of an
historical " occurrence."
Of all that would have to be said in order to study the origins
of Attic philosophy, I am interested here only in referring to
the mentality within which it was born, and even this only in
its purely intellectual aspect. If we apply to intellectual life
what we have just pointed out, we shall find, for example, that
the thought of every epoch, besides containing what it, of
itself, affirms or denies, leads to other thoughts, which are different and even in mutual opposition. Every affirmation or
denial, however absolute it may be, is inco;mplete, or, at least,
postulates other affirmations or denials, together with which it
possesses truth in full measure. This is why Hegel said that
truth is always the whole and the system. But this does not
preclude, but rather implies, that, within its limits, an affirmation is true or false. Confronting it, the various directions
along which it can develop unfold. Some of these will be true,
others false. So long as the original affirmation is not, bound
disjunctively to any particular affirmations it remains true.
Human thought, which, taken statically at a given moment in
time, is what it is, and therefore is true or false, is, when taken
dynamically in the light of its future course, true or false
according to the path it takes. The Christology of St. lrenaeus,
for example, is, naturally, true. But some of his affirmations,
or at least some of his expressions, are such that, according as
the mind inclines a trifle more to the right or to the left, it will
err in the direction of Arius or of St. Athanasius. Before this
decision is made, they are still true. Afterwards, they will be
taken as true in one sense, and as not true in another. Along
with thoughts which are fully thought out, history is full of
such thoughts, which we could call "inchoate."
Or, if you
choose, thought has in addition to its declarative aspect an
inchoative aspect. Every thought is to some extent complete,
and to some extent has germinal potentialities. It is not a
question of the fact that from certain thoughts others can be
deduced by means of reasoning; it is a question of something
more fundamental, which affects not so much the knowledge

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XAVIER ZUBffii

which thinking furnishes as the very structure of thought,
Thanks to it, man has an intellectual history. We shaH immediately see an outstanding instance of the functioning of this
inchoative form of thinking, a form of thinking which offered
two slightly different
of which one led to the
splendid flowering of the European intellect, while the· other
led the mind through the barren paths of Asiatic speculation.
It is a question not merely of whether these possibilities which
are offered to thought be true or false, but of whether the paths
thought follows are, or are not, blind aHeys. At every moment
of his intellectual life, each individual and each epoch 'ace the
:risk of advancing along a blind alley.
In aU probability, what Socrates accomplished was to set us
forth, not along a blind alley, but along a path which led to
what the entire European intellect ultimately became. The
•• work " of Socrates lies wholly within the horizon of Greek
thought. It is situated within it, in a peculiar manner, which
was determined by the dialectic of the previous situations
through which the" great thinkers" had passed. This granted
him a special experience of man and of things, from which, in
due course, were to issue the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle.

n
THE HoRIZoN oF GREEK PHILOSOPHY

The mental horizon of antiquity was established by movement, in the widest sense of the word. Besides making movements or undergoing external alterations, things themselves are
subject to an inexorable decay. They are born one day, only
to die some other day. Man also is immersed in this universal
change, not only as an individual but also as a member of
society: families, cities,_entire peoples are subject to an incessant change regulated by an inflexible destiny which determines the good of each individual. In the midst of this universal mutation, the begetting of living beings acquires special
value. It can even be said, as we shall see later, that, basically,

SOCRATES .AND GREEK WISDOM

11

the Greek conception of cosmic movement so strongly inclined
towards the idea of generation that one single verb, y[yvo/La£,
expressed both the idea of begetting and that of occurring.
It is precisely this idea of " movement as generation " which
constituted for antiquity the boundary line, or outline, of the
universe. Here below, the earth, y7l, the sphere of what perishes
and decays, of things subject to degeneration and corruption.
Above, heaven, ovpavor; composed of things which are not
begotten and which are incorruptible, at least in the terrestrial
sense of the word, and which are subject only to a local movement of a cyclic nature.
Note how different is the horizon within which the man of
our era views the universe: not caducity but nothingness.
Hence his scheme of the universe in no way resembles that of
the Greeks. On one side things, on the other, man. Man who
exists among things in order to make his life with them, firm
in his conviction of a transcendent and eternal future. Heaven
and earth existed for the Greeks; for Christians heaven and
earth are the world, the place for this life: over against it is
the other life. Therefore the Christian scheme of the universe
is not the duality" heaven-earth'' but" world-soul."
How was it possible for mobility to constitute the horizon of
the visual field of antiquity?
Man is a natural being. And, as a part of Nature, he belongs
to the least stable element of Nature: earth. Man is a being
endowed with life; an animated being; a '4'ov who, like other
living beings, is born, and, after a life which is unquestionably
ephemeral, dies. But this living being bears within him-unlike
other living beings-a strange property.
Other living beings, by virtue of having life, merely are living.
In the case of a vegetable, or,
in the case of an animal,
to live is simply to .be living, that is, to be performing those
acts which spring from within the living thing itself and have
as their goal its inner perfection.. In a plant, these movements
have as their sole objective growth-growth into the air or into
the ground. In an animal, movements are directed by a " per-

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XAVIER ZUBIRI

ception" and a "tendency," thanks to which it "perceives"
and " moves "-either to seize things or to flee from them.
But in man there is something altogether different. Man is
not limited to "being alive," to performing his vital functions.
His epyov forms part of a total plan, a {3io<; which is to a large
extent undetermined, and which, in a certain sense, must be
determined by man himself, through his decisions and his deliberations. Man is not only engaged in living, but also to
some extent he is engaged in making his life. Accordingly his
nature has the strange power of understanding what he does
and making it perceptible in all its aspects: the man who acts
and the things of which he avails himself in order to
ra
Trpayp.ara. The Greeks called this power A6yo<;, which the
Romans rendered rather unfelicitously by ratio, reason. Man is
a living being endowed with A6yo<;. The A6yos makes us understand what things are. And by expressing this, man communicates his understanding to others, with whom he then discusses
and debates these Trpayp.ara, which in this sense we would call
"affairs." Thus the A6yo<; besides making possible every man's
existence, makes possible that form of human coexistence, which
we call" living together." Living together means having common affairs. Therefore the fullest expression of " living together" is the Tr6At<;, the city. The Greeks defined man either
as an animal endowed with logos, or as a political animal.
By means of his logos man regulates his daily acts, with this
intention of "doing' them well." The Greeks ascribed this
function of the logos to that part of the human vital principle
which is not "mixed" with the body, which does not serve to
animate it, but which, on the contrary, serves to direct man's
life by raising him above the impressions of his life to the realm
of true things. This part receives the name of vov<;, mens. 2
Actually, the logos merely expresses what the mens thinks and
discovers. It is the principle of what is noblest and highest in
man.
The mind had for the Greeks two sides. On the one hand it
2 AUTHOR's
NOTE:
To spare the reader an excessive Greek vocabulary I shall
nearly always translate voiis as mens,. in spite of the inexactness of the latter term.

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

IS

consisted of that marvellous power of concentration which maJ;I
has, a power which lays his object open_ before him in its most
intimate and innermost aspects. Fot; this reason Aristotle compared it to light. Let us call it reflection or thought. But it is
not merely the faculty of thought, which, as such, can either be
right or err. It is a form of thought which by its very nature
goes straight and infallibly to its goal, to the very heart of its
object. It is something, therefore, which, when it functions
fully, by itself brings every thing (even the most remote thing)
face to face with man, revealing its true character and nature
above and beyond the fleeting impressions of this life. The
sphere· of the mind, the Greeks would say, is the " always."
But on the other hand, the Greeks never conceived of the
mind as a kind of unchangeable core within man. It is a sure
and infallible way of thinking; but in this respect, it is a kind
of sense of reality, which, like a delicate sense of touch, brings
man into contact with the inwardness of things. Aristotle,
therefore, compared it to a hand. The hand is the instrument
of instruments, since every instrument is one because it can be
"handled." Similarly, the mind is the natural home of reality
for man. For this reason it had for the Greeks a much deeper
meaning than that of pure intellection. It extended into all
aspects of life, into all that is real in
This sense is, therefore,
susceptible to sharpening or dulling. No one lacks it altogether.
Sometimes it is paralyzed, as in the case of the demented, but
normally it functions variously, according to a man's state, to
his temperament, his age, and so on. Since it is sharpened by
the use made of it during one's life, it attains
fullest development in each individual only in his old age. Only the
aged man fully possesses this sense, this understanding of
reality which is acquired in the course of the " experience of
life," through intercourse and contact with things.
In every case, to act in accordance with the vovs (the mens)
is to act by basing one's judgments upon what is unshakeable
in the Universe and in life. This understanding of what is
unchangeable, of what always is in the farthermost reaches of
the world is what the Greeks, like all people who have been

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XAVIER ZUBmi

able to express themselves, called uocp£a., wisdom. It is dis:tributed unequally in life: it ranges from the demented to the
wise man in the highest sense, with the merely " prudent " man
somewhere. between.
Actually I have anticipated certain ideas which logically
should come later. But it has seemed to me preferable to aim
directly at the objective even at the cost of retracing some of
my steps.
To recapitulate: for the Greeks, man as a living being
existed within the Universe, relying upon that presumptive
aspect of permanence which his mind offers to him. At this
point, the mu,tability of everything real became for him the
visual horizon of the Universe and of human life itself as well.
And at this point also wisdom was born. Naturally the Greeks
were not explicitly aware of this. It is even probable that they
could not have been, for a horizon, whose function is to make
us see things, will, by its very nature, not allow itself to pe
recognized as such when viewed squarely. But we, who are
situated within a wider horizon, can clearily see all this.

m
THE SITUATION OF INTELLIGENCE:

THE FoRMS OF

GREEK WISDOM

With this horizon, Greek wisdom found itself bound up in a
chain of situations which require mention here.
1. Wisdom as a possession of the t'I'Uth about Nature:-On
the coasts of Asia Minor there appeared for-the first time, with
Anaximander, the type of "great thinker" who confronts the
whole universe. His aim was not only to relate to us how the
universe came into being through the agency of the gods, or
of extra-mundane agencies, as was the case in Oriental forms
of wisdom, but also to inform us of its reality. This reality,
without in the least excluding the aforementioned agencies
(this point must be emphasized), is endowed with a unique and
essential structure. This structure results from the fact that all

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

15

things in heaven and on earth are born of the universe itself,
and not merely of the gods; all things live in the Universe, and
when they die, they revert to it. The universal substratum
from which is born everything that exists is Nature,
The birth was conceived of by the Ionian thinkers, headed by
Anaximander, as a tremendous vital act. And this in two respects: on orie hand, things are born of Nature; they are something which Nature produces out of herself (apxfi). On this
score Nature shows herself to be endowed with a structure
peculiar to herself, and independent of theogonic or cosmogonic
vicissitudes.
On the other hand, the birth of things was conceived of as a
movement in which things go on being formed within a kind
of substance which is Nature. In this sense, Nature is not a
principle, but something which, in this first archaic budding of
thought, constituted the permanent basis that exists in all
things, as it were a substance out of which they are formed.
With the idea of the " permanence " of this substratum, Greek
thought forsook once and for all the paths of mythology 8:nd
cosmogony, and gave birth to what later became philosophy
and science. Things, in the sense of things generated in Nature,
receive their substance from Nature. Nature itself was, then,
something which remltins eternally fecund and imperishable,
"immortal and eternally young," as much later Euripides still
called it, something above and beneath the caducity of particular things, the inexhaustible (lf:rre&pov) source of all things.
Thus the Greeks, at this primitive stage, conceived of eternity
as a perfect, never-decaying cycle of recurrent being, a perennial youth in which actions revert upon their author, and are
repeated with identical youthfulness. It has even been observed linguistically (by Beneviste) that the two terms alC:w
and iuvenis (eternal and young) have a common root which
expresses eternity as a perennial youth, and eternal return, a
cyclic movement. And so the great Greek thinkers, including
even Aristotle himself, called Nature " the divine thing " (-ro
Oe'iov). In the ancient polytheistic religions, to be sure, being

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XAVIER ZUBIRI

divine meant being immortal, but with an immortality which
derived from an inexhaustible source of vitality.
The men who thus withdrew from the universe the veil which
hid its nature, and revealed to men what it always is, were
called uocpo£, or, as Aristotle says, "those who philosophized
about the truth." This truth consisted simply in the discovery
of Nature; hence, speaking of Nature, Aristotle employed interchangeably "to seek the truth" and "to seek Nature" (Phys.
19la 24). The works of these uocpo£ were, invariably, poems
entitled " Concerning Nature." Using another name, but for
the same reason, Aristotle also called these men " physiologists "-those who sought the reason of Nature.
Men accC!mplishedthis discovery by their exceptional power
of mind, which w:as able to concentrate and encompass the
entire universe with its scrutinizing vision (that is )Vhat the
Greek word Oewpia means), and to penetrate to the deepest
roots of the universe, thus communicating with the divine.
Hence Aristotle, in his day, said of the mind that it is the most
divine thing we possess. Indeed, the archaic Greeks originally
conceived of the mind as a divine power which permeates everything, and a portion of which has been granted to man alone
among alJ living things, thus conferring upon him his special
status. Those to whom it was granted in exceptional and
almost superhuman degree, in their capacity of prophets of the
Truth, are the sages and their doctrine is a;ocpl.a, wisdom.
The content of these branches of knowledge was primarily
what today we should call astronomy and meteorology. The
phenomena in which Nature best manifests herself are precisely
the great atmospheric and astronomical phenomena in which
are unleashed the supreme powers that tower above all the
particular things of the universe. Furthermore, " theory " consisted primarily in "contemplating the heaven, the stars." Contemplation ofthe heavenly vault led to man's first intuition of
the regularity, proportion, and cyclic character of the great
movements of Nature. Finally, the birth, life, and .death of
living beings lead us to the mechanism of Nature. For Nature

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

17

reveals herself above all in these three aspects to him who has
the power to withdraw the veil which hides her. (Observe that
Heraclitus himself said that Nature was wont to conceal herself) . 1'his is the truth which this type of wisdom furnished
to us.
In order to evaluate justly the scope of this attitude, let us
place ourselves at its point of origin, We are dealing with a
form of wisdom, and consequently with that type of knowledge
which reaches to the furthermost ends of the world and of life,
determining their destiny and directing their existence. On this
point, the Greeks, the Chaldeans, the Egyptians, and the
Hindus were at one.
But for the Chaldean and the Egyptian, Heaven and Earth
were the product of the gods, who were in no way dependent
upon the nature of heaven and earth. Thus theogony developed into cosJJ?.ogony. What the latter shows us is the place
which each thing occupies in the world, and the hierarchy of
the powers which rise above it. Therefore the Oriental sage
interpreted the significance of events. The content of his
wisdom was, to a large extent, prophecy.
But in the Indo-European world, :man's gaze came one day
to dwell longer upon the spectacle of the whole universe. Instead of referring it simply to a past and recounting its origin,
or projecting it into a future by divining its meaning, man's
gaze halted" astonished" before it, at least momentarily. Out
of wonder, Aristotle tells us, was born wisdom. At this moment,
things stood forth established and stirring within the compact
mass of the universe. This moment when man's mind was
fixed upon the world sufficed to divide the Hindus, Iranians,
and Greeks from the rest of the Orient. No longer were we to
have cosmogony; or, at least, cosmogony was to contain in germ
something quite different. Wisdom ceased to be mere prophecy
and became, in addition, Sophia and Veda.
Now let us observe what occurred within this vision. If we
heed their own words, the Greek sages stood at this moment
very close to the Indo-Iranian. There was but the slightest
deflection of direction, a deflection which, at an almost infini2

18

XAVIER ZUBffii

tesimal distance from the point of divergence, was little more
than imperceptible. A slight deviation, and we have the direction which through the course of history was to lead European
man along new paths.
As was the case with the first Greek sages, there are in certain Vedic hymns and in the earliest Upanishads references to
the universe in its totality-to the totality of what is and what
is not. The entire universe is situated within the absolute, the
Brahman. But, on reaching this point, the Hindu turned to
this universe either to evade it or to immerse himself in its
divine source, and, out of this evasion or immersion, he forged
the key to his existence. Man felt himself part of an absolute
whole and reverted to it. The wisdom of the Vedanta had,
above all, an operative character. It is true that eventually
man sought to pass through stages which resemble an almost
speculative knowledge. But this knpwledge remained a cognitive act directed toward the Absolute. It is a communion
with it. Instead of Ionian physiology, we have Brahmanic
theosophy and theurgy.
The situation of the Greek sage was different. It was not
that he was unwilling to give guidance to man's understanding
of the meaning of life. Even Aristotle said that one of the meanings which the word crocpos had in his day was that of " leading
the others and not being led by anyone " (Met.
17) . His
leadership was based upon an excellent knowledge, which
embraced all that exists, especially what is most difficult and
inaccessible to the "common man" (Met.
8-12). But
this knowledge was not operative, or rather, it was not so in
the same sense as it was for the Hindu. Greek wisdom was
pure wisdom. Instead of impelling man to cast himself into
the universe or to escape from it, Greek wisdom turned man
back, in a certain sense, before Nature and before himself.
And, by this miraculous " turning back " it allowed the universe and things to Te'IIUlin before man's eyes, while things were
born of the universe, just as they are. The operation of the
Greek mind was an act which consisted in doing nothing to the
universe other than to leave it before our eyes just as it is. It

SOCRATES

AND GREEK WISDOM

19

is in such circumstances that Nature truly appears before us.
The act aims merely at making Nature reveal herself. Therefore its primary attribute is truth. If the Greek sage guided
life, it was with the intention of establishing it upon the truth,
of making man live with the truth. 3 This is the slight deflection by which wisdom as a discovery of the universe ceased to
be a possession of the Absolute and
simply a possession
of the truth about its Nature. Because of this modest decision
the European intellect with all its fecundity was born-an intellect which began to scrutinize the abysses of Nature. The East,·
on the other hand, turned toward the Absolute and followed a
path which was barren for the intelligence.
The wisdom of the great pre-Socratics sought to tell us something about Nature-through Nature herself alone. In the
Greek sage's conception of truth, the discovery of Nature had
no other objective than the discovery itself, hence it was a
theoretical attitude.
But it Nould be a grave error to think that this speculation
was, in the case of the first Greek thinkers, something similar
to what later was called E7T£CTrrJJL'YJ, and which we would tend to
call science. This theoretical wisdom is a theoretical vision of
the :world, rather than a science. The fact that our few extant
fragments of the pre-Socratics have reached us through the
hands of thinkers who are almost all posterior to Aristotle may
have distorted our picture of pre-Socratic wisdom. In fact, if
we possessed their works in toto, we should probably see that
they resembled only very slightly what we understand by philosophy and science. The very contemporaries of the preSocratics must have felt the actions and the words of the sage
like an awakening of a new world through the agency of
wonder. It was like an awakening to the light of day. And,
as Plato relates in the myth of the Cavern, the man who
emerges for the first time from darkness to the light of the
noonday sun first feels the anguish of dazzlement, and his
8 In all these observations I deliberately leave aside. the religion of Israel and
Christianity, which brought a new meaning to Wisdom and Truth.

9l0

XAVIER ZUBffii

movements are an unsure groping, guided by his memory of
the former darkness, rather than by the new light. In his
vision and in his life, this man sees and lives in light, but
he interprets from darkness. Hence the markedly confused
and twofold character of this wisdom in its waking moments.
On the one hand, it moved in a new world, the world of
truth; but it interpreted and understood this world with recollections from the former world-from the myth. Thus the
sages still had the accoutrements and accents of the religious reformer and the oriental preacher. Their "discovery"
still resembled a kind of " revelation." When Anaximander
tells us that Nature is a " principle," the functions he assigns
it closely resemble those of a domination. Wisdom itself still
had many of the aspects of a· religious rule; the men who devoted themselves to it ended by leading a f3l,or; (JEoop'YJTtKor;, a
theoretic existence, which .calls to mind the life of religious
communities; the philosophical schools had the air of sects.
One step more remained to be taken before the mind of the
sage could occupy a different

9l .. Wisdom as a vision of being:-In the first half of the 5th
century a decisive step was taken. This was the work of
Parmenides and Heraclitus.
To be sure, Parmenides' and Heraclitus' conception of the
Universe are direct antinomies: Parmenides' is the quiescent
conception, Heraclitus', the mobilistic. Of course things are
not so uncomplicated and simple in the concrete. But still it
cannot be denied that the antinomy exists-even when reduced
to its proper proportions. Nevertheless, rather than to emphasize the antinomy, I believe it much more important to insist
upon the common ground on which their thoughts moved.
In the case of Ionian wisdom, speculation about the universe
led· to the discovery of Nature, the source whence all things
issue, and, in a certain sense, the substance from which they
are made. And so, for Parmenides and Heraclitus, " to issue
from Nature " meant "to have being," and the " substance
from which things are made " was equivalent to " what things
are." Nature thus becomes the principle which causes things

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

21

to be. This relationship between Nature and being, between
rf>vcnr; and eivat is the well-nigh superhuman discovery of Parmenides and Heraclitus. Indeed, it can be said that only with
them did philosophy begin.
Nevertheless, it is necessary to make several observations
regarding this intellectual operation.
It would be a complete anachronism to claim that Parmenides and Heraclitus created a concept of being, even the
most modest one. Nor is it even true that their thought refers
to what today we should term "being " in general. The course
of Greek philosophy had yet a long way to run, that is, until
Aristotle, before we encounter the threshold of the problem
which involves the concept of being. Neither is there in Parmenides and Heraclitus any speculation which, without coming
to be a concept, at least moves, as Hegel would say, within
the element of " being " in general. For Parmenides, being
was a solid sphere; for Heraclitus it was fire. That alone should
have been sufficient reason
interpretation of their fragments to center, not upon" being" nor upon the ens in general,
but upon Nature, that very Nature which the Ionians discovered for us. The poem of Parmenides bears, in fact, the
title "Concerning Nature," as does that of Heraclitus. But
even when the question is thus circumscribed, one must not
forget that neither of them attempted to give us something
resembling a theory of the substance of each particular thing,
but rather sought to tell us something concerning Nature, that
is to say, concerning what is permanent or consistent in the
universe, independent of the caducity of the things of our
daily life. When, over against Nature, things passed before
their eyes, not only Parmenides but also Heraclitus relegated
them-although for different reasons-to a secondary plane,
ever obscure and problematical, in which things appear before
us without full being, hence alien to Nature, although confusedly reposing on it. The only thing that interested them
was, on the contrary, that very Nature which, while supporting
all things, is not identified with them.

XAVIER ZUBIRI

Both Parmenides and Heraclitus considered Ionian physics
to be inadequate because, in the last analysis, it was a conception which, while claiming to speak to us of Nature, and thus
of something which is the source and substance of all usual
things, ended by committing itself to one of them alone: water,
air, or the like. What Parmenides and Heraclitus said concerning Nature ·is not that. Their first step was to remove
themselves from the " ordinary traffic " with usual things, and
replace it with a wisdom which man obtains when he concentrates in order to penetrate into the inner truth of things. The
man who " knows " in this way is truly the wise man. And
so we will learn what Nature is through the wisdom of the sage,
but not through the common information available to the common man in his daily life. The " Way of Truth," in contrast
to "opinions of men" (the physicists of Ionia), is what Parmenides called this; and Heraclitus maintained, on his part,
that the sage stands apart from everything.
What did this sage have at his disposal? . We have already
seen this some pages back: it is something which the Greeks
called
and which we have called, for the time being, mens,
and which, to give the right shade of meaning to the new trend
of wisdom, we would have to call the "thinking mens.n But
this mental act is not logical thought, nor is it ari. act of reasoning, nor a judgment. To apply current school terminology we
would have to refer, rather, to an "apprehension" of reality.
Only later did the disciples of Parmenides and Heraclitus translate this apprehension into judgments. We shall soon see
why.
This thinking mens has present before it all things, and what
it apprehends in them is something basically common to all
that exists.
What is this which is common to everything? What characterizes the " thinking mens " is not that it is a faculty for
which can equally well be right or be wrong. On the
contrary, what does characterize it is the possession of a kind
of profwnd and luminous tactile sense which makes us see

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

28

things surely and infallibly. Thus, what it reveals to us are
things in
effective reality: to put it in school terms, its
formal object is effective reality. And' this is what is common
to all that exists.
Parmenides and Heraclitus both considered that things, regardless of whether they be one kind or another with respect to
the effects of daily life, have, above all else, reality: they are.
" What there is " became for them identical with " what is."
Nature consists, so to speak, of that by virtue of which there
are things. It is obvious, then, that since it is the source of the
fact that things are, it will be called To e6v i.e. " what is being."
Reinhardt rightly observes that the neuter here represents a
first archaic form of the abstract. All hot things have in them
" hot-ness." Similarly things which " are" will have, if I am
permitted the expression, " being-ness." 4 When we say for
example, " this is white," we wish it to be known that the verb
" is " has, in a certain sense, an active value, by which " white "
is not a mere attribute attached to the subject, but rather the
result of an action which emanates from the subject-the act
of making the thing white, or causing it to be white. " Is " is
not a simple copula, nor is " to be " a simple verbal substantive.
We have here, in the strictest sense, an active verb. "To be"
could be replaced by " to occur;" " to happen," with the sense
of "to be something which has reality." Consequently, the
way in which Parmenides and Heraclitus conceived of Nature
brought about, even without their proposing it, a sense of being
as reality. They did not pause to give us a concept of this
physical " is." But its meaning was determined by the end to
which this road led. This meaning, only implicit at the time
but fully explicit in its effects, is all that there is of philosophy
in the " physics " of Parmenides and Heraclitus, but, I repeat,
it was not something thought out thematically in the form of a
concept.
• The author employs the progressive form, el esta siendo (" is-being-ness ") , and
remarks: "I add the [auxiliary] is to emphasize the idea that "being" signifies
something active, a kind of effectiveness.

XAVIER ZUBIRI

The difference between Parmenides and Heraclitus becomes
evident when we define more closely the active value of their
"is."
For Parmenides, the things of the universe " are " when they
have consistence, when they are fixed, stable, and solid. Physical reality is equivalent to solid firmness, or solidity. All that
exists is r.eal to the extent that it rests on something stable
and solid. Nature is the only thing (fL6vov) which " is " to
the full extent; it is the only true solid, full, without interstices
or gaps. "Not being" is emptiness and distance. Nature for
Parmenides was a compact sphere. It alone completely deserves the name of "being." And this is not true of the malleable things of our daily life.
For Heraclitus, on the contrary, " to be " amounted to
"having come to be." The famous "becoming " of Heraclitus
is not universal mobilism, as Cratylos subsequently claimed,
but a -y£yvEcr0at, a verb whose root bears the double meaning
of "to be born" and "to occur," that is, the meaning of "to
be being produced." ·But if such is the case, it denotes also
" to be being destroyed." And in both senses things " are" or,
if you wish, " maintain themselves." The stable substance
whence everything issues, Nature, is fire. Since every act of
being produced supposes something from which the thing is
produced, Heraclitus thought that this something is always
something opposite. And this internal structure of opposites
is what Heraclitus called harmony.
But, passing over the antithetical content of the two concepts, we find something in a certain sense common to them,
and more important than their mutual difference. Nature is,
as it were, a stable "force of being." Plato in his day still
spoke of being as SvvafLt'>, force or capacity.
And this " force of being " is revealed to man through a
special " sense of being," which is, therefore, a principle of
truth. For Parmenides and Heraclitus this sense, whether we
call it mens or logos, or the inner structure of both, is, above
all else, a cosmic principle. In Parmenides this is clear. And it
is no less clear with respect to the logos of Heraclitus. The .

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

logos is something in man which says one thing with many
words; and the many words are
into logos by something which makes them " one." From the standpoint of what
the logos says-i.
from the standpoint of that which is said,
this means that each one of the things expressed by the words
is real only when there is some bond which unites it with the
single whole, when it merges with it. And this bond is the
" is " which refers each thing to its opposite. Hence Heraclitus conceived of the logos as the unifying force of Nature,
whose structure-one · of opposites-is subject to plan and
measurement.
Man has a share in this logos and in this mens; they are revealed to him as a sort of inner voice, or interior guide which
from our innermost depths reflects and expresses what things
are, and by which we must abide if we seek to speak truly
about things. Our mens and our logos are thus a principle of
wisdom. However much Parmenides and Heraclitus may have
differed in their conception of the wise man, they were essentially at one with respect to the fact that from their time on,
wisdom adhered to the vision of what things are. The wise
man was thenceforth dedicated to the discovery of " being."
Only what " is " can be known; what " is not " cannot be
known.
For a clear understanding of the significance of this discovery, let us recall, once more, that the primitive physiologist
employed the idea of cf>vcns and cpvew, Nature and birth, in the
most concrete and active sense. This idea embraced two
aspects: on the one hand, the idea that things " are born of "
or "die in"; on the other hand, that the fulfilment of this
process is that things come to be or cease to be. Let us bear
in mind that from this very root whence comes the" word
"genesis" comes the verb-form which expresses "to occur."
The Ionians employed the verb y£yvop,at in a way that was not
exclusively attached to either one of the two meanings " to be
born " or "to occur"; and it thus for them still meant both
things together, as long as they remained connected with their
common root. But this common root, which is the only point

26

XAVIER ZUBIRI

on which the Ionians thought fully, led inevitably to a choice
between the two alternatives. And so, when we consider
Nature in the first of the two aspects, we achieve a view of a
" whole " from which all things are hom and from which they
receive their substance. Each thing is thus an " offspring " of
this "all." This is the channel along which also moved the
oldest of the Vedas and Upanishads, taking as their point of
departure the all in the form of the Brahman.
But Greek thought followed, instead, the other possible
aspect of ytyvofLa'. Nature then appeared as a " force of
being." The dynamic element of the force was preserved, but
was wholly transferred into "being."
The philosophical literature of India does not employ the
verb as (to. be) , but the verb bhu (the cognate of the Greek
cfJV£w) which has the meaning of being-born and begetting. All
the splendid wealth of intellectual nuances with respect to
things is expressed by the innumerable forms and deviations to
which the second verb gave origin. Things are bhuta (offsprings) ; the being is bhu (he who is born) , etc. The verb as-,
on the contrary, had for its sole mission that of a simple copula
without further implications. So wholly was it without implications that the thought of India never arrived at the idea of
essence. The thought of India is an actual example of what
would have been the case in Greece, and consequently in all
Europe, had it not been for Parmenides and Heraclitus. In
Aristotelian terms, it was a speculation about things as a whole,
without ever reaching the point of first considering the fact that
they "·are."
This slight deflection in the direction of man's thought was
sufficient to give rise to Parmenides and Heraclitus. By interpreting the Brahman as the universal soul, the Hindus ended
up with a certain kind of ontogony. By taking Nature as a
force of being, the West, as we shall see, arrived at an ontology.
But first, one further step remained to be taken. This was
the work of the generations immediately following the Persian
Wars. But, after Parmenides and Heraclitus Wisdom was no
longer simply a vision of Nature, but a vision of what things

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

27

are, of the principle and substance which makes them be, of
their c< being."

3. Wisdom as a rational science of things:-The generations
immediately following the Persian Wars received the benefits
of this gigantic conquest. The new life which flowered in Greece
enormously enriched what had been the usual world of the
Greeks up to then. Above all, we must note for our purposes
the gradual develepment of a certain number of branches of
knowledge, modest in appearance, but whose growing importance. was to be a decisive factor in Hellenic intellectual life.
These special branches of knowledge were called Texvat-we
would call them techniques. But the Greeks understood the
word altogether differently. For us, technique means doing.
For the Greeks it meant knowing how to do. The concept ol
TEXVfl belongs to the order of "knowing."
So true is this that
Aristotle at times applied the term to wisdom itself. These
TEXVa£ for the most part had to do with knowing how to cure, to
count, to measure, construct, lead battles, and so on. For a
long time, this situation had been developing; but now these
Texvat began to take on substance. And the men of this new
epoch were confronted both with the remnants of the ancient
exemplary wisdom and at the same time with these TfxVat,
which were applied-not to Nature, massive and divine, as was
the ancient wisdom-but to those objects which are indispensable for daily life, and which had been excluded, as unworthy, from the realm of being. The numbers to which the
Texvat had attained made it difficult to maintain the situation.
This ordinary world, so rich, so fertile, could not remain outside
the bounds of philosophy. Things, in their primary sense, are
those things with which man is occupied during the course of
his daily life, and of which he avails himself in order to satisfy
his needs or to solace himself. In this sense the Greeks called
them_ 7rpayp.aTa and xpfJp.aTa. And it is these things which
posed an acute problem for philosophy.
But precisely in the very work of Parmenides and Heraclitus
there was something which was to preserve the new reality.
Wisdom, let us observe, was a knowledge of things which are.

XAVIER ZUBffii

The organ with which we gain this knowledge-the vails-consists, on its part, in making us see that things have effective
being in one way or another. When the philosophy of Ephesus
and Elea had overcome the first difficulties it encountered,
there remained floating in the atmosphere, as a ·result of this
speculation, the notion of " being."
As I have already pointed out, for Parmenides and Heraclitus the word "being" still preserved an active value deriving
from ·cpvew and yl,yvofLat. But now, thanks to those two titanic
thinkers, "is " acquired a content of its own; it broke away
from " to be born " and took on a usage and meaning more and
more remote from yl,yvofLat. The process of thought by means
of which this took place characterizes the work of the three
generations after Empedocles. And this process followed two
paths that ultimately converged.
On the one hand, both Parmenides and Heraclitus, on speculating about the Nature of the Ionians, understood it, as we
have seen, as" that which is in the process of being "-the very
force of being. Let us leave aside the negative aspect of the
question, namely, .that world which the wise man had ruled
out as something which in the last analysis lacked complete
being. If we center our attention on the positive aspect, above
all, on what Parmenides had to say " concerning that which
is," we shall see that this "is," which for the philosopher of
Elea still had an active value, attracted the attention of his
followers in such a way that it lost its active value and came
to signify only the ensemble of characteristics which constitute
that which is: something solid, compact, continuous, one,
whole, etc. " Is " thus refers simply to the result, and not to
the active force which leads to the result. When thus " denatured," that is to say, when wholly independent. of Nature
and birth, " is " leads to the idea of things. But at this stage
no objection is found to there being many things. The common
things of life lay aside their common aspect and become simply
"things "; xpfJfLara immediately become ISvra. Thus the world
we all live in and which at first was excluded from philosophy,
re-entered in a new form, namely that of " many things." This

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

moment marks the birth of the notion of " thing," and-this is
the essential point upon which I must insist-it was born at
the moment when the notion "is " dropped once and for all its
active value deriving from ytyvoJLa£, and took on one of the
several possible values inchoatively implicit in it, namely the
one which refers to the final condition of the born or begotten
object.
But on the other hand there was something more. As we
saw, knowledge was for Parmenides and Heraclitus simply
knowing what is. This means that, just as Nature is that which
is in the process of being, so also the mens is a " sense of being "
which maintains itself, by itself, in reality. "Is" was thus in a
certain sense the actual substance of the mens and the logos.
Thus, when " to be " became independent of " to be born," it
all'!o became independent of our human reality. When thus
divorced from anima and mens it took on an autonomous
status: that of is, the copula. Up to this point, the copula
had played no role in philosophy. But now it was to enter
in through the door opened by Parmenides and Heraclitus.
Thought, in addition to being impression and vision, became
affirmation or denial. The buttress of " is " came to be first
and foremost the logos. The logos of daily life, the logos which
says what man thinks in the course of his daily life, and which
serves to define it, entered in its turn into the realm of phi.. " or "d ema.
"1"
losoph y as "ffi
a rmabon
And the two developments that "is " underwent after losing
the active value which it possessed by virtue of its original
roots both in the notion of "being born" and in the mens,
converged in a striking fashion. The " is " expressed by the
copula came to be understood above all as the " is " of things,
and vice-versa. Thereupon a totally new situation arose,
namely affirmation or denial with respect to things.
Obviously (we hasten to say) at the time no one speculated
either upon the idea of "things " or upon affirmations with
respect to things. But speculation was focused upon" things"
and turned in the direction of things insofar as they are ex-

80

XAVIER ZUBffil

pressed in an affirmation or a negation. This was the fruit of
the genius of the new spirit.
To be specific, let us first approach the question from the
standpoint of things. Of course, in principle at least, the idea
that Nature is the source of things was preserved in Empedocles
and Anaxagoras. Nature alone, then, properly deserved the
title of-being in a full and true sense. It is true that, alongside Nature, none of the things of this ordinary world is, in
the last analysis, a " thing " in the full sense of the word, and,
precisely because it is not, its birth and death cannot be
interpreted as a true act of generation, but only as· 31 simple
composition and decomposition, which implies, in turn, the
existence of many other true things. Nature contains " many
things" (this time in the strict sense of the word) from whose
combination common things result. Each of them is a " thing"
in the sense given to the word by Parmenides. So, on applying
the idea of " thing " to the common world, the Greeks found
themselves inexorably compelled to continue disqualifying the
latter, but now breaking it up into a multiplicity of true things
whose closely packed totality constituted Nature. Empedocles
called these "true things " the " ultimate elements," and believed them to be four in number. Anaxagoras called them
"seeds" and believed that they were infinite in number, but
not separated, with the result that in every piece of reality,
however small, there is a bit of the whole. A generation later,
Democritus continued to consider them infinite in number, but,
in support of his view, separated from one another by void.
Thus for the first time the reality of the void was proclaimed:
here we have the idea of the atom. The next generation, with
Archytas, inclined rather to this idea of points of force, so to
speak, which had no extent but which were extensible in space.
Plato, in his turn gave a generic name to all the ultimate
things, uTotxe'ia, elements. Understanding things came to mean
knowing the manner in which they are composed of these elements. Empedocles and Anaxagoras thus spoke of commo.n
things as representing the predominance of certain roots or
seeds over others; Democritus spoke of combinations of atoms;

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

31

Archytas of geometric combinations. But in any event common
things came to be characterized by what, after Democritus,
was called uxflp,a or
(scheme, or figure).
The organ which achieves this interpretation of the universe
is the logos, which affirms or. denies one thing with respect to
another. At the outset, .it was understood that each of the
terms of an affirmation is, on its part, a " thing," and that to
or not to be, is to be joined or separated. To affirm or deny
was simply to join or to separate by means of the logos. Thus
it was said, for example, by Empedocles that birds are primarily fire. The " fire-stuff " is, on the one hand, the " being"
of the bird, but, in addition, it makes us understand what the
bird is. The logos, which originally meant speech or understanding, came then to denote that which is understood. Thus
fire is both the being of the bird and its reason. This reason
continued to be called logos by the Greeks. It is a logos which
belongs to the thing before it does to the individual who expresses it. It is, as the Greeks would say, the logos of the ov
(the ent); hence it is something which pertains to the structure
of the latter. With this step the world of the logos was born.
The idea of " many things " led to the idea of being as reason,
the idea of the rationality of things. The way for this idea had
been prepared by Heraclitus, but only at this point did it
attain full development.
After this new stage, the natural place of reality was reason.
And soon, for the first time, there began to function that marvelous combination of reasons, Myot, which we call reasoning.
This was the contribution of Zeno above all, and not of Parmenides as is generally said. Of course, with Zeno, we are still
at a rudimentary stage. In this first archaic form of logic, to
affirm or to deny was to join or to separate things. Out of it,
grew the famous aporiae of Zeno. Regardless of the ultimate
significance of this logic, every interpretation of it must start
at this point. We can already recognize in this logic the
gigantic step that Aristotle subsequently took with his discovery, not only of things but also of their" affections or acci-

XAVIER ZUBmi

dents," a discovery with which he changed the entire face of
the logos and created the edifice of classical logic.
In the generations which followed, those of Democritus and
Archytas, the new instrument produced the first splendid
achievements of the Athenian spirit; mathematics, the theory
of music, astronomy, and the theory of temperaments began
to be codified. Only twice was there to pass through the world
of the logos a symptomatic convulsion. This happened once
when Plato asked whether the elements of reason were themselves rational, and again when Theaetetus discovered rationBut it
ally in the square root of the reality of the
mattered little.
In those three successive generations an enormous mental
creation took place. Things took on a rational structure:
being was reason. The mens became understanding and :Bowed
into the logos: the fact that a thing " is " was no longer the
object of vision, but of intellection and diction. Wisdom
ceased to be a vision of being and became a science: the
thinker more and more turned his eyes away from Nature and
fixed his attention on each thing. Nature with a capital letter
gave way to nature with a small letter. Each thing had its
nature. The mission of the wise man was to discover it rationally: thenceforth he would be the scientist. Aristotle tells
us, indeed, that the term crocf>6c; applies also to the man who
has a strict and rigorous science of things (Met.
18) .
This was the result of that minute factor which crept into
the European mind to plague it without cease: "is."
4. Wisdom as rhetoric and culture: -Mter the Persian Wars,
the new 'rlxvat which gave rise to the establishment of science

were not alone in developing. Likewise, and most notably,
there developed a change in the situation of the citizen in
public life; and with this change was born a new TEXP'YJ: politics.
Man's logos is not only the faculty for understanding things;
it is also, as we pointed out, what makes community life possible. Community life comes into existence when affairs are
shared in common. And no affair becomes common without
imparting a certain character of publicness to the thought of

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

88

each individual. We saw in the preceding paragraph how the
idea of each thing
into philosophy together with the
logos which enunciated it. But furthermore, along with the
idea of " each thing " entered the logos of each citizen. And
because of this new aspect of the logos, philosophy was to find
itself in undreamed-of regions. This was the achievement, to
some extent, of Sophistry, under the leadership of Protagoras.
Not that Sophistry was exclusively, or even primarily, philosophy, but unquestionably it involved some kind of philosophy,
implicitly or explicitly. Of course, insofar as it had philosophical aspects, Sophistry-however paradoxical this may seemwas possible thanks to Parmenides and Heraclitus. Let us recall once more how " is " shed its active value in the realm of
both things and thought. Let us now consider thought, not as
it functions to enunciate things, but in its public functionspeech. Of what do people speak? Of things. But the things
that constitute public life are "affairs." Science, as we saw,
immediately interpreted these
and 7Tp&.yj-taTa as ovra;
instruments, utensils and means of life were, above all,
"things." But now, on the contrary, what science had called
" things " passed to a secondary plane, and in the forefront
stood" things" in the sense of things with which we are occupied and which we utilize. And in this wider sense, many
things are " things " which are not so in the sense of beings, or
entia, for example, affairs, and science itself. It is things in
this sense of which men talked among themselves.
To continue, the " is " of conversation became the " is" of
things as they appear in daily life. The logos of conversation
is not a simple enunciation; on the contrary it expresses an
asseveration which confronts the asseverations of the other
participants in the conversation. " Is " thus reflects that which
makes conversation possible, that goal towards which every
asseveration aims and before which every asseveration must
bow. When "is" acquired a status of its own in intellection,
we had affirmation or denial of things. When "is " is introduced thematically into dialogue it means, indeed, " something
is," that is to say, the truth. Every asseveration aims at being
3

34

XAVIER ZUBmi

true, seeks to derive substance and support from this " is."
"Is" is what is common to all men; it is, so to say, the" cum"
of " community life." Thanks to it, mere elo(!ution becomes
dialogue. We must not forget this connection when we interpret the significance of what next happened: logic, as a theory
of truth, grew essentially out of dialogue. To reason was,
above all, to discuss. The truth implicit in the word "is"
affected primarily speech and thought. Along with the works
of his contemporaries Empedocles and Anaxagoras, which were
entitled "Concerning Nature," one of the works of Protagoras
was called " Concerning Truth." To be sure Parmenides had
already spoken of " the way of truth." But for Parmenides
truth was the name of the road which leads to things, while
here it had come to mean the name of things as verified by
man. And this led the problem of "is " into new paths. Because as long as man did no more than contemplate things and
enunciate them, he had only things before his eyes. But as
soon as he engaged in dialogue, what things are was made
patent through what the other said. Put it thus: what I have
before me is not" things," but the other man's thoughts. Problems of being become automatically problems of saying. The
reason implicit in things yields place to my own reasons. And
before long the first intuition that something is true springs
from something on which all men are in agreement.
If all men said the same thing, there would be no question.
But the trouble is that questions do arise precisely when men,
in their attempt to build their lives out of things, find themselves in mutual discord. Conversation will serve as a principle
for bringing them into agreement. Here is the fundamental
fact which served as the starting point of Protagoras. "Is"
makes community life possible only when every individual
statement has some sort of validity. This fact had two
consequences.
First, disagreement makes it evident that "is" as a principle of dialogue, and as a basis for community life, means
" how things appear to the eye." " To be " signifies " to seem."
To every individual (and this is the significance of dialogue)

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

85

things appear in a certain manner. But we are not dealing here
with subjectivism. On the contrary, we are dealing with the
fact that men cannot talk of whether things are or are not,
except according as they refer to them. This reference is essential to the common things · of life, and is what makes them
such. What occurs then is simply that things " appear " before
men. The " being " of the common things of life means for
these men " appearing." Something which did not appear to
anyone would not be a thing of daily life. The criterion of
being or not being, as far as concerns things in the sense of
x.pi}p,a:ra, or common things, is their appearing before men's
eyes. This is the famous statement of Protagoras. In it he
enunciates something trivial and not open to objection, namely
that the life of men is the touchstone of the being of the things
we deal with in our lives.
But this " is " of things, understood in this sense, promptly
clashed with the " being " of things in the other sense, the sense
of existing in Nature. When this occurred, Protagoras sought
to play the role of wise man in the ancient manner. He sought
to establish the things of life "scientifically." When they are
taken as things existing in Nature, the assertion of Protagoras
leads to making a relationship of " is," a 'ITpos T£, as Sextus
Empiricus said on expounding the doctrine of the Sophist of
Abdera. The " physical '' reality of things is nothing but a
relationship. No thing is a thing in itself; it is a thing only by
virtue of its relationship to something else. And in this system
of relationships· there is one relationship which is decisive for
men, namely that of " appearing." Things " appear " to man;
they " appear" to him to be thus. or so. "Being as relationship " is revealed in the notion of " knowledge as opinion," or
86ga. This is not subjectivism, or relativism, but a system of
relationships.
But there is a second consequence, as important as the first.
It is not a mattter of taking opinions as verbal pronouncements, but as assertions· which are claimed to be true and which
issue, consequently, from the very being of things. It is evident, then, that if there is diversity of opinions, it is because

86

XAVIER ZUBIRI

there is diversity within everything. More specifically, for
every opinion, there exists in principle another diametrically
opposed counter-opinion which derives from reasons likewise
drawn from things, since it is things which appear diametrically
the reverse to my neighbor. The 'Aeyew of the political animal
(what he says) is subject to avn'Aeyew (contradiction).
And
since what both men say is rooted in the thing itself, we are
forced to agree that the relationship which constitutes its being
is constitutively antilogical. Hence the inexorable need for discussion. The essence of discussion is antinomy, for being is
essentally antilogical. This is the philosophy of Protagoras. In
it we find ourselves worlds apart from the. rationality of being
which the science of his contemporaries discovered. Everything is discussible because nothing has solid consistence; being
is inconsistent. Here we have the inconsistency of being face to
face with its consistency. And, by a curious paradox, for this
manner of existing in the 1ro'Ats- scientific support was sought.
On this point the influence of medicine was decisive. It can be
stated almost without fear of error that, while physics and
mathematics led the Greeks to the world of reason, medicine
was the great argument for the world of Sophistry. It is true
that Anaxagoras stated, as we have seen, 'that in everything
there is a bit of everything. Archytas and the mathematicians,
while they admitted the rationality of things, considered things
also to be in perpetual geometric movement. But the decisive
science was medicine: health and illness were important, not
only for perceiving things, but also for thinking them, with the
result that thought tended to become a new way of perceiving
things. Appearing and seeming took on more and .more the
meaning of" feeling." And" to be" ended by meaning" to be
felt." The inconsistency of being finally became a theory of
"knowledge as sensible impression." And the Sophists sought
to transfer the thesis of Parmenides and Heraclitus to the new
philosophy.
But let us again establish the position of "opinion " within
the frame of public life, for only with reference to the latter
does this new development have significance. Every opinion

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

37

has, to begin with, a certain quality of stability. Anything
else would be a fleeting and uninteresting impression. But
opinions do not derive their stability from things, for stability
is precisely what things lack. Whatever stability an opinion
has derives solely from the man who professes it-the opiner
himself. Hence, if life requires firm opinions, there is need to
educate men. Knowledge is no longer a science, it is merely
something in the service of the education (71'atSe£a) of a man's
And being such, it transcends the purely intellectual
sphere: it does not exclude knowledge, but puts it at the service of the education of man. What man? Not man in the
abstract, but the citizen. What kind of education? Political
education. Sophistry believed it could mold the new men of
Greece by disregarding truth. How could this be?
When citizens talk ·of their affairs it is for the purpose of
acquiring convictions. Everything is directed toward this goal.
Just as reasoning leads to the scientific logos, "antilogy" leads
directly to the technique of persuasion, which is, as it were, the
logic of opinion. Since to be is to seem, to persuade will be to
make one opinion seem stronger than another. And this will be
achieved when one succeeds in making one's opponent waver,
that is, in shaking his feelings. Reasoning is replaced by discourse: it becomes rhetoric. Thenceforth knowledge, in the
sense of civic education, took, on the intellectual side, the
concrete form of rhetoric.
But rhetoric needs materials, what we would call ideas.
Ideas take on, through their social aspect, the character of common things-of things designed to be handled rather than
understood. They can be handled in two ways: by learning and
by teaching. And they thus become p,aOIJP-ara, subjects of instruction. When knowledge becomes rhetoric the next step is
knowledge as a branch of teaching. Education consists of cultivating man and the ideas in him through teaching. With teaching, the Sophist formed cultivated citizens full of ideas and
able to utilize them to create opinions which possessed public
validity. The same word which designates opinion in Greek

38

XAVIER ZUBmi

also serves to designate repute. Rhetoric and Culture: these
embodied the wisdom of the public life of Athens.

*

*

*

Let us sum up. Wisdom, which from its beginnings was a
knowledge of the ultimate truths of the world and of life, and
consequently something closely akin to religion, became, on
the coasts of Asia Minor, a discovery or possession of the truth
about Nature. With Parmenides and Heraclitus this truth
about Nature became a vision of what things are; the vision of
being took, on the one hand, the form of rational science, and
on the other hand, namely in the life of the Athenian citizen,
the form of rhetoric and culture. Such was the condition of
his world as Socrates found it: a situation whose dynamic
ingredients were essential to it, and which were to be the
starting point of his activity.

IV
SoCRATEs:

THE. TESTIMONY

OF XENOPHON AND ARISTOTLE

Near the beginning of his Memorabilia, Xenophon says:
Indeed, in contrast to others he set his face against all discussion
of such high matters as the nature of the Universe; how the
" Cosmos," as the wise men phrase it, came into being; or by what
forces the celestial phenomena arise. To trouble one's brain about
such matters was, he argued, to play the fool. He would ask first:
Did these investigators feel their knowledge of things human so
complete that they betook themselves to these lofty speculations?
Or did they maintain that they were playing their proper parts in
thus neglecting the affairs of man to speculate on the concerns of
God? He was astonished they did not see how far these problems
lay beyond mortal ken; since even those who pride themselves most
on their discussion of these points differ from each other, as madmen do. For just as some madmen, he said, have no apprehension
of what is truly terrible, others fear where no fear is; some are
ready to say and do anything in public without the slightest
symptom of shame; others think they ought not so much as to set
foot among their fellow-men; some honour neither temple, nor altar,
nor aught else sacred to the name of God; others bow down to

SOCRATES AND GREEK "WISDOM

39

stocks and stones and worship the very beasts:-so is it with those
thinkers whose minds are cumhered with cares concerning the Universal Nature. One sect has discovered that Being is one and
indivisible. Another that it is infinite in number. If one proclaims
that all things are in a continual flux, another replies that nothing
can possibly be moved at any time. The theory of the universe
as a process of birth and death is met by the counter theory that
nothing ever could be born or ever will die.
But the questioning of Socrates on the merits of these speculators
sometimes took another form. The student of human learning
expects, he said, to make something of his studies for the benefit of
himself or others, as he likes. Do these explorers into the divine
operations hope that when they have discovered by what forces
the various phenomena occur, they will create winds and waters at
will and fruitful seasons? Will they manipulate these and the like
to suit their needs? or has no such notion perhaps ever entered
their heads, and will they be content simply to know how such
things come into existence? But if this was his mode of describing
those who meddle with such matters as these, he himself never
wearied of discussing human topics. What is piety? what is impiety? What is the beautiful? what the ugly? What the nobler
what the base? What are meant by just and unjust? what by
sobriety and madness? what by courage and cowardice? What is a
state? what is a statesman? what is a ruler over men? what is a
ruling character? and other like problems, the knowledge of which,
as he put it, conferred a patent of nobility on the possessor, whereas
those who lacked the knowledge might deservedly be stigmatised
as slaves." 5

This is not, of course, the only relevant text, but assuredly
it is one of the most significant, because in its brief space we
find- most of the terms which have appeared in our exposition
and it lends itself therefore better than most to situating the
work of Socrates in its proper position.
Let us add the testimony of Aristotle, according to whom
Socrates " occupied himself with what concerned the ethos,
seeking for the universal and being the first to exercise his mind
in defining" (Met. 987b 1) .
5 The citation given here, rather than an English translation
of Zubiri's version
of the Greek, is based on the translation of the works of Xenophon by H. G.
Dakyns, London, 1897, Vol. Ill, pp. 4-5.

40

XAVIER ZUBffii

Everyone is familiar with the picture of Socrates given by
Plato in his Apologia: the just man, who prefers to accept the
law, even though it turns against his life.
One thing stands out clearly: Socrates assumed a certain
attitude vis-a-vis the philosophy of his times, and on the basis
of ihis attitude began his own activity.

v
SocRATES:

His ATTITUDE TowARDS THE PHILOSOPHY
OF HIS TIMES

First let us examine the attitude of. Socrates towards the
philosophy of his times.
The world in which Socrates lived had participated in an
experience of fundamental importance to man; one which, with
respect to our problem, may be summed up under three heads:
the establishment of the city-state as a result of the access
to public life enjoyed by every individual, with his personal
opinions; the crisis of traditional philosophy; and the development of the new branches of knowledge. The participation of
the citizen in public life prepared the way for rhetoric and the
ideal of the cultivated man. This culture, furthermore, harked
back to the great figures of traditional wisdom-Anaximander,
Parmenides, Heraclitus and the others-not in search of such
truth as they might have to offer, but because of the popular
esteem in which they were held. Thus their words ceased to
represent wisdom and became, instead, things for handling:
T61To,, to be utilized to the individual's own advantage or benefit, with the art of polemic. Zeal and insolence now had a
common source: the
On the other hand, the people
upheld the new beloved Texva' against .the ancient classical
wisdom. While the latter was something divine, the former,
according to the myth of Prometheus, were booty stolen from
the gods. With the Texva' men .acquired wisdom in the ways
of life. They were forms of knowledge acquired in the course

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

41

of life and available to anyone through the agency of instruction, that is to say, fLafJf}fLa;ra.
This experience was situated in a special environment, i.e.,
public life. This gave it its particular character, which was
much more essential, in the opinon of Socrates, than was its
content. All such experience is an experience of the affairs and
things of life, above all, of those things which are public. It is
within the bounds of daily life that such experience assumes a
meaning and a scope of its own.
Indeed, not only were what was known as " ideas " public
things, but furthermore knowledge itself, as such, came to be a
public thing. Knowledge degenerated into conversation and
dialogue into dispute. In dispute, everything had its opposite
and in this antinomy the antilogical character of the being of
things became manifest, that is to say, the being of things lost
all its aspects of importance and dignity. The great "wisdoms " had grown out of a preoccupation with the problem of
being and they were transformed into T67Tot precisely when
their foundation upon the substantiality of being crumbled.
If being is antilogical, then everything is true in its own fashion,
in each man's fashion, and when being
so does
man himself. Man's being becomes a mere attitude. Or, to
express the same thing differently, nothing has importance for
the Sophist, and therefore nothing matters to him. Only his
own opinions matter to him, and not because they are important, but because others deem them important; not because
he himself takes them seriously, but because others do. Aristotle said, therefore, that Sophistry was not wisdom, but only
the appearance of wisdom, in other words, intellectual frivolity.
So, even though Sophistry was disquaiified on the basis of its
lack of content,. it did at least pose for philosophy the problem
of the existence of the Sophist. Sophistry, as philosophy, did
not attract the attention of Socrates, nor of Plato, nor of Aristotle, save for its sensualistic interpretation of being and of
science, to which at one point Protagoras alluded. But the
Sophist (if not Sophistry) did draw their attention. Plato's

42

:xAVIER ZUBmi

Sophist and the polemic of Aristotle are naught else, indeed,
than the ontology of frivolity.
The position of Socrates corresponds to the position of
Sophistry. Socrates tovk a certain stand in the face of this
type of existence, and upon this stand depended the content of
his own very existence.
Socrates did not take over the content of the intellecutal
experience of his contemporaries, isolating it from the situation
whence it emerged. Quite the contrary. This point must be
emphasized if we are to ·understand, in its full scope, the attitude of Socrates towards the content of intelligence.
Socrates' first reaction to the wave of publicness was withdrawal, withdrawal from public life. He realized that he lived
in times when the best in man could be saved 'only by his
retiring to private life. And this attitude of his was anything
but an elegant or petulant gesture. Protagoras had a modicum
of intellectual content; but the two generations of Sophists that
followed him did nothing, as far as intelligence is concerned,
but converse and pronounce discourses of empty beauty, which
was a vocation quite different from that of engaging in dialogue
and reasoning. In order to engage in dialogue and to reason,
one must have things. The serious business of dialogue and
the toil of reflection or reasoning are possible only if we believe
in the substantiality of things. But when being dissolves into
pure antilogy, when all is transmuted into pure insubstantiality,
man is cast adrift on a sea of frivolity. And what had caused
being to lose its reality and gravity for these men? Simply the
loss of that very thing which made its reality clear to the eyes
of the great thinker: the mens. When speech became independent of thought, and thought in turn ceased to revolve
wholly around the center of things, the
was left loose and
adrift. For the
has two aspects: the private and the
public. On the contrary, thought, or reflection, has but one:
the private. The only thing we can do is express thought in
the
And this is the danger inherent in all expression,
namely that it cease to express thoughts and become merely
the act of speaking as though one were thinking. When

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

48

does occur, man can only become silent and withdraw into his
thoughts. Socrates' withdrawal was not a mere attitude like
the attitudes of the Sophists; it was the very meaning of his
life itself, which in turn was determined by the meaning of
being. Hence it is an essentially philosophical attitude.
The position he took conditioned Socrates' attitude towards
traditional wisdom. In the first place, Socrates judged it from
the standpoint of its efficacy in the life which was led by the
men among whom he lived. All those references to the one, or
to the many, to the finite or to the infinite, to repose or to
movement were altogether useless for establishing daily life on
a firm basis. This and nothing else was his point of departure.
The proof is that, as the decisive argument, we are told in the
passage from Xenophon given above that after knowing the
structure of the cosmos we cannot bend it to our needs. So
Socrates dispensed altogether and immediately with whatever
truth there may be in such speculation .. What interested him
was to emphasize its futility as a way of life. To be sure, he
already had called mad "those who concern themselves with
Nature." But this is another aspect of the question and one
intimately linked with the first aspect. We shall return to it
subsequently. This wisdom which leads to antilogy (the essential point for Socrates) showed clearly that wise men were, in
this respect "de-mented."
They lacked mens, vovs. Such
Wisdom had forsaken voe'tv and had become mere A.eyew.
And what drove Socrates to retirement was likewise what
shaped his attitude. Wisdom was born of the mens. When it
forsook the mens, it ceased to be Wisdom. Knowledge was no
longer the fruit of an intellectual life, but a mere recipe book
of ideas. Therefore Socrates eliminated it. But it is obvious
that what led him to eliminate it was at the same time the only
thing which could save it. Socratic irony is the expression of
the noetic structure which was destroyed in order to save
wisdom. And the proof that this was his attitude is that he
says nothing to us regarding the physical discoveries of Democritus, nor of the budding Athenian mathematics. Naturally
not. To us, who have inherited the magnificent legacy of Greek

44

XAVIER ZUBffii

mechanics, astronomy, medicine, and mathematics, it seems
that these are what Hellenic science was. But let us recall
that all this science began to acquire its enormous volume
with astonishing rapidity precisely with the generation after
Socrates. We are told that the Platonic Academy was so impressed by the quantity of new knowledge, that it believed a
man needed more than one life simply to make note of it. And
Democritus, the contemporary of Socrates, was held to
the
last true encyclopedist of knowledge. It is evident that these
branches of knowledge-the only ones which have any importance for us of the western world-were still almost rudimentary and negligible in Socrates' time, and that they dwindled to nothing alongside the great monuments of traditional
wisdom: Parmenides, Heraclitus, even Empedocles and Anaxagoras. When we speak of Socrates' negative attitude toward
science we should avoid the error of including under the heading of science what we are accustomed to calling Greek science.
All the more so, since several of these sciences were cultivated,
and sometimes furthered with genius, by men belonging to
schools of thought whose inspiration was Socratic. Furthermore, to maintain that Socrates needed to dedicate himself to
these sciences in order not to despise them is a demand altogether excessive from any point of view.
The only thing to be added with regard to these new branches
of knowledge is what we have already observed with reference
to classical wisdom: .the danger that the man of science might
also lose his mens as did the Sophist. This is the great risk
run by science; and probably these apprehensions were no.
strangers to the heart of Socrates.
To sum up, the intellectual attitude of Socrates towards the
intellectual attitude of his epoch was, in the first place, the
negation of its trend, which was towards public life. Socrates
retired to his home, and in his retirement recovered his voils,
thereby interrupting the course of traditional Wisdom. Being
recovered its importance and gravity. Things thus recovered
their consistence, again became substantial, and posed authentic
problems.

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

45

With these problems man likewise assumed dignity. What
man does and does not do, and how he does it, becomes involved in something more significant than himself, namely,
what he and things "are." The reappearance of the problem
of being marked the restoration of real wisdom.
But of what wisdom? Because nothing ever becomes a
second time exactly what it once was. This is the second
question: the positive aspect of Socrates' activity.

VI
SoCRATEs:

WisDoM As ETHICS

Whatever the positive contribution of Socrates in the sphere
of philosophy may have been, it was predetermined by the
position he assumed. Was he or was he not an intellectual?
An unequivocal answer cannot be given. To us, that is to the
generations that have followed him, he was. But to his epoch
and probably to himself-for we all to some extent judge ourselves from the standpoint of our world-he was not.
To his epoch he was not. Because Socrates did not devote
himself to any o£ the pursuits which in his time were deemed
intellectual. He did not occupy himself with cosmology; nor
with the traditional problems of philosophy. He was not, of
course, the inventor of the concept nor of the definition. Aristotle's remarks need not necessarily be taken in the strictly
technical sense which they later acquired. As a matter of fact,
Aristotle only said that Socrates sought to know what things
are in themselves, not with reference to circumstances; and
that he tried to concentrate upon the meaning of words, in
order not to be carried away by the sheer brilliance of speeches.
Neither is it very probable that Socrates made great ethical
discoveries; at least it is not evident that he was concerned with
aught else than public and private virtue in its various aspects.
How could he have been regarded as an intellectual? The
intellectual of his times was an Anaxagoras or an Empedocles,
a Zeno, or, perhaps, a Protagoras. Socrates was nothing of the

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sort, nor did he seek to be. On the contrary he preferred not
to be.
Was he then simply a just man, a man of perfect morals?
We are not absolutely certain what morality he professed, nor
even are we acquainted in detail with his life. Furthermore,
politics has helped, with its errors, to create great historical
figures in the imagination of citizens. At all events, his unquestionable moral eminence would not have justified his influence
on philosophy. And yet it was decisive. All the historical
criticism in the world cannot dispel this fact, whose details may
be confused, but whose magnitude remains unchangeable.
To put it baldly, Socrates did not create science; he created
a new type of intellectual life, of wisdom. His disciples harvested the fruits of that new life. And as happened with
Parmenides and Heraclitus in their day, so did it with Socrates.
When a new life dawns, it is at first understood in the light of
the old day. Hence to some, Socrates was but another Sophist;
to others, a good man. To those who followed him, he was an
intellectual. Actually, he simply inaugurated a new kind of
cro<Pf.a. Nothing more, but nothing less.
Up to now we have seen this new wisdom only in the negative light of Socrates' withdrawal from the intellectual life
which was in vogue, his emphatic rejection of it. Socrates
kept aloof from public life, withdrawn into his own private
existence. He cast aside rhetoric in order to ponder seriously
on Being and Thought. But it would be an error to suppose
that his withdrawal meant that he adopted an attitude of total
isolation. Socrates was not a solitary thinker.
That a life be private is not the same as that it be isolated.
On the contrary, there is the danger that the solitary man will
find his isolation to be a form of notoriety and, therefore, of
publicness. That some of his disciples thus misinterpreted his
attitude is well known. It is not a question of this, nor of what
solitude meant to Descartes, for example. The " Solus recedo " of Descartes, solitary communion with himself and his
thoughts, is a far cry from the position of Socrates, for the
simple reason that there has never been a Greek who adopted

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

47

such an attitude. Socrates returned to his home, to a life like
that of anyone else, without giving himself over to the novelty
of a progressive conception of life, as did the Athenian elite,
but also without allowing himself to be impressed by the sheer
power of the past. He had his friends and talked with them.
For every true Greek the word " to talk " is as closely associated with "to think," as for the Semite "to pray " is with
" to recite." The prayer of the Semite is an oration; something in which his os (mouth) participates. For the o-reek,
speech does not occur isolated from thought: his logos is at one
and the same time both things. The Greeks always have understood thought as the soul's silent dialogue with itself; and dialogue with others was, to them, audible thought. Socrates
was a good Greek; he thought while talking, and talked while
thinking. And incidentally, he was the first to employ dialogue
as a method of thinking.
But how did Socrates live? At least, how did he understand
that one should live? This is the essential point for us.
In the first place, one should live with vovs or mens, as we
have seen. Aristotle tells us that Socrates exercised his thought,
his Su£vota. However, there was some confusion on this point.
Traditional philosophy had grown out of the mens and had
drawn its sustenance from it, both in the soul of the philosopher
and in his expression through the logos. Nevertheless, as we
have pointed out, in this, perhaps the most critical, moment of
pre-Socratic philosophy, the mens was being applied to Nature,
to that which men were wont to call "the Divine." The common world was thrust aside together with the things of the
world, men, and their major vicissitudes; and these were thrust
aside, not in a random fashion, not by a simple preterition, but
in a much more absolute fashion, that is to say, they were
judged unworthy on the grounds of being mere S6ga, and were
excluded from the world of being, as things that seek to be, but
do not have true being. It was for this reason that Socrates
called those philosophers demented. Actually, the generations
which immediately followed the Persian Wars reacted vigorously, as we also have seen; but what triumphed in the field

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XAVIER ZUBffil

of intelligence was what led to the rational science of natural
things. The first ones to elaborate it, Empedocles and Anaxagoras, still _too closely resembled Parmenides and Heraclitus.
On the contrary, those men whose endeavors subsequently
established science firmly, had for the most part scarcely seen
the light of day in Socrates' time. Therefore Socrates could
not (!enter his attention exclusively on them. And Empedocles
and Anaxagoras, if we consider them to be scientists, were
little more than embryonic. Because of their
with
classical wisdom, they were incapable, as it were, of satisfactorily coming into touch with the things of daily life. Protagoras alone sought to make things his point of departure, yet
even he took them, not in the sense of natural things, ovTo., but
in that of usual things, xpfJp,o.To.. But we have seen where he
arrived.
And so Socrates is in this regard.a typical representative of
his generation. We can understand why he was mistaken for
a Sophist. He tried to think and talk of things as they appear
directly in daily life, not in public life, in the realm of 86go., but,
on the contrary, taking them as they are in themselves, that is,
as they really are, independent of circumstance. Socrates situated himself momentarily in private life. Public life was to
come later. Only a good man can be a good citizen, and only
a good citizen can be a good statesman. So Socrates applied
his mind to the ordinary things of life, with9ut rhetoric, but
with mens. Before Socrates, the mens had been applied only
to "the Divine," to Nature, to the cosmos, or to the rational
investigation of the nature of things. Now it concentrated, by
a curious paradox, on the modest things of daily life. This
was the radical innovation of Socrates. The grave defect of
traditional philosophy was, in his opinion, that it had disdained daily life and had. disqualified it as an object of Wisdom,
and then had sought to control it with considerations drawn
from the clouds and the stars. Socrates meditated on common
things, and on what man does with them in life. Moreover,
he meditated on the Texvo.t. But the Texvo.t on which he medi-

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

49

tated were, therefore, not only the ones which were established
as sciences, but also every branch of "knowing-how-to-do " in
life: the crafts, such as carpentry and healing. That is to say
all the skills which man acquires in his intercourse with things.
This is the Greek conception of
or virtue, which intrinsically is wholly devoid of any primarily moral sense. " Is "
once again entered into philosophy, although not ·the "is" of
Nature, but the " is " of those things which are within the reach
of man and upon which his life depends. I believe that the
excerpt from Xenophon is sufficiently explicit on this point.
Let us immediately rise to meet a false interpretation. The
fact that Socrates meditated upon the things of daily life does
not mean that he meditated only upon man and b.is actions.
Commonly, the testimony of Aristotle is taken to mean this.
has an infinitely broader
Nevertheless, the Greek word
meaning than the one we now give to the word " ethics." The
ethical embraces primarily man's attitudes towards life, his
character, his customs, and, naturally, the moral element.
Actually the word could be translated as " way or manner of
life," in the fullest sense of the word, in contrast to the single
meaning of " manner." And so Socrates adopted a new way
Conseof life: meditation upon what the things of life
quently, the "ethical" element lay not primarily in what he
meditated upon, but in the very fact that he lived in meditation. The things of life are not man, but they are the things
which are encountered in his life and on which he depends.
To make man's life depend on meditation upon these things
is not to choose the moral in contrast to the natural as a subject of meditation; it is simply to make of meditation the
supreme ethos. In other words, Socratic. wisdom does not
center upo'Ti the ethical, it is in itself ethical. That actually he
centered his meditation by preference on civic virtue is some.,.
thing wholly secondary. The essential fact is that the intellectual man ceased to be a vagabond who lived among the stars
as ethics: this was the conand became a wise man.
tribution of Socrates. Basically it was a new intellectual life.
This new ethics, the ethics of meditation upon the things of
4

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XAVIER ZUBmi

life, led inevitably to a specific intellection of them. With
traditional philosophy, as we have seen, Nature is that whence
all emerges; and when wisdom took the form of rational science, things appeared before the mens with their own
"Nature" gave way to "the nature of each thing." Socrates
was far removed from this for the time being. When, in order
to establish things as a basis for life, he focused his mens and
his meditation upon things as they present themselves in life,
eivc:u-the fact that things " are "-took on a new value. It
was not, at the outset, anything alluding to the nature of things,
nor does this mean that Socrates discovered the concept. For
that we must wait for Aristotle and Plato. But the Aristotelian
concept is nothing but the theory of the quid, of the nature of
each thing, of its TL What the mens of Socrates achieved by
concentrating upon the things of daily life was to see the
" what " of the things of life. Wisdom as ethics led, therefore,
to something decisive with respect to the understanding of
things, something so significant that it was the root of all the
new philosophy, and allowed philosophy to find anew, by new
paths, the themes of traditional philosophy which, for the
moment, had been put aside.
But let us not anticipate. First a few words about the development of Socratic meditation on the " what" of things.
To begin with, it developed as Socrates thought and talked
with his friends. But conversation was no longer dispute. It
could not now be a matter of defending pre-existing opinions,
because there were no opinions to be defended and therefore
it would have been idle to expound them. Talking of things,
from the standpoint of things, was now what took place. Conversation ceased to be dispute and became dialogue, a calm and
peaceful movement among things which permitted one to steep
himself in them. It was a form of talk in which man, rather
than speaking himself, allowed things to talk; it was almost as
though things themselves spoke within us. Socrates doubtless
recalled that for Parmenides and Heraclitus man's infallible
kilowledge of things issued from something that man has within
and
him and which, to them seemed something divine,

SOCRATES

AND GREEK WISDOM

51

A6yos. Socrates sought to eliminate all excessive allusion to a
superhuman wisdom. Man's wisdom, for Socrates, was nothing divine, Oe'iov; he was satisfied to call it modestly 8atp,6vwv.
To attain such wisdom he held in suspension that feeling of
assurance and certainty with which man reposes upon the
things of life. He made it evident that in daily life one does
not know what he holds in his hands; the very thing which
makes life usual is precisely this ignorance. To recognize it is
to establish oneself in the life of wisdom. Thereupon things,
and along with them life itself, become problems. It is the
wisdom of ignorance, of "not knowing whereof you speak."
Only at this price does man capture a new kind of certainty.
When we talk with a sick man, we take into consideration his
sickness, and even share his misfortune. But if we put aside
our vital relationship with him, and consequently if we ignore
this relationship of man to man which attains its fullest development in the totality of the circumstances and situations in
which it takes place, then the sick man vanishes from before
our eyes and we are left face to face with his sickness, and the
sickness is no longer object of compassion or grief, it is simply
an ensemble of characteristics which the sick man possessesa quid. And this shift of attention from the sick man to his
sickness, which for the time being leaves the man to one side,
becomes paradoxically a new, firmer, and surer way of" treating the sick." This was the source of the universality of the
Aristotelian definition and of that singular change of the notion
of "what" to the notion of "why." Socrates himself did not
even dimly discern this. But it could be achieved only by
Socratic reflection.
In this way, by this " irony," by interrupting the course of
wisdom and establishing it on firmer and more readily accessible
ground, namely the things of daily life, Socrates saved in principle the truth discovered by traditional wisdom. But only in
principle, for the full development of a-ocf>l,a as a way of knowing
was the achievement of Plato and Aristotle.
Was Socrates a philosopher? If by philosopher we mean
one who has a philosophy, he was not. If we mean one who

XAVIER ZUBIRI

is searching for a philosophy, perhaps not, either. But he was
something more. Actually his life was a philosophic existence,
an existence rooted in a philosophic
which, in a world
strangled by public life, opened up to a private group of friends
the realm of an intellectual life and of a philosophy, and estfl,blished it upon new bases, launching it in a new direction,
perhaps without realizing too clearly whither it was headed.
Philosophy found its constitution -in Socratic reflection. The
life of Athens offered Socrates a limited number of choices: to
project himself into public life as a virtuoso of oratory and
thought, like Protagoras and his disciples; to busy himself with
the new branches of knowledge from which later were to come
the sciences; to sink himself in the amorphous mass of citizens
absorbed in the rounds of daily life; to re-enter the flow of
contemporary life-not simply to let himself be carried along
by it but to guide it by meditation based upon what the things
of life " are." Socrates unhesitatingly chose the last of these
courses. And his decision made possible the existence of
philosophy.
The actual content of his activity is of little consequence,
and his personal life of even less. The majority of his disciples
took his attitude, his
as a Tp61ros, a manner and no more.
They tried, with more or with less mental baggage-baggage
and nothing else-to imitate Socrates. Assuredly this was for
him the bitter irony of his life. Out of this imitation grew the
small Socratic schoools.
A few sought to do something more, sought to adopt his
to approach things Socratically, to live Socratically the
problems which things pose for the intelligence, and things
rewarded them with new uocpl.a-the " philo-sophy " of the
Academy and the Lyceum.

VII
CoNCLUSION:

PLATO AND ArusTOTLE,

DisciPLEs

oF SoCRATEs

In what way did Plato and Aristotle carry on the work of
Socrates? With this question we return to the starting point
of this study.

SOCRATES

AND GREEK WISDOM

58

If we would get to the core of our problem it is strictly of
secondary importance to establish the exact catalogue of problems and concepts that Plato inherited from Socrates and Aristotle from Plato. Furthermore, it is nonsensical to speak of
intellectual discipleship in such terms. Precisely the moment
when, after the death of Plato, Speusippus put himself at the
head of the Academy on the grounds of kinship and scholastic
orthodoxy is the moment when Aristotle withdrew to Asia
Minor because he realized that being an intellectual disciple
was not a matter of sect or of family.
Plato was Socratic in a much deeper sense, as in the sam,
sense was Aristotle. They both took the same point of departure, namely, reflection upon orqinary things, with the intention of getting to know what man has right before his eyes,
and what he himself is to be in this life. This is what makes
Plato and Aristotle the great Socratics. But, in addition, their
development of the original reflection led them to recapture
rational knowledge and the science of statesmanship and to
·establish them for the first time upon the firm basis of reflection upon the
of life. Finally, they both ended by transforming their
into a new interpretation of the fundamental
problems of the universe, on the basis of
experience,
thus coming directly to grips with the great problems of classical wisdom. This is " philo-sophia." These three stages-the
primary experience of things, the rational knowledge of them,
and philosophy-are the three stages by which one single form
of reflection, Socratic reflection, reached its maturity. To be
sure, Plato and Aristotle followed different paths in the course
of this process,,as we shall see. But it is much more important
for us to see that they are radii from the single Socratic focus,
and to include the divergences as part of a common development whereby Socratic reflection, essentially one and undivided,
attained maturity.
1. The point of departure: the primary experience of things:
-Plato and Aristotle took as their point of departure reflection
upon things and the affairs of life.

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This furnished them with the first idea of what a thing is,
and thereby with a vision of Nature. Socratic reflection led
them, by other paths than were followed by the Ionians, to the
very problems of the Ionians: the discovery of Nature.
If man lived from moment to moment, life would be basically
unstable; every act would begin at zero; everything would be a
matter of chance (rox7J); life would have the structure of disconnected points. But at the level of the higher animals there
is something more; memory furnishes them with a primary
framework thanks to which they not only act, but also have a
fo'rm of conduct, a f3£os. And in man there is something more
still; his conduct is, for its part, determined by an understanding of what he does (TEX11'1J) • This is what gives human life its
peculiar character.
For Plato, the essence of "knowing-how-to-do" is knowing
whereof one's acts consist. The first experience which Plato
garnered in his contact with ordinary things is this quid, their
,£. When he possesses this, man knows what he has within his
hand, and he can therefore do things well (Ka.Aws). Thus the T£
is closely associated with, and directed toward, " well-doing "
(To &:ya06v). What is this T£? In the first place it is not what
traditional science had been seeking, for example the various
proportions in which the four elements of the cosmos enter into
each thing. No, it is something less pretentious, and within
reach of everyone; something acquired through Socratic reflection. I see at a distance an object and I think it is a man; l
approach closer and I see that it is a bush. What was believed
at first and what was seen next, together compose the assemblage of features or typical traits of a given thing that distinguish it from all other things. So the Athenian is distinguished from the Persian by his " type " and the governor from
the merchant by the " type " of activity to which he devotes
himself. This assemblage of characteristics is what was called,
in the broadest sense of the word, e!Sos, figure. Plato realized
that the eyes alone do not suffice to see it. Therefore animals
do not know what things are, just as the layman does not see
in a factory the machine, but only wheels and metal. Only

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

55

the man who understands the machine sees it, that is to say,
only the man who knows how to manipulate it. The " figure "
is in this sense something which is seen in an intelligent mental
vision; therefore Plato called it Idea. "To be" means "to
consist," and what things consist of is the Idea.
For this reason Plato's thought was driven from things to
what they consist of: the Idea. Things have consistence in
the Idea, but the Idea is consistent. Therefore the Idea was
regarded as a second thing side by side with the first, and the
result is that the things we think of are not strictly the same
as the things we live with.
Aristotle was perhaps more fundamentally Socratic. Through
"knowing how to do " Plato learned " what " things are, and
this was therefore for him an experience of the consistence of
things. On the other hand, doing itself led Aristotle to experience of things themselves, because, even though having to do
things is a simple human condition, how they are done does not
depend simply upon the doing but also upon the nature of the
things which are done. Therefore, it is an experience of what
things are in themselves. If knowing were independent of
doing, we should never have gone beyond Plato; being would
be consistence. But for Aristotle, knowing and doing were
two aspects of a single phenomenon, of the TEXVTJ· Hence with
him, being was manifested as reality. And this led him along
different paths.
What, actually, is reality? If we are making something, for
example, a chair, it will be real when it is finished, when it is
ready to leave the shop. To have reality is then, in the first
place, to have substantivity, sistere extra causas, to "ex-sist."
And what is this substantive reality? The wood of which the
chair is made is not a chair except when it fulfills its .mission,
for example when it serves for sitting upon. Reality, in this
sense, means to function as something, actuality.
But what actuality? The actuality of all the characteristics
And when this figure attains
of a chair, of its figure, its
actuality in the wood, the wood takes on the substantivity of
the chair. The actuality of the figure or form is the basis of

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substantiality. This interrelation between the two meanings of
reality, between actuality and substantiality, so obvious to
Aristotle and so portentous in its consequences, covers the first
phase of his experience of things. It is what established once
and for all the meaning of being through the entire course of
European thought.
The figure is not, then, primarily consistence. Plato forgot
that what things consist of is first of all what they are. In
what sense? In a certain sense, the reality of the chair is the
wood. But strictly, the wood is only the material for its manufacture, something destined to, something from which the chair
will be made. ,It has neither substantiality nor actuality, that
is to say it has reality only because of the " to ·and from "
which are its destiny. Of itself it is only pure" disposability,"
possibility. Its reality proceeds from its mission. Material
and form are not two things, either separate or conjoined; they
are not two elements, but two principles,
of one single
thing. Reality thus is the substantlvation and actualization of
possibilities; form is configuration; and-real things are offspring
substance; the things we think
of their inner principles,
of are the same as the ones we encounter in daily life. Life
rests firmly upon the substance of things. All else is pure
plausibility. For the first time, common things entered philosophy. In a word, for Aristotle to be is not to consist· but to
subsist.
Both these experiences of things were attained by reflection
upon ordinary handling of them. The ei3o!; of a hammer, what
the hammer is, is perceived when the hammer is used for driving nails; the ei3o!; of a chair, when we sit on it. The inner
aspect of the reality of things is revealed when we handle them.
That is when the 1rpcf:yfLaTa, things in the sense of the things of
daily life, take on the status of natural things, ovTa. Because, if
what we do is artificial, the doing is natural, it is Nature made
manifest in us.
Things and Nature will be understood according as " knowing-how-to-do " is understood.
In "knowing-how-to-do " Plato saw only the " what," and,

SOCRATES .AND GREEK WISDOM

57

consequently, the artificer who shapes the m;:tterial with his
eyes fixed upon the idea he is seeking to realize. This led Plato
to an interpretation of Nature which is more obvious but more
complex than that of the Ionians, thanks to a discovery comparable orily to those of Parmenides and Heraclitus. When
something comes into being, not only does a being come to
life, but also the being is of the same type as its progenitors:
man, lion, bird. The generative impulse derives its strength in
life from the progenitors, but with " a view to " a determined
species. Therefore, coming to life is not simply birth (cf>vew)
but generation (yl:yvecrOat), in the strict sense of the word,
something by virtue of which the engendered thing has a
genealogy. The Idea is not only consistent; it is also the genus,
yevor;, of a thing. Nature bears within her an Idea, her eyes
are ever fixed upon it. The power of genus is altogether different in character from that of the simple impulse to give
birth, but no less real. Both are aspects of a single force, which
Plato therefore called epoor;, love. · It is something which leads
outside itself to the production of an individual thing of a determined species. Instead of Ionian physiology we have genealogy. Once it has been produced, each thing consists of a
series of operations carried out with " a view " to the ideal type
which transcends it.
For Aristotle, on the contrary, TEXV7J was a "doing" in which
the artificer draws the ideas from within himself. Nature bears
within her an Idea. This, however, is not something external
on which Nature has her" eyes" fixed, but is an internal principle. Generation is autoconformation, something which leads
not outside oneself but to the realization of oneself, morphogeneia. Instead of physiology we have, not genealogy, but
morphology. Once a thing has been produced, its nature consists of that internal principle whence issue its own operations.
Figure is not only a principle of being; it is also a principle of
operation, nature.
Although along different lines, in both Plato and in Aristotle
the ei8or;, the figure as it occurs in daily life, is what makes
things first
usual things, and afterwards ovTa, natural

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things. Thus Plato and Aristotle again arrived at the· ancient
wisdom of Ionia, but they established it upon the firm and
controllable basis of Socratic reflection.
2. The expression of this experience: rational knowledge and
statesmanship: -Man, besides doing things, talks about them.
And just as he must know what he does, so must he know
what he says. The strength of the
does not come from
the strength of him who speaks, but from the things whereof
he speaks. Therefore, instead of strong or weak opinions, such
as we had with Protagoras, we have true or false reasons, A6yo,.
The experience of Socratic talk inexorably led Plato and Aristotle to define the structure of things, not only as objects of
use, x_pf]p,aTa,or as things which exist in the Universe, 5vra,. but
also as objects of expression, A.eyop,eva. How must things be in
order to be expressable? What is there in them which demands
their expression? The reply to these questions is not rhetoric,
but logic; and wisdom must be not culture but science.
The
only expresses what things are. And what is
most obvious to our observation is that regarding one thing we
can say many things, while at the same time we can apply one
things must be
single thing to many. As object of the
one· and multiple. This makes it possible to express them; this
makes it necessary to express them. The whole problem hinges
on the interpretation of this complex.
Plato was the first to insist that these numerous predicates
are not arbitrarily conferred upon things.· Man, for example,
is a living being, but animal, not vegetable; and not irrational
animal, but rational. The unity of the " what " is formed by
subdividing, as it were, a supreme "
" into a more limited
figure, and the latter into
and so on until one is found
which applies only to the thing in question, its
its own
figure. Until this is done, the various elements of the" what"
apply equally to many things. The particular " what " of each
thing is, then, the final result of making precise a vast reality,
within which the diverse aspects exist, conjoined and separate,
in a perfectly defined system. Since the being of things is their

SOCRATES AND GREEK WISDOM

59

"what," their consistence, it follows that the conjoining and
separation perform a judgment which, .when true, is the being
and the non-being of things. In this identity, which resulted
from a conception of being as consistence, resides the whole
Platonic interpretation of things as object of the
And
this implies that in reality there exists not only a force of being
but also a no less real force of non-being. It is the first time
that there appeared in philosophy the problem of non-being as
something not simply to be rejected, as was the case with
Parmenides, but positively accepted in the form of a negation.
Plato was aware of the magnitude of his innovation. He did
not hesitate to call it parricide, referring to Parmenides. The
" what " of things thus constitutes an intelligible world, a
with a dialectical structure. Therefore the mind
cannot come to rest on any one predicate without being carried
on to the remainder by the force of being and non-being. It is
compelled to move and to reason. Therefore rational knowledge of things is necessary and possible, and therefore it is
possible to engage in dialogue.
For Aristotle, however, being was not consistence, but subsistence. The" what" is not the whole of reality, but only its
" what." The
therefore does not contain reality but has
reference to it and unfolds it in the thing which is and what
the thing is. Upon this unfolding and the consequent articulation of the members Aristotle relied for his interpretation of
things as object of the
The multiple elements of the
the figure, are not only
something which a thing simply has, but which it has because
it is what it is. One is not a man because he is a rational animal, but on the contrary, one is a rational animal because he
the form of things, is an inner unity, a
is a man. The
kind of central focus in each thing, which moulds its own material in a series of qualities whose external configurati()n is the
figure of the thing. It is a primal unity which unfurls itself in
the many qualities. Therefore the
is not only the shape
of things, but also their essence. The
takes each of these
elements separately and joins them by the copula in a derived

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unity which we call definition. This is the structure of things
and with this distinction between the
as objects of the
being of t;he judgment and the being of things, Aristotle,
squarely confronting Plato, opened up the autonomous field of
logic. This threefold
which is at one and the same time
what shapes things, what constitutes their properties, and the
prmciple of their operations, makes it possible for a thing to be
the thing by which we live, the thing of which we think, and
the thing which exists and actuates in this world. For Aristotle
to be is not only to subsist, but to subsist essentially.
For Plato, the Sophist was the man who is moved only by
the force of non-being. Therefore he lacked content, his mind
was dispersed in the amorphous flow of words and opinions.
But for Aristotle the Sophist was the man for whom nothing
essential exists, ·for whom nothing has a content of its own, and
consequently whatever he says about things is pure chance, a
fleeting coincidence. It is possible for men to live and talk with
one another only when the wind stands firmly on essential
structures. All the rest is fundamental insubstantiality. And
only when it rests on the substance of 1rpO:yp,a7acan there exist
or a just public life.
afirm and stable
Aristotle and Plato felt anew the need of their epoch for
rational science and statesmanship, both of which had been
checked and held in suspension by Socratic reflection. We can
now see clearly the significance of this act of arresting and
suspending; it was imperative once again to establish reasoning and dialogue upon the substance of things, and this was
on the point of vanishing in Athens. Socratic irony was the
savior of science and statesmanship.
3. The basis of this experience: philo-sophia: -But the very
thing which compelled Socrates to save philosophy led him to
supersede it. Before Socrates, Greece had had wise men who,
when their mens ranged through the universe, obtained that
. splendid vision which was called a-ocpia. This vision subsequently was molded into rational science and rhetoric. And
both, as we have
were on the point of perishing precisely

SOCRATES

AND GREEK WISDOM

61

because they were casting loose from the thinking mens. When
men reverted to the mens and set it on its course again, science
as objective dialogue once more became possible; but at the
same time the very idea of the mens underwent a certain
change, and consequently so did the idea of wisdom. Wisdom
was no longer a mere " vision" of the universe; it was rational
intelligence, emcrTf}p:YJ. But it was not any intellection whatsoever. Whereas natural science and statesmanship set out
from certain suppositions, with which they understand things,
wisdom on the contrary delves into the very roots of these
assumptions, these principles; and from the principles it witnesses their constitution and expansion in things, because it is
not only a question of principles of knowing but also, above all,
of the very principles of reality. Wisdom is not simply E'ITtcrT..fJJ.tTJ,
nor only
but both, or, as Aristotle says, science plus intelligence: emcrT..fJJ.tTJKat
The mens had come to be no longer
mere vision, but understanding of principles; and wisdom had
become basic intellection. Had it not been for this, the wise
man would have been a kind of mystic or lyric poet of the intelligence; and he would never have achieved the discipline of
knowledge. And, for his part, the scientist would never have
been more than a reasoner, and the statesman, an orator. With
both things, that divine thing which man has in him no longer
was effective wisdom but an effort to attain it, i.e. "</>tA.ocrocf>£a," a concern for wisdom. Hence the philosopher was not a
god, but a man (Symp. 203 E), and philosophy a force or
human " virtue," pure intellectual virtue.
The mens then, thenceforth turned, not to the elements, but
to the principles of things. What principles? The supreme principles of things, for us ultimate principles, for things primary
principles, Ta 1rpw-ra, as Aristotle said. And precisely for this
reason, this intellection of supreme principles embraces the
totality of all that exists, not in a pedantic, encyclopedic survey, in the manner of the Sophists, but in its basic unity. In
the supreme principles, all things principally reside, and precisely for that reason the principles are supreme. Aristotle
said, therefore, that wisdom is, in this sense, the knowledge of

XAVIER ZUBffii

what is most universal. This habit, lg,s, of principles is what
makes possible a true science and a good life. Science and
statesmanship are "virtue."
Plato and Aristotle again disagreed when they came to speak
in precise terms of the nature of this supreme principle. The
path which leads to the supreme principle is marked by that
on which everything agrees. But what is this on which everything agrees? Of what consists that which we call " everything?" It seems that we then revert to the wisdom of the
ancients: the All is Nature. But Plato had already discovered
that in birth, coming into being, there is a genealogy. "Being
as consistence " is genitive but not generative. The cori.fusion
on this point is what made all ancient wisdom deserve the title
of mythology, in the opinion of Plato. The principles which
are common to things would then be their ultimate genera,
among these, " being " and "non-being." But is this the ultimate principle of things? For Plato it was not. Precisely
because being is genitive, because it makes things consist of
this or that, its "making," if we may so term it, must have a
view not only to what it does, but to doing it " well." If what
it does lies beneath being, the "good," &:ya()6v, of its doing is
beyond being. The ultimate principle of things is not being;
being is not enough, there is something beyond being, a supreme
source of the Universe for which it constitutes an All.
For Aristotle, to be is not to consist, but to subsist. Thus
what Plato called being is not genus, but, on the contrary, in
each individual case it has no more content than each thing
confers on it. Being is self-sufficient. Nevertheless, when we
contemplate all that exists, that all is such precisely because
each thing " is." Being, which is the innermost principle of
everything, turns out to be what I find common to all things
when I understand them with my mens. The ultimate, for
Aristotle, then, is being. And principles are supreme when
they are principles of being. But what is this being? What
are these principles? The totality of the universe leaves floating before the eyes of the philosopher, as a problem, this " is,"
which was discovered by Parmenides and Heraclitus, but which

SOCRATES .AND GREEK WISDOM

68

was erroneously substantivated by them and by Plato himself.
For both of them, wisdom was something which is sought,
just as Socrates sought, perhaps without knowing too well what
he was seeking. It is not something which things deposit in
man when he merely uses them in his daily life or when he
understands them through science; it is something that is captured by an impulse which draws man from daily or scientific
life to ultimate principles. Plato and Aristotle called this
the desire to know the ultimate about
impulse " desire,"
(Met., 983a 25) . For Plato this desire was
everything,
an lp(J)<;, a passion which draws us out of ourselves and carries
us beyond being. Philosophy has its principle of truth in this
frenzy and takes in to the fathomless depths a Truth which is
beyond being. In a certain sense, wisdom is not loved for itself.
For Aristotle, philosophy had no other principle of truth than
" what we are," or if you prefer, a desire which leads us to be
fully ourselves in the possession of intelligence. Wisdom is
loved for itself.
Actually a fearful convulsion traversed the Socratic world.
Is the ultimate principle of things their being? Is the basis of
what we call things "longing " or "fulfilment "; is it lp(J)'> or
If we will still speak of "love," or "desire," is this
love tJ-av[a, "frenzy," or &:y&:1r7J, "effusion?" 6 Here we catch a
glimpse of the whole subsequent drama of European philosophy. In these queries we have indeed summed up the basic
problem of philosophy. As such it can be seen only in its
outcome. The various channels through which wisdom has
flowed are the various forms it has adopted on seeking to
penetrate deeper and deeper into the ultimate truth of things.
For this reason it is perhaps meaningless to ask of philosophy
what, in the abstract, it is; what its definition is; for philosophy
is the problem of the form of wisdom. Philosophy is therefore
always simply what it has come to be. No other definition is
• The reader will perhaps be struck by the values given to the Greek words in
the text. The translator has sought, however, to render the author's own words as
faithfully as possible rather than give what might be considered more orthodox
English translations of the Greek terms.

64

XAVIER ZUBIRI

possible. Philosophy is not characterized primarily by the
understanding it attains, but by the principle which moves it
and by which it exists, and through whose intellectual activity
it unfolds and consists. Philosophy as understanding is simply
the cbntent of the intellectual life, of a f3l,os Oe(J)pTJT£K6s, of an
effort to understand the ultimate in things. The Socratic
led to the f3l,os of the intelligence. And in the intelligence took
place the acquisition of truth and the realization of the good.
This was the achievement of Socrates. Once the intelligence
was set on its course and established on the firm basis of the
things within its reach, it again encountered the great themes
of traditional wisdom. Only then did speculation take on an
effective meaning for man; it did not succeed in so doing when
it sought to follow the opposite path. At the same time, Plato
and Aristotle gave us, along with this, our first major lesson in
the History of Philosophy, a truly Socratic lesson. The History
of Philosophy is neither culture nor philosophical erudition. To
meet all other philosophers on philosophy's own grounds-that
is the History of Philosophy.
XAVIER ZUBIRI

Madrid, Spain.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY
BEATITUDE
ACCORDING TO THE THOUGHT OF ST. THOMAS AQUINAS

T

HOMAS AQUINAS has been rightly appraised as one
of the most socially-minded Fathers of the Middle Ages.
His synthesis of medieval life interprets, comprehensively, the manifold group relations that human beings normally sustain to each other. Thus, his social interests range
widely over the field of family life, the state, war and peace,
property and trade, and, indeed, the major areas of human
association. Throughout, he stresses the unity of life, the theoretical bases and practical expressions of human solidarity, the
indispensably social character of human living. 1 And of his
contributions in these areas scholars have written extensively. 2
But when Thomas concerns himself with humanity, he considers the whole man, not some partial aspect of his life. Thus,
his anthropology views man not only in his natural environment but more significantly in relation to his supernatural
destiny. 3 Man's :fi:D.al happiness, or beatitude, he thinks of as
1 Typical references are:
Summa Theologiae (S. Theol.), I q. 96 a. 4; Ia llae
q. 81 a. 1, q. 90 a. 2, q. 105 a. 2; lla IIae q. 40 a. 2, q. 58 a. 5, q. 109 a. 3, q. 114
a. 2, q. 129 a. 6. The edition here utilized, through lla llae, is that of the Ottawa
Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Ottawa, Canada, 1941-42. See also the Summa
Contra Gentiles (Con. Gent.), III, 117, 151, 128, 85, 129; In octo Libros Politicorum Aristotelis Expositio, Lib. I, entire. Part III of the S. Theol., and all other
works of Thomas cited or quoted in this article are according to the Opera Omnia
(Op.), edited by S. E. Frette and P. Mare, Paris, 1871-1880.
• Representative of the better studies are: Otto Schilling, Die Staats- und
Soziallehre des hl. Thomas von Aquin (2nd ed., Munich, 1930); Ernst Troeltsch,
The Social Teaching of the Christian Churches, Trans!. by Olive Wyon (New
York, 1931), I, 257-328; Theodor Steinblichel, "Der Zweckgedanke in der Philosophie des Thomas von Aquino," Beitriige zur Geschichte der Philosophie des Mittelalters, XI. 1 (1913), 102-111; Fr. Mathier Robert, "La Doctrine Sociale de S.
Thomas et sa Realization dans les Faits," Revue Thomiste, XX (1912), 49-65.
3 Cf. Etienne Gilson, Le Thomisme:
lnt·roduction au Systeme de Saint Thomas
d' Aquin (3rd ed., Paris, 1927), pp. 297-98.

65
5

66

R. C. PETRY

being realized in this ultimate sphere. His final citizenship is
to be that of the heavenly Fatherland, the patria. Human
solidarity is to reach its final development and re-investment
in the company of the Trinity and the angels. Thomas never
tires of repeating the assertion that God is not only man's
creator but also his supreme end. Moreover, as the summum
bonum He is the common end toward which all men are
directed. 4 By every law of rational deduction, those who find
eternal beatitude in the company of God, their common end,
might be thought of as attaining the full and lasting fruition
of their own mutuality. This is in accord with early Christian
authors. They clearly teach that such sociality as man knows
here is sprung from the heavenly comm1,mity which engenders
him and to which he will return. Augustine, whom Thomas so
clearly admires, advances this position with eloquent power. 5
If, then, Thomas treats in such admirable fashion the fraternal association which is so eagerly sought in this life, what
may he ,not be expected to portray of the social joys reserved
for the inhabitants of the heavenly country?
Of Thomas' teachings on this important point, however, there
has been relatively little satisfactory interpretation. 6 Among
those who have interested themselves in his conception of the
heavenly community are some who have emerged with professedly negative and somewhat startling results. Thus, one
• Con. Gent., III, 17: "Praeterea, Bonum particulare ordinatur in bonum commune, sicut in finem; esse enim partis est propter esse totius; unde et bonum gentis
est divinius quam bonum unius hominis. Bonum autem summum, quod est Deus,
est bonum commune, quum ex eo universorum dependeat; bonum autem quo
quaelibet res bona est, est bonum particulare ipsius et aliorum quae ab ipsa
dependent. Omnes igitur res ordinantur sicut in finem in unum bonum, quod est
Deus." See the whole "Treatise On The Last End," S. Theol .. Ia Ilae qq. 1-5,
and, especially, q. I a. 8, q. 2 a. 8 ad 2, q. 8 a. 5 ad 8.
• See, among
De Civitate Dei, XII, 22, V, 17, XIV, 28, XIX, 18, XXII,
80; Enarrationes in Psalmos, CXLIX, 8, 5; De Cantico Novo et de Reditu ad
Coelestem Patriam ac Viae Petriculis--Sermo ad Catechumenos, cap. 10; De Genesi
ad Litteram, XI, 15.
• The following emphasize the supernatural consummation and imply, though
they do not discuss, its social character: Steinbiichel, op. cit., XI, 111-121; Oskar
Renz, " Die Synteresis nach dem hi. Thomas von Aquin," Beitriige, X. 1-2 (1912),
espec. 214-SO.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY BEATITUDE

67

scholar, Dr. Flew, after assessing Thomas' conception of the
heavenly perfection concludes with apparent perplexity in this
fashion:
Can we say that the social bliss of the redeemed in heaven is
dwelt upon and emphasized as though it were congenial to the
mind of our Angelic Doctor? It must be regretfully admitted that
he seems to contemplate a solus cum solo beatitude. 7
He then quotes

the following

excerpts

from the Summa

Theologica:
" If we speak of the happiness of this life, a happy man needs
friends ... that he may do good to them; that he may delight in
seeing them do good; and again that he may be helped by. them in
his good work ....
" But if we speak of perfect happiness which will be in our
heavenly Fatherland, the fellowship of friends is not essential to
happiness; since man has the entire fullness of his perfection in
God. But the fellowship of friends conduces to the well-being of
happiness ....
" Perfection of charity is essential to happiness, as to the love of
God, but not as to the love of our neighbour. Wherefore if there
were but one soul enjoying God, it would be happy, though having
no neighbour to love." a

This writer goes on to say that so far as he can discover
" there is no passage in the Summa Theologica which neutralizes
the anti-social affirmation of this article." He does quote some
passages which, as he says, " imply another and a more Christian doctrine " of heaven. 9 They would, he thinks, " allow for
the perpetuation of human friendship and a real communio
sanctorum." And then he closes with this discouraging
comment:
• R. Newton Flew, The Idea of Perfection in Christian Theology (Oxford,
1984), chapter XII, eapec., pp. 241-248. See, alao, Baron Friedrich von Hugel,
Eternal Life (Edinburgh, 1918), whose discussion of contrasting "Non-Social and
Social Currents in Aquinas," p. 106-109, is utilized by Dr. Flew. The Baron documents to Thomas' own writings a solus cum solo current together with a more
deeply Chri&tian, social tendency.
8 The excerpts are from Ia Ilae q. 4 a. 8 (Flew, op. cit., pp. 242-48).
9 He cites Con. Gent., III, 21; S. Theol., I q. 19 a. 2, q. 20 a. I and 2.

68

R. C. PETRY

But the consequences of this more Christian idea seem not to
have been realized by St. Thomas. We have a curious result. The
ideal which he sketches as realizable in the present life is, in this
one respect at least, superior to the fuller beatitude in the life
beyond. 10

Taken by itself, Thomas' Summa article does seem a devastating pronouncement. But it is only fair to observe that this
is more a matter of Thomas' stressing the all-sufficiency of
God, than it is a case of his derogating human sociality in
heaven. He wishes it made quite clear that man needs no one
in addition to God to make him happy. No other conclusion
can possibly be satisfactory to Thomas from his premise that
God is the summum bonum, the last end, and happiness itself
by his very essence. 11
Nevertheless, as if aware of the possibility that unfortunate
inferences may be drawn, Thomas hastens to add that, though
not necessary to the heavenly beatitude, the "fellowship of
friends conduces to the well-being of Happiness." 12 Perhaps in
these very words, which Dr. Flew quotes but does not comment upon, Thomas actually begins to neutralize his preceding
" anti-social affirmation."
What follows immediately, though Dr. Flew strangely omits
it, is even more significant:
Hence Augustine says (Gen. ad lit. viii.) that "the spiritual
creatures receive no other interior aid to happiness than the eternity, truth, and charity of the Creator. But if they can be said to
be helped from without, perhaps it is only by this that they see
one another and rejoice in God, at their fellowship." 13
1

° Flew, op. cit., p.

S. Theol., Ia Ilae q. 1 a. 8, Resp.: " ... Deus est ultimus finis hominis et
omnium aliarum rerum." Q. 3- a. 1, Resp.: "ffitimus autem finis vocatur beatitudo." A. 1 ad 1: " ... Deus est beatitudo per essentiam suam .... " A. 8,
Resp.: " Et sic perfectionem suam habebit per unionem ad Deum sicut ad
obiectum, in quo solo beatitudo hominis consistit .... " Cf.. q. fl a. 8; Con. Gent.,
11

III, 17.
12 " Sed ad bene esse beatitudinis
facit societas amicorum." S. Theol., Ia Ilae
q. 4 a. 8, Resp.
18 The translation
is that of the Dominican Fathers. The Latin text reads:

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY BEATITUDE

69

Thomas is here agreeing with Augustine that if anything supplements the saints' happiness in God it is their joy in Godgiven, human fellowship. Furthermore, Dr. Flew's final quotation breaks off at an unfortunate juncture: " Wherefore if there
were but one soul enjoying God, it would be happy, though
having no neighbour to love." The lines immediately following proceed once more to guard against anti-social conclusions:
"But supposing one neighbour to be there, love of him results
from perfect love of God. Consequently, friendship is, as it
were, concomitant with perfect Happiness." 14 The implication
seems plain: according to logical premises, men will not require friends for heavenly beatitude; but friendship will harmonize with the perfect happiness that is to be. Thomas not
only supposes the logical possibility, but focuses the natural
expectation, that beatitude in the patria will be a social experience. May one not invoke here the stirring reminder offered
by Dr. Gilson: namely, that for Thomas there is a continuity
between man's natural and supernatural life, between his terrestrial and celestial happiness; that the heavenly is not the
rejection but the sublimation, transformation and fulfillment of
the earthly? 15 May not Thomas be suggesting here, and
perhaps saying boldly elsewhere, that human friendship, far
"Unde Augustinus dicit, VIII Super Genesim ad Litt. [cap. 25 (PL XXXIV, 391) ],
quod 'creatura spiritualis, ad hoc quod sit beata, non nisi· intrinsecus adiuvatur
aeternitate, veritate, caritate Creatoris. Extrinsecus vero, si adiuvari dicenda est,
fortasse hoc solo adiuvatur, quod se invicem vident, et de sua societate gaudent.'"
S. Theol., Ia Ilae q. 4 a. 8, Resp.
u " Sed supposito proximo, sequitur dilectio eius ex perfecta dilectione Dei.
Unde quasi concomitanter se habet amicitia ad perfectam beatitudinem." S. The-ol.,
Ia Ilae q. 4 a. 8, ad 3. Following his reassuring interpretation of these lines, as
admitting the full possibility of a heavenly society of friends, Canon Lyons closes
his synopsis regarding question 4 article 8 with a characteristic prayer: " Mon
Dieu! je crois que dans la gloire vous tenez lieu de tout et que l'ame sera bienheureuse en vous voyant. Mais puisque vous daignez permettre a vos elus de jouir
encore de la societe de leurs parents et de leurs amis, faites, Seigneur, que j'aie le
bonheur de vous posseder un jour, et de retrouver en vous tous ceux que j'aime."
La Somme de Saint Thomas d'Aquin: Resumee en Tableaux Synoptiques (Nice,
1901), p. 174.
15 Gilson, op. cit., p. 297.

70

R. C. PETRY

from
lost or discarded in heaven, will be continued and
fulfilled in keeping with man's all-sufficient happiness in God? 16
Immediately there come to mind choice passages from works
in the Opera that seem to carry a convincingly affirmative
answer. Among these are such Opuscula as De Beatitudine; De
Praeambulis ad Judicium, et de Ipso Judicio; De Dilectione Dei
et Proximi; together with the Expositio I (et II) In Apocalypsim.11 The Expositio, especially, as befits a work involving
the heavenly Jerusalem, provides a thrilling appreciation of the
consummate, heavenly society. But these and some other.s like
them suffer from one acutely embarrassing fact: they are, with
varying degrees of conclusive evidence, frequently rejected as
non-genuine works-at least in their present form. Are we
then reduced to the necessity of adopting a conclusion based on
the controverted Summa passage and the indifferently useful
references of Dr. Flew? The answer is, emphatically, no! A
reasonably clear picture of Thomas' attitude is available from
uncontestably genuine sources.
From the generally accepted portion of the In Psalmos
Davidis Expositio, a brief but striking unit of evidence is available.18 Placed by the side of the Summa article, this running
commentary on Psalm 5:
becomes not so much a con16 Dr. Gilson replies thus
(p. 298): "Peut-iitre cependant ne nous est-il pas
interd.it de croire que Ia joie du ciel n'est
une joie solitaire et que la beatitude
celeste, accomplie par Ia vision qu'ont Ies bienheureux de leur joie reciproque,
s'embellit encore d'une eternelle amitie." And Dr. Farrell boldly says, "Friends, of
course, there must be, in the same way that we must have our bodies. They are
our other selves; something of ourselves would be missing without them. And
this is true, even though the principal end of friendship-the oportunity to help, to
sacrifice, to give to others-will no longer exist; that subtler, infinitely precious joy
in the beauty, the triumph, the happiness of friends will give a splendidly human
air to the courts of heaven." A Companion to the Summa (London, 1938), II, 18.
17 The first three are found in the Opera, XVIII, 404-25; 629-58; 824-94.
The
Expositio is in Vols. XXXI-XXXII.
All of these are specifically listed as nongenuine, or omitted from the list of genuine works, by P. Mandonnet, et J.
Destrez, Bibliographie Thomiste ,(Le Saulchoir, Kain, 1921), and by Martin Grabmann, "Die echten Schriften des hi. Thomas von Aquin," Beitriige, XXII. 1-2
(1930)' 241-361.
18 Op., XVID, 251-252.
On the genuineness of this commentary to Ps. 54, see
Grabmann, op. cit., XXII, 248-44; Mandonnet, op. cit., xiv.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER

OF HEAVENLY

BEATITUDE

71

tradiction of the Summa position as a clarification of it.
Thomas is commenting on the familiar lines:
But let all them be glad that hope in thee: they shall rejoice for
ever, and thou shalt dwell in them. And all they that love thy
name shall glory in thee: For thou wilt bless the just. 19

He declares that those who hope in God have every right to be
glad (Ps. 67: 4). For their rejoicing will be forevermore. The
joy of the saints in the patria will be eternal. Their exuberance is not excessive but quite proper, for their God is to dwell
with them. Why should they not glory in such eternal security,
such ultimate tabernacling of God with men? Men glory only
when they have a thing most excellently. But the saints shall
have their God thus, with the fullness of all good, unto the
fulfillment of Christ's own joy in them (John 15: 11).
Had Thomas stopped at this point, his readers might well
have inferred from his words a belief in the heavenly association of men not only with their God but with each other.
After all, it is difficult to see how saved men could rejoice in
the same God, simultaneously, with that God dwelling in their
common midst, and still not sustain to each other the most
fraternal mutuality. But Thomas does not leave the matter
to inference. He states flatly that such fullness of all good and
all joy involves the society not only of God and man but also
of men with each other: " For man· by himself is not able to
rejoice well in anything unless he has friends as participants
with him in that good: and so he says 'All [they that love Thy
name].'" And this full rejoicing such as is to be found when
the whole heavenly group dwells together in God-the perfect
good which is common to them all-is a society of rejoicing
friends; all loving his name. 20
10 The translation
of this and of subsequent Biblical passages is that of the
Douay-Rheims version. The Vulgate numbering is 5: 11-12. According to Thomas'
commentary this becomes division no. 8.
20 The text is as follows: " Tertio ex societate:
quia solus homo non potest bene
gaudere de aliquo, sed quando amicos habet secum participes illius boni: et ideo
dicit, Omnew Ps. LXXXVI, 7: Sicut laetantium omnium habitatio est in te."
"Omnes," refers to Ps. 5: 11-" Et laetentur omnes. . . . Et gloriabuntur in te

72

R. C. PETRY

The emphasis placed here upon life in patria as a company
of those mutualized by their love of God is amply sustained
elsewhere in Thomas' writings. He thinks of man as being
called by God himself to the society of his Son. That fellowship consists of a certain familiar conversation with Deity; it
" is begun here, in this life, by grace, but will be perfected in
the future life, by glory .... " 21 In the Fatherland, that real
but imperfect communication that exists now between men,
God, and angels, with regard to the life of the mind, will be
brought to its fullest expression. 22
Once more one receives the distinct impression that Thomas
is thinking of a consolidation not only of humankind but also
of men with the celestial company. He is describing a continuity of experience that will know its full socialization in the
final beatitude. As each individual arrives at the end for which
he was ordained, he will find himself associated with others
who, likewise, attain their final goal of life in God. In joining
himself with divinity, the anima fidelis becomes the truly happy
neighbor of every other such man-and of the angels, too. And
where God, Christ, the angels, and redeemed men are-there is
the patria, there is truest society. 28
Thomas has been fond of depicting Christ's followers on
earth as a close-knit, spiritual corpus. He is in no sense sug. gesting the idea that once they have ended their pilgrimage
they will be any less a cohesive unity. His contention is the
very opposite. In the celestial Fatherland, those who were
once the congregation of faithful humanity will become the
omnes. . . . " The fullness of joy that the saints have together in God is merely
illustrated further by Ps. 86 (87) : 7: " The dwelling in thee is as it were of all
rejoicing." The context leaves no doubt but that Thomas here speaks of the
eternal joy: " Laetitia namque · sanctorum in patria est sempiterna: et ideo dicit,
In Aeternu.m: et secura; unde addit, Et kabitabis in eis. ... " (Op., XVill,
!51).
21 S. Tkeol., Ia IIae q. 65 a. 5, Resp.
•• Ibid., lla IIae q.
a. 1, ad 1.
•• S. Tkeol., ill q. 8 a. 4, Resp.: "Manifestum est autem, quod ad unum
finem, qui est gloria divinae fruitionis, ordinantur et homines et angeli." Cf. I q.
108 a. 8.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY BEATITUDE

78

congregation of those comprehending their final objective. Each
of them, like Christ their head, was once a wayfarer on earth.
Now each will be a comprehensor of the goal toward which he
once made pilgrimage. What was once a congregation subject
to the frustrations of time and circumstance is destined to be a
celestial society, eternally triumphant. What was then collective in its potentiality will, at last, become a full-fledged society
in its fruition-a society with the Father and the Son.24 And
this conjunction of man with God will result in perfect, face to
face vision. 25 Angels and saved men, who are ordained to the
same end, constitute one mystical body which will then be truly
consummated with Christ their common head, in God their
realized, common end. 26
Throughout his anticipation of the heavenly beatitude,
Thomas is at pains to show that the saints will experience a
community of life never even imagined on the temporal scene.
Into the terms most suggestive of earthly solidarity he pours
the thrilling prospect of heavenly fulfillment. Thus, the associative connotations implied by such terms as society, congregation, corpus, and Fatherland are expanded into meanings
befitting their celestial realizations. 27 It is almost as if Thomas
were saying to his brethren: " The associations which ,you so
fondly
here are but feeble anticipations of the beloved
community which the blessed shall have, together, in the company of God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit."
But for Thomas, such mutuality among the blessed will con•• " . . . Ecclesia, secundum statum viae, est congregatio fidelium; sed, secundum
statum patriae, est congregatio comprehendentium. Christus autem non solum
fuit viator, sed etiam comprehensor. Et ideo non solum fidelium, sed etiam comprehendentium est caput, utpote plenissime habens gratiam et gloriam." 8. Theol.,
m q. 8 a. 4, ad 2.
•• In Symbolum Apostolorum (In Symb. A post.) cap. Iii: "Consistit autem
haec conjunctio in perfecta visione: I Corinth. XIII, !!!: Videmus nunc per
speculum in aenigmate tunc autem facie ad faciem." (Op., XXVII, 227-28). Cf.
Con. Gent., III, 51.
•• S. Theol., III q. 8 a. 4.
•• For the highly social coloring that Thomas imparts to such terms as societas,
congregatio, corpus, conjunctio, patria, communio, conversatio, participatio, etc.,
see Ludwig Schlitz, Thomas-Lexicon (2nd ed., Paderborn, 1895).

74

R. C. PETRY

stitute participation in the very Kingdom of God and its glory.
It is for a pa:rt in that royal society that man seeks when he
prays: " Thy Kingdon. Come.'' And for such participation he
is willing to smrrender himself, whoUy.28
For God alone has the right of dominion; man's function
is that of submission to his sovereignty. Such submission win
be complete and final only when aU enemies are put under
his feet. Then the saints who have long prayed for the coming
of his reign will give themselves in full subjection to him. Then
participation in his reign wiH be full, where death is ended and
life, everlasting. There the erstwhile body of the saint's hqmility
win be refashioned into conformity with the body of his brightness. Such, truly, is the glory of paradise. This is the :regimen
of a king whose wiH is perfectly done by all, together. And to
his will, that man be saved, nothing shall be opposed.
In this Kingdom :righteousness will prevail. On earth, the
evil and the good are co-mingled, but here, no evil and no
sinner will ever be. The constituency of the patria will be made
up solely of God's own people; and they will be righteous, every
one. They will exemplify the corpo:rateness of those having
voluntarily placed themselves under the divine authority. 29
But Thomas now delineates a further characteristic of the
glorified community. Here, for the first time, the :righteous
shall know perfect liberty. Wholly delivered from earthly corruption, they will be loosed from all servitude and made truly
free (Rom. 8: 21). In their release from all that has perverted
and enslaved the children of God until now, they will become
veritable rulers with God. Thomas strikingly depicts them as
being not only free men but royalty as well (Apoc. 5: 10). For,
at last, they shall have conformed their wills to God's; so that
what is his will is theirs, and theirs, his. And, ruling with a win
28 Expositio Orationis Dominicae (Orat. Dom.), Petitio ii (Op., XXVII, 188):
"Cum ergo petimus: Adveniat regnum tuum, oramus ut simus participes regni
coelestis et gloriae paradisi."
As regards man's participation in eternal life and
glory see, also, S. Theol., Ia Hae q. 5 a. 4; Con. Gent., IH, 61, 63.
•• Orat. Dom., Pet. ii (Op., XXVII, 188); Cf. Compendinm Theologiae ad
Fratrem Reginaldnm (Comp. Theol.), Pars Sec., cap. 9 (Op. XXVII, 126).

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER

OF HEAVENLY BEATITUDE

75

which they have made their own, he invites them to reign with
him, who is the crown of them all.30
Thus in subordinating themselves to his reign, they share in
his kingdom. The kingdom for whose coming they once prayed
is now also theirs. The age-old desire to rule--whether of the
laity to be kings or of the clergy to be bishops-is at last to be
realized by the sons of God (Apoc. 5: 10, Wisd. 5: 5) .31 And
this perfect coordination of wills, where all shall be ruled by
God and all shall be reigning with him, spells solidarity supreme.
Such is the glorification that awaits the most excellent possession of the divine kingdom. Together with all their co-citizens
in the heavenly city, the blessed shall walk in the supernal
beauty and light which is theirs by participation in the plentitude of the divine life. This reign of God in the saints, and of
the saints with God, is the Kingdom of Heaven, indeed
(Matt. 3: .32
What more, then, can Thomas say of the regal glories of the
heavenly community? With what further elaboration of cosmic
solidarity can the patria be envisaged? Thomas has a ready
answer. The final beatitude is to consist of individual sharing
in the society of God's perfect good. For this, too, the saints
have long been in preparation during their earthly sojourn. It
is natural for each to seek his own good-that by which he 'is
perfected. But that this is no mere solicitation of bodily goods
or ends must soon be apparent to every rational being. That
which he strives for-that by which he is led-is an ultimate
good, an ultimate perfection. True felicity or beatitude cannot
consist in corporal good, for the body is to the soul what matter
is to form. Thus, just as matter finds its end in form, so the
body of man is ordained to the soul as its end. 33
Orat. Dom., Pet. ii. (Op., XXVll, 188); Cf. Con. Gent., III, 68.
In Symb. A post., cap. 15 (Op., XXVII, 228).
82 " Dicitur enim hoc regnum quo Deus regnat in sanctis et sancti cum Deo,
regnum coelorum .... " Comp. Theol., Pars Sec., cap. 9 (Op., XXVII, 124).
88 Ibid., cap. 9; Cf. S. Theol., Ia Ilae q. 2 a. 5; Con. Gent., III, 82.
Of course
Thomas believes that there will be glorified, spiritual bodies in heaven. His treatment of the impassability, subtlety, agility, and clarity of the bodies of the blessed
according to Scriptum super Libros Sententiarum Magistri Petri Lombardi (Lib.
Sent.), Lib. IV, Dist. 44, q. 2 (Op., XI, 8ll-886), is reconstructed by Reginald of
80

81

76

R. C. PETRY

Thomas reiterates his assertion that neither in riches, nor
honors, nor in health, nor in beauty, nor in any such thing,
does the ultimate felicity of man consist. It is amply clear that
corporal goods cannot suffice him. Beyond the circumscriptions of time, the mutability and corruptibility of corporal
things, lies perpetual stability-the ultimate felicity of his desire. Transcending the realm of sense, and surpassing the
desires and goods of one and all, is the truly ultimate good.
This universal good, apprehensible by the intellect, is God, who,
by his very essence, is good and the veritable principle of goodness. Hence man's ultimate perfection and his final good
consist in his intimate cleaving to God. 34
This human association of good, initiated on earth with imperfect realization, is fulfilled in heaven with perfect good.
Angels and men constitute n:ot two hierarchies, or societies, but
one; because, as Augustine said, the beatitude of all consists in
adhering to God alone. 35 God, the supreme, common good, is
the whole to which the parts are directed: " Therefore all
things are directed to one good, God to wit, as their end." 86
Naturally, the common is to be preferred to the private good,
and that of the parts is ordained to the welfare of the whole.
So, in the eternal community, as in the associations of earth,
each man is as a part; but the common good of the whole is
God himself, in whom the final beatitude of all consists. 37
Piperno in S. Theol., III, Supplementum, qq. 82-89. See, likewise, Con. Gent., IV,
81, 86, 88, etc. Consult Dr. Farrell, op. cit., IV, 428-33, on the spiritualization of
bodies after the resurrection. Cf. Dr. Flew, op. cit., p. 242.
•• Comp. Theol., Pars. Sec., cap. 9 (Op., XXVII, 123): " ... quia si in hoc quod
mens humana Deo inhaereat, ejus beatitudo consistat, consequens est ut perfecta
beatitudo perfectam inhaesionem ad Deum requirat."
•• S. Theol., I q. 108 a. 8. Thomas here insists with Augustine, De Civ. Dei, XII,
9, that: "non erunt duae societates hominum et angelorum, sed una; quia omnium
beatitudo est adhaerere uni Deo." Such adherence becomes possible to men
through the created intellect which is raised by a supernatural light to the vision
of God in his essence. Consult Con. Gent., III, 25, 51, 57-63. In Lib. Sent., Lib.
II, Dist. 9, q. I a. 8 (Op., Vill, 131 f.) Thomas declares: " ... unde in patria
non erit alia hierarchia hominum et angelorum, sed una et eadem, et homines in
ordines angelorum distribuentur." Cf., De cael. hier., I, 3, and De eccloo,.hier.,V, 2.
•• Con. Gent., III, 17; S. Theol., IIa IIae q. 184 a. 2.
37 Cf. De Perfectione Vitae Spiritualis (De Perf. Vit. Spir.), cap. 13 (Op., XXIX,
ISS), and S. Theol., Ia IIae q. 2 a. 8.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY BEATITUDE

77

Seeing God thus, and sharing with each other in his life, the
companyof heaven will have a sufficiency of all good. Here,
then, can be no defects. In this opulent city of the everlasting God all things will be perfect with the fruition of divine
eternity. God is perfect good; the angels are by nature incorruptible; and men, once corruptible, will now have put on
incorruption (I Cor. 15: 58). With bodies glorified, and with
intellects made ready by supernatural light to receive the
heavenly vision, the saints will be deficient in nothing. 38
Nor will any lack exist by virtue of man's proud will. For
the more that God, the essence of goodness, is seen and his
presence enjoyed, the more he will be loved and the consummation of his plans desired. Having made God's will their
own, the saints will abide in his fullness. Once within the fold
of his protection, no one can be torn: from his hand by evil
forces without or sin within. For into this haven neither the
devil nor wicked men shall enter; and within, no sin shall be.
Evil, which is in direct opposition to good, will be excluded.
As Paul realized, there can be no participation of justice with
iniquity, no fellowship of light with darkness (II Cor. 6: 14).
This repletion of good insures immunity from evil. Here is
the guarantee of full quiet and security. Here peace will
prevail. In this mortal life, the more responsibilities one has,
the more one lacks and fears. But in life eternal there will be
no sorrow, no labor, and no fear. With the passing of evil will
the fear, of which it was the cause. 39
In this fullness of all good, the restlessness of desire will lose
itself; for the just will no longer seek a better good. Their
status in this society beyond will not be one to be amended or
perfected; it will be one of final perfection. All of their desires
will be perfectly fulfilled. Each of the blessed will know a
satiety beyond all his hopes. 40 None in this life is able to
satisfy his desires-nor is any other creature able to still this
human craving. God alone, who has made man for himself and
without whom man's heart is restless, is able to satisfy it.
•• See notes .88 and 85 of this article.
•• For the matter of the foregoing paragraphs see the conclusion of cap. 9, Pars
Sec., Comp. Tkeol. (Op., XXVII, U6). Cf. Con. Gent., ill, 68.

78

.R. C. PETRY

But the saints in the patria will have God perfectly, and with
him, therefore, the satisfaction of their every longing-and
more. Whatever is truly delectable will be here in superabundance. Perhaps one has desired honors. Here will be all
honor. If it is knowledge of the truth that is desired, here it
will be in perfection. All truth, and whatsoever we shall wish,
we shall know; and whatever we shall wish to have we shall
have in life eternal. 41
Inner turmoil and outer molestation having ceased, concord
and utter tranquillity will reign. This will be the perfect,
heavenly peace of which Isaiah spoke (32: 18). It is in such
full contentment that those will rest who know the affluence of
all. good. And the perfection of this final good will endure
forever. 42
All of this felicity, and other things ineffable, the saints shall
know. Obviously, too, each will love the other as himself.
Here he will rejoice in the other's good as in his own. Mansions, or degrees, of happiness there will be in accordance with
the individual's capacity to enjoy God.48 But what comes to
one is his full part, appropriate to him, of that which comes to
all. God, who is their common end and good, makes joyously
social the life of them all.
For when a man seeks his individual, final good, he seeks a
boon as common as it is final to all others of the blessed. The
•• In Symb. Apost., cap. 15: " ... plena et perfecta satietas desiderii." On this
satiety as involving " complete satisfaction, ... not· dozing incapacity for further
activity," see Farrell, op. cit., IV, 448.
. "In Symb. A post., cap. 15 (Op., XXVII, 228); Con. Gent., ill, 68; S. Tkeol.,
Ia Ilae q. 8 a. 8.
•• Comp. Theol., Pars Sec., cap. 9 (Op., XXVII, 126).
•• Con. Gent., ill, 58: " Oportet igitur quod in visione divina sit diversitas, qua
quidam perfectius et quidam minus perfecte divinam substantiilln videant. Hinc
est quod, ad hanc felicitatis differentiam designandam, Dominus dicit: In domo
Patris mei mansiones multae sunt, Joan. XIV, 2." Cf. S. Theol., Ia Ilae q. 5 a. 2,
Resp.: " Contingit autem aliquem perfectius frui Deo quam alium, ex eo quod
est melius dispositus vel ordinatus ad eius fruitionem. Et secundum hoc potest
aliquis alio beatior esse." Ad. 8: " ... nulli beato deest aliquod bonum desiderandum, cum habeat ipsum bonum infinitum. . . . Sed dicitur aliquis alio beatior, ex
diversa eiusdem boni participatione." Cf. Farrell, op. cit., IV, 444-45.

THE SOCIAL CHARACTER OF HEAVENLY

BEATITUDE

79

very realization of the long-promised fellowship with his God
is also his
incorporation with ·all others who likewise
communicate, eternally, in the divine life. Thomas may dilate,·
theoretically, on the complete happiness which a soul would
have in God " though having no neighbor to love." But he
entertains no serious thought of such being the case. The
anticipation of a solus cum solo beatitude is absurdly out of
character in a man who talks of one lasting society of men and
angels; of God as the final whole to which all the parts are
directed; about the beatitude of all consisting in their common
adherence to one God; of a congregation of the faithful now
become a congregation of comprehensors in the patria.
Thus for such a humble soul as Thomas, informed by the
thrilling revelations of Scripture, there is only one future prospect which he may hold out to those on pilgrimage to the
patria. That is the triumphant participation with the Trinity,
the angels, and all the blessed in the · consummate society
of all good. And such fellowship, characterized by complete
mutuality, Thomas knows with unerring insight to be the best
in delectable goods. This alone will be appropriate to the joys
that the saints shall have in the celestial Fatherland. 44

R. C. PETRY
Duke University,
Durham, North Carolma

.. Speaking of the fourth and last, but by no means least, consideration of the
goods that will be in eternal life, he says: " Quarto a commoda omnium bonorum
societas, quae societas b est maxime delectabilis c bonis; sic ergo sancti habebunt
omnia bona haec et alia ineffabilia, et quilibet diliget alium sicut seipsum; et ideo
gaudebit de bono alterius sicut de suo. Quo fit ut tantum augeatur laetitia et
gaudium unius, quantum est gaudium omnium. . . . Ita ergo d habebunt perfecti
qui erunt in vita aetema." In Symb. Apost., cap. 15 (Op., XXVll, 228 and
notes).
Interesting variations according to the Parma edition are:
• " consistit in omnium beatorum jucunda societate."
b'' erit."
• " delectabilis, quia quilibet habebit omnia bona cum omnibus beatis; nam
quilibet; etc."
4 " Haec autem Q.uae dicta sunt, et multa ineffabilia habebunt sancti qui erunt in

patria."

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY
PARTV
THE PRINCIPLES

oF JusTICE:

CITIZENSHIP

AND SuFFRAGE

W

(Continued)

E have now sufficiently clarified the basic terms
of our
indicated
difficulties and
problems whiCh he ahead of us m our effort to
demonstrate that the Democratic constitution is a thoroughly
practicable ideal, "3-S well as perfectly just. But before .we
begin the actual steps of that demonstration, it will be helpful
to consider the similarities and differences between modern and
ancient Republican governments, comparing them not only
with respect to the principle of constitutionality which they
embody, but also with respect to the problem of suffrage and
the extension of the franchise.
The Democratic constitution has come into actual existence
only in the last century, and its emergence has occurred by
the gradual amendment of already existing constitutions which
were essentially Republican. It may be enlightening, therefore, to observe the generation of Democracy as a form of
government. Though all of political history has been tending
toward this event, its intelligibility is increased by examining
the proximate causes which worked to produce it. We ,must
consider, therefore, the first steps toward the Democratic constitution in the actual motions of modern political life, and the
first anticipations of the theory of Democracy in modern political philosophy-the expression of those crucial insights which
reached full articulation only in the very recent past. We turn
to this at once in Section 2.
2. An accurate account and a fair estimate of the political
achievements which took place in certain European countries
80

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

81

and in the New World at the end of the seventeenth century
and throughout the eighteenth, requires the historian of these
events to view them partly as revolutionary and partly as
evolutio1;1ary. To take either point of view exclusively distorts the picture. The novelties in the. foreground must not
be allowed to overshadow or completely blot out the long
historical perspectives, nor must the background loom so
large that the outlines of the modern departure dwindle to
insignificance.
What is happening for the first time in these centuries is
not the establishment of purely Constitutional government.
That existed and thrived in the ancient communities of the
Mediterranean world-in Greece and Carthage and Rome.
The development of.·such government in England from 1688
on, and the foundation somewhat later of such government in
France and in America, were revolutionary steps only in their
overthrow of despotism. But, at the same time, we must not
minimize the novelty of the modern Republics. To appreciate
their contribution, it is not enough to see them as an evolution
from the imperfect constitutionality of typically mediaeval
government-the regimen regale et politic'lf,m. They do not
represent merely a recovery of ancient political institutions
which had been lost, or rather modified to suit the feudal conditions of the Middle Ages. As measured by the principle of
constitutionality itself, the modern departures may not add
anything essentially new, but they do give this principle new
embodiments which exhibit its radical character more plainly
and realize its political significance more fully than anything
known to the ancient world.
Largely because the modern innovators had experienced the
defects of mediaeval constitutionalism, observing how easily a
regimen regale et politicum could degenerate into despotism,
and how inevitably it tended to do so because of the presumption of kings, arrogating undue power to themselves, the
men who formed and wrote the modern constitutions exercised great prudence and political ingenuity in making sure that
the constitution would be as effective as positive law should
6

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

be-binding rulers and protecting the ruled by enforceable
sanctions. 584
We have spoken of the "modern innovators." We do not
have in mind the great political writers of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries-the men whose treatises deserve a place
in the history of political theory-but rather the great actors
on the stage of political life, the men who framed constitutions,
who debated their provisions, and who argued for their adoption. Most of them, of course, were writers also, who in their
pamphlets and papers, largely oratorical in character, were
quite articulate and learned about the principles for which
they appealed; but it is in the realm of action, not of thought,
that they worked most originally. Yet they left their mark
upon political theory too, in so far as the practical measures
they invented clarified the principle of constitutionality. Such
men as Thomas Jefferson and James Wilson, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and John Adams-to consider only the
American constitutionalists-had
learned much from Locke,
Montesquieu, and Rousseau, from Suarez, Bellarmine, and
Berlamaqui; but their actual engagement in the drafting and
discussion of the articles of a written constitution enabled them
to distil into theory practical insights that the political theorists
never explicitly attained.
Nevertheless, it may well be asked what these practical men
learned from the theorists whose thinking was sufficiently contemporary to anticipate in words some of the developments for
which the revolutionists were responsible in fact. There can be
no question that the language of the American enterprise, its
great legal documents and their public debate, was the language of eighteenth (and late seventeenth) century political
thought, rather than the language of Aristotle or Cicero or St.
Thomas. But if one penetrates beneath diversities on the sur6 "' Cf. Part IV, Section 4, supra, in THE THOMIST, IV, 4, pp. 751-6. The fact
that modern Republics were developments out of the regimen regale et politicum,
as well as reactions against the despotic absolutism into which it had devolved,
goes a long way toward explaining their character as contrasted with that of the
ancient Republics which had arisen against the background of a regimen regale
(et non politicum).

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

88

face of discourse, can one find that the latter-day theorists
expressed fundamentally new or different ideas about the forms
of government?
The question is difficult to answer unless one makes the distinction between absolute and constitutional government the
pivot of comparison. As we have shown, most of the modern
political treatises deal with the problem of the forms of government briefly and superficially, in contrast to the predominant place and extended treatment given to this question in
Aristotle's Politics; though they retain such words as "monarchy," "aristocracy" and "democracy," they reduce them
almost to insignificance. 585 But the superficiality and brevity
of their explicit treatment is too often allowed to obscure the
fact that these modern treatises are, nevertheless, primarily
and largely concerned with the problem of the forms of government, for most of them are written to support the proposition that the principle of constitutionality, with all its consequences for human rights and privileges, and its implications
for political equality and liberty, is an indispensable feature of
good government, or the mark of the best political form.
Suarez and Bellarmine, on the one hand, and such writers as
Locke and Rousseau (who frankly expressed their prejudices
against the Catholic Church) , on the other, agree that absolute government is never justified. Their failure to distinguish
between the Royal and the despotic occurrence of an absolute
regime is, of course, an error or inadequacy in their analyses,
but that is not important here. What is important here is that
their theories of government radiate from the distinction between absolute and limited regimes. This is not to say that
they neglected the common good as the end which justified the
exercise of any civil power. They all agreed on this, but went
further in insisting that the derivation of civil authority from
the common good must be accompanied by a limited grant of
power to the offices of government, the power being drawn from
its ultimate reservoir in the community itself.
ese Vd. Part IV, Section 5, supra, in THE THOMIST, VI, 1, pp. 58-59, 61-65.

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

Unfortunately, most of these writers, with the notable exception of Rousseau, failed to differentiate between the purely
Constitutional regime, in which no man has sovereignty in his
person, and the limited absolutism of the regimen regale et
politicum, which they conceived as a " mixed regime " or as
"constitutional monarchy." 586 Nevertheless, let us overlook
the inadequate and erroneous analysis of the forms of government which prevails throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth
centuries (in which respect, by the way, the thought of these
••• The Jesuit writers, .Suarez and Bellarmine, both regard the so-called "mixed
regime " as the best form of government, but their version of the " mixed regime "
follows St. Thomas, rather than Aristotle. It is not a mixed constitution, but a
combination of Royal and Constitutional elements. They show no signs of understanding the essential imperfection of this intermediate regime in comparison with
the purely Constitutional governments which existed in the ancient world, or which
were soon to come into being with modern Republics. Vd. Parsons, Which Way
Democracy?, pp. 143-61!. The identification of Sir John Fortescue's position with
that of the Thomistic tradition (including Suarez. and Bellarmine) plainly shows
that the regimen regale et politicum is intended by all these writers. Cf. Oberling,
The Philosophy of Law of James Wilson, pp. 270-72.
Although Locke plainly says that " absolute monarchy, which by some men is
counted for the only government in the world, is indeed inconsistent with civil
society, and so can be no form of civil government at all " (Second Essay Of Civil
Government, Ch. VII, # 90), he wishes only to restrict the Royal prerogative to
certain administrative functions, not to abolish it entirely and make the chief
executive a mere office-holder elected by the people. For Locke, a constitutional,
as opposed to an absolute, monarchy (i. e., a regimen regale et politicum as opposed
to a regimen regale) sufficiently embodied the principle of constitutionality. Vd.
fn. 477, supra. Not even Montesquieu, who used the word "republic" in contradistinction to " monarchy," made the difference between these two forms of
government tum on the imperfection vs. the perfection of the constitutional principle, for both were governments by law rather than by men without or above
Vd. Spirit of Laws, Book IT,
laws (the latter being what he called "despotism").
Ch. I.
Omitting the statesmen of the American revolution, Rousseau alone of the
eighteenth century writers conceived purely Constitutional government (which he
called " republican ") as that in which neither the government nor any governing
official has sovereignty except as a representative of the community which is
sovereign. Vd. The Social Contract, Book IT, Ch. VI, esp. fn. I. Rousseau seems
to
no conception of the regimen regale et politicum as something intermediate between the purely absolute and the purely Constitutional forms of government, and so he is as unable to distinguish between the perfect and the imperfect modes of popular sovereignty and vicegerency as, on their side, are the Jesuits,

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

85

centuries is not inferior to the Middle Ages at their best), in
order to concentrate on the one point in their favor-their firm
adherence to the principle of constitutionality as the source of
greater political liberty and equality than can be enjoyed under
absolute rule.
With this restriction in mind, can we say whether the modem
conception of Constitutional ·government differs substantially
from the ancient and mediaeval understanding of what it
involves?
For Aristotle it meant: (I) equality of status (i.e., citizenship) as between ruler and ruled; (2) perfect freedom on the
part of the ruled, because the status of citizenship is invested
with legal rights and juridical powers, and some share (in fact,
an active voice) in the business of government; (3) the limitation of all rulers to discharging the functions of their special
offices; (4) the juridical grant of actual governing power to
men according to the functions of the offices they hold, the
power being vested in the office and not in the man except as
its temporary holder; and, above all, (5) the supremacy of
positive law-the constitution itself, not merely the rules
enacted by legislative bodies-as the
convention which
regulates the life of the civil community, determines the extent
of citizenship, establishes and arranges the various offices, and
takes precedence over officials and their official acts, even of
the rules of law they make, by reason of the fact that it is the
source of all their powers, measures the legitimacy of their acts,
and gives legality to their rules and decrees. 587
Locke, and Montesquieu. In this connection, it is significant that Rousseau, like
the American constitutionalists, refers to ·Greek and Roman republics as models of
what he has in mind, whereas Suarez and Bellarmine, and even Locke, are thinking
principally of mediaeval examples and of the possibility of their restoration to
replace the despotisms into which the regimen regale et politicum had become degraded. Thus, in arguing against Barclay, "the great champion of absolute
monarchy," Locke cites ". Bracton, Fortescue, and the author of the 'Mirror,' and
others, writers that cannot be suspected to be ignorant of our government, or
enemies to it" (op. cit., Ch. XIX, # 239).
••• To affirm the supremacy of positive law over men as ·rulers is not to deny
that the constitution, as the basic positive law, can be measured by what Aristotle
called "natural justice " and what later came to be thought of as "natural law."

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Regardless of their innovations in practice, the Romans add
nothing to this theory of Constitutional government; nor, as we
have seen, does St. Thomas or any other mediaeval thinker.
On the contrary, the mediaeval conception is much less explicit
and clear, for it consists largely in two notions: (a) the vicegerency of rulers, and (b) " popular sovereignty " in the sense
that the civil community is the proximate source of the authority and force wielded by rulers. These two notions can,
of course, be taken as a rough and ready equivalent of Aristotle's much more precise conception of constitutionality; but
even if we generously read all this significance into them, we
cannot forget that St. Thomas exempted the king from the
coercive force of positive law, thereby viewing him as a sovereign person whose authority came from the community he
served, but whose actual power was not juridically derived.
It was only by examining the notions of vicegerency and
popular sovereignty in the light of Aristotle's theory of Constitutional government that we were able to make the important
distinction between the perfect and imperfect mode of each of
these. If our only sources were mediaeval, we would not know
that the vicegerency and popular sovereignty of which St.
Thomas speaks is the imperfect sort-the only sort that is
compatible with the regimen regale et politicum-not the
perfect sort involved in purely Constitutional government.
Hence if we are to appraise the modern theory of constitutionalism, we must judge it by reference to the Aristotelian
conception. Does it add anything thereto?
However admirable Suarez and Bellarmine were for their
resolute opposition to the divine right of kings and in their
criticism of absolute government, we know that they do not go
beyond St. Thomas except, perhaps, to give the notions of
Natural law is prior to the constitution, as that in turn is prior to rules of positive
law enacted by duly constituted bodies. The supremacy of positive law means
that there is something more than natural law or natural justice to measure the
acts of rulers, in such wise that no man is legibus solutus--no man is exempt from
the coercive force of constitutional law when, in its perfect institution, it involves
enforceable sanctions.

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87

vicegerency and popular sovereignty a more explicit rendering,
and one more appropriate to the political institutions of their
own day. This judgment is confirmed by everything that is
said in praise of them by their disciples today; and the few
particulars in respect to which some achievement of novelty is
claimed for them are of dubious validity. 588 The only question,
therefore, is how such writers as Locke and Rousseau (who are
more indebted to ancient than to mediaeval theory) compare
with Aristotle. 589
It has become fashionable in various quarters to dismiss
Locke and Rousseau as addicted to the myth of the " social
contract," to dispose of Locke by reference to such phrases as
"consent of the governed" or "the preservation of property,"
and to magnify Rousseau's claptrap about the "general will"
or his misconception of what he calls the " indivisible sovereignty." We have no intention of minimizing the errors
which Locke and Rousseau committed-Rousseau, of course,
to a much greater extent than Locke-but we do insist that on
the principle of constitutionality they were not only as sound
as Suarez and Bellarmine but, as we shall try to show, they
made a contribution which is one of the distinguishing features
of modern constitutional theory.
Some of their adverse critics and superficial readers have
688 Vd. Parsons and Oberling, loc. cit., in fn. 586, supra.
Cf. M. F. X. Millar,
"The Philosophy of the Constitution," (Thought, March, 1988, p. 67). "'.fhe
Constitution and Belated Prejudices" (Thought, June, 1988, pp. 291-96); "The
Modem State and Catholic Principles"
(Thought, March, 1987, pp. 45-68);
"Hauriou, Suarez and Chief Justice Marshall" (Thought, March, 1982, pp. 1-22);
"Bellarmine and the American Constitution" (Irish Studies, September, 1930). In
his interpretation of Locke, Rousseau, and Jefferson, Professor Millar is obviously
attempting to play one set of prejudices off against another, but the truth is that
Suarez and Bellarmine are· not all white, any more than Locke, Rousseau and
Jefferson are all black.
••• Neither Locke nor Rousseau betrays much knowledge of St. Thomas; and
even though Locke continually acknowledges his debt to Hooker, the latter's
Ecclesiastical Polity is more colored by Aristotle's Politics than by the writings of
St. Thomas. In their discussions of paternal and political government, both Locke
and Rousseau reveal the influence of Aristotle and, far from being remotely connected, this distinction is of the greatest relevance to their conception of constitutionality.

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M. J. ADLER .AND WALTER FARRELL

been taken in by the myth of the social contract, as if it were
intended to be a historical account of the origin of society, as
if it had to be interpreted as a flat contradiction of the truth
that man is by nature a political animal. Both Locke and
Rousseau knew the difference between myth and history; both
affirmed the political nature of man, and the indispensability of
civil life for human happiness (on which is founded the naturalness of the state in the order of final causality); both recognized the difference between the naturalness of domestic and
that of civil society, with its consequences for the establishment
of political as opposed to parental authority; and because of
this difference, with its consequence, both Locke and Rousseau
used the myth of the social contract purely as an analytical
device 'whereby to account formally, not temporally, for the
origin of political (i.e., Constitutional) government. 590
••• A careful reading of Chapter VII " Of the Beginning of Political Societies,"
especially. #'104-ll!l of the second essay Of Civil Government, will
that
Locke's account of the transition from the quasi-paternal rule of an absolute king
to the truly political rule of a constituted commonwealth, follows Aristotle in every
particular. Most states we).'e originally under Royal (quasi-paternal) government,
because they originated as enlargements of the family through a grouping of villages. This hardly suggests that Locke understood the "social contract" as necessary for the formation of society as mch. It is only civil society-which is conoriginates in
ceived as a community under Political, not Royal,
a "social contract "-i.e., a conventionally formed constitution.
The usual misreading of Rousseau is even less excusable than it is in the case
of Locke. Rousseau, in his Preamble to Book I of The Social Contract, plainly tells
us that his inquiry is into the legitimacy of government, not the origin of society.
At the opening of Chapter 4 (Book I) , he says: " Since no man has a natural
authority over his fellows, and force creates no right, we must conclude that conventions form the basis of all legitimate authority among men." He has previously
dealt with parental authority in the domestic society. There is no problem of the
legitimacy of such authority, for it is naturally founded. Vd. Book I, Ch. 2.
Can any follower of St. Augustine and St. Thomas disagree with Rousseau's thesis
that, since force creates no right, and no man naturally has political (as opposed
to parental) authority over another human being, therefore convention, and convention alone, can determine that some men shall have such authority legitimately?
The social contract is nothing but such a convention; for Rousseau the social contract is the legal, not temporal, origin of legitimate, i. e., Constitutional or Political,
government. This is verified by Rousseau's insistence that only the Republic
(i.e., the constituted commonwealth) is legitimate government.
To prevent misunderstanding of his point of view, Rousseau explicitly denied the

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89

Society is natural, but a constitution is not. That is a work
of reason, a thing of convention, the result of voluntary decisions in the order of efficient causality. Now if by the word
" state " we mean not any civil society-not a kingdom under
absolute rule, for example--but only a commonwealth under
Constitutional government, then the state, in this sense, is not
entirely natural but, natural though it be in the end it serves,
it is conventional-or contractual-as a product of the reason
and will of men. The constitution is a positive law, but it
cannot be made by a government or by the legislature. of a
government, for it is itself the foundation of all governmental
and legislative powers. Hence it is a law made by the community as a whole, or by some part thereof, and the making of
such a law, by the reason and through the voluntary agreement
mythical " history " that is usually connoted by such words as " state of nature "
and" social contract." ln his Discourse on Inequality, he wrote: "It has not even
entered the heads of most of our writers to doubt whether the state of nature
ever existed; but it is clear from the Holy Scriptures that the first man, having
received his understanding and commandments immediately from God, was not
himself in such a state; and that, if we give such credit to the writings of Moses
as every Christian philosopher ought to give, we must deny that, before the
Deluge, men were ever in the pure state of nature. . . . Let us begin then by
laying facts aside, as they do not affect the question. The investigations we may
enter into, in treating this subject, must not be considered as historical truths, but
only as mere conditional and hypothetical reasonings, rather calculated to explain
the nature of things, than to ascertain their actual origin " (Everyman edition,
pp. 175-76). Italics ours.
What could be a clearer statement of Rousseau's insight that the "social contract " is a purely analytical concept, and that the distinction between the " state
of nature " and the " state of civil society " is not a historical distinction, but an
analytical distinction between the relation of men under natural law and the relation of them under positive political institutions? It is as if one were to say: let
us proceed hypothetically by supposing that men lived together under no rule or
authority except that of natural law. The fact that the supposition is contrary
to fact would not prevent us from· using the hypothesis analytically in order to
understand what difference is made, in matters of justice and authority, by the
addition of positive political institutions.
Finally, it should be observed that Rousseau's analytical, not historical, explanation of the existence of civil society is that man cannot lead a characteristically
human life in any other way. Though his language is not Aristotelian, he is
making the Aristotelian point that man is by nature a political animal, and that
the state (truly Political society) is natural in the order of final causality,

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M. J'. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

of men associated together for civil life, must be analytically
prior to the existence of Constitutional government, or of the
state when it is identified with such government, as in the
minds of Locke and Rousseau it is. If, instead of speaking of a
" social contract," these thinkers had merely insisted on the
priority of the constitution to Constitutional government; if
they had merely pointed out that, since a constitution is a
convention, it must be rationally formulated and voluntarily
entered into (which is all that the word "contract" implies);
if they had merely called attention to the indisputable fact
that civil society cannot be constituted (i. e., set up under
Constitutional government) without a constitution, which is a
convention or contract that is formed by the constituent power
in the community itself, involving, of course, an agreement of
men; if they had, in short, avoided the words "social contract,"
they could, nevertheless, have said all these things with less
chance of being misunderstood.
originating with a rationally devised and voluntarily adopted compact or constitution. Carlyle (Political Liberty, p. 182) calls attention to Rousseau's "emphatic
repudiation of the long tradition of the Stoics and the Christian fathers that men
in their primitive condition lived in a happy and innocent anarchy, and that the
development of the coercive political societies was primarily the result, as it was
the remedy for the vices into which they had fallen. . . . This means that after
nearly two thousand years Rousseau was restating the Aristotelian doctrine that
man is by nature, not only a social, but a political being, or, to put it in other
terms, that the political society is not merely a remedy for men's vices, but the
necessary condition of all progress." Cf. Mediaeval Political Theory in the West,
Vol. V: "The political theory of the Middle Ages is formally separated from that
of Aristotle and Plato, and from that of the nineteenth century, by one great
presupposition-that is, that the institutions of civilized society are founded upon
' convention,' not upon 'nature' " (p. 4). " St. Thomas' does not in all respects
directly and categorically contradict these conceptions, but under the influence of
Aristotle he does very carefully and clearly set out a conception of human society
which is fundamentally different" (p. 10) . " It is true that in the middle of
the thirteenth century St. Thomas Aquinas rediscovered the Aristotelian politics.
. . . It is, however, also clear that the recovery of the Aristotelian conception was
not permanent, that by the seventeenth century it had again given place to the
post-Aristotelian, and it was not until Montesquieu and Rousseau's ' Contrat Social '
that the Aristotelian conception really came back to dominate political theory, as it
has done ever since. It would appear that the post-Aristotelian conception was too
firmly fixed in men's minds to be removed even by the great authority of St.
Thomas Aquinas " (p. 442).

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91

If to say these things is to believe seriously in that absurd
myth about the origin of civil society itself as the result of
voluntary agreement among men to forego natural anarchy or .
to surrender their natural independence of one another, then
Aristotle can be charged with accepting the social contract
myth and with contradicting his own dictum about man's
political nature, for he plainly says that " he who first founded
the state was the greatest of benefactors." 591 Does he not
mean that the men who first conceived the principle of Constitutional government, and framed a constitution to institute it,
are responsible for one of the greatest advances in human
society-the transition from Royal to Political government?
Is he not using the word" state" here to signify a constituted
not merely anything larger than a family or a
village, for has he not himself maintained that the
kingdoms were not founded, but grew by natural stages of expansion from family and village? But, we must also ask, did
Aristotle mean less than Locke and Rousseau .when they used
the notion of a " social contract " analytically to explain the
origin, not of society generally, nor even of kingdoms, but of
such a state-the constituted commonwealth?
To all these questions, the answer is affirmative. The affirmation to the third question is, however, especially significant. It
is precisely because they employed the notion oi a " social contract " as they did, that Locke and Rousseau developed the
theory of the constitution beyond the Aristotelian exposition.
There seems little doubt that Aristotle understood a constitution to be positive law and that he recognized its priority
over all other positive legislation. But Aristotle is not explicitly clear on the legislative origin of the constitution itself.
That a constitution is a compact for a certain order of government entered into voluntarily by some members of a community, that it is a creature of the constituent people and not
" 91

Politics, I, 2, 12588 80. Vd. fn. 866, supra. The position of Professor H. D.

Lewis there cited is much more accurate than that of Father Parsons or Father
Oberling with respect to the "social contract" notion.

M. J. ADLER .AND W .ALTER F .ARRELL

of the government they constitute, and that it can be changed,
as it can be made, only by the people, and not by the government or any ruling official-all these points are, of course, implied by what Aristotle does say about constitutional government, but Aristotle does not make them explicitly. The typical
Greek experience which he has in mind is that of a great lawgiver, such as Solon, formulating a constitution for the community, but he does not indicate precisely how the proposed
constitution is adopted or ratified by those who are to live
under it.
Furthermore, Aristotle does not seem to conceive of changing
or modifying a constitution by "due process of law." A constitution is changed only by a .revolution. It is overthrown.
The democrats throw the oligarchs out of power, or conversely.
But while Constitutional government is no more exempt than
any other regime from the operation of the natural right to
rebel against injustice-and be it remembered that Greek oligarchs and democrats could each charge the other with some
injustice-the injustice of a constitution can be remedied without rebellion and by due process of law, precisely because its
legislative origin is in the constituent power of the community,
and where that lies there also lies an amending power, as well
as a natural right of revolution. 592 One of the virtues of con••• Vd. Professor C. J. Friedrich's discussion of this threefold distinction in his
Constitutional Government and Democracy, Boston, 1941: Ch. 8, "The Constituent Power, the .Amending Power, and Revolution." Cf. The New Belief in the
Common Man, Boston, 1942: pp. 129-188. Friedrich's insights here obviously
derive from modern developments in constitutional theory and from modern
examples of revolutionary action.
Vd. Federalist Papers, No. 49, in which Hamilton says: "As the People are the
only legitimate fountain of power, and it is from them that the constitutional
charter ... is derived, it seems strictly consonant to the republican theory, to recur
to the same original authority, not only whenever it may be necessary to enlarge,
diminish or new-model the powers of the Government; but also whenever any one
of the departments may commit encroachments on the chartered authorities of the
others." Cf. James Wilson: "As to the people, however, in whom the sovereign
power resides, the case is widely different (from that of the authorities established
by the Constitution), and stands upon widely different principles. From their
authority the Constitution originates; for their safety and felicity it is established;
in their hands, it is as clay in the hands of the potter; they have the right to

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93

stitutional government, therefore, is that it enables injustice to
be rectified, and political progress to be made, without recourse
to revolution. It is impossible to say that Aristotle's understanding of the constitutional process did not include these
insights, but it is equally impossible to cite passages from his
writings which would warrant saying that it did.
Paradoxically, there is more ground for finding such an
understanding in the mediaeval conception of a contractual relationship between king and subjects-the reciprocal coronation oath and the pledge of fealty. The constitutional aspect
of the regimen regale et politicum manifested itself in the
matrix of reciprocal rights and obligations which were thus
acknowledged by word and act. But the making of such a
compact between ruler and ruled was itself regarded as an
immemorial custom; and though it was a voluntary engagement on the occasion of each new accession to the throne, the
provision for this practice was conceived as a constitutional law
handed down by custom, not explicitly formulated and adopted.
In a period when the normal character of positive law is
unwritten custom-" whereof the memory of man runneth not
to the contrary "-legislative origins must necessarily remain
obscure. And since a custom derives its force, not only from
its antiquity, but from its resistance to change, a society governed by customary law tends, so long as economic and political
conditions permit it to remain static, to be unconcerned about
mould, to preserve, to improve, to refine, and to finish it as they please. If so,
can it be doubted that they have the right likewise to change it? " (Works, I, p.
875) . And Father Oberling adds in a comment on Wilson that "any departure
from that fundamental law on the part of the people would be revolutionary, and
could be justified only on the grounds of extreme necessity, such as would justify
revolution" (op. cit., p. fl56). Cf. Jefferson's letter to S. Kerchival in 1816
(Padover ed., pp. 108-4).
The natural right of rebellion against any government which is manifestly
unjust (qualified, of course, by consideration of the common good which may
caution that the abuses to be suffered are less violent than the anarchy likely to
be consequent upon revolution) applies to Constitutional regimes as well as to
others, the only point of difference being that they are susceptible to the rectification of injustice by peaceful and legal processes of amendment which may make
violent revolution unnecessary.

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

the legislative process whereby changes can be made. From
the thirteenth century on, of course, written laws newly instituted were needed more and more to regulate novel conditions
for which immemorial custom had not provided. But for many
centuries this did not alter the customary character of the constitutional law-the lex regis-which made England, France,
and Spain "political kingdoms " (in the language of Fortescue), or a regimen regale et politicum. Consequent upon
uprisings in thirteenth century England, Magna Carta and
subsequent Royal charters were, in a sense, amendments of the
constitution, but they were accomplished by armed rebellion,
forced from the king under duress, not constitutional reinedies
enacted by due process of law. Even as late as the end of the
seventeenth century, the Bill of Rights, which altered the English constitution considerably, resulted from a revolution, albeit
bloodless, but only after a century of bloodshed.
Against this historical background, we can see the originality
of Locke and Rousseau in conceiving the constitution
capable
of peaceful amendment, because they saw its legislative origin
as an explicit compact or convention whereby the governed
consented or agreed to be governed in a certain way. Their
insight was more prophetic of events and institutions they did
not live to see, than descriptive of the world in which they
lived. The limitations of their time and their political experience prevented them from expressing their insight in terms
more appropriate to the actual practices of modern constitutionalism. Others were to make that translation for them.
Nevertheless, their understanding of the constitution as basic
positive law-precisely on the point which Aristotle failed to
make explicit-should not be underestimated as the root of
modern constitutional developments which the statesmen of the
American Revolution began to accomplish in fact, and so were
able to comprehend in more practical terms.
Locke's chapter on the legislative power makes the point
under consideration, when it is read in the light of the " social

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

95

contract " as nothing more than the convention whereby the
constitution is itself established. 598 He opens by saying:
The great end of men's entering into society being the enjoyment
of their properties in peace and safety, and the great instrument
and means of that being the laws established in that society, the
first and fundamental positive law of all commonwealths is the
establishing of the legislative power. . . . This legislative power is
not only the supreme power of the commonwealth, but sacred and
unalterable in the hands where the community have once placed
it. Nor can any edict of anybody else, in what form soever conceived, or by what power soever backed, have the force and obligation of a law which has not its sanction from that legislative which
the public has chosen and appointed; for without this the law could
not have this which is absolutely necessary to its being a law, the
consent of the society, over whom nobody can have a power to
make laws but by their own consent and by authority received
from them. 594
••• Vd. Second Essay Of Civil Government, Ch. XI. Cf. Ch. XII and Xiii.
••• Ibid., # 184. Italics ours. Professor Millar's reference to the Lockean
.doctrine " that property was the main object of Society " (" The Philosophy of
the Constitution," loc. cit., p. 58), exemplifies a familiar and unfortunately too
prevalent misunderstanding of Locke, for it is obvious from the context that those
who say this mean by " property " only economic possessions, which is a violent
distortion of Locke's meaning. Locke plainly says that "every man has a 'property ' in his own person " as well as in " the 'labor ' of his body, and the ' work'
of his hands" (Of Civil Govern1nent, Ch. V, # 26). And again: "By property
I must be understood here, as in other places, to mean that property which men
have in their persons as well as goods " (ibid., Ch. XV, # 178) . That is why
Locke regards a slave, who has forfeited his right to life and liberty, as completely
without property, for he has forfeited himself-his self-possession-not merely a
title to external goods. A free person is one who belongs to himself; a slave
belongs to another. To own one's self is the greatest property of all.
Hence when Locke speaks of " the preservation of property " as the end of
government, he is referring to all those natural rights which must be safeguarded
for the pursuit of happiness. Nor is there any inconsistency between saying that
property (in this sense) is the end of government and also saying, as Locke does,
that government has "no other end but the peace, safety, and public good of the
people" (ibid., Ch. IX, # 181); or again: "all the power of government has being
only for the good of the society " (ibid., Ch. XI, # 187); or again "salus populi,
suprema lex is certainly so just and fundamental a rule that he who sincerely fol.
lows it cannot dangerously err " (ibid., Ch. XIII, # 158); or again " the foundation and end of all laws (is) the public good" (ibid., Ch. XIV, # 165) . Translated into the traditional language of Scholasticism, Locke is saying that the two

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M, J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

That
does not think of the "social contract" as a compact
to form society itself, but only civil society under its proper
form of government which he, following Aristotle, calls " political" (L e., Constitutional) as opposed to "paternal" (Le,,
Royal) , is
by his quotation of a passage
Hooker
natural and conventional
distinguishes between
ends of government are the common good (proximately) and the happiness of
individual men (ultimately), when he says that the end of government is "the
public good and preservation of property" (ibid., Ch. XIX, # 239). It is not a
mark of inconsistency or inadequacy that he should sometimes emphasize the one,
as when in defining the scope of political power he says that " all this ill only for
the public good" (ibid., Ch. I, #3), and sometimes the other, as when he says:
" The end of government is the good of mankind " and political powell' should,
therefore, be used for " the preservation of the properties of the people" (ibid.,
Ch. XIX, # fZS9). "'lhat is p.roxin1ately fo1· the public good is also ultimately
for the good of mankind.
In thus correcting an egregious misinterpretation of Locke's words, we do not
mean to imply that Locke would have taken the side of those who fight for the
rights of man against the rights of " property " (in the usual sense of the word
meaning " economic possessions ") . His remarks about confiscation and taxation
(vd. ibid., Ch. XI, # 138, HO) certainly reveal that he was fearful about governmental
of private wealth. It is doubtful that Locke would luwe been
able to see that the public good can justify stringent restrictions upon the accumulation of private (economic) property, and even justify a fairly high degree of
confiscation of such accumulations (by inheritance and income taxes) . Locke was
an oligarch; but then, so was Aristotle. H we interpret Aristotle as thinking that
the common good and happiness are the ends of government, we have no less
ground for interpreting Locke's analysis in the same way-despite ow: knowledge
of the oligarchical
of both men.
Professor Millar, who criticizes Locke's views on property and praises Burke as
the repository of political wisdom and justice, should remember Burke's opinion
that any government which protects property is good government. In his speech
On the Bill to Enable Subjects of France to Enlist as Soldiers, made in 1798,
Burke said of himself: "Let it be a pure monarchy, a democracy, or an aristocracy,
or all mixed, he cared not, provided a government did exist, ithe fust principle of
which must necessarily be security to property, because fm: the protection of property, all governments were instituted" (Speeches, IV, 166). As President Hutchins
points out, Bmke usually means landed property when he uses the word; seldom
if ever does he have Locke's broader meaning,_ including the possession of right@ in
one's life and liberty, as well as ownership of external goods. Vd. Hutchins, "The
Theory -of Oligarchy: Edmund Burke" in THE Tl!IOMXST, V, 66-7. Cf. Walton
H. Hamilton, "Property-According
to Locke" in the Yale Law Joumol, XLI,
864e880.

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97

aspects of civil society. 595 And at the end of this chapter,
Locke stresses the point that the legislative power of the people--strictly speaking, .their constituent power, the power
whereby they enact the constitution as the primary positive
law-must not be confused with the secondary law-making
powers they delegate to legislative officers or bodies. He
writes:
The legislative cannot transfer the power of making laws to any
other hands, for it being but a delegated power from the people,
they who have it cannot pass it over to others. The people alone.
can appoint the form of the commonwealth, which is by constituting the legislative, and appointing in whose hands that shall be.696
Rousseau has a similar conception of the constitution as the
basic positive law which creates the body politic and which, in
the order of efficient causality, is conventional or voluntary, not
natural. Wh;tt is formed, as the result of the, social compact,
is not society as suc:h, not domestic society, not even civil
society under absolute (or what Rousseau regarded as despotic)
government, but only civil so.ciety properly constituted-the
sort of commonwealth which" formerly took the name of city,
and now takes that of Republic or body politic; it is called by
its members State when passive; Sovereign when active, and
Power when compared with others like itself. Those who are
associated in it take collectively the name of people, and severally are called citizens, as sharing in the sovereign power." 597
When the words" body politic" are thus understood to signify
civil society under Constitutional government-according to
Rousseau the only legitimate government for such societythere can be no misunderstanding of what he means when he
595 " Two foundations there are which bear upon public societies; the one a
natural inclination whereby all men desire sociable life and fellowship; the other
an order, expressly or secretly agreed, upon, touching the manner of their uriion in
lving together. The latter is that which we call the law of a commonweal, the
ve;ry soul of a politic body, the parts whereof are by this law animated, held
together, and set to work in-. such actions as the common good requireth " (Ecclesiastical Polity, I, 10). Italics ours.
mlbid., # 141. Italics ours.
••• The Social Contract, Part I, Ch. 6.

7

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

says that " by the social compact we have given the body
politic existence and life." 598
If, to be legitimate, civil government must be Constitutional,
how else can legitimate government arise except by convention,
a convention instituted by the people, certainly not by the government which it creates? In his chapter on the division of
laws, Rousseau, therefore, sharply separates from ordinary civil
and criminal law " the political, which determines the form of
government." 599 By "political law" he means the constitution
itself. His distinction between the political and other types of
law thus conforms to Locke's distinction between the primary
legislative power which is constituent and the secondary legislative powers of a duly constituted government.
Let us leave Locke and Rousseau in order to consider the
fully practical development of the insight which they could
neither invest with institutional significance nor entirely free
from adventitious speculations, some of which are doctrinaire,
some fallacious. We can do this most expeditiously by taking
Mcilwain's summary of modern constitutionalism and comparing it with the ancient conception. 600
In the first chapter of his Constitutionalism Ancient and
Modern, which is devoted to " some modern definitions," McIlwain leans heavily on Thomas Paine for a representative
statement of the views of those men who were acquainted with
constitutions in the actual making. Paine had observed that
"a constitution is not the act of a Government, but of a people
constituting a government; and Government without a con••• Ibid., Part II, Ch. 6. Italics ours.
••• Ibid., Part U, Ch. U.
800 Vd. the five points enumerated
as comprising the Aristotelian definition of
Constitutional government, on p. 85, supra. These five points include, explicitly
or virtually, everything essential to the Roman and mediaeval understanding of
constitutionality.
Some points may be lost or blprred, but nothing is added until
we come to modem times. · There is no question that the modem conception
involves all these points explicitly, but it will be seen, we think, that in addition
to greater explicitness with respect to some of them, the modem understanding
improves on Aristotle (and, a fortiori, on Roman and mediaeval views) in regard
to the constitutional process itself-the making and amending of constitutions.

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

99

stitution is power without a right." 601 His chapter on the
nature of constitutions in The Rights of Man is, according to
Mcllwain, a remarkably acute analysis of the American innova801 The Rights of Man, Part II, Chapter 4.
"It seems probable," says Mcllwain,
" that Paine means by ' constitution ' nothing less than the written constitutions
of America or France. . . . For Arthur Young, a constitution in this sense of
' written ' constitution is 'a new term '; for Thomas Paine it seems to be the only
kind of constitution worthy of the name. Such ' puddings,' ' made by a receipt,'
were to Edmund Burke apparently as repulsive as to Arthur Young. He says
little or nothing about the new American constitution, but in his opinion nothing
could be worse than the French one" (op. cit., p. 4). Paine's opinion of Burke
as an opponent of Constitutional government-an opinion which vividly colors
many pages of The Rights of Man-is, of course, excessive, but it fairly represents the difference between the older view of the customary constitutionalism that
belonged to the regimen regale et politicum, and the newer view of the enacted
constitution as creating Republican (i.e., totally non-Royal) government. Even
though he fought Royal aggrandizement on the part of George ill, Burke was an
exponent of constitutional monarchy and, therefore, defended the only sort of
constitutionalism which was compatible with some remnant of Royal power. Burke
opposed the reform measures sponsored by Fox, and would certainly have opposed
the progressive tendency of England's unwritten
to become more and
more Democratic. Nevertheless, in his" Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs,"
in 1791, Burke reaffirmed the constitutional measures of the revolution of 1689, and
admitted that the Englishmen of North America who in 1775 rebelled against
arbitrary despotism " stood in the same relation to England, as England did to
King James the second in 1688" (Works of Edmund Burke [1855}: Vol. III,
p. 80).
Contemporary Jesuit writers tend to regard Burke, along with Suarez and
Bellarmine, as the real inspiration of American constitutionalism; and, for obvious
but iTTelevant reasons, they deplore the influence (even sometimes rejecting the
supposition that it exists) of Locke and Rousseau. But the fundamental issue
between Burke and Paine-an issue that can be understood only in terms of the
difference between the regimen regale et politicum and one which is purely
politicum--shows Paine to have a truer and more perfect conception of Constitutional government than Burke or Suarez or Bellarmine, and shows the derivation of
that conception from Locke and Rousseau. One must not let theological errorS',
even if they be as odious as deism, obscure a political controversy, if the issue
involved does not depend upon theological premises for its resolution. That the
issue between Paine and Burke is of this sort is evidenced by a fundamental agreement on constitutional principles between Paine, the "free-thinking" deist, and
James Wilson, the orthodox Catholic. Vd. fn. 602 infra.
For contemporary Jesuit opinion which is favorable to Burke, and which is
prejudiced against such men as Locke and Rousseau, Jefferson and Paine, even as
Paine was prejudiced against Burke, vd. the writings cited in fn. 586 and 588,
supra, and especially Father Millar's article " The Modern State and Catholic

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

tion. This remains true " whether we subscribe or not to the
characterization of Thomas Paine by a former President of the
United States as ' a dirty little atheist,' in which every item
seems to be inaccurate.
The significant points in that
analysis are these:
·
That there is a fundamental difference between a people's governPrinciples" (loc. cit., p. fil) where he refers to Burke as "the greatest philosopherstatesman thus far known to history." No doubt but that Burke was a great
statesman in his day, or even that he deserves Carlyle's praise as a great constitutionalist (vd. Political Liberty, Part III, Ch. 4). But it may be doubled whether
Burke would have been so staunchly a Whig had George III not been so avidly
a Tory; and it is questionable whether Burke's understanding of constitutionalism
went beyond the mediaeval conception of the constitutional aspect of a regimen
regale et politicum, which Burke called a " mixed government like ours, composed
of Monarchy, and of controls on the part of the higher people and the lower," the
great end of which is "that the prince shall not be able to violate the laws"
(" Thoughts on the Present Discontents " in Works, II, pp.
.
But above all it is clear that whatever eminence Burke deserves as a statesman
or as an orator, he can claim none as an original thinker in the field of political
philosophy. In his view of the common good as the end of government, he was an
Aristotelian, even as Locke was; in his view of the naturalness and conventionality
of the state, he was an Aristotelian, even as Rousseau was. Vd. Carlyle, op. cit.,
p. 184. It may even be that in his conception of human nature he was much
more of an Aristotelian than either Locke or Rousseau. This is certainly true with
respect to his moral philosophy, his understanding of the virtues, etc. But if
Burke had never written a line, not a jot or tittle would have been lo_,st from the
pages of political philosophy. Furthermore, Burke is guilty of popularizing an
error which is prevalent in the Scholastic tradition, namely, that the common good,
and the common good alone, determines the justice of government. When he
argued against the suffrage reforms proposed by Charles James Fox, he could not
see that it mattered at all whether the underprivileged classes were admitted to
the status of citizenship, so long as their (economic) betters governed for the
common good, and so took care of them paternalistically. Vd. fn. 688, infra. We
shall return to this point subsequently in Section 4, infra.
In two recent articles, President R. M. Hutchins has at last exploded the Burke
myth, showing not merely that he is an oligarch by prejudice, but that he is not
to be regarded as a political philosopher. He was a great orator and an opportunistic statesman, which combination of qualities enabled him to be eloquent on
either side of any basic question, as the occasioiJ, commanded his firm, though
temporary, adherence to one or another of contrary principles. That is why his
apologists find him so useful and quotable. An ad hoc reading of Burke can
always discover one line of thought and neglect another. Vd. Hutchins, "The
Theory of Oligarchy: Edmund Burke," loc. cit.; and "The Theory of the State:
Edmund Burke" in The Review of Politics, V,
pp. 189-155.

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ment and a people's constitution, whether the government happens
to be entrusted to a king or to a representative assembly.
That this constitution is " antecedent " to the government.
That it defines the authority which the people commits to its
government and in so doing thereby limits it.
That any exercise of authority beyond these limits by any
government is an exercise of " power without right."
That in any state in which the distinction is not actually observed between the constitution and the government there is in
reality no constitution, because the will of the government has no
check upon it, and that state is in fact a despotism. 602
602 Vd. Constitutionalism
Ancient and Modern, pp. 10-11. The same fundamental points of analysis, which Mcilwain finds in Paine's writings, can also be
found in James Wilson's commentary on American constitutionalism and in the
Federalist Papers, as well as in the letters and notes of Thomas Jefferson-all of
which shows that this new understanding of the principle of constitutionality can
be shared by a deist and a Catholic, or by such opponents on every economic
aspect of politics as Hamilton and Jefferson, or (if Locke and Rousseau be considered) by an Englishman of common sense and a French romantic.
Consider these statements by Wilson: " The acts and compacts which form the
political association are very. different from those by which the associated body
when formed may choose to maintain and regulate itself " (Works, I, 345 ff.); the
constitution is " that supreme law made or ratified by those in whom the sovereign
power of the state resides, which prescribes the manner, according to which the
state wills that the government should be instituted and administered. From this
constitution the government derives its powers; by this constitution the powers of
government must be directed and controlled; of this constitution no alteration can
be made by the government, because such an alteration would destroy the foundation of its own authority " (ibid., I, 374-75); " the supreme or sovereign power of
the society resides in the citizens at large; and therefore, they always retain the
right of abolishing, altering, or amending their constitution, at whatever time, and
in whatever manner, they shall deem it expedient" (ibid., I, pp. 14-15). Vd. also
statements quoted in fn. 59!it, supra and 615, infra.
Consider also these statements in the Federalist Papers: Government "ought to
rest on the solid basis of the consent of the People. The streams of national
power ought to flow immediately from that pure original fountain of all legitimate
authority" (No. 2!it by Hamilton); "we may define a republic to be, or at least
may bestow the name on, a Government which derives all its powers from the
great body of the People, and is administered by persons holding their offices during pleasure, for a limited period, or during good behavior" (No. 39 by Madison);
"as the People are the only legitimate fountain of power, and it is from them
that the constitutional charter under which the several branches of Government
hold their power, is derived, it seems strictly consonant to the republican theory,
to recur to the same original authority, not only whenever it may be necessary to
enlarge, diminish, or new-model the powers of Government; but also whenever any

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

Mcilwain omits from this enumeration a point of the greatest
importance, namely, that the same legislative process, antecedent to government itself, which enacts the constitution, continues to be available, even though it remains in latency, to
amend the constitution. The government itself cannot change
the constitution, but the constitution can be changed without
overthrowing the government. 603
one of the departments may commit encroachments on the chartered authorities of
the others " (No. 49 by Hamilton).
The Federalists rightly insisted that when
the principie of constitutionality is properly understood as determining the character of Republican government, the so-called " republics " of Holland, Venice, and
Poland were misnamed. Vd. No. 89 by Madison, and cf. on this the similar observations made by Paine in The Rights of Man (Everyman edition, pp. 174-75).
Theirs is the modern understanding of perfect constitutionality (which is incompatible with any degree whatsoever of non-popular sovereignty); and by this
standard, the governments of Holland, Venice, and Poland were more like the
regimen regale et politicum than like Republics, or purely Constitutional governments. Cf. what Suarez has to say about the governments of Venice and Genoa
in De Legibus, Lect. III, Ch. IX, n. 6.
An unprejudiced reading of Paine or Jefferson, on the one hand, or of Wilson
and Hamilton, on the other, will show that they agreed completely about ,.the
nature of perfect or purely Constitutional government, and in their concept of a
true Republic, as against the imperfect constitutionalism of the regimen regale et
politicum. Their agreement on this basic point in political theory is unaffected by
their differences in theology, in morals, or in economics. Contemporary Jesuits
who dismiss Paine and Jefferson as utterly fallacious and favor Wilson and Hamilton as oracles of truth, and deal similarly with Locke and Rousseau as against
Suarez, Bellarmine, and Burke, are, it would seem, being somewhat jaundiced in
their judgment, tending to see error everywhere in a man's thought because it can
be found somewhere. But there are many truths in political philosophy which
are independent of theological premises. Furthermore, in philosophy it is necessary to follow the eminently sensible practice of Aristotle-" to call into council
the views of those of our predecessors who have declared any 'opinion on this
subject, in order that we may profit by whatever is sound in their suggestions
and avoid their errors" (De Anima, I,
St. Thomas followed this
advice profitably, accepting valid arguments or sound definitions from pagans and
infidels. Especially in the study of modern political theory, we would do well to
proceed in the same way-separating truth from error always, but also always
recognizing the truth wherever it can be found.
808 Vd. ibid., p.
"As a general principle I think we must admit the truth
of Paine's dictum that ' a constitution is not the act of a government, but of a
people constituting a government.' And if. this be true the consequence is that
the forms and limits followed in this ' constituting ' become the embodiment of a
' constitution ' superior in character to the acts of any ' government ' it creates. . . .

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" One of the greatest improvements that has been made
for the perpetual security and progress of constitutional
liberty," Paine wrote, "is the provision which the new Constitutions make for occasionally revising, altering, and amending them." 604 This improvement-amendment by due process
of constitutional law-may not be inseparable from the nature
of written constitutions (the case of England exemplifying a
separation) , but the written constitution, being consciously
constructed at a given time, necessarily calls attention to the
problem of its future alteration in perpetuity.
If "we the people of the United States" in 1789 wish to
"secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity,"
we must provide for " our posterity " the ,same essential freedom that we have exercised in establishing this constitution,
the freedom to amend it, or even to abolish it for a just cause,
the former a constitutional provision, the latter an inalienable
natural right. Though a constitution can be as truly operable
in custom as in writing, the shift from customary to written
constitutions, which was a novel departure in the eighteenth
century, gave reality to the" social contract" theory of Locke
and Rousseau and emphasized the difference between the
All constitutional government is by definition limited government. We may not
agree that these limits are necessarily 'antecedent' in the sense of that term that
Paine had in mind, but for everyone they must be in some sense ' fundamental,'
and fundamental not merely because they are basic, but because they are also
unalterable by ordinary legal process." (Italics ours.)
604 The Rights
of Man, Part II, Ch. 4 (Everyman edition, p. !W9); and he
adds: "The principle upon which Mr. Burke formed his political creed, that of
binding and controlling posterity to the end of time, and of renouncing and abdicating the rights of all posterity for ever, is now become too detestable to be made a
subject of debate."
The Constitution of the United States provides for its own ratification in Article
VII, and for subsequent amendment of all its stated enactments in Article V. For
comment on these provisions for ratification and amendment by James Wilson and
the Federalists, vd. fn . .59!2, supra; and also in regard to the rights of revolution,
the right to abolish the constitution in its entirety, vd. fn. 592, supra, and the
statement by Wilson that " the sovereign power of the society resides in the
citizens at large; and therefore, they always retain the right of abolishing, altering
or amending their constitution" (Works, I, pp. 14-15). Italics ours. The views
expressed by George Washington in his Farewell Address are not to the contrary,
as Oberling suggests: vd. op. cit., pp. 2.56-57. Cf. Mcllwain, op. cit., p. ll.

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modern and the ancient, or mediaeval, definitions of Constitu.:
tional government. 605 Furthermore, as we shall see, the amending power-which is an extension of the constituent power-has
become one of the essential prerogatives of modern citizenship.
The grant of suffrage must now be understood as involving a
sh&re in the legal power to alter the constitution. 606
There is one other respect in which modern Constitutional
005 "Paine's notion that the only true constitution
is one consciously constructed,
and that a nation's government is only the creature of this constitution, conforms
probably more closely than any other to the actual development in the world
Whether this construction was
since the opening of the nineteenth century.
actually prompted in the first instance by doctrinaire political philosophers, as
seems largely true in France, or by actual political experience, as the history of the
time appears to indicate in the revolted North American colonies of Great Britain,
it is certainly true that most subsequent constitutional developments have followed the same lines. Written constitutions creating, defining, and limiting governments since then have been the general rule in almost the whole of the constitutional world. The precedent for these, first developed in North America, was
naturalized in France,· and from there transmitted to most of the continent of
Europe, from which it has spread in our own day to much of the Orient. Even
the British self-governing colonies have been deeply influenced by it" (Mcllwain,
op. cit., pp. 16-17) .
But we must not forget, as Mcllwain cautions, that modern constitutionalism is
merely the latest phase in a long development-" what might be called the ' selfconscious ' phase, in which the, people are thought of as creating their constitution
by direct and express constituent power. . . . This latest phase is only the outcome of· an earlier and much longer one, in which constitutions were thought of
not as a creation but as a growth. . . • Our modern tendency to identify all law
with .legislation has modified the notions respecting constitutional as well as private law. We no longer think of either as the mediaeval man did, as custom
binding because it extends backward to a time ' whereof the memory of man
runneth not to the contrary.' . . . In all its successive phases, constitutionalism
has one essential quality: it is a legal limitation on government; it is the antithesis
of arbitrary rule; its opposite is despotic government, the government of will instead
·
of law" (ibid., pp. 23-24) .
There is, in short, both an essential continuity between ancient, mediaeval, and
modern- constitutionalism and also an essential difference that centers around the
modern development of written· constitutions. The difference is,. of course, slight
in contrast to the main points of agreement between Aristotle and, let us say,
Thomas Paine; but it is a difference none the less, and one which cannot be ignored
if we are to comprehend modern Republican governments, some of which have
developed-by constitutional amendment rather than by violent revolution-into
Democracies, at least so far as their constitutions are concerned.
806 The importance
of this point in connection with the problem of
suffrage will be discussed in Section 4, infra.

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105

government exhibits an improvement upon its ancient and
mediaeval prototypes, namely, the development of politically
enfgrceable sanctions (I) to safeguard the fundamental status
of citizenship from the encroachments of a government exercising power beyond its juridical limits, and (2) to protect the
several offices of government from similar encroachments upon
each other·. Such sanctions, as we have seen, are not part of
the essence of constitutionality, but they are prac1ically indispensable to its effective operation; moreover, without them the
constitution lacks a property which should attach to its essence
as positive law-namely, enforceability without violence. We
have sufficiently discussed this point, 607 so that it does not need
much elaboration here, but it will be worth while to spend a
moment on the creation of such sanctions by the American
constitution.
· The division of powers among three separate departments of
government (legislative, judicial, and executive) and the socalled " system of checks and balances," whereby they limit one
another's authority, are usually supposed to be the ingenious
features of the Constitution of the United States. The invention of these expedients has been attributed to Montesquieu,
though he himself claims only to have discovered them in the
operations of the British constitution and the Roman republic.608 But there is some doubt whether Montesquieu understood the political system of either Rome or England. Scholars
disagree whether his notion about the separation of powers is
really a practical insight or baldly doctrinaire. 609 Though the
Vd. Part IV, Section 4, supra, loc. cit., pp. 751 fl'.
Vd. Spirit of Laws, Book XI, Ch. 4, 6, 13,.14-18,
609 Vd. Mcllwain,
op. cit.,' pp. 144-45: "Among all the modern fallacies that
have obscured the true teachings of constitutional history, few are worse than the
extreme doctrine of the separation of powers and the indiscriminate use of the
phrase ' checks and balances.' . . . Political balances have no institutional background whatever except in the imaginations of closet philosophers like Montesquieu." But Mcllwain goes on to say: "In Rome where checks and balances
might be said to have had their origin, they marked the antagonism of class against
class. The plebeian tribune could block any action of the patrician conml. The
expedient itself is just .about as healthful a procedure in a modern state as the
class division out of which it originally arose and through which it persists.''
Cf. Carlyle, Political Liberty, pp. 155-57: "It must not, however, be imagined
601
608

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

writers of the Federalist Papers express their indebtedness
to Montesquieu, they also criticize his misunderstanding of
English procedures. 610
The trouble is that such language as " separation of
and "checks and balances" does not accurately describe the
operation of the expedients, though it indicates their intention.
The end in view is the prevention of usurpation of power by
one or another governmental office-the protection, not only of
that Montesquieu thought that the merP separation of the powers was enough to
constitute a condition of political liberty." Vd. ibid., pp. 166-67, where Carlyle
compares Burke's views with those of Montesquieu.
610 Vd. No. 57 in which Madison says:
"One of the principal objections inculcated by the more respectable adversaries to the Constitution is its supposed violation of the political maxim that the Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary departments ought to be separate and distinct. . . . No political truth is certainly of
greater intrinsic value, or is stamped with the authority of more enlightened patrons
of liberty, than that on which the objection is founded. . . . The oracle who is
always consulted and cited on this subject is the celebrated Montesquieu. . . . The
British Constitution was to Montesquieu what Homer has been to the didactic
writers on epic poetry. . . . This great political critic appears to have viewed the
Constitution of England as the standard, or to use his o\vn expression, as ' the
mirror of political liberty.'" But then Madison goes on to say: "On the slightest
view of the
Constitution we must perceive that the Legislative, Executive,
and Judiciary departments are by no means totally separate and distinct from
each other." And in the immediately following paper (No. 58), he begins: " It
was shown in the last paper that the political apothegm there examined does not
require that the Legislative, Executive, and Judiciary departments should be
wholly unconnected with each other. I shall undertake in the next place to show,
that unless these departments be so far connected and blended, as to give each a
constitutional control over the others, the degree of separation which the maxim
requires, as essential to a free Government, can never in practice he duly maintained." For an excellent exposition of James Madison's political principles, vd. a
recent study by Edward McNall Burns, James Madison, Philosopher of the
Constitution, New Brunswick, 1988.
For the opinions of Mr. Justice Wilson on the separation of powers, vd. Oherling,
"The mutual deThe Philosophy of Law of James Wilson, pp.
pendence and independence of these three powers of government are so far from
destroying each other, that the one could not exist without the other. . . . In
government the perfection of the whole depends on the balance of the parts, and
the balance of the parts consists in the independent exercise of their separate
powers, and when their powers are separately exercised, then in their mutual influence and operation on one another. Each part acts and is acted upon, regulates
and is regulated by the rest" (The Works of James Wilson, Chicago, 1896: I,
867-69).

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107

the- people, but of officials, against violations of the constitution. In a passage which deserves to be famous, Alexander
Hamilton summarized the problem:
It may be a reflection on human nature, that such devices should
be necessary to control the abuses of Government. But what is
Government itself, but the greatest of all reflections on human
nature? If men were angels, no Government would be necessary.
If angels were to govern men, neither external nor internal controls on Government would be necessary. In framing a Government which is to be administered by men over men, the great
difficulty lies in this: you must first enable the Government to
control the governed; and in the next place oblige it to control
itself. A dependence on the People is, no doubt, the primary control on the Government; but experience has taught mankind the
necessity of auxiliary precautions. 611
What are these auxiliary precautions?
We shall mention
only two to indicate the way in which sanctions can operate to
check the violation of a constitution.
The first of these is the provision for the impeachment of
officials in any branch of the government (including its chief
executive) for malfeasance, or even nonfeasance, in office, or
for violation of the criminal law. It is obvious at once that
impeachment proceedings would be impossible if all the functions of government were concentrated in a single office. The
miscreant would be unlikely to indict and try himself for his
misdeeds. Some separation of powers in distinct departments
of government is, therefore, indispensable for applying and
enforcing the sanction of impeachment. Here is a relation of
means to end which, when understood, gives practical significance to " checks and balances " and measures the utility
of the separation of powers. Wherever such devices or expedients do not appear to serve the end of providing a sanction
against abuses of authority, their political utility may well be
questioned. 612
The second, and perhaps the most important of all the
Federalist Papers, No. 51.
Vd. Federalist Papers, Nos. 65 and 66, wherein Hamilton comments on the
sections of the constitution which provide for impeachments.
611
819

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

auxiliary precautions, is the provision for the judicial review of
legislative enactments or administrative decrees to determine
whether such laws or commands transgress the fundamental
law which is the constitution. 613 For the operation of this sanction, an independent judiciary is obviously indispensable, and
again we have a measure of the utility of the separation of
To give such great power to the courts raises, of
course, the possibility of a judicial nullification of the people's
will as represented in the Congress. From the beginning of
American constitutional history right down to the second Roose618 Vd. Mcllwain, op. cit., pp. 11-18: "One thing alone Paine fails to make fully
clear. If a government exercises ' some power without right,' it seems to be necessarily implied that the people have a corresponding right to resist. But is this legal
or is it only a political right? . . . Is it possible to incorporate in the framework
of the state itself some provision or institution by which a governmental act or
command ultra vires may be declared to be such, and subjects therefore exempted
from its operation, and released from any legal obligation to observe or obey it?
In short, can government be limited legally and effectively by any method short
of force? To these questions Paine gives no clear aJ?.swer. . . . The one conspicuous element lacking in Paine's construction therefore seems to be the element
of judicial review. . . . This notion of the necessity in a constitutional state for a
judicial interpretation and "limitation of the acts of government was at first
naturally vagne and instinctive; it became fully and consciously developed only at a
later date."
au Vd. Federalist Papers, No. 78, where Hamilton, in commenting on the" complete independence of the Courts of justice " as " peculiarly essential in a limited
Constitution," says: " By a limited Constitution I understand one which contains specified exceptions to the Legislative authority. . . . Limitations of this kind
can be preserved in practice no other way than through the medium of the Courts
of justice whose duty it must be to declare all Acts contrary to the manifest tenor
of the Constitution void. . . . There is no position which depends on clearer principles than that every act of a delegated authority, contrary to the tenor of the
commission under which it is exercised, is void. No Legislative act, therefore, contrary to the Constitution, is valid." Cf. No. 81, where Hamilton adds: "The
Constitution ought to be the standard of construction for the laws, and wherever
there is an evident opposition, the laws ought to give place to the Constitution."
Cf. Jefferson on "judicial usurpation in constitutional matters." In a letter to
T. Ritchie in
Jefferson wrote: "A judiciary independent of a king or executive alone is a good thing; but independence of the will of the nation is a solecism,
at least in a republican government." Or again, in a letter to Jarvis in the same
year: " To consider the judges as the ultimate arbiters of all constitutional questions is a very dangerous doctrine indeed, and one which would place us under the
despotism of an oligarchy." (Vd. Democracy by Thomas Jefferson, ed. by
Padover, New York, 1989: pp. 94-101.)

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109

velt administration, the Supreme Court's authority to void
legislation as unconstitutional has been· the subject of bitter
controversy. But the position of Hamilton, of James Wilson
and Chief Justice Marshall, has prevailed 615 and is the sounder
view, not only because judicial review of the acts of government is indispensable to prevent transgressions of the constitution, but also because, wherever the existing constitutionseems
to conflict with the popular judgment concerning what is for
the common good, the power to amend it always remains available to the people, through the medium of congressional action
and the vote of the electorate.
These two sanctions seem to operate in opposite directions.
Impeachment precludes the possibility that any official be
exempt from the coercive force of a law he violates. Judicial
review entails the possibility of making citizens exempt from
the force of unconstitutional laws or acts, even though the
illicit command must be obeyed until its nullity is declared.
This second point raises the question whether any other constitutional sanctions are available to operate against the invasion by the government of the rights and privileges attached to
the status of citizenship. The writers of the Federalist Papers
did not think that an additional " Bill of Rights " was necessary for this purpose. 616 Nevertheless, the first ten amend615 Yd. the opinion of Wilson:
"The supreme power of the United States (the
people) has given one rule; a subordinate power in the United States has given a
contradictory rule; the former is the law of the land; as a necessary consequence,
the latter is void and has no operation. In this manner, it is the right and duty
of a court of justice under the constitution of the United States to decide "
(Works, I, 415-16). Cf. ibid., p. 868-69: "There can be no disorder in the community but may receive a radical cure. If the error be in the legislature, it may be
corrected by the Constitution; if in the Constitution, it may be corrected by the
people. There is a remedy, therefore, for every distemper in government, if the
people are not wanting to themselves. For a people wanting to themselves, there is
no remedy; from their power, as we have seen, there is no appeal; to their error,
there is no superior principle of correction."
Cf. Chief Justice Marshall in the famous cases of Marbury vs. Madison, and
M'Culloch vs. Maryland.
616 Vd. No. 84, wherein Hamilton
says: "The Constitution is itself, in every
rational sense, and to every useful purpose, a Bill of Rights. . . . Is it one object
of a Bill of Rights to declare and specify the political privileges of the citizens in

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

ments were added to the Constitution as a Bill of Rights, of
protected the citizen from
which the most important
an abridgement of his personal freedom with respect to religion, public discussion, and assembly; safeguarded him from
unwarranted searches and seizures; and specified the manner
in which a citizen could be indicted, tried, and punished for
breach of the law. These, together with the clauses of the Constitution itself which prohibit ex post facto laws, bills of attainder, and suspension of the privilege of habeas corpus, or
which require trial by jury, etc., aimed to guarantee the immunities and privileges of citizenship by operative sanctions, so
to ensure that no citizen shall be "deprived of life, liberty, or
property, without due process of law."
The Constitution of the United States, with its first ten
amendments, is often looked upon as the charter of Democratic government. The essence of Democratic liberty is often
supposed to be enshrined in the so-called Bill of Rights. Such
views, however popular they may be, or however prevalent
even in learned circles, are profoundly mistaken. They manifest an egregious ignorance or neglect of the essential distinction between the Republican and Democratic forms of Constitutional government. The original constitution established
Republican government for the United States. 617 Only through
the structure and administration of the government? This is done in the most
ample and precise manner in the plan of the Convention. . . . Is another object of
a Bill of Rights to define certain immunities and modes of proceeding, which are
relative to personal and private concerns? This ·we have seen has also been
attended to in a variety of cases, in the same plan." And in an earlier passage, he
pointed out that "the establishment of the writ of habeas corpus, the prohibition
of ex post facto laws (and bills of attainder) and of titles of nobility are perhaps
greater securities to liberty and republicanism " than anything to be found in the
constitution of the State of New York at the time. Trial by jury, except in cases
of impeachment, is another provision of the same sort, which he mentions.
617 It must be observed that the statesmen of the American Revolution sometimes use the word "republic" in contradistinction to " democracy," as well as to
signify purely Constitutional government in contradistinction to absolute monarchy
or the regimen regale et politicum. (They never used the word " Democracy " as
we have defined its meaning in contradistinction to "Republic.")
Vd. fn. 602,
supra, in regard to the second of these meanings of " republic." The opposition between " democracy" and "republic " they understood in terms of non-representa-

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

Ill

progressive amendment of that constitution, which in certain
respects may even yet be defective, has the United States been
slowly transformed into a Democracy, so far as its form of government is concerned. These changes have taken place in less
than the last hundred years, many of them quite recently, and
some are not yet actually effective in operation.
Our purpose in examining the original constitution of the
United States, and in considering the contemporary discussion
of its features by statesmen responsible for its formulation or
adoption, was to observe an exemplary instance of modern constitutionalism, and especially to note those respects in which
it developed the ancient and mediaeval principles of constitutive vs. representative Constitutional government, Vd. Federalist Papers, No. 10,
in which Madison writes: " The two great points of difference, between a Democracy and a Republic, are, first, the delegation of the Government, in the latter, to a
small number of citizens elected by the rest; secondly, the greater number of
citizens, and greater sphere of country, over which the latter may be· extended."
In a letter to J. Taylor in 1816, Jefferson makes the same distinction even though
he calls the direct or non-representative form a "pure republic " and speaks of
approximations to the pure republic in proportion as action by the citizens is more
or less direct, less or more through representatives (Padover edition, pp. 60-68) . It
is in this same letter that he comments on the abuse of the word " republic " to
refer to the "self-styled republics of Holland, Switzerland, Genoa, Venice, Poland."
Here he agrees with Madison and Paine (vd. fn. 602, supra); but Paine, like Rousseau, uses the word " republic " to name any -legitimate form of government, in
to absolute and arbitrary regimes, and then distinguishes between
simple democracy
democracy developed by representative institutions. " Simple
Democracy was society governing itself without the aid of secondary means. By
ingrafting representation on Democracy, we arrive at" the American system of government (op. cit., pp. 176-77) . And he goes on to say: " It is preferable to simple
Democracy even in small territories. Athens, by representation, would have outrivaled her own Democracy " (ibid., p. 177) .
The notion of simple; direct, or non-representative democracy is what Suarez had
in mind when he spoke of democracy as being the natural form of government,
following from popular sovereignty without the aid of any additional positive institutions, or what Paine called "secondary means." Vd. Def. Fid. Oath., Book ill,
Ch. II, 8, 9: " Thus there could be democracy without any positive institution ...
by the mere negation of any positive institution, because natural reason dictates that
the supreme political power naturally follows from a perfect human community and
by the same reason that power pertains to the community unless by a new
institution the power is transferred to another."
This notion, whether expressed by Suarez or by Prune, is, of course, fundamentally erroneous. H these men had adequately comprehended the distinctions

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

tionality-in some cases increasing their precision, in others
adding to their content. What can be called the Democratic
revolution-:-a revolution taking place, for the most part, by
peaceful stages of amendment-has been occurring within the
framework of modern Republican government; and it was
necessary, therefore, to define the character of this constitutional structure. It is doubtful whether ancient Republics
could have undergone such radical changes without violent
upheavals. One of the remarkable features of the modem Republic is that its constitution is capable of gradual alteration,
even to the point where the form of government becomes
essentially different-ceases to be Republican, and becomes
Democratic.
The difference between the ancient and the modem Repubamong forms of government, they would have known that, because it is an outgrowth of paternal rule in the domestic society, only the purely absolute regime
can exist 'without positive institutions for transferring or delegating political power
and authority, and that every form of _Constitutional government, whether with or
without representation, or even the regimen regale et politicum in so far as it has
a constitutional aspect, must involve positive institutions, for the constitution itself
,is one, arid is the source of governmental power and authority in so far as it is
constitutional. Hence the notion o( Constitutional government without positive
legal institutions is self-contradictory, and the distinction between direct and
representative Constitutional government is entirely accidental, being a matter of
expediency and convenience, relative to the size of the population and the extent
of the territory in which it lives.
Furthermore, the supposition. that the Athenian democracy was such a "direct"
mode of Constitutional ,government is historically fallacious, being due to a misinterpretation of the principle of the lottery as the way office-holders were appointed. As a matter of fact, so-called " direct " Constitutional government could
occur only in a very small community, in which there was no distinction ,at all
between office-holders and citizens out of 1 office and in
the only constitutional·_enactment (in addition to the one which fixed who should be citizens, i. e.,
full participants in the political community) would be the rule that every decision
for the common good be determined by a majority vote of the entire community.
Since there could be no division of governmental functions in such a situation-no
separation of the executive, judicial, and legislative-such government could occur
only when the community consisted of a handful of persons. Athens was much
too large for it; and it is even doubtful that the New England township exemplified it. It has probably never existed, except in the imaginations of writers who
are doctrinaire on this point rather than historical. Cf. Part IV, Section 4, 8Upra,
loc. cit., pp. 707-8.

.THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

113

lie-the difference between ·ancient and modern constitutionalism-is not primarily a difference in justice. The modern
Republic may be a more perfect embodimE(nt of the principle
of constitutionality, but that does not make it a more just form
of government. a't.s Its superiority is largely in the area of
efficiency-the greater effectiveness of the constitution as positive law through enforceable sanctions, and its greater amenability' to amendment as a written law explicitly drafted by
a legislative convention and ratified by popular consent. A suform of government must excel in justice, not efficiency,
and such superiority within the generic sphere of Constitutional
government depends not on the effectiveness of the constitution, but upon its justice.
We have already distinguished between the Republican and
the Democratic forms of Constitutional ,government in terms of
the elements which make a· constitution imperfectly or perfectly just. 619 Now let us examine the political developments
618 Some modern Republics have, in fact, been more just than any of the ancient
examples of this form of government. In some cases, slavery has been totally
abolished, and the undue privileges accorded to an hereditary nobility or patrician
class have been eliminated or greatly reduced. No ancient Republic was free from
such injustices. The American Republic was at its inception singularly. free from
the
of these faults, though it was marred by the first for more than half
a century, becau§e the oligarchy of wealth, if not of birth, prevailed in practice,
if not in the letter of the Constitution. The persistence of titles of nobility (and
in consequence all grades of social stratification) in many European Republics was
probably due 'to the way in wllich they arose as developments out of the regimen
regqle et poUticum. Vd. Part IV, Section 4, supra, loc. cit., pp. 751 ff. These differences being acknowledged, it still remains true that modern Republics are not
more just, because of the. fact that they embody the principle of constitutionality
more completefy or perfectly. Purely constitutional government, adequately instituted, is compatible with slavery as a legal category and with all sorts of
oligarchical privileges and distinctions, as well as with the disfranchisement of large
portions
the population. The correction of one or more of these things may
make one Republic more just than another, but only the correction of all three
will convert the form of gevernment from Republic to Democracy.
610 Vd. Section 1, supra, esp. pp.
398. The various "rights" and "liberties" enumerated in the eighteenth century Bill of Rights do not comprise the
distinguishing characteristics of Democratic government. Every property
follows from the equality and freedem of citizenship is common to all Constitutional governments, whether oligarchical and hence Republican or truly Democratic. The differentia of Democracy, the only differentia, is the equality and
freedom, not of all who are citizens, but of all men as citizens.

8

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

which have taken place since the eighteenth century in order
to observe the changes by which the imperfections in the Republican type of constitution have been removed, or its actual
injustices corrected, as political life and thought have continuously approached the Democratic ideal. Advances in polifical
theory are not always evocative of progressive action; reforms
are sometimes instituted before, sometimes after, the theorist
argues for, or the orator applauds, the change. We shall, therefore, first consider the gradual enlightenment of political theory
on the problems of liberty and equality (as these are relevant
to Democracy) ; and then briefly survey the actual institutional
changes.
That all men are created free and equal was regarded as
axiomatic by the Republicans of the eighteenth century, as it
had been evident to the Roman Stoics in terms of man's rationality and free will. But in neither case was this truth used as
the premise from which to conclude that all men should be
granted political equality or given political freedom. With
few exceptions, slavery and the subjection of disfranchised
classes was countenanced by the exponents of liberty and
equality. With no exceptions, the female half of mankind
was relegated by silent treatment to the limbo of political
pariahs. The theorists and orators of the eighteenth century
talked of " free government " and "popular government," without concern for the fact that its gift of freedom could be fully
enjoyed only by citizens, or for the fact that "the people "
whose participation made the government popular was only a
portion of the human beings in the population.
The question, Who are the people? (who shall be members
of the political community?) , was not raised by most of the
great political thinkers who, during the late seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, were engaged in arguing for the people's
right to a larger share in government, or in insisting that the
people were the source of all legitimate civil authority and
power. Even if they had ever raised the question, the indications are that they would not have answered it as we, who are
exponents of Democracy, do today.

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

115

This does not mean that the question was not raised at all,
or that the temper and conditions of the period made an
enlightened answer impossible. But the evidences of such
enlightenment cannot be found in Locke or Montesquieu or
Rousseau-certainly not in Suarez, Bellarmine, or Burke, and
not even in most of the publicists of the American Revolution,
Jefferson being the only clear exception to the more prevalent
opinion about such matters which is expressed by men like
Alexander Hamilton and John Adams.
In his history of political liberty in the Middle Ages and in
modern times, 62 ° Carlyle cites only two examples (prior to
Jefferson's famous letter to Kerchival in 1816) of the question
being raised.
The first of these occurred during Cromwell's revolution,
when a General Council of the Officers of the Army met at
Putney in 1647 to discuss a document known as "The Agreement of the People." The phrase " The People of England "
called for interpretation, and Colonel Rainborough, a leader
of the Levellers movement among the soldiers, spoke against
Commissary Ireton, Cromwell's son-in-law. He said:
I really think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life
to live, as the greatest he; and therefore truly, sir, I think it's clear
that every man that is to live under a government ought first by
his own consent to put himself under that government; and I do
think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a
•••" In this work we have been dealing with the history of the conception of
political liberty under the terms of the authority of the political community over
those persons to whom its immediate government is entrusted, but we have not
considered the question who are the full members of the community. It may seem
strange to us, but it is clear that till the middle of the eighteenth century the
question was not generally present to men's minds, and that it is only in the
nineteenth century that it was dealt with practically. This does not mean that
the question had not been raised earlier, and we should be omitting an unportant
aspect of the history of the conception of political liberty if we did not deal with
some examples of this" (Political Liberty, p. 188). At the end of this chapter,
Carlyle concludes: " I do not deal with the development of these principles in the
nineteenth century. It is enough for our purposes to observe that it has only
been slowly recognized that full political freedom requires . that every person of
mature age should have an equal place in the ultimate authority which controls
the legislative system" (ibid., p. 196).

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

strict sense to ,that government that he hath not had a voice to
put himself under.

Ireton denied the existence of any such rights, saying:
If you make this the rule I think that you must fly for refuge to
an absolute natural right, and you must deny all Civil Right. For
my part I think that noe person has a right to an interest or share
in the disposing or determining of the affairs of the Kingdom.

To which Rainborough replied:
Truly, Sir, I am of the same opinion as I was. . . . I doe hear
nothing at all that can convince me any man that is borne in
England ought not to have his voice in the election of Burgesses.
. . . I doe think that the maine cause why Almighty God gave
man reason, itt was that they should make use of that reason, and
that they should improve itt for that end and purpose that God
gave itt them. 621

The second instance is to be found in Major John Cartwright's statement to the effect that
All men are by nature free, all are by nature equal; freedom
implies choice; equality excludes degrees in freedom. All the Commons, therefore, have an equal right to vote in the elections of
those who are to be the guardians of their liberties; and none can
be entitled to more than one vote. . . . My own conception of the
truth obliges me to believe that personality is the sole foundation
of the right of being represented; and that property has, in reality,
nothing to do in the case. 622
621 Vd. the record of the Putney Debates in the Clarke Papers,. I,
Cf.
Carlyle, op. cit., pp. 188-89; and Edman, Fountainheads of Freedom, pp.
for an ample quotation from the Clarke Papers concerning these debates. Professor Edman says: " The Levellers supply the first great instance of the insistence
upon the rights of persons made specifically as over against the rights of property
and vested interests. . . . Had the Levellers had their way, England would have
been governed thenceforth by a written constitution containing a bill of fundamental rights" (op. cit., p. 64).
At the opening of the Debates, Ireton had said that if the meaning of "The
People of England " is that " every man that is an inhabitant is to be equally
considered, and to have an equal voice in the election of representatives . . . then I
have something to say against it "-to which Mr. Peters, a Leveller, answered:
" We judge that all inhabitants wJ:w have not lost their birthright should have an
equal voice in election."
622 The Legislative Rights of the Community
Vindicated {second edition, published in 1777): pp.
Cf. Carlyle, op. cit., pp. 190-9S, 196.

THE THEORY OF

117

It should be noted that Cartwright only speaks for the extension of suffrage to " all the commons " enabling them to elect
representatives to the lower house of Parliament. He does not
speak against the special privileges of the peerage or the unwarranted powers of the House of Lords. More than a hundred years must elapse before anything so radical can be
dreamed of in England. But in England or on the Continent, the position taken by Cartwright was remarkably radical
for his day, despite the fact that he was writing after the
works of Locke, Montesquieu, and Rousseau had gained wide
currency.
Locke speaks of liberty and equality in terms which echo
Roman Stoicism, 623 but, at the same time, he wishes to allow
for all sorts of inequality among men as occasioning special
political privileges; 624 he never raises the question of the extension of the suffrage at a time when the English constitution
severely restricted it to men of ample property; he nowhere
challenges the conception of an hereditary nobility or the
inequality in political status which then existed between Lords
and Commons. (Locke was no more
than Hooker and
Suarez before him or than Burke was to be after him.) Though
opposed to slavery as violating man's natural :right to civil
liberty he, nevertheless, condones the existence of slaves as the
result of conquest in a just war. 625
Montesquieu points out that, in the sort of Republican government which he called a democracy (because the people " is
••• Vd. Carlyle, op. cit., pp. 158-59, ft15.
••• Second Essay Of Civil Government, Ch. VI, # 54.
625 Vd. ibid., Ch. IV, # ftft; cf. Ch. VII, # 85:
"But there is another sort of
servant which by the peculiar name we call slaves, who being captives taken in a
just war are, by the right of Nature, subjected to the absolute dominion and
arbitrary power of their masters. These men having, as I say, forfeited their
lives and, with it, their liberties, and lost their estates, and being in the state of
slavery, not capable of any property, cannot in that state be considered as any
part of civil society, the chief end whereof is the preservation of property." Vd.
also Ch. XV, # 173, 174, and Ch. XVI, # 178, 196. It must be remembered that
Locke means by " property " the property " which men have in their persons as
well as goods.'' Hence Locke seems able to conceive of men who are totally
bereft of property-totally lacking in the rights of personality. Vd. fn. 594, supra.

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M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

possessed of the supreme power ") , "the laws which establish
the right of suffrage are fundamental." 626 But his unqualified
admiration for the constitutions of Athens and Rome reveals
his conception of who " the people " are; nor does he seem to
have any objection to the class divisions which, in the ancient
Republic, gave special political opportunities to men of wealth
or noble birth. 627 He does not hesitate to say that " equality
in a democracy may be suppressed for the good of the state." 628
Though Montesquieu opposes the notion of natural slavery,
and even denies that the enslavement of men can be justified
by conquest or purchase, holding that slavery is incompatible
with Republican government, 629 he nevertheless "vindicates our
right to make slaves of the negroes," finding it "impossible for
us to suppose these creatures to be men, because, allowing
them to be men, a suspicion would follow that we ourselves
are not Christians." 680 And, considering the emancipation of
white men who have been enslaved, he says that "in a republican government it is frequently of advantage . that the
situation of the freedmen be but little below that of the freeborn." 681 He discusses the status of women only in relation
to "the laws of domestic slavery" and never in connection
with political equality or liberty. 682
Rousseau is much more unqualifiedly opposed to slavery of
any sort than either Locke or Montesquieu, and his Discourse
on Inequality is largely devoted to an attack upon the political
inequalities which follow upon the unequal distribution of
wealth, wherein he argues affirmatively that only those political
distinctions are just which conform to natural inequalities in
talent or virtue. 633 Nevertheless, Rousseau is not a proponent
••• Spirit of Laws, Book IT, Ch.
827

Vd. ibid.

••a Vd. ibid., Book V, Ch. 5.
••• Vd. ibid., Book XV, Ch. I,
••• Vd. ibid., Book XV, Ch. 5.
.... Vd. ibid., Book XV, Ch. 18. Italics ours.
••• Vd. ibid., Book XVI. Cf. Spinoza's views on women as deserving no political
·rights in a democracy: Tractatus Politicus, Ch. XI, # 4.
••• Vd. op. cit. (Everyman edition) : p.
" It is plainly contrary to the law

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

119

of universal suffrage. His position is indicated by the fact
that, in The Social Contract, where he is discussing the meaning of " citizen," he criticizes Bodin for supposing that any
inhabitant of a Republic is also a citizen. M. d' Alembert, he
says, "has avoided this error, and in his article on Geneva"which city, be it remembered, is Rousseau's ideal-he "has
clearly distinguished the four orders of men (or even five,
counting mere foreigners) who dwell in our town, of which two
only compose the Republic." 634
If we shift our attention now to the American scene at the
end of the eighteenth century, we find one important advance,
both in theory and in fact. All of the American statesmen
agreed to outlaw nobility. The clause in the constitution which
said that " no title of nobility shall be granted by the United
States " was generally interpreted to mean the abolition of
hereditary privileges as well as to signify that no higher political rank than that of citizen could be established. Upon this
such opponents as Hamilton and Jefferson agreed, though both
mistakenly supposed that a political distinction between Lords
and Commons was incompatible with the essence of Republican
government. 635 Even so, the predominant view did not regard
of nature, however defined, that children should command old men, fools wise
men, and that the privileged few should gorge themselves with superfluities, while
the starving multitude are in 'want of the bare necessities of life." Cf. ibid., pp.
232-33.
63 ' Op. cit., Part I, Ch. 6:
fn. 1. Italics ours.
635 Vd. Federalist Papers, No. 84, wherein Hamilton
remarks: "Nothing need
be said to illustrate the importance of the prohibition of titles of nobility. This
may truly be denominated the cornerstone of Republican government; for so long
as they are excluded, there can never be serious danger that the Government will
be any other than that of the People."
(Cf. No. 39, wherein Madison writes:
" Could any further proof be required of the republican complexion of this system,
the most decisive one might be found in its absolute prohibition of titles of
nobility both under the Federal and the State governments."
Obviously, " the
express guaranty of the republican form to each of the latter " is interpreted by
Madison to mean, not merely Constitutional government, but one established under
a constitution that prohibits titles of nobility.)
Cf. Jefferson's letter to De Meunier in 1786, in which he says: "It should be
further considered that in America no other distinction between man and man had
ever been known but that of persons in office, exercising power by authority of the
laws, and private individuals " (Padover edition, p. 125). And to Adams, in 1818,

M. J • .ADLER .AND WALTER FARRELL

all class distinctions-as abhorrent or unjust. On the contrary,
the institution of slavery, unmentioned by name, was approved
by the constitution in the provision to count the negro chattelslave as three-fifths .of a person in fixing the quota of representation for each state. 686
Furthermore, the proposal to establish universal manhood
meant only whites and men, not
suffrage (which, of
negroes, Indians, or women) was defeated in the Convention,
the decision being to leave t4e distribution of suffrage to 'each
of the several states, thus effecting a weak compromise between
the majority who favored suffrage festrictions and a small
minority who opposed a substantial property qualification .a;;
the basis for enfranchisement. The pseudo-aristocracy of birth
was outlawed so far as letters-pate:Q.,t of nobility were concerned, but not the equally false aristocracy of wealth, acquired
or inherited, founded in land or made in
When
Hamilton spoke of " the people " he did not mean the common
people whom he regarded as a mob to pe feared because of
their self-seeking desire to deprive the rich of their oligarchical
privileges. The untutored and improvident masses were certainly not to be trusted with the affairs, much less the finances,
of the community. John Adams was another of the oligarchs
who, rather than Jefferson, represented the dominant opinion
responsible for the character of the American republic at its
he wrqte: "For I agree ... that there is a natural aristocracy among men. The
grounds of this are virtue and talents. . . . There is a,lso an artificial aristocracy,
founded on wealth and birth, without either virtue or talents; for with these it
would belong to the first class. . .' . May we not even say that that form of government is best, which provides the most effectually for a prlre selection of these
natural aristoi into the offices of government? The artificial aristocracy is a mischievous ingredient in government, and provision should be made to prevent its
ascendancy. . . . I think the best remedy is exactly that provided by all our
to leave to the citizens the free election· and
of the aristoi
from the pseudo-aristoi, of the wheat from the chaff " (Padover ed., pp.
.
the several States ; . .
••• " Representatives . . • shall be apportioned
according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the
whole 'Number of free persons, including those bound to serve for' a Term ot Years,
and
Indian.s not taxed, three. fifths of all other Persons." Vd. the comment on this P;t Federaltst Pape;rs, No. 54.

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

121

foundation. 687 These men were Republicans in the same sense
that Aristotle and Cicero were, attempting by a mixed constitution to achieve some sort of compromise between oligarchy and
democracy, between the rich and the poor, yet definitely favoring the leisured or patrician classes in the population. The
position they took in American politics was the counterpart of
the role played by Edmund Burke in English affairs at the
same time, appealing from the new Whigs. to the old, opposing
all measures, such as those proposed by Fox, to reform the
franchise. 688
Two things are significant in De Tocqueville's penetrating
comments on
institutions in the fourth decade of the
nineteenth century. He observed the dominant influence of
what he called an "aristocratic" party, by which he meant,
887 In a letter to John Sullivan in 1776, Adams says:
"It is certain in theory
that the only moral foundation of government is the consent of the people. But
to what extent shall we carrry this principle? " After excluding women and children
·from "the people," he writes: "Is it not equally true, that men in general, in
every society, who are wholly destitute of property, are. also too little acquainted
with public affairs to form a right judgment, and too dependent upon other men
to have a will of their own? If this is a fact, if you give to every man who has no
property a vote, will you not make a firm encouraging provision for corruption,
by your fundamental law. . . . Harrington has shown that power always follows
property. This I believe to be as infallible a maxim in politics, as that action and
reaction are equal in mechanics. Nay, I believe that we may advance a step further and affirm that the balance of power in a society accompanies the balance of
property in "land." Vd. Carlyle, op. cit., pp. 198-94. Cf. Edman, op. cit., pp. 18889: "The Constitution, however, was not itself a democratic document, nor did
the early decisions of the Supreme Court tend to make it so. , . . (It) was a
document framed on the whole by aristocrats (i.e., oligarchs) who feared at the
same tim'e too much popular sovereignty and too much· government. It was
certainly not in the minds of the founding fathers to insist on equality. Quite
the contrary. John Adams, }or instance, was a believer like Montesquieu in the
civic virtue of the· aristocratic group. The taxpayers, the merchants, the landowners, were to be the decisive. voices in the government, the Constitution serving
to form a government that would give scope at once to their enlightened selfinterest and public spirit." .fu fact it was not until the administration of. Jefferson,
and more so that of Jackson, that the situation began to change. " John Adams
could regard the populace as a mob; in J·acksonian democracy the population
became the People" . (ibid., p. 144) .
••• Vd. the two articles by President R. M. Hutchins on _Burke; cited in fn. 594,
supra; and also Carl J. Friedrich, ·The New Belief in. the Common Man, Boston,
194!t: pp. 185, 161, !t6,6.

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

of course, the oligarchical party comprising men of acquired
wealth and the landed gentry. " The picture of American
society," he wrote, " has a surface covepng of democracy
beneath which the old aristocratic colors sometimes peep
out." 639 Nevertheless, he regarded the government of the
United States as "completely democratic," distinguishing between the political institutions and those social forces, such as
the vested interests of the oligarchical group, which operated
against them. When, in his introductory remarks, De Tocqueville said that "nothing struck me more forcibly than the general equality of conditions among the people," and that " the
more I advanced in the study of American society, the more I
perceived that this equality of condition is the fundamental
fact from which all others seem to be derived," 640 he had in
mind not economic or social equality, but the political equality
of citizenship. Writing for a European audience, and with
European institutions in mind as the standard of comparison,
he had some ground for saying that the American constitution
was genuinely Democratic-in the complete sense.641 He was
wrong, of course, but his error becomes intelligible against the
European background. Unless we remember this, we cannot
understand all of his remarks about the extension of suffrage in
••• Ametrican Institutions (Bowen edition), Cambridge, 1870: Ch. II, pp. 55-56.
Cf. Ch. IX, pp. 227-29, where he says: "The rich have a hearty dislike of the
democratic institutions of their country." Vd. R. H. Tawney's comment on De
Tocqueville in Equality, New York, 1981: pp. 87-88. Cf. Edman, op. cit., pp. 188,
186, 158.
••• Ibid., p. 1.
"" De Tocqueville offered his work to European readers as both a warning and a
guide. "·It is evident to all alike," he wrote, " that a great democratic revolution
is going on amongst us. To some it appears to be novel but accidental, and, as
such, they hope it may still be checked; to others it seems irresistible, because it is
the most uniform, the most ancient, and the most permanent tendency which is to
be found in history" (ibid., p. 2). Italics ours. Cf. p. 5: "The gradual development of the principle of equality is, therefore, a Providential fact." Also p. 15:
" It appears to me beyond a doubt that, sooner or later, we shall arrive, like the
Americans, at an almost complete equality of condition." And p. 16: "I confess
that, in America, I saw more than America; I sought there the image of democracy
itself, with its inclinations, its character, its prejudices, and its passions, in order to
learn what we have to fear or to hope from its progress."

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

the United States. He reports that universal suffrage was first
adopted in the State of Maryland, 642 and subsequently adds:
"I have already observed that universal suffrage has been
adopted in all the States of the Union." 643 It seems never to
have occurred to De Tocqueville that " universal " should
include women as well as men, blacks as · well as whites, and
the proletariat who could not pay a poll tax as well as the
propertied classes who could.644
Before the middle of the nineteenth century, only a few
exceptional American statesmen advocated measures which
would have brought the Constitution of the United States a
little closer to the Democratic charter De Tocqueville erroneously supposed it to be. One of these may have been James
Wilson; another certainly was Thomas Jefferson.
Wilson not only espoused the same general principles of
political equality and liberty for all (?) men that had been
voiced before him by Locke and Rousseau, 645 but he tended to
••• This occurs on p. 71 of Chapter IV devoted to " the principle of the sovereignty of the people of America," and there he goes on to say: " When a nation
begins to modify the elective qualification, it may easily be foreseen that, . sooner
or later, that qualification will be entirely abolished. . . . The exception at last
becomes the rule, concession follows concession, and no stop can be made short of
universal suffrage."
••• Ibid., Ch. Xill, p. 252. De Tocqueville makes this observation without
unqualified applause. " I have remarked," he writes, " that universal suffrage is
far from producing in America either all the good or all the evil consequences
which may be expected from it in Europe " (p. 258) ; and " I hold it to be sufficiently demonstrated that universal suffrage is by no means a guaranty of the
wisdom of the popular choice '' (p. 256).
6 " For De Tocqueville's remarks on the problem of negro 'slavery in the United
States, vd. ibid., Ch. XVIII.
••• Vd. Oberling, op. cit., pp. 101-102. Oberling is utterly without warrant for
opposing the views of. Wilson and Locke; even more questionable is his attempt to
affiliate Wilson with Burke-in view of the fact that Wilson would probably have
been on Fox's side in the parliamentary debates concerning the reform of the
franchise.
Wilson wrote: "As in civil society, previously to civil government, all men are
equal, so in the same state all men are free. In such a state no one can claim in
preference to another superior right. In the same state, no one can claim over
another superior authority" (Work8, I, 275). The language, as 'well as the
thought, of this and many similar statements cannot be differentiated from the

U4

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

apply these principles to the problem of the distribution of
suffrage. "A momentous question now occurs," he writes,
"Who shall be entitled to Suffrage? This darling privilege of
freemen should certainly be extended as far as the considerations of safety and order will possibly admit. The correct
theory and the true principles of liberty require that every
Citizen, whose circumstances do not render him necessarily dependent on the will of another, should possess a vote." 646 There
are, however, reservations here which suggest that Wilson did
not contemplate the enfranchisement of the slaves (certainly
dependent on the will of another), and that he may even have
supposed the proletariat to be similarly disqualified. 641
Jefferson was much more outspoken in his dissatisfaction
with the American constitution. In 1800, he wrote that his
opinion had always been in favor of a general suffrage, conceding the honesty of his opponents on this question, who
wished to restrict the elective franchise to men of property. 648
And in 1816, in a letter to S .. Kerchival, he definitely favored
suffrage reforms. 649
writing of Locke. Locke was no egalitarian, as Oberling supposes. Vd. fn. 624
and 625, supra.
••• Works, IT, pp. 15-17. Italics ours.
••• Cf. Oberling, op. cit., pp. 123-24. On the other hand, it must be remembered that when Gouverneur Morris proposed that property qualifications for
suffrage be explicitly written into the Constitution, restricting the suffrage to freeholders, Wilson replied that " he could not agree that property was the sole or the
primary object of Government and Society. The
and improvement of
the human mind was the most noble object. With respect to this object, as well
as other personal rights, numbers were surely the natural and precise measure ol
Representation" (Records of the Federal Convention, ed. by Max Farrand, New
Haven, 1937, I, p. 533) . After considerable debate, Morris's proposal was rejected and the Constitution left to the several states the decision whether or not
to institute property qualifications. That Wilson's position on the question was
not very . radical is indicated by the fact he was quite satisfied to permit the
states to decide, even though this obviously meant the establishment of a fairly
restricted suffrage in many states. Vd. Works, IT, 15-17.
••• Letter to J. Moor (in Padover edition, p. 58).
••• In this letter he proposed the following amendments to the constitution:
" I. General suffrage. 2. Equal repl.'esentation in the legislature. 3. An. executive
chosen by the people. 4. Judges elective or amovable. 5. Justices, jurors, and
sheriffs elective. 6. Ward divisions. And 7. Periodical amendments of the consti-

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

U5

Moreover, Jefferson, unlike most of his contemporaries,
abominated negro slavery. "There is nothing I would not
sacrifice " he wrote, " to a practicable plan of abolishing every
vestige of this moral and political depravity." 650 Quite consistently, he also advocated the assimilation of the native Indian peoples to their white brethren, and their cultivation for
entrance into the political community. 651 All that is wanting
to his vision is the emancipation of women from domestic
servility and political subjection. His was, for the most part,
the vision ofa classless society, the vision of Democracy, social
as well as political. 652
The fully reasoned articulation of Jefferson's vision of the
Democratic ideal does not occur in a major work of political
theory until we come to John Stuart Mill's Essay on Represep,tative Government in 1861. Influenced on the question of
suffrage by his father, much more than by Jeremy Bentham,
Mill argues against the
disfranchisement of the working classes; and though he considers illiteracy and pauperism
as possible disqualifications, he is thoroughly alive to the fact
that these are remediable conditions which it is the obligation
of a just government to rectify so that the franchise can be
given the widest distribution consistent with expediency. 658
" There ought to be no pariahs in a full grown and civilized
nation; no persons disqualified, except through their own detution." Vd. Edman, op. cit., pp. 449-50; also Carlyle, op. cit., pp. 195-96, where
Carlyle, commenting on this letter, says: " Jefferson's meaning is clear, that is,
that he was gravely dissatisfied with 'the limitations of the existing electoral rights
in the United States, and it is interesting to find a letter of 1824 that he was
acquainted with Cartwright and his works."
650 Letter to T. Cooper in 1814 (Padover ed., p. 182).
Cf. other letters and
memoirs on the subject in Padover's collection: pp. 151-58.
651 Vd. Padover collection, pp. 158-68.
652 ln a letter to George Washington in 1784, he wrote that the foundation of
our constitutions--in spirit if not in letter-is " the natural equality of man, the
denial of every preeminence but that annexed to legal office, and, particularly, the
denial of a preeminence by birth" (vd. Padover ed., p. 122) .
••• Vd. op. cit., Ch. Vill "Of the Extension of the Suffrage." Cf. James Mill,
Essay on Governme:nt. With regard to the relation of John Stuart Mill to James
Mill and Jeremy Bentham, vd. Edman, op. cit., pp. 105-24.

126

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

fault." 654 Furthermore, he explicitly opposed the granting of
special privileges to the propertied classes, even though he
approved of the principle of plural voting. 655 What is most
distinctive of all, Mill advocated equal suffrage rights for
women, predicting that " before the lapse of another generation, the accident of sex, no more than the accident of skin,
will be deemed a sufficient justification for depriving its pos••• Op. cit. (Everyman edition) : p.
And he goes on: "No arrangement
of the suffrage, therefore, can be permanently satisfactory in which any person or
class is peremptorily excluded; in which the electoral privilege is not open to all
These statements 1can leave
persons of full age who desire to obtain it" (p.
little doubt concerning Mill's views on universal suffrage. Professor Edman (vd.
loc. cit.) places Mill's position in a false light when he interprets Mill's remarks
on illiteracy and pauperism as signifying that he " believed in representative government based on a, wide if not a universal suffrage." Italics ours.
In both language and thought, Maritain's position closely resembles Mill's.
Vd. Freedom in the Modern World, pp. 48-44. Government, writes Maritain, aims
to " secure for the mass of men such a standard of material, intellectual, and moral
life as will conduce to the well-being of the whole community; so that BVM1J
citizen may find in it the progressive achievement of his freedom of autonomy. If
this freedom of autonomy had its highest expression in the heroism of arms, as in
military civilizations, or in nobility of mind as in the aristocratic civilization of
Athens or the hieratic civilization of India, it would be nonsense to maintain this
conclusiOn as to the end of the social community: the well-being of the latter would
be established and fulfilled in a minority of the citiZens by a degradation of the
majority-as slaves or pariahs-to a less than human
The injustice of
restricted suffrage (of subjection as well as slavery) is thus shown to depend, not
merely on the fact that the end of government is the happiness of men, but more
directly on the precise character of such happiness. It does not consist in either
military heroism or "nobility of mind." We shall return to this point again in
Sections 8 and 4, infra. Vd. also fn. 577, supra.
In a Manifesto issued by European Catholics sojourning in America, which
Maritain helped to formulate, it was declared: "There are principles which under
no circumstances must ever be questioned. Such are those which assert the necessity for society's being founded upon relationships of justice, those which assert the
rights of the human person, to which democratic formulas, notably the principle of
universal suffrage, have in practice given political expression. . . . Every law of
' exceptions' or of ' discrimination ' is unjust" (The Commonweal, August 21,
pp. 416-19).
••• " I consider it entirely inadmissible . . . that the superiority of influence
should be conferred in consideration of property. . . . To connect plurality of
votes with any pecuniary qualification would be not only objectionable in itself, but
a sure mode of discrediting the principle" (ibid., pp.

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

127

sessor of the equal protection and just privileges of a citizen." m
We shall postpone until later a consideration of Mill's arguments on all these points. 657 Without further discussion it
should be clear that when Mill speaks of " the ideally best form
of government " as " completely popular government," 658 he
means the Democratic constitution as we have defined it. His
Essay on Representative Government is the first precise definition of the Democratic constitution, and the first reasoned
defense of it as ideal because of the perfection of its justice.m
666 Ibid., p. 292.
Cf. pp. 290-92, and Mill's treatise, The Subjection of Women,
written at the same time, but not published until 1869.
857 Vd. Section 4, infra.
••• Vd. op. cit., p. 208. Italics ours.
••• That the issues Mill's Essay raised were not soon resolved, nor his com;lusions
generally accepted, may be inferred from the fact that as late as 1929, R. H.
Tawney found it necessary to argue the case for universal suffrage, the enfranchisement of women, the removal of property qualifications, and the cauterization of
other oligarchical factors inimical to Democracy. Vd. Equality, pp. 86-88, 268-69.
There is, of course, some difference between the situation in England and in the
United States with respect to these matters. As Mcllwain points out: " The
extension of the elective franchise has been completed in England only in our
own day. Most of it has occurred within the lifetime of men now living. And the
political results of it are not yet fully apparent. The membership of the House of
Commons, notwithstanding the successive enlargements of the electorate, is still
to a great degree aristocratic, and aristocratic traditions still control and limit
parliament's action to an extent surprising to anyone who has not made a study
of it" (Constitutionalism Ancient and Modern, p. 20).
It should also be noted that in the domain of Catholic political theory, Jacques
Maritain is the first writer to take positions that are formally equivalent to those
of John Stuart Mill, though Maritain's reasons for taking them are extraordinarily
different, and though in arguing for a classless society, universal suffrage, the
enfranchisement of 'women, the abolition of all political slavery, and the extirpation of oligarchical privileges, Maritain does not think of himself as agreeing with
us that Democracy is the most just form of government. Vd. True Humanism,
pp. 168-69, 190-92, 194-95; Freedom in the Modem World, pp. 57-58; Scholasticism
and Politics, pp. 106, 112-15; ·and Ransoming the Time, pp. 6, 22-29, 46-47. We
shall examine Maritain's position more fully in Sections 8 and 4, infra.
Unfortunatey, Maritain's advocacy of universal suffrage is b.eclouded by his
failure to grasp the essential distinctions which determine the three forms of government according to their grades of justice. This failure is plainly indicated in a
recent Jefferson Day address, the substance of which was published in The
Commonweal. In it Maritain said: " We make a point of defining the form of
government to which the principles of . democratic political philosophy naturally
tend. This philosophy maintains that the human person as such is called to par-

128

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

As might be expected, the approach to Democracy in the
world of action lagged behind its inception in the realm of
theory. Republican institutions have been undergoing alteration during the last hundred years, but it is only very recently
that modem constitutions have been sufficiently changed or
amended so that they can be regarded as almost Democratic in
their letter, if not yet in the spirit in which their provisions are
fulfilled. Thus, for example, in England the slave trade was
prohibited in 1808, and slavery itself abolished in 1888.660 But
it took three major parliamentary struggles, bitterly contested
and lasting many years, to move toward a just enfranchisement
of free Englishmen. The Reform Bill of 1882 admitted the
middle class to political participation as full citizens; that of
1867 extended the suffrage to a large portion of the laboring
classes, requiring further modifications in the same direction
by the Reform Bill of 1884.661 In 1884 suffrage was extended
ticipate in political life and that the political rights of a community of free men
must be solidly guaranteed. That is why it claims the right of suffrage for every
adult citizen of whatever race or social condition and likewise demands that a
juridically formulated constitution establish the fundamental laws of the regime to
which the people have expressly decided· to submit their political life. The principles of the democratic philosophy of man and society can be satisfied by a
constitutional form of monarchy or oligarchy, but it is toward the republican form
that they tend, as being their most natural expression: a form of government in
which the legislative power must be exercised by the representatives of the people,
and the executive power by delegates directly or indirectly designated by the people
and supervised by the people" (Zoe. cit., May 7, 1943, p. 69). The words we have
italicized betray the analytic;u lacunae, especially in view of the definition Maritain
gives of ilie form he calls " republican " in contradistinction to what he calls
"monarchy" and" oligarchy."
66 ° Cf. the emancipation
of slaves in ilie French colonies ·in 1848, in the Portuguese possessions in 1858, and in those of Holland in 1863. It is also worth remembering that the first steps toward the abolition of the serfs in Russia occurred
under Alexander II in 1855, and that not until 1861 were 40,000,000 people
liberated from serfdom.
661 Vd. the Petition
for further parliamentary reforms, drawn up by the Chartists in 1837, in which it is pointed out " that all those who are excluded from
this share of political power are not justly included within the operation of the
iaws; to them the laws are only despotic enactments. . . . That the universal
political right of every human being is superior and stands apart from all customs,
forms, or ancient usage." Later in the Petition, it is remarked that " it was, the

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

Hl9

to all males except paupers, lunatics, and criminals; but the
enfranchisement of English women did not take place until
1919. The legislative power of the House of Lords was greatly
reduced by measures adopted in 1911, but the House of Lords
still exists, not, like the throne, merely as a symbol of the past,
but as a living symptom of the oligarchical disorder which still
runs throughout British political life.662
Constitutional developments in the United States follow a
similar pattern. The importation of slaves was prohibited from
going beyond the year 1808, yet slavery existed legally in the
United States until the Civil War amendments were adopted
in 1865, 1868, and 1870, the first of these (the thirteenth
amendment) prohibiting slavery itself; the second granting
citizenship to "all persons born or naturalized in the United
States " and so making negroes citizens by nativity or naturalization; the third enacting that " the right of citizens of the
United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the
United States or by any State on account of race, color, or
previous condition of servitude," thus attempting to prevent
negroes from being disfranchised in the Southern states, despite
the fact that they were citizens. 668 Not until 1920, however,
fond expectation of the people that a remedy for the greater part, if not for the
whole of their grievances, would be found in the Reform Act of ISS!'l. • • • They
have been bitterly and basely deceived. . . . The Refor,m Act has effected a
transfer of power from one domineering faction to another, and left the people as
helpless as before. Our slavery has been exchanged for an apprenticeship to liberty,
which has aggravated the painful feeling of our social degradation, by adding to
it the sickening of still deferred hope." The full text of the Petition is given in
Edman, Fountainheads of Freedom, pp. 435-44. Commenting on the first Reform
Bill, Edman observes: " The causes of discontent were clear enough. Power
remained in the hands of the economically dominant classes. These were-by
political arrangements current until 1867 in England and until later on the
Continent-the middle classes. The property qualifications for suffrage lasted until
almost through the 19th century in England and on the Continent. Even in the
United States, where legally property qualifications were earlier abolished, it became clear that large sections of the population were not really enfranchised. There
were the Negroes in the South, for instance" (op. cit., p. 170).
••• Vd. Mcilwain, Constitutionalism Ancient and Modern, p. !'lO.
••• The effort in this direction could not, of course, be successful so long as the
Constitution permitted the several states to employ poll taxes and other property

9

130

M. J. ADLER AND WALTER FARRELL

was the Constitution amended so that " the right of citizens of
the United States to vote shall not be denied· or abridged by
the United States or by any State on account of sex." The
direct election of Senators by the people (provided for by the
seventeenth amendment in 1913) is not comparable to thereform of the House of Lords in England. Apart from the fact
that the Federal constitution still permits the several states to
use any degree of property qualification as a ground for disfranchisement, the Constitution of the United States is now
free from every blemish of oligarchical privilege or class discrimination. Looked at legally, it can be praised as a charter
of Democratic liberty and equality, as the basic law of a politically classless society. It has become that so recently that it
is too early to judge of its fruits in practice. The form of government it provides is Democratic, but the justice of the constitution will remain a thing on paper until social and economic,
moral and cultural, changes remove impediments to its fruition
in fact.
In this Part of our work, it is only with the justice of constitutions that we are concerned. The history we have recounted of the constitutional changes .which have taken place
in the last hundred years (and of the accompanying shift in
political doctrines since the end of the eighteenth century)
shows the continuum along which a constitution passes from
being Republican to becoming Democratic. Though they are
not always ordered serially in the same way, the three fundamental steps in this development are the abolition of slavery,
the elimination of oligarchical privileges (whether claimed by
qualifications as a bar to suffrage. In the United States today it is still not unconstitutional for any state to disfranchise a large portion of the citizenry by making
the property qualification for suffrage fairly high. It should, furthermore, be observed that, according to the language of the constitution, citizenship and suffrage
are not coextensive. The negroes were granted citizenship and suffrage in two
separate amendments; and women, the Supreme Court held in 1874, were citizens
but their lack of suffrage did not violate the clause in the fourteenth amendment
which said that " no State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the
privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States." Suffrage was not a
privilege of citizenship. We shall discuss the significance of this point subsequently,
in Section 4, infra.

131

THE THEORY OF DEMOCRACY

birth or wealth) , and, with the removal of class distinctions
based on color, race, and sex, the reform of the franchise in the
direction of the widest possible extension of suffrage. Democracy as a form of government, we have said, is the perfectly
just constitution which defines the limit of the continuum along
which Constitutional government moves as these changes occur,
government remaining Republican in form as long as any imperfection of justice or any actual injustice remains in its
constitution.
But the history we have recited does not prove the conclusion we have in view.· That must be argued for. It is at least
conceivable, and there are some who even today would contend, that slavery, oligarchy, and restricted suffrage are neither
imperfections of justice nor actually unjust. We must, therefore, argue these .points in order to prove that Democracy is
the best form of government. We shall do that in Sections 3
and 4 to follow.
WALTER

FARRELL, O.P.

MoRTIMER

Dominican House of Studies,
C.

(To be continued.)

J. ADLER

University of Chicago,
Chicago, Illinois

BOOK NOTICES
Soul of Russia. By HELEN IswoLSKY. New York: Sheed & Ward, 1948.
Pp. xiii + 200, with index.

$2.75.

Religion in Soviet Russia. By N. S. 1IMASHEFF. New York: Sheed &
Ward, 1942. Pp. xiii + 171, with index. $2.00.
To anyone who has wondered about the legitimacy of a distinction made
by Pope Pius XI
the Russian people and their ·atheisitic leaders,
this book will bring assurance. Well and interestingly written, it surveys
the spiritual history of Russia from its foundation in the 9th century to
the present day. The political framework of each succeeding age is sketchily
presented; the religious and spiritual forces at work in Russian life are
treated more detailedly. The spirit of Russia's great saints and writers is
presented with clarity and simplicity; the strangeness of Russia becomes
understandable-her constant urge to abandon the middle way and wander
on the brink of the precipice. Her saints have all espoused poverty of
spirit in as dramatic a way as our own St. Francis; they have always loved
the common people. Religion, when it :flamed forth, was evangelical, social,
reforming. There is hope in this book, great hope. Russia's writers of the
last hundred years forsaw the catastrophe of the Bolshevist Revolution,
saw it as the crucifying prelude to 3: glorious Resurrection.
Miss Iswolsky's book gives the necessary background to Mr. Timasheff's.
He is concerned only with the struggle between the atheistic leaders to
destroy religion and the people to preserve and pratcise it. He traces the
various tactics used by the anti-religionists; this story is essential for anyone
who wishes to follow intelligently the course of events in Russia.

An Introduction to Modern Philosophy.

By ALBUREY CASTELL. New
York: Macmillan, 1943. Pp. x + 562, with index. $3.50.

To introduce the student to Modern Philosophy the author has chosen
six problems from the field of philosophy: theological, metaphysical, epistemological, ethical, political, historical. Each problem is presented by various modern philosophers, as much as possible in their own words. Thus
the opinions of St. Thomas, Pascal, Hume; J. S. Mill, and James are
presented under the theological problem. The author counsels the student
not to be perturbed by the great divergencies of opinion that result from
this method. Contact with these great philosophical minds is sufficient
reward for mental confusion. The book is valuable insofar as it brings

132

BOOK NOTICES

133

together pertinent quotations from modern philosophers on central philosophical problems. The presentation of St. Thomas' arguments for the
existence of God is quite inadequate and misleading.

Humanism and Theology. By WERNER JAEGER. (The Aquinas Lecture,
1948). Milwaukee: The Marquette University Press, 19M3. Pp. 87.
$1.50.

Although Werner Jaeger is not a philosopher but a classical scholar he
has delivered one of the finest in the series of Aquinas Lectures sponsored
by the Aristotelian Society of Marquette University. Unfortunately, the
amount of time allowed in such a lecture prevented him from solving all
the issues he raised. He stands for the thesis that all humanism stems
from classical humanism.. Aristotle is a continuator of the classical tradition (this is not too clearly established), and Thomas is linked to the
tradition through Aristotle and also Plato. The fact that Thomas was a
professed theologian did not prevent him from being a humanist in the
best sense of the word. In fact, as Jaeger points out, he had much greater
respect for the works of the ancients that he possessed than the scholars of
the Renaissance. The large question left unanswered is this: did not
classical humanism preserve its identity much more perfectly in the mind
of St. Thomas, because he was first of all a theologian, than in the minds
of the Renaissance scholars, who used it as a substitute for Christian
theology?

The Philosophy of Santayana. Edited, with an Introductory Essay, by
IRwiN EnMAN. New York: The Modern Library, 1942. Pp. lvi +
596.

This valuable and handy edition of the works of the American philosopher Santayana contains, besides a helpful introduction by Edman,
" A Brief History of My Opinions," a number of poems and shorter writings as well as generous portions of his major works, " The Sense of
Beauty," " The Realms of Being," and " The Life of Reason."

The Moral Theology of St. Thomas Aquinas. III Volumes. By WILLIAM
B. MoNAHAN. Worcester & London: Trinity Press. (Westminster,
Md.: Newman Book Shop.)
This is a paraphrase of the moral part of St. Thomas' Summa Theologiae
for the use of Anglicans. It follows the doctrine of St. Thomas closely,
adding only a minimum of explanation. Recommended to those are unable
to use the Latin text or to procure the English translation.

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BOOKS RECEIVED

CONSERVATION OF SCHOLARLY JOURNALS
Looking ahead to the problems of reconstruction after this war and profiting by the experience gained after the end of the first World War, The
American Library Association has formed a Committee on Aid to Libraries
in War Areas.
This committee, headed by John R. Russell, Librarian of the University
of Rochester, is confronted by many serious problems and is particularly
desirous of enlisting the aid of American scientists and scholars in their
solution. One such task confronting the Committee is that of supplying
foreign institutions with whatever American learned periodicals they will
need to fill lacunae in their files. The extent of this post-war demand for
American journals. of a scholarly, scientific and technical character cannot
at this time be estimated accurately but advance requests indicate that
the demand will be enormous.
Now that the domestic front is faced with a paper shortage and old
periodicals are being collected for pulp, there is fear that many valuable
publications still extant may, in a short time, be beyond recovery. The
Committee solicits the cooperation of subscribers to prevent the loss of
those scientific journals which may eventually be useful in completing the
:fiJes of foreign institutions. The Committee is making some purchases now,
but from the very nature of the situation, it will know the full extent of
the needs only when the war is ended.
Questions concerning the project or concerning the Committee's interest
in particular periodicals should be directed to Dorothy J. Comins, Executive
Assistant to the Committee on Aid to Libraries in the War Area, Library
of Congress Annex, Study 251, Washington, 25, D. C.

BOOKS RECEIVED
Carle, Charles. Mysticism in Modern Ps'!!chology. New York: PsychoSociological Press, 19M!. Pp. 47. $1.00.
Claudel, Paul. Coronal. (Trans. by Sister Mary David, S. S. N.D.) New
York: Pantheon Books, Inc., 1943. Pp. 257. $2.75.
Jessup, Betram E. Relational Value Meanings. Oregon: University of
Oregon Press, 1943. Pp. 175.
Kelly, Bernard J. The Sacraments of Daily Life. New York: Sheed and
Ward, Inc., 1943. Pp. ix + 291. $3.75.
Krapf, E. Eduardo. Tomas de Aquino y la Psicopatologia. Buenos Aires:
Editorial Index. 1943. Pp. 45.
Maritain, Jacques. Art and Poetry. New York: Philosophical Library,
1943. Pp. 104. $1.75.
Stancourt, Louis J. Her Glimmering Tapers. New York: Macmillan,
1943. Pp. 180. $!!.00.