“Is not this a dreadful thing, Socrates, that Balphurios has been lately doing about what he calls a Referendum?”

“What thing?” I said. “I have heard indeed lately that he has said this—that if he and his friends should be elected to sit in the Ecclesia, he will not propose a law taxing Megarian imports without first consulting the citizens; and he has invited AskoÏthios to do the same thing, and not to give autonomy to the Samians without first consulting the citizens. Is that the dreadful thing?”

“So dreadful, Socrates, that even now I can scarcely believe it: for it aims at the destruction of the democracy. But I can tell him that AskoÏthios will certainly not do what he is invited to do.”

“Why will he not do it?” I asked.

“Because AskoÏthios knows very well already that all the citizens are in favour of giving autonomy to the Samians.”

“Well, Phileleutheros,” I said, “in that case he will do no harm by having consulted them. And does Balphurios also know what the citizens think about taxing Megarian imports?”

“Certainly: he knows that all men (except himself and his friends) abhor such a plan.”

“Then,” I said, “no harm will be done there either; for the citizens, being consulted, will say what they wish.”

“But, Socrates, it is always harmful that the citizens should be consulted. And that is why AskoÏthios will not consult them.”

“Why, Phileleutheros,” I said, “are you not a democrat?”

“Of course I am.”

“And in a democracy do not the people rule?”

“I suppose so.”

“By saying what they wish to have done, or otherwise?”

“By saying so, I suppose.”

“And if they are not allowed to say what they wish, they are not ruling, and it is not a democracy?”

“Perhaps.”

“Then Balphurios, who asks the people what they wish, is a democratic man; and AskoÏthios, who does not ask them, is not a democratic man; nor are you one, apparently, O Phileleutheros.”

“This is all nonsense, Socrates,” he said. “Balphurios cannot be a democrat: for I am a democrat, and I do not agree with Balphurios. And you have not the least conception of what is meant by democracy: which is, that certain persons are chosen by the majority of the citizens that they may sit in the Ecclesia and carry out the wishes of the people.”

“But for what reasons do you choose such persons?” I asked.

“They ought to be chosen, Socrates,” he replied, “because they possess the qualities proper to democratic men.”

“You mean,” I said, “that they must hate and speak evil of the rich; and that they must wish to diminish the number of our triremes; and that they must refuse to tax Megarian imports; and that they must be conscious of their own virtues and the vices of others.”

“I do not altogether praise your definition; but it will do.”

“But with all these qualities,” I said, “will your ecclesiasts always know what you wish when something unexpected happens about which it is necessary to decide? For instance, if one of the chief speakers proposes a law that all burglars should be honoured by dinners in the Prytaneum, will not your ecclesiasts come to us and say, ‘O Socrates and Phileleutheros, we possess all the qualities proper to democratic men: we are conscious of our own virtues, and we should like to diminish the number of your triremes: and for these qualities we have been elected; but as to this matter of giving burglars a dinner in the Prytaneum, about this we do not yet know your wishes: and we would gladly be informed by you?’”

“If they do not know our wishes of themselves,” said Phileleutheros, “they will suffer for it at the next election.”

“That is very unpleasant for them,” I replied. “Suppose now that you hired an architect to build you a house, and that while he was building it he needed your advice, and came and said to you, ‘O Phileleutheros, I have given your house four walls and a roof according to your wishes; but you have not yet told me whether your banqueting-hall ought to have three windows or six. About this I do not yet know your wishes, and I would gladly be informed by you.’ Will you then say to him that you have no authority to tell him your wishes any more, but that if he happens to decide contrary to your will you will not employ him again? Similarly, it seems to me, you are in danger of making the Ecclesia no longer the agent of your wishes, but it and those who lead it will be now and then tyrants and not your servants—if to make laws not according to the will of the people is tyranny. And you can punish the ecclesiasts by dismissing them after a time, of course; but you will only elect others who will be tyrants again in the same way as their predecessors.”

“But the Nomothetae, Socrates, will prevent them.”

“Hardly,” I replied. “For your leaders of the Ecclesia, who are democrats and will not consult the people, and whom you praise, will ask the Nomothetae for their opinion three times; and when thereby they are quite satisfied that their proposal is displeasing to the Nomothetae it will forthwith become law. So that the conclusion is this: that the leaders of the Ecclesia will in most cases have authority to do what they like without consulting anybody. And these leaders, AskoÏthios and his friends, are few in relation to the mass of the citizens, are they not?”

“They are not many, certainly.”

“That is something to be thankful for,” I said. “They then, being few, will rule for the time; and when the few rule, that is oligarchy. Is it not? Unless perhaps you will say that when your enemies are in power in the Ecclesia, it is oligarchy; but when your friends are in power, then it is democracy?”

“Socrates, you are right, for once. That is precisely what I do say.”