The idea of the philosopher king

The notion of the philosopher king comes from Plato’s Republic. After the Renaissance, Plato’s influence declined, and none of the authors writing about the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in the previous volume of the Cambridge History of Political Thought found it necessary to mention this notion at all. But Hobbes concluded the second part of Leviathan (1651), in a characteristically sardonic passage, by placing the concept at the very heart of his political philosophy:

Accounts of England’s constitution, even in the more systematic treatments of the middle decades of the eighteenth century, followed the common early modern pattern in which political theory often comprised an uneven amalgam of classical maxims of government, narrow partisan polemics, antiquarian learning, historical researches, and technical legal doctrine. Nonetheless, ‘the constitution of England’, so constructed, enjoyed an extensive influence on liberal political philosophy and Western statecraft well beyond its place of origin and the particular circumstances of its first articulation. ‘The eye of curiosity seems now to be universally turned’ to this ‘model of perfection’, explained Jean Louis Delolme in the 1770s (Delolme 1834, p. 1). What was to be discovered in this model were the general principles of political freedom. ‘Tis the Britannic Constitution that gives this kingdom a lustre above other nations’, extolled Roger Acherley a half-century earlier, ‘as it secures to Britons, their private property, freedom and liberty, by such walls of defence as are not to be found in any other parts of the universe’ (Acherley 1727, p. vi).

The organising principle for much of the eighteenth-century celebration of the English constitution was the commonplace idea that structures of government could preserve political freedom only where they frustrated the abuse of political power. The extent to which the English enjoyed unique levels of political freedom was the result of a constitutional order which effectively prevented arbitrary or tyrannical acts of power. The achievement of this kind of political system, in turn, depended upon the existence and co-ordination of several distinct kinds of institutions and governmental procedures.

By way of its conception, production, and distribution, the Encyclopédie illustrates, more forcefully than any other publishing venture of the eighteenth century, how innovative philosophies of the period came to be disseminated, and how the market of ideas in the age of Enlightenment was organised. Current research on the Encyclopédistes, and on their allies and enemies, makes plain that both the economic and social forces which underpinned their enterprise, as well as those which resisted it, were for technical and political reasons joined together in the same ideological world. Thanks to the growth of literacy and the economic, cultural, and scientific institutions which literacy served, books came throughout the eighteenth century to acquire an unprecedented significance. The advent of commercial society allowed for the wide circulation of the printed word through newspapers, magazines, and other publications. Authors could manage to earn a livelihood from their writings alone. Intellectuals could become a political class. A system of signs could be transformed into systems of thought, and by way of their diffusion to readers impressed by them, revolutionary ideas could come to have revolutionary implications.

This ‘immortal work’, as Voltaire once termed the Encyclopédie, has for virtually the whole of the period since its completion appeared the emblematic monument of eighteenth-century culture. While in principle conceived as a work of reference and a compendium of knowledge distilled from other sources, the vast collection of more than 70,000 articles assembled in 25,000 folio pages, comprising seventeen volumes of text, eleven tomes of plates and seven volumes of supplements and tables, in fact came to occupy a central place within Europe’s republic of letters and even managed to help shape its political landscape.

The spectre of luxury

A spectre was haunting the modern world, wrote the Neapolitan Ferdinando Galiani in 1751, the spectre of ‘luxury’. It ‘wanders among us never seen in its true light, or recognised for its efficacy and it, perhaps, never occurs to the virtuous‘. It was akin to the idea of ‘terrestrial happiness’, but ‘no-one knows or dares to say’, Galiani grumbled, ‘what luxury might properly be’ (Galiani 1977, p. 214). Denis Diderot was in a similar quandary. Defining the term in the Encyclopédie, he called for a ‘discussion among those who show the most discrimination in their use of the term luxury: a discussion which has yet to take place, and which even they cannot bring to a satisfactory conclusion’ (Diderot 1755, v, p. 635). The article on ‘Luxury’, published in 1762, and written by the marquis de Saint Lambert, was asmuch a summary of the luxury debates of the first half of the eighteenth century as an attempt to resolve them. The purpose of this chapter is to present the work of eight important contributors to these debates in France and Britain before 1748, the year of publication of Montesquieu’s Spirit of the Laws, that supplied Saint Lambert with the resources he needed to try to say what luxury actually was.

As Saint Lambert presented it, luxury was not merely an economic phenomenon, but the central moral and political issue of modernity. The standard definition of luxury’ was excessive individual consumption (Butel- Dumont 1771), but Saint Lambert followed the definition of V´eron de Forbonnais (the author of the articles Commerce’ and Agriculture’ and the original assignee for Luxury’): [Luxury] is the use men make of wealth and industry to assure themselves of a pleasant existence’ (Forbonnais 1754, p. 221; Saint Lambert 1965, p. 202).

The ambiguities and resources of comparative method

Comparison and contrast were used by eighteenth-century European thinkers to characterise their nations and continent, as well as their historical epoch. This was done by distinguishing the arrangements of each nation from its neighbours’, by contrasting European regimes, societies, economies, cultures, and religions with those elsewhere in the world, and by juxtaposing their own time with periods preceding it. This comparative mode of analysis was deployed in conflicts between the champions and enemies of Enlightenment, in the sharp disagreements separating defenders of absolutism from those opposed to it, and in disputes about established churches and their theologies. Although political theory was often conducted through comparison and contrast between European regimes, the application of the method to the rest of the world was no less significant. Some modern interpreters hold that European thinkers assumed their continent’s superiority, and thus that ‘Enlightenment’ went hand in hand with imperial subjugation of non-Europeans. Others, on the contrary, say that xenophilia, étrangisme, and the conviction of European inferiority, decline, and corruption prevailed among intellectuals (Baudet 1988, pp. 50–1).

This chapter addresses some of the numerous and complex ways in which European writers used comparative discourse. It examines the extent to which key concepts in this discourse were shaped by theorists’ preferences and their positions on domestic controversies within their respective nations, as well as on issues during conflicts among European states within their own continent and in overseas competition for colonies. It asks whether there was any consensus about the superiority of Europeans over the rest of world, or about the legitimacy of European conquests, colonisation, and commerce, including the slave trade.

We now understand that Socrates believes that all desire is for the good. This understanding has been facilitated by the hierarchy of desire that is described in the Gorgias. Using this framework, we assume that people always endeavor to reach the best end available in their current situation. Such endeavors lead to subordinated desires for that which is the best means to that best end. As a result, agents always do that which they believe is the best means to the best end in their current situation. This suggests that Socrates must believe that all desire is rational. Indeed, Socrates confirms that this is true in the Protagoras, where he argues that no one errs willingly in the pursuit of happiness. Does Socrates really believe that everyone approaches every crossroad in their lives by weighing the various alternatives strictly in light of what they judge to be true about the world?

The notion that all desire is for the good and therefore all purposive behavior is rational has come to be called “Socratic intellectualism.” The name alone is offensive to the view with which I opened Chapter 2. By saying that our desire for the good works in concert only with beliefs to control our behavior, Socrates seems to be discounting any possible role for desires that are base or irrational. He seems to be discounting emotion altogether, as if people operated from a purely scientific basis. Certainly this claim flies in the face of robust evidence.

What is the relationship between virtue and happiness in Plato's early dialogues? How does Socrates think that virtue and happiness are each to be evaluated with respect to human good? These two questions have fueled many discussions of Socratic ethics and psychology.

Some authors have argued that the relationship between virtue and happiness is one of identity. They claim that Socrates must think that virtue and happiness are simply two different names for the same thing. This is known as the identity thesis.

Others have argued that while virtue and happiness are not identical, virtue is sufficient for happiness. That is, they think that Socrates held the view that whoever is virtuous is happy. This is known as the sufficiency thesis.

Many of the authors who adhere to one of these two positions have used phrases like “intrinsically good” and “good in themselves” in order to characterize happiness as the ultimate human good. Those who subscribe to the identity thesis call virtue “intrinsically good” or “good in itself” as well.

A number of authors have said that, according to Socrates, virtue is the only good. One way to make sense of this is to attribute the identity thesis to Socrates. For no one would deny that Socrates held happiness to be that ultimate human good toward which all desire is directed. And, it would be inconsistent for Socrates to assert that virtue is the only good, while asserting that happiness is the ultimate human good.

There is a story that I have heard told many times.

A very poor farmer lives in a small town on the outskirts of a large kingdom. One morning, the farmer awakens to find that a beautiful and wild stallion has wandered into his field. The farmer catches the stallion and puts it in his corral. The townspeople come to the farmer and say, “This is good, you have managed to catch a beautiful stallion.” The farmer replies, “I don't know if it is good, what I do know is that I now have a stallion.”

The next day, the king himself happens to be passing through the farmer's village. Upon seeing the stallion, the king feels he must own this beautiful animal. He sends his servant into the farmer's home to offer him a large amount of gold in exchange for the horse. But the farmer refuses to sell the animal at any price and the king rides away very angry. Seeing what has happened, the townspeople go to the farmer and say, “This is bad, you might have a beautiful horse, but you are still a poor farmer and the king is now angry with you as well.” The farmer replies, “I don't know if it is bad, what I do know is that the king is angry with me.”

That night while the farmer is sleeping, the stallion breaks free from his stall and vanishes into the surrounding forest.

Upon being asked what is pious, the character Euthyphro in Plato's Euthyphro eventually responds with “what is loved by the gods” (10d–11c). Socrates does not dispute this, but neither does he find it satisfying. Socrates questions Euthyphro further: is a thing pious because the gods love it, or do the gods love it because it is pious? Even today, this is appreciated as a compelling argument against the notion of divine decree. It can't be the case that what is good or morally right is so only because God has decided that it is so. For, how did God choose and decide which actions to love and condone? Did God choose arbitrarily? Did it just so happen that murder ended up on the list of things that are morally wrong, when it could have, by God's whim, been condoned as right? Even if we choose our actions because we think that God approves of them, the argument in the Euthyphro suggests that God's love does not make these actions right – God came to love them because they were, somehow, already, morally correct. If this is the case, then there is a moral truth that is independent of God. This conclusion has often (I think, incorrectly) led philosophers to suggest that there are abstract and universally applicable moral truths or principles that antedated human existence, and that should govern our conduct – if we can only figure out what they are.

While we need to understand Socrates' theory of desire in order to comprehend the view put forth in the Socratic dialogues, this is not sufficient in order to understand Socrates' claims concerning happiness, virtue, and knowledge. We also need to understand Socrates' theory of the good, the bad, and the neither-good-nor-bad. To put it simply, Socrates believed that the only good thing was happiness, the only bad thing was misery, and everything else was neither-good-nor-bad (NGNB). While this threefold classification falls out of the text in a relatively straightforward manner, it is difficult to figure out how virtue fits into it – nor is it immediately obvious how vice should be classified. We will take a careful look at how these elements fit into his schema in the next chapter.

In this chapter, through an analysis of what Socrates says about the good, the bad, and the NGNB, we will see that he provides no metric for evaluating any action or object other than its actual capacity to render its possessor either more or less happy. There is no principle, no “moral” notion of good, to which we must look, in order to decide what is the best action for us to perform in our current situation.

It is widely agreed that Socrates holds virtue to be identical to knowledge.

In recent Socratic scholarship, much debate has centered on two questions: first, did Socrates find virtue to be sufficient for happiness? And second, regardless of whether virtue is sufficient for happiness, is it necessary for happiness? In this chapter I will show that these questions are irrelevant to Socrates' mission. I will also connect the question of the necessity of virtue for happiness to the debate over whether virtue is a mere instrument for the procurement of happiness (which I discussed above, 116–17 and 128–32).

Debates over necessity and sufficiency are fueled by the assumption that we must attribute to Socrates a theory that post-Kantians would recognize as a moral one. The volatility of these debates is a symptom of the fact that it is difficult to find a post-Kantian notion of morality in Socrates' statements concerning virtue and happiness. The project of finding a moral view in the Socratic dialogues is complicated by the fact that Socrates evidently reduces the (now – intuitively – moral) notion of virtue to craft or scientific knowledge, and also by the fact that he sees the goal of human life as the maximization of individual happiness. Furthermore, as if this didn't make the project of uncovering some sort of moral underpinnings for Socratic ethics difficult enough, Socrates – at critical moments – even reduces happiness to pleasure!

No matter how we interpret the conclusion to Socrates' Meno argument, it implies that desiring something bad is tantamount to desiring to be harmed, which is desiring to be miserable and unhappy. This carries two further implications: first, harm is always harm to the self and benefit is always benefit to the self. Second, bad is simply this harm to the self and good is just this benefit to the self.

Socrates seems to neglect a whole category of examples when he equates bad with harm and good with benefit. What of a person who benefits from performing a bad action, where “bad” is here understood as something like “morally wrong?” Socrates' controversial conclusion to the Meno argument and its entailments call our attention to many passages throughout the Socratic dialogues that make it apparent that Socrates is an egoist.

In the Gorgias, we saw Socrates base an entire argument about who has power on the assumption that power – if it is a worthwhile commodity – is good for its possessor (33n.16). Later in the Gorgias, Socrates argues that justice benefits the self (474c4–d2, 475b3–d6), and that it is to be prized because it is better for the agent than the alternative (470e4–11).

In Chapters 4 and 9, we will see that, in the Protagoras, Socrates describes all deliberation concerning voluntary action as a cost/benefit analysis concerning which alternative will bring about the most pleasure for the agent over the long run.

In looking at the Euthydemus, Gorgias, Lysis, and Meno I have stated that Socrates' theory of the good, the bad, and the NGNB serves as the centerpiece for all his pronouncements on ethics. I now turn to the Charmides, for further evidence. Here, we see how this theory concerning the assignment of good and bad values operates as a touchstone for Socratic ethics, even in a dialogue that doesn't develop these ideas explicitly. We also see the profound ramifications that Socrates' commitment to this theory of valuation has for his views on ethics: it eliminates any distinction between virtue and scientific knowledge, as well as any distinction between science and morality.

In the Charmides, Socrates discusses the nature of sophrosune. This Greek term is most often translated as “temperance” in English, although it is also commonly agreed that “temperance” does not really capture the connotations that this word held in ancient Greek. Some other possible translations are “self-control,” “sobriety,” “discretion,” and “moderation.” However, all these indicate a mastery of bodily desires. In his discussions of sophrosune, Socrates seems to intend a reference that includes, but also goes beyond, such mastery. He speaks of a well-thought-out approach to all of life's decisions. Thus, “equanimity” might be the best English equivalent of this Greek word. Still, I will use the popular term “temperance” in my discussion.

As is common in the early dialogues, Socrates is less than forthright in stating his own views concerning the nature of temperance.

I was born with an appetite for metaphysics and action theory, but my taste for ethics has been slow to develop. I am uncomfortable (and often frustrated) with the initial steps taken in ethical theory. The foundations of ethical theory can be understood as forcing a choice between two horns of a dilemma: either we embrace relativism, or we acknowledge the existence of universal ethical principles. Both of these horns are problematic. The difficulties of ethical relativism have been understood at least since Plato's Euthyphro: ethical relativism does not allow us to ask why any particular culture or person exhibits a particular ethical practice. The only explanation that can be offered for why a practice has been adopted is that its practitioners believe it is correct. But relativism does not invite us to give a philosophical answer to the interesting and important questions about why any particular person or culture believes a particular practice is correct. On the other hand, if there are universal ethical principles, we are equally at a loss to explain why these principles exist and not others. We can no more say why these principles govern ethics than we can say why these laws of physics govern the physical world. In neither case can we uncover a reason to invest in a given set of moral principles or a particular ethical practice. Why are we supposed to adhere to a particular ethical system and entreat others to do so?