The Statesman (or Politicus) is central to any serious concern with Plato's political thought. It clarifies and modifies Plato's earlier positions, especially in the Republic, and illuminates the principles of his political thinking even while these are in the process of changing.

Plato (429–347 bc) is known and discussed widely as a political thinker, but usually on the basis of his best-known work, the Republic, and this is in many ways a pity. The Republic is a work in which political theory is mixed together with ethical theory and metaphysics, and the political strand (which is not a very large one) is hard to disentangle and open to many different kinds of interpretation. Further, the political ideas, though expressed with vigour, are very sketchy, and their relation to contemporary political reality is remote. Plato's later works, Statesman and Laws, are more properly seen as works of political theory than is the Republic, and studying them can both help us to understand the Republic better, and also put it into perspective, as being only part of a long development in Plato's thinking.

In the Statesman, for example, Plato defends the ideal of the ruler as possessor of a particular kind of expertise, namely expertise in the ‘political skill (or art)’ (politikē technē). This idea dominates the political aspect of the Republic: political problems are to be solved by imposing an ideal ruler, and the only interesting question is what the nature of that rule is to be.

In preparing this translation, the Oxford Classical Text (E.A. Duke, W.F. Hicken, W.S.M. Nicoll, D.B. Duke and J.C.G. Strachan, eds., Platonis Opera, vol. I, Oxford University Press, 1994) has been followed, except in the few places indicated in the notes. We are extremely grateful to David Robinson for letting us see a copy of the text of Statesman in advance of publication.

The canonical essay on Plato's style of writing in his later dialogues remains the General Introduction by Lewis Campbell to his 1867 edition of Sophist and Statesman combined (see the bibliography on pp. xxviii–xxix). Here I need only point out to the reader that the Greek of Statesman is occasionally difficult and dense, and that it rarely rises to the conversational fluency and brilliance of Plato's early and middle-period dialogues. At the same time, he sometimes experiments – for no very good reason that I can see – with artificial alliteration, word order and rhythm. It is in the nature of translating from one language to another that these rhetorical devices are likely to be lost: they certainly have been in the following translation. Otherwise, my intention has been to keep as close to the Greek as a reasonable degree of fluency allows, without losing the occasionally dry and laborious tone of the original. Apart from this tone, however, there is little in the way the dialogue has been written to deter a potential reader, and (as always in Plato) enough thought-provoking material to make a reading worthwhile.

socrates: I'm really very grateful to you, Theodorus, for introducing me to Theaetetus. And thanks for the introduction to our visitor as well.

theodorus: You'll probably be three times as grateful, though, Socrates, when they've completed their portraits of the statesman and the philosopher as well.

socrates: All right – if this is what you want us to report as the view of our foremost arithmetician and geometer, Theodorus.

theodorus: What, Socrates?

socrates: That he counted each of the men as equivalent, when their relative values progress by leaps that are too great for you mathematicians with your ratios.

theodorus: That's a good point, Socrates. I call on Ammon, the god of my race, to witness that I admit it. You're quite right to tell me off for my mathematical mistake. Thanks for the reminder. I'll get my own back on you another time, but for now I'd like to ask our visitor to continue his kindness and next to pick either the statesman or the philosopher, whichever he likes, and give us an account of him.

visitor: Yes, I'd better, Theodorus. I mean, once we've undertaken a project, we oughtn't to give up until we've reached the end. But what should I do about Theaetetus here?

theodorus: What do you mean?

visitor: Shall we give him a break and instead get Socrates here to join us in our exertions? What do you suggest?

It is perhaps appropriate for the Statesman to be the first of Plato's works to come out in the Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought; it is certainly the most neglected of Plato's political works, and the one most in need of a fresh presentation. The new translation provides a more accessible version than any hitherto available in English, and the introduction attempts to locate the dialogue in Plato's political thought, taking advantage of the enormous improvements in our understanding of this that recent discussions have produced. Few of these directly concern the Statesman itself, and we hope that this new translation will help to bring the work more centrally into discussions of Plato's political thought, along with the more familiar Republic and Laws.

The translation and textual notes are by Robin Waterfield, and the introduction and other notes by Julia Annas. Each of us, however, has read and commented on the other's work, and the result is the product of a harmonious collaboration that has been interesting and profitable for both of us. We hope that its fruits will introduce others to this uneven, often puzzling but seminal dialogue.

Tour kinsman doesn't much care for beautiful buildings, then,’ said I, as we entered the rather dreary classical house; which indeed was as bare as need be, except for some big pots of the June flowers which stood about here and there: though it was very clean and nicely white-washed.

‘O, I don't know,’ said Dick, rather absently. ‘He is getting old, certainly, for he is over a hundred and five, and no doubt he doesn't care about moving. But of course he could live in a prettier house if he liked: he is not obliged to live in one place any more than any one else. This way, Guest.’

And he led the way upstairs, and opening a door we went into a fair-sized room of the old type, as plain as the rest of the house, with a few necessary pieces of furniture, and those very simple and even rude, but solid and with a good deal of carving about them, well designed but rather crudely executed. At the furthest corner of the room, at a desk near the window, sat a little old man in a roomy oak chair, well be-cushioned. He was dressed in a sort of Norfolk-jacket of blue serge worn thread-bare, with breeches of the same, and grey worsted stockings. He jumped up from his chair, and cried out in a voice of considerable volume for such an old man, ‘Welcome, Dick, my lad; Clara is here, and will be more than glad to see you; so keep your heart up.’

As we went down to the boat next morning, Walter could not quite keep off the subject of last night, though he was more hopeful than he had been then, and seemed to think that if the unlucky homicide could not be got to go over-sea, he might at any rate go and live somewhere in the neighbourhood pretty much by himself; at any rate, that was what he himself had proposed. To Dick, and I must say to me also, this seemed a strange remedy; and Dick said as much. Quoth he:

‘Friend Walter, don't set the man brooding on the tragedy by letting him live alone. That will only strengthen his idea that he has committed a crime, and you will have him killing himself in good earnest.’

Said Clara: ‘I don't know. If I may say what I think of it, it is that he had better have his fill of gloom now, and, so to say, wake up presently to see how little need there has been for it; and then he will live happily afterwards. As for his killing himself, you need not be afraid of that; for, from all you can tell me, he is really very much in love with the woman; and to speak plainly, until his love is satisfied, he will not only stick to life as tightly as he can, but will also make the most of every event of his life – will, so to say, hug himself up in it; and I think that this is the real explanation of his taking the whole matter with such an excess of tragedy.’

On we went. In spite of my new-born excitement about Ellen, and my gathering fear of where it would land me, I could not help taking abundant interest in the condition of the river and its banks; all the more as she never seemed weary of the changing picture, but looked at every yard of flowery bank and gurgling eddy with the same kind of affectionate interest which I myself once had so fully, as I used to think, and perhaps had not altogether lost even in this strangely changed society with all its wonders. Ellen seemed delighted with my pleasure at this, that, or the other piece of carefulness in dealing with the river: the nursing of pretty corners; the ingenuity in dealing with difficulties of water-engineering, so that the most obviously useful works looked beautiful and natural also. All this, I say, pleased me hugely, and she was pleased at my pleasure – but rather puzzled too.

‘You seem astonished,’ she said, just after we had passed a mill which spanned all the stream save the waterway for traffic, but which was as beautiful in its way as a Gothic cathedral – ‘you seem astonished at this being so pleasant to look at.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘in a way I am; though I don't see why it should not be.’

I lingered a little behind the others to have a stare at this house, which, as I have told you, stood on the site of my old dwelling.

It was a longish building with its gable ends turned away from the road, and long traceried windows coming rather low down set in the wall that faced us. It was very handsomely built of red brick with a lead roof; and high up above the windows there ran a frieze of figure subjects in baked clay, very well executed, and designed with a force and directness which I had never noticed in modern work before. The subjects I recognised at once, and indeed was very particularly familiar with them.

However, all this I took in in a minute; for we were presently within doors, and standing in a hall with a floor of marble mosaic and an open timber roof. There were no windows on the side opposite to the river, but arches below leading into chambers, one of which showed a glimpse of a garden beyond, and above them a long space of wall gaily painted (in fresco, I thought) with similar subjects to those of the frieze outside; everything about the place was handsome and generously solid as to material; and though it was not very large (somewhat smaller than Crosby Hall perhaps), one felt in it that exhilarating sense of space and freedom which satisfactory architecture always gives to an unanxious man who is in the habit of using his eyes.

in my first lecture, I stated or suggested the purpose and the manner of my attempt to determine the province of jurisprudence: to distinguish positive law, the appropriate matter of jurisprudence, from the various objects to which it is related by resemblance, and to which it is related, nearly or remotely, by a strong or slender analogy.

In pursuance of that purpose, and agreeably to that manner, I stated the essentials of a law or rule (taken with the largest signification which can be given to the term properly).

In pursuance of that purpose, and agreeably to that manner, I proceed to distinguish laws set by men to men from those Divine laws which are the ultimate test of human.

The Divine laws, or the laws of God, are laws set by God to his human creatures. As I have intimated already, and shall show more fully hereafter, they are laws or rules, properly so called.

As distinguished from duties imposed by human laws, duties imposed by the Divine laws may be called religious duties.

As distinguished from violations of duties imposed by human laws, violations of religious duties are styled sins.

As distinguished from sanctions annexed to human laws, the sanctions annexed to the Divine laws may be called religious sanctions. They consist of the evils, or pains, which we may suffer here or hereafter, by the immediate appointment of God, and as consequences of breaking his commandments.

Past the Broadway there were fewer houses on either side. We presently crossed a pretty little brook that ran across a piece of land dotted over with trees, and awhile after came to another market and town-hall, as we should call it. Although there was nothing familiar to me in its surroundings, I knew pretty well where we were, and was not surprised when my guide said briefly, ‘Kensington Market.’

Just after this we came into a short street of houses; or rather, one long house on either side of the way, built of timber and plaster, and with a pretty arcade over the footway before it.

Quoth Dick: ‘This is Kensington proper. People are apt to gather here rather thick, for they like the romance of the wood; and naturalists haunt it, too, for it is a wild spot even here, what there is of it; for it does not go far to the south: it goes from here northward and west right over Paddington and a little way down Notting Hill: thence it runs north-east to Primrose Hill, and so on; rather a narrow strip of it gets through Kingsland to Stoke-Newington and Clapton, where it spreads out along the heights above the Lea marshes; on the other side of which, as you know, is Epping Forest holding out a hand to it. This part we are just coming to is called Kensington Gardens; though why “gardens” I don't know.’

Dick broke the silence at last, saying: ‘Guest, forgive us for a little after-dinner dulness. What would you like to do? Shall we have out Greylocks and trot back to Hammersmith? Or will you come with us and hear some Welsh folk sing in a hall close by here? or would you like presently to come with me into the City and see some really fine building? or – what shall it be?’

‘Well,’ said I, ‘as I am a stranger, I must let you choose for me.’

In point of fact, I did not by any means want to be ‘amused’ just then; and also I rather felt as if the old man, with his knowledge of past times, and even a kind of inverted sympathy for them caused by his active hatred of them was as it were a blanket for me against the cold of this very new world, where I was, so to say, stripped bare of every habitual thought and way of acting; and I did not want to leave him too soon. He came to my rescue at once, and said: