The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
CHAP. XI.—As respects philosophy, then, for what reasons it has been traduced, and that it has been so unjustly, we have, I think, sufficiently stated,—unless you have anything else to allege. Nay, said he;—I can say nothing further about this point:—but which of the present forms of government do you conceive to be suited to philosophy? None whatever, said I; and this particularly is what I complain of, that no existing constitution of a state is worthy of the philosophic nature; and on this account therefore it is turned and altered, just as a foreign seed sown in an improper soil becomes worthless, and has a tendency to fall under the influence of the soil in which it is placed;—so this race likewise has not at present its proper power, but degenerates to some pattern foreign to it;—but in case that it does meet with the best form of government, being itself also best, it will then be evident that this is really divine, and all others only human, both as to their natures and pursuits:—but as a matter of course you are evidently about to ask what is this form of government?
You are mistaken, said he,—for this I was not going to ask; but whether it be this, which we have described in establishing our state, or some other. As regards all other things, said I, it is this one:—and this very thing was then mentioned, that there must always be in our state something having the same regard for the government, which you the legislator had in establishing the laws. Aye,—that was mentioned, said he. Yes, but, said I, it was not made sufficiently clear, owing to the fear of what you objected, when you showed also, that the illustration of the thing would be both tedious and difficult;—for indeed it is not on the whole quite easy to discuss what remains. What is that? In what manner a state is to undertake the study of philosophy, so as not itself to be destroyed; for all great pursuits are dangerous; and,—as the saying is,—those noble even are truly difficult. But still, rejoined he, let our demonstration be completed by making this evident.
Want of inclination, said I, will not hinder, though possibly want of power may:—and now you shall at once be assured of my readiness.—Consider indeed, how readily and adventurously I am about to assert, that a state ought to attempt this study in a way opposite to what it does at present. How? At present, said I, those who engage in it are striplings, who, quite from childhood, amidst their domestic affairs and lucrative employments, betake themselves to most abstruse inquiries, considering themselves consummate philosophers,—(and I call what respects reasoning, the most difficult of all;)—and should they in after-time be invited by others practising this art, they are pleased to become hearers, and think it a great condescension, reckoning they ought to do it as a by-work:—but towards old age, with the exception indeed of some few, they are extinguished even more than the Heraclitean[201] sun, because they are never again rekindled. But how should they act? said he. Quite the reverse of what they do:—while they are lads and youths they should study youthful learning and philosophy,[202] and, take special care of the body, during its growth and strengthening by inviting its services to the aid of philosophy; and then, as that time of life progresses, during which the soul is attaining its perfection, they should vigorously apply to her exercises;—but when strength decays, and is no longer suited for civil and military employments, they should then be dismissed, and live at pleasure, with the exception of a by-work, [that is, studying philosophy,]—if indeed they propose to live happy, and, when they die, possess in the other world, a destiny suited to the life which they have led in this.
CHAP. XII.—How truly do I think, Socrates, said he, that you speak with ready zeal:—I think, however, that most of your hearers will still more zealously oppose you, and by no means be persuaded, and Thrasymachus even first. Do not divide Thrasymachus and me, said I, who are now become friends, though not enemies heretofore; for we will not at all relax our efforts, till we either persuade both him and the rest, or make some advances towards that life, on attaining which they will again meet with such discourses as these. You have spoken, said he, only for a short time. No time at all, said I, as compared at least with the whole of time: but that the multitude are not persuaded by what is said, is no wonder; for they have never as yet seen that what was mentioned actually came to pass, but rather that they were certain mere words cleverly fitted to each other, and not as now coming out spontaneously:—and as regards the man, who is, as completely as possible, squared and made consistent with virtue both in word and deed, holding power in a state of such different character; they have never at all seen either one or more of the kind:—do you think they have? By no means.
And again, as respects arguments, my excellent friend, they have not sufficiently listened to what are fair and liberal, such as persevere in the search for truth, by every method, for the mere sake of knowledge, saluting at a distance[203] such intricate and contentious questions, as tend only to opinion and strife, either in their law-courts or private meetings. Not even as respects these, he replied. On these accounts then, said I, and foreseeing these things, we, although with fear, still asserted (compelled by truth), that neither state nor government, nor even a man in the same way, could ever become perfect, till some need of fortune should compel those few philosophers, who at present are termed not depraved but useless, to take the government of the state, whether they will or not, and oblige it to be obedient to them; or till the sons of those who are now in high offices and magistracies, or they themselves, be by some divine inspiration filled with a true love of sincere philosophy: and I am sure that no one can reasonably suppose either or both of these to be impossible; for thus might we justly be derided, as saying things which otherwise are only like wishes:—is it not so? It is.
If then, in the infinite series of past ages, absolute necessity has compelled men who have reached the summit of philosophy to take the government of a state,—or even if such is now the case in some barbarous region, remote from our observation, or is likely to be the case hereafter, we are ready, in that case, to advance in argument, that this form of government just described has existed and now exists [in possibility,] and will actually arise, when this our muse shall obtain the government of the state: for this is neither impossible to happen, nor do we speak of impossibilities, though we ourselves confess that they are difficult. I too, said he, am of the same opinion. But you will say, replied I, that the multitude are not of that opinion? Very likely, said he. My excellent friend, said I, do not thus altogether condemn the multitude; and do not upbraid them for their opinion, but rather encourage them,—remove the reproach thrown on philosophy,—and point out to them the persons you call philosophers, defining distinctly, as at present, both their genius and pursuits, that they may not think that you speak of such as they themselves call philosophers.—Indeed, if they talk of the same men, will you not say that they have conceived a different opinion of the men from what you have, and give very different replies from yours; and think you that one man can be angered at another, who is not angry himself; or that a man will envy the envious, who is himself free from envy, and of a gentle temper? I will anticipate you by saying, that I think some few, though not the great mass of mankind, have naturally so bad a temper as you have described. I am quite of that opinion also, said he.
CHAP. XIII.—In fact, Adimantus, the man who really applies his intellect to reflect on true being, probably has no leisure to look down on the little affairs of mankind, and by fighting with them, become filled with envy and ill-nature; but on the other hand, beholding and contemplating objects that are orderly, always self-consistent and stable,[204] such as neither injure nor are injured by each other, but are in all respects beautiful and consonant with reason, these he imitates and resembles as far as possible:—what, think you it at all possible, that a man will not imitate what he admires as soon as he is conversant therewith? Impossible, he replied. The philosopher then, who is occupied with what is divine and orderly, becomes himself divine and orderly, as far as lies in man’s power:—yet in all there is great room for blame. Most assuredly. If then, said I, he should be any how compelled to try to introduce among men what he beholds there [in his world of contemplation,] with a view of forming their manners, both in private and public, and not merely to form himself alone,—would he prove, think you, a bad artist, in the matter of temperance and justice and every civil virtue? Not at all, said he.
But, supposing that the multitude should perceive that we are speaking the truth about him, [_i. e._ the philosopher,] will they be angry at philosophers and discredit our assertion, that the state can never otherwise be happy, except as portrayed by painters who employ a divine pattern?[205] They will not be angry, said he, if they do perceive it: but what method of painting do you mean? When they have got for their groundwork, said I, the state and manners of mankind, they would first make them pure, which is not altogether an easy matter; for you know, that in this they differ from others,—in being unwilling to meddle either with a private man or state, or to prescribe laws, till they have either received them as pure, or themselves have made them so. Rightly too, said he. And after this, think you not they will draw a sketch of their form of government? Of course.
Afterwards, I think, as they proceed in their work, they will frequently look in two directions,—not only to what is naturally just and beautiful, and temperate and the like, but also, again, to that which they can establish among mankind, blending and compounding their human form out of different human characters and pursuits, drawing from what Homer calls the divine likeness, and the divine resemblance subsisting among men? Right, said he. They will, of course, I think, erase one thing, and put in another, till they have, as far as possible, made human morals pleasing to the gods? At that rate, said he, the picture will be most beautiful. In this case, said I, do we at all succeed in persuading these men, who, you said, were coming upon us in battle-array, that a person who can thus depict governments is the man we then recommended to them,—and on whose account they were angry with us, for committing to him our states:—and will they now be more mild, when they hear our mention thereof? Certainly, said he, if they be wise:—for what is there now, that they can further question?—will they assert that philosophers are not lovers of real being and truth? That, said he, were absurd.
Or that their disposition, as just described, is not allied to what is best? Nor this either. What then;—will not a disposition such as we have described, by finding suitable employments, become perfectly good and philosophic, if any other be so;—will men say that those more attain to it, whom we have selected? Not at all. Will they still then be indignant at us for saying, that until the philosophic race have the government of the state, the miseries neither of state nor citizens can have an end, nor can this government, which we ideally describe, be ever perfectly realized? Perhaps somewhat less indignant, rejoined he. Is it your wish, then, said I, that we say—not that they are somewhat less [indignant,] but that they have become altogether mild, and are persuaded, that they will at least consent, if no more, through very shame? By all means, said he. ----- Footnote 204: The reader will take in connexion with this what had been stated at the close of the first chapter of this book,—that the philosopher’s studies were concerned with real and eternal being, and not allowed to wander to the changeable and destructible—οὐ πλανωμένην ὑπὸ γενέσεως καὶ φθορᾶς. Footnote 205: Philosophers ideally contemplating the image of a perfect state are here elegantly compared to painters about to make an original design of a city, who of course require that their tablets be clean, ere they commence their drawing.
CHAP. XV.—Since this then has been with difficulty brought to a conclusion, shall we not next consider what remains;—in what manner, and in consequence of what sciences and pursuits, they will become installed as the preservers of the government, and at what periods of life they will all apply to their several pursuits? Aye, we must talk of this, observed he. My cunning has done me no service, said I, in having left untouched, in the former part of our discourse, the difficulty attending the possession of women, and the procreation of children, and the establishment of governors, knowing how invidious the business is, and full of difficulty, even though it be perfectly true and correct:—for we are now under no less a compulsion of entering into these details.—What relates to women and children has already been brought to a close; and as to what concerns the governors, we must now from the beginning reconsider that subject.—We have alleged, if you remember, that they should appear to be lovers of the state,—proved to be so both by pleasures and pains, and not seen to abandon this principle, either through toils or fears or any other change; and that he who cannot do this should be rejected; while as for him who comes forth altogether pure, as gold tried in the fire, we should appoint him ruler, and endow him with honours and rewards both during life and after death. Such was what we said, when our argument was wandering and assuming a veil, through fear of disturbing the present state of things. You speak quite truly, said he;—for I remember it.
Yes,—for I was loath, to say, my friend, what I must now venture to assert:—but now this assertion must at any rate be ventured,—that the most perfect guardians must be established philosophers. Yes,—that has been stated, replied he. But consider, I pray, that you will probably have only a few of these; for such a disposition, as we declared that they must necessarily have, is but rarely used to centre in one single individual; though its different parts are commonly found in many different persons. How say you? he replied. That such as learn with facility, have a good memory, are sagacious and acute, and endued with all qualifications thereto allied, are yet not at the same time of so vigorous and lofty an intellect, as to live orderly, with calmness and constancy, but are carried hapchance by mere buoyancy of spirits, and are deserted by everything like stability. Your remark is true, replied he. Well then, these firm habits of the mind, which are not easily changeable, and which one might specially employ as trusty, and which in time of war are hard to be excited to terror;—and similarly also as regards learning,—they move heavily, and learn with difficulty, as if benumbed, and oppressed with sleep and yawning, when compelled to labour at any work of this description?
It is so, replied he. But we said, that he ought to have a good and fair share of both these, or else should have no share whatever either in the most perfect kind of education, or in magisterial dignities or state-honours? Right, said he. Do not you think then, that this will but rarely happen? Of course it will. They must be tried then both in what we before alluded to,—labours, fears, and pleasures;—and likewise in what we then passed over, and are now mentioning;—we must exercise them in various kinds of learning, with due regard for the power of their talents to go through the highest branches of study, or else their failure, as that of persons failing in all other things. It is fit now, said he, that we consider this question in this manner:—but what kind of studies are they, which you call the highest?
CHAP. XVI.—You remember, perhaps, said I, that when we divided the soul into three parts, we defined the nature respectively of justice, temperance, fortitude, and wisdom? If I did not remember, said he, I should have no right to hear what remains. [Do you remember likewise] what was said before that? What was it? We somewhere said, that it was possible to behold these in their most beautiful forms, but that the journey would be tedious, which a person must make, who would see them clearly; yet that it was possible, to approach them through our proofs before mentioned, and you said also, that these were sufficient; so, what was then asserted fell in my opinion far short of the truth; though if agreeable to you, you may say so. I at least thought, replied he, that they had been discussed in fair measure; and the rest seemed to think so too. But my friend, said I, in speaking of things of this kind, such a measure as omits any part whatever of the truth is not wholly in measure;—for nothing imperfect is the measure of anything;—though people sometimes think that things are sufficiently well when thus circumstanced, and there is no need for further inquiry. Very many, said he, thus behave through indolence.
But the guardian of the state and the laws, said I, should least of all be thus affected. So it seems, replied he. Such an one, then, my friend, said I, must make a more comprehensive circuit, and labour as much in learning as in exercising himself: otherwise, as we were just saying, he will never arrive at the summit of the greatest and most suitable learning. But are not these branches the highest:—or is there, said he, any one yet higher than justice, and those virtues which we have discussed? There is something greater, said I; and even of these we must not, as just now, only contemplate the mere rude sketch; but we must not omit even its complete elaboration: is it not ridiculous in other things of small moment to employ our whole labour, and strive to attain the utmost accuracy and perfection, and yet not deem the highest and most important affairs worthy of our highest attention, with a view to making them as perfect as possible? The sentiment, said he, is very just:—but with respect to the question,—what is this most important branch of study, and about what you say it is employed,—think you that any one will let you go without asking its nature?
Not at all, said I:—but do you ask; although you have assuredly often heard it, but at present you do not bear it in mind, or else intend to embarrass me by raising objections:—and I think this the more, as you have often heard at least, that the idea of the good is the highest branch of study;—about which, when justice and the other virtues employ themselves, they then become useful and advantageous.—Now then, you know pretty well that I mean to say this, and besides, that we do not sufficiently know that idea; and without this knowledge, though we were to understand everything else as fully as possible, yet you know that it could be of no service whatever to us: in the same manner as no possession whatever would be of aught avail, without the possession of the good:—and think you that it is more profitable to possess all things without the possession of the good than to know all things without the knowledge of the good, having no perception at all of the beautiful and good? Not I, by Zeus, he exclaimed.
CHAP. XVII.—Of this, moreover, you may be quite certain, that to the multitude pleasure seems to be the good, while the more refined think it to be virtue. How otherwise? And you know also, my friend, that those who hold this opinion, are unable to show what knowledge is, but are compelled at last to call it the knowledge of the good. Aye, and most absurdly too, said he. How indeed can it be otherwise, replied I, if when upbraiding us for not knowing the good, they yet speak as to persons knowing it,[206] and say that knowledge is good itself, as if we understood their meaning when pronouncing the word “the good?” Most true, said he. But what? those who define pleasure to be good, are they less in error than the others; or are not these too compelled to confess that pleasures are evil? Quite so. It happens then, I think, that they acknowledge the same things to be both good and evil,—do they not? Undoubtedly. Is it not clear, then, that on this point there are great and manifold varieties of opinion? Of course there are.
But what;—is it not clear also, that with reference to things just and beautiful, the multitude choose what is apparent, even though it has no real existence, yet acting and possessing and appearing to possess it;—though the acquisition of only apparent goods, never yet satisfied any one:—for people on the other hand seek what is real, and all men despise what is only apparent? Just so, said he. This then is what every soul pursues, and for the sake of which it does everything, conjecturing it to be something, though still in doubt, and unable either fully to comprehend its nature, or employ belief alone respecting it as of other things; and hence is it, that they fail of success even in other matters however useful.—Are we to say then, that about a matter of this nature, and of such vast consequence, even the best men in the state, to whom we commit the management of all things, will be thus in the dark? By no means, said he. I am of opinion then, said I, that the just and the beautiful, so long as they are unknown in what particular way they are good, cannot be of any great importance to have a guardian who is ignorant of this; and I suspect that no one will before this attain a sufficient knowledge thereof. Yes,—you guess rightly, observed he. Will not our government, therefore, have been completely set in order, if a guardian be set over it that is scientifically acquainted with these things?
By Zeus, Socrates, said Glaucon, do not stop here, as if you had come to a close; for we shall be satisfied, if, in the same way as you have spoken of justice, temperance, and the other virtues, you will in like manner discourse of the good. And I too shall be very well satisfied, my friend, said I; but [I am afraid] that I shall not be able, and so, by my readiness may incur the ridicule of unmannerly persons.—But, my excellent friends, let us at present dismiss[207] this inquiry about the nature of the good, (for it seems to me more, as far as I now think, than we can attain, in our present attempt): but I am willing to tell you, if you please, what I conceive to be the offspring of the good, and its nearest representation; and if not, I shall dismiss it. Well then, tell us, said he; for you shall afterwards acquit yourself of your debt by telling us of its parent.
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