The works of Plato · Plato
ARGUMENT.
CHAP. XVI.—Are you, further, of opinion, that he who is to be our guardian should, besides being spirited, have a philosophic nature also? How? said he:—for I do not understand. This too, said I, you will observe in dogs, what is also well worthy of admiration in the brute. What? He is angry at every unknown person that he sees, though he has never suffered ill from him before; but one that is known he fawns upon, even though he may never have received any good from him. Did you never wonder at this? I never, said he, thought of it before; but he does so, it is clear. Moreover, this affection of his nature appears elegant at least, and truly philosophic. In what respect? Because, said I, it distinguishes a friendly and unfriendly aspect by nothing else but this,—that it knows the one, but not the other:—and how can we refuse to consider that as the love of learning, which defines the friendly and the foreign by intelligence and ignorance? By no means, said he:—it cannot be otherwise. Nevertheless, said I, to be a lover of learning and a philosopher, are the same. The same, said he. May we not then boldly lay down [the principle,] that in man too, if any one be mild towards his intimates and acquaintances, he must by nature be a philosopher and a lover of learning? Let us so lay it down, said he.
He, then, who intends to be a good and worthy state-guardian, should be by nature a philosopher, spirited, swift, and strong. By all means, said he. Let him, then, be just such as this, said I. In what manner, then, shall they be trained and instructed? and will the consideration of this at all aid us in perceiving the object, for the sake of which we are considering all these things; that is to say, how justice and injustice arise in a state? that we may not omit any necessary part of our argument, or wade through what is superfluous? Then, said Glaucon’s brother: I, for my part, quite expect, that this inquiry will conduce to this end. By Zeus, said I, friend Adimantus, we must not dismiss it; even though it be somewhat too long. No, truly. Come then, let us, as if we were talking in the way of fable, and at our leisure, give some ideal training to these men.[84] It is right to do so.
CHAP. XVII.—What then is the education?—Is it difficult to discover a better than has been discovered for a long time? that is, surely, gymnastics for the body, and music for the mind? It is. Must we not first, then, begin by teaching music, rather than gymnastics? Of course. When you say music, you mean arguments, do you not? I do. But of arguments there are two kinds,—the one true, the other false. Yes. And they must be instructed in both,—but first in the false. I do not understand, said he, what you mean. Know you not, said I, that first of all we tell children fables;—and this, [surely,] to speak generally, is falsehood; though there is some truth in it; but we employ fables with children before gymnastic exercises. We do. This was what I meant, then, by saying that we must begin music before gymnastics. Right, said he. And know you not, that the beginning of every work is most important, especially to any one young and tender;—because then that particular impression is most easily instilled and formed, which any one may wish to imprint on each individual. Entirely so.
Shall we then let children hear any kind of fables composed by any kind of persons, and receive into their minds opinions in a great measure contrary to those which we think they should have when they are grown up? We should by no means allow it. First of all, then, as it seems, we must exercise control over the fable-makers; and whatever beautiful fable they may invent, we should select, and what is not so, we should reject:—and we are to prevail on nurses and mothers to repeat to the children such fables as are selected, and fashion their minds by fables, much more than their bodies by their hands. But very many of those that they now tell them must be cast aside. What, for instance? said he. In the more important fables, said I, we shall see the lesser likewise:—for the fashion of them must be the same; and both the greater and the less must have the same kind of influence:—do not you think so? I do, said he: but I do not at all understand, which of them you call the greater. Those, said I, which both Hesiod and Homer told us, and the other poets also:—for they composed and related false fables for mankind, and do still relate them.
What class, said he, do you mean;—and what do you blame in them? That, said I, which ought first and most of all to be blamed,—especially when one does not falsify well. What is that? When a poet, in his composition, exhibits bad representations of the nature of gods and heroes,—just as a painter draws a picture not at all resembling what he was intending to paint. Yes, it is quite right, said he, that such as these should be blamed:—but how do we say, and in what respect? First of all, said I, with reference to that greatest falsehood, in matters of grave importance too, in saying which he did not falsify well, that Uranus made what Hesiod says he did; and then again how Kronos punished him, and what Kronos did, and suffered from his son:[85] for though these things were true, yet I think they should not be so readily told to the unwise and the young, but rather concealed from them;—and were there need to tell them, they should be heard in secrecy, by as few as possible, after sacrificing not a [valueless] hog,[86] but some great and wonderful sacrifice, in order that it may fall to the lot of the fewest possible to hear them. These fables, said he, are indeed injurious.
Neither are they to be told, Adimantus, said I, in our state:—nor should it be said in the hearing of a youth, that he who commits the most extreme injustice, or that he who punishes in every possible way a father who commits injustice, does nothing strange, but only does the same as the first and the greatest of the gods. No truly, said he, nor do such things as these seem to me proper to be said. Neither, generally, said I, must it be told, how gods war with gods, and plot and fight against one another (for such assertions are not true),—if, at least, it be the duty of those who are to guard the state to esteem it most shameful to hate each other on slight grounds.
I vote along with you, said he, as respects this law,—for it quite pleases me. This, then, said I, is probably one of the laws and models as respects the gods, by which it will be necessary for those who speak to speak and for those who compose to compose, that God is not the cause of all things, but of good. Yes, said he, of course. But what as to this second law?—Think you that God is a sorcerer, and appears designedly, at different times, in different shapes,—sometimes like himself,—and, at other times, changing his form into many shapes,—sometimes deceiving us and making us conceive false opinions of him;—or, that he is simple, and that he by no means quits his proper form? I cannot, now, at least, say so, replied he. But what as to this;—if anything be changed from its proper form, must it not be necessarily changed by itself, or by another? Undoubtedly. Are not those things which are in the best state, changed and moved least of all other by another;—as the body, by meats and drinks, and labours, and all kinds of plants by droughts and winds, and such like accidents? Is not the most healthy and vigorous least of all changed? Surely. And as to the soul itself, will not external accidents least of all disorder and change the bravest and wisest? Yes. And surely all manufactured vessels, and buildings, and vestments, such as are properly made and in a right state, are according to the same reasoning least of all changed by time, or other accidents? Such is the case. Everything then, which is in a good state, either by nature or art, or both, receives the smallest change from another. It seems so. But God, and all that belongs to divinity, are in the best state? Of course. In this way, then, God should least of all have many shapes? Least of all, truly.
Resembling various guests, in various forms,— lest they should, at one and the same time, blaspheme against the gods, and make their children cowards. Surely not, said he. But do the gods, said I, who in themselves never change, still make us imagine that they appear in various forms, deceiving us, and playing the sorcerer? Perhaps they do, said he. What, said I;—can a god wish to deceive,—holding up a mere phantom, either in word or deed? I know not, said he. Know you not, said I, that a real falsehood (if we be allowed to say so), both all the gods and men abhor? How mean you? replied he. Thus, said I: that to be deceived in the most excellent part of oneself, and that about one’s highest interests, is what no one wishes of his own accord; but, of all things, every one is most afraid of this happening to him. Even yet, said he, I do not understand you. Because, said I, you think I am saying something awful:—but I am saying, that for the soul to be deceived with respect to realities, and to be so deceived and ignorant, and in that to have obtained and to maintain a falsehood, is what every one would least of all choose; and would most hate it in the soul. Most especially, said he. But this, as I was now saying, might very correctly be termed a real falsehood—ignorance in the soul of the deceived person; for imitation in words is a kind of image of the affection the soul feels, and springs up afterwards, and is not altogether a pure falsehood:—is it not so? Assuredly.
The divine and godlike nature, then, is altogether free from falsehood? Entirely so, said he. God, then, is quite simple and true, both in word and deed; neither is he changed himself, nor does he deceive others,—neither by visions, nor discourse, nor the pomp of signs, neither when we are awake nor when we sleep? So it appears to me, said he, just as you say. You agree then, said I, that this shall be the second principle which we are to lay down both in speaking and composing concerning the gods,[91]—namely, that they are neither sorcerers and change themselves, nor mislead us by falsehoods, either in word or deed? I agree. While, then, we commend many other things in Homer, this we shall not commend,—namely, the dream sent by Jupiter to Agamemnon; nor that in Æschylus, when he makes Thetis say that Apollo had sung at her marriage, that ... her happy lot should be To bear an offspring fair, from ailment free, And blest with lengthen’d days; and then the God, Unfolding all, with pæans high proclaim’d Thy heaven-blest fortunes, welcome to my soul I hoped that all was true that Phœbus sang! So sweetly tuned with high prophetic art;— But he who at my nuptials joy foretold, The same is he, who now hath slain my child.
Ideas discussed in this chapter
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.