The Republic
feelings. They are partly facetious, but also contain a germ of truth.
That science is a whole, remains a true principle of inductive as well
as of metaphysical philosophy; and the love of universal knowledge is
still the characteristic of the philosopher in modern as well as in
ancient times.
At the end of the fifth book Plato introduces the figment of contingent
matter, which has exercised so great an influence both on the Ethics
and Theology of the modern world, and which occurs here for the first
time in the history of philosophy. He did not remark that the degrees
of knowledge in the subject have nothing corresponding to them in the
object. With him a word must answer to an idea; and he could not
conceive of an opinion which was an opinion about nothing. The
influence of analogy led him to invent ‘parallels and conjugates’ and
to overlook facts. To us some of his difficulties are puzzling only
from their simplicity: we do not perceive that the answer to them ‘is
tumbling out at our feet.’ To the mind of early thinkers, the
conception of not-being was dark and mysterious; they did not see that
this terrible apparition which threatened destruction to all knowledge
was only a logical determination. The common term under which, through
the accidental use of language, two entirely different ideas were
included was another source of confusion. Thus through the ambiguity of
(Greek) Plato, attempting to introduce order into the first chaos of
human thought, seems to have confused perception and opinion, and to
have failed to distinguish the contingent from the relative. In the
Theaetetus the first of these difficulties begins to clear up; in the
Sophist the second; and for this, as well as for other reasons, both
these dialogues are probably to be regarded as later than the Republic.
BOOK VI. Having determined that the many have no knowledge of true
being, and have no clear patterns in their minds of justice, beauty,
truth, and that philosophers have such patterns, we have now to ask
whether they or the many shall be rulers in our State. But who can
doubt that philosophers should be chosen, if they have the other
qualities which are required in a ruler? For they are lovers of the
knowledge of the eternal and of all truth; they are haters of
falsehood; their meaner desires are absorbed in the interests of
knowledge; they are spectators of all time and all existence; and in
the magnificence of their contemplation the life of man is as nothing
to them, nor is death fearful. Also they are of a social, gracious
disposition, equally free from cowardice and arrogance. They learn and
remember easily; they have harmonious, well-regulated minds; truth
flows to them sweetly by nature. Can the god of Jealousy himself find
any fault with such an assemblage of good qualities?
Here Adeimantus interposes:—‘No man can answer you, Socrates; but every
man feels that this is owing to his own deficiency in argument. He is
driven from one position to another, until he has nothing more to say,
just as an unskilful player at draughts is reduced to his last move by
a more skilled opponent. And yet all the time he may be right. He may
know, in this very instance, that those who make philosophy the
business of their lives, generally turn out rogues if they are bad men,
and fools if they are good. What do you say?’ I should say that he is
quite right. ‘Then how is such an admission reconcileable with the
doctrine that philosophers should be kings?’
I shall answer you in a parable which will also let you see how poor a
hand I am at the invention of allegories. The relation of good men to
their governments is so peculiar, that in order to defend them I must
take an illustration from the world of fiction. Conceive the captain of
a ship, taller by a head and shoulders than any of the crew, yet a
little deaf, a little blind, and rather ignorant of the seaman’s art.
The sailors want to steer, although they know nothing of the art; and
they have a theory that it cannot be learned. If the helm is refused
them, they drug the captain’s posset, bind him hand and foot, and take
possession of the ship. He who joins in the mutiny is termed a good
pilot and what not; they have no conception that the true pilot must
observe the winds and the stars, and must be their master, whether they
like it or not;—such an one would be called by them fool, prater,
star-gazer. This is my parable; which I will beg you to interpret for
me to those gentlemen who ask why the philosopher has such an evil
name, and to explain to them that not he, but those who will not use
him, are to blame for his uselessness. The philosopher should not beg
of mankind to be put in authority over them. The wise man should not
seek the rich, as the proverb bids, but every man, whether rich or
poor, must knock at the door of the physician when he has need of him.
Now the pilot is the philosopher—he whom in the parable they call
star-gazer, and the mutinous sailors are the mob of politicians by whom
he is rendered useless. Not that these are the worst enemies of
philosophy, who is far more dishonoured by her own professing sons when
they are corrupted by the world. Need I recall the original image of
the philosopher? Did we not say of him just now, that he loved truth
and hated falsehood, and that he could not rest in the multiplicity of
phenomena, but was led by a sympathy in his own nature to the
contemplation of the absolute? All the virtues as well as truth, who is
the leader of them, took up their abode in his soul. But as you were
observing, if we turn aside to view the reality, we see that the
persons who were thus described, with the exception of a small and
useless class, are utter rogues.
The point which has to be considered, is the origin of this corruption
in nature. Every one will admit that the philosopher, in our
description of him, is a rare being. But what numberless causes tend to
destroy these rare beings! There is no good thing which may not be a
cause of evil—health, wealth, strength, rank, and the virtues
themselves, when placed under unfavourable circumstances. For as in the
animal or vegetable world the strongest seeds most need the
accompaniment of good air and soil, so the best of human characters
turn out the worst when they fall upon an unsuitable soil; whereas weak
natures hardly ever do any considerable good or harm; they are not the
stuff out of which either great criminals or great heroes are made. The
philosopher follows the same analogy: he is either the best or the
worst of all men. Some persons say that the Sophists are the corrupters
of youth; but is not public opinion the real Sophist who is everywhere
present—in those very persons, in the assembly, in the courts, in the
camp, in the applauses and hisses of the theatre re-echoed by the
surrounding hills? Will not a young man’s heart leap amid these
discordant sounds? and will any education save him from being carried
away by the torrent? Nor is this all. For if he will not yield to
opinion, there follows the gentle compulsion of exile or death. What
principle of rival Sophists or anybody else can overcome in such an
unequal contest? Characters there may be more than human, who are
exceptions—God may save a man, but not his own strength. Further, I
would have you consider that the hireling Sophist only gives back to
the world their own opinions; he is the keeper of the monster, who
knows how to flatter or anger him, and observes the meaning of his
inarticulate grunts. Good is what pleases him, evil what he dislikes;
truth and beauty are determined only by the taste of the brute. Such is
the Sophist’s wisdom, and such is the condition of those who make
public opinion the test of truth, whether in art or in morals. The
curse is laid upon them of being and doing what it approves, and when
they attempt first principles the failure is ludicrous. Think of all
this and ask yourself whether the world is more likely to be a believer
in the unity of the idea, or in the multiplicity of phenomena. And the
world if not a believer in the idea cannot be a philosopher, and must
therefore be a persecutor of philosophers. There is another evil:—the
world does not like to lose the gifted nature, and so they flatter the
young (Alcibiades) into a magnificent opinion of his own capacity; the
tall, proper youth begins to expand, and is dreaming of kingdoms and
empires. If at this instant a friend whispers to him, ‘Now the gods
lighten thee; thou art a great fool’ and must be educated—do you think
that he will listen? Or suppose a better sort of man who is attracted
towards philosophy, will they not make Herculean efforts to spoil and
corrupt him? Are we not right in saying that the love of knowledge, no
less than riches, may divert him? Men of this class (Critias) often
become politicians—they are the authors of great mischief in states,
and sometimes also of great good. And thus philosophy is deserted by
her natural protectors, and others enter in and dishonour her. Vulgar
little minds see the land open and rush from the prisons of the arts
into her temple. A clever mechanic having a soul coarse as his body,
thinks that he will gain caste by becoming her suitor. For philosophy,
even in her fallen estate, has a dignity of her own—and he, like a bald
little blacksmith’s apprentice as he is, having made some money and got
out of durance, washes and dresses himself as a bridegroom and marries
his master’s daughter. What will be the issue of such marriages? Will
they not be vile and bastard, devoid of truth and nature? ‘They will.’
Small, then, is the remnant of genuine philosophers; there may be a few
who are citizens of small states, in which politics are not worth
thinking of, or who have been detained by Theages’ bridle of ill
health; for my own case of the oracular sign is almost unique, and too
rare to be worth mentioning. And these few when they have tasted the
pleasures of philosophy, and have taken a look at that den of thieves
and place of wild beasts, which is human life, will stand aside from
the storm under the shelter of a wall, and try to preserve their own
innocence and to depart in peace. ‘A great work, too, will have been
accomplished by them.’ Great, yes, but not the greatest; for man is a
social being, and can only attain his highest development in the
society which is best suited to him.
Enough, then, of the causes why philosophy has such an evil name.
Another question is, Which of existing states is suited to her? Not one
of them; at present she is like some exotic seed which degenerates in a
strange soil; only in her proper state will she be shown to be of
heavenly growth. ‘And is her proper state ours or some other?’ Ours in
all points but one, which was left undetermined. You may remember our
saying that some living mind or witness of the legislator was needed in
states. But we were afraid to enter upon a subject of such difficulty,
and now the question recurs and has not grown easier:—How may
philosophy be safely studied? Let us bring her into the light of day,
and make an end of the inquiry.
In the first place, I say boldly that nothing can be worse than the
present mode of study. Persons usually pick up a little philosophy in
early youth, and in the intervals of business, but they never master
the real difficulty, which is dialectic. Later, perhaps, they
occasionally go to a lecture on philosophy. Years advance, and the sun
of philosophy, unlike that of Heracleitus, sets never to rise again.
This order of education should be reversed; it should begin with
gymnastics in youth, and as the man strengthens, he should increase the
gymnastics of his soul. Then, when active life is over, let him finally
return to philosophy. ‘You are in earnest, Socrates, but the world will