Chapter XVII: Book VII: Argument (2)

CHAP. XIII.—And now, said I, [to revert to our former simile of the man in the cave,] there is his liberation from chains, his turning from shadows towards the images and the light, and his ascent from the underground cavern to the sun,—and when there, his looking at images in water, owing to a want of power at first of beholding animals and plants, and the sun itself;—so also here [in the intellectual world] you have the contemplation of divine phantasms, and the shadows of real beings, and not the shadows of images shadowed out by another similar light, as by the sun.[225]—All this exercise in the arts which we have discussed has this tendency,—namely, to lead back again the best part of the soul to the contemplation of what is best in existing beings; as in the former case, what is brightest in the body is led to what is most splendid in bodily and visible existence. I admit these things, said he; though it really seems to me extremely difficult to admit them, though in other respects difficult not to admit them. However, granting what has been asserted (for we shall not only now hear these things, but often again discuss them), let us proceed to and discuss the strain itself, as we have finished the introduction. Say, then, of what kind is the power of dialectic,—into what species is it divided,—and what are the paths leading to it;—for these probably conduct us to that place, which we shall find a resting-place, and the end of our journey. You will not as yet, dear Glaucon, said I, be able to follow:—had you been so, no zeal would be wanting on my part; nor should you any longer only see the image of what we are now speaking about, but the truth itself, or what to me seems so. Whether it be so really or not, however, it is not proper positively to affirm; but that it is somewhat of this kind may be most strongly affirmed:—may it not? Of course. And further, that it is the power of dialectics alone, which can discover this to a person skilled in what we have discussed, and that it can be done by no other power. This also, said he, we may positively affirm. This statement at least no one, said I, will dispute with us,—that no other method can attempt to ascertain through a regular process the nature of each particular being; for all other arts respect either the opinions and desires of men, or generations and compositions, or are employed wholly in the study of what is generated and compounded:—but as for those others, which we alleged to have some relation to being, as geometry, and its dependent sciences, we behold them, as if dreaming indeed about real existence, it being impossible to have a true vision, so long as they employ hypotheses and keep them immovable, without the power of accounting for their existence:—for where the starting-point is the unknown, and the conclusion and intermediate steps are connected with that unknown principle, how can any such kind of assent ever possibly become science? By no means, replied he. Is it not then the dialectic method only, said I, that proceeds thus onwards,—removing all hypotheses back to the starting-point, that it may become firmly established, and so gradually draw and lead upward the eye of the soul, which was truly buried in a certain barbaric mire, by the aid and guidance of those arts we have mentioned, which through custom we frequently call sciences, but which require another name clearer indeed than opinion, but more obscure than science? We have somewhere in the former part of our discourse termed it reflection, or reasoning. But the controversy is not, as it appears to me, about a mere name, when people are investigating things of such great importance as those now before us. It is not, said he.

-----

Footnote 225:

This is a passage, the difficulties of which have caused much
discussion. The above translation seems on the whole the best; but the
reader can consult the conjectures of Ast and others in Stallbaum’s
long note on the passage.

-----

CHAP. XIV.—You are pleased, then, said I, as formerly, to call the first part science, the second reflection, the third faith, the fourth conjecture,—both these last being opinion, and the two former intelligence;—and that opinion is employed also about generation, and intelligence about true being;—likewise, that true being bears to generation the same relation as intelligence to opinion, science to faith, and reflection to conjecture;—but as for the analogy of the things which these powers respect, and the twofold division of each,—viz., into the objects of opinion, and those of intellect, these we omit, Glaucon, that we may not be more prolix here than in our former discussions. As for me, said he, as regards those other things, so far as I can comprehend, I am of the same opinion. But do not you call that man skilled in dialectics, who apprehends the reason of the essence of each particular?—and as for the man who is unable to give a reason to himself, and to another, so far as regards this inability, will you not so far say he wants intelligence of the thing? Of course I shall, he replied. And is not the case the same with reference to _the good_?—whoever cannot logically define it, abstracting the idea of _the good_ from all others, and taking as in a fight one opposing argument after another, and cannot proceed with unfailing proofs, eager to rest his case, not on the ground of opinion, but of true being,—such an one knows nothing of _the good itself_, nor of any good whatever: and should he have attained to any knowledge of _the good_, we must say he has attained it by opinion, not science; that he is sleeping, and dreaming away his present life; and before he is roused, will descend to Hades, and there be profoundly and perfectly laid asleep. By Zeus, said he, I will certainly affirm all these things. But surely, methinks, you will not allow those children of yours, whom you are ideally training and educating,—if ever in fact you should educate them,—to have the supreme government of the most important affairs in the state, while they are void of reason, as letters of the alphabet? By no means, he replied. You will lay this down then as a law: that they shall most especially get that amount of education which may enable them to question and answer in the most scientific manner. I will make that a law, said he, by your assistance at least. Are you of opinion then, said I, that dialectic science is to be placed on high as a bulwark to moral training, and that no other training can with propriety be more elevated than this, but that this is the completion of scientific training? I am, said he.

CHAP. XV.—There now remains for you, said I, the regulation of the persons to whom we shall assign these studies, and after what manner. That is evident, said he. Do you remember then, in our former election of rulers, what kind we chose? Of course I do, said he. As to other things then, conceive, said I, that those dispositions should be selected, and that we should prefer the bravest, most resolute, and, as far as possible, the most handsome; and besides, we must not only seek for those whose manners are noble and grave,[226] but such as have dispositions adapted to this education. What dispositions do you enjoin? They must have, said I, my excellent friend, acuteness as respects instruction, that they may learn without difficulty; for souls are much more daunted by severe mental studies, than by strenuous bodily exercise; for the employment which is most familiar to them is of a peculiar nature, having no connexion with the body. True, said he. And we must seek for one of good memory, hardy, and in every way fond of toil:—or how think you any one would willingly endure bodily fatigue, and at the same time accomplish such learning and study? No one, said he, unless he be in all respects of a naturally good disposition. The mistake then about philosophy, and the dishonour done to it, have been occasioned by this, as I formerly said, that it is not studied in a way suitable to its dignity: for it ought not to have been attempted by bastards, but the well-born. How? said he. In the first place, he who is to apply to philosophy, said I, must not be lame in his love of labour, half-laborious, and half-averse to it; and this is the case, when a man is fond of wrestling and hunting, and all bodily exercises, but has no fondness for learning, or hearing instruction or making investigations, but in all these respects has an aversion to labour.—He too is lame, though in an opposite manner from the man who has wrongly employed his love of labour. You say most truly, replied he. And shall we not, said I, in like manner account that soul lame as to truth, which, though it hates a voluntary falsehood and is troubled by it, and is vastly indignant when others tell a lie, yet easily admits the involuntary lie, and if at any time it be found ignorant, is not displeased, but like a savage sow willingly wallows in ignorance? Assuredly, said he. And in like manner, said I, as to temperance and fortitude, and magnanimity, and all other branches of virtue, we must no less carefully attend to what is bastardly, and what is well-born; for when either private persons or a state understand not how to attend to all these things, they unwarily employ the lame and the bastardly for whatever they want,—private persons employing them as friends, and states as governors. Such is exactly the case, said he. But we must be on our guard, said I, about all such things; so that if we select for such extensive discipline such as are entire in body and mind, and take care to instruct them in suitable exercises, justice herself will not blame us, and we shall preserve both the state and constitution; but if we introduce persons of a different description into these affairs, we shall do everything the reverse, and pour still greater contempt on philosophy. That indeed were shameful, said he. Certainly, said I. But I myself seem at present to be somewhat ridiculous. How so? said he. I forgot, said I, that we were amusing ourselves, and I spoke with too great keenness; for, while speaking, I was referring to philosophy; and seeing her most unworthily abused, I seem to have been filled with indignation, and, through rage, as it were, with those who are the cause of it, to have said what I did somewhat too earnestly. No truly, said he, not for me as a listener at least. Aye, but for me, said I, who said it:—but let us not forget this, that in our former election we made choice of old men, which in this will not be allowed;—for we must not believe Solon, that a man in years can learn many things, far less even than running, but that all the most important and numerous kinds of toil are assigned to the young. Of necessity, said he.

-----

Footnote 226:

Gr. γενναίους τε καὶ βλοσυροὺς τὰ ἤθη. The word βλοσυρός usually means
_stern_, _scowling_, _fierce_; but also _grave_, _serious_, as here.

-----

CHAP. XVI.—Everything then relating to arithmetic and geometry and all the previous instruction which they should receive before they learn dialectics, ought to be set before them while they are children, and on such a plan of teaching that they may learn without compulsion.[227] Why so? Because, said I, a free man ought to acquire no learning under slavery: for the labours of the body when endured through compulsion do not at all deteriorate the body: but as for the soul, it can endure no compulsory discipline. True, said he. Do not then, said I, my best of friends, force boys to their learning; but train them up by amusements, that you may be better able to discern the direction of each one’s genius. What you say, replied he, is reasonable. Do not you remember our stating then, said I, that the boys should even be carried to war, as spectators, on horseback, and be brought as near as possible with safety, and allowed like young hounds, to taste the blood? I remember, said he. Whoever then, said I, shall appear the most forward in all these labours, studies, and dangers, such as these are to be selected to a certain number. At what age? said he. When they have finished their necessary exercises, said I; for this period of life, even should it last two or three years, cannot accomplish anything else; for fatigue and sleep are hostile to learning; and this too is none of the least of their trials, what each will prove himself in his exercises. Certainly, said he. And after this period, said I, such as have formerly been selected of the age of twenty are to receive greater honours than others; and those studies, which in their youth they have pursued promiscuously, must be brought before them in one view, that they may see the connexion of the whole with each other, and with the nature of real being. This indeed is the only kind of instruction that will abide permanently in those in whom it is engendered. And this, said I, is the best criterion for distinguishing talents naturally fitted for dialectics, from those which are not so. He who perceives this alliance is skilled in dialectics; he who does not, is not so. I am of the same opinion, said he. You will need then, said I, after observing these things, and seeing who are most distinguished herein, and who persevere both in learning and in war, and in other things established by law, to make choice of them after they exceed thirty years, selecting from those before chosen, and then advance them to greater honours. Observing then likewise by the test of dialectics, in order to ascertain which of them can without aid from the eyes, or any other sense, proceed with truth to being itself. And here, my companion, is a work of great caution. In what principally? said he. Do not you perceive, said I, how great is the evil which at present attends dialectics? What is it, said he, you mean? [Its followers,] observed I, are somehow or other full of disorder. Very much so, replied he. Think you then, said I, that their being so is at all extraordinary; and will you not forgive them? How do you mean? said he. Just as if, said I, a certain supposititious child were brought up in great opulence in a rich and noble family, and amidst many flatterers, and were to perceive, when grown up to manhood, that he is not descended from those alleged to be his parents, but yet cannot discover his real parents; can you guess how such an one would feel both towards his flatterers and his supposed parents, both at the time when he knew nothing of the cheat, and again at the time when he came to perceive it?—are you willing to hear me while I give a guess? I am willing, said he. I guess then, said I, that he will honour his father and mother, and other supposed relatives, more than the flatterers, and that he will neglect them less in case of their need, and be less apt to do or say anything amiss to them, and in matters of consequence will disobey them less than those flatterers, during that period in which he knows not the truth. It is likely, said he. But when he perceives the real state of the case, I again guess, he will relax in honour and respect for them, and attend to the flatterers, and be much more persuaded by them now than formerly, and live also according to their fashion,—while for the father, and the rest of his fictitious relations, if he be not of an entirely good natural disposition, he will have no regard. You mention everything, said he, just as it would happen. But in what manner does this comparison respect those conversant with dialectics? In this:—there are certain doctrines about justice and honour, in which we have been bred, as by parents, from childhood to render them respect and obedience. There are, said he. Aye,—and there are other pursuits also, the opposite of these, attended by pleasures, that flatter and seduce the soul, but do not persuade those who are in any degree well-mannered; because these honour their relations, and obey them. Such is the case. What then, said I, if to a person thus affected the question be proposed, What is the beautiful? and, in reply to what he has heard from the lawgiver, he be refuted by reason; which frequently and in all ways convicts him and brings him round to the opinion, that objects are no more beautiful than they are deformed; and so also, as respects what is just and good, and whatever else he held in highest esteem, what do you think such an one will after this do, with regard to these things, as to honouring and obeying them? Of necessity, said he, he will no longer either honour or obey them, as he formerly had done. If then, said I, he no longer deems these things honourable, and allied to him as formerly, and cannot discover those which really are so, can he possibly with readiness join himself to any other life than that of flattery? It is not possible, said he. And from being an observer of the law, he will now, I think, appear to be a law-breaker. Of necessity.

-----

Footnote 227:

So Quinctilian in his Institutes, lib. i. c. 1, 20:—Nam id in primis
cavere oportebit, ne studia qui amare nondum potest oderit, et
amaritudinem semel perceptam etiam ultra rudes annos reformidat.

-----

CHAP. XVII.—Is it not likely then, said I, that the affections of persons who thus engage in reasoning, are deserving, as I was just now saying, of great consideration? Aye, and pity too, said he. While you take care then, that this pitiable case befal not those of the age of thirty, ought they not by every method to apply themselves to reasoning? Certainly, said he. And is not this one prudent caution,—that they meddle not with discussions while young: for you have not forgotten, I suppose, that youths, when they first join in discussions, abuse them by way of mere amusement, ever using them for the purpose of contradiction; and in imitation of those who are refuters, they themselves oppose others, ever delighting like whelps to drag and tear to pieces, by arguments, those who are their neighbours. Especially so, said he. And after they have confuted many, and been themselves confuted by many, then they vehemently and speedily fall into an indifference about their former opinions; and by these means they themselves, and the whole of philosophy, are calumniated by the rest of the world. Most true, said he. But he who is of a riper age, said I, will not like to share in such madness, but will imitate him who is disposed to reason and inquire after truth, rather than one who, for the sake of diversion, amuses himself by contradiction; and he will himself be more modest, thus rendering the practice of disputing honourable instead of dishonourable. Right, said he. Have not then all our former remarks been rightly premised, by way of precaution on this point, that those who are to be taught dialectics should have gracious and steady dispositions, and not as now, when every chance person, even when quite unfit, is admitted thereto? Certainly, said he. Is twice the former period then sufficient for a man to be diligently and constantly engaged in acquiring dialectics without doing anything else but practising by way of contrast all bodily exercises? Do you mean six years, said he, or four? No matter, said I;—make it five:—for after this they must be made to descend to that cave again, and obliged to govern both in things relating to war, and in other youthful offices, so as not to fall short of others in experience; and among these they must be still further tested, that it may be seen whether they will continue firm, when drawn in all directions, or be somewhat drawn aside. And how long a time, said he, do you reckon for this? Fifteen years, said I. And when they are of the age of fifty, such of them as have been kept safely, and have in every way obtained all the prizes both in actions and sciences, are now to be led to the end, and are to be obliged to incline the eye of their soul to look at that which imparts light to all things, and, when they contemplate _the good itself_, to use it as a pattern, each in turn, either state or private persons, for adorning themselves, during the remainder of their life, for the most part, indeed, occupying themselves with philosophy, and when it is their turn, toiling in political affairs, and taking the government, each for the good of the state performing this office, not as something honourable, but as a thing necessary; and after bringing up others also from time to time to be of the same character, and leaving them to be state-guardians, they depart to inhabit the islands of the blest:—and the state, will erect monuments for them at the public cost, and if the Pythian goddess consent, will offer sacrifice, as to superior beings,—if not, as to happy and divine men. Socrates, said he, you have made our governors all-beautiful, just as a sculptor would. And our governesses likewise, Glaucon, said I;—for suppose not that what I have said referred more to men than women,—such at least as have sufficient talent. Right, said he, if at least, as we said, they are to share in all things equally with the men. What then, said I;—do you agree, that with reference to a state and form of government, we have not altogether stated mere wishes,—but such things as though difficult, are yet in a certain respect possible, and not otherwise than has been mentioned,—[that is,] when true philosophers, whether one or more of them, on becoming governors in a state, despise present honours, and deem them illiberal and of no value; but esteem, above all things, rectitude and the honours therefrom derived; account justice as a thing of all others the greatest, and most absolutely necessary; and, by ministering to it and advancing it, thoroughly regulate the constitution of their own state? How? said he. Such, said I, of the more advanced in life, as have lived ten years in the state, let them send all into the country; and, removing their children away from the habits now contracted by domestics, let them bring them up according to their own manners and laws, as we formerly described them:—thus the state and government that we have described being most speedily and easily established, will both be happy itself, and of the greatest service to the people among whom it is established. Very much so indeed, said he;—and you seem to me, Socrates, to have very well described how this state will rise, if it rise at all. Well then, said I, have we not had sufficient talk, both about such a state as this, and the individual that corresponds thereto?—For it is now clear, perhaps, what kind of a man we shall say he ought to be. It is evident, replied he; and your inquiry, methinks, is now at an end.

THE END OF THE SEVENTH BOOK.