Bab Bab 7 · And now I will describe in a figure the enlightenment or

unenlightenment of our nature:—Imagine human beings living in an

underground den which is open towards the light; they have been there

from childhood, having their necks and legs chained, and can only see

into the den. At a distance there is a fire, and between the fire and

the prisoners a raised way, and a low wall is built along the way, like

the screen over which marionette players show their puppets. Behind the

wall appear moving figures, who hold in their hands various works of

art, and among them images of men and animals, wood and stone, and some

of the passers-by are talking and others silent. ‘A strange parable,’

he said, ‘and strange captives.’ They are ourselves, I replied; and

they see only the shadows of the images which the fire throws on the

wall of the den; to these they give names, and if we add an echo which

returns from the wall, the voices of the passengers will seem to

proceed from the shadows. Suppose now that you suddenly turn them round

and make them look with pain and grief to themselves at the real

images; will they believe them to be real? Will not their eyes be

dazzled, and will they not try to get away from the light to something

which they are able to behold without blinking? And suppose further,

that they are dragged up a steep and rugged ascent into the presence of

the sun himself, will not their sight be darkened with the excess of

light? Some time will pass before they get the habit of perceiving at

all; and at first they will be able to perceive only shadows and

reflections in the water; then they will recognize the moon and the

stars, and will at length behold the sun in his own proper place as he

is. Last of all they will conclude:—This is he who gives us the year

and the seasons, and is the author of all that we see. How will they

rejoice in passing from darkness to light! How worthless to them will

seem the honours and glories of the den! But now imagine further, that

they descend into their old habitations;—in that underground dwelling

they will not see as well as their fellows, and will not be able to

compete with them in the measurement of the shadows on the wall; there

will be many jokes about the man who went on a visit to the sun and

lost his eyes, and if they find anybody trying to set free and

enlighten one of their number, they will put him to death, if they can

catch him. Now the cave or den is the world of sight, the fire is the

sun, the way upwards is the way to knowledge, and in the world of

knowledge the idea of good is last seen and with difficulty, but when

seen is inferred to be the author of good and right—parent of the lord

of light in this world, and of truth and understanding in the other. He

who attains to the beatific vision is always going upwards; he is

unwilling to descend into political assemblies and courts of law; for

his eyes are apt to blink at the images or shadows of images which they

behold in them—he cannot enter into the ideas of those who have never

in their lives understood the relation of the shadow to the substance.

But blindness is of two kinds, and may be caused either by passing out

of darkness into light or out of light into darkness, and a man of

sense will distinguish between them, and will not laugh equally at both

of them, but the blindness which arises from fulness of light he will

deem blessed, and pity the other; or if he laugh at the puzzled soul

looking at the sun, he will have more reason to laugh than the

inhabitants of the den at those who descend from above. There is a

further lesson taught by this parable of ours. Some persons fancy that

instruction is like giving eyes to the blind, but we say that the

faculty of sight was always there, and that the soul only requires to

be turned round towards the light. And this is conversion; other

virtues are almost like bodily habits, and may be acquired in the same

manner, but intelligence has a diviner life, and is indestructible,

turning either to good or evil according to the direction given. Did

you never observe how the mind of a clever rogue peers out of his eyes,

and the more clearly he sees, the more evil he does? Now if you take

such an one, and cut away from him those leaden weights of pleasure and

desire which bind his soul to earth, his intelligence will be turned

round, and he will behold the truth as clearly as he now discerns his

meaner ends. And have we not decided that our rulers must neither be so

uneducated as to have no fixed rule of life, nor so over-educated as to

be unwilling to leave their paradise for the business of the world? We

must choose out therefore the natures who are most likely to ascend to

the light and knowledge of the good; but we must not allow them to

remain in the region of light; they must be forced down again among the

captives in the den to partake of their labours and honours. ‘Will they

not think this a hardship?’ You should remember that our purpose in

framing the State was not that our citizens should do what they like,

but that they should serve the State for the common good of all. May we

not fairly say to our philosopher,—Friend, we do you no wrong; for in

other States philosophy grows wild, and a wild plant owes nothing to

the gardener, but you have been trained by us to be the rulers and

kings of our hive, and therefore we must insist on your descending into

the den. You must, each of you, take your turn, and become able to use

your eyes in the dark, and with a little practice you will see far

better than those who quarrel about the shadows, whose knowledge is a

dream only, whilst yours is a waking reality. It may be that the saint

or philosopher who is best fitted, may also be the least inclined to

rule, but necessity is laid upon him, and he must no longer live in the

heaven of ideas. And this will be the salvation of the State. For those

who rule must not be those who are desirous to rule; and, if you can

offer to our citizens a better life than that of rulers generally is,

there will be a chance that the rich, not only in this world’s goods,

but in virtue and wisdom, may bear rule. And the only life which is

better than the life of political ambition is that of philosophy, which

is also the best preparation for the government of a State.

Then now comes the question,—How shall we create our rulers; what way

is there from darkness to light? The change is effected by philosophy;

it is not the turning over of an oyster-shell, but the conversion of a

soul from night to day, from becoming to being. And what training will

draw the soul upwards? Our former education had two branches,

gymnastic, which was occupied with the body, and music, the sister art,

which infused a natural harmony into mind and literature; but neither

of these sciences gave any promise of doing what we want. Nothing

remains to us but that universal or primary science of which all the

arts and sciences are partakers, I mean number or calculation. ‘Very

true.’ Including the art of war? ‘Yes, certainly.’ Then there is

something ludicrous about Palamedes in the tragedy, coming in and

saying that he had invented number, and had counted the ranks and set

them in order. For if Agamemnon could not count his feet (and without

number how could he?) he must have been a pretty sort of general

indeed. No man should be a soldier who cannot count, and indeed he is

hardly to be called a man. But I am not speaking of these practical

applications of arithmetic, for number, in my view, is rather to be

regarded as a conductor to thought and being. I will explain what I

mean by the last expression:—Things sensible are of two kinds; the one

class invite or stimulate the mind, while in the other the mind

acquiesces. Now the stimulating class are the things which suggest

contrast and relation. For example, suppose that I hold up to the eyes

three fingers—a fore finger, a middle finger, a little finger—the sight

equally recognizes all three fingers, but without number cannot further

distinguish them. Or again, suppose two objects to be relatively great

and small, these ideas of greatness and smallness are supplied not by

the sense, but by the mind. And the perception of their contrast or

relation quickens and sets in motion the mind, which is puzzled by the

confused intimations of sense, and has recourse to number in order to

find out whether the things indicated are one or more than one. Number

replies that they are two and not one, and are to be distinguished from

one another. Again, the sight beholds great and small, but only in a

confused chaos, and not until they are distinguished does the question

arise of their respective natures; we are thus led on to the

distinction between the visible and intelligible. That was what I meant

when I spoke of stimulants to the intellect; I was thinking of the

contradictions which arise in perception. The idea of unity, for

example, like that of a finger, does not arouse thought unless

involving some conception of plurality; but when the one is also the

opposite of one, the contradiction gives rise to reflection; an example

of this is afforded by any object of sight. All number has also an

elevating effect; it raises the mind out of the foam and flux of

generation to the contemplation of being, having lesser military and

retail uses also. The retail use is not required by us; but as our

guardian is to be a soldier as well as a philosopher, the military one

may be retained. And to our higher purpose no science can be better

adapted; but it must be pursued in the spirit of a philosopher, not of

a shopkeeper. It is concerned, not with visible objects, but with

abstract truth; for numbers are pure abstractions—the true

arithmetician indignantly denies that his unit is capable of division.

When you divide, he insists that you are only multiplying; his ‘one’ is

not material or resolvable into fractions, but an unvarying and

absolute equality; and this proves the purely intellectual character of

his study. Note also the great power which arithmetic has of sharpening

the wits; no other discipline is equally severe, or an equal test of

general ability, or equally improving to a stupid person.

Let our second branch of education be geometry. ‘I can easily see,’

replied Glaucon, ‘that the skill of the general will be doubled by his

knowledge of geometry.’ That is a small matter; the use of geometry, to

which I refer, is the assistance given by it in the contemplation of

the idea of good, and the compelling the mind to look at true being,

and not at generation only. Yet the present mode of pursuing these

studies, as any one who is the least of a mathematician is aware, is

mean and ridiculous; they are made to look downwards to the arts, and

not upwards to eternal existence. The geometer is always talking of

squaring, subtending, apposing, as if he had in view action; whereas

knowledge is the real object of the study. It should elevate the soul,

and create the mind of philosophy; it should raise up what has fallen

down, not to speak of lesser uses in war and military tactics, and in

the improvement of the faculties.

Shall we propose, as a third branch of our education, astronomy? ‘Very

good,’ replied Glaucon; ‘the knowledge of the heavens is necessary at

once for husbandry, navigation, military tactics.’ I like your way of

giving useful reasons for everything in order to make friends of the

world. And there is a difficulty in proving to mankind that education

is not only useful information but a purification of the eye of the

soul, which is better than the bodily eye, for by this alone is truth

seen. Now, will you appeal to mankind in general or to the philosopher?

or would you prefer to look to yourself only? ‘Every man is his own

best friend.’ Then take a step backward, for we are out of order, and

insert the third dimension which is of solids, after the second which

is of planes, and then you may proceed to solids in motion. But solid

geometry is not popular and has not the patronage of the State, nor is

the use of it fully recognized; the difficulty is great, and the

votaries of the study are conceited and impatient. Still the charm of

the pursuit wins upon men, and, if government would lend a little

assistance, there might be great progress made. ‘Very true,’ replied

Glaucon; ‘but do I understand you now to begin with plane geometry, and

to place next geometry of solids, and thirdly, astronomy, or the motion

of solids?’ Yes, I said; my hastiness has only hindered us.

‘Very good, and now let us proceed to astronomy, about which I am

willing to speak in your lofty strain. No one can fail to see that the

contemplation of the heavens draws the soul upwards.’ I am an

exception, then; astronomy as studied at present appears to me to draw

the soul not upwards, but downwards. Star-gazing is just looking up at

the ceiling—no better; a man may lie on his back on land or on water—he

may look up or look down, but there is no science in that. The vision

of knowledge of which I speak is seen not with the eyes, but with the

mind. All the magnificence of the heavens is but the embroidery of a

copy which falls far short of the divine Original, and teaches nothing

about the absolute harmonies or motions of things. Their beauty is like

the beauty of figures drawn by the hand of Daedalus or any other great

artist, which may be used for illustration, but no mathematician would

seek to obtain from them true conceptions of equality or numerical

relations. How ridiculous then to look for these in the map of the

heavens, in which the imperfection of matter comes in everywhere as a

disturbing element, marring the symmetry of day and night, of months

and years, of the sun and stars in their courses. Only by problems can

we place astronomy on a truly scientific basis. Let the heavens alone,

and exert the intellect.

Still, mathematics admit of other applications, as the Pythagoreans

say, and we agree. There is a sister science of harmonical motion,

adapted to the ear as astronomy is to the eye, and there may be other

applications also. Let us inquire of the Pythagoreans about them, not

forgetting that we have an aim higher than theirs, which is the

relation of these sciences to the idea of good. The error which

pervades astronomy also pervades harmonics. The musicians put their

ears in the place of their minds. ‘Yes,’ replied Glaucon, ‘I like to

see them laying their ears alongside of their neighbours’ faces—some

saying, “That’s a new note,” others declaring that the two notes are

the same.’ Yes, I said; but you mean the empirics who are always

twisting and torturing the strings of the lyre, and quarrelling about

the tempers of the strings; I am referring rather to the Pythagorean

harmonists, who are almost equally in error. For they investigate only

the numbers of the consonances which are heard, and ascend no

higher,—of the true numerical harmony which is unheard, and is only to

be found in problems, they have not even a conception. ‘That last,’ he

said, ‘must be a marvellous thing.’ A thing, I replied, which is only

useful if pursued with a view to the good.

All these sciences are the prelude of the strain, and are profitable if

they are regarded in their natural relations to one another. ‘I dare

say, Socrates,’ said Glaucon; ‘but such a study will be an endless

business.’ What study do you mean—of the prelude, or what? For all

these things are only the prelude, and you surely do not suppose that a

mere mathematician is also a dialectician? ‘Certainly not. I have

hardly ever known a mathematician who could reason.’ And yet, Glaucon,

is not true reasoning that hymn of dialectic which is the music of the

intellectual world, and which was by us compared to the effort of

sight, when from beholding the shadows on the wall we arrived at last

at the images which gave the shadows? Even so the dialectical faculty

withdrawing from sense arrives by the pure intellect at the

contemplation of the idea of good, and never rests but at the very end

of the intellectual world. And the royal road out of the cave into the

light, and the blinking of the eyes at the sun and turning to

contemplate the shadows of reality, not the shadows of an image

only—this progress and gradual acquisition of a new faculty of sight by

the help of the mathematical sciences, is the elevation of the soul to

the contemplation of the highest ideal of being.

‘So far, I agree with you. But now, leaving the prelude, let us proceed

to the hymn. What, then, is the nature of dialectic, and what are the

paths which lead thither?’ Dear Glaucon, you cannot follow me here.

There can be no revelation of the absolute truth to one who has not

been disciplined in the previous sciences. But that there is a science

of absolute truth, which is attained in some way very different from

those now practised, I am confident. For all other arts or sciences are

relative to human needs and opinions; and the mathematical sciences are

but a dream or hypothesis of true being, and never analyse their own

principles. Dialectic alone rises to the principle which is above

hypotheses, converting and gently leading the eye of the soul out of

the barbarous slough of ignorance into the light of the upper world,

with the help of the sciences which we have been describing—sciences,

as they are often termed, although they require some other name,

implying greater clearness than opinion and less clearness than

science, and this in our previous sketch was understanding. And so we

get four names—two for intellect, and two for opinion,—reason or mind,

understanding, faith, perception of shadows—which make a proportion—

being:becoming::intellect:opinion—and science:belief::understanding:

perception of shadows. Dialectic may be further described as that

science which defines and explains the essence or being of each nature,

which distinguishes and abstracts the good, and is ready to do battle

against all opponents in the cause of good. To him who is not a

dialectician life is but a sleepy dream; and many a man is in his grave

before his is well waked up. And would you have the future rulers of

your ideal State intelligent beings, or stupid as posts? ‘Certainly not

the latter.’ Then you must train them in dialectic, which will teach

them to ask and answer questions, and is the coping-stone of the

sciences.

I dare say that you have not forgotten how our rulers were chosen; and

the process of selection may be carried a step further:—As before, they

must be constant and valiant, good-looking, and of noble manners, but

now they must also have natural ability which education will improve;

that is to say, they must be quick at learning, capable of mental toil,

retentive, solid, diligent natures, who combine intellectual with moral

virtues; not lame and one-sided, diligent in bodily exercise and

indolent in mind, or conversely; not a maimed soul, which hates

falsehood and yet unintentionally is always wallowing in the mire of

ignorance; not a bastard or feeble person, but sound in wind and limb,

and in perfect condition for the great gymnastic trial of the mind.

Justice herself can find no fault with natures such as these; and they

will be the saviours of our State; disciples of another sort would only

make philosophy more ridiculous than she is at present. Forgive my

enthusiasm; I am becoming excited; but when I see her trampled

underfoot, I am angry at the authors of her disgrace. ‘I did not notice

that you were more excited than you ought to have been.’ But I felt

that I was. Now do not let us forget another point in the selection of

our disciples—that they must be young and not old. For Solon is

mistaken in saying that an old man can be always learning; youth is the

time of study, and here we must remember that the mind is free and

dainty, and, unlike the body, must not be made to work against the

grain. Learning should be at first a sort of play, in which the natural

bent is detected. As in training them for war, the young dogs should at

first only taste blood; but when the necessary gymnastics are over

which during two or three years divide life between sleep and bodily

exercise, then the education of the soul will become a more serious

matter. At twenty years of age, a selection must be made of the more

promising disciples, with whom a new epoch of education will begin. The

sciences which they have hitherto learned in fragments will now be

brought into relation with each other and with true being; for the

power of combining them is the test of speculative and dialectical

ability. And afterwards at thirty a further selection shall be made of

those who are able to withdraw from the world of sense into the

abstraction of ideas. But at this point, judging from present

experience, there is a danger that dialectic may be the source of many

evils. The danger may be illustrated by a parallel case:—Imagine a

person who has been brought up in wealth and luxury amid a crowd of

flatterers, and who is suddenly informed that he is a supposititious

son. He has hitherto honoured his reputed parents and disregarded the

flatterers, and now he does the reverse. This is just what happens with

a man’s principles. There are certain doctrines which he learnt at home

and which exercised a parental authority over him. Presently he finds

that imputations are cast upon them; a troublesome querist comes and

asks, ‘What is the just and good?’ or proves that virtue is vice and

vice virtue, and his mind becomes unsettled, and he ceases to love,

honour, and obey them as he has hitherto done. He is seduced into the

life of pleasure, and becomes a lawless person and a rogue. The case of

such speculators is very pitiable, and, in order that our thirty years’

old pupils may not require this pity, let us take every possible care

that young persons do not study philosophy too early. For a young man

is a sort of puppy who only plays with an argument; and is reasoned

into and out of his opinions every day; he soon begins to believe

nothing, and brings himself and philosophy into discredit. A man of

thirty does not run on in this way; he will argue and not merely

contradict, and adds new honour to philosophy by the sobriety of his

conduct. What time shall we allow for this second gymnastic training of

the soul?—say, twice the time required for the gymnastics of the body;

six, or perhaps five years, to commence at thirty, and then for fifteen

years let the student go down into the den, and command armies, and

gain experience of life. At fifty let him return to the end of all

things, and have his eyes uplifted to the idea of good, and order his

life after that pattern; if necessary, taking his turn at the helm of

State, and training up others to be his successors. When his time comes

he shall depart in peace to the islands of the blest. He shall be

honoured with sacrifices, and receive such worship as the Pythian

oracle approves.

‘You are a statuary, Socrates, and have made a perfect image of our

governors.’ Yes, and of our governesses, for the women will share in

all things with the men. And you will admit that our State is not a

mere aspiration, but may really come into being when there shall arise

philosopher-kings, one or more, who will despise earthly vanities, and

will be the servants of justice only. ‘And how will they begin their

work?’ Their first act will be to send away into the country all those

who are more than ten years of age, and to proceed with those who are

left...

At the commencement of the sixth book, Plato anticipated his

explanation of the relation of the philosopher to the world in an

allegory, in this, as in other passages, following the order which he

prescribes in education, and proceeding from the concrete to the

abstract. At the commencement of Book VII, under the figure of a cave

having an opening towards a fire and a way upwards to the true light,

he returns to view the divisions of knowledge, exhibiting familiarly,

as in a picture, the result which had been hardly won by a great effort

of thought in the previous discussion; at the same time casting a

glance onward at the dialectical process, which is represented by the

way leading from darkness to light. The shadows, the images, the

reflection of the sun and stars in the water, the stars and sun

themselves, severally correspond,—the first, to the realm of fancy and

poetry,—the second, to the world of sense,—the third, to the

abstractions or universals of sense, of which the mathematical sciences

furnish the type,—the fourth and last to the same abstractions, when

seen in the unity of the idea, from which they derive a new meaning and

power. The true dialectical process begins with the contemplation of

the real stars, and not mere reflections of them, and ends with the

recognition of the sun, or idea of good, as the parent not only of

light but of warmth and growth. To the divisions of knowledge the

stages of education partly answer:—first, there is the early education

of childhood and youth in the fancies of the poets, and in the laws and

customs of the State;—then there is the training of the body to be a

warrior athlete, and a good servant of the mind;—and thirdly, after an

interval follows the education of later life, which begins with

mathematics and proceeds to philosophy in general.

There seem to be two great aims in the philosophy of Plato,—first, to

realize abstractions; secondly, to connect them. According to him, the

true education is that which draws men from becoming to being, and to a

comprehensive survey of all being. He desires to develop in the human

mind the faculty of seeing the universal in all things; until at last

the particulars of sense drop away and the universal alone remains. He

then seeks to combine the universals which he has disengaged from

sense, not perceiving that the correlation of them has no other basis

but the common use of language. He never understands that abstractions,

as Hegel says, are ‘mere abstractions’—of use when employed in the

arrangement of facts, but adding nothing to the sum of knowledge when

pursued apart from them, or with reference to an imaginary idea of

good. Still the exercise of the faculty of abstraction apart from facts

has enlarged the mind, and played a great part in the education of the

human race. Plato appreciated the value of this faculty, and saw that

it might be quickened by the study of number and relation. All things

in which there is opposition or proportion are suggestive of

reflection. The mere impression of sense evokes no power of thought or

of mind, but when sensible objects ask to be compared and

distinguished, then philosophy begins. The science of arithmetic first

suggests such distinctions. The follow in order the other sciences of

plain and solid geometry, and of solids in motion, one branch of which

is astronomy or the harmony of the spheres,—to this is appended the

sister science of the harmony of sounds. Plato seems also to hint at

the possibility of other applications of arithmetical or mathematical

proportions, such as we employ in chemistry and natural philosophy,

such as the Pythagoreans and even Aristotle make use of in Ethics and

Politics, e.g. his distinction between arithmetical and geometrical

proportion in the Ethics (Book V), or between numerical and

proportional equality in the Politics.

The modern mathematician will readily sympathise with Plato’s delight

in the properties of pure mathematics. He will not be disinclined to

say with him:—Let alone the heavens, and study the beauties of number

and figure in themselves. He too will be apt to depreciate their

application to the arts. He will observe that Plato has a conception of

geometry, in which figures are to be dispensed with; thus in a distant

and shadowy way seeming to anticipate the possibility of working

geometrical problems by a more general mode of analysis. He will remark

with interest on the backward state of solid geometry, which, alas! was

not encouraged by the aid of the State in the age of Plato; and he will

recognize the grasp of Plato’s mind in his ability to conceive of one

science of solids in motion including the earth as well as the

heavens,—not forgetting to notice the intimation to which allusion has

been already made, that besides astronomy and harmonics the science of

solids in motion may have other applications. Still more will he be

struck with the comprehensiveness of view which led Plato, at a time

when these sciences hardly existed, to say that they must be studied in

relation to one another, and to the idea of good, or common principle

of truth and being. But he will also see (and perhaps without surprise)

that in that stage of physical and mathematical knowledge, Plato has

fallen into the error of supposing that he can construct the heavens a

priori by mathematical problems, and determine the principles of

harmony irrespective of the adaptation of sounds to the human ear. The

illusion was a natural one in that age and country. The simplicity and

certainty of astronomy and harmonics seemed to contrast with the

variation and complexity of the world of sense; hence the circumstance

that there was some elementary basis of fact, some measurement of

distance or time or vibrations on which they must ultimately rest, was

overlooked by him. The modern predecessors of Newton fell into errors

equally great; and Plato can hardly be said to have been very far

wrong, or may even claim a sort of prophetic insight into the subject,

when we consider that the greater part of astronomy at the present day

consists of abstract dynamics, by the help of which most astronomical

discoveries have been made.

The metaphysical philosopher from his point of view recognizes

mathematics as an instrument of education,—which strengthens the power

of attention, developes the sense of order and the faculty of

construction, and enables the mind to grasp under simple formulae the

quantitative differences of physical phenomena. But while acknowledging

their value in education, he sees also that they have no connexion with

our higher moral and intellectual ideas. In the attempt which Plato

makes to connect them, we easily trace the influences of ancient

Pythagorean notions. There is no reason to suppose that he is speaking

of the ideal numbers; but he is describing numbers which are pure

abstractions, to which he assigns a real and separate existence, which,

as ‘the teachers of the art’ (meaning probably the Pythagoreans) would

have affirmed, repel all attempts at subdivision, and in which unity

and every other number are conceived of as absolute. The truth and

certainty of numbers, when thus disengaged from phenomena, gave them a

kind of sacredness in the eyes of an ancient philosopher. Nor is it

easy to say how far ideas of order and fixedness may have had a moral

and elevating influence on the minds of men, ‘who,’ in the words of the

Timaeus, ‘might learn to regulate their erring lives according to

them.’ It is worthy of remark that the old Pythagorean ethical symbols

still exist as figures of speech among ourselves. And those who in

modern times see the world pervaded by universal law, may also see an

anticipation of this last word of modern philosophy in the Platonic

idea of good, which is the source and measure of all things, and yet

only an abstraction (Philebus).

Two passages seem to require more particular explanations. First, that

which relates to the analysis of vision. The difficulty in this passage

may be explained, like many others, from differences in the modes of

conception prevailing among ancient and modern thinkers. To us, the

perceptions of sense are inseparable from the act of the mind which

accompanies them. The consciousness of form, colour, distance, is

indistinguishable from the simple sensation, which is the medium of

them. Whereas to Plato sense is the Heraclitean flux of sense, not the

vision of objects in the order in which they actually present

themselves to the experienced sight, but as they may be imagined to

appear confused and blurred to the half-awakened eye of the infant. The

first action of the mind is aroused by the attempt to set in order this

chaos, and the reason is required to frame distinct conceptions under

which the confused impressions of sense may be arranged. Hence arises

the question, ‘What is great, what is small?’ and thus begins the

distinction of the visible and the intelligible.

The second difficulty relates to Plato’s conception of harmonics. Three

classes of harmonists are distinguished by him:—first, the

Pythagoreans, whom he proposes to consult as in the previous discussion

on music he was to consult Damon—they are acknowledged to be masters in

the art, but are altogether deficient in the knowledge of its higher

import and relation to the good; secondly, the mere empirics, whom

Glaucon appears to confuse with them, and whom both he and Socrates

ludicrously describe as experimenting by mere auscultation on the

intervals of sounds. Both of these fall short in different degrees of

the Platonic idea of harmony, which must be studied in a purely

abstract way, first by the method of problems, and secondly as a part

of universal knowledge in relation to the idea of good.

The allegory has a political as well as a philosophical meaning. The

den or cave represents the narrow sphere of politics or law (compare

the description of the philosopher and lawyer in the Theaetetus), and

the light of the eternal ideas is supposed to exercise a disturbing

influence on the minds of those who return to this lower world. In

other words, their principles are too wide for practical application;

they are looking far away into the past and future, when their business

is with the present. The ideal is not easily reduced to the conditions

of actual life, and may often be at variance with them. And at first,

those who return are unable to compete with the inhabitants of the den

in the measurement of the shadows, and are derided and persecuted by

them; but after a while they see the things below in far truer

proportions than those who have never ascended into the upper world.

The difference between the politician turned into a philosopher and the

philosopher turned into a politician, is symbolized by the two kinds of

disordered eyesight, the one which is experienced by the captive who is

transferred from darkness to day, the other, of the heavenly messenger

who voluntarily for the good of his fellow-men descends into the den.

In what way the brighter light is to dawn on the inhabitants of the

lower world, or how the idea of good is to become the guiding principle

of politics, is left unexplained by Plato. Like the nature and

divisions of dialectic, of which Glaucon impatiently demands to be

informed, perhaps he would have said that the explanation could not be

given except to a disciple of the previous sciences. (Symposium.)

Many illustrations of this part of the Republic may be found in modern

Politics and in daily life. For among ourselves, too, there have been

two sorts of Politicians or Statesmen, whose eyesight has become

disordered in two different ways. First, there have been great men who,

in the language of Burke, ‘have been too much given to general maxims,’

who, like J.S. Mill or Burke himself, have been theorists or

philosophers before they were politicians, or who, having been students

of history, have allowed some great historical parallel, such as the

English Revolution of 1688, or possibly Athenian democracy or Roman

Imperialism, to be the medium through which they viewed contemporary

events. Or perhaps the long projecting shadow of some existing

institution may have darkened their vision. The Church of the future,

the Commonwealth of the future, the Society of the future, have so

absorbed their minds, that they are unable to see in their true

proportions the Politics of to-day. They have been intoxicated with

great ideas, such as liberty, or equality, or the greatest happiness of

the greatest number, or the brotherhood of humanity, and they no longer

care to consider how these ideas must be limited in practice or

harmonized with the conditions of human life. They are full of light,

but the light to them has become only a sort of luminous mist or

blindness. Almost every one has known some enthusiastic half-educated

person, who sees everything at false distances, and in erroneous

proportions.

With this disorder of eyesight may be contrasted another—of those who

see not far into the distance, but what is near only; who have been

engaged all their lives in a trade or a profession; who are limited to

a set or sect of their own. Men of this kind have no universal except

their own interests or the interests of their class, no principle but

the opinion of persons like themselves, no knowledge of affairs beyond

what they pick up in the streets or at their club. Suppose them to be

sent into a larger world, to undertake some higher calling, from being

tradesmen to turn generals or politicians, from being schoolmasters to

become philosophers:—or imagine them on a sudden to receive an inward

light which reveals to them for the first time in their lives a higher

idea of God and the existence of a spiritual world, by this sudden

conversion or change is not their daily life likely to be upset; and on

the other hand will not many of their old prejudices and narrownesses

still adhere to them long after they have begun to take a more

comprehensive view of human things? From familiar examples like these

we may learn what Plato meant by the eyesight which is liable to two

kinds of disorders.

Nor have we any difficulty in drawing a parallel between the young

Athenian in the fifth century before Christ who became unsettled by new

ideas, and the student of a modern University who has been the subject

of a similar ‘aufklärung.’ We too observe that when young men begin to

criticise customary beliefs, or to analyse the constitution of human

nature, they are apt to lose hold of solid principle (ἅπαν τὸ βέβαιον

αὐτῶν ἐξοίχεται). They are like trees which have been frequently

transplanted. The earth about them is loose, and they have no roots

reaching far into the soil. They ‘light upon every flower,’ following

their own wayward wills, or because the wind blows them. They catch

opinions, as diseases are caught—when they are in the air. Borne hither

and thither, ‘they speedily fall into beliefs’ the opposite of those in

which they were brought up. They hardly retain the distinction of right

and wrong; they seem to think one thing as good as another. They

suppose themselves to be searching after truth when they are playing

the game of ‘follow my leader.’ They fall in love ‘at first sight’ with

paradoxes respecting morality, some fancy about art, some novelty or

eccentricity in religion, and like lovers they are so absorbed for a

time in their new notion that they can think of nothing else. The

resolution of some philosophical or theological question seems to them

more interesting and important than any substantial knowledge of

literature or science or even than a good life. Like the youth in the

Philebus, they are ready to discourse to any one about a new

philosophy. They are generally the disciples of some eminent professor

or sophist, whom they rather imitate than understand. They may be

counted happy if in later years they retain some of the simple truths

which they acquired in early education, and which they may, perhaps,

find to be worth all the rest. Such is the picture which Plato draws

and which we only reproduce, partly in his own words, of the dangers

which beset youth in times of transition, when old opinions are fading

away and the new are not yet firmly established. Their condition is

ingeniously compared by him to that of a supposititious son, who has

made the discovery that his reputed parents are not his real ones, and,

in consequence, they have lost their authority over him.

The distinction between the mathematician and the dialectician is also

noticeable. Plato is very well aware that the faculty of the

mathematician is quite distinct from the higher philosophical sense

which recognizes and combines first principles. The contempt which he

expresses for distinctions of words, the danger of involuntary

falsehood, the apology which Socrates makes for his earnestness of

speech, are highly characteristic of the Platonic style and mode of

thought. The quaint notion that if Palamedes was the inventor of number

Agamemnon could not have counted his feet; the art by which we are made

to believe that this State of ours is not a dream only; the gravity

with which the first step is taken in the actual creation of the State,

namely, the sending out of the city all who had arrived at ten years of

age, in order to expedite the business of education by a generation,

are also truly Platonic. (For the last, compare the passage at the end

of the third book, in which he expects the lie about the earthborn men

to be believed in the second generation.)

BOOK 8.